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

18, 1887.

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Vol. 49.

 

 

 

 

 

FRIEND OR FOE.
BY ANDREW M’CLURE.

If noble, honest, good, and true,
Your fellow-mortal proves to you,
Give him your hand;
Though lowly born—though Mammon’s scorn—
Though, with his features sorrow-worn,
He seem a tare among the corn,
With him aye stand!

But if to gold he be a slave,
If for its sake he act the knave,
Cold pass him by::
Or if he dare that right forswear,
That he the Judas bribe may share,
Nor blush the badge of shame to wear,
His presence fly!

If, strong in love, his heart be kind,
To envy deaf, to hatred blind,
Give him your hand:
Though snarlers rail, though foes prevail,
Though malice breathes aloud her tale,
Ne’er let your soul in courage fail—
With him aye stand!

But if his be the tyrant’s part—

If needless tears he cause to start,
Cold pass him by:

If, great in might, and strong in fight,

He dares to spurn the claim of Right;

Or for him fails Truth’s guiding light,
His presence fly!

If proudly he disdains to shirk
The burden of his daily work,
Give him your hand.
In weal or woe, in summer’s glow,
In autumn’s heat, or winter’s snow,
Fear not your trust in him to show;
With him aye stand!

——

MY OWN DEAR LOVE.

BY E. W.

All beauties of the earth and sky

Meet in my view when thou art by;

All loveliness to me thou art,

Of soul and body, mind and heart,
My own dear love.

When thou art gone the earth is sad,
For only thou canst make it glad ;
The blue sky turns to ashen gray,
Only through thee I see it gay,

My own dear love.

Always my best thoughts turn to thee,
Where’er I am, on land or sea:
Thou art the lightness of my light,
The body of my rich delight,

My own dear love.

And guided by thine eyes of blue,
So fond, so tender, and so true,
Ever to thy warm breast I come,
And there securely rest—at home,
My own dear love.

Together we will share one joy,

Together live down care’s alloy ;

Happy with happiness supreme,

We'll glide together down the stream.
My own dear leve.

—_—— or oor

 

 

 

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IN AN INSTANT HE LAY SPRAWLING, FELLED BY A BLOW FROM THE STRONG ARM OF VAN THE DETECTIVE.

 

 

[THIS STORY WILL POSITIVELY NOT APPEAR IN BOOK FORM.]
VAN,
The Government Detective;

GEA

THE BASE-ME

TAL COINERS.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “OLD SLEUTH,”

‘©The American Monte Cristo,” ‘‘ Old Sleuth, the Detective,” ‘* Night Scenes in New
York,” ‘* Old Sleuth’s Triumph,’’ ‘** Iron Burgess,” ** The
Shadow Detective,” ete., etc.

CHAPTER I.

9?

“Ty AM INNOCENT

“Oh, sir,as I am to be finally judged, I am innocent.
Have mercy upon me!”

The words above recorded fell in a wild, wailing
tone from the lips of 4 young and beautiful girl.

She stood at the bar in the presence of a United
States judge, having been arrested on the charge of
passing counterfeit silver money.

The fair suppliant for mercy was plainly but taste-
fully dressed; her.age did not exceed twenty, and
every lineament of her rarely beautiful face was ex-
pressive of innocence, purity, and culture.

That very morning she was about to leave the
house where she lodged when a strong-limbed, de-
termined-faced man accosted her, placed his hand
upon her shoulder, and said:

*“Madam, you are my prisoner !”

The fair girl gazed at the officer in blank amaze-
ment, and from her trembling lips came the words:

“You must have made a mistake, sir.
mitted no crime!’

“Yes, I know; we always arrest innocent people to
let them tell it,’’ blurted out but on the

I have com-

the officer;

instant he caught the expression of those lovely blue |
eyes, and saw the convulsed look of agony upon the |
girl’s face, he changed his tone, and said, in a more

kindly voice:

“My dear young lady, I trust you may prove your- |

self innocent of the charge, but I must do my duty.”
“What is the charge against me ?”’

street, replied:
“It is a trivial charge, and you may explain it all
away; but you must come with me, although I will

go with you to court.”
‘Alas, sir, I have no friends!”

be ready immediately after your preliminary exami-
nation.”

A look of the utmost perplexity overspread the
prisoner’s face, as she answered:

“T do not know what you mean.”

The detective who had made the arrest was
experienced officer, and mentally exclaimed:

“She is a deep one, and plays it well; she gives no-
body away.”

The girl was taken to
Attorney’s office, and that gentleman mercifully had
her produced in court at once, without himself con-
ducting the usual examination.

 

It was at the moment that she was first led up to |

| the bar of the court that the beautiful prisoner ut-
tered the words with which we open our narrative.

Alas! crime is not confined to the low, and vulgar,
and ill-featured ; and too often the parties engaged
in the particular line of crime for which the young
girl had been arrested, are,in appearance and by
education, persons of superior breeding.

The girl’s innocent looks and rare beauty did not

The officer, fearing that she might faint on the |

 

accompany you to any friend whom you may wish to |

““My dear girl,” exclaimed the officer, “I would ad- |
vise you to notify some of the gang, so that._bail may |

Before that same judge, seemingly refined, beauti-
tiful, and high-bred females had been proved the
most expert criminals.

Just as the wild wail fell from this particular pris-
oner’s lips, a fine-looking manof about thirty had
sauntered into the court, and had taken a position
where his keen but kindly eyes could study the face
of the pleader.

It was a strange incident in the chain of fate that
that particular man should have chanced into court
at that moment, and have overheard those words
and beheld the face of the wondrously lovely girl
who had uttered them under such particularly try-
ing circumstances.

Henry Van Dyke, familiarly known as Van, the
government detective, was a remarkable man. Al-
though comparatively young, he had had more ex-
perience with a certain class of criminals than any
man in the United States.

He was better able to judge of the guilt or inno-
cence of an accused than all the district attorneys or
judges in the land; and as his keen eyes were fixed
upon that fair girl, a certain conviction
through his mind, and his convictions were almost
always correct.

The detective was a quiet man, and had the repu-

| tation of being a stern, relentless fellow.

The truth was, however, that the seeming stern
and relentless phase of his disposition came of his
wonderful experience with expert and desperate
criminals.

The man had braved the most thrilling perils in
the course of his career, and had become educated
into a seeming cruelty of disposition, when in reality
he was actuated by the most kindly and generous

| impulses, and possessed a heart as tender and con-
siderate as a woman’s.

The girl had just uttered the words recorded, when
: J

| this stern-looking man, a privileged character in the

an |

court-room, stepped over beside the prisoner, and, in

| a low tone, full of kindly assurance, said:

“Fear nothing, miss. Appearances may be against

| you: but J know you are innocent.”

the United States District |

}
|

|

}
}

The girl turned toward the man who had spoken
those kindly words at such a thrilling moment, and
beheld a face so marked in its strength and indica-
tion of mental power, that, for the first moment since
her arrest, one ray of hope dawned in her heart.

From the first instant of her arrest her mind had
been in a whirl.

The glance of those eyes into her own calmed the
tumult and agitation that reigned within her mind.
Heaven at the perilous moment had raised up a
friend at her side, and so magnetic was the influence

| of his character, that it seemed to her she had known

him always. Upon the instant she had become im-

weigh at all in her favor in that court of stern justice. ' pressed with a’full realization of the overshadowing

 

flashed |

 

protection that lay in his sudden and unexpected
show of friendliness.

In tones full, rich, and emphatic, she answered:

“T am innocent! Heaven knows I am innocent!
And this charge has come to me as death comes un-
announced to the strong and hopeful !”

The last words of the girl showed that she was
courageous and self-reliant.

CHAPTER II.

FIXING THE BAIL.

Van drew closer to the prisoner, and said:

“T repeat, I know you are innocent, and I will clear
you of the charge. I will not fail. Be brave, an-
swer ail questions, and trust to me.”

It may appear strange to our readers that the de-
tective should seem so confident of the prisoner’s
innocence, but the truth was he had heard all the in-
cidents preceding the arrest. He had come into the
court-room knowing the full measure of the charges
that were to be preferred. Idle curiosity had led him
there, and he had expected to see a beautiful adven-
turess; but the moment his keen glance fell upon the
girl’s innocent face, and he heard the tones of her

voice, he knew that there had been a grave mistake |

made, despite the fact that the most overwhelming

chain of evidence had been accumulated against the |

prisoner.

Again the detective spoke.

“Have no fear,” he said; “rely upon me, no matter
what the evidence may be. You are innocent, and
your innocence shall be established 77 the end.”

After this brief colloquy the examination
ceeded.

The charge was, that the prisoner at the bar, upon
divers occasions, had passed counterfeit coins of dif-
ferent denominations. The victims selected were
tradesmen on the prominent avenues, and the vic-
timizing had been going on for a period covering a
month.

After the charges had been read, to which the pris-
oner listened without the display of the least emo-
tion, save a dilation of the lovely blue eyes, the
usual formal questions followed.

“What is your name ?’

“Augusta C. Herndon.”

The prisoner spoke in a clear, calm, distinct voice.
The detective had remained at her side, and had
spoken encouraging words to her. His helpful pres-
ence aided her own strength, and enabled her to bear
up under the trying ordeal.

The evident sympathy of the detective was a mat-
ter of surprise to the officers of the court, but he was
aman whose acts could not be questioned, and it

pro-

was finally concluded that the government officer)

 

was simulating sympathy in the furtherance of some
ultimate detective scheme.

“Your age?’ was the next question.

‘“‘Nineteen.”’

‘Your occupation ?’

“T am a music teacher.”

‘Where were you born ?”’

“In New York city.”

‘“Where do you reside ?”’

Toy street, New York city.”

“What is your plea to the charge made against
you?”

“Tam innocent! Ihave not expended one penny
in New York, save money received from my patrons.”
| The court was impressed with the superior in-
telligence of the accused, and also favorably im-
pressed with the readiness and clearness of her an-
| swers.

The formal examination having been concluded,
| the several witnesses who were to identify the ac-
| cused were summoned.

Here the detective again whispered to the fair
| prisoner :
| “Do not be frightened ; it will come out all right.
| Itis astrange mystery, but I will solve it, and clear
| you in the end.”

Augusta Herndon had never seen her new friend be-

| fore her appearance in court. She did not know who

| he was, nor did she even suspect his identity as a
government detective.

She had observed that he was treated with a great

deal of deference by the court officers, and she knew

| that he possessed an honest and manly face, that in-
vited confidence and trust; and yet months after-
ward, when thinking over the incidents of that event-
ful morning, she wondered at her immediate and
absolute reliance upon the mere words of a perfect
stranger.

It was well that the detective had prepared her
by cheering words for what was to come. The girl
did not dream of the startling and positive proofs
that were to be hurled against her. The detective
did, and that was the reason of his earnest reas-
surance.

No less than seven different persons took the
stand, men and women, and positively and unre-
servedly swore to the identity of the prisoner as
the party who had passed the base-metal coins upon
them.

Only one person out of the seven faltered, and that
one was an elderly tradesman, who confessed to
being near-sighted.

The proofs of identity were overwhelming, and any
man but Van, the detective, would have realized at
once how hopeless would be the task of establishing
the innocence of the accused.

Van did realize the importance and difficulty of

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

io

VOL. 42—No. 33.

 

 

the undertaking, but felt satisfied in his own mind
that the fair and unfortunate girl was innocent. He
was equally well assured that he would be able to
unravel the threads of the snarl, and establish that
innocence.

Miss Herndon could hardly restrain herself from
protesting that she had never seen one of the wit-
nesses ; and, following a natural impulse, she was
about to spring to her feet and so declare, but a
strong hand was laid upon her arm, and a pair of
kindly eyes signaled.

“Sit still; it’s all right!
now.”

The girl kept her seat under the influence of her
mentor, and one after another of the witnesses stared
at her, and confidently asserted that there was no
possibility of a mistake.

When the last witness had testified, the preliminary
proceedings were ended, and Van, the detective, to
the surprise of every one present, arose and demand-
ed that the amount of bail might be fixed.

“Has the prisoner friends present to go bail for
her?” asked the district-attorney.

Yes,” answered the detective.

After consultation with the district-attorney, the
judge fixed the bail, and demanded that the parties
who were to qualify should step forward.

The detective rose and motioned to a gentleman
sitting in the rear of the court-room, and then an-
nounced, to the surprise of every one present:

“This gentleman and myself will go upon the
bond.”

You can do no good

—_—

CHAPTER IIT.
A STRIKING FEATURE.

The whole scene had been one of intense interest
and subdued excitement.

The court officers, upon witnessing the great de-
tective sign as bondsman, still indulged the idea that
he was merely working some scheme.

The most surprised person in that whole court-
room was the one most interested in the proceed-
ings—the unfortunate but beautiful girl who had
been presented before that court on such a grave and
infamous charge.

The moment the question of bail had been settled,
the detective said, addressing the accused:

“You are free; go to your home, where I will call
upon you and talk over this matter.”

Augusta Herndon, a delicate and refined girl, was
compelled to pass before the idle curiosity-seekers
assembled in that court.

At the door she was met by the gentleman who
pas met with the detective in going upon the bail-
bond.

The old gentleman, with the utmost courtesy, of-
fered his arm and escorted the trembling girl toa
carriage in waiting.

The usual rude crowd followed, and one well-
dressed loafer dared address a vulgar remark to her,
when in an instant he lay sprawling, felled by a blow
trom thestrong arm of Van, the latter having reached
the carriage just in time to wreak a summary and
just punishment upon the brute who had spoken the
offensive words.

In a perfect maze of bewilderment, Miss Herndon
was driven to her lodgings, and ascending to her
room, threw herself upon a sofa and wept as though
her heart would break.

Tt was late in the afternoon when the detective
ealled at the residence of our heroine and requested
to have his name sent up to her.

The considerate thief-taker had purposely deferred
his visit, so as to give the fair girl an opportunity
to somewhat recover from the excitement of the
forenoon.

Well did the officer understand human nature, and
he could have detaiied just exactly the scene that oc-
curred after Miss Herndon had reached her room.

Van was shown into the parlor, and a few moments
later Miss Herndon entered.

The young lady commenced at once to express her
gratitude for his noble interference in her behalf,
and to reiterate her protestations of innocence.

“Miss Herndon,” he interrupted, ‘‘we have no time
to listen to thanks, and assertions of your inno-
cence are unnecessary. Had I not known you were
innocent, I should not have taken any interest in
your case.”

“May I ask, sir, how you came to do so, even while
so kindly believing in my innocence ?”

“Tt is my business, Miss Herndon, to trail down
criminals. My experience has been principally with
the class who are guilty of the crime of which you
have been accused. I entered the room this morning,
as an officer of the law, to familiarize myself. with
the personal appearance of a supposed criminal. I
have better data for judging as to guilt or innocence
in my line than any man in the country. I was at
once convinced of your innocence, and the officer
becaine transformed into the humane man. I could
lay no claim toa true manhood, if with my convic-
tions I had stood by and seen a helpless girl crushed
under the weight of circumstantial evidence. I deem
it as much my duty to protect the innocent as to
convict the guilty.”

The detective spoke in a quiet, decisive manner,
but with great impressiveness.

“It was fortunate for me, sir, that you became im-
pressed with the truth of my declaration.”

“Yes, it was fortunate.”

“You are a detective ?”

“1 am a government detective.”

A blush came to the fair girl’s face, and her beau-
tiful features wore a perplexed look.

“You would say something, Miss Herndon ?
out without the least reserve.”

“Sir, I ama friendless orphan. I can foresee that
your interest inimy behalf will tax your time and
energies. Ihave no friends who could aid me in
paying for your services, and I have no means of ny
own. All I can promise is the gratitude of a defense-
less woman.”

The detective stepped toward her, and exclaimed
in the most cordial manner:

“My dear young lady, dismiss.all idea' of reward
from your mind. I am actingin the line of profes-
sional duty ; the government remunerates me for all
service, and I will have more precious and more
satisfactory reward in having earned your gratitude.
You must give me your confidence, and remember
that I devote myself to your interest, deeming it a
privilege ; and now, please, we will proceed to busi-
ness.

“[ sincerely thank you, and, under the circum-
stances, I can do no less than accept your noble
service; and should the day ever come when I can
adequately reward you it will be the proudest mo-
ment of my life to do so.”

The detective was a strict man of business, and yet
as he gazed upon that classically beautiful face, and
looked down into those no lese lovely eyes, speaking
of the purity of their possessor’s soul, there came a
strange impulse to reply:

“The day may come, Miss Herndon, when I will
feel that I can demand a reward at your hands.”

The girl did not discern the underlying meaning in
the detective’s words, and impettiously answered :

“If that day ever comes, you will not askin vain.”

A strange smile flitted across Van’s manly face.
He detected the artlessness of the maiden’s answer
and changed the subject by asking abruptly :

‘Do you know any one among all your acquaint-
ances who resembles you in appearance ?”’

“T do not.”

“Did you ever meet upon the street, or in a car, or
anywhere, any person whose personal appearance
reminded you of yourself?”

“Never !’’

“Did you ever meet a lady who, in any one particu-
lar, resembled you ?”

“Once,”

The detective was all attention, and his eyes shone
with the light of superior intelligence as he demand-
ed, eagerly:

“When and where?”

“Upon the street, about a week ago.”

“In what respect did she resemble you ?”

“Her hair was wondertully like mine, and her style
of wearing it.”

We will here state that Miss Herndon possessed a
remarkable head of hair; it was rich and abundant,
a pronounced auburn, and a striking feature in her
personal appearance.

Speak

CHAPTER IV,
STOREKEEPER INTERVIEWED.

“Where did you meet this lady ?’ asked the detec-
tive. “Tell me exactly.”

Miss Herndon thought a moment, and replied :

“Coming out of a store which I was just entering.”

‘“‘Where was the store located ?”

“On Sixth avenue.”

“Do you remember the name of the proprietor?”

“T do not,”

“Could a" go and point out the store ?”’

“T could.”

“Will you accompany me at once?”

“JT will;” and the girl added: “I perceive the
theory you have formed concerning the circum-
stances that led to my arrest as a passer of counter-
feit money.”

“In the face of the evidence produced inecourt,
there could be but one theory—it is a case of resem-
blance. These cases are not uncommon, and the most
wonderful and perplexing incidents have come of
such resemblances.”

“You can only save me by discovering the real
culprit?”

“Exactly.”

A sudden look of aroused intelligence came over
the fair girl’s face as a recollection came to her, and
she exclaimed:

“Now Lremember I met the young lady who pos-
sessed hair resembling mine coming from the store of
one of the witnesses who swore so positively against
me in the court.”

“T thought so,” remarked the detective, in a pleased
tone, and he added: ‘Please put on your street attire,
and we will go to that store.”

It was late in the afternoon when the detective
and Miss Herndon left the residence of the latter,
and started to walk toward the store on Sixth
avenue.

It was a novel position for the lonely orphan to be,

thus proceeding through the streets in familiar con-
verse with a man whom she had not seen before the
morning of the same day.

The detective purposely sought to divert his com-
panion’s mind from the serious business of the hour
by a pleasant general conversation, and the two had
not been in company more than fifteen minutes be-
fore the man had come under acharm such as he had
never before experienced.

The detective and his companion soon reached the
store, and, as the girl had stated, it proved to be the
business place of one of the witnesses against her.

ioe you visit any other store upon that day ?”’

‘*¥ es;

“Do you remember the locality ?”’

“Yes; on the square above here.”

The two proceeded to the second store, which also
proved to be the business place of one of the wit-
nesses who had testified in the morning.

Miss Herndon, at the detective’s request, led him to
several other stores that she had visited upon that
same afternoon, and two of them proved, like the
former, to be the business places of witnesses who
had sworn to the identity of Miss Herndon.

When the detective and his companion started to
return home, the former remarked :

: “Well, we have made wonderful progress for one
day.”

Our hero accompanied the young lady to her own
door, and bade her good-by, promising to call upon
her on the following day.

It was with a brain ‘‘mazed’’ under the charm of
his recent association with the beautiful girl, that the
detective proceeded to his lodgings.

Immediately after his dinner, he started forth to
work his first clew in his contemplated “piping” of a
great mystery.

At this moment not one glimmer of doubt had
arisen in the detective’s mind as to the innocence
of the girl whose unfortunate position had excited
his sympathies; but before his return to his lodg-
ings, he was destined to find himself in a whirl of
perplexity.

His first visit was made to the store where Miss
Herndon stated she had met the woman who pos-
sessed the one marked personal feature of resem-
blance.

The moment the officer entered the store, he was
recognized by the proprietor, who came forward,
and, in a familiar tone, said :

“Well, sir, [reckon that by your cunning deal this
morning you will be enabled to unearth the whole
nest of base metal ‘shovers.’ ”

“My deal this morning ?’”’

“Yet, sir; your cute liitle game of pretending to be
the friend of that brazen-faced hussy who stood up
there in open court and called upon Heaven to wit-
ness that she was innocent. I tell you she did it well,
with her lovely face; and if it had not been for that
same sweet face, she would never have succeeded in
making me her victim. I tell you I am usually very
-areful about taking money.”

The detective thought it might suit his purpose to
favor the man’s idea, and he said:

“T don’t doubt but I shall succeed in unearthing
the whole gang.”

“T hope you may; for, I tell you, these people,
along with shop-lifters, compel tradespeople to keep
on the lookout all the time.” :

“Tye made a little discovery already,” said the de-
tective.

“Indeed!”

“Yes, sir. I’ve discovered that on the day the
‘queer’ was shoved on you, the ‘putters out’ were
running in pairs.”

*“How’s that?”

“There were two of them running the stuff off at
the same time.”

“There was only one came in my slore.”

“Now, look here, I just want you to think back, and
see if you can’t recall the fact that there were two
women, somewhat similar in appearance, who called
in your store that day.” :

“There was only one came in my store.’

“Do you venutiod just the exact incidents that
preceded immediately the shoving of the money on

“Wasn’t there another lady in your store, just a
moment previous to the time you received the base
money ?”’

“No, sir; there was only one ladyin my store;
there hadn’t been another customer, male or female,
for an hour previous.”

The detective began to grow thoughtful ; a strange,
weird suspicion was beginning to dawn in his mind.

“In what form was the money ?”’

“Two half-dollars.”

“And both were spurious ?”

“Yes, sir; and [am surprised that I took them;
and, as I said, I never would have been fooled were
it not that my eyes were fixed more upon the lovely
face.of the customer than upon the style of money
she was paying me.” F

‘How soon after your customer went out did you
discover that you had received bad money ?”

‘Almost immediately.”

“What did you do?”

“T started after her.”

“Did you overtake her?”

s*Yes,”’

“What did she say ?”’

“T did not accost her.”

“What did you do?”

“TI followed her.”

CHAPTER Y.
“YOU MUST TELL THE TRUTH.”

“Where did she go after leaving your store?’

“Into several others.”

“Did you follow her in?”

‘*No.”

“What did you do?” :

“T waited until she came out, when I went imme-
diately in and told them to look in their drawers and
see if they had any counterfeit half-dollars.”

“And they found the counterfeit coin in each ?”

“Yes, sir-ee, you bet they did!”

“How long did you follow the woman ?”

“Until she went home.”

“Did you follow her to her home ?”

$*Yos,”

“Where did she go?”

“T0 17 street.” 3

A pang shot through the heart of the detective, and

 

inwardly he exclaimed: ;
| “Heavens! can it be possible that the charm of
that face has deceived me, as it did this man when he
took that money ?”

“You followed her direct ?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You never lost sight of her?”

“Never.”

“And you only saw one of the ‘shovers’ during that
whole forenoon ?”

“Only one of ’em.”

“T will call and see you again,” said the detective,
as he moved toward the door.

“Are you sure there were two of them ?”’ asked the
tradesman.

*T think so.”

“Have you been able to get on the track of the
other one?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, there’s one fact P’ll swear to, only one of
them was in my store that day, and that one I
tracked from store to store, and run her down to 17

street; and I was surprised this morning when
she owned up so readily to her residence. I tell you
it will count against her when her trial comes off;
and beautiful as she is lam determined to send her
up. She belongs to a dangerous gang that must be
cleaned out at all hazards.”

“We will clean them out, you may rest assured,”
said the detective, as he passed from the store.

Van began to feel uneasy. He had trusted to his
own penetration and ability to judge between guilt
and innocence, when he decided that Miss Herndon
was wrongly accused, and the theory evidence pro-
duced at the examination did not disturb him in the
least, or shake his confidence; but the later evidence
he had gathered on his own account, to say the least,
was certainly very perplexing.

The detective, however, did not despair; his able
mind suggested how all the seeming facts might be
explained away, and the innocence of the girl shown.
In his experience he had witnessed upon many occa-
sions most astounding examples of circumstantial
evidence, wherein it appeared utterly impossible to
extricate the victim from the entangling maze, and
yet, in the most wonderful manner, all convicting
circumstances had been explained away.

The detective in his own mind worked up a theory
admitting the possibility that, to the best of his
knowledge, the tradesman might be telling the truth,
and yet be laboring under a mistake.

Van proceeded to another of the stores where the

roprietor had been victimized. As in the first place,
€ was at once recognized.

The party that had received the money in the sec-
ond case was a woman. She was not a voluble per-
son, but very quiet and lady-like.

“T have come to ask you some questions,” said the
detective.

The woman indicated that she would willingly an-
swer any questions,

“We have discovered, said the officer, “that there
were two women engaged in ‘shoving’ bad money the
day you were victimized.”

“Only one of them entered my store.”

“You are sure of that?”

“} am.”

“Just think a moment.”

“Tt is not necessary for me to think; I am as cer-
tain of the fact as that I am talking to you at this
moment.”

Van began to feel uncomfortable.

The theory that might account for the first trades-
man’s mistake would not apply to several cases.

“Who waited on the young lady who passed the
bad money ?”

Seog ig7?

“There had been no young lady in previous ?”

“Yes, sir, several.”

“T mean one who resembled the one who passed
the bad money ?”’

“No, sir.”

 

 

“You distinctly recollect receiving the money your-
self ?”

SP ao?

“How soon after the party left did you discover the
bad money ?”’

Almost immediately. The moment after the young
woman left Mr. —— eame in and asked me to ex-
amine and see if I had not received some bad money.”

“And you found the counterfeit coins ?”’

SY es?

ree had put the money in the drawer?’

‘Yes?

are young woman paid you in silver?”

eee distinctly recollect that fact 2?”

“eT det

“And Mr. after warning you, followed right
out after the party who paid you the money ?”

“He did.”

Van passed from this store, after a few more words,
and visited a third.

The experience in the latter place was about the
same as In the preceding one. The young woman had
madea purchase. Mr. had followed in and warned
them, and the counterfeit money was found in the
drawer.

Van did not deem it necessary to prosecute his
investigation at the moment. As faras he had gone
he had only obtained the strongest proofs against
Miss Herndon. In fact, there was not the faintest
shadow of a clew furnished him whereby he could
found a substantial conclusion that there had been
two persons, similarin appearance, in those stores.
The proofs were all to the contrary, and Miss Hern-
don herself had merely made a statement as to meet-
ing a party who somewhat resembled herin appear-
ance.

[t was this statement alone upon which the detec-
tive had to build, and witheat supporting proofs the
statement reflected backward, and became a link in
the chain of circumstantial evidence pointing to the
youthful, beautiful, and innocent-looking Miss Hern-
don as a passer of counterfeit money.

Van still believed in the young lady’s innocence,
but necessity demanded that he should apply one
crucial test... He shuddered at the idea of subjecting
Miss Herndon to the fearful ordeal he had decided
upon, but, as stated, he deemed it an absolute neces-
sity that he should put her innocence beyond all
question in his own mind.

‘Upon the folowing morning our hero called upon
his lovely client. He appeared strangely stern in his
demeanor, and the young lady noticed the soberness
ot his deportment, and betrayed her consciousness
of it by a slight pallor in her face.

The detective advanced, seized the lovely girl’s
hand, looked her straight in the face, and said :

“Miss Herndon, to me you must tell the truth! YT will
save you, but tome you must make an unqualified
confession !”’

(TO BE CONTINGED.)

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

ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE,

By BERTHA M. CLAF,

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 XXXIV.
“THEN YOUR LOVER SHALL APPEAR.”

UT in the clear sunlight stood
Beryl and her maid. The cottage,
\ With its open door, behind which

great trunk of one of the spreading

pear trees, faint and pale, dizzy with
the things which she had heard. Fanny got her
breath first.

“Oh, my lady, how, dreadful of you to come here,
among all this sickness and craziness! You might
have takén the f¢ver. Oh, what would my lord say ?”

“’m glad I came,” cried Beryl, with exultation—
“glad! Did you hear her, Fanny? She didit! Sir
Jerome is innocent! He shall not lie there in
strange earth, dishonored and forgotten; he shall be
cleared from all blame; his name shall be made
white.”

“Yes, yes, my lady,” said Fanny, soothingly;
“that’s all in good time; “but now you should come
home and get over this shock, and please Heaven,
you don’t take the fever, or give it to all the castle!”

“I’m very careful, Fanny. I change my dress al-
ways at the lodge-keeper’s. But, Fanny, some one,
some magistrate, should take down what this woman
says.’’

“Not her ravings, my lady. No one would heed
that. I will have her watched, and whenever she is
in her senses we'll try and get a confession. Now,
iny lady, do leave her to me; you must not come
indeed.”

Beryl went home as if a new heaven anda new
earth had opened about her. The triumphant vindi-
‘ation she foresaw for her dead lover uplifted her
over her sorrows. Instead of ovenwhelming her, the
oceurrences of the morning seemed to fill her with a
new life. She appeared at luncheon, eager, ardent,
triumphant. The clearing of Jerome could be brought
about without her seeming interference, without the
mention of her name, and Lord Medford, as a magis-
trate, would be obliged to take notice of the deposi-
tion of Sara Hunter. Anobvious reason for the hap-
yiness of Beryl was the news that had come that Mrs.
Marvel was out of danger. é

“Now that your friend is better,” cried Sir Eustace
Friar, ‘“‘now that everybody is better, and the doctors
say this fever is abating and will soon have disap-
peared, let us banish dull care and have revels. Let
us keep Halloween with all the old-time ceremonies,
with magie arts and incantations.”

“Yes,” chimed in Lord Ravlin, “let us exhume the
ancient wardrobes of the castle, and all wear garb of
oue or two centuries ago.”

“By all means,” said the marquis, anxious to make
his guests happy. ‘I intend to have Christmas kept
here this year, and New Year’s, and Twelfth Night,
with all the magnificence I can summon. And we
will begin the celebrations by Halloween obser-
vances. Lady Beryl, your guests will depend on you
to arrange a grand entertainment for them.”

“[ fear Iam poor at devising, though delighted to
follow a good leader,” said Beryl.

“JT will tell you who is a good leader,” said Sir
Eustace. ‘Mrs. Ranleigh. She is the most wonder-
ful person to get up entertainments. I have often
thought if she were very rich she would be famous
for splendid festivities, which would outshine those
given under the Empire, or to Louis Fourteenth.
Dear Lady Beryl, where is Mrs. Ranleigh? Do send
for her.”

“Very willingly, if I knew where she is,”’said Beryl.

“T will tell you; she is down in Kent, with the
senior Mrs. Ranleigh, or Lady Ranleigh, her mother-
in-law—a famously stupid place, where the only
diversions are haying penny-readings and soup
kitchens,” cried Lord Ravlin. ‘Send for her by the
next mail, Lady Medford; she will regard it as an in-
vitation to paradise.”

“Very well; I will, if Lord Medford agrees—or, will
you write, Percy ?”

“T leave it to you,” said the marquis, with cold-
ness.

The luncheon party went out upon the terraces,
warm and glowing in the rich October sunlight.
Beryl] lingered a little by her husband.

“Are you displeased at anything, Percy, that you
are so grave ?”

“T like frankness,” said the marquis. ‘You seemed
as ready as any one to invite Mrs. Ranleigh, when
she was dismissed because you could not live under
the same roof with her. How do you mean to keep
the word you have just pledged?”

“By inviting her, just as I said, and conquering as
much as I can wy prejudices. Laura is a great
social genius. You like her, our guests want her;
and as for me, Percy,” added Beryl, with a flash of
pride, ‘I will show you that Iam not afraid to live
under her eyes.”

“T cannot understand you,” said the marquis. ‘Why
this unexpected change and concession?”

“T feel stronger and less nervous than I did in the
spring; and as for Laura, there may be excuses for
her. Atall events, I know you like her, Percy, and
she entertained you. You must often be lonely here,
and I think, for my sake, you have exiled yourself
from London—from your natural social life and po-
litical friends. You fear I may not be discreet in so-
ciety? You shall see that I will. Let Mrs. Ranleigh
come; her sharpest eyes shall find nothing in me of
which I need blush.”

“You speak as if Laura were a jailer, not a friend.”

“So I do; but, all the same, I accept my jailer.”

“You had no need to prove your judicious conduct
to me, Beryl, so that we should go back to London in
February. You know that was fixed upon.”

“T do not think Iam so eager for London and its
gayety as you imagine, Percy. It is very lovely
here.”

Within a week, Laura Ranleigh was back at the
castle.
quis had so much missed her, that he had insisted on
Beryl’s invitation. She deyoted herself to the en-
tertainment of her host, and once more her sly sug-
gestions, her looks and hints—all so subtle that he
did not realize them as the sourse of his new dis-
turbance—began to rouse to pain, uneasiness, and

Very naturally, she thought that the mar-’

 

bitterness the heart that had of late become more
content.

The preparations for the Halloween rout moved
on with much mirth. The gentry of all the county
received invitations; all the gay inmates of the
castle contributed plans of magic, and witchcraft,
and ancient observances. Lord Ravlin went on an
exploration among the country dames, and brought
back accounts of rustic Halloween love-tests. The
stores of the castle furnished the masquerade cos-
tumes. 2

Laura Ranleigh, as mistress of the revels, declined
to take any particular private share in the feats, and
wore as her costume the famous dress of the Yellow
Monk, making her a distinguished figure.

Beryl wore the garb of the Fair Chatelaine—a dress
of ancient white silk with a short waist square cut.
from her shoulders hung a crimson velvet cloak,
furred with minnever; a broad sash of oriental work
was knotted at her left side, and on her arms and
neck shone bracelets and collar of rich ancient jewels;
her lovely hair, held by a jeweled gold band, fell in
gleaming waves over her shoulders.

The evening had grown late, when there was a cry
that no one had been found with courage to perform
one feat—to go to Sir Hillard’s Room to await the
vision of a lover.

Sir Hillard’s Room was the first floor of a square
tower said to be haunted by an ancient Crusader
Medford. The room was empty, except for a great,
dim Venetian glass, and a square, moth-eaten rug,
above which swung a lamp in tarnished chains. ;

“The feat,” said Mrs. Ranleigh, “is to go and sit in
an oaken chair which has been placed in Sir Hillard’s

Room before the glass, and there, for four minutes, |
brush your unbound hair; then the lover will appear |
Fair Chatelaine, you should set us |

behind the chair.
the example of such courage as that.”

Now, in such things Beryl was not a whit cowardly. |
She frequently went into Sir Hillard’s Room, and had }
She |

7 to having it lighted that very evening.
said:

“T will go. My lord, will you count these gay peo-
ple, and pledge yourself that not one of them leaves
the room till [ return ?”’ ,

“Yes,” said the marquis, glancing over the revel-
ers. ‘‘They are all here. Take your places, and
will lock you in here with me.”

“Will you pass behind my chair, Percy?’
Beryl, as she turned to leave the room.
you going, Laura?’

“Only to watch you going to the foot of the stair,
to see that you do not deceive us.”

The next instant the Yellow Mask glided back to
the room, and stood listening against the mantel.

The gay talk, full of Halloween tales, flowed on.

Ten minutes passed.

‘Lady Beryl is making preparations for a sur-
prise,” said Lord Ravlin.

“She means to vindicate her courage,” said Law-
rence.

“Fifteen minutes!
said Lord Medford.
escort her back.”

In a moment after there was aloud eal]. The gay
party, in sudden terror, rushed to the stair-way.

There stood Sir Eustace Friar, with the Fair Chat-
elaine lying lifeless in his arms.

D said
“Where are

She has been long enough,”
“Eustace, [I depute you to go

CHAPTER XXXV.
“SHE SHALL MAKE A CONFESSION.”

There was a rush toward Eustace, a cry for Fanny,
for water, for help.

Lord Medford was the first to reach his wife, and
eatching her from the arms of Eustace, he carried
her to the library sofa. It was half an hour before
Beryl was so far restored that she could be taken to
her room.

“Where is Mrs. Ranleigh?’’ asked Mrs. Harvey
Medford.

“My mistress,” said Mrs. Ranleigh’s maid, sudden-
ly appearing, “is so shocked at the effect these plays
have had on Lady Medford, that she is nearly in hys-
terics. She will not come back this evening.”

The company began to break up.

“A sorry ending!” said Sir Eustace to Lord Ravlin.

“Ttis a devilish, tricky ending, Friar, and I wish I
knew what it meant.”

“Why, nerves merely. We were all locked in there;
T counted heads.”

“Did you?’

Lord Ravlin moved away, with a low whistle.

When Beryl! was finally left alone with Fanny, she
began to sob desolately.

“Oh, Fanny, only to think! Here I am, with so
much that people envy me—money, title, splendor,
and not a friend near me to whom I can speak! Oh,
Iam so alone! so alone!”

“Dear lady,” said Fanny, kneeling by her, ‘I’m
faithful to you. Let me be your friend, since there’s
noue other. What you saw is rankling in your mind.
Tell me, wy lady, and with speaking, you’ll see it
flees away as a dream when one rouses the sleeper.”

“Fanny, I saw Sir Jerome Sothron! Alive! Alive,
I tell you! It was no ghost! I saw him in the glass.
I sat combing my hair, and smiling to myself, when
all at once de passed behind my chair. I felt a living
presence in the room! I dared not speak; I could
not move. In the glass I looked at him! I heard
his step as he moved away, and then I suppose I fell
senseless.”

“Oh, my lady, it was your imagination. That glass
is dim ; the light there was very dim. You could not
see a face plain. Some one has gone there to try you,
and you fancied it Sir Jerome.”

“Fanny, what convinced me is this? Do you re-
member the tableaux at Heath Castle, three years
ago, when Sir Jerome and I were Tristram and
Isolt?”’

“Indeed do I, my lady.
you looked.”

“Well, no one here knows of that; and to-night Sir
Jerome wore that same dress of Tristram; the very
same. And, Fanny, it was that night, after the tab-
leaux, When we had gone into the cemetery, still in
our costume, I promised Sir Jerome I would never
marry any one else, and would marry him. I have
broken my word; and to-night he came in that same
dress. The dress, the figure, the hair and whiskers I
recognized fully; his casque shaded his face, and
his head was bent forward as in sorrow and re-
proach.”

“Dear lady, it was the games that brought the tab-
leaux back; and then your mind brought him up.
Do not let this wear on you, my lady.”

So Fanny finally soothed her mistress to sleep.

Some while before breakfast next day the brilliant
face of Mrs. Ranleigh, rosy with frosty air, looked in
at the library window, her arms full of glowing
chrysanthemums.

“See, Lord Medford, the splendors of October. I
hope we shall find poor dear Bery] quite restored this
morning. I was so shocked I fled to my room, as if I
were guilty of the whole; but, really, it was Lord
Ravlin proposed that feat, and I suppose Beryl’s
Hong did the rest. Did she tell you what alarmed

er 7”?

“No; she declined to do so.”

“That is a pity. Physicians. have told me that the
only danger in such alarms is concealing them, and
letting them prey on the mind. As soon as one ex-
plains the secret terror it melts away like frost in
sun. But of course Beryl will soon explain all to
you. That is the blessing of a husband. One can go
to such a friend with everything. So, pray do not
look grave; Beryl will bein no mental danger, as
she will make you her confidant, and you will dis-
miss her fears.”

These hints pressed on Lord Medford’s mind. For
the next two or three days Beryl was pale, nervous,
dejected. She had not now either Mrs. Marvel or
Lelia to confide in, as intercourse with the doctor’s
family had not yet been resumed, Mrs. Marvel being
yet very feeble. The hints of Laura—that telling a
terror, like telling a dream, dissipated its power—
finally induced the marquis to say to Beryl, one day,
when he found her sitting alone in the morning room,
her embroidery frame lying on her lap, and her eyes
fixed in mournful musing on the distance:

“Beryl, you must shake off this foolish Halloween
impression. I insist on knowing what terrified you.”

‘Percy, [saw Jerome Sothron.”

“Beryl!”

“I did. It was not my imagination; he really ap-
peared. He wore adress that I only would know;
he was dressed as Tristram, as when he and Ionce
acted Tristram and Isolt. Percy, I know why he
came; it was to reproach me—reproach me _ be-
eause Lean clear his name from unmerited shame,
and I do not do it, and let himi'lie in an unknown grave
in a foreign land, as one too base to be numbered in
an honorable home. And, Percy, he is innocent. I

‘an prove it—I know it.”

“Beryl, are you mad? Isit not enough that you
forsook me for this man while he lived, but you must
curse me with him now he is dead. I would not stir
a tinger to clear his name. He knew his course was
not that of an honorable man.”

“Oh, Percy, will you never forgive?’ moaned
Beryl.

She had risen in her eagerness, but, chilled and
terrified by his anger, she now stood before hima
lovely, pleading tigure, with drooping arms, her fair
head bent like some sweet flower beaten on by
pitiless rains, needing a tender hand and comforting
suns.

Angry that in all her loveliness, despite the mar-
riage oath, she was not, and never had been fully his,
the marquis, with a low exclamation of wrath and
pain, stepped out of the open long window and strode
otf across the park.

“There is no help for Jerome’s memory but in me,”
said Beryl. ‘“‘My dear, you shall not appeal to me
in vain.”

“What is the news of that—that terrible woman,
Fanny?’ asked Beryl, as Fanny dressed her for
dinner. ,

“She is better—much better; she is up. Folks mis-
erable as she is don’t often die. That, my lady, is
one of the strange things of this world; it’s the happy
ones that are taken.”

“But who knows who the happy ones really are,
Fanny? Many whom the world thinks most happy
are truly very wretched. Fanny, I must see that
woman.”

“Oh, don’t, my lady; it will wear you allout. I’d
as lief see a mad dog.”

I dressed you, and sweet

 

| row.

 

“Tt is my duty, Fanny. I want to get her to make
a confession; then the marquis must take notice of
it, and it will be known and published everywhere ;
and so Jerome’s good name will be established, and I
shall not appear in it so as to vex Lord Medford. I
think a kind Providence has just opened this way to
clear the innocent.”

“But my dear lady, you never can get the woman
to make a confession. Why,it is clear to put her
neck in a rope.”

“T think I can persuade her to tell the truth—to do
her duty. How can she be so wicked as to let an-
other bear her sin and shame? I cannot conceive
such a thing, Fanny.”

“Just so. my lady; you cannot conceive of a woman
coming to such a pass as to drive a dagger in a poor
innocent, helpless young lady, who, no doubt, had
been most uncommon good to her. Itis all beyond
the comprehension of such an angel as youare. I
do entreat and beg, my dear mistress, you'll leave
the thing alone. It is not forthe like of you to meddle
with. The woman will not speak, and my lord will
be most angry to have it all opened up again. And
then, you know, my dear lady, Doctor Marvel said,
particularly, my lord could not bear worry and ex-
citement. Oh, my lady, only consider what a state
you’d be in if he were to be taken away!”

“T know all that, Fanny, and for that reason I
wish to prevail on this woman to confess, and let it
go to the nearest magistrate, and Lord Medford will
have no trouble about it; and we shall not bein
question. At least I am resolved to see her to-mor-
You shall go with me, Fanny. I will go outin
my phaeton for an early drive, and take a basket of
things to be left at the cottages, and no one will see
anything strange in it.”

“T wish your mind were not so set on it,’ sighed
Fanny.

“Well, it is fully made up,” said Beryl.

She went down to dinner, her usual self for the
first time since Halloween. The marquis rejoiced
that his remedy had been effective, and with a freer
mind entered into conversation with two or three
leading political men who had arrived that day.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
“YES, ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE—ARE YOU SHE?”

When the pretty basket phaeton with Beryl and
her maid stopped at the cottage of the lace-maker,
the woman was sitting in the warm sunshine on the
door-step.

“Don’t come here, lady, please,” she said, uneasily.
“T’ve had a fever; it may be dangerous for you.”

“We are not afraid of it,’ said the countess, going
toward her. ‘I was here while you were very ill.
Perhaps you do not remember it.”

“You here !”

“Yes, several times.”

“Here, and I so ill! I did not know any one was
here but that deaf old woman.”

“T was here. If I had not come to bring you
ae and to help you, I think you would have

ied.

“You had much better have let me die,” said the
woman, morosely. ‘I don’t set such store by living.”

She kept her place on the door-sill to prevent their
entrance.

“My maid also was here. Will you not let us come
in? We wish to talk with you.”

“T’ve nothing to say to strangers. I am a lone wo-
man. I’ve had trouble, and I keep to myself. Very
likely ve said too much as it is, being sick and out
ot my head.” 7

“You said many things, Sara Hunter, about which
IT must speak to you,” said Beryl, firmly.

The woman looked at her in wide-eyed terror, and
sprang to her feet.

Beryl entered the cottage.

“Sit down,” she said, kindly; ‘‘you are yet weak.”

The woman sat down, still as one quelled by a
mighty fear.

“Sara Hunter, you were the maid of Mrs. Jerome
Sothron.”’

The woman shut her lips firmly, resolved not to
speak.

“T do not know anything about how you lived with
Mrs. Sothron, but I know she was a simple, innocent,
pretty young creature—a mere child. No doubt she

yas kind to you.”

The woman began rocking herself to and fro, with
alow moaning sound, as one in intense pain. The
scene turned Beryl sick; her gentle face grew
ghastly pale, but she went on with her self-set task.

“One day Sir Jerome was sent for—you know for
what. He came; he went away. His wife stood on
arug by the mantel; behind her was the door of a
bedroom, where you were. In the bedroom was a
little dagger which she had taken as a memento of
her husband’s chambers at the Albany. You took
that weapon, softly opened the bedroom door, and
saw her standing there alone, absorbed; in her hand
a note fora thousand pounds. You crept up behind
her and drove that cruel dagger in that gentle young
heart which had never wronged you, and she fell
dead, all ina heap, on the rug, which was covered
with her blood. Then you took from her dead hand
that note, with one red drop on it——”

Sara Hunter had listened as in a trance of terror.
She flung herself now on the floor and shrieked :

“No! No! No!”

“Hear me!” said Beryl, making a little pause, ‘“You
fled with that money and your mistress’ jewels—her
rings, watch, bracelets, pins, necklace, and other
things, and you have them here. I have seen them;
they are between the ticks on your bed.”

“They are not!” screamed Sara, leaping up, rush-
ing to the carelessly made bed, and tearing off the
covers and the feather tick.

Then, convicted of her crime, she stood, her arms
flung above her head, her cry of horror frozen on her
blanched lips; for there lay all poor Celia Sothron's
pretty ornaments confronting her murderer.

Sara turned her dry, burning eyes on Beryl. Fan-
ny, clinging behind her lady’s chair, white and trem-
bling, gasped :

“Oh, you wicked, wicked wretch !”

“Hush, Fanny!’ said Beryl, gently; ‘cher own
heart, her own remorse condemn her enough.”

At this voice of mercy Sara fell on her knees.

“Oh, my lady, itis true; my agony is greater than
I can bear !”

It was the echo of Cain’s cry pursuing Cain’s sin.

“Sara,” said Beryl, ‘after that dreadful act you
yourself accused Sir Jerome Sothron as the mur-
derer! You bore false witness against him! You,
the guilty, laid the crime on the innocent! You
murdered his reputation, as you murdered his wife!
You are guilty of his death, for that accusation drove
him to his death | And now his honest name is loaded
with that crime, and his family are ashamed to

| bring his body home for burial!”

Sara, groveling on her knees, was wringing her
hands and crying miserably.

“Sara, there is but one thing left for you to do.
You must confess your sin, you must clear Sir Je-
rome’s hame. You must take the blame yourself.”

But at these words Sara became a changed woman.
That terror, the gallows, from which she had been
flying, stood and confronted her, and despair gave
her a ferocious strength. If Beryl had gone there
alone, no doubt her life would have paid the penalty
of rashness ; but Fanny was there, and Sara was still
feeble. She vented her fury in words:

“Confess! confess! Confess what? I never did
it! All I said raving was dreams, only dreams. Sir
Jerome did it, and gave me the jewelry to go away.
There was no thousand pounds Re

“Sara, you told me, in the wood, that you had a
thousand pounds, got at a great cost, and some man
robbed you of the money,” said Lady Beryl.

“Lies! lies!—all lies! I never said the word. You,
my lady, are an aristocrat, and you are fighting for
your class, to get the stain off the man who is rich,
and put it on a poor woman like me. What! ask me
to confess, and hang? I never did it! It is not true!”

“Sara, itis true. We are both witnesses here, how
your own mouth condemns you.”

“Tf it was true, I would not give my life for his rep-
utation—notI! And even if he did not do it, he hated
her, I know, and often wished her dead.”

“He never did; and if you will not confess,” cried
Beryl, ‘I will myself denounce you to justice.”

“It is all your plot, lady—tine lady as you are!—to
save an aristocrat’s name, and put the blame on me.
I heard always that Sir Jerome loved a titled lady,
not his wife—yes, ANOTHER MAN’S WIFE! Are you
she? Fine example both of you set us poor folks!
And to clear your lover, you come and plot against a
poor woman !”

“Sara hush this raving! Once the law is set on
your track, you will be convicted.”

“Then I’ll die by the law, and not give myself away.
And who will have hunted me, a poor helpless wo-
man, down, and given me to death, but you, another
woman, if you are all dressed in silk, sitting there
like a queen; and I am a poor, wretched soul, here
at your feet, sick, in rags, and half mad.”

“Sara, if you repent and confess your sin, this load
of misery will be gone. God forgives the guilty.”

“Yes, but man does not,” said Sara, quickly.

Then changing her mind, she crept to Beryl’s feet,
clung to her dress, and prayed her for mercy.

“T am sick, and poor, and helpless. I do not know
rightly what I say. Give me alittle time. You may
bring me to your mind, to end all this, and do as you
say. Let me think; leave me to look atitall. Give
me two or three days to grow stronger. Leave me;
you are right, and lam wrong. I cannot talk, but I
can write it all out, in a quiet time. And you will
come to me again, my lady; you will come and teach
me to doright. Leave me now for a little while; I
have borne all I can.”

‘“‘Poor soul! poor soul!” said Beryl, as she took up
the gay silken reins and turned her white ponies
toward home. ‘‘How terrible it has been! I shake
like an aspen leaf. But I knew I should bring her to
confess.”

Fanny said nothing. She had not this great care
for Sir Jerome’s good name. She hada nearer feel-
ing for this woman, whose class was more like her
own. Fanny reasoned that no sentence of law could
chastise this sinner beyond what her own remorse
was doing. And, she argued, Sir Jerome was dead;
what was a dead man’s reputation beside a living
woman’s neck? She let her little mistress believe
as she would, and kept her own expectations to
herself.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No, 33,

 

.

ome THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

And it was Fanny’s expectations that were jus-
titied.

Three days later, Beryl drove back to the cottage.
It was cold and empty. Sara Hunter was gone. She
had mysteriously fled the very night that Beryl had
seen her. Gone, and left absolutely no trace.

“She must be found!” cried Beryl, wildly.

“My lady,” asked Fanny, ‘‘can you search for her
without injuring the marquis ?”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

MAGGIE,
THE CHARITY CHILD.

By FRANCIS S. SMITH,
Author of “Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,”
**Little Sunshine,” ‘‘Daisy Burns,” etc., etc.

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

CHAPTER XXIV.
LOVE VERSUS GRATITUDE.

The morning following the events detailed in the
last chapter, found Hollister and his friend, Gilbert
Farmer, seated in the reading-room of the Astor, the
former relating to the latter the particulars of his
narrow escape from the garroters on the night pre-
yious.

“Tt is athousand pities you did not inquire the
name of the stranger who assisted you,” said Farmer,
when Hollister had finished his recital.

“Tt is,” rejoined Hollister; ‘it was a piece of inex-
eusable negligence on my part. However I dare
say we shall see him to-day. I should know him
among a thousand. I declare,’ he continued, as he

looked up and saw the stranger walking toward him,
“there he is now!”

“AsLlive!’ exclaimed Gilbert Farmer, jumping
up and rushing forward to meet the stranger, “it is
my friend of the ‘free fight,’ Mr. Wrexham! Gentle-
men, allow me to introduce you!”

The introduction which followed was anything

but a source of pleasure to Hollister, for the moment
he heard the name he recognized his rival in the man
who stood before him. He felt that he would have
sacrificed everything rather than that Wrexham’s
hand should have saved his life; for he could not
feel friendly toward one who claimed Maggie as his
tna and common gratitude demanded that he should

0 S80.

“A charming little incident you fell in with last
night!” exclaimed Farmer, addressing Wrexham,
after he had introduced the gentlemen to each other.

“Yes,” replied Wrexham, with a smile, ‘but not a
very rare one in this city just at present. Highway-
men are about as numerous on our public thorough-
fares after nightfall as honest men.”

“Ah, we attend better to such matters in England,”
said Farmer, exultantly. ‘“‘We have a police force
there that is worth maintaining. You wouldn’t be
obliged to shout ‘Police’ half an hour on one of the
public thoroughfares of London, [assure you. No
‘wonder that our London thieves and desperadoes
flock here in such numbers, when they have such a
certainty of succecs.”’

“There can be no doubt of the perfect organization
of the London police department,” replied Wrexham,
“nor of the ability and vigilance of the members com-
posing it. I have been there, and so I can speak
trom actual knowledge, as well as yourself. But to
change the subject, how did you get on in Kentucky?
You found your brother without trouble, I suppose ?”’

“Yes,” was the reply; “and I found him changed
from a thorough Englishman into a red-hot, out-and-
out American. I have seen many, and read of many
more, of time’s changes, but I was hardly prepared
to witness so great an alteration as I found in him.”

“Ah, this is a great country for winning the aflec-
tion of strangers,” replied Wrexham, with a smile.
“Tnever knew a foreigner who could live out of it
after remaining here a year. There is something in
the very atmosphere of America which at once neu-
tralizes everything like loyalty to ‘foreign princes
and potentates,’ and if we can manage to keep you
here for a twelvemonth you will be as strong an

_ American as your brother. But what do you think
of Kentucky society, now ?”’

“T saw barely enough of it while there to form an
opinion,” answered Farmer, “but I will freely admit
that I entertain altogether a different opinion of the
people row from what I did when I parted with you
at Louisville. At that time I was full of certain ex-
travagant statements which I had listened to from
the lips of a waggish Yankee, which statements I
afterward ascertained to be without the slightest
foundation in truth.”

“Ha! Hal” laughed Wrexham—‘he caught you
fresh and sold you cheaply, eh? wellI suppose you
will find some such triflers in pretty much all com-
munities. But tell me—what do you think of onr
American ladies ?”’

“Well, to speak from what observation I have.had
thus far,” answered the Englishman, “my honest
opinion is that they are too thin, and pale, and pen-
sive—too spirituelle—too fond of exercising the brain
and not fond enough of exercising the body. They
lack the well rounded limbs, the embonpoint, and the
rosy, fresh complexion of the daughters of merry
England. I have seen but one lady here as yet, who
at all struck my faney—now, don’t be jealous, Mr.
Hollister, forlam not actually in love with her—
and even her beauty was decidedly of the American
stamp—deficient in physique, but full of intellect-
uality, and the possessor of a pair of lustrous black
eyes which speak love at every glance. I[ allude to
Miss Hattie Henderson, a very particular acquaint-
ance of my friend here,” and he nodded playfully
toward Hollister.

“The lady you speak of may be very beautiful and
attractive,’ responded Wrexham, “but you will never
see the most perfect specimen of American beauty
till your gaze rests upon my Maggie. In her are
combined all the beauties, both physical and mental,
which go to make up female loveliness, In form and
feature, in heart and soul, she is perfection!’ And
the glow of admiration which mantled upon the face
of a speaker told how seriously he meant what he
said.

“What a divinity!” exclaimed the Englisnman,
‘how I should like to see her !”

“You may, before you leave the country,” replied
Wrexham. -“By the way,” he continued, as asudden
thought seemed to strike him, ‘if I mistake not, she
once had aplaymateof the name of Hollister. It would
be strange, now,if our young friend here, should
happen to be that playmate!’ And he looked in-
quiringly toward the object of his remark.

The cheeks of Charles Hollister glowed like red-hot
coals, and a strange expression kindled in his. eyes.
For a moment he felt that he could dart upon Wrex-
ham and tear him piecemeal. It was only for a mo-
ment, however, for reflection came soon, and then
the rebellious. blood rushed back to the citadel of life,
leaving his face as pale as marble, and sending a
chill throughout his frame. He could not get away
from the fact that Wrexham had as good aright to
the hand of Maggie as he had, and perhaps a better
right—that moreover, his rival had never injured
him by word or deed—that he had, on the contrary,
saved his life, and that but afew hours previously.
Lively gratitude anda strong sense of justice were
the most active ingredients in his nature. He would
have risked his life without a moment’s hesitation,
to have saved Wrexham’s, at the same moment that
he regretted the latter had saved his. He was very,
very wretched. He could not love the man who had
befriended him, but he would not quarrel with him,
so suddenly starting to his feet, he exclaimed :

‘You must excuse me for a while, gentlemen. I
am not well. Amuse yourselves as well as you can
without me, and I will rejoin youinthe course of a
few hours!” And without waiting fora reply, he
took his way to his room.

CHAPTER XXYV.
A CONSPIRACY,

Dr. MeNab proceeded to his office in the_base-
ment of the building which he occupied, after Charles
Hollister and Gilbert Farmer had left him on the
afternoon of their visit concerning the heiress of
whom the latter was in search, and having seated
himself, be indulged ina moment of deep thought,
and then rang the bell for Sairey Rockhart.

That very attentive lady answered the summons
almost immediately, and stood awaiting her master’s
orders, till McNab, with a patronizing smile, said:

“Sit down, Sairey—sit down, my dear. I have some-
thing to say to you.”

Sairey sat down accordingly and merely replied:
“Well, go on, doctor, I’m ready to listen. I allers
am! ;

“Sairey,” said McNab, looking fixedly at his house-
keeper, and rubbing his hands gleefully the while,
*there’s going to be such a time, before long! Oh,
such a glorious time !”

‘Very likely,” replied Sairey; ‘there generally is
somethin’ of a time whenever you studies much.”

“But there is going to be a time now, Sairey, to
which all others since our acquaintance commenced
willseem perfect blanks. Oh, such an idea—such a
superlatively great idea—as I am at present digest-
ing! You can’t imagine!’

“T shan’t try to,” dryly answered Sairey; ‘‘so you
may as well tell me what you’re drivin’ at at once,
and save time!”

“Vm afraid it wouldn’t do jist yet, Sairey,” replied
MeNab, ‘“‘for I haven’t hardly got my plans laid yet;
but you shall know what my intentions are before
long. In the meantime, I wish to give you a few in-

 

 

structions, and I wish you to live up to them strictly.
I’ve a little work on hand just at present which is
likely to occupy all my time for some weeks to come,
and what I wish to particularly impress upon your
mind, just at present, is, that [am ‘at home’ to no-
body till you receive further instructions. Whenever
anybody ealls, I am either out attending to my
patients or too busy to be seen, but [am not out of
arate I am here, but I am not visible. Do you under-
stand ?”

“In course I do,’”’ was the half petulant reply ; “‘why
not ?”

“Well, you mustn’t mind my being particular,
Sairey,” said Dr. McNab, apologetically, ‘“‘for you see
it’s a matter of some importance that people should
suppose me to be here when, perhaps, I may bein
reality some distance off. I may want to prove an
alibi, you know, at some time.”

“All right,” replied the housekeeper, ‘‘I understand
it perfectly.”

“Then I won't detain you any longer, Sairey,” said
the doctor, blandly, ‘“‘you ean go now.”

he housekeeper left the room accordingly, and
McNab, after waiting tillit was quite dark, sallied
forth and took his way toward the residence of Mrs.
Dockett.

It was a long walk, and the evening moreover, was
foggy and disagreeable, but the doctor, although un-
used to pedestrian exercises, started off with a light
step, as though the task which he had taken upon
himself was a very pleasant instead of a disagreeable
one.

“Tt is some distance to go a-foot,” he muttered, as
he walked along, ‘‘but a doctor's gig stopping before
the door of Mrs. Dockett would be certain to excite
remark among the neighbors. Besides with the
hopes which at present animate me I am proof
against fatigue. I feel that I could walk for a year
if certain of success at last.”

It was at least an hour before he entered the little
village to which we have once before in the course of
our story alluded, and after passing anumber of cot-
tages knocked at the door of the one oceupied by Mrs.
Dockett.

“Why, doctor!” exclaimed the vile creature, with
a look of complete astonishment as she gazed upon
her visitor, ‘““wot could ha’ brought you afoot on sich
a dark, disagreeable night?”

“Come inside and I’ll tell you,” whispered McNab.
“Rustic neighbors have sharp eyes and long ears.”

After they had entered the house and were seated,
MeNab glanced cautiously around the room, and as
his glanee fellupon the idiot woman, Nell, who sat
grinning in one corner, he said, addressing Mrs.
Docket:

“T s’pose there’s no danger to be apprehended from
that quarter, is there?’ and he nodded his head
toward Nell.

“None wotsomever,” replied Mrs. Dockett, readily ;
“there was a time when Nell might ha’ listened and
blabbed too. But that time’s gone by long ago.
learnt her better. You needn’t be a bit skeery about
speakin’ before her.”

Thus encouraged McNab moved up his chair close
to Mrs. Dockett, and bending over her he said, in a
subdued tone:

“T’ve got news for you.”

“You don’t say so!” exclaimed Mrs. Dockett. “It’s
a long time since I’ve had any news. Wot’s the
natur’ of it?”

“You remember little Maggie?’ returned the doc-
tor.

“Remember her!” exclaimed the fiendish woman,
while a scowl as black as midnight settled upon her
tace; “do I remember the greatest trouble I have
ever had was all along o’ her? Do I remember that
I spent six months in prison on her account, and that
I have lived till this time without being revenged
for it? Are you such a poor judge o’ my character
as to suppose I can ever forget it?) There ain’t a day
that passes over my head but I think of her; there
ain’t a night that I sleep but I dream of her. When
I forget everything else inthe sleep of death I may
forget her, but I won’t even thenif I can help it.
Remember her? I guessI do. Wot of her? Is she
dead, or likely to die? Or, better still, isshe again
thrown upon the world to shift for herself? Say yes
to the last question and I[’ll fall down on my knees
and worship you.”

“Restrain your feelings, Mrs. Dockett, restrain
your feelings, my dear lady,” urged McNab, “till
you have heard me through. When you took Maggie
to live with you she had a friend—a boy friend—
named Charles Hollister. Charles was apprenticed
to a silversmith at the same time that Maggie was
handed over to you, but it turned out that he couldn’t
agree with his employer any better than Maggie
could agree with you, for he ran away even before
Maggie did. Where he went or what business he had
got into Ido not know, but I do know that he has
returned to New York, and to judge from appear-
ances, not without abundance of means. Now, the
first thing of importance which I have to commu-
nicate is that absence has rather added to than taken
from his boyish affection for Maggie—thatsome good
friend ef yours—more than likely Edward Wrexham
—has made him acquainted with the particulars of
her connection with you, and he has vowed a deadly
revenge, so that it behooves you to keep a sharp look-
out for danger.”

And is that all the comfort you have to give me?”
snarled Mrs. Dockett, wrathfully; “have you taken
the trouble to come all the way here to tell me that
instead of losing her friends she has found one more
powerful than all the rest? ’Cosif this ’ere is the
~ I wish you’d ha’ kept your information to your-
self.”

“Once more I tell you to not get excited till you
hear me through,” replied McNab, with a. pleasant
smile; “I’m not half through yet. The next item of
interest I shall mention is that Maggie is about to be
married.”’

“Wus and wus!” exclaimed Mrs. Dockett, now ina
towering passion; ‘one or two more sich items as
that ’ll set me crazy, and if you don’t want to run the
risk of a broken head you'll leave this house imme-
diately, unless you have got something more palat-
able to offer.”

“Do have patience, my dear, good Mrs. Dockett!”
exclaimed McNab, in a tone of expostulation. “I
never saw so impatienta woman! When I have told
you who the happy bridegroom is to be I am inclined
to think you will thank me for coming.”

“Well, then, come to the p’int at once,’ returned
Mrs. Dockett. ‘“‘From the way you spoke I thought
in course that the young man as you mentioned was
to marry her. Who is the bridegroom to be,?”

“Unless I am very much at fault in my estimation
of both your character and my own,” replied McNab
“7 will be the happy man?”

You /”? exclaimed Mrs. Dockett, fairly jumping
from her seat, and clapping her hands together, in
her extreme surprise. ‘‘Maggie marry you? Oh,
come, come, doctor, that story won’tdo with me. I
ain’t quite as green as you take me tobe. She’d as
soon think of marrying Old Nick himself!”

“Very likely, Mrs. D.,’’ replied McNab, ‘‘very likely.
If the girl were left to her own untrammeled choice,
and had to take either Beelzebub or myself, it is a
great question which she would elect. But with your
able assistance I hope to place her in such a position
that she cannot help marrying me.”

“T’d work night and day forever to bring about
such a glorious match!” exclaimed Mrs. Dockett,
eagerly; and then suddenly fixing upon McNab a
look of suspicion, she continued: “But how came
you to think of such a thing all of a sudden, doctor?
It seems to me you must have some secret motive for
your action. If I’m a-goin’ to take part in the game
I wants to know the whole truth. I don’t want no
double dealin’ about it.’”’

‘Why, bless your soul, my dear Mrs. Dockett, how
very suspicious you are!’’ exclaimed McNab, who
met her searching glance with the most perfect pla-
cidity of countenance. ‘You ought to know me bet-
ter,” he continued, “than to suppose that I would
undertake a matter of this kind unless I was pre-
pared to give you my full confidence. To secure
Maggie for a wife is not a sudden resolution with me.
I have been thinking of it for a long time past. What
first put itin my head I am ata loss toimagine. It
is one of those singular and unaccountable whims
which sometimes take possession of one,’and which
one finds it impossible to shake off, however much
oe one may be possessed of. I don’t think,

owever, I should ever have attempted to secure the
girl had it not been for the return of Charles Hol-
lister. This youth, I know, loves Maggie dearer than
his life, and my hatred for him is as deep as his love
for her. So, you see, if I can manage to secure her, I
not only gratify the strange desire which has taken
possession of me, but revenge myself atthe same
time.

The plausibility of the doctor’s statement and the
tone of complete self-possession in whichit was ut-
tered, entirely removed from the mind of Mrs. Dock-
ett any suspicion which she might at first have felt,
and with an air of satisfaction she rejoined :

“Well, doctor, I am with you, heart and soul, in the
matter. Command my services any way you like.
You will find me as eager to work as you are, and all
Task of youis to make the job as short as possible.
And now tell me wot’s to be did in the first place ?”’

“T have considerable to do myself before I can set
you to work,” replied McNab; ‘‘my plans are only
half formed as yet. I merely Wished to get the as-
surance of your co-operation in advance, and now I
am ready to proceed. All I require of you, at present,
however, is to keep perfectly quiet till further notice,
and bold yourself in readiness to act at a moment’s
warning.”

“Well, be lively about it,” said Mrs. Dockett, work-
ing her fingers nervously; ‘I wish I was to commence
my part of the job to-night. Ishan’t have a mo-
ment’s rest till I get at it. Oh, to have the felicity of
dragging the little baggage from the high horse she
has monnted and marrying her to a man old enough
to be her grandfather, and ugly lookin’ and vishus
enough to pass for Satan! Excuse me, doctor, there’s
no use 0’ our mincing matters. You know it’s my
opinion, and I might as well say it as think it, and J
know thatif you’d express your candid opinion in
apt to me it wouldn’t be as favorable a one as
that.”

“You are disposed to be complimentary.” returned
McNab, with a pleasant smile, “but I don’t mind it.
Ilike you all the better for expressing your senti-
ments freely. I don’t like the idea, however, of your
torming opinions for me with regard to yourself, for

 

entertained feelings of the warmest attachment that
woman is yourself, and you ought to know it by this
time. Good-night, my dear Mrs. Dockett! Be dis-
creet, be prudent, be cautious, and ere many weeks
roll around you shall be @ bride-maid.”

In another moment he was out in the open air again,
and then as the smiling summer sky is sometimes
suddenly rendered fearful to look upon by the secowl-
ing thunder cloud and the forked lightning which
glares through it, so was the placid, smiling face of
MeNab rendered terrible by the dark scowl which
instantly passed over it, and the fires of malignant
hate which flashed from his treacherous eyes.

‘“Jibe on,” he growled ferociously, as he took his
way homeward; ‘‘jibe on and jeer while you may. It
will be my turn next!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

[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 XXX.
EAVESDROPPER.
FTER a long pause, during
which Mrs. Gordon had been
considering the young girl’s last
decisive sentence, she pursued,
in an injured fone:

“Tt is very selfishof you, Ruby,
to wish to deprive me of all these
pleasant things. I cannot go to
a fashionable resort this year,

as you know, and we are settled so comfortably in
this delightful spot, it will be a shame to have to
jeave.”

Ruby made no reply; she had announced her de-
cision, and meant to abide by it. But Mrs. Gordon
would not give up yet.

“And then, too, to think that you would wish to go
away and leave me alone in my sorrow! I surely
thought you were more considerate than that, when
you are all I have left to love.” And the artful
widow buried her face in her black-bordered hand-
kerchief, with a sob.

_This touched Ruby, for she believed that her emo-
tion was genuine; she could not believe her wholly
depraved.

“TI do not wish to leave you, Estelle,” she said. “TI
told you that I weuld go anywhere else with you.
Let us goto Redville,” she added, with animation.
“I know that Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles would be delight-
ed to have us, and it is beautiful there among the
mountains.”

“T never could bury myself in that out-of-the-way
place. Ishould die of loneliness and ennui,” mur-
mured Mrs Gordon, hysterically, and stillentrenched
behind her mourning handkerchief.

“Indeed you would not,’ Ruby hastened to say.
“There are plenty of visitors in that region to make
it lively, and besides, Mr. Ruggles has a fine span of
horses and an easy carriage, and we could drive as
much as we liked, while the expense would be far
less than at almost any resort.”

“And could you be persuaded to place yourself un-
der such ‘obligations’ for a ‘merely nominal price? ”’
queried Mrs. Gordon, sarcastically, and with an
angry intonation, which betrayed that her grief had
not been so very overwhelming,

Ruby flushed at having her own words hurled back
at her in this fashion, but she replied, quietly :

“Mr. and Mrs. Ruggles are dear friends. They
have proved themselves true friends, and I can trust
them. Ido not feel that I should be incurring an ob-
ligation to go to them.”

“Well, J can never go to Redville,” Mrs. Gordon as-
serted, decidedly.

“Where will you go then, Estelle ?”

“Nowhere. I shall remain where I am,” the wo-
man returned, in a sullen tone. ‘Everything has
been arranged for the summer, and it would not be
honorable to change now.” ;

“Do you consider that you made an honorable ar-
rangement when you planned to come here, or that
Mr. Carpenter had honorable intentions when he
opened his house to us?” Ruby questioned,

Mrs. Gordon flushed crimson at this shaft, but she
made no reply, and Ruby continued :

“I do not wish to appear unkind and inconsiderate,
Estelle, but I feel that you have been dealing very
unfairly by me. You say that you have only my in-
terest at heart, but you surely do not believe that it
would be tor my interest to ruin my future happi-
ness ?”’ ae

“Nonsense! Nobody ¢an “b¢ happy who is poor;
and, Ruby, you shall never marry that pauper, Walter
Richardson !” Mrs, Gordon berst out excitedly. “You
shall never disgrace yourselt nor me by committing
such arash act.” ~ BY :

“I am trying to be patient with you, Estelle,” Ruby
responded, with an effort at self-control at this out-
burst; ‘but I find it very hard to listen to such un-
just and uncourteous epithets. I am pledged to Mr.
Richardson, and I shall marry him when the proper
time comes. I am nearly twenty years of age, and
old enough to judge for myself in so important a
matter, and I shall not tamely submit to any attempt
at compulsion or interference on the part of any one.
And now, once for all, [ tell you that I shall not re-
main in this house after this week. While I do stay,
I will not see Edmund Carpenter; if he calls by your
invitation, I shall avoid him; and from this hour I
will avail myself of nothing save what is absolutely
necessary for health and comfort. I shall go to Red-
ville the first of next week, or as soon as I can hear
from Mrs. Ruggles, with youif you will go, without
you if you persist in remaining here.

you up longer. Good-night, Estelle.”

“Good-night,” responded Mrs. Gordon, in an of-
fended tone, as her young sister turned to leave the
room; but she sat up for another hour trying to plan
some way by which she could still achieve her own
ends. She was determined that Ruby should never
marry Walter Richardson, if she could prevent it.

!
She was aware that Edmund Carpenter intended to |
call the next morning to invite Ruby.and herself to,

visit a point of interest several miles distant; but she
knew well enough, too, that Ruby would refuse to go,
while she feared that she might betray something of
the spirit of the previous night to him; so she per-
suaded her to go in town to do a little shopping for
her, in order to gain an uninterrupted interview with
the obnoxious lover.

When he came, she related what had occurred
the previous evening, and the man’s face grew dark
and tierce with anger.

“That boy will cross my path once too often yet,”
he muttered, threateningly. ‘But,’ he added, ‘I did
not believe that Ruby Gordon would really stoop to
marry any one so far beneath her.”

“Ruby has some peculiar ideas regarding caste.”
Mrs. Gordon returned, ‘‘Money and position appear
to have very little valuein her estimation—a stain-
less name and a noble character are more to her than
unlimited possessions would be.”

Edmund Carpenter started and flushed.

“Suppose she should suddenly discover a flaw in
her idol—if he should be found guilty of some crime
or wrong doing ?”’ he asked, with a peculiar look.

“Tf anything of the kind should be proved against
him, I am sure that her dream of love would be over
—or, at least, that she would refuse to marry him.”

“Do you suppose my prospects would be any better
in that event ?”’

“There would surely be quite a formidable obstacle
removed from your path,’ Mrs. Gordon replied,
evasively.

“It shall be removed then !” her companion respond-
ed, with compressed lips, ‘‘whether 1 succeed or not,
that proud spirited beggar shall be removed from my
path.”

“How will you manage it ?”’

“TI do not know yet; there must be some way to ac-
complish it.” ‘

“It will amount to nothing, Iam afraid, unless we
can persuade Ruby to give up the notion of going to
Redville,” said Mrs. Gordon, musingly. “I will not
go there, and I. cannot remain here alone. I con-
fess,” she added, with a laugh, “I am altogether too
comfortably situated to wish to make any change.”

“Coax her to stay,” said Mr. Carpenter.

“Coax her!’ repeated her companion, with an ex-
pressive shrug of her shapely shoulders. ‘Miss Gor-
don is not easily coaxed when there is a principle at
stake, as I have recently learned to my mortifica-
tion.”

“Play the invalid, then, and keep her with you.
She surely would not leave you if you were ill; it
would be a question of ‘duty,’ you know.”

* * * * * * * *

During the next day or two Edmund Carpenter set
himself diligently to work to ascertain what Wal-
ter’s plans were. He found what we already know;
that he was only in the city temporarily ; that he
was engaged upon a contract at Chester, and would
leave Philadelphia the first of the coming week, and
this explained why Ruby had also decided to leave
on Monday for Redville.

He did not present himself once during the inter-
val at Forestvale, but he watched and played the spy
upon the lovers, and waited his ih geeks feed to spring
some trap upon them that should ruin their happi-
ness forever.

 

This is my |
im: * ¢ as itis getting late j reen | : 7
ultimatum; aud, as It is getting Inte, I will not keep | Suspending her darning operations, and glancing up

 

he went to pay his tinal visit to his betrothed.

Reaching his estate he hitched his horse to a tree
in a secluded spot outside the grounds, and then
stole softly up to the house, like a thief, hoping to
overhear something that would help him in his
scheme.

He was not disappointed; for, as he drew near,
he heard voices upon the veranda.

He knew instinctively to whom they belonged, and
creeping softly nearer upon the velvet turf he sta-
tioned himself behind some vines which grew over
one end of the piazza, and where he could easily
overhear all that passed between Walter and Ruby.

The night was sultry; the sky was heavy with
clouds, making it very dark, while low and frequent
mutterings in the west told of an approaching thun-
der-storm.

‘‘Estelle has not been well to-day,’ Ruby was say-
ing, just as the eavesdropper settled himself in his
position. “T hope she is not going to be ill, for just
as soon as I receive areply to my letter, I shall go
to Redville.”

‘“‘Haven’t you heard from Mr. Ruggles yet?” Walter
asked.

; andI cannot understand it, for there has
been ample time.”

“Then you have not been able to persuade Mrs.
Gordon to go with you.”

“No; she does not appear to want to, though I am
going to make one last attempt to induce her to ac-
company me.”

“T wish you were going to-morrow,” Walter said,
gravely; “I shall feel far safer about you when I
know you are with our good friend, though it will
take you so far from me; but I shall try to be patient
until the time arrives for my vacation, when I shall
come to you.”

The listener behind the vines ground his teeth as
he overheard this plan, and mentally vowed that
Walter at least should not spend any portion of that
summer at Redville.

“Have you renewed your engagement with Mr,
Sampson, Ruby?’ Walter asked, after quite a pause.

“Yes, virtually; he told me I could have the posi-
tion if I wished it, and I told him I thought I should.
But, Walter, I do not believe I can stay with Estelle
after what has happened.”

“What will you do, dear ?”’

“IT do not know; I have been thinking very serious-
ly about it. I presume she will want me and will
feel very much disturbed if I goelsewhere; but aside
from other considerations I would far rather be en-
tirely independent.”

“You will find it hard to go among strangers.”

“T presume it would be a little hard at first; but I
will not stay with Estelle if she persists in bringing
me in contact with Mr. Carpenter as often as she
has done,” Ruby said, with a decision that made that
gentleman’s ears tingle.

“Ruby, how much do you suppose it would cost for
you and me to live comfortably in a little home of
our own ?” Walter asked, in an eager tone.

“T do not know much about such things,” the young
girl answerd, hiding her face upon his shoulder, with
a sudden thrill, ‘though, during the little while that
we lived in street after Robert’s failure, I man-
aged the household expenses, and he was surprised
to find how small they were. Of course he attended
to the rent, coal bills, and such things and I kept ac-
count of the groceries, provisions, and so forth.”

“Let us reckon it a little, dear,’ Walter proceeded.
“Rent for us would not probably amount to more
than three hundred dollars a year—that is, unless we
are ambitious for style. Call coal fifty. Now, how
much for groceries and provisions ?”’

“T believe that my accounts used to foot up about
forty or forty-five dollars a month—that included the
servants’ wages; but, of course, there were four of
us to feed.”

“And you think it would not cost two of us nearly
so much,” said Walter, smiling. “Oh, my darling,
you understand that I long to make you my wife and
shield you from all unpleasantness, such as you have
been experiencing of late; and yet I hesitate because
of my limited means. I should never forgive myself
if misfortune should overtake us and you should be a
sufferer thereby. Could we live comfortably on a
thousand a year, dear?’

‘Yes, indeed, I should think so,’’ Ruby answered.

“T ain to have a thousand dollars next year, and an
interest—small, of course—in the business besides,
and if, oh, Ruby, dare I ask you to trust yourself, to
me? It will be very different, I know, from the kind
of life to which you have been accustomed, but if you
were quite sure it would not be unwise, I believe we
could be very happy.”

“T know we could, Walter, and Iam willing to try
and help you manage the thousand to the best ad-
vantage, if you wish,’ Ruby answered, cheerfully
and resolutely.

“Darling, you are very brave, and we will think it
over carefully before we decide. I should insist upon
keeping a little maid, for I could not bear the thought
of these dear hands doing rough, hard work.”

The young man gathered them in his, and bending
his head, touched them softly with his lips.

‘But the little maid must eat, and drink, and have
some place to sleep, not to speak of what she would
waste,” said Ruby, with an eye for economy.

“We must have her all the same,’ persisted her
lover. ‘I should not dare to claim you otherwise. I
hope Iam not very selfish in proposing this; but
something seems to tell me that there is no other way
to relieve you of the persecutions to which you have
been subjected. But, hark! hear that crash! And it
is beginning torain. We are going to have a heavy
shower, and I must get back to the city forthwith,”
and the young man arose as he spoke.

“You cannot go in the rain, Walter,” Ruby said,
anxiously.

“Tam afraid I ought. If the shower should be a
long one, I might not get home until very late, and I
have to leave on the early train to-morrow morning.”

“T cannot let you goin the rain,” Ruby persisted.
“Tam sure that Mrs. Coxon can get you a bed, and
then you can go in town as early as you choose in the
morning. Come, I will ask her, and if she is agree-
able, we will chat a while longer in her room,” and
the young girl gently drew him along the veranda
toward the housekeeper’s sitting-room.

CHAPTER XXXI.
AN ACCIDENT.

A window opened from Mrs. Coxon’s room upon
the veranda, and Ruby, unfastening a blind and
putting her-head inside, saw the woman seated at
her table, darning stockings. :

‘Mrs. Coxon, have you a spare bed to night?” she
asked, as the housekeeper looked up at the intrusion.

“Yes, halfadozen. Who wants one?’ she replied,

over the rim of her spectaeles.

“A benighted and weather-bound traveler, who is
also a favorite of yours, I believe.”

“T have but one favorite, and that is Mr. Walter; if
he wants a bed he’s welcome to the best in the house,
Mrs. Coxon returned. ‘Ah, I see,” she added, as
Walter bent his tall form and looked in upon her,
‘“‘vou’ve been caught in the shower. Come in, you
reckless young folks, out of the rain, or you'll catch
your death of cold.”

She arose, and unfastened the door for them, and
her face was all aglow with pleasure and hospitality,
as she shook hands with Walter.

oe am afraid it will make you trouble, if I stay,” he
said.

“Not a bit of it; it does my old eyes good to see
you, and I'd be glad to be troubled in the same way
oftener.”’ i

“You were always kind to me, Mrs. Coxon,” re-
turned the young man, ‘‘and I hope some time I shall
be able to make it up to you.”

“T’ll tell you how,” retorted the housekeeper, with
a twinkle in her eye, as she glanced from one to the
other, with a wise look, ‘‘when you two get married,
let me come and keep house for you.”

Walter laughed heartily, while Ruby blushed to
the hue of her name.

“T should like nothing better, I’m sure,” said the
young man, “but you know we are both as poor as
church mice, and can’t afford such a luxury as that.’

“Poor as church mice, indeed,” sniffed the woman,
indignantly, ‘‘you’ve no business to be poor, let me
tell you. If the truth was known, I believe you’d
have plenty; folks may say what they’ve a mind to,
but if I didn’t sign a willfor Mr. Ralph Carpenter, [
should like to know what kind of a document it
was.”

“Well, Mrs. Coxon,” returned Walter, good na-
turedly, seeing that she was getting excited over the
topic, “it doesn’t do any good to keep agitating that
question; since there was no will forthcoming, we
must take it for granted that there was none.”

“It’s granting too much altogether, and, mark my
my word, the time will come, when the cat will get
out of the bag. But sit down, young folks, and make
yourselves at home, while I go and air the sheets
and get your room ready.”

“Where are you going to put me, Mrs. Coxon? Al-
most anywhere will do,” said Walter, not liking to
make trouble.

“T guess ‘almost anywhere’ won’t do,” she retorted.
“Yowll have your own room, of course, No other
would seem like home to you.”

And she bustled away, while the lovers sat down
to enjoy another chat until she should return.

They were of course unconscious that they had
been followed, and that Edmund Carpenter had crept
upon the veranda, and close under the still open win-
dow, intent upon learning more of their plans.

He was boiling with rage over Mrs. Coxon’s plain
speaking regarding his father’s will, and began to
feel that she might be a dangerous person to have
about the house. He had always felt very secure re-
garding the will until now; but if his housekeeper
Was as supicious as she appeared to be, there was no
knowing to what lengths she might carry her inter-
est for Walter, and he began to grow uneasy, and to
wish that the document was destroyed, and beyond
all danger of discovery.

He remained nearly an hour beneath the window,
learning all that was possible of the lovers’ plans,
and when at length Walter’s room was ready, and he
took leave of Ruby, knowing he would not see her in
the morning because of being obliged to go away so
early, Edmund Carpenter stole away in the darkness
and storm, maturing a plan to ruin the young man,

”

 

| if there ever was a woman in this world for whom I The last night of Walter’s stay he followed himas! The storm continued throughout the night, but the

morning broke as clear and tranquil as if no cloud
had ever obscured the sky.

Walter arose with the dawn, and stole quietly from
the house, in order not to disturb any one, and made
his way as rapidly as possible back to the city, where
he partook of an early breakfast, after which he took
the six-o’clock train for Chester, where he was super-
intending the erection of a handsome edifice.

As he alighted and turned to leave the station, he
saw an elderly woman just getting out of the South-
ern Express. She was tall and commanding in figure,
with bright, pleasant black eyes, and rather massive
features, yet upon the whole very attractive, white
her forehead was crowned with clustering masses of
snow-white hair, which gave her a very venerable
appearance. She was richly, though not showily,
clad, and she moved with an air of dignity and pride.

She stopped as she stepped from the car, and ap-
peared to be looking for some one.

At this moment a heavily loaded baggage truck
came thundering along. The platform. was a little
on the down grade just at that point, which gave a
sudden impetus to the truck, and the woman, seeing
it, stepped back against the car to be farther away
from it and out of danger.

But whether the man who had charge of if was
careless, or something in the formation of the plat-
form sent the truck out of line, no one was ever able
to tell; but it suddenly veered to the right, and be-
fore Walter, who instantly saw the danger, could
spring forward torender assistance, it had run di-
rectly into the noble-looking stranger and pinned her
close against the car.

“What are you thinking of?” Walter shouted to the
truck-man, as he dashed to the rescue, and, ex-
erting all his strength, pushed the heavily laden
vehicle to one side, and released the sufferer from
her perilous and painful situation.

The woman had not cried out or made a sign that
she was hurt, but her face was as white as the hair
clustering about her temples, and as she was treed
from the crushing weight that had been forced
against her, one arm dropped broken and helpless at
her side, and the other hand, from which the glove
had been torn, was badly bruised and bleeding.

“You are seriously hurt, I fear, madam,’ Walter
said, as he stooped to recover her traveling-bag,
which she had dropped. ‘‘What can I do for you?’

Before replying she lifted her keen eyes and
searched his face. Evidently she was satisfied that
he was trustworthy, for she said:

“Tf you will kindly assist me to the ladies’ room I
will thank you.”

She spoke composedly, but her very lips were white
now, and Walter could see that it was only by a
mighty effort of her will that she concealed the agony
she was suffering.

“Certainly,” he said, and supporting her by the
arm, for she was unable to take his, he led her into
the ladies’ room and seated her in a chair.

“You are very kind,’ she murmured; “and now
have you a sharp knife ?”’

“Yes, madam.” And he drew it quickly from his
pocket and opened it.

“Please cut off my gloves,” she said; ‘‘my hands
are swelling rapidly, and they are painful.”

Walter knelt before her and, taking the hand that
he had noticed was bleeding, quickly cut the glove
away, revealing more plainly the livid and mangled
flesh and bruises beneath.

He then turned to the other arm, which still hung
limp and helpless at her side.

“Lift it into my lap. It is broken, I fear, for I
have no power over it; but the glove must come off
immediately,” the woman said, as he hesitated to
touch it.

He did as she commanded, but the sight that met
his eyes when he had removed the glove nearly un-
manned him; for the bones of the wrist were broken
and almost protruding through the flesh, while he
was sure there was still another break farther up.

But she was very brave and self-possessed, thank-
ing him for his aid, and she even smiled upon him as
he lifted his own pale face to hers, saying:

“Let me go for a surgeon.”

“No, not yet,” she replied; “I must get home first.
ITexpected my carriage to be here to meet me, but I
saw nothing of my coachman, and fear my telegram
was not received. If you will get me a public con-
veyance and help me into it, I will trouble you no
further.”

“Have you baggage?’ Walter inquired, springing
to his feet to execute her commission, and thinking
she was the bravest lady he had ever seen.

“Yes, and I shall need it, too. You will find my
checks in the pocket of my traveling-bag.”

He found them, and darted from the room.

_ He secured a carriage, and then assisted the man
in transferring the baggage to it, noting that the
trunks were marked “Mrs. M. E, Howland,” and that
they had come from St. Louis.

This accomplished, he returned to the waiting-room
for the injured woman, whom he assisted to the
coach, where he made her as comfortable as it was
possible to do, and then asked her address.

“Number 6 avenue,” she told him, and would
have thanked him for his kindness, but he quickly
closed the carriage door, and springing upon the box
with the driver, told him to get her home with all
possible dispatch.

Arriving at No.6 —— avenue, Mrs. Howland ap-
peared somewhat surprised when Walter again pre-
sented himself at the door to assist her to alight.
But she looked gratified, too,in spite of her pain,
which was every moment increasing.

Very gently he helped her into the house, which, a
single glance was sufficient to tell. him, was a most
luxurious One, and where in less than three minutes
she had a8 many servants about her, eager to give
her the care and assistance she so much needed.

Her tirst order was for her coachman to go for a
surgeon, and then she calmly gave directions for cer-
tain remedies to be brought and applied to relieve
her until he should arrive, and was so brave and
cheerful, in spite of her helplessness, that Walter was
tilled with admiration for her.

He helped the driver get the trunks into the house,
paid and dismissed him, and then went to ask if
there was anything more that he could do.

“Yes, my young friend; tell me your name, that I
may know to whom I am indebted for so much kind-
ness,” Mrs. Howland answered, while she studied
his fine face earnestly.

“My name is Richardson—Walter Richardson,” the
young man replied.

“Walter Richardson!” she repeated, in a puculiar
tone. ‘Where do you live?’

“In Philadelphia usually ; but just at present Iam
engaged upon a building contract in this place.”

“Where do your parents reside ?”

“T have none; I was born in New York city, where
both my father and mother died. But, madam, pray
do not let me trouble you with my affairs while you
are suffering so. I had better leave you now,” Walter
concluded, seeing how very ill she suddenly seemed
to have grown.

“Yes,” she returned, leaning wearily back in her
chair, while her face was ghastly white, though her
eyes were fastened with a look of eager inquiry upon
his face, ‘‘yes, go now, but promise that you will
come to see me again soon; Lmust see you again, for
—for you have been very kind.”

“T will come,’ Walter promised, and then went
away, justas the surgeon came bustling in, and re-
paired to his place of business.

But all day long, and for several days, his thoughts
were with that grand woman who had displayed so
much nerve and courage at a time when almost any
one else would have been prostrated by the painful
ordeal through which she had passed.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
————> ree

A PHANTOM ARMY IN THE AIR.

In Vidovee, a Hungarian village near Warasdin,
the belief of an approaching war has seized hold of
the entire population. A splendid Fata Morgana, or
mirage, was observed during three consecutive days
on the wide plains around the village. Enormous
divisions of infantry, with scarlet caps, could be dis-
tinctly seen moving in the plains and performing

exercises to the words of command of a colossa
chief, whose sword was seen flashing in the air. The
phenomenon lasted several hours, and finally the
soldiers disappeared in mid-air. The people stood
awe-struck in great crowds aud observed every
movement of the phantom soldiers with breathless
attention. Two gendarmes afterward went in the
direction of the scene of action to see if any traces
could be found, but of course in vain. The phenom-
enon is believed to have been a reflection in the air
of some infantry divisions maneuvering at some
miles distance.

o—_—

_s
i>

BLUSHING.

Blushing is a disease. Noone blushes for shame.
While the woman of the world may wear cheeks of
marble, the innocent country lass is made red by

being looked at. The perjurer tells his story without
a change of color, the honest witness is flushed and
coufused by the lawyer who is hired to suppress
truth in courts of justice. Countless roses are said
to blush unseen. They are very foolish. Politicians
never blush, but they grow red in the face over the
spirit of the campaign, and claim modesty as an
inheritance.
> oe “
CONSUMPTION CURED.

An old physician, retired from practice, having had
placed in his hands by an East India missionary the for-
mula oft a simple vegetable remedy for the speedy and
permanent cure of Consumption, Bronchitis, Catarrh,
Asthma, and all Throat and Lung Affections, also a posi-
tive and radical cure for Nervous Debility and all Nervous
Complaints, after having tested its wonderful curative
powers in thousands of cases, has felt it his duty to make
it known to his suffering fellows. Actuated by this mo-
tive and a desire to relieve human suffering, I will send,
tree of charge, this recipe, in German, French or English,
with full directions for preparing and using. Sent by
mail, by addressing, with stamp, naming this paper,

W. A. NOYES, 149 Powers’ Block, Rochester, N. Y,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

i

 

x

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cmt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY

VOL. 42—No.

 

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IMPORTANT ENGAGEMENT!

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As our readers are aware, the NEw YORK WEEKLY
is ever on the lookout for genuine talent. We take
pleasure in announcing that we have effected an en-
gagement with the popular

DORA LESTER,
Author of ‘‘An Evil Reputation,” “A Child’s
Honor,” etc.

A new story from Miss LESTER’S vigorous pen will
be placed before our readers in a few weeks.

PATENT MEDICINES.

BY KATE THORN.

The ancients spent their lives—some of them, at
least—in trying to discover the philosopher’s stone,
which was supposed to be capable of giving them all
the blessings of existence, and also the power of pro-
longing life indefinitely.

We-—ot the present century—have gone far ahead
of them, and our wise men have discovered so many
things that will render it possible for man to live for-
ever, and some time afterward, that it seems foolish
in any one to die or be sick.

Look at the legends onthe fences, and the gable
ends of country barns, and on dead walls, and posted
up in every available inch of space throughout the
country, and be convinced.

Men and women: every day are being raised from
their graves, if we may credit the advertisements.
Lungs, livers, and kidneys are no longer essential
to keep the human machinery running. Tomp-
kins’ Bitters, Perkins’ Pills, willdo the whole thing
after a man’s “insides” are mostly gone, and he has
made his will and selected his pall-bearers.

Thinking it over, we wonder how it ever happened
that in the old times the patriarchs ever managed to
live so long without the help of patent medicines!
Adam was quite an old man when he ceased to be,
and yet it is presumed that he never took any of
Jones’ Safe Cure for liver complaint. Methuselah is
not recorded as having spent his money for Lawton’s
Calisaya Tonic. But what a good advertisement it
would be for any one of these medicine men, if he
could get a certificate from some of these long-lived
ancestors of ours—delivered, perhaps through some
spiritual medium—saying that he took Tompkins’
Bitters before the Flood, and might have lived to
straddle a bicycle,if he had only kept on taking
them ? ’ :

The ingenuity of the craft is exhausted in getting
up “taking” advertisements. A column of quite an
interesting story frequently ends with: “Try Brown’s
Life-giving Strengthening Specitic.” And whenever
we are beguiled by some attractive title into spend-
ing our time in reading such an essay in literature,
we feel mad “clear through,” and we wouldn’t look
at a bottle of Brown’s Specific to save the said Brown
from the penitentiary. : big

The American people like to take medicine.
They have got in the habit of it. They are fond of
new things, and they enjoy experimenting. Although
they may be in good physical condition, they want to
be in better health than they have been. They need
a spring medicine. They need a fall medicine. They
want something right along. They recommend medi-
cine to their friends. They give medical circulars to
their reighhors. And, in consequence, the manufac-
turers of pills ride in thousand-dollar carriages, aud
the man who stews yellow dock and dandelions up
into bitters lives in a marble front and drinks his old
wines from cups of gold. But we have never yet
known one of them try to prolong his life by the use
of his own bitters. Not much.

Regularly educated physicians are strongly opposed
to all patent medicines, in spite of the fact that most
of the proprietors state in their advertisements that
“Mr. So and So, who was literally raised from the
dead, took this medicine under the advice of the
family physician.” :

Patent medicines have done a work in the world,
however, which might not have been done without
them. They furnish people with almanacs. They
send pretty calendars to druggists to ornament their
shops. They supply the family wood-box with kind-
lings. They: fly about the streets of the town and
village, and help the festive rag-picker to gain a sub-
sistence. Thev furnish you with something to read
as you fly past the fencesin your palace-car, and re-
call to mind local disturbances in your internal ma-
chinery. These disturbances, of course, can be
promptly remedied by taking the medicine according
to directions.-

COOLNESS AMONG FRIENDS.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

“Don’t you think the C——s are cool toward us ?”

My wife asked me that question, a week ago, con-
cerning a family whose friendship we have reason to
value and to wish to keep.

Thad not noticed the coolness till my wife’s more
delicate sensibilities had been made aware of it.
Then my thicker skin perceived it unmistakably. My
first impulse was one of indignation. What didI
care for people who grew cool toward me when I
was all the while as warm in my love to them as
ever? Was such friendship worth fussing over? Let
them go. I had done them no wrong in thought, or
perpetrated no disloyal deed. I was simply going
on my busy way, when, lo! I found that I must blow
the coals of an ember fire or it would expire. I felt
angry.

But, upon second thought, I concluded to exert
myself. Truth was, I could ill afford to allow the
gentleman to become an enemy. Yet I felt almost
certain that such small and causeless jealousy had
irreparably hurt my confidence in my “friend.” I

looked over my life, and could only see that, pos-
sibly, in the eerve of an all-engrossed career, I had
simply been a little lax in attention, without design.
Yet friendship feeds on attention, as silk-worms on
mulberry leaves. If my friend had been in real
trouble, I should certainly have hastened to his side;
so would heto mine. But the small courtesies had
been neglected. Friendship must have them.

Then, too, my friends had many, many admirable
qualities, with that accursed disposition, ‘‘sensitive-
ness.” It is useless to ignore that characteristic;
some of the otherwise best people in the world are
festered with it. ITam,onthe contrary, not guilty;
among all my many faults, sensitiveness is not one;
you have to kick me before I know you dislike me.
What mean blemishes the C——s have to put up
with, in order to like me, I will not confess; but
doubtless not a few. The C 8 are sensitive. I
must put up with that. My wife and I went straight
over to take tea, all cordial and uninvited, just as if
nothing had happened, that very day. It was like
entering an ice-house, at first, but we ignored all
that, and simply beamed and thawed our way back
into the summer of the C——s.

That appreciation of strained relations, that mys-
tic sense of warning, a friend’s growing coolness, is
as remarkable as a thermometer. If you ever tried
to analyze it. you were puzzled. How do you know
that your friend is cooling? It is some subtle

sy chic force in eye and feature, in tone and toss of
fhe head—nay, you cannot trace itin polite people;
of course, ill-bred people will let you know by re-
fusing to speak or even look at you, and vulgar
people will kick you to give a hint. But among
people of the most refined and elegant manners,

ple who speak just the same, and shake hands
ust the same, and all that, still there is a fine cold

 

 

; ‘
atmosphere that lets you know that your friend is

‘mad” and needs warming up.

Who has not had his ‘‘presentiment” that ‘he ought
to drop in at his friend’s office, or call on his friend
at home, if he would keep peace? Who has not
“imagined that something was sticking in the crop of
A, and it is necessary to go and tickle his good graces
again?’ Who has not disobeyed and disregarded
the impression, and thus lost a good friend? On the
other hand, we have all obeyed our premonitions,
and found that our smile and cordial hand were
shown just in the nick of time.

After all,a good friend is worth a little humoring.
If one would potter with a machine to make it run;
if one would coax a horse, a canary, a pet dog; if
one would ravel out embroidery with great patience
to suit a fancy of greater perfection—shall not a
heart have great patience with another true heart?
He is very short-sighted who allows a precious old
friendship to freeze for want of a trifle of indulgence.
And who does not need it? Do you never feel chilled
toward your friend? Has he never once had need to
pet and pamper you, when you took small and un-
reasonable offense? Orif you are not of the sensi-
tive kind, no doubt you have other faults to be over-
looked, which may be quite as hard to ignore as your
friend’s hypersensitiveness. If a friendship is not
worth indulging, itis not worth much. Take a word
of warning! Go warm up your cooling friend. Be-
fore you are @ month older you may desperately wish
you had. The charity of the world, without friends,
is much colder than your offended friend is now.

There is an indescribable delight in reconquering
the chilled friend. You storm his ice-castle with
smiles. You catch his flabby hand and shake it
mightily, and provide all the cordiality. You put
your arm through his so naturally, ignoring the fact
that it is like taking the arm of one of the bronzes in
the square. You furnish all the laughter, and fur-
nish it in large quantities, too. You go right on talk-
ing, in the brightest way, and pay no attention to
the clouds on your friend’s brow. You act perfectly
innocent, if in truth you are. All the while you are
mad enough over his asinine ugliness to kick the
poor, dear fellow. You compel him to make the first
mention of any trouble, dragging it in neck and
heels. Even then you ‘don’t know what he means,”
and refuse to take the first, or the second, or the
third hint. You offer to do him some service, in the
old-time spirit. You confuse and nonplus him. It
becomes a terrific mental struggle for him to ‘“‘keep
his mad up.” In attempting to do it, he is rude and
insulting, of which he is promptly ashamed, being a
manly fellow at heart; and now, having placed him-
self in the wrong, he thaws out fast. He ends with
an apology, which you do not notice, of course, nor
insist on. You clap him on the back, and say, ‘‘Don’t
mention it, old boy!” and your winter is again “‘made
glorious summer.”

a am a

THINGS BETTER LEFT UNSAID.

In the hurry of speech, and often in our very anx-
iety to be polite, some of us are liable to occasional
slips, which may have the ludricrous effect of put-
ting an entirely different construction upona sen-
tence than that intended. For instance, upon arriv-
ing at an entertainer’s house, you say, ‘“‘I beg a thou-
sand pardons for coming so late; and are met by
your hostess with the words: ‘‘My dear sir, no par-
dons are needed; you can never come too late.”

Take another case. At a grand dinner, a very heed-
less gentleman, who talked a great deal, forgot that
his neighbor, a young lady, was unusually tall, and
exclaimed: “I do not like big women!” The lady bit
her lip; and the speaker, seeing he had made a blun-

der, and trying to repair it as gallantly as possible,
added : ‘*‘When they are young, madam !”

At an evening party in Cork, a lady said to her
partner: “Can you tell me who that exceedingly
plain man is sitting opposite to us?” “That is my
brother.” ‘Oh, [beg your pardon,” she replied, much
confused; “I had not noticed the resemblance.”

That was certainly putting one’s foot in it, and yet
was perhaps not so awkward as this. “Do you see
that gentleman over there. the handsome fellow
twisting his mustache?’ said one woman to an-
other, to whom she had just been introduced. ‘He
has been watching me all the evening, and making
eyesat me. I think he must be smitten. Do you know
who heis?’ ‘Yes; be is my husband.”

After a certain concert, a well-known German can-
tatrice asked a gentleman to whom she had been in-
troduced how he liked her duet. ‘You sang charm-
ingly, madame. But why did you select such a hor-
ried piece of music?” “Sir, that was written by my
late husband! ‘Ah, yes, of couse. I did not mean
— But why did you select such a cow to sing with
you?” “Ach Himmet, that is my present husband !”

Some -people have such a pleasant way of putting
things. ‘‘Now, do let me propose you as a member,”
says Smith. ‘‘But suppose they blackball me 2” re-
plies Brown. ‘“‘Pooh! Absurd! Why, my dear fel-
lew, there’s not aman in the club that knows you
even!

A lady, very desirious of concealing the awful fact
that she is the same age as her husband, observed to
a visitor: “My husband is forty; there are just five
years between us.” “Is it possible?” was the un-
guarded reply of her friend. “I[give you my word, you
look as young as he does.”

As unexpected must haye been the reply of the
husband whose wife said: “You have never taken
me to thecemetry.” “No, dear,” he answered; ‘that
is a pleasure I[ have yet in anticipation.”

A rather different meaning from the one conveye!
was intended by the old lady who said to her friends
“No man was better calculated to judge of pork than
my poor husband was. He knew what good hos
were, for he had been brought up with ’em frou :
childhood.”

Much better unsaid would have been part of fh«
address of a collector for charities, who, raising his
hat to a lady at the front door, began: ‘Madar,
am soliciting for home charities. We have hur
dreds of poor, ragged, vicious children like those a:
your gate, and our object is——”’ “Sir, those chil
dren are mine!” and the slamming of the door fin-
ished the sentence.

What are called “random shots” of speech often
have a peculiar knack of hitting the mark. Not long
since, a negro customer entered a barber’s shop, and
said: “I hope, gentlemen, you don’t object to smok-
ing?’ The barber, without turning round from his
occupation, replied: “Go on; smoke till you are
black in the face.”

A lady said something the other day at a friend’s
dinner that found a mark the archer little meant.
There were several strangers present, and in re-
sponse to a remark made about a certain lady of a
certain age, the fair guest in question exclaimed:
“Why, goodness gracious, she is as old as the hills!’
and could not imagine in the least what had caused
the general consternation. She did a little later, how-
ever, when it was explained to her that two maiden
sisters at the table, whose names she did not catch
in the introduction, were called Hill, and were ex-
tremely sensitive on the subject of age.

An alderman’s wife, overtaken by a heavy shower
of rain, took refuge in a store, and proceeded to make
afew purchases. ‘‘You seem very quiet to-day,” she
said toa newly engaged clerk, who was very atten-
tive and obliging; ‘“‘you are generally so very busy.”
“Oh, gracious, madam,” was the reply, ‘just look at
the weather! What respectable lady would venture
out of doors on a day like this ?”’

Similarly ambiguous are some of the speakers in
the following incidents. A pompous physician said
to a patient’s wife: ‘Why did you delay sending for
me until he was out of his mind?” ‘Oh, doctor,” re-
plied the wife, ‘‘while he was in his right mind he
wouldn’t let me send for you.”

Another doctor said to his wife: “You see, dear, I
have pulled the patient through after all; avery crit-
ical case, I can tell you.” ‘Yes, dear hubby,’ was
the answer; ‘‘but then you are so clever in your pro-
fession. Ah, if I had only known you five years
earlier! I feel certain my first husband—my poor
Robert—would have been saved.”

To turn from doctors to clergymen. One Sunday,
asa certain minister was returning homeward, he
was accosted by an old woman, who said: ‘Oh, sir,
well do I like the day that you preach!” The minis-
ter was aware that he was not very popular, and he
answered: “My good woman,I am glad to hear it.
There are too few like you. And why do you like
when I preach?’ ‘Oh, sir,” she replied, ‘‘when you
preach, I always get a good seat.”

A crooked compliment was paid a German young

‘lady who said: “‘Now, Herr Lieutenant, if you don’t

at once cease your flatteries, I shall have to hold
both my ears shut.” ‘My adorable fraulein,” an-
swered the officer, ‘‘your pretty little hands are far
too small for that.”

“Very sorry, sir,” said a voung beauty at a ball; “TI
am already engaged. I hope you are not very disap-
pointed? ‘Oh, dear no, miss; quite the contrary,”
was the unexpected reply of the gentleman.

“And what do you think of the engagement-ring I
sent you, Jennie?” inquired a lover, tenderly. Jennie
answered, in delighted tones: “Oh, itis beautiful—
in fact the handsomest one I ever had given me.”

At a wedding breakfast, the groom remarked to a
little girl: ‘“You have a new brother now, you know.”
“Yeth,” responded the little one; ‘‘ma seth it wath
Lottie’s lasth chance, so she’d better take it.”

“Here, my dear husband,” said a loving wife, “TI
have brought you a dear little silver pig for luck; it’s
acharm, you know, dear, to bring happiness to a
house.” ‘Ah, how kind of you, darling! But why
should I need alittle pig to bring me luck, when I
have you still!”

An awkward compliment recently rather disturbed
the harmony of a wedding breakfast given by a sub-
stantial farmer blessed with five daughters, the
eldest being the bride. A neighboring young far-
mer, who was honored witb an invitation, thinking,
no doubt, he ought to say something smart and com-
plimentary upon the event, addressing the bride-
groom, said: ‘‘Well, you have got the pick of the
batch!” The countenances of the four unmarried
ones may be imagined.

 

 

CITY CHARACTERS,

BY ELLIS LAWRENCE,

NO. 19.-THE AUCTIONEER.

[lire
ilferee pL
=[auction[ |

=] FuRNITURE |

hf

The countryman who has not been to an auction in
a country village has something yet to learn about
human nature and queer characters. One of these is
the auctioneer, who is about as mysterious and im-
fortant a personage as the circuit judge, or the last
tramp suspected of murder. ri

The auctioneer in the city is avery different sort
of individual, but he gets there all the same, as some
of his hearers have learned to their cost.

The countryman who manages an auction can call
by name every person around him; he knows the soft
side and touchy point of each one, and he works
them for all they are worth.

The city auctioneer doesn’t know a soul present
except his own clerk ; but before he has been on his
stand five minutes he is talking right at one bystander
after another, and saying the right thing every
time.

Youdrop into an auction room, see some one article
you would like, and waitto have it put up. You
think that nobody but yourself knows what you are

after, and that probably no one else in the room wants
that particular article anyhow, so you probably will
get it for a mere song.

Bless your innocent heart! that auctioneer is siz-
ing you up all the time; seeing that you do not bid
on the general line of things, he knows you have
come for one especial article; and when he finds out
by your bid what that article is, he wants himself to
distinctly understand that you are going to be
made to pay all it is worth, and, after that, as much
more as possible.

It doesn’t trouble him at all that nobody bids
against you; he can make believe—make you believe
—that there is another bidder, away over to the right
or left, or rear of you, and that each time he raises
his figure you will believe that it is done by this sup-
posed being. So you go on bidding; you didn’t know
until just then how much you wanted that particular
article. You begin, in time, to think you are offering
as much as you ought; the auctioneer knows it in an
instant by your looks, and he knocks it down to you
—never to the bogus bidder. If, when you get your
prize safely delivered at home, you find you haven't
paid more than you weuld have been asked for it at
a second-hand store, you will be an exception to the
ordinary auction-goer.

- Quite likely, however, you will find that you have | : u
merino dress ?”’

bought, also at too high a figure, a lot of things for
which you have no possible use. Why did you bid
on them ? Simply because you couldn’t helpit. When
that auctioneer fixed his eye on you and asked you
if you meant to let that superb bit of property escape
you at such a ridiculous figure, you bid at once—you
couldn’t help it.

How the auctioneer gets the bids he does is a mat-
ter of differing opinions. Some people say it is be-
cause he has a persuasive way about him; others in-
sist it is because he is a most industrious and artistic
liar.

Each is fully half right, only it is impolite to say
that a man lies when he makes misstatements in the
line of his busines fn such cases you must lay it to
his exuberant iinaginatiea, or his faith in his goods,
or to figurative ize, or a propensity to joke.
Probably you w ve teljay it to all combined, if
you would fully + or auctioneer’s statements.

ie? ¥ nthe stand as lawyers

i "ou won't believe more
the other half doubly

the auctioneer hasn’t an

could manage to have him

stls f them, no one would ever

{f be were sent out with a sub-

paper, hé would speedily raise the million
auted tor the Grant monument.

ito the spirit of the occasion, and he

it ali revivalists aliveat their own business;

make heaven seem ten times as valuable as

s hearers imagined before he began; as for the

ier place, he could make it so real and awful that
even Bob Ingersoll would believe and tremble.

After his persuasive powers have done their perfect
work, and he has stuck you on something that you
didn’t want and could have got cheaper somewhere
else, you make up your lind you never will go near
that man again. But do you keep your resolve?
Not much!

For instance, I went to a private house auction one
day, for the sole purpose of bidding on a fine setof
Thackeray, and I came away with a very poor set of
flat-irons. The family laughed at me so hatefully
that I went back next day to unload a piece of my
mind onthat auctioneer. Before I got a good chance,
he had unloaded on me part of a set of crockery
which my wife matched at the village store the next
day at half the auction price.

What did Ido then? Why, just what every body
else does—to an auctioneer; I didn’t say anything,
but just stood around to see other people get stuck
as badly as I—as they were.

The auctioneer is supposed to get along so well,
because many people who attend auctions are very
simple. But this doesn’t explain his success with
larger goods and smarter men. Again and again
have I stood among a crowd of real estate men, each
as smart as men well can be, and seen the auctioneer
get more money for city lots, stores, dwellings, and
tenement-houses than the same property might have
been bought for at private sale.

At the great auction sales of cotton and woolen
goods, boots and shoes, etc., not a week passes with-
out the auctioneer “sticking” some very sharp buyer
on a lot of goods at more than they are worth, or on
ten times as much as the buyer can get rid of except
at a loss.

“But how does he doit?” the reader asks. Thanks,
dear reader, but that is just the question I myself
am asking, and that men have been asking one
another since auctions first began. He does it by a
mixture of half a dozen qualities, skillfully applied;
after he has taken turns at coaxing, storming, flatter-
ing, bullying, joking, and winking, he has his victims
in such mental confusion that they scarcely know
what they are doing.

Yet who ever heard of an auctioneer being sued for
false pretense, or being knocked down, or even called
a liar? Who ever heard of his being snubbed by his
victims, or losing business because people had suf-
fered so severely by him? Nobody.

The wise Solomon admitted that there were four
things in the world too wonderful for him. If Solo-
mon had known the auctioneer he would have raised
the number to five, and then forgotten the four
others.

or

QUEER CUSTOMS OF THE CHINESE.

In China love-making follows marriage, and lasts
only about three days after the ceremony. There is
no ‘‘spooning”’ previous to marriage.

A previous acquaintanceship between the male and
female prevents them from marriage. For this reason
aman seldom weds a girl of his owntown, They are
likewise prevented from marrying kins or namesakes.
Joneses are never allowed to marry Joneses nor
Smiths to marry Smiths.

Old women instead of the young are the belles of
society.

The highest recommendation a man can have is in
the fact of his having a wife. : : :

A bachelor is likened to a counterfeit coin; he is
looked upon with suspicion even by members of his
own household. , ? :

A girl is never considered anything else in her
father’s house than an honored guest. She is neither
responsible for the family’s debts nor enjoys a share
in its fortunes, as in the case of the sons.

Daughters depend upon their husbands for fame
and fortune, while sons depend upon the parents and
themselves.

 

'
A man can borrow money on the strength of his

having ason, but no one would advance him a cent
if he had a dozen daughters. The former is respon-
sible for the debts of his father for three generations.
The latter is only responsible for the debts of her
own husband.

When a Chinaman meets another, he shakes and
squeezes his own hands and covers his head. If great
friends had not seen each other for a long time,
atter the mutual hand-shaking they rub shoulders
until they become tired. Instead of asking each
other’s health, they say, ‘‘Have you eaten your rice?
where are you going? what is your business when
you get there? how old are you? and how much did
you pay for your shoes ?”

a are drawn by horses, carriages moved by
sails.

Old men play balls and fly kites, while children
fold their arms and look on.

Schoolnasters have more power over the young
than parents. If within three years schooling the
child is not morally as well as intellectually reformed,
he is sent into another school.

Parents and spectators instead of the children are
held responsible for crimes committed by the latter.

“Tt is better to be ignorant and know how to live,
than to be learned and not know how to live. The
principal object of a school is to learn to live in tran-
quillity and happiness and nothing more.” So say all
Chinese scholars.

It is a much lesser crime to steal your neighbor’s
ox than to steal his dog. The former is simply per-
sonal property, while the latter takes the place of a
man as a watchman.

If a Chinaman desires the death of an enemy, he
goes and hangs himself upon his neighbor’s door. It
is certain to kill not only that particular enemy, but
members of his entire family will be in jeopardy of
losing their lives.

LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

 

‘“‘Here’s a pretty fix!” said Mr. Alden.

It was nota very rhetorically elegant speech for a
young man who had graduated at Harvard with all
the honors, and was fresh from a European tour; but
we defy any one to pause for dictionary words when
his horse falls down dead lame, on a dreary moun-
tain-side, with a heavy snow-storm making the twi-
light darker and more gloomy still.

“Halio! what’s up?” sang out a jovial voice, to the
tune of lumbering wheels, as a heavy ox-team came
slowly down the road.

“Nothing’s up; but my horse is down!’

Jonathan Henry dismounted to look.

“Well, up or down, one thing’s plain—the beast
won’t carry ye much farther to-night. Where was ye
bound for, squire ?”’

“Major Tracy’s.”

“That’s eleven mile up the Portlyn road.
won’t get there to-night, sir.”

“Is there an inn hereabouts ?”

“Not a sign o’ one; but you’re welcome to a bed
and a supper at our house, if you’ll jump into the ox-
cart.”

Hartford Alden promptly accepted the invitation.
An ox-cart was not a very stylish conveyance, but it
was considerably better than nothing at all. And
when he sat before the huge wood-fire that filled the
farm-house kitchen with light and warmth, watching

You

| Mary Henry at her household duties, he said to him-

self, decideddy :
sd haven't seen a prettier girl since I came from
aris.”

Mary Henry was pretty, with the bloom and fresh-
ness of eighteen, and the burnished gloss of gold on
her smooth braids. And if she occasionally glanced
shyly at the stranger, there was nothing in the blue
radiance of those large, melting eyes to dispel the
illusion about her prettiness.

Gradually the shyness seemed to wear away, and
Mary began to chatter in a soft, bird-like undertone
to her brother.

“Did you price blue merino, John ?”

“Yes,”

“How much was it ?”’

“Two dollars a yard—double fold.”

“Oh, then I shall have plenty of money; ten yards
will be a full pattern, and I have twenty-one dollars;
Don’t you thinkI shall look quite nice in a blue

“Gay!” assented Jonathan admiringly surveying
his blooming little sister, ‘“‘and to tell the truth the old
crimson one was getting rather rusty ;
that at the door !”

“Tt’s me, Hezekiah Hardee!”

“Come in, come in!” hospitably welcomed Mr.
Henry setting forward a chair for a stout, hard-faced
aS man who came in leading a child of six years
old.

“Why, dear me, that’s little Charlie Vail!’ ex-
claimed Mary.

“Yes,” answered Hezekiah, “his mother died this
mornin’ and I’ve just took him over to his father’s
second cousin Melanctha Wheeler. Melane won take
him—says he’s got young uns enough of his own!”

“And what are you going to do with him ?’

“Wal, I cale’late he’s goin’ to the poor-house !”

“The poor-house! Charlie Vail!”

Mary stooped to smooth back the flaxen curls from
the child’s transparent temples.

“Why a month at the poor-house would kill him,
Mr, Hardee !”’

“Don’t see no help for it, Miss Mary!”

Mary Henry glanced appealingly at her brother.
He looked disturbed.

“We are poor, Mary ?”

“Yes, but God’s blessing comes with the fatherless,
Jonathan! Remember! we are orphans ourselves!
Listen, Jonathan! T’ll give up the dress—the old
crimson dress will do very well for a while yet!
Alice Vail’s boy must not go to the poor-house.”

Jonathan fidgeted awkwardly on his chair.

“Well—if you've a mind to throw over the dress |
you’ve been savin’ and scrapin’ for all the fall, why | ,; adh War Shi heh tage 4
I'll give up the colt, and ‘tween us both, Charlie shail | with success, they rendered divine honors to Juno, and
What do you say, Charlie, would you |

have a home;
like to live with me and Mary ?”

But Charlie was sobbing, quite speechless, on
Mary Henry’s tender shoulder.

“Wal, it’s quite a heft off my hands,” said Wezekiah
Hardee bluntly, rising to depart. ‘J didn’t want to
be bothered with the child!”

As Hartford Alden looked at the little group by the
chr ig he thought that Mary Henry was like an
angel!

Unconsciously his night’s sojourn lengthened into
a week—and Major Tracy had begun to wonder ‘‘what
the duse had become of Alden,” before that erratic
young gentleman rode up to his hospitable door, in
the frosty twilight of a December evening.

“ ul-lo !”’

Jonathan Henry’s favorite interjection came out
with more energy.than ever, as he opened his door
on Christmas morning.

“Why, Mary, here’s the sleekest critter you ever
saw in the way of a horse, and a big paper passel.
Where be they from? Guess there’s some mistake;
they can’t be for us.” :

“They were left at the express office for Mr. and
Miss Henry,” said the messenger. ‘“That’s all I
know.”

“Well, ’?m Mr. and Miss Henry—no, I ain’t. I mean
Mary’s Mr. and Miss Henry—no, that ain’t it, nuther.
We’re both onus Mr. and Miss Henry, put together.
Come out and look at your passel, Mary. Je-ru-sa-
lem! what a handsome animal! ’Tain’t possible it
belongs to Jonathan Henry !”

Mary was eagerly unrolling her share of the Christ-
mas morning surprise.

“Why, it’s a silk dress—a blue silk dress! Oh,
Jonathan! what does it mean? And a card inside!”

To Mary’s great disappointment, it bore no name
save herown. ‘For Miss Henry.”

“It’s just my shade of blue!” exclaimed the de-
lighted girl. ‘A silk dress—a real silk! Why, Jona-
than, I never thought I should live to havea silk
dress of my own!”

“Silk dresses are very fine,” said honest Jonathan;
“but give me a clean-limbed, straight-backed critter
like this ’ere! Isay, Mary, this is better luck ’n we
used to have when mother was alive and we hung
our stockin’s up in the chimney-corner. Who do you
suppose could ha’ sent’em? We haven’t no rich re-
lations.”

Mary shook her fair head, and ‘didn’t know.”

Mr. Hartford Alden made a long visit to Major
Tracy’s—in fact, the green birch tassels were all
a-quiver in the March woods before he got ready to
return. And, the night before his final departure,
he came down to the Henry farm-house to say
good-by.

“T tell ye what,” said Jonathan, sagely, as he sat
in the chimney-corner, after a long interval of medi-
tation, ‘‘Mary, as sure as you live, Mr. Alden sent
them things o’ Christmas mornin’ !”’

Mary turned scarlet; so did Hartford.

“And suppose I plead guilty to the accusation—
what then ?”

“Well, squire, you hadn’t ought to.
you nothin’ in return.”

“Yes, you can.”

“What?”

“You can give me your sister !’’

Jonathan stared. Was this the end of the winter
walks and fireside chats? And then he burst into a
hearty, genial laugh.

“T can’t give her, nor take her.
herself.”

“Mary,” questioned Hartford, ‘‘will you belong to
me in future ?”’

Mary Henry was married in the blue silk dress, in
spite of the popular prejudice in favor of white.
Hartford liked the blue silk best, and Hartford was
Grand Sultan of her little heart.

And Charlie Vail lives with them, for Hartford
says:

“Tt was through Charlie’s griefs and troubles that
IT first learned how near an angel my Mary was.”

We can’t give

Mary belongs to

Hello, who’s |

 

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

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

I. M., Hudson, N. Y.—1st. The pearl oyster grows in
beds. Pearls are found fastened to the shells and also
loose in the flesh of the oyster. Ten or twelve of different
sizes are often found in one shell, and not unfrequently as
many as twenty. 2d. How the pearls are formed is not
positively known, but it is supposed that some substance
like a grain of sand gets into the membrane of the oyster,

and that some of the mother-of-pearl gathers on it and
thus makes the pearl. It is said that the Chinese force
oysters to make pearls by putting small beads made ont
of mother-of-pearl into the shells of live oysters and then
putting the oysters back again into the sea, when they
soon cover the beads and form them into large pearls. It
is also stated that they put in little images of their gods,
and they are thus changed into pearl ones. Artificial
pearls are made of hollow glass beads, covered on the in-
side with whatis called essence of pearl. This, we are
told, is made from the scales of small fishes, which when
soaked in water give off akind of pearly film. The pearl
essence is mixed with a little Minklans and blown while
hot into each bead by means of a little glass tube. When
dry the beads are filled with white wax, which gives them
weight and makes them less easy to break.

Mabel 8., Long Island.—tst. Pastry is much more easily
made in cold weather than in warm. In summer it should
be made in a cool place, and the butter should be kept in
ice-water until you are ready to use it. Take two-thirds
of the butter, and the same of the flour, and mix it to-
gether gradually with a spoon, not touching it with the
hand; then put it on the board, and roll it ont; spread
over the rest of the butter, and roll it up; mix in this
butter as lightly as pessible; then roll itout and make
the pies, using the rest of the flour in doing so. A marble
board is the best for making pastry. Before using the
flour wet it, in summer, with ice-water. 2d. To make
hominy cake, take one pint of cold boiled hominy, one
pint of flour, two eggs, one quart of milk, one tablespoon-
ful of lard or butter. Mash the hominy, mix in the flour,
then the eggs and milk. Mash the butter with the
hominy. Beat all well together, and add two_table-
spoontuls of yeast. Set to rise,and bake on a heated
griddle.

Saxon, Washington, D. C.—ist. Pigeon English (or more
correctly pidjin English), is alanguage used in China be.
tween the natives and the English-speaking residents,
Its origin is stated to be referable to the difficulty met by
traders in communicating with the Chinese in their own
tongue. A few simple words accepted at certain values
formed the basis of pidjin English, and thereto have been
added other expressions from English as well as from Por-
tuguese, Malay, Hindostanee, &c., the whole forming a
dialect regardless of grammer, but available for every-day
transactions. 2d. Pidjin is a corruption of the word busi-
ness, so that pidjin English is really business English.
3d. A characteristic pidjin English sentence is that in
which a Chinese merchant expressed what seemed to
him the necessity of painting eyes on the bows of vessels
(a thing always done in China). He said: *‘No got eye,
no Can see ; NO Can see, ho Can sabe; no can sabe, no can
walkee.”

Pierre Le Grand, Dayton, Ohio.—ist. A colossal statue
of Dr. John Witherspoon, a signer of the American Decla-
ration of Independeneée, was unvailedin Fairmount Park,
Philadelphia, in May, 1876. He became president of the
College of New Jersey in 1768, and also professor of
divinity and pastor ot the church in Princeton, near
which he spent his last years. He was totally blind for
some time before his death. 2d. He represented New
Jersey in Congress for six years. Many of the most im-
portant state papers of that period were drawn up by
him. He was a native of Scotland.

Wm. B. C., Savannah, Ga.—The Doctrinaires were a
French constitutionalist party, which originated after
the restoration of the Bourbons. They were so called be-
cause they contended that the state should be adminis-

tered in accordance with rational doctrines and demon-
strable political utility, rather than with party formulas
or the passion of the hour. After the revolution of July,
1830, they assumed a conservative position, and after Feb-
ruary, 1848, they were no more heard of as a party. Guizot,
who was one of its foremost leaders, fled to England, but
subsequently returned to France.

Marie H., Wilmington, Del.—ist. The picture gives
promise of beauty, as indicated by the features, which
are decidedly attractive. 2d. The hair inclosed is a pretty
chestnut. 3d. Rather too young to receive attention.
Waitayear. 4th. Your handwriting is quite fair, and in-
dicates character. Considering the little schooling you
have had you are to be congratulated upon the progress
so farmade. 5th. Yes. We can send you a drawing-book
for fifty cents. 6th. The word quoted means invitation,
In Latin it is invitatio ; in Spanish, invitacion. 7th. Un-
known to us.

D. C. F., Wilmington, Del.—ist. The city of St. John’s,
Newfoundland, consists chiefly of one street, about a mile
and a half in length. Though the harbor is one of the
very best, in “The Narrows” only one vessel can pass at
a time. There are no perceptible tides. 2d. St. John,
New Brunswick, is situated at the mouth of a river of
its own name. The entrance of the river into the harbor,
about a mile and a half above the city, is through a rocky
gorge, which is spanned about 100 feet above low water by
a suspension bride 640 feet long.

Inez, Columbia, S.C.—The falls of Tequendama, near
Bogota, the capital of the United States of Colombia

* ’
South America, are regarded as very remarkable because
the waters descend in an unbroken mass 650 feet. The
Rio Francisco, which traverses Bogota, joins the Rio
Bogota in the center of the plain, and the conjoint waters
descend in a south-west direction through a ravine nearly
twenty miles long. At the falls the cleft between the
rocks is only thirty-six feet wide.

McA., Lancaster, Pa.—Moneta was a surname of Juno
among the Romans. She was so named from her assuring
them that as long as they prosecuted the war against
Pyrrhus with justice, the means for carrying iton would
be supplied to them. After their arms were crowned
resolved to coin money in her temple. Many etymologists
derive the English word, money, from the Latin moneta.

G. Y. G., Albany, N. Y.—The first steamer which crossed
the Atlantic was the Savannah, which was launched at
New York on Aug 22, 1818. She was intended to ply be-
tween New York and Liverpool. She made apreliminary
voyage to the city whose name she bore, in April, 1819,
where she arived in seven days, after a very boisterous
voyage. She left Savannah for Liverpool soon after,
where she arrived in twenty-five days.

Landsgrave.—ist. The President of Mexico is elected
for four years. The national language is Spanish and the
Catholic religion predominates, though all other sects are
protected by virtue of a law promulgated in 1873. 2d.
Since the establishment of Mexican independence, the
City of Mexico has been the scene of a number of revolu-
tions and insurrections.

Nick Carver, Austin, Texas.—Ist. A “living room’’ is,
properly speaking, a sitting-room ; and is also sometimes
used as a dining-room. Where there is no parlor, it may,
of course, as you suggest, be used as a reception-room,
etc. 2d. Wedo not give addresses such as you request,
3d. The story named is notin book-torm. 4th. The first
named,

Raoul, Rochester, N. Y.—Bohemia, a political and ad-
ministrative province and nominal kingdom of Austro-

Hungary, derives its name from the Boii, a Celtic people.
The Emperor of Austria bears the title of King of Bo:
hemia. ‘The religion of the state is Roman Catholic.

C. W., Providence.—The U.S. Land Offices in Minne-
sota aré at Taylor’s Falls, St. Cloud, Duluth, Fergus
Falls, Worthington, Crookston, Benson, Tracy, and Red-
wood Falls.

W. W. W., Richmond, Va.—The London Times was

founded by John Walter, who died in 1812. He was by
trade a printer. His son and then his grandson succeeded
him.

Basil D. K., Elmira, N. Y.—Windsor Castle, the prin-
cipal residence of the English monarchs, is east of the

| town of Windsor, which is 23 miles west of London.

Rk. C. M., Portland, Me.—Yes. Elmira, N. Y., was used
during the civil war asa rendezvous for Union troops
and as a depot for Contederate prisoners.

Roland and Oliver.—The business hours of the Bank of
England, London, are from 10 to 4 every day except Sat-
urday, when the bank closes at 2.

Elizabeth B.—The Florida Superintendent of Public In-
struction is E. K. Foster. Address, Tallahassee.

Henry S. O., Lonsdale, R. I.—The value of a ton of pure
gold is $602,799.21 ; of a ton of silver, $37,704.84.

George, Tiffin, Ohio.—No statistics that we could vouch
for in regard to them,

A Constant Reader,—Aug. 13, 1857, came on Thursday.

Ruby.—It is a character in a play.

M. A, W., Allegheny, Pa.—No.

TO CONTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS. are respect-
fully declined: “The Economical Wife,” ‘Hearing the
Jonas,” “Courting at Midnight.” ‘‘Daisy Erne,” ‘Dora
Worth,” “A Tramp’s Story.”

ee hall ai aah
A LITTLE EXAGGERATED.

How cold and unfeeling the officers of a benevolent
society do get, tobe sure! A begging letter sent to
a society recently ran thus:

“This unfortunate young man is the only son of a
widow who died childless, and his earnings maintain
his aged father and’infant brothers, whose sole sup-
port he is.”

The secretary of the bureau wrote on the margin
of the epistle, ‘The circumstances of this case are
evidently exaggerated.”

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No. 33.

 

 

LITTLE CHILDREN.

DR. G. W. BABCOCK.

When my heart is like the ocean,
Moved by sorrowful emotion,

Dark with clouds and wild with storm ;
When it sighs as sigh the waves

On a barren shore that swarm

Like a host of hapless slaves,

Seeking rest and comfort warm ;

Then, if children gather round me,
Quickly breaks the spell that bound me,
For a heavenly calm hath found me;
Sunbeams fall upen my sea;

Tumult to repose gives place;

Joy’s reflected in my face,

And each artless child of grace

Seems an angel unto me.

If in music I rejoice,

None so sweet as childhood’s voice ;

If the flowers for praises call,

Human fairest of them all;

Where’s the brightness charms the sense
Like to youthful innocence?

Oh, there is not a pure desire

Like the rapture they inspire!
Dancing, prancing, singing, springing,
All the air with laughing ringing:
Hoping, blushing, wondering, hushing,
Every thought spontaneous gushing
From their cherry lips, as chainless

As a wild bird’s warble free,

In his native greenwood tree ;

Hearts as painless, souls as stainless,
As the angels wish to see.

Little children, come to me;

You it is that people Heaven ;
Freshness, peace and purity

Unto you alone are given;

You itis that people earth

With a thousand joys and graces,
Boundless trust and love and mirth
Beaming from your blooming faces.

Ever welcome! ne’er be strangers,

Ne’er from virtue’s path be rangers,

Next to God, your duty show

To thatone to whom you owe

Life and shelter here below ;

One who bore you, one who wore you

Long upon her loving breast;

Smoothed the road of life before you

With a care that knew no rest.
oo or

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

QUIVER THE OUTCAST.

By HORATIO ALGER, /r.,

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

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

CHAPTER XVIII.
OLIVER THE OUTCAST.

Without much hope of obtaining sympathy or cre-
dence, Oliver wrote to his step-father an account of
the charge which Mr. Bond had brought against him,
and denied in the most positive terms its truth.

“There,” he said to himself, as he posted the letter,
“that is allI cando. Mr. Kenyon must now decide
which he will believe.”

Until he sLould hear from his step-father, he de-
cided not to form any plans for the future. One thing
he was decided upon, not to return home. Since his
mother’s death (for he supposed her dead) it was no
home for him. He had been in the city long enough
to become fond of city life, and he meant to remain
there. If Mr Kenyon chose to assist him to procure
another situation, he would accept his proffered aid—
otherwise he would try to earn his own living.

Two days later he received a letter, which he at
onge perceived to be in his step-father’s handwriting.
He tore it open eagerly, and began to read. His lip
curled with scorn, before he had read far.

These were the material portions of the letter:

“The same mail brought me letters from you and
Mr. Bond. I need not say how grieved lam to hear
that you havesubjected yourselfto a criminal charge.
The circumstances leave no doubt of your guilt. Un-
happy boy! how, with the liberal allowance you re-
ceived, could you stoop to so mean, so dishonorable

a theft? My nephew writes me that with brazen
effrontery you denied your guilt, though it was self-
evident, and treated his remonstrances with the
most outrageous insolence. It is well, indeed, that
your poor mother did not live to see this day.”

“How dares he refer to my mother!” exclaimed
Oliver, indignantly, when he came to this passage.

He went on with the letter.

“T didn’t expect that my well-meant and eamest
effort to start you on a business career would terimi-
nate in this way. I contess I am puzzled to know
what to do with you. I cannot take you home, for I
do not wish Roland corrupted by your example.”

Here Oliver’s lip curled again with scorn.

“Nor can Ireeommend you to another place. Know-
ing you to be dishonest , I should feel that I was
doing wrong to give you a good character. I will not
tell your old acquaintances here of your sad wicked-
ness. I have too much consideration for you. I have
only told Roland, hoping that it gy | be a warning to
him, though I am thankful that Ae at leastis in
capable of theft.

“After anxious consideration, Ihave decided that

you have forfeited all claim to any further help from |

me. I cast you off, and shall leave you henceforth
to shift for yourself. You cannot justly complain,
for you must be sensible that you have brought this
uponyourself. Lintended, sooner orlater, to buy an in-
terestfor you in my nephew’s business—that is, if you
had behaved properly—but all that is at an end now.
I inclose twenty dollars to help youalong till youcan
get something to do. LI advise you to enlist on some
ship as cabin-boy. There you will be out of reach of
temptation, and may, in time, lead a useful, though
humble, career.

“T need not say with how much grief I write these
words. It pains me to cast you off, but I cannot own
any connection with a thief. Roland is also grieved
by the news. Hoping that you may live to see the
error of your ways, I subscribe myself,

“RICHARD KENYON.”

Oliver read this letter with indignation and amaze-
ment.

Was it possible that Mr, Kenyon, while in the posses-
sion of a large property left him by his mother, could
thus coolly cast him off, and leave him to support
himself unaided ?

He wrote the following reply :

“MR. KENYON :—I have received your harsh and
unjust letter. [am innocent, and you know it. Of
the large property which my mother left, you send me
twenty dollars, and keep the remainder. I shall keep
and use the money, foritis justly mine. Sometime
you will repent defrauding an orphan. I don’t think I
shall starve, but I shall not soon forget your treach-
ery. Some day—I don’t know when—I will punish
you for it. OLIVER CONRAD.”

CHAPTER XIX.
A STRANGE ACQUAINTANCE.

Mr. Kenyon shrugged his shoulders, and smiled,
when he read Oliver’s letter.

“So the young cub is showing his claws, is he?” he
said to himself. “I fancy he will find it harder to
punish me than he supposes. Where will he get the

ower? Money is power, and I have money. Yes,”
ne continued, his sallow face lighting up with exul-
tation, “I have played boldly for it, and itis mine!
Who shall dispute my claim? My wife is in a mad-
house, and likely to remain there, and now Oliver is
disposed of. I wish he would ‘go to sea, and never
be heard of again. But at any rate I am pretty safe,
so far as he is concerned.”

Oliver did not expect to terrify Mr. Kenyon with
his threats. He, too, felt his present want of power;
but he was young, and he could wait. Indeed, the
question of punishing his step-father was not the one
that demanded his first attention. He had but twen-
ty dollars in the world, and no expectations. He
must find work of some kind, and that soon. Now,
unluckily for Oliver, the times were hard. There
were thousands out of employment, and fifty appli-
cations where there was one vacancy. Day after day
he answered advertisements without effect. Only
once he had a favorable answer. This was in a great
dry-goods house.

“Yes,” said the superintendent, who was pleased
with his appearance and manners, ‘‘we will take you,
if you like to come.”

_ Oliver brightened up. His sky seemed to be clear-
ing. J

‘Perhaps you will object to the pay we give,” said
the superintendent.

“T don’t expect much,” said our hero, who thought
he would accept for the present, if he were only of-
fered six dollars.

“We will pay you two dollars a week for the first
six months.”

“Two dollars a week!” exclaimed Oliver, in dis-
may.

‘For the first six months.
to four if you do well.”

“Then I can’t come,” said Oliver, despondently. ‘I
shall have to live on my salary, and I couldn’t pos-
sibly live on two dollars a week.”

“T am sorry,” said the superintendent; ‘‘but as we
can get plenty of boys for two dollars, we cannot
break our rule.”

Oliver went out, rather indignant.

“No wonder boys are tempted to steal,” he thought,
‘when employers are sO mean.”’

It was getting rather serious for him. His money
had been dwindling daily.

“John,” he said to his roommate, one evening, ‘I
must give up this room at thé end of this week.”

“Are you out of funds?”

“T have but fifty cents left in the world.”

“T can’t keep the room alone. When is our week
up?”

A dGotinse evening.”

“T will take my old room. I know it is still vacant.
What will you do?”

“T don’t know. I haven’t money enough to take
any room.”

“T wish I had some money to lend you; I’d do itin
a minute,” said John, heartily.

“T know you would, John, but you have hard work
scraping along yourself.”

“Tll tell you what I can do. Come to my little
room, and we'll take turns sleeping in the bed. Itis
only eighteen inches wide, or we could both occupy
it at a time.”

“Tll come round and sleep on the floor, John. I
big he deprive you of your bed. I wish I knew what
to do.”

“Perhaps Mr. Bond would take you back.”

“No, he wouldn’t. Iam convinced that there was
a conspiracy to get ridof me. I might try my hand
at selling papers.”

“You are too much of a gentleman to go into the
street with the ragged street boys.” ~

“My gentility won't supply me with board and
lodging. I mustn’t think of that.”

“Something may turn up for you to-morrow,
Oliver.”

“It won’t do to depend on that. IfI can turn up
something, that will be more to the purpose. How-
ever, this is our last night in this room, and I won’t
worry myself into a sleepless night. I will get my
money’s worth out of the bed.”

Oliver was not given to dismal forebodings or to
anticipating trouble, though he certainly might have
been excused for feeling depressed under present cir-
cumstances. He slept soundly, and went out in the
morning, active and alert.

He took a cheap breakfast—a cup of coffee and
some tea-biscuit—for ten cents. He rose from the
table with an appetite, but he didn’t dare to spend
more money. As it was, he had but forty cents left.

About one o’clock, after applying at several stores
for employment, but ineffectually, he found himself
standing at the corner of Fifth avenue and Four-
teenth street, till quite recently the location of Del-
monico’s famous saloon.

A tall gentleman, with a dignified air, probably
seventy years of age, accosted him as he stood there.
“My young friend,” he said, “will you dine with
me?”

Oliver looked at him in astonishment, to see if he
was in earnest.

“T do not wish to dine alone,” said the other. ‘“‘Be
my guest, unless you have dined.”

“No, sir, 1 have not dined, but I am a stranger to
you.”

Then we will raise you

“MY YOUNG FRIEND,’ HE SAID, “WILL YOU DINE
WITH ME?”

; “Very true; we shall get acquainted before dinner
is over.”

“Then I will accept your invitation with pleasure,
sir. Itis the more acceptable, because I am out of a
situation. and have very little money.”

*“You are well dressed.”

“Very true, sir. My dress is deceptive, however.”
“All that is irrelevant. Come in, if you please.”
So Oliver followed his new acquaintance into the
famous restaurant. They selected a small table, and
a waiter approached to receive orders.

“Thope you are hungry,” said the old gentleman.
“Pray do justice to my invitation.”
Oliver smiled.

“T can easiiy do that, sir,’’ he said.
light breakfast.”

“So much the better.
have ?”’

Oliver selected turtle soup, which was speedily
brought.

It is unnecessary to enter into an elaborate descrip-
tion of the dinner. It is enough that Oliver redeemed
his promise, and ate heartily; his new acquaintance
regarding him with approval.

‘‘Will you have some wine ?”’ he asked.

“T made but a

What kind of soup will you

 

 

“No, sir,’ replied Oliver.

“You had better try some champagne.”

“No, thank you.”

“At least you will take some coffee 2?’

“Thank you, sir.”

The coffee was brought, and at length the dinner
Was over.

“Thank you, sir,” said Oliver, preparing to leave
his hospitable entertainer. You have been very
kind. I will bid you good-day.” ;

“No, no, come home with me. I want to havea
talk with you.”

Oliver reflected that his new acquaintance who had
been so mysteriously kind might be disposed to fur-
nish him with some employment, and thought it best
to accept the invitation, especially as his time was of
little value.

Twenty minutes’ walk brought them to the door of
a fine brown-stone house on a street leading out of
Fitth avenue.

The old gentleman took out a latch-key, opened the
front door, and signed to Oliver to follow him up
stairs. He paused before a front room on the third
floor. Both entered. The room was in part an or-
dinary bed-chamber, but not wholly. In one corner
was a rosewood case containing a number of steel in-
struments.

The old gentleman’s face lighted up with strange
triumph, and he locked the door.

Oliver thought it singular, but suspected no harm.

“Now, my young friend,” said the old man, ‘‘I will
tell you why I brought you here.”

“Tf you please, sir.”

“T am a physician, and am in search of a hidden
principle of nature, which I am satisfied can only be
arrived at by vivisection.”’

“By what, sir?’ exclaimed Oliver, whom the fever-
ish, excited air of the old man began to startle.

“T propose to cut you up,” said the old man, com-
posedly, selecting an ugly looking instrument, ‘‘and
watch carefully the——”

“Are you mad, sir?” exclaimed Oliver, aghast. ‘“Do
you wish to murder me ?”

“You will die in behalf of science,” said the old
doctor, calmly. “Your death, through my observa-
tions, will be a blessing to the race. Be good enough
to take off your coat.” ,

Oliver was horror-struck. The door was locked,
and the old man stood between him and escape. It
was evident that he was in the power of a maniac.

“Was his life to end thus?” he asked himself, in
affright.

CHAPTER XX.
A TERRIBLE SITUATION.

“Be good enough to remove your coat,” said the
old man, with a politeness hardly consistent with his
fearful purpose.

“Sir,” said Oliver, hoping that he might be ac-
cessible to reason, ‘“‘you have no right to experiment
upon me without my permission.”

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria.

 

 

 

“T should prefer your permission,” said the old
doctor.

“T can’t give it,” said Oliver, hastily.

“My young friend,” said the old ian, with an air
of superior wisdom, ‘‘you do not appreciate the im-
portant part you are invited to take in the progress
of scientific discovery. You will lose your life, to be
sure, but what is a single hfe to the discovery of a
great truth! Your name will live for ages in connec-
tion with the great principle which I shall have the
honor of discovering.”

“T vrould rather live myself,” said Oliver, bluntly.
“Science may be all very well, but I prefer that
somebody else should have the privilege of dying to
promote it.”

“They all say so,” said the old man, musingly. ‘‘No
oe the noble courage to sacrifice himself for the
ruth.

“T shouldn’t think they would,” retorted Oliver.
“Why don’t you experiment on yourself?’

“T would willingly, but there are two impediments.
I cannot at once be operator and subject. Besides, I
am too old.

My natural force is abated, while you
"TUTTLE |
gC THIITIT TF

Sf.

 

“I PROPOSE TO CUT YOU UP, IN BEHALF OF SCIENCE,”
SAID THE OLD DOCTOR, COMPOSEDLY.

are young, strong, and vigorous. ‘Oh, yes,’ and he
looked gloatingly at our hero, ‘‘you will be a capital
subject.”

“Look here,” said Oliver, desperately, ‘I tell you I
won’t be a subject.”

“Then I must proceed without your permission,”
said the old doctor, calmly. ‘I have already waited
too long. I cannot let this opportunity slip.”

“Tf you kill me you will be hung!” exclaimed
Oliver, the perspiration starting from every pore.

“T will submit cheerfully to an ignominious death,
if time is only given me to complete and announce
my discovery,” said the old man, composedly.

Evidently he was in earnest. Poor Oliver did not
know what to do. He determined, however, to keep
the old man in conversation as long as possible,
hoping that help might yet arrrive, and the struggle,
for he meant to fight for his life, be avoided.

“Did you have this in view when you invited me to
dine with you?’ he asked.

“Surely I did.”

ane did you select me rather than some one
else 2

“Because you are so young and vigorous.
in the full flush of health.

Now this is a very pleasant assurance in ordinary
2ases, but under the circumstances Oliver did not
enjoy the compliment. A thought struck him.

“You are mistaken,” he said. “Iam not as well as
Tlook. I have—heart disease.”

‘T can hardly believe it,” said the old man. ‘Heart
disease does not go with such a physique.”

“T’ve got it,’ said Oliver. “If you want a per-
fectly healthy subject, you must apply to some one
else.”

“T will test it,” said the old mon, approaching. “If
you really are subject to disease of the heart, you
will not answer my purpose.”

“Put down that knife, then,’ said Oliver.

The doctor put it down.

Oliver shuddered while the relentless devotee of
science placed his hand over his heart, and waited
anxiously his decision.

It came.

“You are mistaken, my young friend,” he said.
“The movement of your heart is slightly accelerated,
but it is in a perfectly healthy state.”

“T don’t believe you can tell,” said Oliver, desper-
ately, ‘“‘just by putting your hand over it a minute.”
“Science is unerring, my young friend,” said the
old man, calmly. “But we waste time. Take off
your coat and prepare yourself for the operation.”
The crisis hadcome. ‘The old manapproached with
his dangerous weapon. At this supreme moment
Oliver espied a bell-kuob. He sprang to it, and rang
a peal that echoed through the house, and was dis-
tinctly heard evenin the chamber where they were
standing. ;

“What did you do that for?’ demanded the old
man, angrily.

“T am not going to stay here to be murdered !”’ ex-
claimed Oliver. ‘I give you warning that I will re-
sist you with all my strength.”

“You would foil me, would you?’ exclaimed the
maniac, now thoroughly excited. “It must not be.”

Oliver hurriedly put a chair between himself and
the old man.

At that moment steps were heard on the staircase,
and some one tried the door.

“Help!” shouted Oliver, encouraged by what he
heard.

“Whatis the matter?’ demanded a voice outside.
“Father, what are you doing ?”’

The old man looked disgusted and mortified.

“Go away !”’ he said, querulously.

‘,Who is there with you?’

“No one.”

“It’s a lie!” said Oliver, ina loud voice. “I ama
boy who has been lured in here by this old man, who
wants to murder me.”

“Open the door at once, father,” said the voice out-
side, sternly.

The old man was apparently overawed, and afraid
to refuse. He advanced sullenfy, and turned the Key.
The door was at once opened from outside.

A man in middle life entered. He took in the situ-

You are

- ation at a glance.

“You are at your tricks again, sir,” he said, sternly,
to the old man. “Put down that knife.”

The old man obeyed.

“Don’t be harsh, Samuel,” he said, in an apologetic
tone. ‘You know that I am working in the interests
of science.”

‘“‘Don’t try to to impose on me with such nonsense.
What were you going to do with that boy ?”

“T wished to experiment upon him.”

=—>

“ACCEPT THE INCLOSURE, AND DO ME THE FAVOR NOT
TO MENTION THE EVENTS OF THIS MORNING.”

“You were going to murder him, and the law would
have exacted the penalty had I not interfered.”

“T would have submitted, if I could have only
demonstrated the great principle which——”

“The great humbug! Promise me that you will
never again attempt any such folly, or I shall be com-
pelled to send you back again to the hospital.”

“Don’t send me there, Samuel!” said the old man,
shuddering.

Young man, come with me.”

It may be imagined that Oliver gladly accepted the
invitation.

He followed his guide down stairs, and into the
parlor, which was very handsomely furnished.

“What is your name ?”’ inquired the other.

“Oliver Conrad.”

“How came you with my father ?”’

Oliver told the story briefly.

 

“T am very much mortified at the imposition that

| whole, however, this is a lucky day.
| dinner at Delmonico’s, and I have money enough to

has been practiced upon you, and alarmed at the
thought of what might have happened but for my ac-
cidental presence at home. Of course you can see
for yourself that my father is insane.”

“Yes, sir, I can see it now; but I did not suspect it
when we first met.”

“T suppose not. In fact, he is not generally insane.
He is rather a monomaniac.”

“Tt seems a dangerous kind of monomania.”

“You are right; itis. Unless I can control him at
home, I must send him back to the hospital. He has
been an eminent physician, and until two years ago
was in active practice. His delusion is connected
with his profession, and is therefore less likely to be
cured. I am surprised that you accepted a stranger’s
invitation to dine.”

“T will tell you frankly, sir,” said Oliver, “that I
am out of employment, and have but forty cents in
the world. You could hardly expect me to decline a
dinner at Delmonico’s under the circumstances.”

“To be sure,” said the other, thoughtfully. ‘Wait
here one minute, please.”

He left the room, but returned in less than five min-
utes. He handed a sealed envelope to Oliver.

“T owe you some reparation for the danger to which
you have been exposed. Accept the inclosure, and
do me the favor not to mention the events of this
morning.”

Oliver thanked him, and made the promise re
quested.

When he was in the street he opened the envelope.
To his amazement, it proved to contain one hundred
dollars in bills!

“Shall I take this ?”’ he asked himself.

Necessity answered for him.

“Tt is a strange way of earning money,” he thought.
“T shouldn’t like to go through it again. On the
I have had a

}

last me ten weeks at least.”

CHAPTER XXI
ROLAND IS SURPRISED.

Oliver was walking along Broadway in very
good spirits, as he well might, after such an extra-
ordinary piece of good fortune, when all at once he
became sensible that his step-brother, Roland, was
approaching him.

His first impulse was to avoid the meeting by cross-
ing the street; but, after all, why should he avoid
Roland? He had done nothing to be ashamed of.
Certainly Roland was not his friend, but he had been
his companion so long that there was something
home-like in his face.

Roland recognized him at the instant of meeting.

“Oliver!” he exclaimed in surprise.

“How are you, Roland?” said Oliver, composedly.

Roland colored, and looked embarrassed.

“Are you still in the city ?”” he asked.

“You see I am.”

“My father told me you were going to sea.”

“He advised me to go to sea, but I have not fol-
lowed his advice.”

“T should think you would.”

‘Why should you think I would?
going to sea?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why should I?’

“Tt must be rather awkward for you to stay in New
York. Are you not afraid of being arrested ?”’
“Arrested !” repeated Oliver, haughtily. ‘‘What do
you mean ?”’

“You know well enough what I mean.
of the money you stole from my cousin.”
“Say that again, and I will knock you over.”

“You wouldn’t dare to—in the public street !’’ said
Roland, startled.

“Don’t depend on that. If you insult me, I will.”
“T was only repeating what my father told me.”
“Your father chose to tell you a lie!” said Oliver,
contemptuously.

‘“‘Didn’t you lose your place? Tell me that.”

“T did lose my place—or, rather, I left it of my own
accord.”

‘“Wasn’t there a reason for it?’ insisted Roland,
triumphantly.

al |

es

Do you think of

On account

Z|

“SAY THAT AGAIN, AND I WILL KNOCK YOU OVER!”

“There was a charge trumped up against me,” said
Oliver—‘‘a false charge. Probably your father and
your cousin were at the bottom of it. But that isn’t |
what I care to talk about. Is there anything new in |
Walford ?”*

“Carrie Dudley is very well,” said Roland, signifi-
cantly.

“T am glad to hear it.”

“T called there last evening.
time,” said Roland.

If Roland expected to excite Oliver’s jealousy, he
was not likely to succeed. Our hero knew too well
Carrie Dudley’s real opinion of his step-brother to
feel the least fear on the subject.

“~T should like to see Frank and Carrie,” said
Oliver, quietly. ‘They are the only persons I regret
in Walford.” £

“No love lost between us,” returned Roland, at
once applying the remark to himself.

“Probably not,” said Oliver, with a smile.

“Have you got another place?’ inquired Roland,
curiously.

“Not yet.”

“T suppose you will find it hard, as you can’t bring
any recommendation.”

“Twouldn’t accept one from Mr. Bond,” said Oliver,
haughtily.

“How do you get along, then?’

“Pretty well, thank you.”

“T mean, how do you pay your expenses ?” persist-
ed Roland. ‘You have no income, you know.”

“T ought to have,” blazed out Oliver, indignantly.
“My mother left a hundred thousand dollars, which
you and your father have coolly appropriated.”

“My father has no money that is not his own,” re-
torted Roland, ‘‘and that is more than ig

“Stop there, Roland, or I may forget myself,” in-
terrupted Oliver, sternly.

There was a menace In his tone which startled
Roland, and he thoughtit best not to complete his
sentence.

“IT must be going,” said Roland.
dined ?”’

He asked the question chiefly out of curiosity.

“T dined at Delmonico’s,” replied Oliver, in a mat-
ter-of-fact tone, enjoying Roland’s amazement.

“You did!” exclaimed Roland, well aware how ex-
pensive Delmonico’s famous restaurant is.

“Yes; I had a capital dinner.”

“T don’t believe it. You are joking,’ said Roland,
incredulously.

“What makes you say that?’

“Youcan’t afford to dine at such a place, a boy in
your position. I don’t believe you have five dollars
in the world.”

Now was the time for Oliver to confound his in-
credulous enemy.

He took out the roll of bills he had recently re-
ceived, and displayed it to Roland, letting him see
five, ten, and twenty-dollar bills.

“T am not quite reduced to beggary, as you see,” he
said.

I had a splendid

“Have you

 

“Then take care you do not make it necessary.

“How did you get all that money ?” gasped Roland.
“T don’t choose to tell you. I will only say this,
that I have made more money since I left Mr. Bond’s

| than I made while I wasin his employment—three
| times over.”

“You have!” ejaculated Roland, beginning to feel
respect for the boy who could make so much money,
even though he disliked him.

“T thought you hadn’t got a place,” he said, after a
moment’s thought.

“No more I have,’ replied Oliver.
employer.”

‘“‘In business for yourself, hey ?”

Oliver nodded.

“Well, good morning. I'll tell Frank Dudley I have
seen you.”

“T wish you would.”

He looked after Oliver, as he walked away, with
the same feeling of wonder.

‘“‘How can a boy earn so much money ?” he thought.
“Oliver must be smart. I thought he’d be a beggar
by this time.”

In his secret heart, Roland had never credited the
charge of theft: brought against Oliver. He didn’t
like him, and was ready enough to joinin the charge
of dishonesty fabricated by his father and Mr. Bond,
but really he knew Oliver too well to believe it.

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

“Tam my own

 

 

| pout or look sullen, because I say it, either.

Otherwise he might have suspected that Oliver’s
supply of money was dishonestly obtained. He con-
cluded that his step-brother must be doing some
business of a very profitable character.

With a hundred dollars in his pocket, Oliver felt
justitied in re-engaging the room he had in the morn-
ing resolved to leave. He managed to see John
Meadow at the time of his leaving the store, and in-
quired if he had yet hired his old room.

“No,” said John ; “I am just going round there.
Will you go with me?”

“Tt won’t be necessary,” said Oliver.
better remain where we are.”

John stared.

“But how will we pay the rent?” he asked.
have nothing.”
“Haven't 1?

ing.”

John whistled.

“Come, now, you’re gassin’,” he said.

“Don’t look like gassing?” said Oliver, displaying a
roll of bills.

“Good gracious ! where did you get it!”

Oliver smiled.

“T thought you would be surprised,” he answered.
“Tll tell you the story when we get home,” he said.
“Now let us go and tell our landlady we have changed
our minds and will keep the room.”

“Tam glad we can,” said John Meadows. “TI felt
bad about going back to my old room, and I felt anx-
ious about you, too.”

“T think I shall get along,” said Oliver, hopefully.

“Perhaps there is more money to be made where
you made your money to-day.”

“T think not. Atany rate, I don’t care to earn any
more the same way.”

The same evening, Oliver strayed into a prominent
hotel on Broadway. He was alone, his roommate
having retired early on account of fatigue. In the
smoking-room he saw, sitting by himself, a tall,
bronzed, rather roughly dressed man, evidently not
a dweller in cities, but having all the outward marks
of a frontierman. Sumething in Oliver attracted this
man’s attention, and led him to address our hero.

“Young man,” he said, *‘do you live in New York ?”’

eV eS, Sir.”

“Then, perhaps, you can recommend me to a quiet
house where I can obtain a lodging. I ain’t used to
tine hotels; they don’t suit me.”

“T can recommend the house where Iam living,”
said Oliver. ‘It is quiet and comfortable, but not
stylish.”

“Style ain’t for me,” said the stranger. “Tf it’s
where you live, [ll like it better. I like your looks,
and would like to get acquainted with you.”

“Then,” said Oliver, “I’l] call here to-morrow morn-
ing and accompany you to the house. It would be
too late to-night to make a change.”

“That will do,” said the stranger.
at nine o’clock.
Nicholas Bundy.”

[TO BE CONTINUED. |]

“We had

“You

I made a hundred dollars this morn-

“T wil be here
If you don’t see me, inquire for

[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 XVII. ‘
THE PRETTY SIMPLETON GROWS INTO THE DANGER
OUS VIRAGO.

As Mrs. Brooks went from John Halliday’s house
to her own, the anger in her poor silly brain grew
and grew until she was ina perfect rage. ‘Hell
hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Her former
lover had scorned her; she was incapable of a really
grand passion, even of anger; but she could and did
fly in a rage that promised to be very unpleasant to

any one having to bear its consequences.

“He sha’n’t treat me so, he sha’n’t,” she cried to
hersel?, stamping her foot on the door-mat, as she
waited for Mary to let herin. ‘“I’ll show him I’m not
to be slighted with impunity. Oh, he can put on
airs equal to any one. ButTll get him back at my
feet yet, see if I don’t. What a time it takes that
girl to wait on the door. I don’t like her, anyhow

—always looking as if she thought I wasn’t good
enough for the like of her to wait on—and I believe I
won’t tolerate her any longer. I wouldn’t a put up
with her a week after I came into the house, only
Brooks told me he wouldn’t let her go; but he’s where
he can’t help himself now, and go she shall. Mary,
I don’t expect to be kept out ten minutes after I’ve
rung. Where were you that you couldn’t answer the
bell? Into mischief, T’ll bet my life. You needn’t
) é I’ve had
enough of your airs. When’s your month up?”

“The first of December, ma’am.”

“And this is the twenty-fifth of November. Well,
Mary, you may get yourself another place; I shan’t
want you after the first.”

“Very well, ma’am,’”’ responded the faithful ser-
vant, who had borne the tyranny of the new mistress
solely on account of the love she had for the family.
It had been especially hard after Miss Grace went
away, but Miss Grace had made her promise, for the
sake of the dear boys, not to allow herself to be
driven away if she could help it. ‘Very well,
ma’am,” and that was all the response Mary made,
though her face flushed deeply, and her Irish heart
grew hot in her breast.

Mrs. Brooks threw her handsome cloak and hat
down on the hall-table, and went in to her solitary
luncheon. Asusual she found fault with everything ;
this time, with some reason, for the chicken-salad
was over Salted, the chocolate was scorched, and the
rolls over risen.

“There is nothing fit for a pig to eat,” complained
the elegant mistress.

“Cook is dead-drunk,” said Mary, briefly.

Mrs. Brooks burst into an itl-natured laugh.

“Td rather a servant should be drunk than impu-
dent, Mary.”

And it was true that the young wife looked on in-
temperance as a light fault—she had been accus-
tomed to it ever since she could remember; some-
times she regarded it in the light of a good joke.

Mrs. Dennison ran in—as she expressed it—just as
her daughter left the dining-room; but even to her
Lillie wore a sulky air that afternoon; her vanity
had been wounded, and she could not recover her
equanimity. The ambitious mother had a small
worry on her mind, also, which she had come to talk
over with her favorite.

“Do you think it’s altogether safe, Lill, for Sam to
spend Grace’s money the way he is doing? He is
squandering it shamefully. I know there was that
marriage; but I call that a shaky ceremony at the
best; and sometimes I fear that Sam may be going it
too fast—may, in fact, bring up in prison.”

“What do I know about it? Goodness gracious me,
ma, don’t come to me about law matters! Sam must
take care of himself.”

“Or course, of course! but I’m not easy in my mind.
I wish he wouldn’ t make quite so free with the cash.
If Grace should get out of the scrape and prove the
ceremony illegal, he may have to give back all that
he took.”

“T would like to know how he could be made to
give back what he hasn’t got! Sam is having a fine
time, isn’t he? Effie is having a fine time, too! and
you and pa—all of you—having a fine time on my
good things! It’s very nice for you all that ’ve mar-
ried rich! I’m the only one who has to pay “or it.”

“For the land’s sake, if the child ain’t actually ery-
ing! What’s the matter, Lillie ?’

“Nothing, ma; only I’m homesick.”

“And no wonder, cooped up here all alone! Where’s
Brookst When’s he going to be well enough to come
home?

“T don’t know, nor I don’t care. I’m not homesick
for him. It’s duller and stupider when he’s here than
when he’s gone. He’s old and ’'m young—that’s the
difference, Our ways are different. I’m not happy,
ma; that’s the long and the short of it. But there’s
one thing certain—if we can’t both have our way in
this house, ’m bound to have mine. I’ll make him
repent in sackcloth and ashes wanting a young wife!
Oh, I hate him! But aslong as I’m his wife I’m
going to get all the good out of itI can. [just wish
I could think of something to do that would spite
him awfully when he gets home!”

“Oh, Lillie, Lillie! don’t say that. Come, cheer up!
Let’s have up the carriage and go out for a drive.”

“lve been out once to-day; I don’t care to go
again.”

“Where did you go?”

“Never mind where, ma.”

“You needn’t be cross to me, Lillie. I’ve gone with-
out my dinner many a time to put clothes on your
back; you know I have.”

“Now, don’t go to bringing that up again, ma. If it
hadn’t been for youl might have been John Halli-
day’s wife this minute, instead of that sickly, prim,
particular old Bluebeard’s. Ill never forgive you for
advising me to marry old Brooks; so, there, now.”

“That’s where the shoe pinches, is it, daughter? I
wasn’t a prophet to know John Halliday was com-
ing back rich. What’s his thirty thousand to old
Brook’s money, anyhow? I don’t see how a girl can
ask to be better of?n you are. If old Brooks ain’t
fond of you, it’s all the fault of your temper, Lillie.
If you’d coax him and flatter him up a bit, you’d have
everything your own way.” ‘

“T’ll have it without that. I’m sick of coaxing and
wheedling the old fool! He’s got to stand round, If
he takes to falling sick every time I say a sharp word

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

ease THE NEW Y

 

 

 

 

 

to him, why, I can’t help it; he’ll wear himself out
the sooner. My, ma! if lever do get to be a hand-
some young widow, won’t I cut a dash!”

The te blue eyes brightened a little at this de-
lightful prospect.

“There, now you look more like yourself, daughter.
Do try and cheer up a bit. I hope and trust it won’t
be so very many years before you are a widow, my
dear. You’ll have plenty of money then, and can have
your pick of nice young men.”

<< know John will be married long before that,
ma.’

“Perhaps, not, Lillie; perhaps not.”

; “Pve given Mary warning to leave when her month
‘is up.

“You have? I’m afraid you’ll be sorry; she takes
lots of care off you.”

“T don’t want any one around that’s all for the
Brookses. She’d wipe her feet on me, if I would let
her. I hope she'll be gone when Brooks gets back ;
‘it would plague him so.”

“T’m sorry you have let her go, for all that, Lillie.
She’s been as good as a housekeeper.”

“Things will have to take care of themselves after
she’s gone. Do you know, cook’s down on the kitchen
floor, sleeping offa spree. I trust she’ll be around in
time to get us something for dinner.”

“What do you keep her for ?”’

“Oh, she’s a splendid cook, when she’s straight;
awfully extravagant, though; uses three times what
is necessary. But I didn’t marry arich old fool to
wear myself out economizing here and economizing
there. His first wife did the saving; Ill do the
spending.”

“Oh, daughter, but you’re a funny girl!”

“Supposing you go down, ma, and see if cook is on
her feet again. If she isn’t, why, Pll go round home
with you by and by, and we'll send out and get what
we want for supper.”

“T will. Give me the key of the store-room, daugh-
ter; I want to see what there is on hand.”

“The key? Oh, I don't keep the store-room locked,
ma. Good gracious me, I’d haye to be trotting to it
twenty times aday! I tried it a week, and gave it
up in disgust.”

Mrs. Dennison went off on an exploring expedition.
When she returned, she had in her arms a bottle of
olives, ajar of West India preserves, a can of pale de
fois gras, and a glass of guava jelly.

“Some things [ve taken a fancy to, Lillie: you

won't miss ’em.”
“Help yourself, ma. You'd better add a bottle of
T tell

Otard for poor pa.”

“T looked for some, but there wasn’t any.
you what I think, daughter—if your'e really going to
let me have that sewing-machine, [’d better send for
it in the morning, before old Brooks tomes home.”

‘Very well, ma.”

“T wish Grace would come back before Sam spends
all her money.”

“What's that tous, ma? Still, [ don’t think Mackay
has proved very cute.”

“He don’t care now he’s got his five hundred.

. Neither does Sam. He don’t fancy Grace as much as
he did; she’s hurt his pride, [ suspect; and now that
he has the money, he don’t mind a copper whether he
ever sees her ornot. [only hope he hasn’t made him-
self liable to the law.”

“If L was in his place, I would take the money and
go to California, or somewhere not very near, set up
m business instead of spending it all, and so, get ric
onit. When she found she wasn't free to marry any
one else, Grace might go out to him after a while.”

“That's what he ought to do; but Sam’s not steady
enough for business; he’s going to follow in his pa’s
footsteps, I fear.”

“Do you think Mackay is making up to Effie, ma?”

“T guess not. Effie likes him, but Mackay is nota
marrying man, I take it. He likes his freedom.”

“Tf Effie was as handsome as I am, she might catch
him,” said Lillie, reflectively. “If I were single, I’m
quite certain J could bring him toterms. I wish Eftie
could get him. Ma,” she added, after several mo-
ments’ silence, ‘‘did the idea ever oceur to you that
the fellow Sain brought here that night wie not be
a clergyman, as Sam declares he was, after ali? If
Zhad been Grace, I should have spent my spare time
in trying to find that out. I don’t believe he was any
more a minister than I am.”

“What put that in your head? For mercy’s sake,
don’t hint such athing to old Brooks! He’d have
Sam in the Tombs for obtaining money under false
pretenses, or some such dodge. If you have any such
suspicions, pray keep quiet.”

“Oh, I sha’n’t say a word. What do I care how
much bother that stuck-up piece of nicety, Miss
Grace Brooks, or Mrs. Sam Dennison, has? The
more the better, sofar as ’'m concerned; only, if I
were in her place, I think I should be smart enough
to get out of the scrape some way. Ma, do you know,
I believe John Halliday is already in love with some
other girl. That’s a man’s constancy !”

“But you cannot expect him to be constant to you
aiter you are another man’s wife, child. Ceme, give
up thinking about John. I think Mrs. Augustus
Brooks, the rich broker’s wife. need not trouble her
head about a person like that.”

“Tt seems, if I am Mrs. Augustus Brooks, people
turn up their noses at me all the same as it [I were
Lillie Dennison. A ten-minutes’ callis all I’ve got
out of his friends, so far. [ wonder what's the matter
with me, ma! I’m pretty as a picture, I dress hand-
somely, have my carriage to ride out in, go to church
regularly—yet t ley turn up their noses at me. Oh,
how I hate ’em all! Tll do all I can to spite ’em,
that’s certain. I’d like to spite the whole lot—Brooks,
and the minister’s wife, and everybody. I s’pose I’m
a parve; moo—such aSIread about in novels—and I
wish I never come among the set! I’m bound
T’ll not be put down. [I’m going to get the best of
’em some way! T’ll getthe best of the old fool and
his friends yet, see if I don’t! TI guess Gracé’s niar-
riage to my brother was ablow. Oh,ma, that served
her right! Every time I think of it laugh. We got
the better of her there.”

Lillie got up from her easy-chair and walked up
and down the room, an ugly frown on her fair fore-
head.

All sorts of discontented thoughts were brewing in
her silly, untaught mind. -Jealousy, envy, malice
ruled there. She hated the well-bred people who
quietly let her alone. It gave her pleasure to think
of the mortification and unhappiness she could in-
flict on her husband. In short, the pretty simpleton
was fast growing into the dangerous virago. |

‘Have you been over to see how old Brooks is get-
ting on, daughter ?”

“No, [ haven't.”

“Why don’t you go? People will talk.” °

“Oh, will they? I like nothing better than tomake
‘em talk. I’m willing to give them plenty to talk
about. I expect ’m a godsend to the church sociables
in the way of scandal. What would they do if they
didn’t have Mrs. Augustus Brooks’ goings-on to go
over? I shall furnish ’em-amusemdnt for the whole
set of sociables.”

“Haven't they asked you to join?”

“Oh, yes; they couldn’t help that, seeing Brooks is
a member. I knew they wanted my money, and
didn’t want me; so I thanked ’em and told them I had
so many novels to get through with, I couldn’t spare
time to come to the Slander Society; and I wanted
so many new clothes I shouldn’t have any money to
spare to buy flannel for the Hottentots.”

“Lordy, Lill! You didn’t really ®’ giggled the ad-
niring mother.

“Yes, I did, as true as I stand here! You ought to
have seen the three ladies of the committee get up
and flounce out. I guess we understand each other
now. They were some of the first ladies in Brooklyn.”

Mrs. Dennison laughed; but she looked uncomfort-
able, too. She had fondly hoped that her handsome
pet was in the way of becoming one of the great
ladies herself, and she was disappointed at the way
matters had turned out.

“Tt would have been better if you had made friends
with ’em, my dear.”

“Oh, I know, if ’'d given’em a lot of money they
would have been pleasant, to my face; but they
would have despised me all the same, and I thought
Vd let them know I saw through them. I had that
satisfaction anyhow. I was too agreeable at first, I
dare say ; but now I defy ‘em all. T mean to have my
own fun in my own way; and I don’t think old
Brooks, or old Brooks’ friends, will stop me. I'll go
home with you to supper, ma; will you go to the
theater afterward? I guess I can contrive to enjoy
myself.”

“Ts it safe to leave the house, with cook in such a
condition She might set fire to it by her careless-
ness.

*1’d as soon it would burn up as any other way; it’s
insured. However, Mary will see to that.”

“What will you do without Mary?”

J don’t know, and I don't care. It will be worth
some bother to see the old fool's face when he comes
home and finds her gone. I expect he’ll feel half as
bad as he did when his wife died. Well, ma, ’m

_ dressed in my best, as you see, and I’ll go along with
you whenever you are ready. The boys will be home

from school directly ; but they can take care of them-
selves. I never trouble my head about the brats.
Let’s go over to Wallack’s or the Fifth Avenue this
evening—somewhere where it will be worth while
to show my diamonds. We can take a box; the
opera-glasses always take so much notice of the

boxes.”

“How will I get all these things home, Lillie? Will
you carry the jar?”

“No My muff and glasses are enough for me.
Tl order Mary to put. ’em ina basket and bring ’em
around. Anything else you would fancy, ma?’

““T don’t know as there is, to-day,” was the reluc-
tant answer.

The mother’s house was already crowded with the
spoils of her many visits to her rich son-in-law. She
would have to cease ber “appropriations” sometime

_ for the want of a place to put any more; and so
daughter and parent,set out in search of “tun,” leay-
ing all thoughts of “‘duty” behind them.

i» ~

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE CUNNING OF JEALOUSY.

: You may be sure John Halliday took down the
number of Mrs. Courtenay’s residence before he
walked away from it. Why did he doso? Was not
this stranger, whom he loved, believing her to be
free, a icerried woman? Oh, that cruel deceit of

 

It had worked a world

naming herself Miss Nugent!
Nor could he help blaming her

of woe for him.
for it.

Poor Grace! when, in her terror of being claimed
by the man who declared himself her husband, she
took a fictitious name, she never dreamed of the
possibilities wrapped up in the future. She wasa
maiden; her soul recoiled in horror from the idea
that she was, or could be, wedded to that coarse
scamp who had drawn her inte the pretended mock
marriage, and she called herself “Miss” as naturally
as possible. It would have seemed to her more false
to call herself Mrs.; and, indeed, when she adopted
the name of Clara Nugent, she had little time for
choice, taking the tirst which suggested itself.

All this John could not know. He only knew that,
for the second time, a woman had deceived him; that
his hopes were all adrift on the sea of life. He
blamed Clara bitterly; yet, for the life of him, he
could not love her the less. There was that in the
serene purity of those deep eyes which assured him
she was not willingly false. Trouble, of some ter-
rible kind, she was evidently in; but she was good
and true. And she loved him! She had said so.

Then came the fatal question—what right had a
married woman to love him? And so he was driven
over the waste of his experience; one moment high
on the crest of that exalted thought—she loved him!
the next swept down into the abyss of despair—she
had no right toloye him! He went on into Central
Park, where he wandered about until the brief day
drew redly toward a close.

It was quite dark when he reached home, to find
his mother very anxious about him, and very glad to
welcome him home in safety. Flossie was in low
spirits at the loss of her friend and teacher. Mrs.
Halliday was a little sad, too, furtively watching her
son’s haggard looks, when the tea-things were taken
away, and he affected to be deep in his reading, so
that he might not have to make the effort of conver-
sation.

She could not forgive their late guest, either, for
not confiding the fact of her not being a single
woman to them atthe beginning of their acquain-
tance.

“It would have saved so much trouble,” she
thought. “And it could not be but that she saw
John was falling head over ears in love with her.
There is always something wrong where there is so
much mystery. Poor John! my poor boy! My
heart aches for him. And I’m frightened to death
lest he should make up his mind to something rash.
We were beginning to be so happy before she came.”

The mother, therefore, was not surprised when her
son said, abruptly, after Flossie had gone to bed:

“T have made up my mind to go back to the mines,
mother.”

The mother made no answer; but presently put her
handkerchief to her eyes, and he saw that she was
crying. a

“Don’t do that, mother dear. Do you want to make
it harder for me? Is it not better I should go where
I can be busy, absorbed in exciting business, than to
stay here and pine and fret like a woman? I shall
not get over this second blow very soon or easily,
mother; it seems to me I can fight my fate better out
there.”

“IT do not ask to keep you, John;

“*For men must work and women must weep,’

as the song says. It will be lonely for poor Flossie
and me, but I do not complain. Only I do not see
why my boy should have such luck. You have not
deserved it, John;’”’ and she looked at him-admiring-
ly through her tears—this dear, noble, handsome boy
of hers, fit to be loved by the best girlin the land!

“T dare say the fates have decreed that I should die
an old bachelor, mother ;”’ and John laughed in a
melancholy way.

There was amore exciting scene between Flossie
and him the next morning when she was told that
her brother was going off to the West again; the

about his neck. As he did so,,he, standing with his
face toward the door, saw it swing quickly open, and
in it appeared a fine-looking gentleman of about
sixty, leaning somewhat heavily on the shoulder of a
fair, slender girl.

Both shrank back a little in surprise at the inter-
esting tableau.

At that instant the eyes of John and the young
lady in the door-way met. He turned pale with as-
tonishment, and chagrin, and joy, all conflicting emo-
tions surging and swelling to his brain, for he be-
held—Clara Nugent!

The look of incredulity on that lovely face, swiftly
passing into pain, and almost horror, first caused
him to realize the unfortnnate position in which
Lillie’s unwelcome demonstration had entangled
him. One might have “knockod him down with a
feather.”

As for the model wife, she let her arms drop, as
she turned around at hearing the slight noise of the
opening door, and actually blushed.

For ten seconds not a word was spoken.
first to break the spell.

“Oh, you are back again, Mr. Brooks. Glad you
are well enough to get home. Grace, you are the
last person in the world I expected to see. Where
did you come from? Mr. Brooks, this is Mr. Halli-
day, a cousin of mine, who starts for Colorado to-
morrow. I was just saying good-by to him.”

Mr. Brooks bowed stiffly, without speaking. Grace
gave alittle start. Her cousin! If John Halliday
were really her step-mother’s cousin that fact might
excuse What she had’ just witnessed. Involuntarily
her eyes sought his, which avoided hers.~In his
heart John despised Lillie’s falsehood, and would
have denied it at once, had it not been for placing the
wife in such an awkward strait; but he could not
very well say: ‘‘The lady has told you a lie, sir; Iam
not her cousin; itis all her fault that our parting
seemed tender; 1 did not fancy it.’ He could not
say that, although he had the impulse to say it.
Neither could he claim acquaintance with this Grace
—so he had heard Lillie call her—uunless she first ac-
knowledged their friendship.

Tt took a minute for Gracie’s thought to compre-
hend the second part of Mrs. Brook’s statement—
that her cousin was going to Colorado. When she
did, she took a step forward, exclaiming:

“Mr. Halliday, do youreally go away to morrow ?”’
Papa, this is the gentleman of whom I have told
you; it was he and his mother who befriended and
sheltered me. Mr. Halliday, this is my father, and if
you have time to come to him this evening, I promise
you he shall give you a history of the circumstances
which drove me from this, my home.”

“T will come,” said John, in a low voice, “if Mr.
Brooks will allow me.”

Mr. Brooks was not quite satisfied at the scene he
had witnessed on opening the door; but the young
man had a frank and winning appearance, while
Grace, whose opinions had weight with him, had told
him so much of the generosity and goodness of the
Hallidays, that he did not long hesitate.

“Of course I will allow you,” he said, cordially.
“Come and pay me a friendly visit this evening, so
that I may explain to you some matters which it is
no more than fitting you should understand, since
my daughter has been your mother’s guest under
such circumstances.”

Lillie listened to this, open-eyed, surprised, looking
from one to the other with a keen glance, burning
with curiosity. She saw something in the faces of
John and Grace which she understood. So Grace
knew John Halliday! Had been his mother’s gnest!
Now she comprehended her former lover’s sudden and
complete indifference to her charms. He loved Grace
—and she lovedhim. A fury of jealousy blazed up in
her undisciplined mind. She had always been en-
vious of her husband’s daughter; had felt her to be
in the way; had plotted against her in the affair of
the mock marriage; had ridiculed her refinement as

Lillie was

 

child cried passionately, and would not be comforted.
Nevertheless, John quietly went on with his prepara- |
tions, having decided to leave his home in one week, |
and having, meantime, several affairs to arrange for
his mother’s and sister’s comfort.

The time went all too rapidly, despite the heavy
heart he carried. He was dismayed when he came
to the afternoon of the last day, and found himself
with nothing to do but await the hour of departure
on the morrow. More-than once it had occurred to
him that it might be cowardly to fly his troubles in
this way, leaving his mother alone, and leaving Clara
Nugent friendless in case she should need a man’s
strong arm or heart to defend her. True, she was
married; but was that a good reason for deserting
her cause, should she have need to appeal to him ?

As he walked restlessly about the sitting-room,
looking at his beloved books, and observing the
cheerful effect of the grate fire in the pretty room,
he found that it was going to be hard to tear himself
from this new home he had made; and while thus
thinking, the bell rang, and the young servant
brought him a note which had been left at the door.

His heart fluttered when he saw the dainty en- |
velope, but it grew cold and calm again when he
looked at the handwriting.

“Not Clara, but that other woman,” he muttered,
in disappointment.

After a little hesitation, and an impulse to throw
it in the fire, he opened the note, which ran thus:

“T hear you are going back to the West. I know
you no longer care for me, even as a friend; but I
think you might come for just tive minutes to say
good-by, and to get the little packet of which I spoke.
I will say nothing to offend you. I only wish to say
good-by, and shall be home, expecting you, at four”
this afternoon. 4. D. B.”

“No. — Bedford avenue.”

renee I have been unnecessarily severe with the |
poor, silly girl,” thought John, whose heart just then |
was softened by thoughts of home-leaving. ‘It will
be very harsh of me to go off, perhaps never to re-
turn, without saying good-by, after such an appeal.”

There was barely time to reach the address given,
so he took his hat and overcoat, and set forth, saying
to his mother that be should not be long gone.

He knew that Lillie had married for money; still,
he was somewhat surprised at the quiet elegance of
the house, when he reached it. \Mary had left the
previous day, but a colored lad, in buttons, showed

 

im into the stately parlors, but soon came for him |
again, requesting that he should walk into the
library.

This was a charming room, sunny, cheerful, and
well-furnished; a blazing fire of cannel coal was
reflected from the polished brass and steel of the
grate; a large plate of costly hot-house flowers gave
up their richest perfume to the delicious warmth of
the air, from the center of the heavy library table of
black walnut and green broadcloth. It seemed a
room in which a centented spirit could live most
happily. It was not until he had nearly made a com-
plete survey of it that he perceived Lillie in alow
easy-chair near one of the book-cases.

She sat quite still, with lowered eyelids; and a very
pretty, even fascinating, picture she made, in that
becoming light, compounded of shadows, firelight,
and the rays of the sinking wintersun. She had on
a pale-blue dress of glimmering silk, silvery on the
surface of its rich folds, with ruffles of soft lace
around the square-cut, Pompadour bodice, and a
bunch of pink rosebuds at the bosom. There were
more pink rosebuds in her fluffy yellow hair, and
pink bows on the slipper showing beneath the edge
of her skirt. She had powdered down the fresh color |
to make herself look pensively pale; she had on a |
very sad expression, and in one hand was the little |
packet of letters and trifling gifts of her former
lover. :

John was no coxcomb; besides, he thoroughly un-
derstood the girl’s shallow nature. Not one senti-
mental regret at losing this pretty creature arose in
his heart at sight of this skillfully arranged tableau ;
yet he could not refuse her the tribute of a passing
admiration. She certainly was handsome. She cer-
tainly had done well for herself—sold her charms for
a good round price. He smiled a little sarcastically
at the cast down eyes and the drooped head.

“Well, Lillie,” he said, cheerfully, without a shade
of embarrassment, “I am glad to see you established
in such apleasant home. You must be very happy
here, I should imagine.”

‘Happy!’ she echoed, bitterly. ‘“Ihateit! Yes, I
hate this house and everybody init! Oh, John, Iam
perfectly wretched!’

“T must beg of you, Mrs. Brooks, not to makea
confidant of me,” was the cool answer, » ‘It is pain-
ful te me, and unnecessary; and you have your
mother to go to if you are in any trouble. I came
here, at your reqnest, to take that packet which I
see you have ready, and to say good-by for a long,
long while.”

Lillie rose-to her feet, flushing and paling with
mortification.

“T don’t know what makes you so hateful to me,
John Halliday, unless you are in love with somebody
else already.”

“What if I am? Is there anything objectionable
in that?’

Oh, no; not at all; not at all, of course. Only I
thought you were one of the faithful kind, who would
be true to a woman till death! Iam glad it is so.
There is one weight off my conscienco, at least, I
tind I need not be troubled about anything I may
have done to you. Ha,ha, ha! Take your miserable
sham letters and your elegant presents, that I used
to think were so fine, John, and let us part.”

He took the little packet and thrust it into a breast-
vocket of his coat. He did not wish to seen: heart-
fas: or even rude. Some chords of memory trembled
slightly as he saw the poor little locket he had once
given his youthful sweetheart.

“Come, Lillie,” he said, more kindly, “I’m willing
to part friends. I want you to be a good, true wo-
man, Lillie, and make the kind gentleman happy
who is doing so much for you. You will try to, will
you not? And now good-by, with my best wishes for
you in every way.”

He held out his-:hand, but the silly, ungoverned
girl did not take it. Instead, she suddenly threw her
arms about his neck, clinging to him, and erying,
until, in his embarrassment, he hardly knew how to
get rid of that foolish embrace and put an end to this
absurd farewell.

“You forget yourself, Lillie; you do, indeed. There,

|
|

prim and pretentious; now’she hated her.

“TI shall be glad to come, Mr. Brooks,” John had
said, and bowing, had walked out into the hall, taken
his hat, and been let out into the street by the boy in
buttons. cas

Grace led her father—still feeble from his illness—
et arm-chair before the fire, placing him comfort-
ably. ;

“He ought to have an egg in some wine, after the
exertion of the journey from Forty-third street,” she
said. ‘May I call Mary to prepare it?” :

“Mary has gone; I dismissed her yesterday. I will
get the egg, Grace. Haye you come back to stay ?”

**T hope so.” :

“T don’t know how to fix the egg; will you come in
the dining-room and show me; before you take your
things off?’’

Grace went into the dining-room with Lillie, who
called for the needed articles and began beating
them up with a fork ina goblet. It was some relief
to her excitement to whip furiously the contents of
the glass, while her mind felt rapidly about for what
would be the most eutting thing to say, in the light
of the discovery she had just made; finally she drew
a long breath, and looking full at Grace, remarked,
with a smile:

“It’s mighty curious! perfectly ridiculous !”

“What is it that is so curious?” Grace could not

| help asking.

“That you, of all folks, should fall in lové with my
old beau!”

“Your old beau ?”

“Goodness gracious me, yes! I was engaged to be
married to John Halliday once—not so very long ago
either! If ma hadn’t set up that I should marry
Brooks, I expect John and I would have been man
and wife before this. He took it very hard, my jilt-

| ing him—as you may guess from what you saw when
| you came in,

He cav’t get over it. He, he!”

Grace would have given worlds to have been able
to appear utterly indifferent to this unexpected reve-
lation, but she knew that she turned pale under the
hateful smile of those blue eyes.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

A Wall Street Haul.

By the Author of ‘The Old Detectives Pupil.”

(“A WALL STREET HAUL” was commenced in No. 19.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XLVITI.
THE BONDS AND JEWELS.

Nick remained with the baron, expediting his prep-
arations for departure, and keeping him continually
in a most unpleasant state of fright.

It was a hard part for Nick to play, and a distaste-
ful one, but he knew that only fear of him could
control a man of the baron’s nature.

He had decided the moment after he recovered
from his chagrin at the discovery of the bogus bonds,
that he might need the baron, and so he had bullied
him into going across the water.

The baron’s precious iron chests were placed in a
safe deposit vault, and from his actions Nick saw
that he proposed taking his two strange servants
with him.

“Why take them?” he demanded, sharply. ‘Do
you wish to put our enemies on their guard ?””

“They must go where I go,” answered the baron,
sullenly. s : ‘

“And you would risk losing your revenge for this
whim ?” :

“Where I go, they go,” was the still more sullen
answer. ;

And Nick knew from his manner that neither
threats, arguments, nor entreaties could turn him
from his purpose.

The men seemed as necessary to him as food.

They treated him with the awe and respect due to-
ward one holding their lives in his hand.

It was a mystery Nick, at another time, would
gladly have undertaken to solve. Pa

The men treated him with utter indifference, as if
the tact that they had once thirsted for his blood had
been forgotten.

All he could gather about them was their names.

One was Mouk-ma, the other Hwad-ma.

For the coarse, brutal baron they performed the
most menial services with an air of eager joy.

If Nick addressed them, made signs to them, or en-
deayored in any way to communicate with them,
they disregarded him with lofty, even dignified un-
concern.

The baron. yielded to Nick so far as to make the
two men take passage in the steerage, and with that
he had to be content.

The passage was not a quick one, but Nick con-
soled himself with the thought that Wilshaw would
not be many days ahead of him, and would, more-
over, most likely be lulled into security by the tele-
gram sent him from London.

' The more Nick thought of it the better satisfied he
was that it was a prepared message.

When they reached New York, he carried the baron

and his strange followers to a secluded little hotel,
and left them, nothing loth to remain in strict hiding
until he should give them permission to appear in
public.
: Then he hastened away, and assuming the disguise
of arespectable middle-aged gentleman sought In-
spector Byrnes, and briefly related to him his expe-
riences.

“You see, then,” he concluded, “that I don’t seem
to have made great progress.”

“Tt seems to me you have, though. You have evi-
dence to show who committed the burglary, and can
convict.the perpetrators.”

“Yes, but I have not the securities.”

The shrewd inspector smiled knowingly.

ES but you hope to get them now—perbaps even
to day.’

 

there; I must go.’

Nick, too, smiled.

He put up his hands to take her arms forcibly from

“Tf they exist, I hope to get them.
fear; Wilshaw is as cunning as the old boy, and may
have destroyed them.”

“A thief would as soon destroy his plunder as a
woman her beauty.”

“T am glad you feel so—it is my one hope.”

“What shall I do to help you?”

“Get me warrants for the arrest of Wilshaw and
Hooper.”

“The latter is dying.”

“T know, but I may need the document.”

‘And Miss Eldredge ?”’

“Tt would be hard to convict her, and I do not de-
sire it, anyhow.”

“Let her go. Your friends, the Bedfords will be
glad of a little fresh air, though I’ve had them well
treated.”

‘Thank you, I hope they’ll taste fresh air to-mor-
row, but I don’t like to feel sure. Ineverhad to cope
with such ability before, and I have learned to re-
spect it.”

While Nick waited in his private room, Inspector
Byrnes procured the desired warrants.

“Good luck to you!” he said, as he gave them to
Nick.

“Thank you.”

It was now near noon, and a good time to hunt for
Wilshaw, Nick thought; so he hailed a cab and had
himself taken to the vicinity of the Benedick Club.

He was notin a mood to wait long in uncertainty,
and yet he was not prepared to run any risk of alarm-
ing his game by making any inquiries.

While he was walking slowly along, turning this
over in his mind, he suddenly muttered :

“What luck!’

And after going on his way some distance farther,
abruptly turned and went in the opposite direction.

Wishaw had come out of the club-house, and start-
ed briskly off down town.

There was a joyousness in his manner and aspring-
iness in his walk, that indicated extremely good
spirits.

“He has swallowed the bait whole !” chuckled Nick,
as he followed him.

Wilshaw took a cab. Nick took another, and giving
a few words, of instruction and a five-dollar bill to
the driver, was carried comfortably down Broadway
after his quarry.

With an absence of caution that spoke volumes for
his sense of security, Wilshaw stopped in front of the
Giant Safe Deposit Company’s building, and alight-
ing from the cab, went in.

“Ah?? muttered Nick, frowning thoughtfully; “how
shall I get into the vault? I have itY Driver, take
me to Broad street as quickly as ever you can go,”

The cab rattled on to Wall street, and then into
Broad, and at Nick’s word, stopped.

He sprang out, ran into Mr. Livingston’s bank,
and, to the amazement and indignation of everybody,
darted straight into the private office.

“T am Nick,” he whispered, hastily.

“T might have known it,” laughed Mr. Livingston.
“I’m prepared to have any man, woman, or child tell
me the same thing.”

**Have you a box at the Giant Safe Deposit Com-
pany ?”’

“Yes.”

“T thought so.’ Come, as you love me, quick!”

Mr. Livingston obeyed with good-natured celerity,
and was driven with Nick to the vaults.

“You've only to take me to your box, and go
through the form of showing me some papers.”

The cautious preliminaries were trying to Nick’s.
patience, but it was not very long before they were
taken down stairs to the massive vaults, and then
Nick exercised his eyes.

It was well he had quick ones then, for, though he
saw Wilshaw, it was only for a moment, as they were
passing one of the safe-rooms.

That one was enough, however.

In it he saw Wilshaw tying up a large bundle of pa-
por while on the table by his side was an oblong

Ox.

“The bonds and the jewels!” thought Nick. Then,
aloud, to Mr. Livingston :

“Could I not just as well send you a check payable
to you as guardian? I’m afraid [’l1 miss my train if
I go to looking over those papers.”

“Asyousay. The check will do as well, if you are
satisfied,’ answered Mr. Livingston, taking the cue
readily, but wondering what Nick was so anxious to
get out for when he had not fairly got in yet.

The attendant, having no reason to wonder, ac-
cepted the episode as a perfectly natural one, and
bowed them out.
oe obliged. Good-by. You walk—I want the
eab.’

“When will you give us the particulars of this
case ?”’

“Soon. Leave me, please.”

Mr. Livingston went his way, and Nick, getting in
the cab, was driven a short distance away.

‘Watch the other cab, and follow it as well as you
did before, and I will give you another tive.”

“Done !””

_ When Wilshaw came out a few minutes later, he
had the oblong box in his hand.

He held it securely, but with no attempt at con-
cealment.

‘How confident he is!” thought Nick.

Wilshaw’s cab soon rattled past, and a few mo-
ments later Nick’s was following.

Wilshaw went to the club.

Nick dismissed his cab, and waited.

From the length of time Wilshaw remained in the
club, it was likely he was taking lunch.

After awhile he came out, dressed for calling. The
box was not in his hand, nor, as nearly as Nick could
judge, was it im any of his pockets,

Again he took a cab, and Nick did the same.

He went to Tiffany’s. Nick enteredsoon after.

Drawing a large diamond from his pocket, he had
some conversation about it.

What was said Nick did not hear, for he had the ut-
most respect for Wilshaw’s keenness, and conse-
quently did not venture too near.

It seemed from the man’s manner that he was giv-
ing his opinion on the way it should be set.

Wilshaw left the diamond, and going out, got into
the cab and was driven off.

Nick followed for some distance in his cab, but
suspecting, from the route taken by Wilshaw’s cab,
that the banker’s house was the probable destina-
tion, he stopped his cab and followed the other one
on foot.

He was right. Wilshaw was taken to Mr. Eldredge’s
mansion.

Nick waited.

In about half an hour a handsome open carriage,
drawn by two magnificent grays, drove up, and soon
after Wilshaw led Grace out and helped her in, after-
ward taking a seat beside her.

Never had Grace looked more fresh, blooming, or
joyous; never had Wilshaw seemed so unconstrained
and happy.

Nick saw them driven away up town toward Cen-
tral Park, and then seeking a cab, was driven to his
own apartments, where he carefully made himself up
as Raoul d@’Entraigues.

He then hurried to the hotel where he had left the
baron, and bade him get ready to go out.

While the baron, pallid and trembling with the fear

of what was to come, was dressing himself, Nick sat |

at a substantial meal, saying to himself:

“T may need it, for Wilshaw is not the man to yield
easily.”

Before starting, he carefully examined his pistol
and broad-bladed dagger, much to the alarm of the
baron.

“You will not harm her?” he pleaded.

“T said once I would not. When will you learn that
a gentleman has but one word to give ?”

They were driven to the banker’s; and Nick, with
great sauvity, accosted his old acquaintance, Thomas,

“Ts Miss Grace at home ?”’

“No, sir. She’s hout drivin’.”

“Hm! Mr. Eldredge is down town, of course ?”’

“Yes, sir.”

“Very vexatious, I’m sure. Will you please say to
Miss Grace that his lordship, the Baron d’Orment,
called.”’

“Yes, your ludship; yes, me lud.”

“This is his lordship.”

“Oh, yes, huv course. If your ludship will walk in,
’m—”

“His lordship doesn’t speak English. Dear me!
but I’m sorry for this. You see,’ he said, in a con-
fidential way, “his lordship is so very touchy, that
he may take it as aslight and notcallagain. When
will Miss Grace be back?” i

“Not so very long, sir. Doarsk his ludship to come
in and wait.”

“If you really think she won't be long now.” —

“Not at all. Walk in, your ludship. This is the
heasiest chair, me lud.”

And Thomas, in his eagerness to do honor to the
baron, flew around like an ordinary person, much to
Nick’s amusement, rememberiug the reception he
once had from hin.

Nearly two howrs elapsed before Grace returned,
and during that time Thomas made frequent visits
to the reception-room to declare that she could not
be much longer.

Each time he came Nick was sure to mention Baron
D'Orment by name, his object being to so familiarize
him with it that he could announce it to Grace when
she came.

The baron, meantime, seemed to be actually suffer-
ing. He grew pale and red by turns. He mopped
the perspiration from bis forehead.

More than once he suggested the propriety of com-
ing again.

“We will wait now. I beginto taste my revenge.”

When at last the front door opened and Grace’s
voice was heard in merry conversation with Wil-
shaw, the baron looked pitifully at Nick, and moist-
ened his dry lips with his tongue.

Nick heard Thomas say, with great impressiveness:

“His ludship the Baron D’Orment awaits you in
the reception-room.””

“Baron D’Orment!” cried Grace, in a. tone of in-
eredulous surprise.

“Yes, miss.”’

“Are you sure, Thomas ?”

‘“Puffeckly, miss.’

“This is too rich, Howard.
fun,” and she laughed softly.

“Pll follow where you lead,” answered Wilshaw,

Do come in and see the

 

with a sbort, grim laugh.

IT have but one

The baron heard the conversation, but could not
understand when his name was spoken.

The laugh of Grace and the tone of Wilshaw, how-
ever, even he could understand.

He gritted his teeth and turned toward the door.

Nick slipped behind the portieres.

CHAPTER XLIX.
GRACE’S PROMISE.

Rosy and radiant from her ride in the sharp air,
and brimming over with the spirit of mischief that
filled her, Grace stepped laughingly into the recep-
tion-room and held out her dainty hand, saying, in
French:

“Why, baron, what a delightful surprise !”

Between his astonishment at her coolness and his
admiration of her wonderful beauty, the baron could
only stare and stammer.

“How good of you to come!” went on Grace, with
a low laugh of enjoyment. ‘And I suppose you will
astonish us poor Americans with your splendor. How
I shall be envied for knowing you!”

The baron looked around for Nick, and his eye fell
on Wilshaw.,

Ah! There was a man.
him. And he did.

“So, monsieur,” he cried, furiously, ‘‘you thought
you could steal my jewels and escape! You see lam
nere !

“Oh, yes,” retorted Wilshaw, with quiet insolence.
“T see you are here; butif I were you, I would not
speak too loudly of those jewels, or talk of their being
stolen, lest ghosts of dead men should rise up and
ery murder as well as steal.’’

The baron fell back, and looked wildly for Nick.

Nick stepped from behind the portiere, and said,
quietly:

‘Murder and steal are hard words.”

Grace and Wilshaw turned quickly.

“You!” gasped she.

A fleeting spasm of fear crossed Wilshaw’s face,
and was gone.

“Ah! Monsieur d’Entraigues!” he cried, with mock
politeness.

“Yes,” said Nick. “You see, my good sir, four of a
kind will beat a full hand!”

“Yes,” answered Wilshaw, slowly; “but you can
ecg from a full hand and draw for four of a

ind.

“So you can,” said Nick; ‘but four kings will al
ways beat four knaves; and besides, if it comes to
drawing, I will do it first.”

In a twinkling his pistol was out and leveled at
Wilshaw.

With flashing eyes, Grace stepped between them.

“Put up that pistol and leave this house!”

Nick shrugged his shoulders.

“As you please. I was only carrying out the meta-
phor. Will you leave the house with me, Howard
Wilshaw ?”

“T think not.”

“Well, of course, I can’t make you. I would say,
however, that I have in my pocket a warrant for
your arrest.”

“On what charge?”

“Fifteenth National Bank robbery, for one thing.”

“Absurd !”

“Certainly ; but, don’t you see, the warrant is is-
sued, and there’s no help for you. Perhaps you think
you can escape. I don’t think you can; butif you
could, I would still have Miss Grace left. If you go
quietly, she shall be let alone.” x

“T do not ask for immunity at your hands,” said
Grace, haughtily.

Nick disregarded her and looked at Wilshaw. He
had evidently been making a meptal calculation, for
he asked, after a pause:

“What are your proofs ?”

“Well, the stolen bonds are in your possession, to
say nothing of the jewels. Hugh Carbett’s body lies
in one of the horse stalls over in Brooklyn. I can
prove Grace’s theft of the combination, and her trick
on Herbert. In fact, I can prove almost every act
from the time the burglary was committed.”

“Where is Hossick ?””

“Dead. Sois Belle; so is Jake.”

“Then all the proof rests in you alone ?”’

a ot so tast, Inspector Byrnes knows every-
thing.

“Tf I make no resistance, do you promise Grace’s
name shall not be mixed up in this?”

“He shall not use me to coerce you,” cried Grace.
“T am as guilty as he/’ she exclaimed to Nick.

“Hush, Grace,’ said Wilshaw. ‘Do you promise
me, Mr. Jones, or whatever your name is, that if I
give up quietly, yon will be silent regarding her part
in this affair ?”’ e

“Yes,” answered Nick, keeping his eye warily on
make convinced that he was contemplating some vyil-
ainy.

“Well, then!” He whipped out a pistol, and with
rapid aim over Grace’s shoulder, fired at Nick.

The shot was wide, and the next instant Nick had
Wilshaw in his arms.

There was 4 short struggle; the room filled with
servants. :

When the scuffle was over, shining handcuffs were
on Wilshaw’s wrists, and, flushed and furious, he
stood glaring at Nick.

Grace stood spell-bound, gazing at Nick asif she
would willingly have torn him to pieces. ;

The baron was stupetied. He could not recognize
the fiery Raoul D’Entraigues in the cool man before
him.

“Ts it too late to make a bargain with you?’ asked
Wilshaw presently, in a low voice. ‘

“Perhaps not; but if it is about Grace you need not
worry ; She shall not be mentioned in the matter”

“Thatis all. May I say good-by to her?’

“Yes.”

“Send the servants out, will you not?”

Nick ordered them out in a tone they did not dare
to disobey, and whispering and huddling together,
they flocked into the hall.

“Will you swear to me that Grace shall not be im-
plicated ?”’

“Tf if will satisfy you I will swear it, yes.”

“Come here, Grace.”

The round, beautiful curves of her lovely face were
set ay hard lines as she approached the man she
loved,

cee is no escape for me now, darling,’ he whis-

ered.
is “Dp not despair, Howard. The law is always use-
ful to wealth.”

“Yes, but [have fought this man long enough to
know that he would not take this step unless he was
sure of himself. He has accumulated proofs until es-
eape for me is not possible.”

“This is sheer despair.”

“No, it is conviction. Grace, if I am taken to prison,

The baron could talk to

I shall leave it only for the gallows.’

She shuddered.

‘You love me ?”’ he queried.

“So much, that whatever your fate may be, I shall
share it. Even death.”

“You have something left to live for, Grace.” A
fierce light shone in his eyes.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, you have—revenge.”’

“It will give me no comfort when you are not here
to share it.”

“Promise to live for his destruction, and I shall die
contented.”

“Do not talk of dying. Fight to the last.”

“My fight is ended, Grace. I must die by the hang-
manor by my own hand. I preferthe latter. Will
you revenge me?’

“Yes, since you wish it.”

“Kiss me.”

She threw her arms about his neck and pressed a
kiss of agony on his lips.

“Good-by, Grace.”

With one of his manacled hands he drew a tiny
bottle from his vest-pocket, and betore Nick could
stop him, had uncorked it with his teeth and swal-
lowed its contents.

“It was intended for you, Mr. Jones, but it will
serve me as well.”

He sank upon the floor, and death was almost in-
stantaneous.

CHAPTER L.
A BOLD WARNING.

Nick sprang at once to his side and laid his hand
upon his heart.

‘,Don’t dare to touch him!’’

The words were hissed at him in a low, intense
whisper, as if the speaker did not dare to trust her
voice.

Grace pushed him aside like a lioness who would
rend him in pieces. :

Being sure the man was dead, Nick had nothing
more to do there, and, with a pitying glance at Grace,
moved to go. eae :

“Stop !’’? she said, in the same low, hissing whisper,
so unlike her usual clear, merry tones. “Listen to
me! I give youfair warning. I promised him, my
husband, that I would live to destroy you. If you
let me live, I will have but that one purpose.”

Nick shrugged his shoulders, and turned to the
baron.

“Come!” he said.

The baron stared from Nick to Grace, but did not
move.

“Come !’’ repeated Nick.

“T will stay,” said the baron.

Niek looked at Grace, but she was bending over her
husband, and seemed not to have heard.

He left the house, saying to himself, with a shudder:

“T think the baron might have chosen a better time
for his wooing.”

He hastened to a cab, and was driven to the Bene-
dick Club,

“T will do my duty by the baron,” he thought, ‘‘and
get his jewels for him, even though, as seems prob-
able, he waded through blood to get them. I'd like
to know his secret.

There being no longer any necessity for caution, he
had little difficulty in inventing an excuse for get-
ting into Wilshaw’s rooms.

He easily found the jewel-case, and then searched
for whatever he might discover, but with no results
bearing on the case.

His next step was toreport to Iuspector Byrnes,
and get from him, through the courts, the necessary

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No. 33.

 

cme THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 335+

 

on authority to search Wilshaw’s box at the Giant Safe |

Deposit Company.
: ne bonds were found,.as expected, and held until
proof of ownership should be made. ,
This practically ended the case; but while the
proper steps were being taken to liberate the Bed-
et and to hold an inquest over Wilshaw’s body,
Nick, as a matter of form, visited old Hooker, who
was said to be dying by the detective who had been
watching him, under Inspector Byrne’s direction.
When Nick reached him he was hardly conscious,
but roused when Nick said to him:
“Do you know you are dying ?”
“Yes,” came the faint whisper.
“And will you go without telling what you know of
the robbery ?”
“Miss Grace knows.’
“Grace Eldredge ?”
**Yes.”
“You confessed to her?”
“¥es.”
‘You did not know she was Wilshaw’s wife ?”
‘No.”

’

‘
A look of agony crossed his face.
“Mattie!” he gasped.

“What about her?”

“My strength is gone.”

“Try to tell me. I am her friend.”
“Not her father.”’

“You are not 2?”

“No. Colonel Dupaige.”

“Murdered.”

“B ry you : ied

“No.” <A look of horror.

“Who, then?”

“Too long—I cannot tell—Miss Grace.”

He closed his eyes, and seemed sinking.
he roused himself, and whispered :

“They made me do it.”

“What?’

‘Help in the burglary.”

“How 2

“Forgery—Wilshaw knew.” ’

“You had committed a forgery of which Wilshaw
knew ?”

“Yes. Long ago.”

“Who wounded you ?”’

“Carbett—defending himself.”

“Did he cut you, too?”

“No—myself.”

“You cut yourself to avert suspicion ?”

“Yes. Ah! ah!”

“What is it?”

“Dying.”

“Who murdered Mattie’s father?”

“Jacques—Ja—Bar—oh ! oh !”

Suddenly

WHY HE LOVES HER.
BY H, T. MILLS.

Her cheeks, like the fairest rose,
In sweet, melodious trebles

Her voice runs like the stream that flows
So blithely o’er the pebbles.

Her eyes—unfathomed depths of blue—
Flash forth as clear and bright

AS all the silvery starlings do,
Which stud the sky at night.

Her flowing tresses, uncontrolled,
Fall o’er her shoulders’ whiteness; ¢
It seems as if a mass of gold
Hung loose in all its brightness.
Her two lips form a rosy gate,
From out of which there comes
Sometimes the tune of some sweet song,
Which she so softly hums.

She is the fairest in the land,
There’s no maid half so pretty;

That I can’t win her heart and hand
Is really quite a pity.

But to the man who wins her heart
I'll drink her health in water,

Though he will very cruelly part
Me and my little daughter.

—>

The Belle of the Palace.

By LENA T.

(“THE BELLE OF THE PALACE” was commenced in No.
11. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

WEAVER,

CHAPTER LI.—(CONTINUED.)
Lucia had heard no step, and she turned quickly,
and met the stern, forbidding countenance of Mr.
Chester.

 

The interview was over.

Nick had not learned so very much, and yet enough
to make him believe that it was through him that
Grace had learned the baron’s secret.

Also, it seemed quite probable that the baron was
in some way concerned in the death of Mattie’s
father, a French gentleman.

If so, might not the wealth which he possessed, and
which, according to Wilshaw’s words, was stained
with blood, belong to Mattie?

He would take it upon himself to interview the
baron that night on the subject.

The baron held him in some awe, and might be
seared into revealing his guilt.

CHAPTER LI.
CONCLUSION.

Having learned by telegraph that Captain Randone
and his two charges were in Boston, Nick told them
to come home at once and all go to his flat.

He then went to Inspector Byrnes, and having ob-
tained the order for the release of the Bedfords,
which had been kept for him, he went to the Tombs

“Well, madam,” he said, quietly, as if he were con-
tinuing a conversation previously begun, ‘what do
you propose to do ?”

“T do not comprehend you,” she said, coldly.
low me to pass.”

“Not till I have said my say. Victorine Weldon,
will you east off the mask you are wearing, of your
own accord, or will you compel me to tear it from

your face ?”’

“T am wearing no mask, old man, that I am aware
of. You must be crazy. I shall deem it my duty to
inform the authorities, and have you put under re-
straint.”

“T have come to St. Paul,” went on the cold, unre-
lenting voice of Mr. Chester, ‘‘on purpose to hunt you
down! Trecognized you at once, last winter, when
I saw you at the carnival. No wonder you fainted at
the sight of my daughter, who is as like the woman
you foully murdered, as one red rose is like an-
other.”

‘ ‘Al-

 

and had them set free.
As soon as he had made himself known to them, |
they were of course eager to know all that had been |
.done, and he told them briefly, beginning, at Her- |
bert’s earnest request, with the announcement that |
Mattie was safe and in good health, and soon to be |
in New York. :

He conducted them to his flat, inasmueh as their |
own house was in great disorder.

He was obliged, however, to leave them to their
own devices until such time as he was free from the
inquest, which had been arranged for that evening,
and which he was obliged to attend as witness.

Much to the disturbance of Mr. Eldredge, the in-

uest was held in the reception-room, and both his

aughter and himself had been subpcenaed as wit-
nesses.

This fact, together with the knowledge that his
daughter’s affianced husband was the criminal who
had been the principal in the burglary of the bank,
almost drew him down to the level of common clay,

He contrived, however, to give his testimony,
which was of no consequence, in a most stately man- |
ner.

The newspapers said such was the case, and as he
read it the next day he was satisfied.

When Grace was called, she did not respond, nor
was anybody able to find her.

She had disappeared.

A sudden suspicion flashed across Nick’s mind, and
he requested to be called at once.

He was then in the disguise of Harvey Jones, and
as the hero of the great case, was allowed to have his
own way.

He gave the particulars of the death, with as much
other matter as was necessary, and was then dis-
missed, having intimated to the coroner that urgent
business demanded his attention.

The baron’s hotel was his destination.

The baron, he was informed, had returned late in
the afternoon, paid his bill thrice over, and, with
baggage and servants, had gone.

“Gone where ?”

The landlord did not know. He only knew that a
carriage was waiting for him, and that he and his
strange servants had got into it without a word to
the driver, and been driven off.

“Grace had gone with the baron,” thought Nick.
“Poor Grace !—poor baron !”

He made no further inquiries after them, content
to let them go out of his life.

The jewels he held he had no doubt belonged to
Mattie, and therefore he would -give them to her,
telling her her father’s name and saying nothing of
his murder.

It only remains to say that Herbet Bedford and
Miss Mathilde Dupaige were duly married.

That the bride astonishei New York by the one
jewel she wore—an enormous diamond. : :

That Mr. Bedford, senior, was reinstated in his po-
sition as cashier, and soon after resigned it.

That Mr. Eldredge never forgave his daughter—
never! Nor did she ever ask him, for they never met
again. :

That Nick and Ethel settled down for a quiet time,
Nick refusing to touch a case for at least six months.

{THE END.]
en 0
THE EDITOR’S CONUNDRUM.

Horace Greeley headed the Republican electoral
ticket in New York in 1864, when Lincoln defeated
McClellan for the Presidency, and was elected presi-
dent of the Electoral College when it met. Chauncey
M. Depew, who was the Secretary of State, attended
the meeting of the college to swear in its members.
He witnessed a scene which he is fond of relating as
proof that even Mr. Greeley, frank and courageous
as he was, had concerning some men an opinion for
public consumption and another judgment for pri-
vate perusal. It was noticed when the Electoral Col-
lege roll had been called thatone member was absent.
Mr. Greeley addressing the college, said in sub-
stance, in a profoundly solemn tone, asif a grave
crisis had arrived in the history of the nation:

“Gentlemen, it appears from the roll-call that the
Hon. Mr. is absent. In view of our brother's
eminent position, distinguished life, and great ability,
it would be well, it seems to me, to await his coming.
We have to perform highly responsible duties; and
he is a man, [ think, who would greatly assist us. I
would suggest that a recess of half an hour be taken.”

The motion to take a recess had scarcely been
adopted, when Mr. Greeley leaned over to Mr. De-
pew, and said, grimly :

“Chauncey, how long do you think it will take for
that drunken beast to get sober ?”’

“<=> ____——

ENERGY LACKING IN FAT PERSONS.

It is generally supposed that fat people have more
blood than others. On the contrary, they have less.
The blood they have, moreover, is really poor, while
the fat fills the space which is required even for the

circulation of that. Fat people have, then, less vital
energy than the thin—not possessing sufficient blood
to bring every organ up to its full working power,
and the fat hindering what blood there is from flow-
ing freely enough to the organs, especially at the mo-
ment of action requiring it. Besides all this, the fat
obstructs the play of the lungs, so that sufficient air
cannot be inhaled to purify the blood. The natural
and necessary combustion is thus so interfered with
that the functions of the body are hindered. It fol-
lows that too much exertion should always be
guarded against in people of large and fatty devel-
stem! and too much should never be expected of
them. ,
>

THERE is nothing so strong or safe in an emergency
as the simple truth.

eS
Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
Improves Nutrition.

Dr. A, Trav, Philadelphia, says: “It pro-
motes digestion and improves general nutrition

“Old man, be careful what you say! I have mur-
dered no woman, either like your daughter, or other-
wise.” ;

“You killed Eva Chester—you and the vile wretch
whom yon sought to marry, but who, with all his
vileness, I am told, never quite descended to the
degradation of making you his wife !”

“T do not in the least understand you, sir,” said the
girl, with the utmost calmness, turning her fine eyes
upon Chester with a look so full of scorn that, for a
moment, the old man was almost tempted to think
that he was mistaken, and that she was indeed Lucia
Ashleigh, and not the guilty woman he believed her
to be.

But it was only for a moment, and then a convic-
tion which no after power could shake regarding her
identity settled down upon him.

There was, there could be, no doubt.

She was Victorine Weldon, and none other.

“T will give you two weeksin which to quit the
country,” said Chester. ‘‘Two weeks from to-day,

your true character. These people who have seen
you riding past with a proud mien and a beautiful,
scornful face, shall know that no dissolute wretch who
walks the streets of this city at midnight has arecord
half so black as yours. They shall know that you have
been guilty of the crime of murder; they shall know
you have stood in a crowded London court-room and
been tried for your life, and that while the evidence
was not sufficient to bring your neck into the halter,
yet every person in England who had made a study
of the case was convinced of your guilt.”

“Old man, you are romancing. Too much wine
must have turned your brain. I decline to continue
this interview longer. Allow me pass out.”

“Not until you have heard me through.” He put
up his stalwart arm and stopped her progress.
“Through afoul plot, aided by your devilish cun-
ning, you have taken the place in a highly respect-
able family made vacant by the loss of a dear and
only daughter. You have succeeded in deceiving a
confiding old man, and, strangely enough, you have
also deceived aman who ought to have known bet-
ter. Your likeness to the missing heiress is, they
tell me, simply perfect. And now I tell you to leave
the false position you occupy and leave the country
which your presence disgraces, and my lips shall
be sealed as to your past record; but remain here
one day longer than the time I have mentioned, and
I will blazon your shameful story in every newspa-
per in the land.”

“You are a lunatic!’ said Lucia, coldly; ‘‘and be-
fore to-morrow night I shall take measures to have
you secured. You are a dangerous person to be
abroad.”

She swept past him and joined Edward, who had
just left Rosine in the care of the middle-aged widow
who had come to dwell in the house in the capacity
of chaperon.

“Let us go home,” said Lucia, slipping her arm into
his. “It is late, and I am tired.”

He saw how pale she was, and he hurried through
the ceremony of leave-taking, and the two were soon
in the carriage driving homeward.

“What did you think of the new neighbors ?”’ asked
Edward. ‘Is not the old man a fine looking speci-
men of what aman should be at his age? And the
daughter is simply charming.”

“The man,” said Lucia, yawning, “is. a little de-
ranged, I should say, and the girl is pretty and sim-
ple. It must be near one, is it not?’

Hetold her the exact time, looking at his watch,
as they passed a. street-lamp, and nothing more was
—* until they bade each other good-night in the
hall.

wrote a brief note, which she posted herself the next
morning in one of the lamp-post boxes.

And the second morning afterward every news-
paper in St. Paul came out with the startling an-
nouncement that Theodore Chester, ‘the
guished and eccentric Englishman who has so re-

was missing.

walk after tea, and had not returned. His daughter
was nearly frantic over his absence, and the police
were busy trying to discover what had become of
him. Foul play was feared, as he had a large sum of
money with him at the time.

Edward Ashleigh read the account aloud at the
breaktast-table. Lucia calmly broke an egg into her
cup, and remarked, as she stirred her coffee :

“T thought he had a streak ofinsanity in_his com-

osition. I think I mentioned itto you. He should

ave remained in the wilds. Town life was too ex-
citing for him.”

“How sad for the poor young girl!” said Edward.
“Lucia, you area woman, and she would be com-
forted by your sympathy. Why not goto her?”

“My deat brother, you are quixotic. I am not
acquainted with the girl. And she has Mrs. Marlowe
with her. You must excuse me.”

Edward said no more, but he satisfied himself by
calling that very morning at Fanshane House, and
offering his services to help in finding the lost mas-
ter; and Rosine, her pretty face wet with tears, and
her sweet voice husky with emotion, thanked him in
a way which would have paid a man for any amount
of trouble.

The search went on, and a week passed, and still
no trace of Theodore Chester.

CHAPTER LII.
MR. SMITH’S REVELATION.

Now we will go back to the cottage of Tim Drake,
the hackman.

A local physician was called in, who speedily re-
stored Mary White to consciousness.

He gave directions that she be kept quiet and not
allowed to talk for a few days, and he would warrant
all would be well.

“She has been wounded,” he said, in a private talk
with Reade Courtney, ‘‘how, I cannot at present say;
but I suspect she has been shot. You can see the
sear on her forehead, and the wound was not proper-
ly attended to at first. I should give it as my opinion
that there had been a great deal of fever and de-
lirium. The brain and nervous system is still very
weak from the suffering she has passed through.
Keep her quiet and wait. In afew days she will be
able to tell us just how it was. May I ask if sheis a

 

of the nervous system.’

relative of yours ?”’

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

and this is Thursday, if you are in St. Paul, if you }
are in the United States, I will reveal to all the world |

faint, and brought her here by the kind invitation of
the cabman whom I ealled. I had my reasons for not
wishing to take her to a public hospital.”

The doctor looked him keenly in the face, and
Courtney felt himself blushing beneath the scrutiny.

“You did well,” said Dr. Black; ‘this young girl is
alady. She has occupied a high position in society,
or [miss my guess. And there is doubtless a history
connected with this affair. We will wait.”

Courtney pressed into the doctor’s hand a liberal
fee, and the medical man went his way.

Courtney spoke a few words to Maggie Drake be-
fore he left the house, and a twenty-dollar note gave
them a very pleasant emphasis.

“Wateh her carefully,” he said, “and you shall be
well paid. And be sure and not talk about this affair
with any of your good neighbors.”

Mrs. Courtney had not retired when Reade returned
to the hotel. It was such an unusual thing for her
son to be absent until so late an hour, tliat the mother
felt anxious, and too uneasy to think of sleeping.

Reade answered her eager questions in such a way
that she never thought there might be a woman in
the case.

“T helped a cabman take home a party who had
fainted on the street, and afterward I called a
doctor.”

“Poor fellow!” said Mrs. Courtney, taking it for
granted that the party was aman. ‘Was he very
bad? Overcome by stimulants, I suppose ?”’

“Do go to bed, mother,” said Reade, yawning. ‘It
is very absurd of you to situp. Good-night.”

He kissed her and went up to his chamber. But
not to bed. The young man, who was soon to be the
husband of the fairest and best-bred young lady in
Boston, sat down by the open window like any ordi-
nary moonstruck youth, and began thinking of the
girl at Tim Drake's.

“There is a mystery about it which I do not under-
stand,” he said to himself. ‘‘But of one thing I am
certain: The girl at Drake’s is the girl who was shot
at the Ice Palace. And who, then, is the woman
whom society knows as Lucia Ashleigh? There is a
deep-seated fraud semewhere, that is evident.”

The next morning early found Courtney at the
house of Tim Drake. The patient was quiet, Mrs.
Drake said. The physician had been there, and found
everything satisfactory.

“She is not. I found herin the street in a dead

| At the end of half an hour’s hard thinking, he |
started up and began pacing the floor.

 

In a day or two the young girl would be able to see
friends. Reade must wait.

In the coursé of the day, the Courtneys and Jobn |
St. Clair went out to drive. The young Englishman
had become very intimate with the Courtney party,
and, next to her son, Mrs. Courtney looked upon St.
Clair as a model man. She sounded his praises con-
tinually in Theresa’s ears. and was a little annoyed
that her prospective daughter-in-law did not respond
more cordially. ‘

Theresa always sat, on these occasions, and looked
absently out of the window, or kept her eyes on her
work or boek, and seemingly -paid little regard to
what Mrs. Courtney was saying.

“Theresa, my dear,’ said the matron, on one of
these occasions, when she had been launching out in
praise of Mr. St. Clair, “it seems to me that you
don’t half appreciate the service Mr. St. Clair did
you. You never say anything in his favor, and really
you are quite cool to him when he calls.”

“T do not intend to be,’ said Theresa, counting her
worsted stitches with great attention; “and I think
I feel sufficiently grateful toward him.”

“My dear, he saved your life.”

“Yes,” said Theresa, ‘‘I suppose he did. But I can-
not be always thanking him for it.”

She spoke almost pettishly, and Mrs. Courtney
looked at her with somé concern, but she did not
pursue the subject.

The party drove quite out of the city in the direc-
tion of S , and St. Clair occupied the seat beside

 

Theresa, while Reade sat with his mother. They had
turned homeward, when a horseman, well mounted,
rode up alongside the carriage and spoke to Mr.
Courtney. *

“T will call at the Hotel Ryan in half an hour,” said
the horseman. “You will find me there on your
return.”

He bowed courteously to the ladies, cast a sweep-
ing glance over St. Clair, and dashed on ahead.

“Who was that man?” asked Mrs. Courtney. ‘His
appearance was familiar, but he had so much hair on
his face that I cannot think who he is.”

“T conclude that his hair is a disguise,” said Reade.
“That was Mr. Smith, the detective.”

| dead child.
| with the burned clothing of the unfortunate mother

 

Mrs. Courtney asked no further questions, but she
was alittleuneasy. A detective! The word Had an |
unpleasant sound in her ears, and she did not quite
like the idea of a detective having business with |
her son. i

Mr. Smith was waiting, as he said he would be. |

Courtney found hint in a: private parlor on his |
return. ° |

“Well,” said the aficer “I Bave # few things to say |
to you, and I will, with your permission, lock the |
door. Now, then, has it ever struck you that the |
woman at John Ashleigh’s who is known to the}
world as the banker’s daughter, is not his daughter |
at all?’

Mr. Smith had expected to see Courtney recoil with |
surprise at this insinuation, and he was a little cha-
grined to tind that his auditor did not appear in the
least amazed.

“T have been certain of it since the day before yes
terday, and I have long suspected it,”

“The duse you have! You ought to have been a
detective yourself!” said Mr. Smith, with an empha-
sis which showed that he thought this the strongest
praise he could bestow.

‘‘How have you discovered the truth of what you
hint at?’ asked Courtney.

“Never mind about that. Itis true; and I have pa-
pers to prove it; and I have a witness who will swear
to the facts—a living witness!”

“Ah! Whom—may I ask?”

“Her name is Kate Glynn; and she is the woman
who for years has been a servant to the notorious

Rupert Vail; and she has known Victorine Weldon
from her childhood.”

“And who, pray, is Victorine Weldon ?”’

“She is the woman who since her earliest youth has
been the companion of Rupert Vail; the woman who
has been his accomplice in many a deed of blood;
the woman who was tried, along with him, in Lon-
don, for murdering an innocent young woman whom |
he had betrayed by a mock marriage, and whom it
was for his interest to put out of the way. Victorine
Weldon is a fiend in the disguise of a wondrously
beautiful woman, and she is wanted on various charg-
es, one of which is assisting at murdering and gon-
cealing the body of George Flakes, a steamboat hand, |
about a year ago, who was killed for the money he
had about him, and whose assassination it has hith-
erto baffled the police to find out. Now, it has been
brought home to Vail’s nefarious gang, and to Victo-
rine Weldon; and nothing short of a miracle can save
her fair neck from the gallows.”

‘But where is she? Whois she?’ asked Courtney,
a dim suspicion of the truth beginning to steal over
him.

“She is the woman whom society has feled and flat-
tered; the woman whom a fond father and a tender
brother have taken to their arms and cherished, in |
the place of the purest and sweetest girl that ever |
lived. Victorine Weldon and the woman who passes
as Lucia Ashleigh are one and the same!”

Courtney had anticipated what the revelation of

 

| the detective would be, but it almost took his breath
; .. | away, nevertheless.
That night after she had gone to her room Lucia | yet hs liege

There was a moment’s silence, and then Courtney
asked :

‘What do you propose to do?”

“Can you doubt what our course will be? We shall

 

distin- |
cently come to reside in our midst,” etc., etc., ete., |

He had gone out, as was his custom, for a little

arrest her, and lodge her in jail, and try her, and
hang her, like any other criminal.”

And Mr. Smith seemed to take not a little delight
in the idea.

“Tt will be a dreadful blow for the Ashleighs,” said
Courtney, his mind in a whirl over the thoughts
which rushed fast through his brain. ‘Impostor
though she may be, Miss Ashleigh is very beautiful, |
and they love her dearly.”

“They love her because they think she7is the daugh-
ter of the house. How do you think they will regard
her when they come to know that she is a murderess?
Hark you, Mr. Courtney! the end of this matter is
not with what I have told you. Other developments
are to follow. Did it never strike you as passing
strange that Florence May, the young and lovely
fiancee of Edward Ashleigh, should die as she did,
on the morning of her bridal, mysteriously, and of a
disease which we were all told baffled the skill of St.
Paul’s most eminent medical men? Do you see any
connection between the death of Florence May and
the presence of Victorine Weldon in the banker's
house ??

CHAPTER LIII.
THE SOUTH CHAMBER.

Lucia Ashleigh, the day following the house-warm-

ing at Fanshane House, heard, for the first time, the
story of the south chamber.

| Anew housekeeper had come to Ashleigh house,

and the retiring incumbent, who was about to be

married, and which interesting event was the cause
of her leaving, was giving the new-comer a few

points in the family history.

Lueia, hidden behind a drapery in the library,
listened while the Ashleigh genealogy for years back
was being recited.

Mrs. Dow, the retiring housekeeper, was showing
Mrs. Mills, the new employee, what particular book-
cases were never to be left unlocked, and what par-
ticular papers were never to be molested.

“You must never touch the papers on the ebony
table—not even to dust,” said Mrs. Dow. Them was
master’s orders when I first come, and master’s a
nice man, though he’s very particular. And master
Edward is like him. Old master is a little off his
head now; he were never just the same since Miss
Lucia was stole, and he worried so much about her.
And she come back handsomer than ever, but no
more like our dear Miss Lucia than black is like
white. I never saw such a change in any mortal:in
so short a time. She used to be as gentle and as
sweet as the June morning, and ever since she got

| will find the heat needed,

| know

 

 

back she has rid a high horse, and never so much as

said, ‘Good-morning, Mrs. Dow,’ when she’s met me
on the stairs. Something or ruther seemed to have
changed her over.”

“Singular!” said Mrs. Mills, reflectively.
about that affair at the time.
talk.”’

“Yes, that it did. There has been a great deal of
talk about master’s family first and last. Nothing to
their discredit though. It has all been about some-
thing they couldn’t help. There was that terrible
affair about the jirst wife, you know ?”

“It must have been before I came to town,” said
res Mills. “I didn’t know that there was a first
wife.”’

“Oh, yes, indeed! One of the loveliestand most
accomplished women in St. Paul. Mr. Ashleigh wor-
shiped her, and she had three beautiful children.
Mr. Edward, Miss Lucia, and another daughter whose
name has gone from me. You see it was before my
time here that this dreadful thing happened !”

Lucia bent her head a little nearer the drapery, and
listened intently. She had long wanted to fathom
the mystery of the south chamber.

Mrs. Dow went and looked out into the hall, and
came back, closing the door carefully behind her.

“Master would be terribly angry if he knew that I
told you. Itis a subject on which we are all forbid-
den to talk. A careless mention of it by any servant
would cost him his place.”

“Well, this must be a queer house!’ said Mrs.
Mills. "

“And, mind, you are never to lisp that I told you,”
said Mrs. Dow, warningly. ‘‘Never to anybody.”

‘“T never talk about things that is told me in con-
fidence.”

“Nor I either,” said Mrs. Dow, with charming
frankness ; “I never make ita point to tell any family
secrets in families where I make my home. Mrs.
Ashleigh the first was, as I have said, a very lovely
woman. And she was very gay, anda great favorite
in society. And Mr. Ashleigh liked to see her the
belle of every social assembly, and was never jealous
of the admiration she received. Well, one night she
was dressing for a ball. Her youngest child was
about four years old—one of the prettiest, most mis-
chievous little things you ever saw—as bright as a
sunbeam, and as loving a heart as ever beat. So I
have been told, for at that time I had not come to
Ashleigh House. Mrs. Ashleigh was dressing for a
ball. The dress had come from Paris, and it was of
some white filmy stuff that cost lots of money, but
had not much substance to it. The little girl was in
the room with her mother. She liked to stay and see
her dress. She liked to see the maid comb out the
lady’s long fine golden hair, and put the costly
jewels around her beautiful neck. Mrs. Ashleigh was
all dressed except the flowers for her corsage, and
these had been left until the last moment in the con-
servatory that they might not lose their freshness.
The maid left the room to fetch them, and the child
sapered about her mother, and kissed her, and
clapped her little hands at sight of so much
beauty. She was in her night-dress, and her sleeve
caught fire from .the gas-burner, as_ she stole

“T heard
It made a good deal of

| Slyly up behind her mother and climbed on a chair

to kiss her forehead, and in an instant the little dar-
ling was enveloped in flames! Mrs. Ashleigh snatched
herin her arms and strove to smother the fire, but
her own light dress was in a blaze in an instant, and
when the screams of the child had brought Mr. Ash-
leigh and the servants to the spot, it was all over.
“The little girl was dead, the beautiful mother was
burned to a crisp, and died the next morning at.sun-
rise. Mr. Ashleigh was like one demented. He
would not allow the clergyman to speak to him; he
scorned all sympathy or consolation; he took no
notice of the children that were left him. He closed
up the south suite of rooms—the best and pleasant-
est in the house—and forbade any servant to enter
them. And closed they have remained ever since.
Unless the master himself has been inside them, no
human being has crossed the threshold of the south
chamber since the terrible night when they bore
forth the remains of the young mistress and her
The room was left to dust and spiders—

and child on the floor—and Mr. Ashleigh locked the
doors and kept the keys.”

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Mills, “it is like a chapter
from a novel. But don’t you never feel kinder timid
going past that closed room in the night?”

“T never go pastit in the night,” said Mrs. Dow,
“and I’d advise you not to. Servants will talk, and I
never pay much attention to them, but they say that
strange sounds have been heard in these rooms;
there are three in the suite, and one must take care
of one’s nerves. Mr. Ashleigh went abroad right
away after his wife’s loss, and was gone two years,
and when he came home he married again. A fine
woman, who was a second mother to the children,

| and kept the household in good order, and was never

a society woman. Very different from the first Mrs.
Ashleigh, but as good as gold. She died only a few

| years ago, and we all mourned her sincerely.”

Mrs. Dow put her handkerchief to her eyes asa
tribute to her departed mistfess, and Mrs. Mills shed
a few tears by way of keeping her company.

The worthy pair went on discussing other affairs
connected with the Ashleigh family, but Lucia did
not trouble herself to listen further. She had heard
all she cared to know.

She stepped silently out of the open window on to
the lawn, and the women did not discover her
presence.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
TO PRESERVE MILK.

Milk treated in the following manner may be pre-
served in good condition for a month in a cool place:

Take a thick glass bottle—a soda-water bottle will
do—till it with milk nearly up to the neck and place
it uncorked in a kettle of cold water. Gradually
bring this to a boil and continue the boiling for forty
minutes, then cork the bottle while the steam is
escaping, with a rubber cork and remove it. The
heating process destroys any poisonous germs in the
milk. Cold milk is not necessarily pure; it may con-
tain the germs which introduced into the stomach
: e and fermentation occur
there, with colics and even more serious complaints
as its results. Itis now considered that the intro-
duction of these germs with the food is the greatest
danger in hand-feeding. Oe

In preserving milk as fruit is preserved we achieve
two advantages over our ordinary methods. By the
heat applied we pretty thoroughly destroy any germs
in the process of development; while by corking
during the escape of steam we exclude air and later
contamination. Further, the disagreeable scum
usualin boiled milk is avoided and the taste of the
milk is unchanged. It is hoped that this dainty and
effective way of preserving milk will be widely
adopted during the summer months. For babies’
use it cannot be too strongly recommended. The
milk as it arrives can be immediately prepared as
above and corked, and afterward diluted and prepared
as required. Where intended foruseduring ajourney
it will be found especially valuable. When, however,
the bottle has been once opened it should be quickly
emptied; any portion not consumed at once should
be thrown away.

OO
A MAN TO BE TRUSTED.

A man whe cannot live in the atmosphere of deceit

| or breathe the air of dishonor can always be relied

on, whatever may be his views, his powers, or his
peculiarities. Men may not be able to predict
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will honor his inmost convictions.

 

 

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VOL., 42—No. 33.

 

 

LITTLE FLORRY.
BY ERNEST BRENT.

Some battered toys—a little chair—

An old doll, torn, and somewhat broken—
Not much, perhaps, to bring a tear,

Yet each is now a sacred token.
You cannot tell who did not know

What memories are in those toys blended,
’Tis such a brief, brief while ago

Since they were hers whose play is ended.

So brief a while—last Christmas tide—

Time of all times for childish pleasure—
She sat here by the fireside,

Amid a string of pearls—a treasure.

h, many a day and many a year

Mine eyes will at the picture glisten.
Dearest of all, where all were dear,

She would so sweetly sit and listen.

I told them stories, sang, and smiled,
And sometimes kissed and sometimes teased them.
What if I made myself a child?
I know my tender folly pleased them.
I sang—she lisped a soft refrain,
The words were simple. Since December
Her song—“The birds will come again’’—
Will be a sad song to remember.

Dear little Flo, the far-off gaze

That in your eyes would sometimes linger,
Marked you as one whose sinless days

Were numbered by the Saviour’s finger.
You never knew, lost pet of mine,

What passionate depths of love I cherished—
How hard it was to disentwine

My clinging arms e’en when you perished.

I steal at night with tears unshed

To where my little darlings slumber,
And counting o’er each pretty head,

Miss always one from out the number.
And weary knees and aching heart,

That cannot stoop to hackneyed preaching,
Here humbly take their hallowed part

In silent pain, God’s help beseeching.

Give me no more, if but to die,

And these I have, O Saviour spare!
Teach me to be resigned, for I

Ask this with all the strength of prayer.
Ah, little Flo, it was not quite

In vain you died, for still a leaven
Of old faith lingers, and each night

You link me in my dreams to heaven.

 

A NIGHT OF CALAMITY.

BY EMERSON BENNETT.

The following is the thrilling narrative of a lady
who does not wish her name made publie:

A number of years ago my husband, self, and three
snail children, removed from a Northern to a South-
ern state.

In the section where we had located ourselves,
there were a good many parties engaged in an illicit
liquor traffic, and it so happened that not long after
our arrival there, a number of these were arrested
by government agents.

Now, although my husband had no knowledge
whatever of their illegal transactions, he was sus-
pected of having given information that had led to
their detection, and from that moment he had their
emnity, and was doomed.

The ill will of these desperadoes was something to
be dreaded, for they would stop at no crime, not even
that of murder, to obtain their revenge.

A friend of my husband had informed him of how
matters stood, and had advised him to leave the
country as soon as possible, if he wished to save him-

self and fainily.

We had often heard of outrages being committed
by these bad men, and we now decided to return to
the North as soon as we could arrange our business
matters satisfactorily, and in the meantime to take
all precautions against an attack.

Some few nights after my husband had received
the information that he was suspected, we were
startled, about two o’clock in the morning, by a loud
knocking at the door, and on rising and looking out
of the window, I saw a man standing below.

Tn answer to my inquiry, he informed me that he |

had lost his way, and desired to remain at our house
till morning.

My husband was inclined to believe his statement,
and was about to address him, when I stopped him,
for I had my suspicions that all was not as the man
represented.

I then addressed the man outside, and told him |

that it would not be convenient for me to give him
lodging. : wie
He then becameindignant, insisted upon my opening

the door, and said it was the most heartless refusal |

he had ever received.

I still firmly declined to admit him; and while T
was talking to him, I thought I perceived several
others standing a short distance back.

Ip a few seconds my suspicions were confirmed by |

seeingsome half a dozenmen move toward the house
upon which the man at the door declared that unless

I would forthwith admit him and his companions |

they-would break in and burn down the house.

I replied that rather than have them break in and
burn the house I would open the door in a few min-
utes.

T then turned to my husband and told him he would
have to secrete himself, for there was no doubt in my
mind that they were in search of him.

But where was he to hide? Should they search the
house they would surely find him. I went to the
back of the dwelling, and looked out of the window,
thinking he might escape to the wood not far off.
But there was no hope in that quarter—for I could
see several men standing around asif watching the
dwelling.

Knock! knock ! knock ! was again heard at the door,
and admittance demanded.

The ruffians were getting impatient, and I must
either admit them or have the door burst open.

In that awful moment of mental agony, an idea
came to me like a ray of hope from Heaven. The
cords of our bedstead (old fashioned) were loose and
sagged. We had been intending to tighten them, but
had notyet done so, and had placed a quilt in the hol-
low to level it. There, if any where, was the place
for concealment.

Quick as thought I whirled off the feather bed and
straw bed, spread out the quilt over the cords, and
whispered to my husband to lie down in the hollow.

Tn a winute all was complete—the two beds were
on top of him, spread and tumbled as if I had just
got out of them—and then, with a ‘‘God save you,
darling!’ I darted down to the door and opened it.

Several masked figures rushed in and demanded
the whereabouts of my husband.

“Wherever he is, I trust that God will protect him!”
Was my solemn reply.

“Come,” said one, who appeared to be the leader,
“there is no use of wasting time asking questions!
We will search the house, and if he is here we will
find him.” Oe

There was no hope now if they discovered his hid-
ing place, and [I sunk down upon a seat, almost over-

owered, and fervently prayed that they would not

e successful.

T could hear them going into first one room and
then another, then into the very room where he was
concealed, and I listened in breathless agony, ex-
pecting every moment to hear that he was found.

It seemed as if they would never leave that room.
Surely they had ample time to search every nook
and corner. What kept them so long there? Could
they have caught him, and I not know it? But, no
—there would have been some exclamation, or scuffle
to indicate it. Everything seemed as still as death.
What could it mean? I began to grow weak, my
head grew dizzy, and then everything disappeared
from my view.

When consciousness again returned, I found myself
lying on the ground, outside of the house, and my
three small children standing along side of me.

“My God! what are they doing now?’ I cried, as
I saw two men approach the house with lighted
torches.

“We could not find your husband,” said a voice
close to me, “and so we are going toburn down the
house, for we believe he is concealed somewhere in-
side. If that will not bring him out, he may roast
alive and get used to fire.

At these terrible words I instantly sprang from
the ground and darted toward the men with the
torches.

Inmy frenzy [seemed to havesupernatural strength,
and snatching the torch from one, I dashed it in his
face, and struck the other such a powerful blow that
he fell to the earth.

The next moment I was seized by others and the
torch wrenched from my grasp. j

I was then hurried away to a tree and bound to it,
that I might give no more trouble. ;

“Oh, men!” I said to them, ‘‘have you one spark of
humanity left? Why will you destroy my home and
all the goods I possess? What have I, or mine, ever
done to you, that you should treat me in this cruel
manner ?”’

 

if you will tell us where your husband can be found,
we will spare your house.”

“What do you want with him?’TI said. ‘He has
never given you any cause to act as you are doing.”

“He is aspy and informer, and we mean to make
an example of him.”

“T swear to you, by all I hold sacred, that he is not;
that he has never informed on anyone foranything !”

Well, we know better, and he has got to suffer.”

“Tf you will burn the house, I implore you to let me
pet some of my clothing and furniture out of it
irst !

‘‘No, not a thing!” was the answer, as they left me
bound to the tree.

A short time afterward I beheld the whole house
in a furious blaze.

The men then went away, leaving me still bound
to the tree, with my little children clinging to mein
terror.

At the thought of my dear husband burning alive
T suffered such excruciating agonies that my senses
gradually became benumbed, and outwardly I be-
samme calm, still watching my burning home.

I remember asking my little dears, in a quiet, ordi-
nary tone, if their father was stillin the house? or
whether he had escaped ?”

The poor little things began to cry, and Iremember
looking at them and wondering what could be the
matter with them.

Just as the roof fellin, some of the nearest neigh-
bors arrived and unbound me from the tree.

They then took me to the home of one of them,
where I was confined to bed for along time with a
brain fever.

As soon as I was sufficiently convalescent to bear
the ae I was handed along letter from my hus-
band.

He was then in one of the Northern States, and
wished me to come to him as soon as I should be able
to travel.

In his letter he gave along description of how he
had escaped, and of the many perils he had encoun-
tered before reaching a place of safety.

The men had searched the room he was in, had felt
of the bed he was under, and had gone so far as to
take off all of the coverings, and even take the
feather-bed from the straw-bed he was lying under.
He expected every moment to be discovered, but
thanks to that kind Providence which watches over
all, he was not destined to become the victim of those
midnight assassins.

When they had left the room, he thought that all
was safe,and hethen got from under the bed and
listened.

torch, and thus drew the attention of the whole party
to myself, he managed to take advantage of the
opportunity by jumping out of the back window and
escaping to the wood.

There he remained and saw the house burn down,
and by the light beheld me tied to the tree.

After the assassins had gone, he was more than
once on the point of coming to me, but was afraid
that some spies might still be lurking about.

When he saw’ the neighbors arrive, he ventured
toward me; but before getting near enough to be
discovered by the crowd, he was met by the friend
who had given him the warning, and was by him
advised and urged to leave the country at once, as,
if seen by any of the desperadoes, he would be mur-
dered, and there was no telling who belonged to the
secret band.

This friend also gave him some money, and prom-
ised to take care of me and the children, and to for-
ward us to him as soon as he should write back from
a place of safety,

Having thus learned that my dear husband was

join hii.

danger of our being burned out of house and home
upon the mere suspicion of informing on illicit liquor
distillers.

It has been many years since the above facts oc-
eurred, but I still remember in my prayers the kind
friends who were instrumental in saying and re-
uniting us here on earth.

LITTLE NELLY’S LUCK.

BY VIRGINIA VIGNTON.

&

Many years ago Alice Armor, the only child of a
rich merchant, became, in my presence, and that of
two others, the wife of Harry Kimbro, in direct disre-
gard of her father’s wishes.

She forsook the many luxuries with which she had
been surrounded from her earliest years, all the
pleasures which wealth had the power to give, and
| fled from a happy bome and a father’s love to follow
| the fortunes of her lover.
| On being informed of the marriage her father ut-

terly disowned her. Being an extremely passionate

and self-willed man, his love was changed to the bit-
i terest hate; and in his anger he wrote her a letter,

in which he warned her never to call upon him for

aid; adding that they might beg, starve, and die ina
{miserable hovel, ere he would in any way assist
them.

The young couple were very hopeful, however;
they looked only upon the bright side of things.
Harry was young and strong, and it seemed highly
probable that he would in time make his mark in the
world.

At this juncture, I, who was then a medical student,

| left for Germany, and on my return found that they
| had left the city. The precise locality of their new
home was not definitely known, or at least I never
| could discover it, and people seemed to have almost
forgotten Alice Armor, the prospective heiress, who
married poor Harry Kimbro.
| After receiving my diploma I began the practice of
medicine, living quietly at home with my mother
and sister. I often wondered what had become of
Harry, and why be did not write and inform me of
his wherabouts, as we had always been the best of
friends. ~

Ten years, with all their numerous changes, rolled
away, but they brought me no tidings of Harry. In
the course ot time I had occation to visit New York.
One day, after I had left my hotel for a stroll, and
was walking slowly along the street, my attention

yas arrested by the sight of a little girl, apparently
eight or nine years of age, who carried upon her arm
a small basket half filled with boxes of matches.

She wore a ragged frock, and about her shoulders
was wrapped a faded fragment of a shawl; while
hanging to the back of her neck by a string was a
torn sun-bonnet. Her face and hands were very
dirty, but the former was beautifully molded and
actually pretty in spite of the want of soap and
water.

Our eyes met, and stepping toward me, she asked,
as with one hand she offered the basket and with the
other pushed back her tangled locks from her face:

‘‘Matches, sir ?”’

Thad searcely time to note that the voice was a
very musical one, or to make any reply, when unfor-
tunately stepping upon a piece of orange peel upon
the pavement, she slipped and fell, emptying the
contents of her basket at my feet.

“Are you hurt?” I asked, assisting her to rise.

“Oh, my foot, my foot!” she sobbed, “I have hurt
my foot; how shall I ever get home? Oh, dear!”

*“Confound the orange peel!” I ejaculated, as I
wiped away the tears with my handkerchief, thereby
removing the dirt in spots. ‘‘Now, don’t ery, sis. I
fear you’ve sprained your ankle. Tell me where you
live, and I’ll earry you there, basket and all.”

“Will you?’ and the little face brightened; ‘‘you
are so kind, kinder than any person I’ve seen for a
long time. I live in Roosevelt street, near Madison.”

“What is your name?’ was my next question, after
I had picked up the scattered matches. ¢

‘“‘Nelly—oh, my foot !—Kim——”

“Kimbro! is your name Kimbro?”

“Why, in course; but how did you come to know
that ?”’

My thoughts were too busy to allow of my giving
an answer to Miss Nelly’s question just then, and
while she was expecting it, Iealled a carriage, and
placed her safely inside. The driver was well ac-
quainted with the locality I mentioned, and we soon
arrived at the house.

“There it is!” exclaimed little Nell, pointing to a
squalid tenement-house, which formed one of a group
of tive, all equally uninviting. ‘‘There’s where | live,
sir.” ' :

Giving the driver instructions to await my return,
I once more lifted my charge in my arms, and fol-
lowing her directions, carried her up three flights of
dirty stairs.

“This door,” said little Nell, and I gave a loud rap
with my knuckles upon the shrunken panel.

My summons for admission was immediately an-
swered by an old woman, whose red and bleary eyes
proved beyond all doubt her love for stimulants.
Was this, I asked myself, the mother of Nelly ?

“Well,” she inquired, ‘‘what’s the matter with the
brat ?%—what are ye a carryin’ the little plague fur?”

“She has unfortunately sprained her ankle,” I re-
plied, “and I have brought her home to you.”

“Yes, she’s allers a doin’ somethin’, sneered the
woman; “allers a gettin’ up some yarn or other to
prevent her from arnin’ her livin’; and no matches
sold to day, young un,” she added, glancing at her
basket.

“Oh, I’ll teach you, my beauty! Yer not worth
yer salt, ye little vagabond! Now, just pack yerself
off, d’ye hear? and don’t come back until that bas-
ket’s empty. If you do, ’ll break every single bone
in yer buddy. Off, I ‘es

“The child is totally unfit for walking,’ I inter-
rupted. ‘It will be two or three days, at the very
least, before she ean go out again.”

“Eneouragin’ her laziness: are you? I tell yerl
won't have her a-loafin’ around here, so pack off,”

 

 

“We do not want to harm you,” replied one; “and

At the time I rushed up and seized the burning’

alive and safe, I speedily recovered and set forth to |

We are now living in a city where there is no |

 

 

 

she said, threatening to give the terrified child in my
= a slap in the face with her skinny, claw like
and.

“Are you her mother?’ I asked, in amazement at
her brutality, as I retreated a few steps.

“No, I ain’t.”

“Where is her mother ?”’

“She was the only child of a poor woman who died
here, in the room above this one—died in the night,
all alone.”

“What was her name?”

“Kimbro.”

*‘Alice ?”

*“T dunno. TI heerd some of the folks sayin’ as how
she was well-to-do once, and runned away from
home.”

“And her husband

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“J did. What became of him ?’

“Oh, he was allers dissipatin’, and, one night, he

fell backward off the steps as he was comin’ up, and
fractured his skull. I took the little gal in out of
kindness.”
“You don’t seem to want her much. Give her to
me.
“You'll pay me somethin’ for the brat, won’t you ?’
asked the woman, advancing with a disagreeable
leer; “she’s of use to me, you know, and I'll lose by
lettin’ you have her for nothin’; what'll yer give?’

“What do you say, Nell?’ I asked; ‘will you go
home with me and be my little sister?”

“Will I be happy there?”

“You will, if it is in my power to make you so.”

“And sell no more matches?”

“No, indeed !”

“Then I'll go.”

T thrust a bank-note into the woman’s extended
hand, and with my profegee hurriedly left the house.

“T am your brother now, Nell,” I said, as I again
deposited her in the carriage, and directed the driver
to proceed to my hotel; “‘you must call me ‘brother
Charley.’ ”

“Brother Charley,” she repeated; “chow funny it
sounds!” and she fixed her great brown eyes upon
my face, with that searching look so common among
children when they are trying to ascertain the
true characters of those around them. ‘Brother
Charley,” she repeated; ‘‘it’s so strange I never had
a brother before!”

On arriving at the hotel, I gave the little match-
vender in charge of the housekeeper, with instruc-
tions to procure for her everything she needed in the
way of attire, and requested her to effect a general
renovation as speedily as possible.

A few days afterward we leftfor home. My little
charge was instantly taken possession of by my
mother, who gave it, as her opinion, that Nelly was a
perfect beauty; “though we must not tell her so,
Charley,” she added. “It would make her vain.”

Without loss of time I dispatched a letter to the
father of Alice; requesting him to call at my house,
as I had something of the greatest importance to tell
him. Hesoon came. j

“Mr. Kimbro,” I began, ‘“‘your daughter Alice——”

“My daughter!” he fiercely interrupted. ‘I have
no daughter. I had one once, but—she left me.”

“Listen,” I said, and I repeated to him the story of
the match-vender.

His iron will melted in the fire of affliction; the
strong man wept.

“Shall I bring in the child?’ I asked.

‘sore assented, and in a moment I presented her to

im.

“This is your grandpa, Nelly,” I said.

“Come !” he exclaimed, extending his arms, while
his countenance expressed the bitterest remorse, “let
me by my treatment of you make some slight atone-
ment for my harshness to Alice. You must go home
with me, Nelly,” tenderly caressing her luxuriant
tresses,

“Couldn’t do it,” was the reply ; ‘“‘brother Charley
found me. I belong to him. Don’t I, Char——”

I stopped her mouth with a kiss, as I answered:

“T have no right to keep you here, darling, in op-
position to your grandpa’s wishes.” i

“Then Tll go with him, although I don’t like to
leave you all.”

Mr. Kimbro had the remains of his daughter re-
moved from their resting-place among the paupers’
graves, and deposited in the family burying-ground,
marking the spot with a plain white marble slab.

* * * * * * * *

I was sitting before the fire, one December morn-
ing,in one of the front parlors which I had taken
possession of for office purposes, and was awaiting
my regular hour for commencing my rounds among
my patients. I held the poker in my hand, and ¢are-
lessly drummed upon the grate, keeping time to a
verse of an old song [ was humming:

was his name Harry Kimbro?’

“Oh, don’t you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt?
Sweet Alice, so: kind and so true’”’—

when I was aroused frog, my reverie by the sounds
of a carriage as it drove wp and stopped. before the
house. The moment after, the door-bell was rung
loudly. I arose and sauntered to the window, just
in time to see a footman in gray livery close the
door of a handsome carriage, drawn by a pair of
splendid black horses. My visitors were already at
the door.

“Two friends!” announced the servant; and Harry
Kimbro, accompanied by Alice, about whom I had
just been singing, presented themselves to my aston-
ished gaze.

“How are you, old boy ?’ exclaimed the former, as
he grasped my hand and shook it warmly. “I hope
it is not too late to resume an old acquaintanceship.”

Alice extended her hand, and I took it mechani-
eally, all the while staring in open-mouthed amaze-
ment. Had the skeleton which hung behind the
closet door quietly unhooked himself from his nail
and danced a jig, I could not have been more sur-
prised.

“Harry Kimbro,” I said, at last finding my tongue,
“Theard that you had gone home late one night,
stupefied with liquor, and had killed yourself by fall-
ing down stairs!”

“What a ridiculous story! Upon my word, Charley,
IT was not aware that you had become insane during
my absence!”

“And you,” I said, turning to Alice, “I was in-
formed that you had died, all alone, in a tenement-
house in New York.”

“TI declare,” she laughed, “I am almost willing to |

agree with Harry in considering you demented.”

“Who sleeps, then, in the church-yard, if you are
alive and well? Does the stone that bears the name
of Alice Armor lie ?”

“Come, old fellow, this is rather a poor way to treat
friends whom you have not seen for years, asking
them questions about tenement-houses and grave-
yards,” said Harry; ‘‘what do you mean by it?”

In explanation, I gave him “the story of little
Nell.” In return he explained that he had fallen heir
to a valuable estate in England, a short time after he
left the city in which I resided. He and his wife
went to look after their possessions, and now had
just returned from Europe, having made it a point te
callupon me first of all their acquaintances. They
had written me repeatedly, but, strangely enough, I
had never received their letters. The Harry Kimbro
who fell down stairs and killed himself was not my
Harry, and the Alice Armor of old was not so unfor-
tunate as to be the ill-treated wife of a dissipated
man. A reconciliation between the father and
daughter was easily effected. Little Nell was left in
ignorance of the fact that Mr. Kimbro was not her
grandfather, and the grave in the church-yard was
never disturbed. There, in peace and quietness, little
Nelly’s mother rests.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

“Bettie F.,’’ Clifton, Kans.—As has been the case for
several seasons, mantles are either very long or very
short. Among the former, there is a traveling cloak of
fancy plaid cloth, with a velvet collar, in shape like that
of the long visite, fitted to the figure at the back, loose in
front, and with repose sleeves, entirely lined with silk.
A redingote is of plaid cloth, gathered on to a shoulder-
piece of plain velvet; has full sleeves, with deep velvet
cuffs ; a velvet belt around the waist, and comes down to

the very edge of the dress. A pelisse is of fancy woolen
material, ot basket-work texture, lined with thin silk; a
black lace ruche is around the neck, arufile down the
front to the waist, and around the full sleeves, which are
gathered at the wrists. And there is also a very elegant
Parisian pelisse of black ottoman silk, with visite sleeves,
trimmed in the middle of the back and front, and on
the sleeves, with rich black silk passementerie, beaded
with jet. 2d. We can furnish a book entitled ‘The Artists’
Manual” for fifty cents. The other book you mention is
out of print.

“Alice M.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Pretty visiting toilets for
young girls are made of checked surah, the skirt being
plaited, and the bodice, a long-waisted jacket, remaining
wide open in front. A pretty model of this style is of
surah, in a large check pattern, of three or four shades of
color. The opening of the front shows a vest of dark-

colored heliotrope, open in the shape of a V, and finished
at the waist-line by a velvet sash, not over two inches
deep, the end of which is lost in a sheath of silk passe-
menterie. A chemisette of cream-colored surah is visible
in the opening of the vest, andis gathered around the
neck on @ small standing collar of heliotrope velvet. A
Bulgarian cap of embroidered silk, cleverly draped and
bound aroun with a vélvet border, but without any orna-
ments, completes this costume, which is suitable for a girl
from thirteen to fifteen years of age.

“Nick Carter.’—1st. Gentlemen’s trousers are cut al-
most straight from the knee to the ankle, while coats are
made loose, and not shaped to the figure as heretofore.
2d. The newest collars have the points bent back, with-
out being pressed close to the neck, and neckties are
shown in odd shades of plain silk, without any pattern,
tied in a sailor’s knot, and fastened with a small scarf-
pin.

“Seven Years’ Reader.’—Summer dresses of etamine,
with open-work stripes, are generally draped in tunics
over underskirts of plain silk or pekin, while the bodice

‘

 

is composed partly of silk and partly of the etamine. The
most becoming style for young girls, and ladies of slight
tigures, is to have the etamine plaited like a chemisette
on to a shoulder-piece of fancy silk or velvet.

“Miss Lidie N.’”’—Full bishop’s sleeves, gathered at the
top and bottom, and leg-of-mutton sleeves of large size,
are seen on imported dresses. Ladies of conservative

tastes, however, are slow to adopt them, after having
worn tight sleeves for so long a time, though even coat-
sleeves have increased in size, and are now worn quite
loose over the arm.

“Lillie W.,” Carlinville, l.—A pretty and inexpensive
dress for a young girl is made of Hindoo twill, a soft,
gracefully draping wool fabric. The color is a dull ar-
tistic shade of blue, and there is a vest of white watered
silk. The only trimming is feather stitching, done with
heavy white silk on revers and panels.

“Mrs. J. W. D.,’? Cauker City, Kansas.—Combine the
blue figured material with ecru colored cashmere, using
the former for panels, revers, collars, cuffs, and vest, and
the cashmere for bodice and skirt. Blue cashmere of the
same shade as the figured goods would also look well, if
preferred to the cream-colored fabric.

“Mrs. Ursie B.’’—Coat sleeves are still used for the
street or afternoon dress, though looser models are em.
a on reception-costumes and tea-gowns, while the
puif sleeves, gathered two or three times with ribbon
loops and gauged on a narrow cuff, are more popular for
children than for their mothers.

“Daisy T.”’—Wide sashes are worn with dressy toilets,
and the belts are no longer drawn around in a snug band,
but lie in soft, loose, crumpled folds, while tiny jeweled
pins, thrust in here and there, take the place of the Rhine.
stone buckles which used to be worn.

“Josie."—What are called “Girton College caps,” are
simply the old-fashioned rer cap with a peak in front,
pr are made of checked cloth, to match traveling
dresses.

“Maudie.”’—If you will send us your name and address,
we willsend a catalogue, from which you can make your
own selection.

“Miss Sophie.”—The favorite summer hat will have a
broad brim, and be trimmed with a profusion of nodding
ostrich tips.

“Bertha,” Boston, Mass.—Yes, buckles three inches
long are worn on slippers.

or

Paragraphic Pleasantries.

BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

As True as Gospel.

A married man will go toa closet to look for his
“other vest,” and after removing twenty-seven pieces
of feminine wear from their hooks, looking under
four overcoats, six pairs of pantaloons, and three

linen ulsters, and creating chaos generally for about |

tifteen minutes, he thinks a small volume of awful
language, slams the door violently, rushes to the
head of the stairs, and calls down to his wife:

“Say, Matilda, where in the dickens is my light
vest ?—the one I got last spring, with the——”

“Why,” she quickly interrupts, ‘it’s hanging in the
closet on top of your best Sunday coat.”

“No, it isn’t, either,” he replies in atone of impat-
ience. ‘I’ve been rummaging in the closet nearly
two hours, and turned everything upside down, and
it isn’t there.” :

Then his wife comes up stairs in a hurry, rushes
straight to the closet, without deigning her husband
a glance, seizes a garment, and thrusts it at him,
accompanied with the sarcastic observation :

“Here’s your vest hanging right before your eyes.
If it had been a snake it would have bittenyou. You
never look for a thing before you halloa.”

Needs Another Attachment.

A new umbrella device is a patent window in one
of the sections through which the traveler can see
who is ahead of him and how to ayoid punching him
in the back withthe sharp point. Not a bad idea;
but an invention that would give greater satisfaction
is a window in the back of the head of the owner of
the umbrella, through which he could see in whose
possession the article walked off as soon as he took
his eyes off it.

The Deadly Newspaper Portrait.

Two years ago William Byron Scott was winning
fame, and his name was known on both sides of the
Atlantic. To-day he is a raving maniac, with straws
in his hair. One day, about six montes ago, he saw
a broad-ax-and-cross-cut-saw newspaper portrait
with his name under it. His reason soon tottered
and fell, after that.

Curious Effects of the Sea.

“The sea always fills me with emotion,” said a
sentimental young lady on the beach at Long Branch.
Next day she went sailing with her young man, but
the sea didn’t fill her with emotion. On the contrary
it, filled her with disgust, and emptied her of every-
thing she had eaten for two days.

Great was the Fall Thereof.
Tt is said that a well-known opera singer’s name
was Getleinmeister, ‘but she dropped it.” It must
have made a loud noise when she dropped it.

Listen to the Nightingale.

A German naturalist thus translates the song of
the nightingale: ‘‘Hezezezezezezezezezezezem Cco-
war ho dze hoi’—Hi gai, gai gai gai gai gai gai gai
ecuricoor dzio dzi api.” The first part of the song, it
must be admitted is ‘‘e-z’”? enough, but the rest of it
looks rather difficult. The nightingale appears to

| sing in a foreign tongue, the same as Patti and other

sweet singers.
Overheard in Canada.

“Now, Johnny,” said the mother of a nine-year-old
boy; ‘‘you must stop playing with those Joughnes
children. Their parents are common people, and
don’t move in the best circles.”

“Why, ma!” replied Johnny, ‘“‘their pa used to be
in a bank in New York, the same as my pa, and he
belonged to the same church.”

“Yes, know; butyourfather gotaway with $150,000,
while Mr. Joughnes’ shortage was only $30,000. So
you see they can never hope to move in the highest
American-Canadian circles.”

Justifiable Homicide.
More than thirteen bullets were found in his head,
And the crowd eagerly asked the reason why,
When aman, with a smile, sententiously said:
“He was singing, ‘Wait till the clouds roll by.’”’
Worth Remembering.

A French physician declares that groaning and
erying are two operations by which nature allays
anguish, and that those patients who give way to
their natural feelings more speedily recover than
those who consider it unworthy to betray such symp-
toms. This may be true, but when a man is seized
with the jumping toothache in church, during the
sermon, he had better suffer in silence. To groan and
ery might relieve the awful pain, but it would also
be apt to confuse the pastor and provoke uncom-
plimentary comment.

Worse than Dynamite.

The Czar has become so nervous and irritable that
he now reads no other paper except those expressly
prepared and printed for him. The other day a
moss-covered mule joke inadvertently crept into one
of the issues of his especially prepared paper, and
when the Czar encountered it his wrath was terrible
to behold. He said such reading was more blood-
eurdling and nerve-distracting than the report of a
diabolical dynamite plot against his life, and the
editor was shot next morning at sunrise.

A Wise Precaution.

The New York Legislature has passed a bill com-
pelling hotel landlords to have a rope in every room.
This will not only serve as a fire-escape, but it will
also furnish the guest a means of committing suicide
without blowing out the gas. Gas is too expensive
to be devoted to suicidal purposes.

Our Sunday Blanket Sheets.

CHARLEY.—‘‘Why, hullo, Jack, where in the world
are you going with that horse and dray ?—and on
Sunday, too.”

JAcK.—“‘Only going down to the news-stand, below
here, to take home my Sunday paper. I lugged it
home on my shoulder a week ago, and severely
sprained my back. I take no more such risks; and
besides, to-day’s issue contains anextra supplement.”

Alfy’s Walk.

Three-year-old Alfy was usually given his “outing”
in his coach, but the other day his father took him
out walking, and when he returned home, after quite
a tramp, the little fellow threw himself on a lounge
and wearily said: ‘The next time Alfy takes a walk
I guess he’ll go in his coach.”

_—_—_—_ oe Oo

A YOUNG WOMAN’S FREAK.

A remarkable story is told of a young woman’s freak
which brought her asurprise she had notcounted upon.
The story comes from Oakland, Cal. Frankie Brown
fell heir, on the death of her father some years ago,
to a comfortable fortune of perhaps $50,000. Frankie
yearned for the approach of the day when she should
become of age, and chafed under the restraint of a
legal guardian until last October, when she was
eighteen years old. With her fortune in her own
hands she began to spend it in extravagant living and
expensive fancies. Meeting a dashing widow she
envied the freedom which widowhood seemed to con-
fer upon her new acquaintance and resolved to be a
widow herself. She accordingly consulted a doctor
in San Francisco and asked for an introduction to
one of his patients who had but a brief time to live.
The doctor knew of a consumptive printer with the

 

chances against him of surviving more than a week
at least. Miss Brown said she would pay the phy-
sician’s bill of $700 for attendance on the sick man,
and the introduction was given and the parties mar-
ried. The husband, however, to Frankie’s great
alarm, on learning that his wife was wealthy, at once
began to pick up in health, and is now ready to enjoy
life by helping his partner to spend some of her
wealth. He is prepared to have a good time, and
now manifests no symptoms of an intention to shake
off his earthly coil. The unwilling wife sought a
lawyer, and is engaged in trying to undo the com-
Roane in which her desire to be a widow involved
er,
_ rr re

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Az we grow old, the world grows shy ovus. Do
you know the reazon why? We talk too much, and
it iz all about ourselfs.

_ Wizdom iz common sense edukated, while learning
iz often edukation without the common sense.

_Brains rule the world; and pray what haz a better
right to do it?

Men ov large brains make plans, but the men ov
few brains execute them.

“Charity begins at home,’ and much ov it ends
there.

Most yung men are looking forward to the time
when they can do az they areamind to. I am afrade
they never will see that time. It never haz fallen to
the lot ov haffa dozen men to do it since the cre-
ation.

There iz no market value for opinions; they are
worth all the way from ten per cent discount down
to zero.

When I waz yung the boys always took a back
seat; but now days they spread themselfs in front
ov the fire, and leave the old pholks to sit and shiver
in the distance.

You will discover this, my boy, before you get half
way through life—that a ten-dollar bill iz nearer
worth the face ov it than most ennything else you
come across.

To put a page ov thoughts into a paragraph re-
quires brains; but to put the paragraph into a page,
only requires pen, ink, and paper.

The man whoze only ambition iz to make us laugh,
will be remembered after he iz dead, just about az
long az a pleazant day will.

One idle devil haz more mischief in him than two
bizzy ones.

There iz advice enuff now lying around loose for a
dozen worlds like this; but mankind are such phools
they would rather hay their own way than to fol-
low it.

It must seem strange to a heathen, that among
the Christians justice iz one of the highest priced
luxurys.

Idle curiosity haz done more injury to the world
than malice ever haz.

I find among the very kultivated people what they
call Ideality; which appears to be nothing more than
a mild type ov intelectual nightmare.

_Yung man, tell the truth; and the more funny and
ridikulous yu can tell it, the better.

The best things that Carlyle or Emerson wrote,
were written without enny effort. When they were
profound, they were muddy.

Thare iz no man can tell what he can do until he
trys; and there area great many that can’t even
tell then.

a tp i

Items of Interest.

For four years a Mr. Lieb was employed as fore-
man in a candle factory in Arras, France. He was fond
of strolling about early in the morning, and his acquaint-
ances noticed that his walks nearly always led him
around the fortifications. Their suspicions became
aroused, and secret inquiries were made regarding him.
They discovered that he held the rank of captain in a regi-
ment of German Uhlans. Mr. Lieb escaped into Belgium
just in time to avoid arrest as a spy.

In Biddeford, Me., are two brothers, each named
John Wesley. The elder, when a boy, was stolen by In-
dians, and after a time given up for dead, and a tombstone
was set up to his memory. In the meantime another son
was born to the family and named after the first John,
who some years after was returned to his family. The
two Johns are known in the family as “Our John’ and

‘Indian John.”

Baldness is to a great degree caused by the per-
nicious use of brushes in barber shops. “Baldness is a
disease,” says an Albany barber, ‘‘and is usually pre-
ceded by a scaling of the head. When a barber brushes a
man’s hair whose scalp is diseased, and uses the same
brush on a healthy scalp, what can you expect? That is
why so few women are bald. They never go to barber
shops.”

A Maine judge was holding court at Machias, when
aman brought him a letter from a woman who had a di-
vorce case pending, asking when her case would come on,
The judge, thinking the man appeared anxious, said to
him, jokingly, “I suppose you are going to marry her,
ain’t you, when she gets her divorce?’ “Yes,” replied
the man, candidly, ‘that’s the calculation.”

An English experimenter finds that, contrary to
general opinion, a growth of ivy over a house renders the
interior entirely free from moisture; the ivy extracts
every possible particle of moisture from wood, brick or
stone for its own sustenance, by means of the tiny roots
which work their way into even the hardest stone.

A young girl, while placing a pitcher on a post,
five miles from Aiken, 8S. C., was struck dead by light-
ning. Although this was thirty years ago, the pitcher
has remained on the post ever since, safe by superstition
from the touch of negroes, who believe that the arm
which touches it will be paralyzed.

A London paper suggests that the words “Way
Out,” or “Exit,” be displayed in large letters, with lu-
minous paint, on the passages leading to the doors of
theaters. In case the lights should be suddenly ex-
tinguished, these signs would serve as guides to the au-
dience.

The spiders favor the electric light. It has been
noticed that many of these insects have constructed webs
near the electric lights, because they have discovered
that flies, moths, and other insects on which the spiders
prey, are fond of sporting in the electric rays.

In every hotel and boarding-house in Russia where
foreigners are received, some person in the establishment
is required, under penalty of a heavy fine, to act as spy
over the guests, and to report to the government oflicials
the results of such surveillance.

Perhaps the oldest Mason in America, if not in the
world, is Ezra D. Stiles, of Skaneateles, N. Y. In 1817 he
was initiated in a lodge in Augusta, N. Y. He has there-
fore been a Mason 70 years. His age is 91.

Two teeth were in the mouth of Littleton Payne,
when he was born, seventy years ago. He died recently,
near Klej Grange, Md., and the two teeth he had at birth
were the only ones nature ever gave him.

A San Francisco millionaire, Dr. Henry D. Coggs-
well, has given $1,000,000 to endow a school in that city,
for the purpose of teaching trades to any boy or girl quali-
fied to receive admission.

An intelligent fire engine ran against a Chicago
Alderman and broke his jaw. In the excitement attend-
ant upon such a feat, people forgot to inquire how badly
the engine was hurt.

To intercept a view of the street, the proprietor of
a woolen mill in Menasha, Wis., painted the windows. The
girls struck, and refused to resume work until the paint
was removed.

An English surgeon says that people who use rock
ing chairs the most get deaf the soonest. Rocking also
hurts the eyes and makes people near-sighted.

A bald eagle killed recently near Santa Rosa, Cal.,
measured 78 inches from tip to tip of its wings, and its
talons, when opened, measured 7 1-4 inches:

The man who reports tornadoes for the Signal Ser-
vice has just been married. His reports will be founded
largely on personal experience hereafter.

The telephone has been introduced into China, and
the pigtails are getting more cross-eyed than ever trying
to wink at the girl in the central office.

A steam boot-blacking machine has been invented
in Boston. Rotary brushes are whirled at a rapid rate,
and a shine is imparted in a brief time.

Why a man boots his dog but merely shoos his hen
has never been precisely determined.

No ale, wine, brandy, or whisky has ever been
manufactured in Japan.

Down in Florida, alligator oi] is considered a rem-
edy for rheumatism.