_ Entered Accordina to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1882, by Street & Smith. in the Office of the Librarian of Conaress. Washington. D. C ——— Entered

at the Post Office New York. N. Y.

- as Second Class Matter, _

 

 

 

Vol. 37. FRANors s. STREET | OF nate No. 31. Rose St,

P. 0. Box 2734 New York.

New York, ¢uly 3, 1882.

Three Dollars Per Year t
Two Covies Five Dollars. §

FRANCIS S.smitH INO, 84.

 

 

THE LANE IN THE WOOD.

BY EDMUND LYONS.

When I went to schoolin the olden time
With the rest of the youthful band,
By the greenwood lane, when the golden prime
Of autumn was over the land;
Backward and forward I looked in vain
To.see where the end might be,
But neyer a curve had the rustic lane
As far asthe eye could see.

When the sky was blue and the earth below
Was bright with blossom and spray,

I wandered as far as I dared to go,
But the end was farther away ;

And it seemed to my youthful fancy plain,
As meadow and hill were passed,

There was never an end to the long green lane
That has grown so short at last!

Oh, the hours I spent in the greenwood old!
My dreams under bushand bough!

My early love, and the tale I told
To one who is with me now !

We strolled along in the fading light,
The maiden I loved and I;

And for once the lane was too short that night,
Wherever the end might lie.

Hopes that were born on that greenwood ground

Are vanished and dead to-day ;
, Theend of the lane I easily found—

It never was far away!

But some of the plans were not made in vain,
Their lives with my life still blend;

I follow them now as I trod the lane,
And I know I shall reach their end!

By MISS C. V. MAITLAND.

“A Woman’s Web” was commenced last week.)

CHAPTER ITI.
A DEAD MAN’S EYES,

“Suddenly in a frenzied fright

I start up from my bed
In the deep heart of the silent night;
For my eyes are chained to a ghastly sight—

The white, weird face of the dead.
And I see the blood of the red wound drip,
And the wasted finger laid on the lip.”

“Mr. Gilbert—~”

He does not hear his name, breathed softly out at
the farther end of the long, silent, dimly-lighted
room. He is standing at the head of it, where the
chief light falls from a couple of tall candles upon
an open coffin.

When Barbaraspeaks his name and has no answer,
she steals back and bolts the outer door of the ante-
room where she has been waiting. She has taken
the watch upon her this night before the funeral,
fearing this very thing, that at the last Gilbert might
come in here and show to other eyes than hers signs

- of a grief more than the death of his hard old uncle
could reasonably claim from him.

And it is well no one but Barbara can see him.

“Mr. Gilbert——”

This time she is close to his elbow when she
speaks, and she can see the haggard, hunted look in
the man’s eyes, that for one instant turn on-her,
then back again to the corpse in the coffin.

Less ghastly than the on-looker’s, the dead face
lies upturned there. Not sunken yet in death,
though drawn and white, and with the outline,
through the scant silvery hair, of that red wound
through which life was let out.

Rest there in the coffiin—rest complete. But in the
man’s eyes looking down upon ita terrible unrest.
Without turning them again upon Barbara, he is
saying, in a hoarse undertone ;

“T could not sleep. His eyes, as they glared at me
when he fell, seemed to draw mein here. His arm,
as he clutched at the table-cover in falling, seemed
to point atme. Thatred gashin his head—the blood
pouring from it seemed rising, rising in a choking
flood, every time I shut my eyes. It is no use
struggling any longer, Barbara. I have tried it for
days now, and it grows no easier. I shall betray
myself at last; I may as well give myself up now.”

“Give yourself up, Mr. Gilbert !—to the gallows ?’

“To the gallows. As well now as later. For, try
as I may, something tells me I shall never be able to
keep this secret. The truth will out.” ’

“Murder will out!” are the words in his mind, al-
though he changes them.

Barbara’s hands tighten on his arm.

“You are over-worn,”’ she says. ‘You cannot rest
now; it will be different with you when it is all over.
After to-morrow. Ah, try to bear up a little longer
for my sake!”

Does she expect that last adjuration to move him ?
He is as indifferent under it as his pulses are cold
and still under her clasping hands. He has even
forgotten her presence, and his eyes are riveted
once more upon the face of the corpse. She puts ber
hand again upon his sleeve to rouse him.

“You do not ask me about my errand,” she says.

He starts at that, and asks, moodily:

“Tell me of yourerrand. Am Ito become a double
murderer ?’’

The girl represses a shudder, and answers him, al-
most lightly :

“Ttis allright. Mr. Ralph listened to reason, and
has left the country by this time. I told him that
the inquest made it——” -

“You told him that the inquest made it murder- —”
Gilbert puts in abruptly, seeing that she hesitates.

“___by @ person unknown,” she finishes his sen-

 

 

tence, gently, “but that there seems great fear, in-

 

»

A WOMAN’S WEB.

By MISS C. V. MAITLAND.

 

 

 

 

 

ii}

i}

 

 

thal)
HI TH
tt |

 

Her two hands clasping his, he suffered her to draw him back from the door.

 

 

 

deed certainty, of suspicion turning his way. I told
him that every one was wondering at his remaining
away from Carewe House at such a time asthis; and
that he would much better have answered your tel-
egram about the death, and the inquest about to be
held, by coming up at once. Itold him there was a
great deal said about his absence, and his quarrel
with the old man was gossiped of—and, worse than
all, that he had been seen at the railway station
here, both going and coming, on the night of the—”

“On the night of the foul, cowardly murder,” says
Gilbert, for the second time filling her faltering
pause.

And that a handkerchief with a mark of blood
upon it had been found on the edge of the park, and
that the marking, though much faded. still left an R
visible of the first name, and I had no doubt would
shortly be deciphered by some expert. He could

see plainly enough that the evidence was strong |

against him,”

“So he succumbed to it?”

“Not to all that. I think, Mr. Gilbert, I should
never have gotten his promise to save himself by
flight before any one could be sent to arrest him, if I
had not had that bit of paper from Miss Grace, writ-
ten in that faltering hand, and telling him that if he
lingered and risked being taken, it would kill her.
He broke down utterly over that paper; just the
looks of the changed handwriting was like to break
his heart. He bowed down his head over it; the
poor boy sobbed like a child over it for a minute.
I wish,” she breaks off sadly, ‘‘oh, how I wish it had
been possible to spare the poor boy.”

“It is easy enough to do so; only denounce the
real criminal.”’ +

But she interrupts him passionately.

“What is any one’s ruin compared with the mere
possibility of any harm to you?”

He does not heed the outburst,

“So, then, he is gone?’

“By this time. He was by this time to have left
Philadelphia, and to have taken passage on a ship
which sails for South America from New York, ad-
vertised to leave to-night. I just staid to learn all
this and then I cameaway. I got home about an
hour ago.”

For the first time some sense of her labors in his
service seems to strike him. Helooks down into her
pale face.

“Poor child, you are wearied out, You should not
have come here into this room to-night.”

“Tf Thad not taken the watch upon me some one
else would; and I was afraid you would come in
here, Mr. Gilbert, and be seen.”

He hardly understands her explanation. His
thoughts have strayed from her already. He is
looking down again into the dead man’s face, when
suddenly a sharp, uncontrollable shudder seizes his
strong frame.

“My dream—my dream!
would glare at me?”

“Dear Mr. Gilbert——”’

But the girl’s soothing speech breaks off. She has
followed the direction of his gaze. And she too
sees et

Ay, the dead eyes wide open, staring at them.

He is saying:

Did Inot know his eyes

 

| fracture of the skull, a bit of bone, however small,

 

CHAPTER IV.
“ALL IS NOT LOST LET.”

“One hour was thine—
Thonu’st had thy will! By tern and rill
The night-birds all that hor#were still.
But now they are jubilant anew—
From cliff and tower tu-whoe! tu-whoo!
Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wg and fell.”

Those dead eyes wide open, staring at them.

As if she had been struck to the ground, Barbara |!
falls upon her knees. Speechless, breathless, terri
fled beyond ail power of reasoning. Cowering there,
one agonized quiver from hea! to foot, her face
buried in her hands, hidden away from the awful |
sight of those dead eyes.

Perhaps she never knew that she believed in ghosts
before, but she does now.

Stout-hearted as, until this moment, she has shown |
herself, Gilbert Henderson is the first to recover
himself now. He bends for one long moment over |
the coffin, and then he stoops and lays his hand on
Barbara’s shoulder.

She only shrinks together, crouching lower in her |
cowering posture. She makes no other sign; noj{
movement to lift her head and encounter again those
terrible dead eyes.

But. it is Gilbert’s hand that tonches her. It is}
Gilbert’s voice that says, in a cautious undertone:

“Look up, Barbara; it is not death. But—it is
very strange—he evidently does not know me.”

Gilbert’s hand raises her up,
ports her as he bids her look

|
|
|

Gilbert’s arm sup-
“\ leaning against

, him, clinging to him, she conqteramer beating heart |

and obeys,

He is right. Itis not death.

It isa strange sight, the ghastly face gazing out
from the coffin with that blank stare; the pale hands
still crossed on the breast, yet plucking with restless
fingers at the smooth folds of the shroud on which
they lie. Itisa sight which might have struck hor-
ror to the stoutest heart; but somehow it nerves
Barbara.

“No, he certainly does not know us,” she says, in
an undertone. ‘‘What can be the reason?”

“T cannot tell—unless—I have heard that in case of

pressing against the brain, may deaden it and make
it blank as an idiot’s “a

“But then,” she interrupts, “why should there be
an appearance of life now, and none awhile ago ?”’

Gilbert thinks the girl’s curiosity extremely ill-
timed, but he replies to it, almost mechanically:

“T suppose in that examination by the surgeon to-
day,some part ofthe pressure must haye been re-
moved.”

‘And perhaps it could alt be remored?”’ she asks.
“Dr. Gillet isjust an ordinary country doctor, and
didn’t know ; but if a skillful surgeon should be sent
for from the city, he’d most likely find out if there
was any more bone pressing on the brain ?”’

TT suppose 80.”

“And—Mr. Gilbert, if all pressure could be re-
moved, would it work as usual; would he know us,
would he remember ?”’

“Perhaps. I cannot tell.”

She is looking into his eyes now, with a great dread

 

| to ruin Ralph.
| silence at her accusation of herself.

in her own. He begins to understand her. He bends
his head and kisses those anxious, troubled eyes, and
speaks to her in a lowered tone, as if that poor
wretch yonder could hear.

“You see my danger, Barbara.
planning for me has been vain.
old man would prove who struck the blow; and no

You see all your

| one could doubt that it was I who threw the guilt on
Ralph.

The infamy is more than I can stay here to
You sent Ralph.off to-night to save me; and
now, to save myself from facing such a disgrace, my
best plan is to take flight, too, this night. You can
still spare me some hours, Barbara,” he adds, hur-
riedly. ‘‘You are at watch here, you can prevent any

bear.

| one’s coming in and seeing what has happened until

the hour of the funeral to-morrow,”

She does not answer him, She is looking up at
him, with the tears raining down over her white
cheeks.

“And I have made it, with my scheming, all the

| worse for you!” is what she says, when she can
| speak.

He is not generous enough to attempt to contra-
dict her, to take upon himself the guilt of the plot
He merely stands in an uneasy
It is well; he
is thinking that she puts the blame upon herself;
maybe it will make his appear the lighter when
some part of it, at least, comes tobe known. But
yet it must be heavy enough, at the best; it will be
well for him to get away from all who have known
him before such a smirch can be put upon his name.
Away from Grace before she hears——

At the thought of Grace he is moving toward the
door, forgetting Barbara. But she is there before
him, laying her hand upon the lock.

“Not yet,” she says, breathlessly.
away. Allis not lost yet.”

“A way to make discovery a little blacker still for
me?’ Gilbert makes answer, with a bitter sneer. But
for all that, he stands still at her bidding. It can, at
least, do no harm to hear what she has to propose.

“Wait—there is

She does not propose it all at once. She pauses,
the color coming and going in a fitful way over her
face. And then, not looking up at him, but with her
hand upon his shoulder constraining him to stoop
close to her, she whispers something in his ear.

The man starts back and looks full in her face in
a bewildered way; then shakes himself free from her.

“You are mad, Barbara!”

For answer she puts her hand again upon
shoulder, and when he does not stoop to her she
reaches up and whispers to him again.

So softly, so cautiously; afraid even that the
should hear.

When she has ended he says:

“Have I not been criminal enough? Would you
load me with this sin also?’

“To save you t{—yes.”

“But it is utterly impracticable, Barbara! It could
not be concealed. And if it were once discovered——”

“It would be utter ruin—yes,” she answers, quickly.
“Utter ruin to us both. But it will not fail. Trust
to me.”

“Tt is madness.” :

“It is safety for you, Mr. Gilbert; it is honor

valls

, Cant eyes are £

 

| to South America or to the bottom of the sea,
One word from the |

 

 

spared—it is Carewe Hall for your own. That is
what I offer you, instead of the hopeless flight, the
tarnished name, the poverty, the continual dread of
being hunted down, to all of which things you sub-
ject yourself if you refuse.”

“Safety, and honor,,and rank, and wealth—all
these things your plan insures to me,” he says;.look-
ing fixedly at her; ‘‘and what to you?”

She might have struck a bargain for herself then
and there. He could hardly deny her anything, if
he accept this plan of hers: But Barbara’s sharp-
ness, like that of most women, has this flawin it—
that love has dulled its edge upon the side of this
oneman. She loves him, and she has perfect faith
in his often professed love for her.

“Everything to me, if it insures your safety,” she
says, softly. And then coming close to him again,
and laying her two pleading hands upon his arm:
*““You do consent ?”

He stands irresolute.

“I cannot see how you will prevent discovery,
Barbara. Granted that now, in the dead of the
night, we can do what you propose; granting even
that you can ward off all suspicion for awhile, yet

| at the hour appointed for the funeral——”

“At the hour appointed the funeral shalt take
piace as announced,” she answers, boldly; ‘After
all, what is it you so dread ? Cannot a little woman’s
wit prevent any one from seeing the corpse to-mor-
row, especially as all those who have any sort of
right to do so have already seen it to-day? Courage,
Mr. Gilbert; it is but to be a little wise in time.”

He looks down into the beautiful flushed: face up-
lifted to him.

“T will take your courage, then, Barbara, and your
wisdom. Child, child,” he says, a strange shade
coming into his eyes, “you can be as wise as the ser-
pent, but can you also be as harmless as the dove?’

He needs no answer. Full of cunning as she is, it
is only put forth for his sake.

And so, her two hands clasping his, he suffers her
to draw him back from the door—to lead him where
they stood together afew moments since, and looked
down into the vacantly staring eyes, and watched
the restless fingers plucking at the folded shroud.

The restless fingers are plucking at it still, the va-
taring, as those tv come near; and
then—— :

But they liave chosen the black dead night to hide
the deed that they would do. And let it hide it for
awhile. There comes an hour when the dark deeds
of the night are dragged to light.

CHAPTER V.
A RECOGNITION.
‘A gray sky and a gray sea,
And a noise like rolling thunder,
As the foam fiew fast on the bitter blast
That tore the waves asunder.”

At this same hour when Barbara and Gilbert Hen-
dersen are plotting together over old Carewe’s cof-
fin, the first victim of their plots is lounging against
a pile of boxes ready for shipment on a merchant
vessel that lies at a New York wharf receiving a late
addition to the cargo with which she is to sail to-
night with the turning of tb tide. Ralph Carewe
stands well apart from the scene of confusion, tak-
ing no interest in what is going forward—caring
very little whether the Osprey sails away with him
He
has paid his passage for either; and, with but a few
dollars in his pocket, he is going out into a foreign
world to push his fortunes, thinking just now, as he
waits there, that they have a dark enough beginning
in this night.

It is nota cloudy night, but one of those moonless
skies where the stars show on a vault of black. Here
and there a brighter one sends afaint gleam upon
the water; and just now, as Ralph glances absently
down into the waves washing against the piles of
the wharf, sucha gleam comes and goes, and comes
again, and catches at something afloat there.

Something, A white, upturned face.

Ralph does not wait to call for help, indeed, would
his voice even have been heard above the shouting
confusion yonder? He just pulled off his coat and
plunged straight in to rescue the drowning creature,
man or woman, before the waves can dash that face
against the wharf,

If he had known how hard the task he set himself
he would never have paused for that. But it is
harder than he thinks.

The water is as cold as death; the tide is setting
out strongly, bearing him away from the wharf; and
the waves are risingin the freshening wind. The
struggle is hard enough, even before he reaches the
floating body; but when he has reached it, when he
has grasped it by the collar, to swim with it ashore,
then the struggle becomes one of life and death.

And which will win?

For one long moment the issue seems doubtful,
though the greatest peril of one who goes to the
rescue of the drowning is missing here, there is no
dangerous grappling from the rescued to contend
against, On the contrary, the body on which he re-
tains his grasp while he swims on is so entirely pas-
sive to his movements, and 80 at the mercy of every
wave that would have snatched it from him, that
Ralph begins to believe he has risked his life fora
dead body.

Still he does not loose his hold. It may not be
quite death. Besides, Ralph has so little care for
his own life just now that there needs no very strong
motive to make him perilit. Perhaps not even the

; natural instinet of self-preservation would help him
his |

to do battle for it so resolutely now, as the thought
that another life may be dependent upon his.

That thought nerves his arm to the stroke; it
sounds in his.ears louder than the rush of the waves;
it quickens his failing sight.

Ay, yonder, a dark blur on the dark water, some-
thing moves, and now a lifted oar catches a gleam of
starlight. Ralph gathers all his strength in a hoarse
shout for help.

It is not heard.

And his strength fails him fast. He has ceased to
fight against the waves. They must carry him which
way they will; all he can do is to keep his head
above water, with the helpless wretch on whom his
grasp never slackens,

But how long will he be able to do this? Not long

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

p. That

it seems to him, unless there should come hel
little boat!

This second time his shout appears to_ have
reached it. There is a pause in itS course, and then
that course is altered, the bow veers round, and
makes swift head in the direction of Ralph’s cry.

Another instant and Ralph is clinging to the boat’s
side with one arm and helping the oarsman to lift
the passive body in. He has strength enough for
that, but only strength enough for that. His task
is over—everything seems over. ‘

Only for the oarsman’s grip he would have slipped
back into the water, into the death he has been
hardly saved from, Itis some moments before he
knows anything clearly. When he recovers coim-
plete consciousness he is lying in the boat, his head
upon a wet coat for a pillow, Another figure, too,
lies stretched beside him, the figure of the man for
whom he risked and nearly lost his life.

Ralph hardly seesas much as that it is a man.
His strength has gone with tbe necessity for it. He
merely lies still in the place he has been put in, not
knowing and not caring what becomes of him. He
has been so near death, and why should he have
been brought back to life? Thereis no one to care
for it any more than cares the boatman, who has
lighted his pipe and is phlegmatically putting away
at it while pulling in to shore with his burden of life
or death.

But when the boat's keel grates on the shore Ralph
rouses himself, at least so far as to help the boat-
man lift the body out and carry it up the bank toa
miserable hut which stands upon theedge. The man
draws a key from his pocket and unlocks the door,
pushing it open with the manner of one whois mas-
ter there.

Itis utter darkness within, but the master of, the
place knows the way, and leads to a pallet in a cor-
ner, where they lay the body down.

Ralph sits down beside it, more dead than alive,
having had just strength enough to stagger in there
and no more. When theman who has brought them
both ashore turns from pushing together the few
embers under the ashes on the hearth, upon which
he throws some bits of kindling and a driftwood log,
and lights the tallow candle on the mantel-shelf, he
sees the two equally motionless, the one stretched
out upon the bed, the other crouched beside it, his
head fallen on his breast.

The man’s glance wanders carelessly over the lat-
ter, but when it reaches the first there is a pause of
bewilderment, and then a wild, passionate hatred
flames into his sunken eyes. A triumphant glow, as
he bends over and flares the candle-lights across the
ghastly face upturned upon the bed.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
> O~4

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate
In Liver and Kidney Troubles.

Dr. O. G. CILLEY, Boston, says: “I have
used it very extensively, and with the most re-
markable success in dyspepsia and in all cases
where there is derangement of the liver and
kidneys.”

"a A.,
TELE
LITTLE LACE-MAKER OF BRUSSELS
By Mrs, GEORGIE SHELDON.

Author of “BROWNIE’S TRIUMPH,” “THE FOR-
SAKEN BRIDE,” “EARLE WAYNE’S NOBIL-
ITY,” “LOST—A PEARLE,” “TRIXY; or,
THE SHADOW OF A CRIME.”

{“Tina, the Little Lace Maker of Brussels,’’ was com-
menced in No. 19, Back numbers may be obtained of all
News Agents. }

CHAPTER XXIX.
“MY CHILD, I BELIEVE YOU.”

‘Your ladyship will be kind enough to modify
your expressions when speaking of the future Lady
Holborn. in my presence,” Lord Holborn said, fac-
ing suddenly about to confront the angry woman,
and speaking with a stateliness that brought her to
her senses at once.

She was extremely high-spirited, and, in her an-
ger, she had used expressions which she knew to
be exceedingly umpecoming a lady; butthis story
of Tina’s appeared so utterly impossible to her,
while atthe sametime she knew if it were true, it
was liable to interfere yery seriously with the pros--
pects of her own children, that she had been car-
ried beyond all bounds.

But something of her own spirit began to mani-
fest itself in the object of her wrath.

“Lady Arlesbury,” Tina said, proudly, yet so per-

fectly respectful and lady-like, that the contrast be-
tween them was very marked, “there are reasons
why I would have preferred not to mention the fam-
ily with whom I have passed most of my life just
yet, but I cannot remain quiet under the charges
which you have heaped upon me. I have told you
only the truth regarding my history and that por-
tion of the eross which has been in my possession
forso many years. My mother, as I haye said before,
was Lady Helen Beauharnais.”

“Helen—Helen! that was the name that. Louis
ealled so wildly all through his illness,” said the
earl, excitedly.

Tina’s lip trembled at this—if Louis Carisford
was her father, this showed that his love for her
mother had been so strong that he had ealled for
and longed for her even while he was dying.

Lady Arlesbury frowned; she could not bear that
anything should go to prove any part of the girl’s
story true.

Tina resumed as soon as she could command her
yoice:

‘*‘And the friend who cheered her last days, when
her own father refused to see her, and who almost
the same as adopted me when I was left an orphan,
was—her Royal Highness, Princess Louise, and
wife of Leopold King of Belgium; andthe reason,”
the fair girl continued, notwithstanding the looks
of amazement which her listeners bent upon her,
“whylam an. alien here in England, is that her
daughter, the Princess Marie Charlotte, with whom
Ihave been reared and whom [f love like a sister,
ina passion of anger and jealousy, banished me
from her presenee, cruelly mocking at me about
the cloud and mystery enshrouding my birth. After
that my pride would not allow meto remain an hour
longer a dependent upon her bounty, and I secretiy
left the palace. How Icame to be adept in the art
of making fine laces was in this way. When I was
a child of ten years I hadalong and serious ill-
ness: my convalescence was very tedious,and every
amusement to beguile the weary hours for me had
been exhausted. One day my nurse, who was a
kind-hearted woman, and who had been a lace-
maker during the earlier part of her life. proposed
to teach me to make lace to pass away thetime. I
seized upon the proposition eagerly, for from a lit-
tle child [had been exceedingly fond of laces, and
was often made perfectly happy by presents of del-
icate patterns with which to dress my dolls. But to
learn to make real lace was a delight thatI could
not resist. My nurse procured the necessary ma-
terials, and I soon became fascinated with my new
employment. I had a tastefor all kinds of faney
work, and was already quite expert with my needle;
I was not long in learning all that the woman eould
teach me, and after my recovery I procured other
patterns and kept on with the beautiful work, and
only afew years passed before I was able to make
the finest of needle-point with rapidity. I visited
every lace factory wherever I went; I bought books
to study, and fine patterns to copy,and when these
gave out I beganto design for myself. I have never
tired of the work. I love to do it as well to-day as I
did when a littleinvalid I learned of my kind nurse;
axd this was the way,” Tina said, turning with a
smile to her lover, “by which I became fitted for
the position that I filled at Monsieur La Fort’s.”

“And why did you not tell me this and of your
connection with the royal family of Belgium, yes-
terday ?” he asked, reproachfully.

“Because,” she returned, flushing, “I did not like
to appear to boast of anything in connection with
my past life, and because,” she added, with starting
tears, “after my last interview with the princess, I
thought it might be better if it was never kuown
that I, a nameless waif, had been reared and edu-
cated with her-—I desire to save her from any feel-
ing of mortification on my account.”

Lord Holborn regarded her with great tender-
ness, whiie his heart thrilled with a deeper love for
her at this evidence of her sacrificing spirit.

“Do you know that the princess is soon to be
married ?” he asked.

“Yes, that was settled only a little while before I
left the royal palace, and besides,’ she added, her
fuce lighting up with pleasure, “have you forgotten
that I had the honor vf designing her wedding vail,
and the flounce that is to grace her bridal robe ?
Ah! it was a great comfort to me in the midst of
my unhappiness to feel that while I must toil for
my daily bread I was at the same time working for
one whom I so dearly loved, and I put my whole
heart into it—she will find her bridal vail a lovely
thing,” Tina concluded, with something of her
former enthusiasm.

Lady Arlesbury listened as one dazed to the
young girl’s account. She could seareely eredit
what she heard—she did not wish to eredit it; she
had deeply wronged her, and the conseiousness of
this only made her the more bitter and vindictive,
and she would have been giad to humiliate and
crush her to the earth.

 

 

 

 

“T do not believe one word of this extravagant
story,” she reiterated, relentlessly.

“Lady Arlesbury.” Lord Holborn said, trying
hard to conceal his disgust at her conduct, ‘there
is a way, as you are doubtless well aware, to_ prove
the truth or falsity of what we have heard. I shall
go myself immediately to the court of Belgium and
seek an interview with the king; not on my own
account, for I have not the least doubt of the
veracity of my betrothed wife, but that she may
stand acquitted before you and the earl of any in-
tent to imposo upon you.”

Lady Arlesbury bowed coldly, while a sneer curled
her lips, but she made ro reply.

Rut the earl arose and went to Tina’s side.

He laid one of his trembling hands upon her
head, and gently drew it back until he could look
into her eyes.

They met his fearlessly, trustfully. They were
like two pure deep wells, into which he could gaze
and find nothing to mar the image teflected there,
and he felt that there was no guile in her.

‘My child,” he said, deeply affected, “I believe
vou; but do you remember of my once speaking of
your resemblance to me?”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, and her lip trembled; his
gentleness and kindness touched her.

*‘Look,” he continued, turning so that both Laay
Arlesbury aud Lord Holborn. could see them, ‘do
you not see that she has the Cuarisford look? 1
noticed it the first day that we met.”

“No,” Lady Arlesbury answered, quickly averting
her eyes, for she did remark their resemblance to
each other, and the sight smote her painfully, but
she would not own it.

Lord Holborn said he had remarked it the day
that they had met in, the British}Museum, in Lon-
don, but he had notattached any importance to it
at that time.

“ft affected me strangely when I discovered it,”
the earl resumed, ‘‘and I believe this child’s story—
every word of it. I am forced to believe that she
is the daughter of my son Louis. But. dear, for-
give me if I pain you,” he went on, sp-aking very
tenderly to the wirl, ‘the knowledge gives me more
grief than joy, for it compels me to believe that my
boy, of whom I was once so proud, has been guilty
of a great wrong—a wrong of which I never dreamed
he was capable, and I am obliged to tell you that he
never was married—he never would have wedded a
girl of your mother’s standing and kept it a secret
from me.” ,

Tina shivered and. covered her face, with a low,
pained ery.

The ear! still stood beside her, and at the sound
he laid his hand on her bowed head and smoothed
the rich brown hair with great tenderness, saying:

“Listen, dear, and I will tell you more about this
father whom youdo not remember, and who has
broughtthis great sorrow upon you. I was ambi-
tious for him, as he was my only son, and I wanted
him to devote his life to the State and become a
public man, that his name might become famous,
perhaps, in the annals of history.

“But he loved art, and wished to go to Italy to per-
fect himself in it. I would not listen to it for a mo-
ment. I would not yield my point—he would not
yield his. Angry words ensued on both sides, and
finally [told him to leave me and never come near
me again until he could make up his mind to obey
me. Itwas not the right way to talk to a son to
manhood grown, and I realized it as soon as the
words were uttered. He went away, and I was too
proud and willful to recall him, even though he was
myidol. We heard of him after awhile through a
friend who was traveling, and who met him in Flor-
ence, where he was studying his beloved art. I do
not know how he lived, for he nad no ineome—that
ceased when he left me, of course, as he was de-
pendent solely upon me.

“Two years after, Lady Carisford sickened, and
believing she would never recover, she begged me
to send for Louis. At first I would not; I was still
very angry and bitter toward him, and I would not
believe that my wife was not going to recover. But
at last her physician assured me that her life could
only be prolonged a few weeks at most, and urged
me not to refuse her request. With an almost break-
ing heart, I wrote to Louis to return, if he would see
his mother alive. The letter must have been for-
warded to him from Florence, since you say he was
at Naples at that time, and it must have been that
letter which caused him to be so troubled at leaving
your mother, He reached home just in season to
receive his mother’s blessing and see her die. Her
last act was to join our hands and pray that we
would be at peace. Natural affection triumphed,
and we were reconciled. That night—his first at
home, my wife’s last on earth—we spent at her bed-
side together, watching her dear life go out. My
boy had contracted a heavy cold on his journey, and
was aimost ill when-he arrived; he added to it on
the day of the funeral, and the following night was
stricken with a malignant fever. He was delirious
from the first, and often called wildly for ‘Helen.’
We Knew of no ‘Helen,’ He eoncluded that she

must be some phantom of His delirium. In jyst four
weeks from the day his mo$her was buried, We laid
him also in th» family vault.”

The earl was obliged to stop. These bitter mem-
ories overcame him, and it was almost like living
his trouble over again. He had never spoken of these
things before.

Tina, also, was deeply moved by this sad story, and
was weeping silently over the mournful fate of her
father; and yet this tale gave her something to hope
for; it led her to think that perhaps he had not in-
tended to desert those dear ones whom he had left
away-in Naples; it accounted for his not. having
written to her mother, for he had been stricken with
disease almost on the eve of his arrival. It made
her hope that if he had lived he would have re-
turned, and all would have been well. But it was
not so to be; Providence had ordered it otherwise,
and she was left to bear aloné this wrong, this sor-
row und uncertainty, which she believed must fol-
low her all through her life. It was something of a
comfort to know that her mother had not been
obliged to suffer all these years; that when her
young life had gone out, those two, who had loved
so fondly for a little while on earth, were united,
and the wrong, if any existed, was understood and
canceled.

"My heart was broken,” the earl resumed, after a
little while; “‘my hopes were dead. I had looked to
my son to perpetuate the name and race of Caris-
ford; but, alas! the name will die with me. I went
to Florence as soon as I was able, gathered up the
things that had belonged to him—no one told me
that he had been to Naples, and I never knew it till
to-day—brought them home, and they are now all
in the room that used to be his, and where you shall
go to see them, dear, whenever you like. It was
months before I could bring myself to look at them
and arrange them, but it had to be done before I
could feel satisfied. The pictures that he painted
are there, and one, half-finished, that he brought
with him; Isupposed it to be something that he
was ina hurry to finish for some one. [I examined
all his ae and letters, but I never found any-
thing that would lead me to suspect that he had

name; and so, my child, I must believe that, though
naturally noble, kind, and true, my boy was for
once guilty of a great wrong.”

Tina never realized until he spoke those last
words, how much she had hoped against hope, and
her heart sank within her, a terrible bitterness
filled her heart.

When she had gone to the picture-gallery the
night before, and gazed upon that handsome face
with its frank, tender eyes, those handsome lips
with their rare, fond smile, her heart had seemed to
tell her that he could not have been guilty of this
wrong, which was likely to prove disastrous to all
her hopes.

“My dear,” the earl resumed again, and with a
tenderness that thrilled her, “‘do you remember
telling me only afew weeks ago, that you could love
a grandfather very dearly if you had one?’

Tina lifted her face, all wet with tears, and tried
to smile an assent.

= Will you love your grandfather like that, little
one?” ,

“My lord\” angrily exclaimed Lady Arlesbury,
starting forward, and laying her hand rudely upon
her father’s arm.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE PARTING.

“Whatcan you mean? Are you wild—demented?”
Lady Ariesbury continued, nearly beside herself.

The earl shook her hand off his arm, saying:

“Please do not interrupt, Catherine, I am wait-
ing for Tina’s answer. Will you—can you love me,
dear ?

How his words thrilled her. He had called her
Tina, and his tones so gentle and pleading, were
full of music to her.

The hand that he had laid upon her head had slid
down to her shoulder, and almost involuntarily she
turned and laid her red lips against it in a gentle
caress.

“I do love you, sir.” she said, simply.

He patted her fondly on the shoulder as he would
have done a child, while his face glowed with plea-
sure.

“That does my. old heart good. I’ve been hungry
for a few loving words, for years,” he said.

Then turning to Lady Arlesbury, he continued:

‘‘Now Catherine. I will attend to you.”

Her face was livid—her eyes were almost like those
of an insane person. A terrible fear had taken pos-
session of her, that this girl would usurp the place
in her father’s heart that belonged to her own
children.

“What can you mean by encouraging this girlin
her folly ?” she cried. ‘Do you think I will ever ac-
knowledge her, or consent to have our family and
name disgraced by any such story asthis? Louis
never married—you have no grandchild save mine.
Even if my brother was guilty of an—an indiscre-
tion during his absence from us, sinee she can pro-
duce no proof that he married her mother—she ean
have no right toa name that belongs alone to re-
spectable people. If he has done this thing, I say,
we cannot help it; and—we have nothing to do with
what has resulted from it.”

“Catherine, you are greatly mistaken there,” the

 

 

earl returned, straightening himself, and confront-
ing her with a stern face, “If Louis won the love
and confidence of thisgghila’s mother, and wronged
her—if Tina is his d&wghter, and I have not the
least doubt of that fact in my own mind, then she is
my grandchild, and as such I receive her. She has
the manner, bearing, and education ofalady, and as
a lady she shall be treated, while I shall do everything
in my power to make her future as free from care
and trouble as maybe, Teo satisfy you, however,
Lord Holborn shall go, as he proposed, to the court
of Belgium and ascertain the truth of the story
which she has told us.”

“Yes, and mark my words, he will find that, even
if she has ever resided With the royal family, as she
claims, it was in the capacity of a maid, or servant
of some kind,’ Lady Arlesbury retorted, with a
seornful laugh,

“Shame, Catherine! I will not allow you to say
such malicious things in my presence,” the earl re-

olied, greatly displeased. ‘‘The child has been very

ind to me ever since she came into the house, and
I have learned to love her and depend upon her.
Your own children have neglected, almost ignored
me; and if I ask a favor, it is always reluctantly
granted by them. If you desire to retain my re-
spect and affection, you will take heed how you
treat the child of niy son. And now hear me—from
this hour she becomes my ward. If we can find no
proof that Louis ever legally married her mother,
we must of course consider the reputation of the
family, and she must be simply the child of a dear
friend, who, dying, hasleft her in my care. I shall
settle twenty thousand pounds upon her as her
marriage portion. and if Lord Holborn here con-
tinues to be of the same mind regarding his rela-
tions with her, he shall have her with my blessing,
and the world need ngver know aught of the secret
of my poor boy.”

Lord Holborn graspéd the hand of the grand old
man and shook it heartily. Z

“My lord,” he said, with glistening eyes, “I should
have married her angway, but what you prongae
will smooth matters wonderfully for us all, and I
honor you more than I can express for the course
that you have adopted.”

“Thanks; and I shall be proud of you for a grand-
son, young man—there are few men who would
have stood up so nobly as you have done, even for
the woman whom they professed to love,” the earl
answered, with a look of admiration at the young
nobleman.

“And do youthink that I will be a party to any
such fraud as you propose?” her ladyship eried,
hoarsely. “‘Do you think that I will allow society
to be imposed uponin any such way? No, I shall
countenance nothing of the kind; and if Lord Hol-
born ore in allying himself with this nameless
girl, 1 desire that our acquaintance with him may
cease at once.” ‘

Lord Holborn merely bowed a calm assent to this
rude speech, as if such a contingency as she men-
tioned would not be-very much regretted by him,
although he knew that when she should come to
think over this interview, she would deeply repent
of having allowed her temper to carry her so far be-
yond all bounds, even though she could never
make up her mind to recciye Tina as her niece.

“How unreasonable you are, Catherine!” inter-
posed the earl, impatiently; ‘only a few moments
ago you said you wo never consent to have the
family name disgra by Tina’s story; now, when
I propose a measure to save explaining anything,
you immediately fly off at a tangent, and say you
will not be a party téany such fraud, and intimate
that you are going to revealthe wrong your brother
has committed youngeH. I had hoped that you had
learned howto control your temper by this time,
but I fear I have been mistaken.”

“T never will upheld you in this folly,” she re-
plied, stubbornly; ““F will never so wrong myself,
my children, or my brother as to acknowledge this
girl as one of us.”

“The fact remains, however, whether you reject
it or not, Catherine,” her father ‘returned, eoldly,
“that Tina becomes my especial charge, and that
from this time my home will be hers also. It will be
better for you, bettey for your children, if you re-
ceive her cordially and extend to her your love and
sympathy.”

“IT shall never reeeive her—I shall never extend to
her even toleration,” the misguided woman sharp-:
ly retorted, as she arose and swept haughtily from
the room. 4 :

“My dear, I regret that you should be subjected
to anything so disagreeable us this,” the ear] said,
regretfully. and deeply troubled by Tina’s droop-
ing attitude. |

“And I regret t
sowing dissension %
with starting tears.

“Tt will all come
said, reassuringly ;
will stay with me,
at least until s

¥ should be instrumental in
your family,” she answered,

ht after atime, little one,” he
yen he added, wistfully: “You

continue to brighten my life,
} 6 who has a better right to

ot ashy glance at her lover at
these wordss, i L
“That will be oon, I warn you, my lord; I
shall take her in ttle while, unless you put ob-
stacles in my w by exercising the authority
which you have to-day asserted,” Lord Holborn re-
turned, lightly, andjas if he did not very much fear
said authority.

“I shall want to keep her just as long as possible,” |

the earl said.

Tina looked troubled.

“I do not feel like remaining here to cause
trouble,” she murmured; “it would be different it—
i aie

“Tf you were quite sure that my son was your fa-
ther ?” interrupted the earl.

“No, sir—I am sure of that now,” she returned,
confidently; ‘“butif it could be proved thatI have
the right to call myself his child I should not feel
myself to be quite so much of anintruder.” —

“You are notan intruder, dear; you are anything
but that; you have been a sunbeam in my life ever
since you came to us. You won my heart atthe
very first, and now that I feel you belong to me I
love you tenfold more. It would be a great grief to
me to give you up—say that you willstay with me,
Tina; or if,” he edntinued, fearing she might re-
fuse to stay where she would be ill-treated by the
other members of the family, “‘you would not be
happy to stay herawe will go elsewhere—we will
make a home whereyer you wish. My dear,” and
his lip quivered painfully, *‘I cannot understand it;
it seems all wrong that my son should have brought
this trouble and .sqrrow upon any one, and I would
give half myfortune for one tiny serapof paper
that would prove you to be his lawful child; but at
all events, I know he would have loved you if he
had lived, and he would never have allowed any
evil to come to you,and lam going to stand in his
place as long as J live; I know if he eould speak he
would tell me to také care of you—will youstay with
me, Tina ?”

She could not resist this earnest appeal.

“Yes, I will stay with you, and wherever you

2 L { | wish.” she said, though not quite so heartily as he
either wife or child—not ascrap of paper—not a |

could have desired. He knew that she was think-
ing of the hard-hearted woman who had so recently
left them.

“Tam comforted,” he said, smiling, then bending
down to her he added, “now seal the compact, my
ddughter, then,” with a significant glance at Lord
Holborn, “‘i will excuse myself and go to give some

directions regarding the change in your circums.

stances.” ; ;

He lifted her fair, sweet face, kissed her with great
ee ee and then went away leaving the lovers
alone.

“My darling,” Lord Holborn said, drawing the
slight form into his arms and gazing anxiously into
her troubled face, ‘‘you are not happy—you are al-
lowing what that rude, excited woman said, to
trouble you more than is necessary,” and Tina for
answer leaned her bright head upon his shoulder
and burst into tears.

He soothed her with fond, loving words—and yet
he knew that meréwords could not heal her wound-
ed spirit. ae

“Tam making eyerybody so unhappy,” she said,
at length lifting her tearful face, ‘‘I am sowing dis-
eord in two families, and all for naught.”

“All for naught?’ repeated Lord Holborn, re-
proachfully.

“Yes; do you not perceive that the doubt still re-
mains,and I haye no right to cail myself Louis
Carisford’s child? I am almost strry that I have
told my story—it has opened the wound in his lord-
ship’s heart afresh, and has made Lady Arlesbury
my bitterenemy. Do you not see that she hates me
because she fears that I will interfere with the pros-
pects of herchildren? Iam almost tempted to run
away again and hide myself,” she said, with a sad
smile, ‘‘and yet itis very pleasant to know that the
earl regards me so kindly.”

“Tina,” Lord Holborn said, almost sharply, a
segs fear clouding his fine face, ‘‘you will not do

lat.”

“Do what ?” she asked, havingealready forgotten
what she had said.

“Run awry and hide yourself again.”

She laughed; but there was a little ring of bitter-
ness in the sound.

“No; did I not promise the earl that I would stay
with him ?” ‘

He took her face in. both his hands, and looking
down into her eyes with all the tenderness in the
world, he said, passionately:

“It would break my heart to lose you—it would
ruin my life; and, my darling, pray do not be un-
happy over this little cloud for which you are in no
way accountable; I cannot endure the thought of
going away to leave you, even for a little while, if I
know you will grieve—I want to see you happy—as
happy as you have made me, dear.”

“Tam happy, Brnest,” she said, gravely, aud using
his name forthe firsttime. “Iam happyin your
love, and to know that the earl regards me so kind-
ly, and I should not grieve so much Lover the unfor-
tunate cireumstanees attending my birth, for I
know that lam notresponsible, if it were not for
you, and what the world will say concerning your
relations with me.”

‘Dearest, do not givethe matter another thought.
You are more to me than ali else, and Iam ready to

-

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

face the whole world, without a fear, if I can only

have youby my side. But the world need never be
told—the ear] will arrange that, and Lady Arlesbury,
with all her yindictiveness, not to mention her
pride, will never dare to lisp a word that would tend
in any way to throw a shadow of dishonor upon her
dead brother’s character, But, my love, I must
leave you now, and i shall not see you again fora
week or more, as lam going to start for Belgium to-
night, The sooner I go, you know,” he added, smil-
ing, ‘‘the sooner I shall get back to youagain. Can
I take any word from you to your friends ?”

“Yes, you can say to them that my heartis as
loyal to them as ever,” she answered, flushing, and
with down@ast eyes. :

“Is that all, Tina?” he asked, somewhat surprised
by the brief message. :

“That is all,’ she replied, quietly, although the
eyes that she lifted to his face had grown very
bright. “I did no wrong—nothing to justify the
prea case in her cruel treatment, or in withdrawing
ner fayor from me; and dearly as I love her even
now, I cannot suefor the friendship whichI did
nothing to forfeit.” |

‘‘What a proud-spirited little lady I have won for
my wife!” Lord Holborn said, laughing, yet not at
all displeased by this little exhibition of her pride,

Then gathering her once more close to him he
told her he must not linger; that he must be in
London that afternoon, and go on thence to Dover
to cross the channel.

Tina shivered as he spoke.

“I wish you did not need to go,” she said, invol-
untarily.

“1 do not need to go for my own sake,” he an-
swered. “Iam satisfied to let things remain just
as they are; but you, dearest, must be justified be-
fore that haughty woman who has so shamefully
insulted you to-day; besides, the earl will be more
content to have the matter settled on his daughter’s
account. Still I will wait awhile, if you wish; there
is no especial need of haste.”

“No, [will not keep you, It is better that you
should go at once, and yet—I feel a chill—a dread of
something—I know not what,” Tina returned, shiv-
Me again.

ou are nervous, my darling. You have borne
enough to try the nerves of one much stronger than
you. Goto rest, dear,as soonas I am gone. Re-
member that you are mine now, and take the best
of care of yourself. Let me find you freshand hap-
py, when I return.”

“Happiness will be a natural consequence of that
event,” Tina answered, smiling, but she clung to
him, as if loth to let him go.

She went with him tothe door, feeling as if half
the world was going from her, and where, with a
strong hand-clasp anda fond caress, he bade her
farewell, aud went away.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Pleasant Paragraphs.

{Mostof our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of
the NEW YORK WEEKLY, and they will obuige us by send-
ing for publication anything which may be deemed of
sufficient interest for general perusal. It is not necessary
that the articles should be rae in scholarly style; so
long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement,
minor defects will be remedied. }

-West Point.
A Parody on *‘Hoenlinden.”

At West Point, when the sun was low,
All spotless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Hudson rolling rapidly.

But West Point saw another sight;

Loud groans were heard at dead of night,

And plebeians howled with wild affright,
While dreaming of geometry.

’Twas morn—but on that luckless day
The morning brought no cheering ray
To pierce the mist of algebra,

And clear it of perplexities.

In glittering armor, bright arrayed,

Each teacher drew his battle-blade,

And furious were the plebeians made
To witness such pomposity.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
As each plebe to the blackboard driven,
Gave up right off all hopes of heaven

In view of his deficiency.

An@ fainter still his hopes shall grow
When he receives a cool zero;
His throbbing bosom rent with woe,
Big tears come rolling rapidly.
CHARLES H. WHITE.
Those Cats Next Door.

A few weeks since I noticed a poem in the Pleas-
ant Paragraph column of the New York WEEKLY
which treated on *‘That Dog Next Door,” written b
Paul Pry. It reminded me_of my trouble, and {
thought | wQuld give you a short description of the
trouble I had in getting rid of my serenaders.

So here goes. _ : d

We live next doorto a neighbor who seems to
have a partieular love for cats. He has several, of
all sizes. They range from a kitten the size of your
fist toa common-sized dog. They are always prowl-
ing around, especially in the night.

They seem to take pains in watching the back
yard fence, right under my window. About two
dozen of them will string out on the back yard
fence, and ai all kinds of imaginary songs. And
such songs! If I throw at them they are sure to
howl louder than ever.

Those cats were a decided nuisance. I told the
neighbor so.

te Why, my dear boy,” said he, “‘they never bother

“T didn’t say anything about them bothering you;
I said it was me!” I growled, savagely.

“Ned, my dear boy,” he said, patting me on the
shoulder, “don’t get mad.”

i low can any one help from getting mad at those
eats?”

ee enough, my boy—don’t listen to them.”

Hear that, will you? I said no more to him, but
walked away, vowing that I would kill those cats at
at any cost. ;

With this resolution I borrowed a revolver from
afriend. 1 opened my window and waited forthem
to begin. Nine o’clock, my usual bed-time, and
they had not yet putin anappearance. Isat down.
lighted a cigar, and waited aguin. Having smoked
my cigar, I concluded to go to bed. Those cats
roe probably having some fun with some one
else.

The next night they did not appear. For the
next week a peaceful calm in the yicinity of my
back yard.

Was it possible they had deserted me?

I returned the revolver, and that very night they
cameagain. And such howling, screaming, seratch-
ing, and m-e-o-wing! They were making up for lost
time.

I didn’t act afool by throwing small things, but
took upachair and threw it with all my might.
And I think it hit something. Anyhowthe next
moment there arose a yell from behind the fence
that would have shamed old Sitting Bull himself.

Then there was some swearing. I recognized the
voice of my neighbor. He finally wound up with
the declaration that he would prosecute that Greg-
ory boy to the utmost extent of the law, and went
into the house. f

The eats retired. So did I.

For the next few weeks those eats nearly drove
me wild.

One day I related toa youthful companion, one
Philip Baugh, my trouble. ,

He sympathized with me—in words—and told me
how to eure those cais. It was the old way of ‘‘the
remedy being worse than the disease.” But I de-
termined to try it. It was to fire decayed hen-fruit
atthem. Itried it, and if ever there was a success
that was one.

Down to the corner grocery I went, and procured
a dozen of the desired articles. That night the cats
eame again—for the lasttime. I raised the window
and threw the eggs as fast as Icould. They didn’t
wait forasecond invitation, but secampered away
as if the “Old Boy” was after them. And wish me
joy, dear reader—they never came again.

NED GREGORY.
Washing Sheep.

He was agreat drunkard. He had two sons who
wished him to stop drinking. He would not, and
finally they offered him one hundred dollars each
: fhe would stop. He said he would on one condi-

ion.

“Name it,” said they.

“Well,” said he, “it is this: I ean drink all I want
when I wash sheep.”

“All right,” said they, and they went away for the
summer.

When they came back they found the old manin
the barn. He had an old sheep tied to a post, a tub
of water close by, and.a jug of rum to his He
washed sheep every day. E. B. H.

A Cuspidor.

Two'ladies from the Emerald Isle met on the street
recently, and after exchanging the compliments of
the season, one.of them, Mrs. Finn, asked:

‘Have you seen Mrs. Dugan this week ?”

“No.” replied Mrs. Duffy. “Is anything ailin’

er

“No, but I thought you ‘might have been there to
see the new cuspidor she has bought.”

“A new ecuspidor, is it?” exclaimed Mrs. Duffy.
“And what will they do wid that? Shure, her Mary
Ann can’t play,on a cuspider!”

At this juncture they were out of hearing and we
lost the remainder of the conversation.

He Looked for the Dipper.

They stood by the garden gate, counting the stars,
She asked him if he could find the dipper, As he
smilingly gazed upward he felt himself suddenly
raised to an elevation of several degrees, and’ was
precipitated in a mud hole the other side of the
gate, He gazed ruefully in the direction of the gen-
tle boost, and saw Eve’s pet sheep standingin a

JULY 3, 1882.

manner quite suggestive, He did not go back and
kiss Eve good-night, but grabbed himself by the
baram of the pants and walked off, muttering some-
thing to the effect that he never did like horned pets,
and he wished they were all transported beyond the

northern seas, BETS,
She Could Leave,

“Do you think, Mary, you could leave father and
mother, this pleasant home, with all its ease and
comforts, and go to the far West with a young lawyer
who has but little besides his profession to depend
upon, and with him search out a new home, which it
should be your joint duty to beautify and make de-
lightful and happy like this?’

Dropping her head softly on his shoulder she whis-
pered:

“T think I could, Archy.”

“Well,” said he, ‘‘there’s Tom Jones, who’s going
meet, and wants to getawite. I’ll mention it to

im.”

Who Knew it AIL

The Rev. Whangdoodle Baxter has the most flour-
ishing Sunday-schoolin Austin, A few Sundays ago
he asked one of his pupils:

“Who is dat ar mysterious bein’ from whom nuffin
am hid, who sees and knows eberyting what hap-
pens? I axed yer dat queshun las’ Sunday, and I
now wants de answer.”

“T knows hit. My fodder tole me de right answer,”
said one boy.

“Well, den, who does yer fodder say am dat mys-
terious bein’ who knows all things what happens?”

“De foahman ob de gran’ jury.”

How Did He Know.

There was an old farmer riding to market witha
load of produce with a yery small mule hitched to
the wagon, when he was hailed by a would-be funny
man.

“Hullo, Yank, why don’t you put the mulein the
wagon and haul it yourself?” :

“How did I know yu wanted to ridetill yu com-
menced braying?” returned the farmer, and he
rode away to the evident disgust of the smart man.

OHN CLANCY.
“No One to Love.”

It was raining hard, and he sat on the doorstep,
singing,

“What are you doing there?” asked a passer-by,

“Serenading my girl,” was the reply.

“Why,” said the other, “the whole family moved
away yesterday, and this house is empty.”

“Dog my skin!” exclaimed the lover, “I’ve been
sitting here over an hour, Guess I’ll go home,”

WM. JOHNSON,

He wanted a Bar.

A gentleman entered one of our railroad eating-
houses and asked the landlord where his bar was.

‘Just one moment, sir,” said the host, and calling
a boy, he sent him out after an iron bar, which he
brought and handed to the gentleman.

ree can imagine the surprise to both when he
said:

“{ don’t want that. I want a whisky bar.”

F. N. P.
Mirthful Morsels.

A boy walked into a Williamsburgh law office and
inquired if there was a “‘C. Lyon” in that building.
“No,” was the reply; “but there are some land
sharks here.” 7. OR or.

A lady, meeting with a girl who had lately lefther
service, inquired: “Well, Mary, where do you live
now?’ “Please, ma’am, I don’t liye now,” replied
the girl; “Iam married.” KATIE TYRRELL.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said a blundering coun-
sel, in a suit abouta lot of hogs, “there were just
thirty-six in the drove. Please remember the fact—
thirty-six hogs; just three times as many as in that
jury-box, gentlemen.” That counsel didn’t gain

is case. .

An English turfman, visiting Mount Vernon, en-
gaged in conversation with a native, and, after a
few preliminary remarks, observed: “I dare say Mr,
Washington didn’t care much for ’orses. You cawn’t
tell me, I suppose, if he was ever a’orse-breaker ?”
The Virginian eyed him a few seconds, doubttully,
and then answered: “I ain’t much on history, but
to the best of my recollection, the general was a
lion-tamer.”

“Ts your wife a Democrat.or Republican?” asked a
Rockland citizen of another, in a store, the other
morning. “‘She’s neither,” wasthe prompt response ;
and then, glancing cautiously around, and sinking
his voice to a hoarse whisper, he explained: “She’s
a Home Ruler.”

“You are as full of airs as a music-box,” is whata
young man said to a girl who refused to let him see
her home. “That may be,” was the reply, ‘but I
don’t go with a crank.”

“You just take that bottle of medicine.” said a
quack doetor.to.aconsumptiye, ‘‘and you'll never
cough again.” ‘‘Is it so fatal as that?” gasped tie
consumptive.

“Why is it.” said one Williamsburgh lawyer to
another, “that the Brooklyn liwyers aif call me"Ne-
Pgs » “I don’t know, unless it is that ‘Neces-

ity knows no law.’”’ L. O’R., Jr.

Jesse, the Outlaw.

A NARRATIVE OF THE JAMES BOYS.

By CAPT. JAKE SHACKELFORD,
THE WESTERN DETECTIVE.

{‘“Jesse, the Outlaw’? was commenced in No. 29. Back
numbers can be had of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER X.
& DEATH-GUARDED SECRET—THE MINNESOTA RAID.

The country that I traversed was as wild and
forbidding as any that I had ever seen in Missouri.
Iatlast came upon Little at work in a road-side
fleld. The humble cottage of his employer was in
view about a quarter of a mile away, and for lone-
liness and isolation it might almost as well have
been in the heart of Montana or Idaho.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Little, looking up, spade in
hand, in answer to my greeting. ‘“‘What! is it in-
deed you, colonel? By Jove! I’d never bave known
you in that shape.”

This was in complimentary allusion to the dis-
guise I had assumed. It was that of a country
store-keeper in hard luck, on the lookout for a new
location and a partner, with a rather sorry-looking
steed in keeping with the character.

‘‘Have you got anything to say?” I asked.

**Yes, more than you imagine,” was the cautious
reply. “Yes, indeed. Assoonas you return to St.
Joe you can telegraph to your friends that the Min-
nesota expedition will start from H ville to-mor-
row at daybreak. The gang will make the entire
distanee on horseback, and as you fellows will
doubtless cover the greater part of it by rail, of
course you can take your time with your prepara-
tions. Jess has been compelled to this move earlier
than he intended, by reason of the ponent of the
majority of the gang. They have done nothing yet
to retrieve the Red Cut failure. Some of’em are
entirely destitute.”

““Are you to go?”

“Yes; I have my orders.
eate with you on the way.”
*“Who are the others ?”

“The entire expedition will consist of the two
Jameses, the three Youngers, the two Hites, Curiy
Pitts, Hank Burke, Bill Shadwell, Charles Miller,
and Clel Miller, besides myself. It’s a bigger gang
than [thought would be used in the affair. Charley
Miller is to be the guide. He was a Minnesota horse-
thief, be know, before he joined us, and is familiar
with that northern country. Miller would also
have been picked, but there’s bad blood betwixt him
and Jess now, though they used to be thick. Only
night before last, at the rendezvous down in Crack-
er’s Neck, Ed more than insinuated that Jess and
Frank took precious good care of themselves,
even with the rest of the gang starving to death.
Jess didn’t one then, but we all saw that he didn’t
like it. Jim Cummings would also have been
selected, but he hasn’t got over his scorehing. Wait,
there’s one more of the raiding party I haven’t
named—Charley White. That’s fourteen in ail.”

Here certainly was a whole budget of news, and
important enough in all conscience. If I had had
any doubis as to the sincerity of Dick Little’s inten-
tions, they were now dissipated by the frankness
and fullness with which be gave me these details.

“Ciel Miller isanew name to me,” I observed.
“So is Bill Shadwell.” :

“They both only recently joined, but have already
left records in Texas and the Indian Territory. Clel
Miller is a cousin of Charley’s.”

While speaking together, we had withdrawn into
ge overgrown with alders and papaw

rees.

After giving mc_some further details regarding
the intended raid, Little gave me a mysterious look,
and said, while lowering his voice:

“There’s something else, colonel.”

**What is it ?”

“You’re the third man that’s as along this
lonesome road to-day, colonel. Neither of the two
others saw me, for I was diggitg yonder in the
ditch. .And I was devilish careful to duck my head
as soon as I reeognized ’em, you bet! They were
about ten minutes apart. The first man, perhaps,
didn’t know that the other was a-doggin’ him. Yet
they both hitched up somewhere up yonder, and
| disappeared, one after the. other, into the thick
woods up the monntain-side,in mighty nigh the
same place.”

I will try to communi-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

~

4 ~in—fill_ it up again.

 

 

%

abe

tery?’ Lasked. “Who were the men ?”

He lowered his voice to a hushed, scared sort of
tone.

“Colonel,” said he, ‘‘the ‘first man_was Jess
James. The man a-doggin’ him was Ed Miller.”

“Well; what isthere toitall?”* :

“Just this, colonel,” and Dick’s frightened voice
sank yet lower. “It looked to me like as Jess was
on his way to his treasure-hole—perhaps for the

urpose of making a new plant there—and like as
1 was shadowin’ him, to find out where the hole
is. Didn’t I just tell you about the two having had
some words about money night afore last ?”

This was a better piece of news than I had
dreamed of expecting. It almost startled me. But
I was none the less pleased. I at once dismounted,
tying my horse-in among the papaws, and taking a
look at my pistols. ; :

“What are you going to do” exclaimed Dick. |

“Follow up Jess, as his: f-llow-bandit is following
him, of course,” I replied, in a business-like tone.
“T also would find the robber’s treasure-hole. You
shall guide me.” : ,

“The thunder I shall!” cried Dick, almost with
ehattering teeth. “‘Good Lord! do you think Im
tired of living ?” i ‘

“T think you’re tired of being a blood-thirsty
highwayman’s blind tool and eatspaw, if there’s
any sincerity in your professions,” said I. ‘‘Noth-
ing venture, nothing have. So, come along.

Much more urging was required to get the better
of his fears, but the task was at last accomplished.
Wethen proceeded up the road, and entered the
woods at the point where my guide had seen the
robbers go into them ashort time before, but with-
fon seeing where they had first tethered their

orses.

However. we made but a slight search for the lat-
ter. Our main quest wasamuech mors important
one.

After climbing the slope with much difficulty, by
reason of both its steepness and the density of its
trees and undergrowth, we came out upon an ele-
vated level not quite so thickly wooded.

We had pushed on fora considerable distance fur-
ther, when the report of a fire-arm sudaeny rang
through the woods. It was followed quickly by a
second report, after whieh there was a dead silence
aS we came to a momentary pause. But at this

oint, with his spade still in his grip, and his knees

nocking together, my guide. resolutely refused to
go another step. ; .

“Aren’t you armed?” I exclaimed, beginning to
lose patience.

“Yes,” was his sullen answer; and, throwing open
his rude farmer’s blouse, showing his belt beneath
with the pistols in it.

“What ails you,then? The spade in your hands
is moreover a deadly weapon. Aren’t you ashumed
to be paralyzed by a danger, even before it is en-
countered ?

“No, Pm not; not where Jess Jamesis concerned,”
he growled, and then, laying his hand on myarm,
with increased trepidation, he whispered: ‘Hush!
Listen!” s

I shook off his grip, laying my hand on my pistol.
There was the sound of someone hurrying through
the brush not far away, and evidently making down
the hill toward the road we had quitted. :

“Come on!” I said. “Let us at least see who it

s.

We retraced our stepsto a point on the brow of
the wooded slope whence a view could be obtained
of the road below.

A moment later we saw a single horseman gallop-
ing off, with a riderless horse in leading. The
horseman was Jesse James. He rode so rapidly
that in a few seconds he was lost to view.

* Now I'll go on with you,” said my guide, gloom-
ily, and, turning, he once more led the way back
through the woods. “Yow’il soon see, I’m a-think-
ng what it costs to meddle with Jess James’ private
affairs.”

I more than half suspected what he meant. We
presently came into a narrow glade. A feeble groan
aitracted our attention, and a brief search revealed
aman lying at the edge of the glade. It was Ed
Miller, the outlaw, fatally shot through the head,
but slowly coming back to momentary conscious-
ness.

We both knelt at his side, Dick supporting his
head, while I took oneof his hands. The other
hand firmly grasped a revolver, from which proba-
bly the second shot we had heard had _ been fired,
but unayailingly for either self-defense or ven-
geance,

.. Just as T supposed!” growled Little. ‘‘Jess has,
like enough, killed him, to save the secret of his
treasure-hole.”

“Yes, yes!” gasped the dying robber, in a failing
voice. “That was it.”

L signed Little to let me do the talking, and he at
the same time raised Miller’s head a little higher.

“We are friends, my man, who can and will
avenge you, if possible,” I exclaimed, with sym-
pathetic earnestness. “Only try to answer the
questions I shall put to you.”

He made asign in the affirmative, but his eyes
were already on the point of glazing, and his breath
came in swift, conyulsive pants.

“Quick, then!” I went on. ‘Did you see Jess at
the place where he hides away his money?”

“Yes, yes; saw him dig out hole—put a fresh bag
Cave full of treasure—bags
gold, bags silver, boxes greenbacks, jewels an’
watches in piles—two hundred thousand doflars,
sure!l: Then he sawme. Mine first shot missed—
then done for. ’ : ;

The words came out in painful jerks, a gush of
blood from his lips closing his utterance.

“Try and give us directions!” I exclaimed, hur-
riedly wiping off the blood and putting my flask to
his lips. Only try—there’s a good fellow! e’ll use
a part of the money in hunting down your mur-
derer. Whereis it buried? Quick—give us the clew!”

The dying bandit, though in his last agonies,
made a supreme effort. and struggled into a sitting
posture. His face was livid, but with the hope of
vengeance flaring out through it, as through an ex-
piring lamp. He pointed out through the glade
with a trembliug hand.

“There, there!” he faltered. “Two buckeyes,
three forties, heap stones to right, then a forty-five
shot straight on; where ball strikes, dig!”

It was his expiring effort. He fell back a corpse.

“Cashed in!” commented Little. ‘“Poor Ed. There
was worse ’uns in the world than he, robber that he
was. What are you doin’, colonel? Not jottin’ down
them last nonsensical words of his’n? Yes. Blamed
if he ain’t!”

That was just what I was doing. He had risen
to his feet, while I, still stooping, pencil in hand
and memorandum-book on knee, was carefully
transcribing those dying words, disconnected and
meaningless as they seemed to my guide. And I
had to confess that, as yet, 1 could make nothing
out of them myself.

“Poor fellow!” said I at last, as I rose from my
task. As you say, there were probably worse men
= the world than he. What shall we do with the

ody?’

Teste it alone, fur the present. at least,” said
Little. moving away. ‘But you don’t really think,
colonel, that head or tail ean ever be twisted out of
them last words of Ed’s?”

“T can’t tell till I try.” said I, erossing the forest
opening. Let us look around a bit.”

I had hoped to analyze the mysterious directions
whose transcription I still held in my hand, an
then follow them up observantly. But I got no
further than their very beginning, without coming
to a pause, hopelessly at fault.

“Two buckeyes.” Yes; there were two buckeye,
or horse-chestnut, trees, right across the glade, at
the point to which the robber had pointed. No other
trees of the kind were to be seen. I stood between
them, looking calculatingly off into the woods, but
without getting any other idea from the remaining
directions, which I kept repeating over and over

again.

“Two buckeyes, three forties, heap stones to
right, then a forty-five straight on; where ball
strikes, dig.”

“Well, here we’ye got our buckeyes at all events,”
said I, thinking aloud. “Now for the next item—
‘three forties.’ What can that mean ?”

“It'll be gettin’ dark purty soon, colonel.” sug-
gested my companion, irreleyantly.

“Tt won’t get dark before I ean see if three hun-
dred and forty paces straight ahead shall chance to
lead me to a heap of stones,” said I, with the mem-
oranda still in my mind’s eye. “Come on.”

Dick shrugged his shoulders as he accompanied
me, but nothing came of the test. Three hundred
and forty pant straight through the woods, from
between the two horse-chestnuts, brought us into
a tangle of underbrush, without so much as a sug-
gestion of a stone-heap anywhere to be seen.

I made several other attempts, equally futile, to
follow out what might be the meaning of the enig-
matical directions, and finally gave up the task in
os at least for the time being.

“Come, colonel, let’s get out of these woods be-
fore nightfall,” said_Dick, at last inducing me to
give up my quest. “Ed must haye been loony when
he said them last words, and there can’t be nothin’
into’em. TPlltell my employer about havin’ found
u man dead,and he'll come up here some time or
other and look after the body.”

We returned to the road without meeting with
any further adventure. Then, upon getting into
the saddle again, I made some definite arrange-
ments with him as tothe part he was to endeavor
to play during the forthcoming raid. I also prom-
ised to convey to Mattie Collins a verbal message
from him, and we separated.

On returning to St. Joseph IT at once telegraphed
the information [ had received, concerning the raid,
to my confederates in Kansas City and Independ-
ence, making use of a cipher that was intelligible
to us alone. Then, knowing that they would at
once set on foot the necessary preparations, I
sought a tayern forthe rest and repose of which I
was greatly in need.

It was perhaps natural that I wasin a despondent
frame of mind.

“so,” thought I to ‘myself, just before sinking to
sleep that night, ‘‘another great secret has suddenly

 

instant that it was in my closing grasp, Bob Youn-
ger’s revelation, concerning the stolen boy, was al-
most in my possession, when a bullet cut it short.
In like manner I have just been robbed of this for-
tune-disclosing secret by another bullet, though in
a different way. Its infernally hard luck.”

Presently, however, something seemed to whisper
encouragingly to me.

“Courage!” the still smail voice seemed to say.
“Asa bullet has robbed you of these secrets, one
after another, so shal! they be eventually revealed
to you by a bullet in each instance.”

Then I sank to sleep, and dreamed all night of
deciphering mysterious writings and unearthing
enormous treasures.

Ona certain bright autumnal morning, not long
after this, our small but determined detective foree
was gathered in the little village of R—,-a suburb
of the town of Northfield, Minnesota.

We had ridden over to I from the nearest rail-
road point at an early hour that mourning, and were
now waiting to receive a final notification of the
meng robbers’ advance from the southward, be-
fore riding into Northfield, and notifying the bank
and municipal officers of the threatened descent.
We had resolved to refrain from doing this up to
the very last moment, fora number of reasons. In
the first place, we were anxious to allay premature
excitement, and thus get the robbers well into the
town, in the hope of killing or bagging them all. In
the second place, we had such confidence in our ar-
rangements that we felt sure we could give timely
warning even at the 'last moment, without costing
the unsuspecting citizens the loss of a man, orthe
bank the loss of a dollar. And finally, we knew
enough of the Minnesotian character to be sure of
securing ample backing, at a pinch, either for hard
fighting orin an organized pursuit, and on mighty
short notice at that.

In one of these respects it turned ont that we had
made a grave mistake, as the event will prove.

We _ had, thus far, received three secret telegrams
from Dick Little, faithfully notifying of the progress
of the robber band from time to time. We had now
been waiting forthe fourth and last communication
for several hours, and were growing both impatient
and anxious. _

Neither Sheriff Timberlake nor Captain Craig
was with uson his occasion, on account of the
fleld of operations being shifted so far out of their
State limits. Our troop, eight in number, was com-
posed entirely of professional detectives, with the
exception of George Sheppard and Charley Ford,
and I had been elected tothe chief command.

At last we received our no‘ification, but in an un-
expected way. 7

At about noon a horseman, covered with dust,
came tearing into the tavern stable-yard where we
were all in waiting, with our mounts in readiness.

The horseman was Dick Little.

“Quick, or it’s too late!” he gasped. “I’m sup-
posed to be laid up seriously wounded by an acci-
dental shot. I couldn’t find another telegraphie
station, so hereI am. Istarted for this place as
soon as the gang had quitted B—, They’re hur-
rying up from the south. Go on without me, eol-
paek. ; uick, quick! Maybe they’re already at the
bank,”

I waited for nothing more.

Away we dashed,
leaving Little behind,

Northfield was only a mile tothe south, but the |
road seemed to merely crawl under us, though we |

were going at a thundering pace. Gorham chanced
to be the best mounted, and I ordered him to spur
onin advance, and give the general alarm,

This duty he performed. it chanced to be in the
midst of the prairie chieken season, when every-
body coming to town was armed with a shot-gun or
a rifle. Gorham’s preliminary alarm,
was instantly taken up by good men and true,in a
eondition to act uponit. But, nevertheless, as the
rest of us came rushing into the excited town from
the work, Jesse James and his outlaws had already
entered it from the south, and were even at the door
of the bank.

They had come rushing inin their usual style,
which had often proved sosuccessful before—firing
off their pistols, making their horses plunge and
rear, yelling at the top of their voices, and with sim-
ilar demonstrations.

They reined up at the bank-doors, and. while the
rest remained in the saddle, still maintaining their
terrorizing tactics, Jesse and Frank James and Cole
Younger leaped from their horses, and dashed into
the interior.

Cashier Haywood bravely refused to open the
vault, even at the mouth of the pistol. He was in-
stantly shot dead by Jesse, while the latter’s confed-
erates opened fire upon the remaining clerks,
though purposely wounding instead of killing them
outright. hen Jesse mare!ied the eashier’s assis-
tant. up to the safe-doors, with his still smoking
pistol at his ear, and ordered him to openthem,

The poor fellow, with his superior lying dead at
his feet, wss probably doing the best he could to-
ward obeying the order, when the exchange of
shots just outside the bank became so violent and
on as to distract the attention of the outlaws
within,

, And just then Wood Hite rode his horse half way
into the bank with horror and dismay depicted on
his face.

“Come out of that, Joss, if you eare for your
hide!” he yelled.. “‘The game’s up! We’re hemmed
in, with the hull town agin us!”

ith a terrible oath of fury and, disappointment,
the outlaw leader knocked the clerk senseless with
a blow frum his revolver, and fired a parting shot
intothe cashier’s body as heturned to make his
escape.

Then, followed by his brother and Cole Younger,
he rushed out of the bank. ;

A wild seene of carnage met his gaze. His men
still held the approach to the bank, and were de-
fending themselves desperately, but shots were be-
ing poured into them from eyery direction, while
the accompanying shouts, curses, and yells were
like a massacre.

“Stand to it!” shouted Jesse’s undaunted voice.
ea aeer be hanged if we’re caught alive! Stand

oit?
{To BE CONTINUED.]

—_—_——__ >< ____—_-

Seacomb’s Foes;

OR, THE

Tom

Railroad Boy’s Victory.
By Randolph Hill (Sargent Colfax),

(“Tom Seacomb’s Foes,’ was commenced in No. 28
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XIII.
THE TRAP IS SET.

Mr. Charles Shandy sat in his sp.cious office in
Boston one morning of those very November days in
which Tom Seacomb was battling with his fever on
the coast of Brazil. His son Charley sat at his side
in the private room. They were in close consulta-
tion. At the point at which the reader is permitted
to overhear the elder man is saying:

“TI tell you, Charley, that that young scape-grace,
Seacomb, is going to cause us trouble yet.”

“But, father, I supposed he was dead,” said the
young man, in the most pitiless manner,

“Dead? Not at all. A message just came over
the wires addressed to Kearsarge. It was in our
company cipher, our correspondent at Bogota not
knowing that he was about out of the concern. I
read it, All’s fairin war. It seems the Kearsarges,
or somebody, are hunting the young scamp up.
Charley, he has actually crossed the South Ameri-
can continent—stored his portfolio with surveys,

mining prospecting, etc., of immense value. The
very thing I thought of setting him at. Wonderful
industry and energy has the rascal. Pattern after
him, my boy, in your nobler sphere.”

“Father, don’t preach that low-born fellow to

e Pn

“Well, Charley, that’s all right. But this Seacomb
offered his wares tothe government at Bogota. The
fools didn’t know enough to negotiate with him,
and he’s goneto Dom Pedro II. of Brazil. What
think you of that?” I tell you his head is clear.”

“Exactly, father, and we must crush him at the
emperor’s Capital.” ; ;

“Of course we must; for, Charley, in this fight of
yours to bring Sadie’s father to terms P

“To humiliate and avenge an insult, you mean.”

“Well, put it as you please. But don’t you yet
love the girl, my son? You ought to marry.’’

“By heavens, father, I don’t know! I saw her
shopping to-day in Winterstreet. I thought, as she
stepped from her pony-phaeton that she was the
most superb woman I ever saw.” :

“Well, again. In this fight, as I was saying, if
Tom Seacomb should return—say with two or three
hundred thousand ready money and credit and
fame—to take hold with his proposed father-in-law,
why, the two could fight tremendously.”

“I see. We must destroy him at Rio.”

“More, Charles. That boy can prove the very
devil against ithe Union. He has copies of all the
records of his railroad up there in Vermont—copies
of the secrets of that iron chest; and the elder man

ointed straight at an iron box in the open doors of
118 private safe.

For some moments both men sat in silence, the
younger man stroking his knees thoughtfully; his
father followed his hopeful in every motion with
those cold, fishy eyes of his, mainly directed at the
young man’s boots. At length the son said:

“Why, Dick, what do you mean by ai] this mys- | fluttered from me, like a wounded bird, just at the

therefore, |

“Father, we don’t kill men, do we?” and he
lanahea as he spoke.

“Not their bodies, my son,” and the father smiled
broadly, for he never laughed out loud, “But we
kill their business dead as a door nail, if we want
to; and then let them shift for it who dare get in our
way !

By the way. the morningpapers are full of your
gift to the Par

“Yes, my boy. That keeps up the name. Give
that twenty-five thousana that Rey, Dr. Sleeper
asked for his missionary debt, if he calls to-day. It
wa aque well; and we haye rough business on
land.”

_ ShallI go on to Washington? We need to en-
list the Brazilian minister,” remarked the keen
schemer.

“Yes. I'll drive right down to the Brazilian con-
sul’s office here in town also. Remember our
methods. Don’t lay yourself liable to a suit for
slander. In a quiet way give the imperial repre-
sentative to understand that Seacombis aseoundrel,
plotting to advance the U.S. of Colombia‘at the ex-
pense of Brazil; has stolemall his information, ex-
ploring wi:hout license, &c., &e. Convey impres-
sion that if we form a telegraph company, or a rail-
way company up the Amazon, we expect to give
shares for nothing to those who favor us, &e. Em
know how the great ring works. Dll trust you. God
help you. Hurry in the train.”

Not to wear out the reader’s patience, in this way,
with many days of subtle toil, running hither and
thither of secret agents, of which the great railway
ring had hundreds in its employ, from private de-
tectives up to senators and cabinet ministers, the
work was being pushed to ruin the mere youth who
had some of their damning secrets in his possession,
and who had thus far outwitted the giant monopoly
in one of its pet schemes.

Some time was consumed of course in drawing
the vast net which was to snare the fish. It had
come now to be December. The city was in the
midst of its winter gayety. But whether men and
women danced or wept the great mONpeOly ground
its daily grist of smaller men, and took its heavy
toll. The Shanudys and the Kearsarges met from
time totime in social circles, but it was observe
that Sadie and her fathe went out but little this
season, and that the father seemed mueh broken by
eares. Indeed it began to be whispered that he was
in decided financial] trouble—might fail, for that
matter, any day, and theggreat house on Beacon
street be sold.

What a pity!” some said. Other some said, afterthe
world’s manner: “Ought to have known better chan
to have quarreled with the ring. They’)! kill any
man they please.”

In the office of the Shandys again, a December’s
day. The reader may conceal himself behind one
of the screens and listen. A clerk brings in a eard.
The elder Shandy, who is‘“lone, looks up, reads the
card, a stare of surprise stealing over his hard fea-
tures as he answers:

“Mr. Kearsarge! Well, well, show the gentleman
in, Skittles.”

Mr. Koorentae enters, not without evident embar-
rassment in the air and countenance of the hand-
some old gentleman. Mr. Shandy, smooth as. oil,
and wary as a fox, opensthe conversation.

“Mr. Kearsarge, I’m surprised to see you. We
have not met in a business way lately.”

“No, Shandy,” answered the visitor, with the down-
| right speech and tone of one who felt himself as
jm uch morally superior as he was in years. “I come
| to-day to make a straight, out-and-out appeal to
| your manliness and love of fair play.”

“It is tobe hoped notin vain.” answered the ring-
master, his little eyes fixed on the carpet at his
visitor’s feet.

| “Itis not for myself, Bagpdy. You have got me
|under. Thank Heaven, not beggared; but you
have crippled me for life, I can live, however—”

“Excuse me, sir, business is business.
great union, in which you knowthere are many
abler men than I, saw fit to dispense with you, why
I might greatly regret ita#ut what could I do?
son Charley, however, who is becoming of great in-
fluence among us, couldeven now, if you propose,
extricate— -”

“Shandy, hold up. I see the trick; I know you
all. I came here to-day, with some sense of hu-
miliation—exeept that itis never humiliating to go
on mercy’s errands—to ask you to let up on Tom
boaeeED For two months I have done my best to

1e
and as frankly confess my failure. You fellows have
the Brazilian government pledged against him.”

; cee the young man from Vermont? Where
is he?”

“You know, Shandy, where he is, or was last
heard of. You have tracyee him to his ship, bound
from Aspinwall for Rio. You know that he seems
not yet to have arrived, unaceountably. But I
know that you have so puiled the wires that, if the
boy is not gone to the bottom of the sea, when he
does step foot on shore at Rio Janeiro he ean do
nothing; is under suspicipn at once as a lawless
adventurer; is actually Aitble to arrest, suy noth-
ing of the hopelessness of a’ profitable sale for his
really valuable surveys.”

“Sir, you—you are ab]
said Shandy, his angular
into a smile that was hal

‘Pardon me,no. I hay
where ahead of me, M
boy’s friend; Ketridge, h
are getting to be all-
God’s name, whom yo
eomb’s God as yours, giv
off your dogs.”

“Sir!” hissed the quiet millionaire. who never
allowed himself to get greatly excited. ‘Be more
careful of your terms. gs! The word is un-
bearable.”

“Well, I’m here to sueeceed. I don’t want to anger
you, I'll take back the obnoxious expression. But
it seems to be in the power of your lips to blast that
young life forever orto saveit. Why not say nuw
that one word that shall save it? That’s all I have
to say.”

“But, my dear old partner, is this indeed an er-
rand of pure philanthropy ? Have you no personal
interests toserve in the young man’s prosperous
return?” The words were spoken in a biting, quiet

 

 

 

give me information,”
outh straightening out

und your agents every-
aghter and I, with the
worked hard; but you
rfal. Now, Shanay, iw
ship, and who is Sea-
he boy achance, Call

way.

“Kor my child, yes. [have an interest to serve;
her happiness. You have a child whom you love.
A parent need not apologize to another parent fora
desire to make his child happy.” ;

“True enough. But have you no other interests
which the return of this young chap ean forward ?”

“Heaven help me tobe calm! Why, man, do you
suppose I would come here to ask a merciful deed
of you, andthen make useof it in a commercial
eontest against you? I know—as you know—what
could be proved against you by the mouth of that
young man. I know, as you know, that he has du-
plicate records which you do not care to have see
the light. But never, with my consent, shali he re-
turn by your kindness and turn upon you to harm
you.” :

“That is allyery noble, old friend, providing you
can answer for what a high-spirited young scamp
‘Now, now. You are using words hard to hear.”

“Very well. The young gentleman, then. But it
is no matter. You must not go out of this office
with the false impression that we fearany revelations
he or you_can make. We enjoy the esteem of the
nation. Heaven defends men who give away the
money that we do every year.” And the canting
hypocrite rubbed his thin hands with unctious
calmness.

‘‘We will not discuss Heaven’s deeds. Will you
do this deed? Will you eable to your agents about
the Brazilian emperor that you are reconciled to
Seacomb, if he ever turns up ?”

“No! Are you answered ?”

The old man sprang to his feet. It was Mr. Kear-
sarge’s misfortune that he was too excitable. But
perhaps the reader can excuse him now., Pausing
with his hand upon the door-knob, lifting the other
which carried his hat, he said:

“Then, Charles Shandy, I say that you would kill
if you lived inthe middle ages. It isin your heart
now. If it is in your heart, itis before God as if
pot pee was red with the deed. Remember

ain!”

Hardly had the visitor departed before young
Charles stepped in from a communicating office.
His father regarded him: for a moment in silence.
Then both men s was the habit of neither
of them ever to laugh alanud. ig

“It works, father. It works! The coil tightens.
I never saw the like. Perfect suecess! Seacomb
eannot be an hour in Rio but his every movement
will be known by our agents. Indeed, we can ar-
rest him, and I think frighten him into leaving the
country. The lawyers say we have hardly a case for
imprisonment. You see aay traveler has a right to
go upthe Amazon if he will. Our point is a good
one, however, about trying to sell his information
to the Bogota government,”

“Shall we knowif he arrives?” asked the father.

“Yes; it is all arranged that we shall be cabled,
by way of Europe, at once.”

“Allright, my child. Now try not to feeltoo much
elated over allthis. Try not to entertain vengeful
thoughts. We are but instruments in the hands of
Providence—understand? We simply punish the—
the wicked—see? We are providentially called to be
very rich and powerful men; we musf educate and
control our age. Why, this ring—as they call our
great railroad combination—is for the blessing of
the people, the masses, you know. We regulate
competition, and provide cheap fares, and organize
vast connections across the country, which would
be impossible without change of ears, ifi——”

“Father, excuse me; we heard all that before.
You do like to lecture and preach, you dear old
rogue. By the way, I made that subscription for
the heathen, to-day.”

And they both smiled the calm Shandy smile as
they fell to their tasks at separate desks, calculating
millions. ,

As they stepped into their carriage, that evening,
which always drove to the office door at the close of
business hours. the young man showed where his
thoughts were by the remark:

 

If the |

My |

him win his rights against you. Ieonfess that, |

JULY 83,1832. ecsoepe teh THE N EW YORK WEEKLY.

“Father, perhaps that rumor is true, and the fel-
low. Seacomb, is dead.”

“Perhaps so, my son. But it don’t matter now.
We are all right, either way.”

CHAPTER XIV.
THE TRAP IS SPRUNG.

But Tom Seacomb was not dead—far from it. The
brave fellow’s struggle with the Ceara plague can
be more easily imagined than described. Suffice it
to say that as soon as it became known that the
“good American” had been stricken. it seemed as if
the whole city was moved in his behalf. Who but
was indebted to him? It was he who, under God,
had saved their town from destruction. With warm,
impulsive Southern generosity, the rich and the
poor contended together for his comfort. As he
could not be removed from the government build-
ing, his office was converted into a chamber of lux-
ury. Fairwomen of the aristocratic elass came to
serve him. Proud grandees watched at his bed-
side. The cathedral and lesser churches resounded
with prayers for his ree very.

_And he did recover. When first he was able to
ride out, his course along the streets was as the pro-
cession of a conqueror. Conqueror, indeed. he was,
of hearts. A victor, not by lives wasted in battle,
but thousands of poor lives saved by his sanitary
care and Yankee enterprise. His pale, handsome
features, yet chiseled by the wasting fever intoa
nobility of tender beauty, beamed upon the people.

And when he departed, to pursue again his jour-
ney, it was as empty-handed as hecame. Butthe
fame of his disinterested kindness flew on before,
aud with, and after him to the Imperial city. The
government deputy made haste, in lengthy reports,
to set before the emperor and the distant Congress
the story of his eminent services. Perhaps we shall
find that man never loses anything by obeying the
impulses of a generous heart. Perhaps we shall
find that God does not forget deeds of self-sacrifice.

It was midwinter in Rio Janeiro. The glorious
climate was in the beauty of its favored season.
Tom stepped on shore confidently, full of hope, and
with no suspicion cf the net that had been spread
for his feet. He had money enough to proeved like
a gentleman of means to his hotel in a earriage.
He sent at once for atailor,and much indeed did
he need one after these Jong months in the wilder-
ness. As he stood the next morning upon the steps
ot the hotel, with the distinguished air of a genu-
ine gentleman, he was accosted by an American,
PaEpPonsty. a commercial traveler, with:

“From New York, I take it, Pleasant to meet a
fellow-countryman in these parts.”

“Yes. Glad to know you, sir. My name is Sea-
comb, from Vermont,” replied Tom, in the most un-
puapocting way of a heart without guile.

The stranger lifted hishat. Asif it were a signal,
you might have observed another man. leaning
, against the fountain coping in the plaza, lift his,hat
|in response and hurry away. If you had followed
| this second man, you would have seen him go di-
| rectly to the telegraph office and cable a dispatch to
| Boston, by way of Europe. Then he might have
| been traced to the police headquarters, where he
'entered into conversation with the chief detective.

Then, in turn, various persons, presumably detect-
| iyes, appeared and departed in various directions.

Meanwhile Tom sat conversing carelessly with
oe Be WAY made acquaintance on the veranda of the

| hotel,
| “Can you_tell me the way to-.the United States
| Consul’s office ?” inquired Seacomb,
| The stranger could—in fact, would walk with him
to the door; and Tom, honest fellow, explained that
he had important business with the government,
| though not naming what it was. He afterward re-
| membered that the stranger seemed very familiar
, with the American consul, and was about to remain
' seated in that official’s apartments while Tom made
| known his errand, had not the latter requested that
jthey be alone. Tom hoped that they should meet
| again at the hotel, and was obliged for the eseort.
|_ “Mr. Hawkes,” began Tom, “I am a Vermont boy.
|}Il have keen spending some time in Northern

Brazi!, and have important surveys, particularly
relating to the Amazon valley and the Andes re-
| Sion, which I wish to dispose of to the imperial

government. I have complete data for the con-
|} Struction of a telegraph line across the continent.
| Also valuable material with reference to railroad
| building over the mountains.”

“Seacomb,” answered the consul, with a wink in
|his sharp eyes, “I advise you not to pursue the
matter further, Bigger menthan you are snatch-
ing at the same prize.”

_ Yes, sir; you do not surprise me. But compe-
| tition is honorable, is it not ?’
| “T’ll not say anything more to you.
| shut,” was the answer.

“Do you mean that you will not introduce me, an
American citizen,tothe Minister of the Interior,
Fernandino? I tell you, Mr. Hawkes, that I have

i letters of introduction from one of the provinces of

pehe coast that will serve me without you then. It

| seemed to me an advantage and courteous, how-
| ever, to have the countenance of the American rep-
resentative. Perhaps you would prefer that I seek
the United States minister. Ithink I see how the
wind blows, Hawkes. Be careful. The right will
prevail. I wish you good-morning.”

“Not so fast. young man. I wish you to stay
here,” replied the official, in a severe tone.

“What! That ig cool. Stand aside from that
door,” said Tom, straightening..himself, up, as the
consul sprang from his chair and put his hand upon

| the door-knob. :

“Young chap, you are my prisoner if I please to
make youso. Listen toreason. Take the outgoing

| steamer for Europe quietly.” :

“Take your hand off that lock, sir,and sit down
again, or I'll throw you out of the way!” The splen-

| did form of Tom Seacomb towered like a Hercules
jabove the little Hawkes.and his handsome face
; paled with suppressed and righteous anger. He
| ener forward. Hawkes drew back from the
; aoor.

“Now sit down, and, like two freemen together
under the Stars and Stripes that fly over your of-
fice, tell me the indictment against me. Read me
the order for my arrest, if you have such a thing.”

| “My fine fellow,” began Hawkes, in a playful
| manner, “do not get on your dignity and call for
| papers——’ es

“Because you have none,” put in Tom. “BoyI
may bein comparison with your years, but I know
my rights and can defend them. I snap my fingers
at you and Shandy.’ 3 : :

“Shandy!” in tone of mock surprise. ‘Ah, Sea-
comb, if it were Shandy alene, butit is not. A great
many things have been going on since you were in
a civilized community. Why, a big company has
| been formed in America to build these very tele-
graph and railway lines you have surveyed. And
lots of these high officials are in with Shandy. He’s
got ’em all with him.”

“Allright. ButI’m on the ground first. I'll go
straight to the Emperor Dom Pedro II,” said the
undaunted feliow. : s

“Are you crazy? J’llimprison you!” fairly yelled
Hawkes. 2

“Ah, you too areintheringthen, Look, Hawkes,
what you do to an American citizen. You must an-
swerat Washington. Lagain wish you govd-even-
ing. Isee I must work fast.” }

Tom was almost at the door when it opened to
admit to his surprise the hotel stranger of the
morning and two powerful men in the uniform
of the city police. Tom glared at them in speechless
indignation. : : e

“Now, my grand chap,” said Hawkes, with ex-
asperating coolness, “do not tear yourself away
from us. Beseated. We willsend right up to the
hotel and get your baggage. You can get the
European steamer yet. Shesuils at6o’clock. Itis
not yet noon. re.

 

 

My mouth is

Will you go? :
Tom made no reply. Godhelp him. |,
“Seacomb,” began the hotel stranger, “I am em-

ployed by some of the foremost politicians of this
capital. I presume Mr. Hawkes has left me noth-
ing to say but to corroborate him. Dom Pedro, in-
deed! You! Why, you couldn’t get up the palace
steps, Now clear out. Don’t compel us to makea
noise.

“You ring of scoundrels!” cried Tom, confront-
ing the four men. “I know you and your Yankee
masters. I am not to be frightened out ot this city.
You shall have all the noise and publicity one in-
jured freeman can make Heaver helping the in-
noecent. Four men can overpower one, but now you
must do it or produce legai papers for my arrest.”

No one moved. Tom sprang like a tiger upon the
deceiver of the hoteland hurled him like a log
against the nearest of the policemen. With an-
other push he sent the grinning Hawkes into his
arm-chair. But the door was locked. The two
police were about to draw revolvers upon an un-
armed man when Hawkes shouted:

“Don’t shoot, for _God’s sake! We could never
answer for his blood.”

“No, Ithought not, you cowards!” yelled Tom.
“Nacure’s weapons are enough for un innocent
man. Open this door, or I’ll tear it down!”

And the young athlete grasped the frail structure
by some projecting ornaments. s

Just then there was a knock from the outside.
One of the police, who happened to be so standing
that he could Jook through the window into the
street, exclaimed, in Spanish

“Vera Cruze! It is the escort of the emperor!”

There had been a rattle of wheels anda clatter of
hoofs as the imperial carriage swept up to the door
of the consulate. A score of mounted guards drew
about the royal conveyance asit halted, their sabers
ringing against bright trappings. The wide street
was full of idle lookers-on at a distance, and shop-
keepers and citizens appeared respectfully at their
doors and windows. a

So great had been the excitement within the con-
sulate that the arrival of his majesty had not been
noticed, The orderly now renewed his knock,
somewhat impatiently, at the door which should
have been respectfully flung open in anticipation of
any summons. It was almost ludicrous in ‘lom’s
eyes to watch the transformation instantly wrought
upon the other occupants of the room. The obse-
quious police stood like martinets, with clubs at

 

shoulder-arms, blinking with awe. The nameless
detective picked himself up from the floor with
what grave he could. The man Hawkes rolled
himself out of his chair, fairly scrambling toward
the door, tugging away at his ruffled attire as he
went, asif suddenly aware that he represented the
dignity of a great nation. As for Tom he stood
motionless with surprise, awniting events with the
kindlings of a great hope which he hardly dare
name to himself.

‘His majesty, Dom Pedro ITI, inquires at the
American consulate for the gentleman just arrived,
the Honorable Thomas Seacomb, scientist, explorer,
and philanthropist.”

Thus rattled off the orderly his message.

Great heavens! what does it mean, Seacomb ?”
stammered Hawkes. “Come along with me, quick!”
and the consul fairly pulled Tom out after him,
through the opening ranks of the cavaleade who
steod with presented sabers in honor of the em-
peror’s guest.

Bowing formally at the carriage steps, Hawkes
said:

“Your majesty, my honored countryman, Mr.
Thomas Seacomb, scientist, explorer, philan-
thropist.”

A handsome, white-bearded gentleman with un-
covered head leaned forward with extended hand,
searce noticing poor Hawkes, but grasping T'om’s
brown palm, saying:

Honor us with your company. The steamer that
brought you yesterday brought the official story of
your most Christian service to our poor starving,
plague-cursed people in Ceara. Princes are honored
in honoring the heroes of Christian sacrifice. We
pt cure crare in person to your hotel and traeed you
lither.

In a dazed, dreamy diffidence Tom got into the
carriage, scarce knowing what to say or do. He
cannot to this day reeall just how he shaped his re-
ply, and he feels sure that if the emperor had in-
troduced himself by any other topic he might possi-
bly have found his tongue to renby

The sleek liveries resumed their places. The
splended horses were given rein and sprang for-
ward. The cavaleade clattered proudly after, with
plumed helmets dancing in the air, and the brilliant
sunlight glancing from steel and gold. Tom Sea-
comb, the poor-house boy of a few years ago, was
gone to be the guest of an emperor.

As they swept proudly on up the street and into
the grandest square in the world, Camps du Ac-
clamacao, Tom sat with head uncovered. following
the example of his majesty; and the people won-
dered at the noble young stranger. Who might he
be? While many remarked upon the noble mien of
some supposed foreign prince. The prince was
‘Tom Seacomb, from a country where all are prince-
ly who do princely deeds.

Past theater, cathedral, museum—past the edifice
of the Brazilian congress—past gardens with spray-
ing fountains, rare flowers, and grand tropie trees
that cast their grateful shade upon them, as also
over the group of langhing children and citizens in
holiday attire—on through the beautiful park—on
through the kindly greetings of the people. Finally,
with food for delightful memories stored for many
a year, Tom was ushered through the palace gates,
and alighted to be led along marble halls,

It needs not to describe Tom’s entertainment—
how in this august company he visited the public
institutions of the fair Southern capital; how the
newspapers, the very next day, contained glowing
accounts of the “illustrious young American who
had periled his life for the scourged peasantry of
the regions of the drought;” how noble personages
called to do honor to one whom royalty would lonor,
and all true patriots and good men felt to be de-
serving. For one whole week Tom was employed
with nothing but a succession of complimentary
attentions of the highest order. He could not pro-
test; he could only try meekly to receive.

 

At last, one day, in conversation with the empe-
ror. Tom made bold to say:

“Your majesty, however much I am gratified by
these illustrious attentions, I feel that you will al-
low me to protest that I simply tried to act out my
belief in the Christian religion——”

“No doubt of it, Mr. Seacomb—no doubt of it!”
said the emperor, with great fervor.

“And now. I am a young business man; I surely
did not make known my charitable deeds to you; I
do not wish to trade upon religious acts. have
great embarrassment in presenting certain business
aoe which brought me hither,” continued

om.

“Not at all,” responded Dom Pedro. “Your works
also are known. I am prepared to submit your
papers to a committee of congress. My prime min-
ister Will make you a pecuniary proposition at
onee.’

For two days Tom was busy with these officials.
At the end of thattime the minister offered Tom
Seacomb two hundred and fifty thousand dollars
for the entire and sole possession of all his manu-
scripts, figures, specimens, and plans. Tom closed
with the offer at once. As it this was not enough.
the congress voted the young man a resolution of
thanks “‘for his many and distinguished services to
Brazil; but most especially recognizing im him a
pattern of true Christian philanthropy,” &¢c., &e. A
gold medal was ordered to be struck, commemo-
rating his deeds in Ceara.

But before Tom could take ship for home, the
reader may be sure that these events had been tele-
graphed and written to Boston. Indeed, at the very
hour of his departure from Consul Hawkes’ office—
whicn, Dy TNC Way. -rac the vy ry hour, actual time,
in which Charles Shandy and ‘son wére riding up
from their office, and one was saying “‘Perhaps he’s
dead !”--the telegraph flashed this message, to greet
the Boston monopolists the next morning:

““To CHAS. SHANDY, Wo. — State street, Boston, U. S.A.

*“Devil’s to pay. Seacomb arrived, and received by em-
peror himself. What next?

“HAWKES, U.S. Consul at Rio Janeiro.

“Dec. 31st, 18—.”

The arrival of thst dispatch, about noon the next
day. was like the bursting of a bomb-shell in the
proud fortress of the railroad ring. The next few
days were filled with similar sensations, as message
after message told of Tom’s brilliant reception at
the distant capital. The shrewd schemers were set
buzzing with desperate consultations.

Above all things these men feared were telegrams
from Tom himself to his friends. But poor Tom
knew nothing of the recent change of feeling to-
ward him in Mr. Kearsarge’s heart. Nor had he
heard a word of Sadie in these Jone months. The
brief dispatch eabled to Charley Ketridge for his pa-
rents and sister the ring suppressed at the office, for
money could hire anything done.

But all this did not prevent Tom’s steamer plow-
ing the sea bravely on her way for New York.

(To BE CONTINUED.)

a

LUCKY JOHN WEGER!

Mr. John Weger, P. M., Kasota, recently sent
$2 to M. A. Dauphin, of the Louisiana State
Lottery, of New Orleans, La., for a ticket in the
drawing which occurred 6n the 9th inst., and
on Thursday evening last Mr. Weger received a
telegram from Mr. Dauphin informing him that
his ticket, No. 19,102, had drawn the capital

rize of Thirty Thousand Dollars. This Lottery
haa the reputation of being strictly honest, and
Mr. W. need not regret that he invested two dol-
larsinit. Mr. W. came over here on Monday
morning to make the collection through the
bank of this place. The general opinion here is
that he will get the $30,000 without any trouble,
and we hope he will. He is getting old, and this
snug sum will come very handy for him and his
lady in their declining years.—St. Peter, Minn.
Tribune, May 17, 1882.

Later.

The Louisiana National Bank has notified the
First National Bank of this place that the
$30,000 drawn by Mr. John Weger of Kasota
has been deposited in their bank. The money
was paid in full, without any discount, and Mr.
W. is now one of the wealthy men of the coun-
try. John Weger was born in Norway, July 234d,
1822, and will be 60 years oldin July. Hecame
to New York from Norway in 1850, and came to
Minnesota in 1861. He enlisted in the U. S.
army soon after he came to Minnesota, and after
his term of service in the army expired he lo-
sated at Kasota, where he has resided ever since.
He invested one dollar last winter in the same
Lottery, but drew nothing. His total invest-
ments in lotteries amount to but $3, and conse-
quently has received $10,000 for each dollar in-
vested. We understand that Mr. Weger intends
starting a store, and putting the remainder of
his money at interest.—St. Peter, Minn., Tribune,
May 24, 1882.

a
THE USES OF BAMBOO.

Bamboo is found chiefly in India, China, and the
East Indian Archipelago, though it is distributed
throughout the tropical lands of the globe. The Chi-
nese cultivate an endless variety of it, with great
care, in regular plantations. The uses to which all
the parts and products of the bamboo are applied
in Oriental countries are endless, beginning with
the young and tender shoots, which are served up
at table like asparagus, or prepared in the form of
vyickles, or Saritied by confectioners into sweetmeats,
‘he seeds are also an article of food; the roots serve
many curious purposes; while the stems are used in
almost every department of industry. Not only are
entire houses and boats made of them, but various
kinds of interior decoration and furniture—chairs,
tables, bookeases, boxes, hats, cups, measures, um-
brellas, pike and spear handles, fences, water-wheels,
ropes, fans, pipe-sticks, paper; the pith is used for

 

lamp-wicks; and fine carvings, inlaid with gold and
silver, are produced from the hard stems.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, JULY 38, 1882.

BABA. a et i a
Terms to Mail Subscribers:

3 months (postage freé) T5c | 2 copies (postage Sree) 5.00

A TERRES he ge aks SIMO VE GCODIOS, 20.545 se 00 08 - 10.00

L MSR ATG . 8.001 Be copies’, .24'5.'555:0 12000

Any person who sends $20 at one time, for eight copies,
is entitled to a ninth copy free. Getters up of clubs cau
afterward add Single Copies at $2.50 each.

Postage Free to Canadian subscribers; but postage to all
other Foreign Countries must be added to the subscription
price.

We prefer that all Remittances for Subscriptions should
be in MONRY or POST OFFCE ORDERS; but persons who are
compelled to send Postgga Stamps, will favor us by for-
warding only ONE CENT STAMPS.

(te All Money Orders should be made payable to
the FIRM NAME of STREET & SMITH. Great
trouble, delay, and annoyance are caused by ad-
dressing Money Orders to the individual members
of the Firm. We therefore hope that in all cases
they will be made payable to STREET & SMITH.

All letters should be addressed to
FRANCIS S. STREET, STREET & SMITH,
FRANCIS 8S. SMITH. t Proprietors.

P, 0. Box 2734, 25, 27, 29 & 31 Rose St., N.Y.

See

 

 

 

Bulky manuscripts should be sent by express, which
is the least expensive. Those declined will be returned
in the same way, at the expense of the authors.

Subscribers who receive the New YORK WEEKLY
in a BLUE WRAPPER will understand that their
Subscriptions EXPIRE in FOUR WEEKS. This will re-
mind them of the importance of promptly RENEWING
their Subscriptions, to avoid missing a single copy of
the paper.

LE ER I RES

“Lesson of the Strikes.

All true friends of the laborer must regret the gen-
eral strike which is now in progress in connection
with certain industries of this country. In every
trade and among all Jaboring classes there are to be
found plenty of designing men, far better schemers
than workers, who are ready by spacious arguments
to lead their associates into extreme measures.
These agitators manage to make their brothers of
the guild support them by the labor of their hands,
while they, the drones, do the talking and office-
holding business of the associations which they
create. It is neverthe able and skilled workman
who is found in such a position. Really capable
men are too valuable to themselves and to their em-
ployers to waste time in such business. The lead-
ers in these agitations, these unprofitable strikes,
are generally men who cannot assert their impor-
tance in any other way. It is the worst wheel which
makes the most noise. Whena pot boils the scum
will always be found at the surface.

The unions organized by these uneasy spirits are
far more wasteful and expensive, even in peace-
ful times, than the thoughtless members are
aware of. Every man who belongs to them
must contribute liberally to their support, while
the. officials are thus enabled to live upon
the labor of those who are industrious. A strike at
once enforces that fatal condition, idleness, with all
its demoralizing effects. It is a word for many
gathered miseries under one name. Idleness means
not only loss all around, but it means temptation.
Ths devil tempts other men, but idle mentempt the
devil himself. The principal of strikes is a wrong
one, and serves no good end; the motive may be
right, but the method is fatally wrong. It is a ter-
ribty cosuy weanot to tke up, aw two-edged sword
without a handle. wounding all who resort to it. and
cutting both ways. A strike must always be more
expensive to. the laborer than to the employer, as
well as a real and immediate waste to the ¢com-
munity at large.

Labor is the great substantial interest on which
the prosperity of society rests. Between capital
and labor, therefore, there can be no real antagon-
ism, for eapital is but accumulated labor, and the
vitality of either depends solely upon employment.
The eontract of labor is a voluntary one into which
each party enters with the hope ef mutual benefit.
A strike, whether for higher wages or less working
time for the same pay, isa breach of contract on
the face of it, and only signifies loss of money and

valuable time. Extreme measures defeat them-
selves. If, by any extraordinary combination of
cireumstances, workmen should succeed in estab-
lishing five hours per day as the legal representa-
tive of a day’s labor, is any intelligent person so
blind as to suppose, fora singie moment, that the
laborer has really and pecuniarily benefited himself,
though he gets as much for his flve hours as he
did formerly for ten hours of faithful work? The
man’s dollars, which he receives for cireumscribed
production, are worth just so much less, as the
amount of labor he gives for them is diminished.

These facts are simple ones; he who runs may
read. The workman will find the purchasing ea-
pacity of his dollar is in exact ratio to what he
performs to get it.. Money is but the circulating
medium; his labor is the real eriterion of value.
The loss of five hours, more or less, as the case may
be, is justso mueh loss of real wealth in the world,
and so long asthe workman lives, he is as mucha
loser as the capitalist who employs him. Of course
five hours will not produce so many bars of iron, so
many shoes, hats,and potatoes, consequently it
will require more of those dollars to give him uten-
sils to cover his feet, head, and to feed him. A suit
of clothes will inevitably cost him just’so much
more in proportion as his limited industry shall
diminish the value of his dollar. All associated in-
terests to be lasting must be upon an equal basis;
the bargain that is one-sided and unreasonable can
never be made to stand; justice must always be the
silent partner between all contracting parties.

There is one strike to which we could conscien-
tiously lend our countenance; itisfor the laborer
to strike for a higher intellectual position by means
of industry, sobriety; and economy, careful saving
and mental culture. Avoid association with de-
signing agitators whose only means of support is
living upon the industry of others. Poor and inef-
ficient workmen themselves, they make a cat’s-paw
of the unsuspecting, and thus draw their chestnuts
out of the fire without burning their own fingers.
In this country many of the greatest capitalists of
to-day were ‘the laborersof yesterday, who began
their career without a dollar’s advantage in money,
but with.a capital quite as effectual, namely, indus-
trv and good habits. In Europe the case is quite
different, and if strikes are ever excusable it is in
that quarter of the globe, where the laborer works
under every disadvantage, and with but the fewest
ncentives to perform his best, while here labor is
honored, is prosperous, and enjoys every consistent
accessory which can be reasonably desired.

The average wages of the produeing or laboring
classes in Europe, as we are shown by carefully
prepared statistics, is hardly forty-four cents per
day: now let those who are discontented in this
eountry contrast this fact with the liberal compen-
sation which they themselves enjoy, and not be
drawn into idle and wasteful movements by design-
ing men. The laboring classes in the United States

 

have two efficieut safeguards against ever falling | good news from her bedside for weeks. Then,

into the deplorable condition of their European
brethren. Oneof these is the system of popular
education. which prevails throughout the Union,
and the other is the cheapness and abundance of
good land suitable for settlement, cultivation, and
ownership. So long as this last resource is freely
open to all classes, capital can never greatly oppress
or gain permanent advantage over labor. ‘hese
imported agitations from Europe are therefore out
of place in the United States.

PRESIDENT GARFIELD’S RELIGION.

By Frederick D. Power,
PASTOR OF OUR LATE PRESIDENT, JAMES A, GARFIELD,

NO. 11.
Family Life—Reverence for His Mother—

Devotion to His Wif:—Affection for His
Children.

Perhaps in no other way does the subject of these
sketches appear in such attractiveness of Christian
character asin hishome and family life. lt wasa
typical American household. His heroic wife and
worthy mother have become national figures repre-
senting the noblest tyres of American womanhood.
His beautiful family group of children gives an
equally fine representation of American child-life
and youth.

General Garfield first met his wife at Chester,
Ohio, in 1849, where they were both pupils at an
academy. She was then-seventeen years old. Her
name was Lueretia Rudolph. Her father, Zebulon
Rudolph, was a Maryland farmer from the Shenan-
doah valley. Her mother, Arabella M:son, born in
Hartford, Vt., was the scion of an old Conneeticut
family. I believe there is a tradition in the Rudolph
family that one of Mrs. Garfleld’s granduncles was
the brilliant soldier, Marshal Ney.

When Garfield entered Williams College, Miss
Rudolph was teaching in the Cleveland public

schools, and continued to be engaged in this way
until he became, the head of the Hiram school, in
1858, when they were married. They continued their
classital studies together to their own pleasure and
the advantage of their children. Mrs. Garfield has
always been a lady of quiet intellectwal and domes-
tie tastes,and trained and educated her children
herself lurgely until the boys were well-nigh ready
to enter college. : ‘

Seven children were the fruit of this union. Eliza
Arabella Garfield, born July 3d, 1860, at Hiram, and
died Dee. 1st, 1863, Harry Augustus. born Oct. 11th,
1863, at Hiram; James Rusolph, born Oct. 17th, 1865,
at Hiram; Mollie, born Jan. 16th, 1867, at Washing-
ton; Irvin McDowell, born Aug. 3d, 1870, at Hiram;
Abram, born Nov. 21st, 1872.at Washington,and Ed-
ward, born Dec. 26, 1874, it Washington, and died
Oct. 25th, 1876. :

General Garfield had the highest regard for family
ties. He was a devoted husband. Mrs. Garfield
was atrue helper to him in all his work, and a val-
uable counselor on the gravest questions that came
before him in his publie life, and he realized it and
was grateful, and leaned upon her constantly. He
said of her, little more than a year ago: ;

“T have been wonderfully blessed inthe diseretion
of my wife. She is one of the coolest and b st-bal-
anced women I eyer saw, She is unstampedeable,
There has not been one_ solitary instance in my
public career where I suffered in the smallesp,de-
gree for any remark she ever made. It would have
been perfecily natural for a woman often to say
something that could be misinterpreted, but with-
out any design, and with the intelligence and coel-
ness of her character, she has never made the slight-
est mistake that | ever heard of.”

General Garfield’s domestic life was of the yout,
most elevating character. His family was a domes-
tic sanctuary in which he found shelter from the
perils and temptations of political liie. Nothing is
more ruinous and more contagious than the per-
so aland domestic habits of public men. An im-
pure ruler will debauch a whole generation; a clean
magistrate will make public impurity hide its head
for shame. President Garfield’s home was one
where virtue, aff-ction. sobriety, piety, Christianity
reigned. Mr. Zebulon Rudolph, Mrs, Garfield's fa-
ther, says: ;

“He was often at my house,and sometimes for
weeks together, and always cheerfully joined in
family worship; was particular to have his children
read the lesson with us, and was always. ready to
make sme appropriate remarks upon the lesson
red, to the edification of us all, 1f business at any
time call-d him away—which was a rare thing with
him—he wouldask to be excused. I never knew
him to be BARES Wh any He Or pey a es wove
about any in_publie or private... ‘He ever treate
poate about him With Kili ness and courtesy, He
sought first the kingdom of God and his righteous-
ness, and ali that any.one need wish for wus given
to him.

General Garfield was avery fond parent. Molly
seemed his favorite, if he had one, but he was very
deeply attached to the boys. He was neversuccess-
ful in ridding himseif of the boy-nature. He said
onee: “I feel a profounder reverence for a boy than
foraman. I never meet a ragged boy of the street
without feeling that I may owe him a salute, for [
know not what possibilities may be buttoned up
under his shabby evat. When I meet you in the
flush of mature life [ see ne irly all there is of you,
but among these boys are the great men of the fu-
ture—the heroes of the next gen-ration, the phil-
osophers, the statesmen, the philanthropists, the
great reformers and molders of the next age.”
Giant as this man was when emergency required it,
in the tree and easy intercourse of friends he was
like a boy out of school, and he naturally took great
delight in his own boys. He would geo over their
lessons with them after the toils of the day at Con-
gress. He would have them hold minature Con-
gresses of themselves, deb:te questions, and dis-
cuss points of parliamentary law. His boys would
sometimes come to the House just before adjourn-
ment, and linger above his desk wiih their books in
hand waiting to go hom: with him. After adjourn-
ment the members would go off in their carriages
or down the avenue, but Garfield, wi-h a boy on
eavh side of him. ail three chatting pleasantly and
on equal terms, would go down Capitol Hiil and cut
“eross lots’ to his house on I street. He was as
free with a child as with amonarech. The writer re-
members one day meeting him justcoming out of
the House of Representatives, with Harry on one
side aud James on the other, going toward
the B. and O, R. R. depot. The boys had taken a
young horse which the general had just purchased
for the Mentor farm tothe train, and eame up for
their father to see it off. We walked together across
the Capitol grounds, and he was as happy over the
event about to take place as either of the boys. We
talked “horse” until we passed the Swedenborgian
ehureh between the Capitol Park and the depot,
and then he branched off to tell m+ about Sweden-
borg’s imaginary conversations with Cicero, and
then we came back to the theme in which the boys
were so much interesied, aud saw the horse safely
put on board the train, and started for Menior.
The roots of General Garfield’s life ran deep into
the hearts of his wife and children, and ean never
be removed.

President Garfield’s devotion te his mother was
exceedingiy touching. No man kept more faith-
fully the commandment, ““Honor thy mother.” To
his f-llow-worshipers in Washington nothing is
more familiar than the sight of General Garfield
crossing Vermont avenue to the church, with his
mother on hisarm and Mrs. Garfield by his side.
He was always watehful and tender with her, and
at his house would present her to his distinguished
guests with all the grace and pace of a true and
noble son. She was exceedingly gratified at
*“James’” suecess, and the son was n-t less ;:leased
to have hix mother share it. When Grandma Gar-
field came to the White House she wis so @on-
stantly called for, an the continual crowd and
excitement ot the mansion were so trying, that the
President advised her not to come down in re-
sponse to the ealls of the visiters, and finally she
went with the younger childr-n to the Mentor
house. as. more quiet and restful, and the mother
never saw his face again. Every one remembers
the last letter he ever penned:

“WASHINGTON, D. C., Aug. 11, 1881.

“DEAR MOTHER: Don’t be disturbed by conflicting re-
ports about my condition. It is true I am still weak and
on my back, but Lam gaining every day, and need only
time and patience to bring me through. Give my love to
all the relatives and friends, and especially to sisters
Hetty and Mary. Your loving son,

“JAMES A. GARFIELD.”

Mother Garfield survives her great son. ‘To-
morrow,” she said, the day she received the dis-
pateh ann. -uneing his death, “to-morrow T shall be
eighty years old. but [ will not see the beginning of
another year. James is gone, and [ shall not be
1 ng after him.”

For twenty years General Garfield had been be-
fore the public, and it was seareely known that he
had a family; but Inauguration Day comes, and, in
the presence. of a great multitude, this man first
reverently kisses the Bikle and then turns and
kisses his moth:r and his wife. There was no pre-
eedent in the history of the nation for this recogni-
tion of the family. No other President ever per-
formed so graceful an action. From that moment
the family in the White House was under the eye of
the people, as no other family ecirele has ever been.

Next comes the illness of his wife, and he is heard
to say: “lL would give up all my honors cheerfully
to save her life.” The people wait anxiously to hear

‘

 

 

when she isup and away from the fatal mansion,
the terrible shot is fired, and the anxious thought
of millions through weary hoursis, “If she can
only live until she reaches him!’ ‘This prayer is
answered, and now for eleven weeks the public
solicitude is for the wi e wilder the long strain that
she may keep hope. Then agaiu it turns to the
litile mother way off at Solon, and we hear the
plaintive ery, ‘“‘Who could beso cruel as to kill my
baby ?” Afier awhile he writes her that letter, and
ull the najion reads and says, ‘God bless him!?’
The brave boys, too, are under the eye of. millions,
and the ruddy, sweet-tempered daughter enters
intothe sympathies of a world. Then there were
the litile boys, wide-awake lads, who used to make
the old mansion ring with their mei Irwin with
his velocipede and Abram with his bean-shooter,
taking a chance at high dignitaries, and esteeming
it fine fun when he eould let fly and hit a cabinet
minister, These way off at Solon sob and weep in
the hearing of millions of ehild-lovers.

The nation even turns aside to view the little
graye-yard back of Hiram Coliege in the quiet little
village of Hiram, and pauses before a white stone
with the simple inseription: “Little Trot:she wears
the vrown without the conflict!’ This was the old-
est daughter, dying before he left the army for Con-
gress, and beside her Edward, the youngest, who
died in Washington in 76,

Now the family circle is broken. The center has
been removed. The noblest one—the son, the hus-
band, the father—is missing. The little one who
wears the crown without the conflict, and the great
one who wears it right worthily now through stern-
est struggle, are together before the throne.

e+

TO GRATIFY HIS WIFE.

By Kate Thorn.

There are men in the world who liko to gratify
their wives. Skeptics may. deny it, but it is a fact,
nevertheless. *

If the man who likes to gratify his wife, has the
right kind of a woman for a wife, then we have Par-
adise duplicated; but as itggenerally happens ‘that
in this world.everything is out of joint,. so we find
that the more the average woman is “gratified,” the
more she wants to be.

We have in our mind’s eye just now, just such a
case as Wwe mean.
Mrs. Brown. Mr. Brown is: in decent business,
yielding a decentinecome; he worships Mrs. B.,
and Mrs. B. is willing he should.
permits him to do so, provided he always does ali
that she asks him to do. a

Now, a man who, after marriage, will do all .that
his wife asks him, is a rara avis, and it would pay
him to travel round the country and exhibit himself
to the admiring female multitude which would want
to see him so as to tell their brutes of husbands how
charming he was.

Mr. B. married his wife for love, and now, after
the lapse of five years, he thinks there is nobody
like her, and he feels no inverest in pretty parlor
maids, or flirting widows, or gushing young girls.

Mrs. B. doesn't like to have him drink coffee,
because his breath smells of it, and she hates the
smell of coffee. so he has left that off; and she
doesn’t like him to joii¢my lodges, because he
comes home smelling of s 10ke, and she detests
smoke, so he doesn’t join; and she doesn’t like the
smell of a horse, sc he doesn’t drive; and she ab-
hors hair oil, so he lets his hair fly whither it will;
and she doesn’t like guld in his front teeth, so he
has had his teeth extracted, and just now is "“gum-
ming it,” preparatory to haying a new set.

She doesn't like boys, and. Mr. B. being unable to
control the sex of his offspring. does the next best
thing, he sends all, his boys to his Aunt Martha to
be taken care of. Mrs. B. says that though she can
manage to abide girls, she should actually go crazy
with boys, and roeking-horses; and drums, and
marbles, and kites, and thipgs, “round her house!
And, for her part, she wond
invented. “hd

Mr. B. likes the sea-shore; but. he never goes there,
because Mrs. B. prefers the mountains. What any-
body can see in that great fussy body of water,
tumbling’ on a sand beaely and throwing up dead
fish and defunet lobsters,4¥hich smell so awfully!
she says she does not understand. And as for bath-
ing! No modest woman would ever make such a
spectacle of herself! No ingeed! If ever one of her
girls shonld put on trouser4.and wade ont that way
before folks, with her teet bye. shesh uld die. And
if she was already dead, shg@#@thould turn over in her
grave.

Mr. B. washes t!

is Lie,

medicine gives her nausea,and the loss. of sleep
makes her dizzy. Anda dreadful doctor, with bot-
tles; and pills, and stuff so bitter that. you have to
hold your nose when you take it, and his things for
looking into hearts and lungs, and knives to cut you
up with. and he’d just as soon doit asnot. No, Mrs.

penne not hold audience with a doctor for
worlds.

Mrs. B. buys all the dresses she wants, or else she
pouts, and asks him what on earth he supposes she
married him for? Andshe says she wishes she was
out home with mother. And he feels like a wretch,
and wishes he was dead, and wlhiere he should not
make his best little wife feel bad.

Their house is refurnixhed every two or three
years; and all the old things sent to the auction
room. Mr. B. gives away all his clothes befor: they
are half worn out, because Mrs. B. is so tired of see-
ing them.

There are not many men like him, but he exists,
and his wife ought to adore him. and haye sense
enough not to make him do things which render
him ridiculous in the eyes of his friends.

> e-<-

ka “In some parts of South America the banana
skin is converted into a materi:l of which ladies»
dresses are made. This is probably the kind that
the lady slips on easily,” says the Yonkers States-
man. We did not know that the lady-slipper was
that kind of a flower, but there has not banana
around here recently. and we may have become a
trifle mixed in our garden spot, but we are con-
vineced that the banana skin that loafs around
here is more fruitful of slips than anything we

know of.
>-@

MADAM GABRIELLA PASQUINADA’S
Art Gallery of Fine Paintings,

Never before Eggs-hibited in this Country.

I will call the attention of this depreciative and
intellectuable awgence to the first gem of art (so to
speak) brought to your view. It is by an artist of
the fourteenth century, called Mr. Rafull, a man
that painted a good deal, but whether he made
money or not I never hear tell. It is said to be his
“Shay duneer,” and is no doubt one of them.

This painting is called the “Pilgrim’s Sunday
Morning,” and represents the potato families (to
use a clasical expression) abent to shave. For the
benefit of those in this inte#*™@™rDle awgence who
appreciate the graces of ecogoniy, 1 would say that
there isa first-class barber shop behind pilgrim
rock in the distance, which John Alden and Miles
Standish patronized, but this old pilgrim father pre-
fers to shave himself and save his 10 cents to invest

in palm leaf fans to send to the ‘native Greenland
icy mountiineers. The mother is seated beside the
new nickel-plated morning glory stove, and may be
easily distinguished by the fine-tooth eomb which
she holds in her riyht hand, and the visible turn-up
of her nasal appendage, whirh seems to indicate
that the baked beans are too baked and burning in
the even. In them days of primitive. privational
privileges beans was beans, and worth $1 a bushel;
henee her seeming distress, wnieh the’ artist has
well brought out on her nose, as well as the canvas.

The child at her knee is the youngest of the
eighteen beautiful cherubs who have been born
under the shadow (so to speak) of the immortal,
and never-to-he-desired Plymouth Rock. This ten-
d rbahe stands at her mother’s knee about to un-
dergo the semi-weekly combing of hair, indulged in
hy large families in those days For the benefit of
th Se persons in this intell-ctuable awgenee who do
not remember the’ landing of the Pilgrims,” I will
sny that owing to servan! girls bein rather searce
in that vicinity in those days, and Fren«b nurses at
great discount, ‘he mothers of families (especially
those of buys and girls) were obliged to perform
the very ignoble offices of bringing up their own
children —an authen ieated account of which is soon
to be issued as a one peeant to *“Fox Book of Mar-
tyrs,” by Sara Bernhardt.

On the left side of the group you will see one
daughter trying on her feet a pair of ‘‘Burt’s best
boots,” the advertisement of which she saw posted

Let us call the parties Mr. and }:

In tact, she.

‘troduce in

rs why boys were ever |-

cose THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3>* srs

on the fop of Plymouth Rock one day in autumn.
The artist has very successfully caught the expres-
sion of satisfaction upon her counten:nnee. At the
left a younger girlis picking over a pound of raisins
forthe p um pudding for dinner. Please observe
the large size of the raisins, as they were raised in
the grapery adjoining epee Rock. On the fore-
ground a boy is engayed in either learning his Sun-
day-school lesson, or playing solitare;the artist
seems to have been alittle obscure himself about
the occupation. The other fourteen children are
variously seatteredin the picture, but you see they
are all at home. The artist has evidently made a
study in this magnifivent painting to awaken the
interest of the public in the Pilgrim mothers that
they may be toasted side by side with the Pilgrim
fathers, to whom history and the New England
society hive always been rather partial.

Mr, Rafull has marked out upon the canvas the
Pilgrim mother in good style, which cannot fail to
interest tunis awgence, and I hear diverge to remark,
as the sole PLP PRE of this magnificent art gal-
lery, that if it were not for the Pilgrim mothers
there would not only have been no painting of the
Sunday Morning, but no children to paint, and that
yonder Piymouth Rock, instead of being patented,
copyrighted, and set off as the cradle of the Pilgrims
—sayingn ‘thing ubaut the crib of the New World—
would to-day have been cut up in blocks. and la-
beled ““Hand Sapolio” by some en'erpri~ing firm of
New England, With these desultory and embel-
lishing remarks, I will pass on to the next magnifi-
cent painting, and expose to your view one of the
finest gems of my unequaled eggs-hibition.

This rare and valooable painting I purchased at
an eviction sale of the Duchess Saxe Bear, County
Cork, IreJand, for the immense sum of fifteen hun-
dred guineas, fourteen pence. It was painted by
Mr. Beerstadt, who has been rightly sir-named
“the ee of Amenican painters.” It is called
“The Old Man of the Mountain,” and there are but
two figures in the sc¢ene—the old man and the
moun!ain—and is » seene full of nature’s beauties
and triumphs. The mountain (from its majestic
height) was evidently painted after the deluge,

when things was “riz,” and in its grandeur res:'m- }

bles a hage cake or bride’s loaf frosted with a’
sugar. ,

The trees in the distance on the mountain side
are not seen, for the reason that they were all blick
walnuts, and the price has advanced so that the
artist could not afford to put them upon the
canvas. The man may be easily distinguish-
ed from the mountain by his square-cut shirt-
collar and the pair of number eleven Dents gloves,
which are rather large for his hands, as well as the
curious expression upon his countenance, which
may be deciphered by esthetic people as a half-ex-
pressed fear that he may be mistaken for the moun-
tain. He is evidently a hermit and fond of scenery,
not objecting to play an important part in a winter
landscape, ind no doubt is the orignal of the plain-
tive ditty ““Out in the cold.”
| Please obserye the blue rr of the nose,
in which the artist seems to have wrought out the
best effects, and the stony glance of the eye which
is of the best red Land Stane, This fine gem of art
Leggs-hibited before Shah of Upper Canada, who im-
mediately gave an order for fae-simile copies to in-
is harem.

‘The third and last painting which TI shall eggs-
hibit at this seance is one of the most wonderful in
my immense category. It is called "Study of Dogs,”
after Landseer. And the great artist (whose name
will be handed down to posterity unknown) seems
to have invested his painting with a mysterious
mystery (so to speak); it would seem to the culti-
vated wsthetic eye to be rather unfinished; that is,
we would naturally expect to see Mr. Landseer in
the foreground; he is, however, out of sixht, not
eyen being shown up onthe other side. And no
explanation why the dogs are “after” Mr. Landseer.
There seems to be in the subject a development of
mental sagacity; and yet the painting is one ot
high merit. Observe, if you please, the very natural
twist of the dogs’ tails, and the sleek condition of
their coats, which Iam assured have been worn at
least eight_years, without any change in style or
fashion. The oasis of white, upon the front dog
in the picture, is well developed, and shows fine
outline. Perceive; also, the intelligence portrayed
in the right eye, and the sentiment in the left; also
the dogmatic appearance of the third animal.

Subjects of No Importance,

Thirteen children died on the steamer Nemesis,
of the Royal Netherland line, on her last passage
from Holland to New York. An agent of the com-
pany, having been called on by a reporter to account
for the unusual mortality, and to give the names of
the deceased, stated that a record of the names was
not kept, as it was ‘‘a subject of no importance.” It
had also been charged that the ship’s doctor was
drunk every day during the yoyage, and theréfore
incapable of performing his duties. In explanation
of the doctor’s f.iling,the agent declared that the
doctor had “‘a qneer way of acting sometimes. | If
you didn’t know him you might think he was
drunk.” er a lad

An intoxicated doctor, or a doctor who has “a
queer way of acting sometimes,” may be account-
able for the death of thirteen children. But.as they
were not the children of the indifferent agent, this
extraordinary mortality, and the eccentricity of the
physician, are of course ‘“‘subjects of no impor-
tance.”

Se TTT oes ae
Correspondence. '
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS,

Harry Wilson.—1st. No satisfactory theory has been
given of the cause of the aurora borealis or northern lights.
That some connection exists between the aurora and mag-
netism, or rather electricity, which is now regarded as
the primary cause of magnetism,is made certain by the
tact that during the continuance of brilliant auroras the
magnetic needle is generally disturbed, sometimes violent-
ly agitated. The airatthesametime is often observed
to be highly charged with electric matter. The only con-
elusion which we are warranted in deducing is ‘that the
aurora borealis must. be ascribed to the agency of elec-
tricity inthe npper atmosphere, but in what way the ex-
eitement is produced it remains for future discoveries to
make known. 2d. Shakespeare is buried in a church in
Stratford-on-Avon. Milton, in the church at St. Giles.
Cripplegate, London. Columbus was first buried in the
couvent of St. Francis,at Seville, thence the remains
were transferred in.1513 to the Carthusian monastery of
Los Cuevas.. In 1536 they were taken to Santo Domingo;
thence they were conveyed with great pomp in 1796 to
the cathedral at Havana, where they have since remained.
William Penn’s remains rest in Jordau’s burial ground
near the village of Chalfont St. Giles, in Buckingham-
shire, England. We ean find no record of the burial-
place of Lady JaneGrey. 3d. Wecannotstate at present.
Announcement will be made when the stories are issued
in book-form. 4th. We cannot reprint the stories without
crowding out others as good.

Constant Reader writes: “Some years ago a woman was
married in Canada,and her husband deserted her after
a couple of weeks. She then went to Detroit, and after
remaining there three years got a.divorce from-him and
returned to her home in Canada, when she was married to
another man, who deserted her after living five years with
her. Shesued him for maintenance, and the court sus-
tained his plea that the marriage was illegal, as the law
in Canada does not recognize divorces obtained in the
States, but ordered him to support their son. until he be-
comes of age. If she had married her second husband in
the States would her marriage have been legal? Is she
free to marry in the States now?’ Ist. The second mar-
riage would have been legal had it been performed in the
United States. 2d. The validity of a marriage is deter-
mined by the place where itis contracted. Therefore as
the second marriage was contracted in Canada and has
been decided there to be illegal, in the United States she
would be regarded as asingle woman, and competent to
marry again, for, curious as it may seem, the sanie_de-
cision which declares her to be a married woman and in-
competent to marry in Canada again, makes her a single
woman in the United States, aud allows her to take
another husband.

Mrs. J.F.F.—\st. French flats are apartment houses ofa
better class, furnished with all the modern conveniences,
elevators, steam radiators, etc. They are finished in the
most attractive style, inside and out, and are generally in
charge of a janitor. The aportments are arranged in
suites of four to six rooms. In some of the flats there are
restaurants, from which the tenants can have their meals
sent to their rooms, They are intended for people of
moderate means, who wish to live in good style, without
the trouble and expense of managing a large household
with a retinue of servants. The apartments rent from
$40 to $250 a month. In some of the more elaborately
finished flats, the appointments are equal to those of a
first-class hotel, and the tenants are not allowed to have
their meals cooked in their apartments. In these, the
suites of apartments. rent as high as $250 a month. 24d.
Yankee notions is a general term applied to small, useful
articles used in the household. It is one of those collo-
quial terms the origin of which it is difficult to trace.

Miss Nancy. -Your criticism, from one standpoint, may
be considered just—that is, assuming that all our readers
have tastes in common; but suchis not the case, and we
must necessarily endeavor to please all in turn. For this
reason, we must alternate Society stories, Defective sto-
ries, Border stories, Sea stories, Juvenile stories, etc.,
éach in turn being the favorite reading of a certain per-
centage of our patrons. In the first class are the stories
of Mrs. Holmes, Mrs. Victor, Mrs. Sheldon, Bertha M.
Clay, Mrs. Lewis, and a host of others, two or more of
whom are constantiy in our columns. This, certainly,
does not indicate that the wishes of the class of readers
who prefer that style of stories are ignored.

J. McDowell, St. Louis.—1st. We do not know ofa reli-
able general work on soap-making other than that of
Dussuace, which costs $17.50. 2a. To make:cocoanut oil
soap in large quantities, put one hundred pounds of eocoa-
nut oil and one hundred pounds of caustic soda lye of 27
degrees Baume into a soap kettle; boil and mix thorough-
ly for two hours, until the paste gradually thickens; then
diminish the heat, but continue stirring until the cooling
vaste assumes a white half-solid mass; then transfer

 

 

quickly to the frames. A mixture of equal parts of cocoa-
nut oil and tallow will make a very fine jilled suap, which

is so called because the operation of salting or graining is
needless.

F. W. B., Langdon, N. H.—We do not find the name of
James Tutts, as Governor of Montana. On the organiza-
tion of the Territory, in 1864, Sidney Edgerton was oF
pointed Governor, who was succeeded by Thos. Franc
Magher. He was followed by Green Clay Sihith, Jas. M.
Ashley, and Benj. F. Potts, who has held the position.
since 1871. Our information is taken from annual re-
ports, and itis possible Mr Tufts may have held the po-
sition for ashort time in the interim. It is possible a let-
ter addressed to Jas, Mills, Secretary of the Territory,
at Helena, may elicit the information desired,

T. W. N.—1st. There is hardly any book of selections but
in which you ¢an find scores of pieces which are adapted
tor public reading. Among the more popular are “Shamus
O’ Brien,” ** Paul Revere’s Ride,’ *Horatius at the Bridge,”
“The Vagabonds,” “Sheridan’s Ride,” “From Ghent to
Aix,” “The Charge at Waterloo,” “Antony’s Address to
the Romans,” ‘‘The Launch of the Ship,” “Fitz James
and Roderick Dhu,” “The Burning Prairie,” and hun-
dreds of others. 2d. Gen. John H. Morgan, the Confed-
erate cavalryman, was surprised at Greenville, Tenn.,
Sept. 3, 1864, and shot while endeavoring to escape.

Boy Reader.—ist. ‘Red Panther” was commenced in
No. 7 of the present volume; the *Condemned Wife” in
Ne, 5. ae “Van, the Government Detective,” will cost

cents.

Yachtman.—Namouna is one of the goddesses of Per-
sian mythology. Sheis an enchantress, and thongh the
first of created beings, she is as young and beautiful as
ever. .

Cc. S. Carr,—A storm chart is a map showing the average
number of centers of storms, and indicating their fre-
frequency and the paths usually taken by storms,

Old Bar.—1st. We do not know the address of gun man-
ufacturers in Colorado. 2d. There are large gun mana-
factories in Hartford, Conn., and in Ilion, N. Y.

A. P. Connell.—i1st. The papers containing “Jennie
Vail’s Mission” will cost 78 cents. 2d. Powellis an old
English name. We cannot trace its origin.

Helena.—Taxidermy is a trade, and like all other trades
requires practice to become proficient. We can send you
Brown’s “Taxidermist’s Manual” for $1.

‘California,—There are two weekly papers published in
BOnott, eh wme Tuolumne Jndexienteant and the Union
emocrat,

M. K., Sacramento, Cal.—See the New York Clipper for
the movements of circuses.

F. M., South Pueblo, Col.—Half dollars of 1830 are not
worth a premium.

ay Sie dollars of 1795 are worth from $1,50 to
OU.

W. R. Tucker.—We have several of his stories in hand.
Bina B.—The right to dramatize the story is reserved.
John Paulick._We know nothing of the concern.
Hannie.—The best plan is to advertise the coins.

The following MSS. are accepted: “Be e to Your-
self,” “Beyond the Sea,” “The Sweetest Flower.” The
Tollowing are declined: “This Evening,” “The. Follies of
Fashion,” “To Be or Not to Be,” “A Soul’s Cry.” “My
Garden,” ‘Wayside Thoughts,” “Ode to oan Ge “Love is
Immortal,” “About Advice,” “Purity,” “C -bv.” “John-
ny’s Letter,” ‘“‘That Ghost,’ “The Tippler to Himself,”
“Allie,” “Travels of a Greenback,” “A Gladsome Song,”
“The Black-eyed Belle of Bethany,” ‘Lost and Found,”
POlensernc” “Warning to Fathers,” “Each a Cross Must

ear,

ETIQUETTE DEPARTMENT.

Bashful: James, St. Louis, Mo.—ist. When eating ice-
cream you hold the spoon between the thumb and *fore-
finger, and the handle rests upon the middle finger. 2d.
A lady who isin mourning fora parent orany other near
relative may receive calls from her intimate triends as
soon as she feels inclined to do so, but she will not enter
society or receive formal calls, nor make them for at
least six months after the death of a parent. 3d. Persons
should use their own judgment as regards the words
they use in congratulating a newly-married couple.

William D., Providence, R. I.—If a man is liberal to the
poor and subscribes to venue charities, and attends
church regularly, always lending a willing ear to the
solicitations of his minister, men will pronounce hima
Christian. yet they cannot know how his account stands
between himself and his God, and you cannot judge of
society by the demeanor of some few of its members. Be-
cause some men and women are vain, false, and treasher-
ous, it does not become us to stigmatize all mankind and
womankind assuch.

F. B. T., Selma, Ala.—The more good company you in-
vite toyour table the better it isfor your children; for
every intelligent conversation held there is an educator
for them, and oné can often judge of the hospitality of a
family by the refinement, intelligence, and appropriate
demeanor of the’ children to whom well-bred guests and
their conversation haveimparted much information.

Mrs..J., Chicago, Lilinois.—Where any doubt exists in
reference to your ability to accept an invitation to dinner,
itis usually better to decline it at once, uuless peculiar
eircumstances exist: but for an evening party, it is as
well to accept it, and ‘if circumstances arise to prevent
your attendance, you should send a polite nete of expla-
nation and regrets as soon as possible. :

Florence.—1st. Family letters should receive a prompt
reply ; and it is a great mistake not to teach children the
necessity of doing this. 2d. Business letters also demand
a prompt reply, and it is most annoying not to attend to
them as soon as possible. If you receive One at evening,
reply the foHowing morning and if in the morning,
swer by the next mail. :

. ‘
Mary W., Dover, N. H.—1st. The chief art of pleasing
is to make every one feel at home; that is, at his ehse.
2d. If anything has occurred in your home to ruftie your
temper, do not annoy your guests by telling your griev-
ances. Of course they cannot be interested in such petty
details, and the relation may tend to mar their pleasure.

Mrs. Z. O. K.—The_ table, linen shonid be of spotless
purity. There should be but little starch, if any, in the
table-cloth, and none in the napkins. Not only should
the glass and china look clean, but the surface should
have @ brilliant polish, and above everything else feel
clean to the touch. :

A Brunette.—It would not be proper to write your own
letter of introduction; but if you have a friend who is
acquainted with the gentleman, you could get a letter
from him or her and: presentit to the gentleman whose
acquaintance you desire to make.

Mrs. O. W., St. Louis, Mo.—Usnally one’s demeanor at
the table betokens the lady or gentleman; and the con-
duct of the children also exemplifies with unerring cer-
tainty the character of their home training.

Housekeeper.—It is a good plan, when inviting guests to
visit you, to state a given period for their visit. Mention
the day when ee would be happy to receive them, and
the length of time of their visit.

George.—Itis strictly kind and polite to offera stranger
a seat in church, and also to peer a& prayer or hymn-
book, and. if the person is a lady, you should find the
places for her in both. .

G. O. J., Wheeling, W. Va.—A love of truth,*a high
sense of honor, delicacy of manner, and strict. adherence
to correct principles, are the chief essentials of home eti-
quette. A

G. F.—Gratitude for services received shonld on all oc-
casions be expressed in afew well-chosen words.

>

The Detectives of Real Life.

Next week we shall begin the publication of a se-
ries of biographical articles on the DETECTIVES OF
Reat Lire. Many of the most experienced detec-
tives of the country will-form subjects of the series,
and the concise narration of their exploits will no
doubt attract general attention.

Mrs. Fleming’s Charming Story.

Next week we shall place before our readers the
opening installment of a fascinating story by

MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING,

AUTHOR OF

“Wedded, Yet No Wife,” “A Wonderfal Wo-
man.” “Lost for a Woman,” etc.

It is in the unique vein of the distinguished
author of so many popular stories, and bears the
title of

Sharing Her Grime.

The same delightful delineations of character
which mark all of Mrs. Fleming’s works—with no
two personages alike—will be found in this power-
fuland extremely interesting story. The action is
quite spirited, the conversations quaint and wiity,
andthe plot captivating.

We hope the numerous admirers of the gifted
author’s productions will peruse the opening chap-
ters of age

Nirs. Fleming’s Brilliant Story,
Sharing Her Grime,

 

Ready Next Week.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

JULY 3, 1882.

 

 

THE PARSON'S FEE.
BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

Two lovers sued for a maiden’s hand,
And a bonnie lass was she;
With a modest mien,
Bright, merry e’en,
And a heart both light and free,
And tree,
With a heart both light and free.

“ I know which one I love,” she said,
“As any maid should do;
But I'd like to know
Which gallant beau
Would be most kind and true,
And true,
‘Would be most kind and true.

** Ay, I wish I only knew to-night
Which sweetheart loves me best,
And to find this out
Without a doubt,
I must pnt them to the test,
The test,
I must put them to the test.”

So she whispered in the ear of each:
“‘ Give me the parson’s fee.
Ili keep the same
_In the bridegroom’s name;
For a wedding there shall be,
Shall be,
For a wedding there shall be.”

The first he placed a ten-pound note
In her hand so white and fair.
* Small price, my love,
My precious dove,”
He said, ‘for a gem so rare,
So rare, _
For a gem so bright and rare.”

Then the other gave a one-pound note,
Though he had gold galore.
“ My dear.” he said,
“The parson paid,
My rival comes no more,
No more,
My rival comes no more.”

“Your rival is the man,” she cried,
“ Who shall the bridegroom be;
For the tenderness .
You both express
Is shown in the parson’s fee;
You see
Which one is the man for me!”

The maiden got the man she loved,
And her way with bliss was paved,
While the man bereft,
He smiled, and left,
For his one-pound note was saved,
Was saved, :
For his one-pound note was saved.

A DARK
- MARRIAGE
_ MORN,

By BERTHA M. CLAF,

AUTHOR OF

“Thrown on the World,” “A Bitter Atone-

ment,” “The Duke’s Secret,” “His
Wife’s Judgment,” “A Woman's
Temptation.”

“A Dark Marriage Morn” was commenced in No. 25

Back numbers can be had of all News Agents.]
CHAPTER XXX.
AN IMPORTANT CONSULTATION.

There was no more time now to trifle with destiny.
The first thing Lady Lovel wished was that she had
not the management of her own life; that some one
else would undertake it for her. In this erisis she

would have liked a strong mind to guide hers—a

strong brain to Jean upon., She wanted some one to
say: ‘Lady Lovel, you must marry the prince. It
is best for you—the best thing you can do,” er, “Lady
Lovel, you must not marry the prince, it would not
be wise.” ‘She was on the horns of a dilemma her-
self; the time had arrived when she must decide—
marry, or not marry.”

Never was any one so undecided, and there was no
touch of love to weigh down the balance. On one
side there was her almost lawless love of liberty, her
love of flirtation, her desire to reign as a shining star
among men; onthe other, her gratified vanity and
ambition, the longing to be a princess, and rule over

a small kingdom, the longing to know that all the
vast wealth and treasures of the prince were her
own. the longing to show Lord Rawdon and the
duchess that she could do as she liked, to triumph
over the world of fair women who had envied her;
there was hardly one good feeling called into life on
either side.

There was another thing: she longed with all her
heart to subjugate and bring low this haughty, hand-
some face. who seemed to defy the whole race of
women. True, he loved her, but it wasin a half-de-
fiant fashion. She wanted to see him asthe other
men had been whom her fair beauty had intoxicated;
she wanted to see him lose that cool, calm, collected
manner, und go mad, as most men did who had loved
her; she knew there was no love without madness.

If the proud head would bend before her as
Lord Rawdon’s had done; if with one glance from
her blue eyes she could make his heart beat, his
strong frame tremble; if she could reduce him, su-
perb and proud as he was, to the same state as Lord
Rawdon or Sir Gerald, she would be happy; but
there was upon her a restless sense of want of power
over this stalwart royal Russ.

Oue false step now, and her life would in great
measure be spoiled; there was need for care and
caution.

“Mamma,” said the spoiled beauty, when she
reached home, ‘I shall not go out again to-day. I
want to talk to you this evening.”

It had suddenjy occurred to ber in her perplexities
that the kindly, simple, pious nature of her mother
would be the one to guide her,

“Good girls always do the right thing,” she said to
herself. “I will be a good girl to-night, and tell
mamma everything, and de what she says.”

A virtuous resolution, which quite delighted her,
and made her feel herself one of the best daughters
in the world. So, when dinner was over, instead of
going out, as usual, to ball or party, Lady Lovel
ordered a small, bright fire in her boudoir, intending
then and there to decide her.own fate.

Lady Lovel, practicing any of the domestic vir-
tues, was always a pretty sight. When she was go-
ing to be what she called good, in any particular
fashion, she discarded all splendor; she threw off all
jewels and ornaments; she loosened the long, thick
vail of golden hair, and gave herself up to the spirit
of the hour. It was apretty sight,that would have
touched the heart and the senses of any man. Lady

vel had a favorite easy-chair of pale-blue velvet
and gold; she drew that near the fire, and the rosy
light fell on the fair face, the golden huir, the white
dress, the blue and gold that framed the golden head;
_one little foot, with a-satin slipper, just touched the
edge of the fender; the very type of dainty, soft,
luxurious beauty. Indeed no one loved warmth and
luxury better than this queen of coquettes. She lay
with her fair head resting on the back of the cnair,
trying to solve this problem—Should she marry the
Russian prince or not? She smiled as she remem-
bered thatit was not very long since she bad tried to
a out whether she liked Sir Gerald or Lord Raw-

on best.

“How could I ever tolerate that dark, proud man?”
she said to herself; and her heart warmed to the
memory of sunny-haired Sir Gerald, whom, after all,
periar she liked better than any one else in the
world,

Mrs. Temple came into that beautiful room, which
was a fitting shrine for loveliness.

“You want to talk to me, Beatrice?” she said. “I
am quite at your service, my dear.”

She, too, seated herself. where the roseate glow of
the fire fell on the black dress and the kindly face,

The beauty stretched out her white arm with lan-
guid grace,

“This will be a consultation, mamma,” she said.
“T find myself unequal to advising myself or to man-
aging my own life, so I come to you.”

“I will do my best, Beatrice; but you know, my
dear, as a rule you do not like advice, and you do
not follow it.”

“Not as a rule, [admit that; but then you must
own, mamma, that good advice is seldom palatable—
the really good advice I mean.”

“T suppose not,” murmured Mrs. Temple

UN

faG

 

 

 

 

“Now, on this occasion,’ she continued, amusing
herself by wrapping the long tresses of golden hair
reund her white arms—‘‘on this occasion, mamma,
whichever side you take will be agreeable tome. I
do not care which way we decide, but we must conie
to a decision. Mamma, Prince Orloff, the famous
prince of whom all the world is speaking, has told
me to-day that he loves me.’’

“TI am not surprised, Beatrice.
come to this.”

“He will be here to-morrow, and I know that to-
morrow he is going to ask me to marry him. The
question is, Shall I do so, or not?”

“Whatdoes your heart say, Beatrice?” asked the
gentle lady, to whom such a nature as Lady Lovel’s
was a dead letter—a book she could not read.

The beauty laughed.

“My heart, mamma? It says nothing at all; it is
not interested in the matter.”

“You do not love him then ?’

“Love him! I never thought of such a thing. When
we discuss my affairs we may leave love and hearts
quite out of the question.”’

“Beatrice,” said Mrs. Temple, gravely, “be careful.
Why should you think yourself stronger than other
women, and able to live without love. I often think
what an awful thing it will be if you should learn to
love some one when it will be too late.”

“My head and heart will always go together, mam-
ma,” she said, laughingly; “they will not part. The
question is not of my loving the prince, but of mar-
rying him. What do youthink of it?”

“He is very great-aud very famous; but oh! Bea-
trice, my dear, I do not quite like him,’ said Mrs.
Temple. “I watched him that morning when he
called to see you—the first morning, I mean; and, do
you know, although he seemed to admire you—I can-
not exactly. describe what I thought, although he
seemed to admire you, and paid you such magnifi-
cent compliments, still I did not think he’ loved
you. ZI am quite sure it was not love that shone in his
eyes.”

axis see he wishes to marry me, so it must be
what princes consider love,” she said, laughingly.
atte did he really give;you that impression, mam-
mat?’

“He did indeed; he gave me a most unpleasant
impression. He is very handsome, I admit—he is,
in fact, the handsomest man I ever met in my life;
but there is something about him not irue. I did not
like his face, I told you; the features seemed
strange yet familiar to me. I was not at all favor
ef impressed with him.”

“Ide not suppose it will matter much to me what
kind of man he is; he is a prince, and fabulously
rich. You should hear him talk about his ‘palaces,’
mamma—it is better than a fairy tale—his haunted
castles, his beautiful houses, his large estates, his
treasures of jewels and art. It would be some-
thing indeed to find myself mistress of all that
splendor.”

“Yes, it would be a grand marriage,
Beatrice.” :

“And a princess in Russia would be like a queen,”
she continued, her eyes growing brighter and more
lustrous—‘‘a queen reigning over hundreds of sub-
jects! ‘I should like that—I should like power ”

“You could certainly do an immense amount of
sped, said Mrs. Temple; and the beauty laughed
aloud.

“T never thought of that.
not others, that Iam seeking. You see, mamma, it
is a very magnificent offer; I may never have such
another one—I do not suppose I shall. If I wish to
be a princess, this is the time.”

Ane you do wish it?’ said Mrs. Temple, ear-
nestly.

“Yes, mamma, I do—I should like to be a princess;
the title has almost a magical charm for me; but I
should like it better without the drawback of a
prince.”

The bishop’s widow knew how useless it was to
argue on that point.

“Tmagine what it would be like to have so man
houses—one in every country!” said Lady Lovel,
stretching out her white arms and admiring them.
“IT thought when Sir George left me his fortune I
was the luckiest woman in the world; but Prineess
Orloff would laugh at the income of Lady Lovel.”

“Oh, Beatrice! how I wish you looked at things
from a different point of view,” said Mrs. Temple.
“Believe me, no woman can live without some heart
and feeling. How is it that you, with so beautiful a
face, have not a more human heart?”

“It is an excellent thing for me that I have nota
human heart,” she replied. “Do you think what I
should have done if I had ?”

“No, I cannot tell,” replied Mrs. Temple; “I have
no idea.” ©

“T should have married Sir Gerald, and there is a
great difference between the wife of an English
baronet and the wife of a Russian prince.”

“T should choose the English baronet, Beatrice,”
was the quiet reply.

“‘And TI the Russian prince. I always hada longing
for barbarous splendor! Now, maimuna, think seri-
ously for me; what shall I do?”

“If we only knew what was best for your happi-
ness, Beatrice ?” ‘

“There is auother point to be considered,” said the
beautiful woman, with a sudden brightening of her
face; ‘as Princess Orloff I should be all over Europe
what Iam here as Lady Lovel. I know that: some
people have said I was not équal to the position—
that my birth was too lowly. I should like to show
them that I am a princess by nature. I should like
to show those who have scandalized and envied me
that Iean bring the most superb young prince in
Europe to my feet. I—I think I shall marry him,
mamma!” *%

“You will do what you please, Beatrice; I know
my advice is worth nothing to you.”

“What advice do you give then, mamma?’ she
asked, clasping her white hands at the back of*her
galiien Head, and looking asif she were tired of the
subject.

“T give this advice, I give this counsel, Beatrice—
do not marry him. I think God has given to mothers
a certain keen instinct for the preservation of their
children! The moment I saw Prince Orloff I dis-
liked him; all my nature seemed in opposition to
his. I mistrusted him without knowing why. It was
nature that spoke to me. Avoid him—send him
away; do anything but marry him.”

“I am afraid it is too late,’ she said, languidly ;
“he is coming to-morrow, and it seems to me that I
shall have to say Yes.”

Mrs, Temple sighed.

“T knew, my dear,’ she said, “when you asked my
advice, that you would not follow it, unless it pleased
you. Itdoes not please you. Lam afraid that if you
marry this. Russian prince with all his barbarous
splendor, you will be a most miserable woman.”

“YT must take the better and the worse together,”
she replied, carelessly. ‘“‘You look tired, mamma;
thank you so much for coming to talk to me.”

“T wish Thad been of more use,” said Mrs, Temple,
slowly. :

“7 shall enjoy it, mamma,” she said; “you need
not be unhappp over me. I begin to look forward
almost with pleasure to the time when I shall be
Princess Orloff. What a pleasant sound the words

haye!”
CHAPTER XXXT.
ON THE BRINK OF FATE.

The sunlight fellon the flowers and pictures in
Lady Lovel’s drawing-room; the fair face of Queen
Esther and the dark face of Queen Vashti shone on
the walis; the room was filled with the odor of fresh
hyacinths, and_ Lady Lovel sat there awaiting her
lover. She had not cared for him to fix a tiie, it
made the whole affair so formal, as though any one
should say: “Call at half-past three to ask if you can
marry me.” She would avoid anything so formal as
that. The morning was warm, and she had a very
interesting French novel. It was not the first time
she had sat there awaiting a proposal—it would
be the last, for she had made up her mind to marry
Prince Orloff. She was fascinated by the prospect
held vut to her, by the rank and wealth of her ad-
mirer; she could not resist the temptation of show-
ing to others how they had misjudged her in think-
ing that she could not attain any position she would.
What a career hers had been and would be. What
other woman could show such conquests? A bishop’s

I thought it would

no doubt,

It_is good for myself,

‘daughter, and now she was to be a princess!

Looking with careless eyes, first atthe pages of
her book, then at the fairfaces of the two queens,
she wondered whether Esther had felt any great ex-
hilaration at being made queen; she wondered. if
Vashti had felt any great bumiliation. Looking at
the handsome face of King Ahasuerus, she wondered
if the Russian prince would be arbitary, dictatorial,
as he had been.

There came to her a half-wonder as to whether,
when he took her away from more civilized lands—
took her to the old castle among the trees—he would
be kind to her, and she was of so curious a nature
that she positively enjoyed the half thrill of fear.
She had heard strange stories of fair women being
spirited away to those dark woods, of wives who en-
tered those grim old castles and were never seen
aetna, and she actually enjoyed the little thrill of

anger.

“TI thought once,” she mused, “that my life would
be so commonplace, would be all enjoyment and
yleasure ; and now there is a tinge of romance—a

aint thrill of danger that makes it delicious.”

The French novel that she was reading was a de-
lightful one, but she found the} romance of her own
life better still. It was more pleasant to be in the
sunshine and dream of the proud, superb young
prinee brought low, reduced .to the state of other
men, than to read of the intrigues of a fair French
countess; the pictures she madein herown mind
were more vivid and beautiful than those drawn by
the writer. Lady Lovel gave up her novel and aban-
doned herself to herthoughts. She had been told on
very good authority that the prince was of royal de-
scent; true, he was not addressed as “your royal
highness,’ but from what he said she gathered that
he was royal m4 birth, and all kinds of brilliant
dreains came to her. é

Could it be possible—could it be within the bounds
of possibility or romance that she should ever ap-
proach a throne?

Her heart beat, her face flushed, and before that
flush had died away the prince stood before her.

-woman’s money.

 

 

 

“You have pleasant thoughts, if one may judge |
from the expression of your face, Lady Lovei,’’ he |
said. “I hope I am not too early. [ have been
counting the hours, and I thought the right. one
would never come.”

With a graceful gesture of her white hand she
pointed to a seat, but the prince did not take it. He
advanced toward her, and beiore she could recover
from her surprise, he was kneeling by her side.
Kneeling—he the superb young prince whom no
woman had ever swayed; kneeling—nov at her feet, it
1s trne, but by her side. He took one of her lovely
little hands in his,

“You would not allow me.to ask you myquestion
at the flower-show. I have conf to askitnow. Lady
Lovel, will you be my wife?”

It had come; this proposal which was to elevate
her far above ordinary women. Her heart beat high;
she felt at that moment much as a queen feels who
enters upon fer kingdom; fame, boundless wealth,
the grace perhaps of royalty offered to her, all with-
in her grasp.

“IT am afraid,” he continued, “that you will think
me abrupt. I am afraid the Orloffs are bad wooers.
I ought to have prefaced my questions by compli-
ments, but I could not. I am too much in earnest,
and a man in earnest does not think of these things.
He goes to the point at once. I love you, Lady
Lovel, and I want you to be my wife.”

Looking at him suddenly, struck by the tone of his
voice, she was struck again by the expression of his
eyes; it was certainly not love that shone there,
what it was she could not tell, but it was not love.
She had seen the very madness of love and
despair in Lord Rawdon’s eyes; it was nothing
like this. She almost laughed as she thought to her-
self that he had the air of a man reciting a lesson,
saying something that be had learned by heart.

He stopped abruptly when his apne met hers. Was
it her fancy, or was there something of confusion,
the slightest shade,in his manner? She must be
mistaken. But then a prince in making love natur-
ally differs from an ordinary map. The thought
flashed through her mind that it wasindeed a victory
to her, such words as these from the Prince Orloff,

“TI can offer you such advantages,” fhe continued,
“as would tempt many women. I holfi you above
such temptation. You will marry me ‘because you
care for ine, if you marry me at all.”

What sweet, subtile flattery it was. But if she
married him at all it would be because He was so rich
and so famous. He went on:

“Princess Orloff will be a queen. You will have
sway over broad lands, over men and women, over
untold wealth; you will have tame and position
such as_ is quite unknown even to the most promin-
ent of English peereses; you can choose whatever
country you will for a residence ; you can choose what
style of residence you will; you can command luxu-
ries that are hardly known even to queens; you can
wear jewels that would grace an empress; you will
possess treasures that a king might envy; you will
be the most beautiful, the most popular, the most
famous and most beloved woman in Europe; you
will wear something more than a royal crown—you
will be queen of all hearts, and I—I wish we Orloffs
were better wooers-—l will give you my heart and
my hand, I will try to make you the happiest woman
i oa world if you will be my wife. Think, Lady

ovel.’

She could not tell what sudden impulse came over
her—to pause on this, the brink of her fate—what
sudden curious foreboding, what voice seemed to
cry to her, “Stop!’ Of course it was all neryous-
ness—there could be nothing wrong. A handsome,
rich young prince—what could she desire more—
what could she wish for? If she was to marry at
all, this was the best match she ,cowld make; and
there was no longer a chance of refreat, she had
gone too far—she could not trifle with a prince and
an Orloff. Soshe trampled under foot all the sud-
den nervous apprehension that would have made her
pause.

a Isay anything that will persuade you?” he
asked. :

And for the first time there was a shade of anxiety
in his manner—he no longer seemed quite so secure,
4 was Lady Lovel’s silence that alarmed him, per-

aps.

“I wish,” said the princely wooer, “that I knew
2 what words and in what fasbion other men make
Ove.’

“Does not your own heart teach you?” she asked,
suddenly, and his face flushed crimson at the -ques-
tion.

“Yes,” he replied; “but I am not sure that the
teaching is of the right kind. You have not an-
swered me, audit must be my fault, either because I
have not expressed myself properly, or I have not
made myself understood. Lady Lovel, I want you
—earnestly, with my whole heart, I say it—I want
you to be my wife. Say yes, and I shall be the hap-
piest man in the world.”

She thought to herself for one half minute that he
did not look the happiest man on th. But that
was of little moment.

She stopped for one moment before she answered.
In after years she remembered that pause, and
wondered if it were an admonition sent#rom Heaven.

The prince bent his dark, handsome hgad and kissed
the white hand he held. He looked \% at her with
all the tenderness and passion he cogd throw into
his dark eyes.

‘Lady Lovei, will you be my wife?
and a low voice answered—

“Yes.”

Sie. remembered afterward that w#e
Was spoken a cold shudder came over her, as though
a blast of east wind had passed her by.

“I thank you,” said the prince. ‘You shall never
regret your decision.”

He rose and stood looking at her. His face had
grown pale, and she thought again to herself that
= had not quite the air of a happy or victorious

over.

“T thank you,” he repeated, with a deep sigh, and
as though he felt a sensation of relief.

Certainly that was not at alllike the impassioned
wooing of Lord Rawdon. She could not help think-
ing at that moment—the crisis of her life—if she had
said yes to him with what arapture he would have
hailed the word. She must make some allowance
for a prince; perhaps men were cool according to
their rank, and she smiled to think how cvol, at that
rate, a king or emperor would be.

Then the prince drew the chair of biue velvet and
gold near to hers. He flung himself into it with the
air of a man who is exhausted—who has had some
great strain upon his mind and found it relax. Then
some consciousness of his position came over him,
and he collected his thoughts. :

. ae knelt down again by her side and kissed her

and, 7

“That is in gratitude.” he said. ‘(How shall I thank
you, lady Lovel?”

“By being very kind to me, and giving me alll
want,” she replied.

“That is very practical,” said the prince, with a
little laugh of great relief, ‘You are of a practical
turn of mind, Lady Lovel.’’

Still ‘‘Lady Lovel!” he did not call her Beatrice, or
address any tender word to her, She thought of the
passionate love words Lord Rawdon had lavished
upon her. She thought ot Sir Gerald’s pretty, pa-
thetic “dear,” and she wondered if any of this fire of
love would transform or transfigme Prince Orloff.

He was looking at her with an amused smile, half
mocking, half tender,

“So I must be very kind to you and give you all
you want?” he said. “I will undertake that; every
desire you have in the world shall be gratified. And
now, Lady Lovel, that you have made me the hap-
piest and the most fortunate of men, add one more
grace ?””

“IT willifIlcan. “What isit, prince?’ she asked.

“IT want you,” he said, quietly, “to arrange our
wedding-day—nay, hear me, Lady Lovel; do not
look so startled. Thanks to your goodness we are
cpHeges now, we shall be married—some time—what
can it matter whether it be this year or next? Let
it be soon. All such matters as settlements, money
arrangements, etc., can be made quickly. You have
a large fortune, have you not, Lady Lovel—that is
for a lady ?

“Yes, moderately large. I have thirty thousand a
year,’ she replied, knowing in her heart that the
sum was nothing to him, yet secretly proud of it.

“Did you not know I had money?’ she asked,
thinking how powerful her beauty must have been
to have attracted him withengA4~he influence of
money.

“Tf have heard something about it. The arrange-
ments need not occupy long, for I insist upon this,
that the whole of your fortune is settled upon your-
self. Ishall never touch it. You shall have thirty
thousand per annum pin money.”

; oe will not be fair to you,’ she said, wonder-
ingly.

“It will be quite fair. We Orloffs never toucha
Let me see you again to-morrow,
and then we will settle our wedding-day.”

A few minutes afterward she was alone. They
were engaged to be married. He would not touch
her fortune, but passed it over in the most kingly
fashion; and yet he had not kissed her face, or
whispered one loving word to her.

he repeated,

CHAPTER XXXII.
THE PRINCE’S REQUEST,

There was no excitement parallel to that which
ran through society when the news of the engage-
ment was confirmed and made public. “The Beauty
and the Prince” every one called them; the wonder
was that Lady Lovel did not completely lose her
head. The congratulations poured upon her—the
flattery, homage, compliment, praise, curiosity, that
followed her every step and every movement—she
_ forthe time the most important lady in the
and.

The only one person who did not seem delighted
was Mrs. Temple. Thinking to please her mother,
and show her that at least the prince was disinter-
ested, Lady Lovel hastened to her when her curious
interview with the royal Russ was over.

It_had been a curious interview; it had left every
kind of impression upon her mind, except that he

 

loved her. A flutter of grateful vanity came over

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

her as she thought to herself that marriages with| “No; but you must not laugh at me; you are not
princes were, perhaps, more of a state arrangement
than anything else. In every-day marriages between |

common people there was, she knew, an immense
amount of ‘“‘gush”—of love-making, caressing, meet-
ing by moonlight, and all that kind of thing. It was
quite a different matter with the state alliance,
known as the marriage of princes. Still, elate as she
was with her triumph, gratified as she was at the
future before her, she could not help just a little wo-
manly wish that he had given more love to her. She
wished that he had whispered a few words to her—
that he had caressed her.

She went at once to Mrs. Temple, who was in her
favorite sanctum—the morning-room.

“T have news for you, mamma,” she said.

“T know, my dear, the prince has been here; what
is it, Beatrice?”

“IT am to marry him, mamma,” she answered,
and mother and daughter stood for a few minutes in
silence.

“You should congratulate me, mamma. Think
what a position for a bishop’s daughter, Iam to be
Princess Orloff, the wealthiest woman in Europe. I
shall have more money and finer jewels than any
lady in the land—a princess! You must congratu-
late me, mamma.”

“T hope you will be very happy, my dear,” but
Mrs. Temple’s face was not a very bright one.

“He is a very generous man,” continued Lady
Lovel, ‘and Iam proud of the fact that Iam going
to tell you, because it shows that he loves me for
myself, and that money has nothing to do with it.”

‘We think Lam rich,” she continued, with a smile
of great enjoyment, “but he is so much richer that
the whole of my fortuneis not worth his notice.”

‘Mrs. Temple shook her head gravely.

“Tt is so indeed, mamma; he has told me that he
insists the whole of my fortune shall be settled on
myself, It sounds like a fairy tale. I am to have
thirty thousand per annum pocket muney.”

“Repeat that, my dear; I do not understand clear-
ly,”’ said Mrs. Temple.

“¥ do repeat, mamma, that Prince Orloff says he
will never touch my money ; it is to be all settled on
myself.”

“Did the prince really say that, Beatrice?” asked
pat gory gravely—“really, and without any mis-

ake

“He did indeed, mamma, and it is, I think, very
generous of him.”

“My dear,” cried the anxious lady, “it is unnat-
ural! Believe me, Beatrice, it is quite unnatural. If
he has said that, there must be something wrong!
No man, however much in love he may be, is ever
indifferent to money. Poor Sir George was what
they called a rich man, and he had what you tell me
the prince laughs at. Now, Beatrice, be warned and
listen to me! I am quite sure thatif the prince
thinks thirty thousand a year beneath his notice,
and leaves it all to you, there is something wrong! I
am sure of it, my dear; it is unnatural. Men, let
them be as much in love as they like, are never indif-
ferent tomoney. One nation, one king, would go to
war with another for that sum, and you tell me he
does not need it. Beatrice, be warned, there is some-
thing wrong.”

“Dear mamma,” cried the young beauty, “do not
go off at a tangent in that fashion. T will not be
rash. But what can there be wrong? One must not
give way to foolish fancies. What do you think is
wrong?’

“I do not know,” replied the anxious lady—“but
I feel quite sure of it, I repeat that itis not natural.”

And Mrs. Temple wrung‘her hands as one who had
little hope.

“We must not judge princes as we should other
men,” said Lady Lovel. “If Lord Rawdon or Sir
Gerald Hastings had refused thirty thousand per
annum, I should have considered them fit only for a
luvatic asylum; but for a man who counts his in-
come not by thousands, but by hundreds of thous-
ands, my income does not seem much.”

But Mrs. Temple could not be convinced--not all
Lady Lovel’s arguments could drive that one idea
from her mind,
thousand a year for his own use, there must be some-
thing wrong. What that “something” could be, the
poor lady never even tried to guess; and Lady Lovel
lost her patience at last.

“T felt sure,” she said,“that you would sympathize
with me, and be pleased at. what is really marvelous
good fortune, Only think, mamma! I can give you five
thousand a year now, all your own, and you can live
at Warden Hall.”

“T am not thinking of myself, Beatrice, but of you,”
said Mrs. Temple. ‘Be careful. I wish we had never
seen this Russian prince.”

“You will think differently in ashort time,” said
Lady Lovel.

But that never happened. From the moment that |

Mrs. Temple heard the news until that dark marriage

morn she never ceased to cry out that it was an un-

natural thing, for all men loved money.

u Lady Lovel laughed at her mother’s tearful asser-
ions.

“There can he nothing wrong, mamma,” she said.
“A man would think twice before he tried to deceive
me. The only thing that could happen is this—he
may have been married before, and have a wife hid-

den in one of those grim old castles. Even in fiction |

that kind of thing has had its day, and in real life it
seldom happens; and if it did, the law would find
me aremedy. The thing is impossible. He has nev-
er sought the society of ladies; people spoke of him
as they did of Lord Rawdon—they said he would
never marry, But,” she added, with a triumphant
smile, “he has not been able to resist me, There is
nothing tofear. Why, thousands of mothers in this
fair land would be delighted beyond words— beyond
lmeasure—to have a daughter Princess Orloff.”

“[T am not. my dear,” said the bishop’s widow,
gently; and after that there was no more to say.

On the day following, Prince Orloff returned. Lady
Lovel thought that he looked pale and care-worn.

Could it be that he was really anxious over her de-.

cision?—that he was making himself ill with anxiety
over her? Prince Orloff had come to make a pro-
posal. He looked very handsome, very imperious,
with a certain constraint upon him. Lady Lovel
owned to herself that it would take all her time and
all her wit to keep the royal Russ in order. He stuod
before the beautiful picture of the two queens, Vash-
ti and Esther, and when Lady Lovel entered the
room she saw a smile on his lips—a smile keen, bitter,
satirical. She shook her head, with a smile, as he
held out his hand.

“No,” she said; “before I shake hands with
you must tell me why you were smiling ”

“T do not think it will please you,” he replied;
“still [ will tell you, if you wish. I was thinking
thatif Thad been King Abasuerus, I would have
made that beautiful, rebellious queen come to me
whether she liked it or not.”

“A king must always, I suppose, be a gentleman,”
she said, seriously; “and gentlemen do not ‘insist’
even with their wives.”

He seemed suddenly to remember something.

“Well argued, Lady Lovel,” he eried. “How keen,
and subtle, and clever you ladies are in words; but I
did not come to argue, but to plead and pray.”

“Then do it comfortably, prince,” she said. “Take
a seat. How warm itis. Iam always indolent ona
warm day.”

But, instead of taking a seat, Prince Orloff went up
to her, and took ber hands in his.

“YT am here to ask a new grace from you,” he said.
“You have made me the happiest man on earth by
promising-to be my wife. Now I want you to add to
ny happiness by saying that you will marry me at
once. Why should I wait? We have no relations to
consult. May I tell you what I propose—that is, of
course, if it suits you—if it meets your wishes?”

“Yes; I shall be glad to hear it. Iam sure that
you will only propose suitable things to me.”

“There can be little doubt,’ continued Prince Or-
loff, superbly, “that our engagement wili be the topic
of the season. Why not fix the marriage for the end
of the season, and it will create a furore such as no
marriage has created in England for many years?
Let the season finish with that. A wedding,” he
continued, “brilliantas a wedding can be. I have
ho wish to hide your beauty from the eyes of others.
I wish every man in the world could seé you on your
wedding-day; they would see how fair a woman
can be. I am not one of those jealous men who
would shut np such beauty as yours. It would be
ernel. When you are my wife it will give me great
pleasure to see you admired and popular as you
are now.”

This was pleasant news—a_ pleasant revelation.
Lady Lovel’s face shone with delight.

“Listen to me, Lady Lovel,” he continued; “our
marriage will be the grandest finale this season can
have. If {£ could—if I had sufticient influence—I
would be married in Westminster Abbey. As it is,
we must submit to Hanover Square. If you will
consent; we will have such a wedding that people
will talk about it for years to come. What do you
think?”

“Tt seems very soon,’ she said; ‘‘we are almost
strangers.”

“We shall have a whole month to know each other
in,” he replied. “I thought the last week of June
would be the best. After then people will be leay-
ing town. If you will give me permission, I will
revolutionize all London by giving orders at once.
It shall be such a wedding as will never be forgot-
ten ”

Looking at him, she touched most unconsciously a
truth,

“Tam almost jealous, prince,” she said. “I am
afraid you think more of the wedding than the
bride.”

Just for one half-second he was confused.

“You must give me credit for very bad taste,” he
replied; “the wedding is the frame—the bride the
picture! When the most beautiful woman in Europe
condescends to be married. surely no ceremony can
be too magnificent for her.”

“[hke magnificence,” said Lady Lovel. “Do you
really thinkthat Iam the most beautiful woman in
Europe, prince ?”’

“T do, indeed,” he replied,

“And,” continued Lady Lovel, “do you love me—
really love me?”

“Assuredly I do, or why should I ask you to be my
wife? Have you doubted that?”

you,

 

like the generality of lovers; you are not so demon-
strative!”

Even then he did not kiss the beautiful face so
near his. An anxious expression came over his eyes,
and Lady Lovel wondered with true feminine curi-
osity. To love her well enough to marry her—to give
her thirty thousand a year, yet not to kiss her, seen
ed so strange.

“Will you consent to my prayer, Lady Lovel??
asked the prince; “shall the marriage be in the third

| week in June !’’

“Yes, if you really desire it,” she said; but even
then, when he had settled the wedding-day, he did
not kiss the lovely face.

“Perhaps princes do not kiss,” thought Lady Loyvel;
“there must be a reason for it!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
~@

THE

Lights o Gotham;

oR,

The Gilded Villain.

By RALPH ROFAL.

[The ‘Lights 0? Gotham” was commenced in No. 31.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER X.
BITTER ALTERNATIVES.
“Colonel Edward M. Austin!’ repeated Vivian
Grey, gazing inquiringly at his visitor. “I do not
know, sir, that I have the pleasure of your acquaint-

| ance, though your name is necessarily familiar to
| me.”

“Ah, indeed!” exclaimed the colonel, in a slightly
satirical tone.

“It is a great honor,” continued the artist, point-
ing to a seat, “for my humble studio to be visited by
a Wall street magnate, whose brilliant speculations
and princely fortune have made his name a house-
hold word throughout the land. Any commission
that you may intrust to me, sir-——”

“Cease this tomfoolery, sir,” impatiently inter-
rupted the other, as he took the chair indicated and
motioned the artist to a seat beside him. ‘Why as-
sume this affectation of ignorance toward me ?”

“Affectation of ignorance !’’ exclaimed Vivian, be-
wilderedly ; “I confess I do not understand you.”

“Do you mean to tell mein my face that you do
not know me, after having married my daughter ?”’

The artist sprang to his feet with a bound.

‘“*You are Emily’s father !” he cried.

“Exactly, young man. Though how in the world
you should have married her without knowing who
she was passes my comprehension.”

“Oh, sir, how could I kuow, since your daughter
imposed upon me a vow never to inquire, and the
sincerity of my astonishment now must convince
you how faithfully I have kept my pledge.”

“It is very queer,” said the colonel, “and. under

 

 

 

If Prince Orloff had declined thirty |

| the circumstances, I must acquit you of any merely
mercenary motive on your part. Not knowing the
relationship existing between your wifeand me, you
could not have had any designs on my wealth. Emi-
ly, who has revealed all to me this morning, stated
| thatit was at her desire that your marriage to her
| Was a Secret one. But I do not know all the details.
; Yousee I am talking coolly and in a common sense
way withyou. Iam neither angry nor excited, but
as your father-in-law I have the right. to know all
the steps of this mysterious courtship and marriage.
Take your seat again, Mr. Grey, and tell me the
whole story. Be open and frank with me—do not
conceal the most trifling fact. In that way alone
can we come to a proper, mutual understanding.”

Vivian sat down again, greatly surprised at this
business-like manuer in which the affair was being
treated.

“I will meet your courtesy with an equal frank-
ness,” he began; and then more minutely than be-
fore he repeated the story of his love adventure as
he had but just now related it to his friends.

Colonel Austen listened attentively to him, and,
though his face remained impassible, a covert smile
every once in awhile hovered around the corners of
his lips, while his eyes glittered in anticipatory
triumph.

; .When Vivian had finished there was a moment’s
| Silence, which was finally broken by the colonel.
“Mr. Grey,” he said, ‘Iam a matter-of-fact busi-
;hessman. As such I cheerfully acknowledge that if
there was any wrung in concealing these matters
| from me, that wrong lies on my daughter’s shoul-
ders and not on yours. I also recognize, as I said
| before, the absence ot any mercenary motives on
; your part. The fact that you, like the majority of
struggling artists, are poor would be no obstacle in
‘my eyes, for my fortune is ample enough for all pur-
poses. Werela free agent, or were my daughter at
liberty to act as she has acted, I would be only too
happy to acknowledge you as my son-in-law—to
have your marriage publicly proclaimed. As it is,
: eorex it is just the opposite which must be
| done.’
| Vivian’s hopes, which had risen high at the bank-
er’s first words, were crushed by this unexpected
conclusion, uttered in a cold, deliberate yeice which
| permitted of no gainsaying.
| He would have sprung to his feet, but the colonel
| restrained him, adding:

“Say what you have to say calmly and quietly,
;and do not let your impulses run away with your
|reason and common sense. You will have need of
| both those qualities before we are through with this
| interview.” (

There was a peculiar kind of fascination in the
| metallic tone in which all this was said, and in the
; cold, clammy touch of the colonel’s hand on the
| artist’s wrist. The disappointment, the anger, the
| Sense of wounded honor died out of the young man's
| heart, and he spoke and acted as if he were under a
mesmeric spell—the spiritual slave of the master of
evil who sat before him.

“Tf be do not acknowledge our marriage,” he
said, dejectedly, and without any of the spirit which
the occasion would seem to require, ‘what is there
to hinder me from claiming my lawfully wedded
wife, and toiling up the ladder of life from poverty
to competence, as so many have done before me ?”

“Yourself, my dear sir,” politely returned the
colonel. ‘You yourself are the hindrance. You are
poor, and I need not tell you that a lady reared as
my daughter has been is entirely unfitted for the
drudgery of household work, and would be only a
millstone around your neck, even if she should con-
oo to leave me, which of course she will never
do.

“But, sir,” desperately. asked Vivian, “why this
opposition on your part? If, as you say, you have
no fault to find with me personally, why not give us
a small portion of your wealth and let us begin life
together ?””

“Now you are treading on delicate ground,” re-
joined the colonel, with asmile. “I told you I was
not a free agent; neither is my daughter, though she
does not know it. Why it is thus, frankly, does not
concern you. You can easily understand that it is
not a question of money with me. I will give youa
check for one hundred thousand dollars, if you re-
pudiate your marriage with my daughter.”

The young man was stunned by this proposition.

One hundred thousand dollars! It was more money
than he could hope Jever to achieve with his brush.
But, on ihe other hand, he was asked to commit a
dishonorable action. And toward whom? Toward
his own wife; and that, too, at the bidding of her
own father. What mystery was this which forced
such a proposition from a father’s lips?

No wonder his brain whirled, and that he grew so
faint that he had to clutch at the back of his chair to
save himself from falling.

“There is one other alternative,’ continued the
colonel’s cold, metallic voice, sounding in the artist’s
ears like the knell of doom. ‘It is a more disagree-
able one. My daughter will, at my command, repu-
diate her warriage to you, openly, if it must be. If
you have the least spark of affection for her you will
not submitther to this ordeal. It will dishonor her in
au eyes except yours and mine, while on the other

andi——’

“If I proclaim myself the villain which I am not,’
interrupted Vivian, “I alone will be disgraced, while
she will receive the sympathy due an innocent vic-
tim.

“Exactly. That’s just the position of affairs I de-
sire. Tam glad tosee that.you cateh the point so
readily.’’

“Sir,” cried the artist, rising to his feet and gazing
steadfastly at his visitor, “you are a monster!”

“Come, come, young ian,” imperturbably re-
plied the colonel, ‘‘we are not here to bandy words,
but to act. I have presented to you two alternatives.
Either you will state that the ceremony which
united you to,.my daughter was a mere mock mar-
riage, and null and void, in which cease you will re-
ceive one hundred thousand dollars, or my daughter
will proclaim the sume thing, with the added state-
ment that she knew it and consented to it. Im this
case, of course, you will receive nothing from me.
You can take your choice.”

“But, sir, either proceeding will break your daugh-
ter’s heart.”

“Humph! I'll take care that it doesn’t, though I
really believe that she loves you a_great deal more
thau you ever loved her.”

“T will be frank with you on that point, sir. I did

 

 

not love her when I married her. To metheaffair was

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

merely a flirtation ;
either prove myself a villain or
shame, now, at this moment, I love her asI have
never loved a woman in my life.” :

“Your sentiments do you honor,” said the colonel,
with an ironical bow. ‘And you will prove your
love——” ' ; Mh

“By saving herptre name,” he interrupted, and
overwhelming mine with dishonor, leaving it to time
to vindicate me.”

“A wise resolution, Mr. Grey,” exclaimed the col-
onel, extending his hand with a gratified air. ‘Time,
sir, is popularly supposed to right many wrongs,
Shall I draw you a check, sir, now.” ;

“Keep your filthy lucre,” cried Vivian. “TI will not
touch a penny of it. I will sell what little I possess
and leave the country.”

“As you please, sir,

but now. when you ask of me to

You will understand, how-
ever, that I amyour friend, Necessities may arise
where money will bea godsend to you. You may
draw upon me for any amount; your drafts will al-
ways be honored.”

“Enough, enough, sir.
—to disgrace myself.” :

“Oh, simply write a letter to my’daughter. You
will know What to embody in it. I will take it to
her myself.” ‘ a i

With a heavy heart and trembling hand Vivian
wrote out his own condemnation, every word of
which he knew was false and umtrue.

He handed him the letter, and then pointing to the
door sternly said: \

“Go, and may you never regreat having’compelled
me to write such a letter to your daughter.”

Having accomplished his purpose the colonel wise-
ly forbore prolonging the interview, and, bidding
the young man good-day, was soon out of the studio
and in his carriage on his way home.

Euily was feverishly awaiting his return. ;

For the hundredth time she had gone to the win-
dow to catch a sight of her husband and father. At
last she saw the carriage, and when she beheld her
father alight from it alone, an apprehension of com-
ing evil made her tremble from tip to toe.

She was so excited that she could not speak a word
when-her father gravely entered the library and
closed the door behind him. 7

“My husband,’ she gasped at length, ‘Vivian!
Where is he? Have you seen him?”

“T have, my poor child,” replied the colonel, in a
tone of deep cia mae

“Great Heaven! ow you speak?” she cried,
“What is it? Oh, tell me, what is it?”

He handed her the letter.

She feverishly tore open the envelope and devoured
the contents of the letter.

Then she uttered a scream which would have melt-
ed any heart save her father’s.

“Betrayed! Dishonored!” she fairly shrieked, and
tottering forward fell unconscious into her father’s
outstretched arms. Bhi

“My poor child! my poor child!” he pityingly ex-
claimed, stroking her raven locks; but his face be-
lied his words. It waslit up with a gleam of demo-
niac triumph.

Tell me what must I do to

CHAPTER XI.
THE PINK DOMINO.

Six months have elapsed since the happening of
the incidents related in our last chapter. Six
months, during which time Vivian Grey, the artist,
much to the surprise of his friends, had disap-
peared from the city, no one knew why or whither,
and Emily Austen, the banker’s daughter, had re-
tired, with her father, to their country-seat on the
Hudson, and now reappeared in New York society,
looking perhaps a trifle paler than before, but as
cold and statuesque as ever.

In the round of fashionable pleasures in which she
took part—for the season was now at its height, and
balls and receptions, dinner and theater parties fol-
lowed@ach other in rapid succession—she was more
than ever gay and dashing, yet her friends persisted
in saying that she had a marble heart, and pointed
to her treatment of her betrothed for proof of their
words.

The engagement between Walter Thorndyke and
Emily Austen was no secret in the fashionable world;
the banker had taken good care that the relation
should be well understood, and since the young
man’s return from his Western trip, an event which
had taken place at the opening of the season, he was
always in her company at all the fashionable affairs,
She was friendly, even affectionate toward him, but
at the first ardent word on his side she enveloped
herself with a sort of glacial atmosphere, which
chilled the utterance on his lips.

However much inclined a young man’s heart is
toward one of the gentler sex, it cannot long with-
stand these constant rebuffs, especially if, as in
Walter’s case, he deems himself entitled to the ordi-
nary privileges of a betrothed.

All this produced a variety of conflicting emotions
in Walter’s heart, and one evening he took occasion
to relieve himself of them to an intimate friend.

It was at a masked ball, given at the Madison
Square Garden under the auspices of the Italian
Opera troupe, then performing at the Academy of
Music, and known as the bal d’opera,

The two men, clad in the regulation full-dress, were
idly leaning against the wall of the garden, now con-
verted into an immense ball-room, and were gazing
at the merry maskers as they whirled by them in the
mazy dance.

We have described our hero when he was six years
old, and the reader has but to imagine the fruition of
all. the noble purposes, the manly qualities, anc
handsome physique to obtain a mind-picture of
Walter Thorndyke at the age of twenty-three.

- His companion, a middle-aged old bachelor, grizzled
in the service of society, was chatting gayly of a
hundred indifferent things, when he suddenly asked:

“By the way, Walt, and when is the happy event
to come off?’

‘What event?” asked the young, man, carelessly.

“Why, good gracious, man, your marriage tu the
banker's daughter,to be sure! A union of beauty
and wealth on both sides. You are the luckiest dog
of the age, the envied of all! Why, I myself, who
have taken a vow of perpetual celibacy, would be
tempted to forswear myself could I be the hapyy
mav. And you ask what event,in a tone asif it
were a funeral, and none of your funeral at that.”

“Jack Wilton,” exclaimed Walter, with a sudden
burst of feeling, “‘sometimes it appears to me as if it

were to be a funeral, instead of a wedding.” __

: “He, toity—toity! What’s all this?’ cried the
other, affixing his eye-glasses and staring at his
. young friend. ‘Oh, you’ve had a row, I suppose,”

“No,” bitterly rejoined the young man; “but to
marry an icicle—a woman without a heart !”

“How do you know that she has no heart? Every
well-regulated young lady of my acquaintance is
supplied with that important appendage.”

“Do not trifle. Jack. For once in your life try and
be serious. I will tell you all, and then you will ad-
vise me to act.”

We need not repeat the words, as we have already
analyzed Emily’s heart, and even given the reader
an insight into the motive for her peculiar conduct
toward her betrothed.

Jack Wilton listened to his friend’s story with
more gravity than was usual with him, and, when he
had concluded, seriously asked :

“Do you love her ?”

Walter started at this question, and he considered
some moments before replying.

“J have propounded the question to myself before,”
he at length said. “There was a time when I was
deeply, madly in love with her. You know, we
have grown up together from childhood, and at the
age when the boy merges into the man, with all the
enthusiasms of life fresh in him, she was for me my
ideal, It was about that time my father died, and
his last desire that I should marry her filled me
with such a supreme joy that I at once consented.
Since then I have traveled and seen the world. New
aspirations, new ideas have been born within me. I
wondered whether I really loved one who gave me
no love in return, who, perhaps, is incapable of lov-
ing. Whether love can exist without being mutual.
These are strange things for a betrothed to think of.
I have tried to combat them, I have struggled against
them, yet they will recur.”

Jack Wilton gave a peculiar smile.

“Then you wouldn’t be very much put outif an
accident should happen?” he said.

“An accident! Idon’t understand you.”

“My dear boy, it is an axiom in my philosophy that
such a thing as a marble heart does not exist, a wo-
man incapable of loving is a myth.”

“By that you mean to imply——”

“That if your betrothed does not love you it is be-
cause she loves some one else,”’

“Tmpossible! All her friends are mine, and there
is not one of them to whom she shows even the or-
dinary interest she exhibits toward me. Besides,
she is pure in thought and of a high-minded soul. If
her heart were fixed op another she would ask me to
release her from her engagement, knowing that her
slightest request in this respect would be at once
obeyed by me.”

“She may have placed her affections on a person
she knows to be unworthy of her, one whom she can
never hope to marry, say her father’s coachman, for
instance,” laughed Wilton.

“You are brutal!” cried Walter, turning away.

The next instant, however, he uttered an ejacula-
tion and firmly griped his friend’s wrist.

“Whatis it?’ asked Jack.

“She is here ?””

“Tn mask?’

“Yes.”

“Oh, ho! The mystery deepens, In mask, at a bal
@opera! Well, I was mistaken. She is not in love
with her tather’s coachman. It is with some one
higher up inthe social scale and therefore more dan-

erous. But are you sure that you have really seen

er and penetrated her disguise ?”’

“Tam positive. There she is. Follow my eyes, I
do not wish to point. Do you see that pink domino
with a satin mask on her face, waltzing with a cava-
lier.”

“Yes.”

“Tt is she,”

“How do you know?

“Notice how her domino flies up as she whirls

|

brand her brow with |

|

 

 

along and reveals the peculiarly tinted satin dress | Alice sank on her knees beside the bundle, and

she wears. There is only one dressof that tint in
this city, and it belongs to Emily Austen. Her father
had it made in Paris by Worth expressly for her for
the charity ball. She wore it then for the first time,
and it was remarked by all. I cannot be deceived—

| it is she.”

“Does she know that you are here?’

“One does not generally tell one’s betrothed that
he is going to a bal d’opera.”

“Not generally,” assented Jack, witha smile, “and
as you have modestly kept yourself in the back-
ground all the evening, it 1s Mo likely that she has
not yet seen yon. Well, now what are you going to
do?’

“Call her to account, of course. T may submit to
a great deal, but I must draw the line somewhere.”

“Don’t make a scene whatever you do, my dear
boy.’

“Come, the dance is over. I will go in searchof
her,”

He drew his companion along with him, and the
traversed the ball-room where the couple in mas
and full dress were promenading up and down the
highly-polished floor.

They encountered any number of pink dominos
but not the particular one they were in search of,
They began to fear that she had disappeared when
their attention was attracted to the wine-room, the
last place in the world where they would expect to
find her.

A tipsy reveler was treating with champagne, and
had offered a glassful to the pink domino. She re-
fused, the drunken mask insisted, the domino’s’ es-
cort pushed him violently away, a blow followed,
and she brawl became general. Men fought, the la-
dies interfered, and had their dresses torn for their
pains, and oaths and female shrieks filled the air,
when Walter dashed into their midst and catching
the halt-fainting pink domino by the wrist forcibly
dragged her from the melee. The mask was still on
her face, but her domino and dress were woefully
torn.

“These are fine proceedings, madam,” he roughly
said to her. “Truly a fine place and a delectable
company for a man to find his bride in.”

At these words the domino uttered a moan and
sank in a swoon in his arms.

Walter removed her mask, and then almost drop-
ped his unconscious burden with surprise.

She was not Emily Austen. She was a complete
stranger to him.

CHAPTER XII.
WHO WAS SHE?

If she was not Emily Austen who was she, and
how came she to be at the bal d’opera, clad in the
dress of the banker’s daughter? She was no other
than Alice Minturn, the daughter of the unhappy
bank clerk whom temptation and death had over-
whelmed in the same night. She was now grown to
a beauteous girl of eighteen, fair of complexion, and
golden-haired, as her mother was, and as pure and
innocent as she was beautiful.

Her father and mother lay buried in a single
grave in Potter’s Field, united in death as they had
been in life, and the mission which Tom, the toper,
had taken upon himself was still as unfulfilled as on
the eventful night at the morgue.

It was not Tom’s fault that it was so; he hunted
far and wide for a clew for John Baxter, but he
could findnone. How wasitever to dawn on his
mind that a man could be a miserable, penniless
tramp on one niglit and a millionaire banker the
next day?

In the meantime the little babe, his charge, had to
be cared for, and Tom made a strong, earnest reso-
lution to break with his tramp-like existence, to
work and to conquer his love for drink.

Tom had told Alice of the sad fate of her father
and mother, and had watched over her with the
love of a parent until she arrived at the age of
eighteen, and we again encounter her as the pink
domino.

Recently he had obtained a small place on the
stage of the Academy of Music as scene-shifter, or
something of that sort, and when the bal d’opera
was about to take place he came home, his face
radiant, and bearing a ticketin his hand.

“Do you want to go to a masquerade ball, Alice?”
he asked. “I’ve got a ticket here. One of the girls
of the chorus gayeit to me on condition that you
would go.” :

“Lgotoaball!” laughed Alice, looking up from
her work onthe very dress which Walter had re-
marked, and which Miss’ Austen’s maid had brought
that day to have some alterations made init. ‘““Why
how conld I go? l’ve got nothing to wear.”

Tom glanced at the dress in her lap.

“When must you return that dress?” he asked.

“Tn a fortnight,” she replied. “Why ?’

“The ball takes place day after to-morrow. You
ier put it on. You would be the belle of the

all.

“How dare I put on what doesn’t belong to me?”

“Oh, it’s only for a night, and you will take such
good care of it that it won’t be injured. Come, you
have never been to a grand ballin your life. It will
be something for you to remember as long as you
live. You can go with the chorus who are not on
that night, and when the performance at the acad-
emy is over I will come to fetch you home. Don’t
say no, Alice, dear! It will be such a joy to me to
be able to afford you this pleasure.”

Like all young girls, Alice delighted to dance; she
had a natural talent that way, and she knew what a
pleasure it would be to be lifted for one night at
least out of the dull monotony of a seamstress’ life,
yet she would not have consented had she consulted
only her own inclinations, It was rather not to dis-
appoint her guardian than for any other reason that
she finally agreed to go.

At the ball she enjoyed herself as only a young
girl can, to whom ali this is like ascene of fairy-land,
until the unfortunate altercation took place, and
her overstrung nerves gave way completely when
she heard herself addressed by a perfect stranger as
bis betrothed.

As she lay senseless in Walter’s arms, the young
man became so enraptured ,with the beauty of her
face and form that he forgot the crowd gathering
curiously round him, and made no attempt to re-
lieve himself from his equivocal position until he
was touched on the arm by his{friendSJack Wilton.

“Come,” whispered the lattery ‘‘yougare attract-
ing altogether too much attention. Bring her into
the ladies’ parlor.’”

In a dazed sort ofjway Walterpiifted his*fair, hel
less burden from the groundgjand Jack opening a
way .for him through the crowd, he mechanically
followed him to the parlor.

The man of the world summoned a maid to take
charge of the unconscious girl, and then fairly
dragged Walter out into the lobby.

“T know you have made a mistake,” he coolly said
to him. ‘I am acquainted with Miss Austen, and I
saw at once that it was not sbe. Luckily, no one
recognized you, I believe; so there won't be any se-
rious consequences,’’

“But the dress,” rejoined Walter, still bewildered—
“T am sure it was the same.”

“Nonsense! You were misled by a mere resem-
blance, These girls have a wonderful faculty for
imitating fashionable styles. Come; we had better
go home.”

“Without even knowing whether she has revived ?
You are cruel in your worldly wisdom, Jack. Who-
ever she is, I owe her an apology at least, and an as-
surance of my mistake.”

His friend wished to detain him, but he forced him-
self away and hastened to the ladies’ parlor.

A dance was going on in the ball-room, and the
parlor was ergy. empty.

He looked around for the pink domino, but she had
disappeared. He, however, saw the maid to whom
he had given her in charge.

“Where is the lady ?” he asked of her.

“She recovered soon after you left,’ replied the
maid, “and, in the greatest excitement, demanded
her hat and cloak. I gave her the things, and then
she went home,”

“Alone ?’

“Yes. She had hardly gone, however, when an old
man came here to ask for her, and he was terribly
put out when he heard that she was gone. I believe
it was her father, He, too, left.”

Somehow, the information, scant as it was, afford-
ed Walter a curious sort of pleasure, though he was
as mystified as ever as to her identity.

“Whoever she is,” he muttered to himself, as he
returned to his friend, ‘she is evidently a stranger
to these scenes; she has gone home alone, and she
has a father who is interested in her behalf. All this
speaks in her favor.”

Yes, Alice Minturn had left the Madison Square
Garden alone, but it was not to go home.

She had recovered from her swoon only to be at-
tacked by one of those acute forms of hysterical
mania which impel women to suicide. :

The thought that the dress she wore, costing prob-
ably a thousand dollars, was irretrievably ruined;
that she had been mixed upin a drunken brawl; that
a stranger had addressed her in terms of coarse fa-
miliarity—all this turned the poor girl’s head, and as
she plunged through the snow, which had set in at
midnight, she was as insane as the veriest patient in
an asylum.

Her course led her toward the North River. That
much she knew, and also that sleeping at the bottom
of its icy depths she would not have to face the
shame and mortification of the morrow.

On, on she trudged, the few passers-by taking her
for an intoxicated woman, and passing her by with a
shrug of ‘indifference.

As she reached the foot of the street, she saw a
woman, closely wrapped up, drop something on the
very edge of the pier and disappear in the darkness
and the*gloom.

The shock of this sight somewhat counteracted her
nervous crisis, and she approached the bundle.

Asshe did soacry arose from it which thrilled
through her frame.

It was the cry of an infant.

The woman had wanted to commit murder, to
drown the child, and through fright at the interrup-
tion, had dropped her infantile victim, and made
good her escape.

cpl nonialiche stich -niaientanri nares easier ters ee

'opened it. A babe’s tearful face looked into hers,
two baby hands were stretched out toward her.
She had come to destruvy her own life, and she had
saved another's,
(TO BE CONTINUED.)

>

Dera kas

Post-Office Detective
A Mystery of the Mail.

By-George W. Goode,

Author of “DONALD DARKE, THE BALTIMORE
DETECTIVE.”

(“The Post-Office Detective’ was commenced in No. 28.
Back numbers cau be obtained of all News Agents. }

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE PURSUIT.

Close upon the heels of the fugitive mail robbers
were the officers of the law, led by the post-office
detective, and the chase became an exciting one.

The pursued strained every nerve, as did also the
pursuers, and sped over the yielding sod of the
meadows toward the banks of the Hudson, which
was now not far distant.

And as Belihont Brown noted the fact, a feeling
of exultation swelled within his breast, and he be-
came assured of final victory; for, driven to the
water’s edge, the ruffians would be obliged to suc-
cumb or be diiven into the river, which was here al-
most too broad and swift to be swam with safety.

And the robbers must also have noted this, al-
though they “did not pause nor swerve in their
course, but kept straight ahead; and now, puffiing
and panting, the pursued party had arrived within
a hundred yards of the water.

Upon the river’s bank was a fringe of timber, per-
haps fifty yards in depth, and through whose foliage

beyond the clear waters of the Hudson sparkled.
Into this timber belt now plunged the robbers, and
became immediately lost from view.

A moment later the pursuing officers also entered
the timber, and plunging through it, sprang down
a sandy, shelving bank, and halted at the water’s
edge. All were puffing with the exertion of the long
run, and well-nigh exhausted.

But, to the detectiye’s astonishment, not a sign
was there visible of the fugitives. The place was as
quiet and deserted as though foot of man had never
trod there. At their feet rolled the swift unceasing
flood; while back of them, upon the high bank,
ey pines reared themselves to a gigantic

elgnt,

But, nothing daunted by this somewhat dampen-
ing conviction that the fugitives had given them
the slip, Belmont was about to give hasty orders to
seour the woods in every direction when her gaze
suddenl oon what, in their haste none before
C nemreial. namely arude hut built of rough boards
and situated under the cover of the bank.

The detective recognized its nature at once. It
was the humble abode of some river pirate; and

forward and began rounding upon the rude door.
At first so dark and silent did the humble abode
look, he was inclined to believe it untenanted, but
this was the next moment disproved.

There came from within sounds indicative of life,
and thena light flashed from the narrow windows,
and the door was partly opened, and a rough-beard-
ed man, en dishabille, peered in a half-frightened,
half curious manner out upon the gang of officers
without.

“What you want?” he inquired, in a guttural
voice. with an unmistakable German accent. ‘‘Mein
Gott in himmel, vaking a beacable man oop at this
time of night,” E A

“IT wish to interview you, sir,” said the detective.
“You are a river fisher ?” :

“Yes. I vish alittle sometimes.”

“What’s your name ?”

“Vat for ye vant ter know my name?” suspiciously.

“Oh, I’m not going to arrest you foranything you
have done,” said the detective. ““But I will arrest
you if you do,not answer my questions. What is
your name?” }

“Mein Gott, don't arrest me. I haben’t done not-
tings. Mine name is Hans Groetchers.”

“Well, Hansgnow I want you to answer me truth-
fully. We areéfficers of the law in quest of thieves.
Has anybody bBpen here upon this spot to-night be-
sides us ?”

Ach, himmef#i know notting about. I: vos ashleep,
ngs.’ s
» keep your boats? Was there one
that they might get hold of ?”

unted Hans, excitedly. “‘Dere vos
my best boat, mein Gott. Dey’ve not daken that?”

And utterly regardless of the fact that he was al-
most entirely nude, Hans sprang out of the hut door
and ran down to the riversedge. He gave the bank
a sweeping survey and then burst into frantic

cries.

“Ah, itis as I thought.” the detective said to him-
self, “They have taken a_ boat, and are probably
ere now upon thie opposite bank.” 7

Then heturned, andin a commanding tone ad-
dressed the fisherman. 7

_“Stop your howling, and listento me.
got another boat about your premises ?”

‘Yas, but-——”

“No but about it; get it out as quick as you can.”

“Dunder, I vill have no boat left den, and-—”

‘‘Enough,” cried the detective, sternly. “Do asI
tell you, and you may get both of your boats safely
back. Ifnot you will lose them.”

Not daring to refuse, the frightened German pro-
duced a_ second—a commodious dory capable of
holding five persons—from a shed adjoining his hut,
and it was landed upon the river. hen the detec-
tive and four officers seated themselves within it,
and after giving instructions to the others to fol-
low on down the bank, Belmont himself seized an
oar and sent the craft out into the current.

There was a mist on the river so dense asto be
almost palpable, and the detective was obliged to
guess his course.

Have you

M he had run the boat’s kee) upon the opposite
shore.

Then springing out he proceeded to carefully ex-
aminethe sands up and down for some distance
each way, but no marks of a landing were visible.

“They have gone down thestream,” he concluded.
“They will probably follow the river down to the
— town, when it will be a difficult matter to trace

em.”

He sprang back into the boat, and gave instruec-
tions to the officers to pull with all their might down
the current, which they did.

The mist upon the great river was intense, so
thick that the banks could not seen upon
either side, save when they came toa break in it;
and the rowers were enabled to keep the middle
of the river with difficulty, being obliged to guess
at their course.

On they went, straining every nerve in forcing the
boat through the waters upontheir uncer'ain chase,
forit was doubtful whether the fugitives were be-
fore them or not. But this the detective was confi-
dent was a fact.

Suddenly when they had emergedinto a riftin
the fog. Belmont who had chanced toglance shore-
wird gave a sudden exclamation which caused the
rowers to cease their efforts. and under his direc-
tion the boat’s course was reversed inward toward
the bank.

A moment later it was reached, and then it be-
came evident to the others why the detective had
authorized this eke

For there upon the sandy shore, drawn up high
and dry, was the fugitive boat.

were not far off. Without a moment’s delay he
Sprang out upon the shore, and caused their own
boat to also drawn upon the bank. Then he
earefully examined the foot-prints upon the sands,

They pointed into the forest and thither the de-
tective followed them with the keen eye of an In-
dian trailer until they were lostin the undergrowth.
Then he paused to decide upon the best course to
now be pursued.

There was not a moment to be wasted. Every
second placed so much distance between them, and
the detective was not long in forming his mode of
operation. He gave instructions to each man to
separate and cut through the forest, and all meet
at a given point. A signal was agreed upon and
they started out.

For a number of miles the detective plodded on
through the undergrowth keeping a sharp lookout
in the dark for signs until suddenly he came out
into a little forest clearing in the center of which
stood a rude cabin, and from which now emanated
a light and the soundof voices. Belmont Brown
with eager step crossed the clearing and applied his
eye to a crack in the rougzh boards.

The sight which met his gaze gave hima thrill.
There were congregated the entire murderous gang,
Roekwell Forbes. included. Fortune seemed to be
favoring the brave deiective,and witha thrill of exul-
tation he was about to draw back and repeat the sig-
nal for his companions when he received a sudden
erashing blow upon the head, and all became obliy-
ious to him.

 

But where the fugitives were was. of course, un- |
known, aithough the detective had faith that they |

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. <>

JULY 3, 1882,

 

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
KATIE’S APPEAL. \
But what was the fate of our heroine, Katie Mce-

Farland, fieeing like a frightened fawn across the

meadows, with the gang of mail robbers behind her,

whom she imagined were pursuing her, instead of
being in their turn pursued by the police?

A terrible dread of Hap Bc filled her breast and
urged her onward with all the speed and strength
she could summon. She would rather by far die
than be taken back to Eckhardt Place.

So, on across the meadow she ran, until at length
it seemed as though her tottering knees must give
out and she must fall. Her breath came short and
hard, her steps lagged, the exertion was too much,

In vain she strove to keepon; exhausted nature
could not stand everything, and at length suc-
cumbed, and she reeled and fell forward upon her
face. Momentarily she expected to feel the hands
of the hated pursuers upon her, but they did not
come.

And to her surprise the sound of their footsteps
rushed by her some rods to the right, and went hur-
rying on into the gloom, finally dying out entirely,
The pursueys had gone by her. Not knowing the
exact reason for this, she naturally attributed it to
a special interposition of Providence.

The truth was, however. she had been so far in
advance of them all the while in the darkness that
they had not once canght sight of her, and probably
would not have troubled her hadthey seen her, un-
der the circumstances. Therefore they had, totally
unaware of her existence, both the fugitives and the
Certs passed quickly by, and continued on in the
chase.

With a hastily murmured prayer of thanks, Katie
arose to her feet and staggered away into the dark-
ness. Her mission was a an aimless one, und she
came near giving way to despair, but with indom-
itable courage bore bravely up. No friends had she
now upon the wide earth save one, Arnold Burn-
ham, the young post-office clerk, and he was not
now in circumstances to render her succor, and the
prospect was a dark and cheerless one,

There was scant chance of even saying herself
from starvation, unless she adopted the life of a beg-
gar, and she was by far too proud-spirited to dotbat.
She was alone, friendless and moneyless, in a cold,
hard world, with little of brightness or encourage-
mentin the future. It was a severe test for one so
young and fair, so frail and unexperienced as her-
self.

But Katie McFarland’s was no ordinary nature.
There was a wholesome spice of resolution and self-
confidence in it, which now stood her in good stead.
Her ae for the future were at once formed, and
orth id not waste time in attempting the execution
o em.

She would make her way to some town as remote
as possible from M-—,s8o0 that herenemies could
not trace her, and there seek some light employ-
ment, perhaps in a factory, which would enable her
to earn an honest living, and beyond this she really
cared for little of earth’s pleasures. It seemed as
though the whole world was pitted agamst her to
accomplish her downfall, and life never had seemed
80 empty to her as now.

But she battled bravely against despair, und,
choking back her misery, staggered on through the
dark night, hardly caring where her footsteps led
her, so long as it was away from the scene of her
hateful captivity.

Soon she had reached the outskirts of the meadow,
and found herself inafringe of timber, which she
traversed and came out upon a country highway.
Along this she tramped for weary hours, until the

 

without a monieut’s further deliberation he sprang |
‘reached the meridian,
| Striking her face awoke her, and she arose to her

.| farmer’s ru

| of its clear waters, which refreshed her much.

He made direttly woross the | and stealing sly glances at her beautiful but grave

stream at first, and did not close his exertions un- |

breaking of day in the east, when she could go no
farther. Herstrength gave out entirely, and ree)-
ing out upon the greensward by the road-side, she
cast herself under a clump of hazel, and, nature as-
serting itself, went fast asleep.

And there she slept, beneath the green foliage,
with the feathered songsters of the forest flitting
from twig to twig about her, and filling the country
air with rich melody, until the morning sun had
i when its heated rays

feet.

Weak and stiff were herlimbs and joints, and she
could hardly walk after the fearful exertion of the
previous night. She made her way to a sparkling
spring near, where she bathed herself and partook

en
she returned to the shade of the hazel bushes to de-
os upon what move it was now beat for her to
make.

And while eee this question there sud-
denly smote upon her hearing the sound of wagon
wheels, and before she could draw back into cover
there came quickly around the turn in the road, and
into full view, a lumbering farm-wagon, drawn by a
spirited colt, driven by a cheery-faced farmer, at-
tired in homespun blouse and overalls.

Our heroine’s position was such that the farmer
could not help but see her, and as his gaze caught
sight of her slender yet well-proportioned form he
puckered his lips into a prolonged ‘Whoa, Kie!”
and with a pleasant smile and bow addressed the
maiden.

“Ah! fine morning, miss. Going to open your
school, are you? Won’t you ride?”

At first Katie shrank timidly back, and her first
emotion was of alarm. But there was something so
cheery and home-like in the farmer’s voice and
manner that this was immediately dispelled, and she
was more than half inclinea to yield and accept his
invitation.

“Come,” he said, mistaking her silence for a bash-
ful nature, ‘‘don’t be bashtul; I am a married man—
ha, ha!—and people will know weare not going to
elope. I go right to the school-house, and it’s a good
mile yet. You'd better ride.”

Katie hesitated. Her limbs were exceedingly weak
and tired from the exertion of the previous day, and
aridewould bea great lift to heron her journey.
Theré could be no harm in accepting a ride with this.
farmer—it was the fashion of all country people;
and so accordingly, acting upon a sudden impulse,
she made reply in her sweet voice:

“Thank you very much, sir. If it will not be too
much trouble, I will accept a ride with you,”

“No trouble at all, miss,” said the farmer, with an
affable smile, dismounting and assisting her to the
wagon seat. ‘’Tain't often I have the pleasure of
riding with a young school-marm. I'll have all the
boys between here and Four Corners wild with
envy.

Katie did not say anything to this, but in her own
mind drew many inferences.

The farmer had undoubtedly mistaken her for the
district school-teacher. What if he knew her real
character and how she came in those parts? What
would he think of hert And during the first half-
ore thoughts of such character as these filled her
mind. ’

While the farmer sat beside her, seftly whistling a
merry tune, or occasionally chirruping to his horse,

and thoughtful face, and wondering much what
made the supposed pretty school-marm so very
bashful.

“Ahem!” he at length broke the silence. “Got
met ,Scholars this summer? As many as last
year?”

Katie started, anda vivid flush mantled her fair
face. Fora moment she hesitated, loth to disclose
her real character, but the farmer’s question was so
pointed that she could not well evade it.

“You mistake,” she said. in her sweet voice. ‘‘I am
not a school-mistress.”

“Nota school-marm, eh?” and the farmer started
in surprise. “‘Who—I beg your pardon, I took you
for our district school-ma’am.”

And now one curiosity was depicted upon the

dy face. Katie saw that an explanation
of her business in the locality was due; so, with all
the firmness she could summon, she made reply :

“No, sir, I am not the school-teacher, as you sup-
posed. Iam going to the next town, and have at-
tempted to walk the distance.”

“Ah, traveling, eh? Where from?”

The farmer’s query was now one of unfeigned cu-
riosity.

Katie blushed again—this time a more vivid sear-
let than ever. It was a most uncomfortable position
to her, and she half wished that she had not accept-
ed a ride with the farmer.

There was no way to evade the second question,
more pointed than vhe first. What it she should
make a full confession to him—tell him the whole
truth? Would he believe her romantic story and be-
friend her? And then of a sudden au impulsivetide
of emotion swept over her, and, actuated by an un-
controllable impulse, she burst into a violent flood
of tears, and, covering her burning face with her
hands, exclaimed in passionate tones:

“Oh, sir, you do not know my wretchedness! For
the love of Heaven I beg of you to befriend me, a
friendless girl !’’

CHAPTER XXIX.
THROWN INTO A WELL.

With the fearful stunning blow, sé unexpected
and so terrific in its force, the detective dropped in
an unconscious heap upon the ground.

The sight which had met his gaze in the rude cabin
was onewhich had given him singular emotions.
The interior of the dilapidated structure was bare,
and indicated that no human being had dwelt in it
for a great while.

A fire was blazing upon the rude hearth, and about
this were gathered the league of robbers engaged in
excited conversation. It was evident that the fire
had been made by them, and that they had found
the hut untenanted.

Ernest Eckhardt was not in the gang; he had re-
mained in a stupefied state in the library of the man-
sion, and wasthere atthat moment. He had im-
bibed so much of the wine that he had become com-
paratively helpless, and consequently was not one of
the party who rushed out of the front door and were
immediately chased by the police.

The Reverend Ebenezer Evans had also remained
behind. being in a like state to Eckhardt, and so it

 

happened that no one of the leaders but Forbes was |
present. The others were Ned Lee and Pete Waisn, |

 

the detective not noticing the absence of Jed Har-

rigan. Indeed he was not exactly aware how many
of the scoundrels there were in the league.

And it need searcely be added that the party who
had given the detective the murderous blow was
Jed Harrigan.

After giving the officers the slip on the river the
villains had made their way down stream a distance
and then gone ashore, and striking into the forest
had come across the dilapidated hut, and as the
hour was late and they were wearied with their long
chase, and believing themselves beyond pursuit,
they had entered the place for the purpose of camp-
ing for the night.

After they had been in the hut some while they
were discovered by the detective, as has been shown.
Jed Harrigan happened to be outside, and had seen
Belmont Brown advance and apply his eye to a crack
in the cabin wall.

With stealthy tread, a heavy cudgel in his hand,
Jed had crept upon the detective, and with’all the
strength he could bring to bear had struck hima
fearful blow upon the head, laying him senseless
upon the ground.

Belnont Brown had not time to articulate a word,
so sudden had been the murderous assault, and fell
back lifeless, The blow was heard by the others in-
side the hut, and an exclamation from Jed brought
them all outside a moment later, to find the eaves-
dropper lying apparently lifeless upon the sward.

Forbes advanced and bent over the prostrate
man, at the same time saying:

“Who is it, Jed? What was he doing here ?”’

“Dunno,” replied the ruffian; ‘I saw him peeking
through a crack, and didn’t make any bones of
comin’ up an’ crackin’ him over the head.”

“T guess you’ve killed him.”

“Shouldn’t wonder. Well, he had not ought to be
pryin’ into business which did not yeni him,”

“He looks familiar,” said Forbes, in a thoughtful
tone. ‘Drag him into the light.”

The other two villains seized the inanimate body
of the detective and dragged it into the hut where
the firelight might fall upon it, and Rockwell Forbes,
advancing und peering’ into the white, set counten-
ance, started back with a cry of unfeigned astonish-
ment, not unmingled with joy.

“It’s that hound, the eae rnes detective,” he
said. ‘The devil has aided us in once more getting
him into our hands.”

The others all uttered exclamations of surprise
and fiendish exultation, and gazed curiously into the
helpless detective’s face. They recognized the great
sleuth-hound at once.

“Is he dead ?” queried Pete Walsh.

Forbes bent down and put his hand over the
region of the detective’s heart. He could not feel
the slightest beat, yet, to remove all doubt, placed
his hand upon the forehead, which was cold and
clammy. When he arose he said, decidedly :

“Yes, he is dead. That was aterrible blow you
gave him, Jed.”

“Wall, I reckon,” chuckled the ruffian. “I didn’t
mean he should peek through any more cracks.”

‘‘And by that blow you have insured your safety, ”
said Forbes. ‘This man is the only person under the
sky who knows the secret of the mail robberies. By
this blow you have at once put an end to the career
of the one man who could send us all to State prison
for twenty years or more. You deserve the thanks
of the league.”

“Hurrah!” cried Pete Walsh. “I'll drink your
health on that at some future time, Jed.”

The ruffian gave vent toa fiendish chuckle, and
merely said:

“Wall, it warn’t sech a difficult job.”

“No, but it was an effective one,” said Forbes.
‘But it will not do to leave the bady here. Besides,
he no doubt has friends near, who are even now
searching for us. I don’t understand how in the
duse he tracked us here.”

“He must have followed us down the river,” said
Jed Harrigan. “He might have seen us when we
embarked. He was a shrewd coon; I know him
well. He sent meto Sing Sing once, on a twenty-
year sentence.”

“But what will we do with the body ?”’ said Forbes,
nervously. “If that is a fact that he has foliowed us
down the river and tracked us here, he must have
friends not far off In which case we are not ‘in
great safety.’

“Right youare, ‘said Pete Walsh. ‘And we don’t
want to bring the ‘peelers’ down upon us. This tire
is a give away,”

“Squelch it,’ said Forbes, nervously.

Without waiting for a-second bidding Walsh com-
yt and trampled out the fire upon the hearth.

hen Belmont Brown’s body was dragged outside,
and the villains began to deliberate how they were
to dispose of it.

“Put it in the hut and set the place on fire,” sug-
7 Jed Harrigan. ‘“They’ll never find his bones

ere.”

“No,” objected Forbes, whose word was law in the
gang. “That will not do. It will give the ‘peelers’
an idea that we are in the locality, and before we
eau get far away they may nabus. We must move
with caution,”

“Allright,” growled Jed. “You suggest.an idea.”

“IT have it,” cried Walsh, suddenly. ‘“Ihere is a
well out back here. Let’s throw him down that.”

‘How deep is it ?” queried Forbes.

“T don’t know.”

“Ts there water in it ?”

“J think not.”

“That is the idea. Let’s see what the place is like,” ~--)

said Forbes.

Walsh led the way around to the well, and an in-
vestigation of it was made, It was found to be dry,
ane long out of use, but was still some fifteen feet

eep.

“We will bury him here,” saidthe gambler, “Drag
him around this-way, boys.”

The mailrobbers obeyed this command, and
dragged the body of the detective around the cor-
ner of the hut, and up to the mouth of the well.

Forbes looked around him in the dark night and in
spite of his hardihood shivered. For the first time a
realization of the enormity of the crime dawned
upon him, and, like Judas Iscariot, too late he per-
ceived it. His die was cast; it was too late to mend
the matter, and the only course left for him now was
to brave it out as best he could,

And ee a desperate and reckless man this was
no easy task for him. Although he had not com-
mitted the black deed himself, he was directly re-
sponsible for it as leader of the robber league.

In the sight of God Almighty he was a murderer,
and the brand of Cain would forever blacken him.

The detective’s body was cast down into the well,
head foremost, with some exertion Forbes. himself
lending a hand. And in the act a portion of some
planking also gave way from around the well’s
mouth, and nigh precipitated the gambler in after
his victim.

Heavy stones were rolled to the mouth of the
burial place of the post-office detective, and cast in
until it was half filled, when in a not exactly com-
fortable frame of mind, though he was assured that
his greatest enemy was where he would no longer
trouble him, Rockwell Forbes left the scene of the
dark tragedy.

CHAPTER XXX,
SHREWD PLOTTING.

After leaving the cabin in the woods, the scene of
the dark deed chronicled in the preceding chapter,
Rockwell Forbes, with his confederates, the mail
league, following him, struck out upon the nearest
highway, and oe along with great care for fear
of running across the officers, who were yet some-
where in the locality searching for them, proceeded
toward M-——.

But when arrived in the outskirts of the town he
halted and turned upon his companions.

“Boys,” be said, “we have proceeded together as
far as is consistent with caution. We must now
separate.”

“But where shall we go?” queried Jed Harrigan,
who was always the leading spirit.

“That I will presently tell you,” replied the gam-
bler. ‘In the first place it is necessary to move with
the utmost caution. The country is swarming with
our enemies, the hounds of thelaw. However, the
one who could do us the most harm is now for-
tunately safely disposed of.”

“Yes, he’ll not trouble any of the company again
right away, I’m thinking,” said Harrigan, with a
ebuckle.

“Therefore,” continued Forbes. ‘‘We are now at
liberty to pursue our mail operations. We need not
fear detection now, for Belmond Brown was the only
living man who could unearth the matter. Go back
to Pine Curve to the dugout and there stay until yon
receive further orders. Things will go on as before.
Watch every western bound mail, as before, and keep
an eye out for ‘peelers.’ I shall go back to M——. You
had better cut around the town., Go by the way of
the river, and keep a sharp lookout.”

Thus admonished the mail-robbers separated from
their leader, who made rapid steps back to Eckhardt
Place, and arrived there just as the light of dawn
was breaking in the east. ‘

He found the master of the 7 fairly recovered
from his drunken stupor, and was at once closeted
with him in a secluded part of the library.

Eckhardt had hardly a clear comprehension of how
affairs had gone the previous night, and could
searcely collect his scattered senses, but Forbes ex-
plained it all to him in a few words, The truth was
the master of Eckhardt Piace had been so completely
inebriated from the effects of the wine that he drank
that he did not at the time more than half realize
what the tronble was,

He knew that his intended bride, or rather the
bride he intended having, had escaped from his
clutches in some manner, and that his confederate
Forbes with the mail league had left the room sud-
denly in pursuit. After that he remembered noth-
ings a kind of drunken siumber having mastered

im.

Of the raid of the police and the chase across the
meadows he was ignorant, and the next morning af-
ter awaking was at a loss to understand where
Forbes had gone and why he did not return.

When he did at length return all became manifest
to him, and his emotions were varied.

“So that dog of a detective is dead,” he grunted in
his usual surly manner,

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

JULY 5, 1882.

“Yes,” rejoined Forbes. “And we need fear him

no more. That was a luck streak for us.”

“Indeed you are right, Rocky. We can then go on
— our mail transactions the same.”

ae res.’

“But one thing troubles my conscience much.”

“Whatis that?’

“The escape of Katie McFarland. I have sworn
that girl shall be my wife, and by Heaven she shall.”

“Tam with youthere. Butit is necessary first to
find her.”

“True; and, by the gods of war, Forbes, do you
suppose that she can know anything about our mail
busiess ?””

“How could she find it out ?”’

“She may have seen this accursed detective.”

“Pshaw! That would not be possible.”

“Who but him could have rescued her from her
prison chamber up stairs? I tell you, Forbes, I have
a great deal of respect for that detective’s capabili-
ties. The devil aids him.” 4

The gambler bent his head a moment in thought.
Eckhardat’s supposition was a plausible oue. Yet he
was not inclined to give it much credence. At

‘length he said, in a decided tone: E

“No; there is but one other person on earth whom
I would fear as possessed of such a knowledge now.”

“And that is——”

“Arnold Burnham.”

“That dog of a post-office clerk! What should he
know of Tf he did, rest assured he would have
used it before this to gain his liberty.”

“He has already gained his liberty.”

“What ?’.

“Even so; or at least I have been informed this
morning that such was a fact.” :

Ernest Eckhurdtflooked steadfastly at his colleague
for some minutes, and the doubting did not leave his
countenance, as he continued : an

“How can that be. Nojucy even could acquit him
with the present suspicion over him. I do not un-
derstand it.” ;

“No jury did acquit him,” said Forbes. “He broke
jail last night and js at large.”

Ernest Eckhardt sprang to his feet as though struck
by a thunderbolt.

“Broke jail!” he repeated, in an incredulous tone.
“How did that happen?”

_ “Simple enough. He sawed the bars of his cell
window and climbed out in that manner, But I do
not think we need have mach to fear from him, un-
less, as I have half-suspected, Belmont Brown im-
‘parted his secrets to him, which I do not believe.”

“And you are sure that Belmont Brown is out of
the way ?”’

“Yes, dead and buried, and no prospect of a resur-
rection right away.”

“Good! then there can be found no absolute proof
ie are guilty of robbing the mail or anything
else.”

“No, but we are by no means out of danger.”

“How is that?” :

“Why, those policemen, who chased us so hard last
night, will try and make out a case against us.”

Eckhardt started, and his face turned livid.

“You are right, he muttered, huskily; “I did not
think of that. Did they see you?’

“No; [think not to recognize me. But they saw
us all’come out of the house. The house will un-
doubtedly be visited and searched before many hours
by the chief marshal or some of the force.”

Eckhardt sprang to his feet with a hunted expres-
sion in his eyes. e glared about the room like a
wild animal at bay, as though fearful that the hounds
justice were at that moment ready to pounce upon

im.

“What can I do?” he queried, nervously, turning
to Forbes, who was regarding him with a curious
glance in his cat-like orbs. ‘‘Had we not better flee
the country 1”

“Pshaw!” said the gambler, with a tone of con-
tempt. “Don’t be a coward, Ernest Eckhardt. Sit
down there and let me tell you how to get out of this
scrape allright. If it were not for my aid and ad-
xiee I fear you would make poor progress in your
pians.”’

Andthis latter statement of the gambler’s was in
the main correct. Although possessed of no more
villainous or unscrupulous a nature than Eckhardt,
he was nevertheless much cooler ,and more calculat-
ing and, therefore, perhaps a trifle colder-blooded.
The young scion of wealth ear with his halt-
command and cast himself into the indicated chair.

“Well,” he said, with more complacence, “you are
the elder; now let’s have your dictation.”

“Tn the first place,” said Forbes, ‘‘if you play your
cards right, you may yet hold the winning hand. By
the proper exercise of a little tact and discretion
you can throw the hounds off the track.”

“How so?”

“Simple enough. When they visit you, you must
receive them ceremoniously, not suspiciously, and
be careful not to awaken their suspicion. Do you
understand ?”’

‘You. ag

“Very well. You must meet them politely at the
door. Answer all their questions in a perfectly frank
manner. Let them search the house. Let them find

‘othing «witch will arouse suspicion. Tell them very
candidly that you have not the slightest idea who
the parties were who opened your front door and ran
outside, aud were chased by the officers, but think it
must have been some one attempting to burglarize
the house. Do you understand?”

‘Perfectly well.” i

“That will throw all suspicion off from us, and will
make us safe again.” \

And a few hours later Forbes, having made him-
self scarce in the meantime, the chief of police and a
number of officers visited Eckhardt Place, and made
a close search of the premises, and entertained the
proprietor, and so well did Ernest Eckhardt a
part that as aresult the next issue of the local daily
contained the following article:

“Tt has now been discovered that neither Mr. Eck-
hardt nor any inmates of his house were implicated
with the parties chased across the meadows by the
police. Mr. Eckhardt was at the time in his bed
asleep, and it was not discovered that there had
been any one in the grounds until the next morning,
when the front door was found unlocked, and other
-evidences of a visit. It has also been suspected that
the man who represented himself as Belmont
Brown, the government’s greatest detective, and
who obtained the posse of officers to search Eckhardt
Place, was in league with the escaped post-office
elerk, Arnold Burnham. It is conceded that he play-
edashrewd game by leading the officers into the
woods, and then deserting them. A reward will be
offered for his apprehension.” 5

Thus, partly by chance, partly by shrewd plotting,
did the schemer once again obtain the mastery, and
for the nonce their star held the ascendant. But the
future held new and startling developments.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
— OS -

A LIFE

STRANGELY CURSED

By OSCAR MAITLAND.

(“A Life Strangely Cursed” was commenced in No. 24.
Back Numbers can be had of all News Agents in the
United States. ]

~~ <

CHAPTER XXV.
DAMPLAY’S VENGEANCE.

Dr, Farquhar pushed past Mrs. Osmond and en-
tered her chamber. The act was full of gentleness,
but firmness as well. Westerveldt followed bis ex-
ample. Closing the door poor Mrs. Osmond stagger-
ed toward the two friends.

“Oh, gentlemen,” she gasped forth, ‘‘has our secret
then been discovered?” She hid her face for a min-
ute, shivering. When she uncovered it a sort of
chalky duskiness overspread every feature, “It will
be my brother’s ruin,” she moaned, “and it will be
my death! Iwas so proud of him; I loved him so!
I swore that T would plant myself between him and
the odium of his public disgrace. But I see that I
have failed. I see the pitiless truth in both your
faces !””

“Yet,” murmured Dr. Farquhar, with a voice of

‘ surpassing kindness, “I am certain, Mrs. Osmond,
that you see no lack of pity there.”

“We come are your friends,” broke in Westervelt.
“We two alone know your secret—excepting your
son, Mrs. Pratt, and Rachel Grey.”

“Ah,” exclaimed Mrs. Osmond. ‘‘And then Mrs.
Pratt has betrayed me! It cannot be either Clyde or
Rachel!’

Westerveldt here drew her to a chair and silently
entreated that she should sit. He then told her
enough of what had passed to make his recital seem
like a full explanation. But regarding his motive
for having, the day before, first entered Mrs. Pratt’s
shop down stairs, he made the fact of having seen
Clyde Osmond pass within the adjacent hall-way
serve as the sole explanation of this. Mrs. Osmond
listened with a countenance whose agitation grad-
ually grew calmer. She could not but feel, as she
watched both the speaker and his companion, that
their motive for the present visit was not an un-
friendly one.

“And now,” said Dr. Farquhar, who had seated
himself on one side of her, while Westerveldt sat on
the other, ‘‘pray tell us all that you know concern-
ing this strange and miserable matter. We feel as-
sured of how you have suffered; but you shall no
longer suffer alone. Two good friends shall share

“your secret with you. Be assured, too, that they
shall guard it with religious fidelity. Speak. Have
no fear.”

Tears filled Mrs. Osmond’s eyes,

“T will speak,” she presently said. ‘TI will tell you
all. When my brother was quite @ young man he
began to feel himself visited by something that can
only be called periodic fits of insanity. A passion-
ate appetite for stimulating drink would now and
then assail him. Our father had been a very tem-
perate man, though I believe that our graudfather
was far from one. This latter fact reached us when
we were children, through the gossip of an old fam-
ily nurse. Our father never spoke of it; our mother’s
lips were rigidly sealed on the subject. But Angus
had been brought up to shun liquor with an absolute
horror. One day,in his twenty-third year, he was
induced by some college intimates to taste of an in-
toxicating beverage. It was then that the latent
madness—for I believe it to have been nothing else—
first developed itself. That day his brain became
besotted; he lapsed into a pitiable condition of
drunkenness. [I am telling you what he afterward
told me. Of course noue of us knew the fact at the
time of its occurrence, Shortly after this he left
college, coming home to New York. His marked
melancholy distressed our little household; he was
changed utterly from his former brilliant self. His
pride, his self-esteem had been deeply wounded; he
almost despised himself for what he had done. But
this was not the sole cause of his melancholy. He
felt himself to be literally overshadowed by a dark,
insidious curse. Having once tasted liquor that dis-
ease within his brain (since, as I told you, I thus
verily believe it) would break forth, month after
month, in the shape of an almost uncouquerable
longing. His career as a young lawyer had already
begun. People had commenced to talk of his fine,
rare abilities, of his rich, splendid promise. Father
died, and his death was soon afterward followed by
that of our mother,

“Then, a little later, I married Mr. Osmond. But

trouble that now and then clouded my brother’s
handsome visage, and made me wonder what pos-
sible eause for chagrin or vexation my beloved
Angus could have found. Already wealthy by in-
heritance, already having begun to shine nobly
among his fellows, life seemed to offer him nothing
but roses, and to keep all her thorns for others. It
could scarcely be an unrequited love, I told myself,
for Angus was the idol of women, as he was the ad-
mired leader of men. But all this while his terrible
malady was growing by stealthy degrees. I am cer-
tain that he strove, with.an almost gigantic strength
of rebellious will, to crush down the devilish tempter.
But in vain. The doom fell once more. He tasted
once again of the fiery lure. Not in public this time,
but hidden from the eyes of friends, shunning notice
under an assumed name, andinatown to which he
was wholly a stranger. His immense pride had
made him do this, though it could not keep the crafty
assaults of his fiendish distemper from finally over-
throwing both resolution and judgment. After that
the attacks came at various intervals. He guarded
his secret with the jealous care of the maniac who
knows of his own lunacy yet would conceal it from
the eyes of humanity. His seizures ‘vould rarely
last longer than a week; sometimes they would last
but three days. Then a nauseous loathing of stimu-
lant would follow them; he would return among his
associates, and dine at sumptuous tables, move
among luxurious ball-rooms without touching one of
the costly wines prepared for their guests. His iron
constitution and superb physical health made his
recovery from these attacks each time no less sud-
den than it was thorough. In appearance he would
be the same; there was none of the drunkard’s hag-
gardness or tremor; nor is this strange, considering
the long interims that would often elapse between
his periods of indulgence.

“Atlength,when my husband died, and I came to live

cident. I shall never forget the frightful shock it
gave me; for my sisterly love has always been a
strange, adoring passion, and since girhood I had
looked upon Angus as the ideal man of men. But his
own dismay and misery exceeded mine. Goaded by
an agony of wounded pride, he bade me leave him
forever, But before I went he said I should know
how he had suffered,

“Then, with burning eloquence, he told me. If I
lived for centuries I should never cease to recall the
way in which that supreme confession im-

 

pressed me. It seemed like the wailing outcry of

| some unjustly accursed spirit. still mighty and beau-

tiful amid all its desolate overthrow.

“Before the words of Angus were ended, I had
flung myself at his feet. I then vowed to him the
vow which I have since unswervingly kept. I
swore that I would devote my future life to screen-
ing his wretched misfortune from the world’s gaze.
I besought him to aid mein my efforts with the full
power of his vigorous will. He has done this, and
more than ounce, by a colossal exercise of this will, he
has staved off the attacks of madness for liquor,
when they took a somewhat milder form than ordin-
ary.

“For nearly a year, before the occurrence of this
last seizure, he had sueceeded in remaining his usual

 

attractive, high-toned, fine-principled self.

“Meanwhile I had watched, with deepening anxie-
ty, the growth of his apparent love for Marian Wes-
terveldt. On the very: vight when their éugagement
took place he told me of'i¢. [received tive news with
horror, Our interview was very stormy and agitat-
ing.

“On that very night the untimely and violent
death of Marian occurred. This event brought on
one of his terrible fits of intemperance. He came to
me, as he had sworn he would always do, that I
might be near him, faithful and vigilant, during the
indulgence of this morbid and ghastly longing. We
started, early the néxt day, for this obscure retreat.
My son, Clyde, knew the secret. He overheard that
first bitter conference of ours, for he was then a res-
ident of my brother’s home, and he happened by
mere chance to pass the chamber where his mother’s
sobs and groans and his uncle’s fervid protestations
were audible. I have never blamed my son for lis-
tening then. He heard his motlier’s distress; it was
but natural, under those circumstances, that a son
should listen. But Clyde has guarded the secret
well. He came here yesterday to warn me against
a half-demented man who believed himself to have
been fearfully wronged by Angus, and who is prob-
ably on his track to take my brother's life. Angus
was the lawyer for the prosecution when this man’s
son was tried and convicted, months ago, for willful
murder. Of course, Clyde’s tidings have redoubled
in severity the nervous ordeal through which I am
at present passing.”

Mrs. Osmond at length paused. A few moments of
profound silence followed her earnest, affecting
speech. Tears stood in Dr. Farquhar’s kind eyes;
Westerveldt’s gaze, as well, was dimmed with the
mist of sympathizing emotion.

“Tell me,” presently said the doctor, “what is now
your brother’s condition ?”’

“Some slight power of controlis coming to him,”
was the sad reply. “Heis beginning to struggle.
That is always a good sign. This fit promises to be
shorter than the others.”

“Will you let me see him ?” asked the doctor.

“See him!” echoed Mrs. Osmond, starting to her
feet in white-faced dismay. “I would not have you
enter his presence for worlds! Youdon’t know how

reat is his horror of being seen, while in this con-
dition, by any one who knows his name—save my-
self alone.”

“But Farquhar is a physician,” interposed Wester-
veldt. ‘“He—~”’

“No, no!” broke in Mrs. Osmond; ‘the would never
forgive me. Again and again I have implored him

.to consult & physician, but he would only look at me

-with a sort of mournful surprise. Ah! you can’t
think how his pride revolts from anything like the
discovery of his woeful secret—how——”

The next word died on Mrs. Osmond’s lips; for at
this moment, from what was evidently the adjoin-
ing chamber, came a sharp, clear sound like the re-
port of a pistol. All three looked at each other in
bewilderment. Through the minds of all three sped
the same horrid thought - Angus Balfour had com-
mitted suicide!

Dr. Farquhar was the first to open the door of
communication between the two rooms. The others
followed him across the threshold, and there a
strangely horrifying sight met them, Balfour lay
upon a couch in one corner of the chamber; his eyes
were closed; the blood was flowing in a red volume
from the side of his head. In the center of the
chamber stood a haggavd, wild-eyed man—a man
who wore the look of a maniac. This man held a
smoking pistol in his hand—the sure evidence of his
recent crime.

“Back!” he cried to the new-comers; “I had a
right todoit. I tracked him here when he came
from the city. I have prowled about ever since,
waiting for my chanee. I was wary; I watched; at
length my chance came! I am Hugh Damplay,
whose son, Egbert, that man brought to his execu-
tion by the specious lies he used against him. But
you sha’n’t drag me to the scaffold as he dragged my
poor Egbert! No; my work of vengeance is done.
Look—I go to answer for it before a wiser than any
human judge !”’

The next instant the unhappy maniac had pressed
the pistol against his own temple, discharged it, and
fallen a corpse upon the floor.,

Horrified as she was by what seemed this double
murder, Mrs. Osmond still could not forget her
brother. She ee to Balfour's side. A moment
later Dr. Farquhar and Westerveldt did the saine.

“Oh, tell me,” moaned Mrs. Osmond, as the doctor
ete her brother, “is there any hope of his

eV 3

“The ball has entered his skull,” said Dr, Farqu-
har. ‘He still breathes, but any moment may be his
last.” And his own thoughts silently added: "It is
better so!”

CHAPTER XXVI.
GLENNAN’S PARTING SHAFT.

The first words of the marriage service which was
to unite Teresa Damplay and Mark Glennan were
pronounced by the shabby, il-conditioned-looking
minister, as we have said. Just as their second sen-
tence had been reached. a sharp knock sounded at
the door of the parlor. This door had been locked.
A pair of folding doors separated it from the second

 

 

parlor. These also had been locked.

still I was in Complete ignorance of the hidden |

 

 

with him, I learned the horrible truth almost by ac- |

 

Glennan started. The minister paused. A mo-
ment later Glennan grew collected again.

Proceed,” he said to the clergyman. ‘Why do
you hesitate? Let them remain outside, whoever it
may be, until the service is aver.”

He spoke louder than he might have wished to do,
if caution had entered his thoughts. But he was too
excited by his fieree inward sense of triumph to re-
member caution just then.

The minister recommenced at his briber’s com-
mand. But as hedid so the knock sounded, still
louder than before. <a

Again the minister paused.
stamped his foot.
voice. *

“Dr. Forbes,” he said, nervously gnawing his lips,
“why do you not ebey me? Let them wait, I say,
whoever they are. Let them——” :

Glennan did not finish fiis sentence, for imme-
diately afterward there was a most singular sound
in the direction of the heavy, old-fashioned mahog-
any door. It was a sound like that which might be
given outif a strong force from the further side were
straining to burst it open. Glennan, actuated half
by rage, half by a sudden sense of possible resist-
ance from some unknown agency, took several steps
toward the door, and then paused. The minister did
the same. The person who had been hired as wit-
ness—a coarse, unkempt, elderly Irishwoman—did
the same. Only Teresa remained exactly in her
previous position. Both the poor girl’s arms were
drooped listlessly at her side; both her dark eyes, in
Wuich seemed to glow the dreamy fire that we some-
times see beneath the asby film of a burnt-out em-
ber, ~vere fixed softly upon vacancy. She did not
appear quite oblivious of what passed around her,
and yet she did not appear to note it specially, or to
reveal the least interest in it.

After having gathered in a sort of alarmed grou
near the door whence the summons had emanated,
all three of those whom it ‘had unpleasantly affect-
ed exchanged glances that meant dismay, if not
actual affright. But Glennan, wh@se nerves, as we
know, were usually of steely firmness, suddenly con-
trolled bLimself, and, turying to the Irishwoman,
said ina quick, nearly inaiible whisper:

“T thought you told me that your mistress, who
keeps this boarding-house, had gone out for the
whole day ?”’

“Shure, sur,” was the half-whimpering reply, ‘‘1
thought so meeself, sur, It ain’t her. P’raps it’s
some o’ the other boarders, sur, that’s got an oideah
there’s somethin’ wrong a-goin’ on, sur.”

These words were scarcely spoken when the same
straining sound became manifest at the door once
again. Glennan had by this time made up his mind.
He hurried to the door, and put his lips against the
crevice which separated its edge from the framing.

“Who are you?” he said, ina quick, steady voice;
“and what do you want?’ “Then he listened for an
answer. ;

None came. Instead of this the straining sound
was once more evident; and premptly afterward
Glennan heard these words, uttered by an anxious
female voice—the voice, as he instantly concluded,
of a servant in the household:

“Oh, gentlemen—if you are gentlemen and not
thieves—you’ve got no business to try and get in
that way. The twenty dollars you gave me won’t
pay me for the loss of my place. I’m sorry I let you

Glennan almost
Once more he forgot to lower his

| in—upon my word, [ am!’

Still once again the straining sound was heard, and
this time a new result followed it. The door cracked.
half shuddered through its heavy panelings like a
living thing, and then yielded wth a sort of dull
erash. rr

Glennan receded. The slender minister. with the
faded face and pink eyes, clutched the ample-bodied
Trishwoman in an agony of fear.

The next instant Clyde Osmrend, with flashing
glance and erect mien, strode into the room. Right
after him came a gentleman of about his own age,
with a pale, refined face, and _ the attire of a clergy-
man,

An interval of silence ensucd. Clyde swept bis
glowing blue eyes about the apartment. Teresa had
turned, in a languid, half-indifférent way, and he
plainly saw her face. A slight shiver seemed to pass
through his comely, vigorous young frame. He
looked at Mark Glennan, and controlled himself by
a great effort. Then he pointed toward the gentle-
man at his side. (

“My friend, Dr. L——, and myself,” he said, “heard
at yonder door-way the first words of the Episcopal
marriage service. It was evident to us then—as it is
evident now—that you were being made the husband
of Miss Damplay. By what extraordinary means,
then, have you obtained her consent, a second time,
to this marriage? I desire to know, and untilI do
know the marriage shall not proceed.”

Glennan was as white as bis collar, and silently
grinding his teeth. :

“The lady has come here with fine of her own free
will,” he said, below his breath ard in tones of choked
inward passion. “Your insolent interference and
that of your friend are both Wholly without war-
rant! }

“Not so!” exclaimed Dr. 4, stepping forward,
while he fixed a pair of keen{/gray eyes upon the
man wom we have heard G ian address as Dr.
Forbes. “It chanced that Mr, mond ealled at the
dweliing of Miss Damplay to-dg, found the door of
her sittig-room unlocked, he t absent, and a cer-
tain card lying upon the floof, which bore the ad-
dress of yonder man.” Dr. L—+ pointed contemptu-
ously toward Dr. Forbes, ashe spoke. “Mr. Osmond
sped tomy house and asked meif I knew the name in-
scribed upon the card. You may{not know who Iam,
sir.but Tam the Dr. L— whom you sought to perform
a marriage between yourself and that lady not long
ago. I answered my friend, Mr. Osmond, in plain
terms. I toldhim that I knew Dr. Forbes asa dis-
grace to the sacred calling which he professed. I
answered him that if foul play inthe matter of this
marriage had been employed by you before, there
was double probability tlat you had employed it
now. The card furnished us, as I have said, with
the required address. We came here to find that
door locked, and to hear behind it the marriage ser-
vice being repeated by aman who, beyond doubt,
will shortly suffer expulsion from the clergy which
his vices have shamed. We broke open the door, as
was right.

Mark Glennan now spoke between his clenched
teeth. He looked more at Clyde Osmond than at
Dr. L— while he spoke:

“Why was it right?” he asked.

“Because,” hotly answered Clyde, ‘‘we suspected
foul play, as this gentleman has already told you!”
And he pointed toward Dr. L—, but at the same
time his eyes were scanning the pale, half-indiffer-
ent face of Teresa,

“Oh, muttered Glennan,
play ?”’

At this moment the aspect of Dr, Forbes was piti-
able to behold, He was casting covert and sneaking
looks toward the fellow-clergyman who had just so
severely denounced him, The Irishwoman simply
stood and stared, with a hand on either hip, But
Clyde, meanwhile, had hurried in the direction of
Teresa, The passionate indignation of a lover who
feels himself wronged was in the young man’s look,
He spoke with heat and force, looking straight into
her face:

“Teresa,” he said, ‘for God’s sake, explain to me
why you have given your consent to this marriage ?
Has yonder man” (and he pointed with a gesture of
infinite contempt toward Glennan) ‘discovered
something new about your father? Or is it” (and
here the natural jealousy of the lover somehow would
speak out)—is if that you have deceived me, and
really desire to wed him?”

Teresa’s gaze had been almost blank at first, while
Clyde thus passionately spoke. But before his words
were ended a sudden change had shown itself. Her
eyes shot a spark of fire through their dullness; her
hands stretched themselves appealingly toward
Clyde; on every feature dawned an expression of nat-
ural intelligence, which had not been seen there
since the fatal, benumbing drug was administered.

“Oh, Clyde,” she faltered, brokenly, “that man
gave me something to drink—I know not what—but
it seemed to paralyze me—I am better now; save me
from him! I don’t know what the potion was; but I
am so glad you came in time. I can’t believe I ever
said that I would be his wife—he seemed to have
me in his power—I coulg_aat escape him—somehow
the spell is not over yet—vh, protect me!—keep him
away !”

Clyde had caught her outstretched hands long be-
fore this. While holding them he turned with a
sneer of haughty intolerance toward Glennan.

“T begin to see!” he exclaimed. ‘Thank God that
you dropped the card which guided me here! Thank
God that I arrived in time to save the woman I love
from a monster like you !”

Glennan’s face looked stony and colorless. He saw
before him the utter ruin of his hopes. All was lost
now. No use of dreaming that his future held any-
thing save thwarted passion, blighted adoration. He
turned and slowly walked toward the door. His
glance swept the inmates of the room while he
paused on its threshold. Poor Teresa was sobbing
by this time, with her head on Clyde Osmond’s
shoulder.

“You have conquered,” Glennan said, looking at
Clyde. ‘You have played against me twice, and
each time you have held winning cards. I admit it.
This is the end. I shall trouble you no more, But
God knows one thing——”

“Do not utter that sacred name in my hearing!”
exclaimed Dr. L indignantly. “I ama man of
God, and I will not hear such lips as yours outrage
the Almighty by mentioning him !’”’

“He knows one thing,” Glennan continued, ignor-
ing this interruption. “He knows that my whole
life would have been devoted to that girl if [had
ever succeeded in marrying her. J may be bad, but
my love was not. That was high and manly.” He
now looked at Teresa. “I can leave one parting
shaft behind me,” he said, deep down in his throat,
“to atone for the chagrin. the disappointment of my
bitter defeat! Teresa Damplay, your father dealt
Angus Balfour, this morning in L , a pistol-wound
which is believed mortal. You are not alone the
sister of a murderer. but the daughter of one—and of
a suicide as well.”

With these words, pronounced in a tone of vicious

“you suspected foul

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

jatensity, Mark Glennan turned on his heel and
| quitted the apartment. Perhaps the low, wounded,
| agonized ery that now sounded from poor ‘Teresa’s

the last he was ever to deal her—a certain spiteful
thrill of satisfaction.

“Ah, Heaven!” exclaimed Teresa, “is this frightful
thing true?”

The whiteness of death overspread her face. She
lifted both hands to ner temples, staggering back-
ward. Clyde caught her just as she fell.

CHAPTER XXVII.
THE TURNING OF THE TIDE.

That night promised to be one of horror for Mari-
ac. The dumb woman sat within her chamber,
ugly, sullen-looking, and still as a statue. Madame
Piazzi had gone. Marian had sunk into a seat. The
light was rather dim, and the vague air of the room
seemed peopled for the unhappy girl with shadowy,
mocking phantoms,

The more she refiected on Madame Piazzi's recent
words the more hopeless her own case looked to
her. Beneath such incessant watchfulness there
seemed not the remotest hope of her escape. She
was doomed to be the passive, helpless victim of
Evelyn Eftingham's jealous hatred. She thought of
her parents believing her dead—of Angus Balfour,
the man whom she loved with so deep a maidenly
passion—of the living death that might for years
await her here, guarded by the minions of this un-
scrupulous woman. Again and again a shudder
passed through her frame. She could not weep.
The force of her strong indignation against this
atrocious act and those who had perpetrated it
seemed to havefrozen all her tears. At length the
dumb woman. Fiametta, rose from her seat and sig-
nified by certain clumsy gestures, while pointing to
the adjacent bedroom, that she wished Marian to
retire for the night.

Marian shook her head.

“T shall not go to bed,” she murmured. “I prefer
to sit here. It will be useless, I could not sleep.”’

The dumb woman Stared at her with a scowl. Then
she violently repeated her former gestures. Marian
simply gave her a look of haughty surprise. She
had been accustomed to the implicit obedience of
servants; there seemed something bewilderingly
- in any rebellion of this sort from an in-

erior.

“Itis not my pleasure to retire,” Marian now said,
in firm tones, rising as she spoke.

The duinb woman placed one of her large hands on

repetition of the scowl.
her, and with no more difficulty than an
person would have experienced in handling an in-

minious treatment. Then she quietly submitted to
win from a refined soul when its
physical resistance impossible and only creates men-
tal disgust. Marian made no further resistance.
The dumb woman, mighty in her stength beyond
that of most men, had her will. Marian was foreed

no sleep visited her. Like a grim shadow the brutal-

faced woman sat beside her bed, stolid and immoy-

able, all night long.
* cS * * * OS *

Meanwhile Glennan and Natalie had left the abode
of Madame Piazzi and repaired to that of Evelyn
Effingham. Here they had a long tale to tell, as we
know. Natalie beganit, and she began it with the
one significant wotd “Victory.” Evelyn’s eyes kin-
dled as she listened. Two rosy spots, scarcely larger
than stars, stole out upon the brilliant whiteness of
her cheeks.

“Thank fortune,” she at length exclaimed, when
the recital had ended, ‘“‘that the gir] still lives, and is
safely in Madame Piazzi’s power! That woman
will watch her like a lynx—as longas my money
flows into her, Sheisa terrible creature. I know
that, Mark, from all that you have told me regarding
your past acquaintance with her.”

Evelyn felt a supreme sense of triumph. Her pil-
low that night was as free from sleep as Marian’s,
but because of far different reasons. She had not
stained her soul with murder; and yet Marian, her
detested rival, was to all intents and purposes no
longer among the living. She had-made Frederick
Westerveldt use his best and shrewdest energy to
discover the secret of Angus Balfour’s strange dis-
appearances. Doubtless he would bring her a solu-
tion of the mystery before another day, stimulated
by the precious reward she had held out to him.
Then, with Marian permanently removed from her
path, and being herself luckily possessed of an im-
portant, perhaps a compromising secret of the man
whom she so adored, what was to prevent her from
the accomplishment of that passionate object for
which she would willingly have bartered her very
soul ?

All the next morning passed with lagging pace to
her impatient spirit. She dispatched Natalie to the
house of Madame Piazzi, for the purpose of learn-
ing something regarding the captive. _ Natalie
brought back word that Marian had been haughty
and rebellious; that she denied the possibility ot her
being kept hidden like this for an indefinite time,
and that she spoke with scornful heat of the punish-
ment that must await her persecutors.

Evelyn brok into a derisive laugh when she had
heard these tidings.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, ‘ther rebellion will soon be-
come submission—her hope will soon grow despair.
She will learn what danger there is in crossing the
path of a woman who loves as I love.”

“True, my darling mistress,” answered Natalie;
“you are now upon the straight and sure pathway to
success. Unless I am very much mistaken, Mr.
Westerveldt will seek you this day, and bring tidings
that you will value greatly. When a man has re-
ceived such aspur as you have given him, he will no
doubt act to excellent purpose.”

Evelyn was looking musingly at the carpet now.
She suddenly lifted her eyes.

“One thing worries and distresses me, Natalie,”
she said. “Dr. Farquhar and the keeper of the cem-
etery must have returned and found with perfectly
wild consternation that Marian’s body was gone.”

“Of course they did, mistress,’ was the reply.
“They will be puzzled for weeks, perhaps. But they
will tell no one—not they; they have excellent rea-
son to keep silence. The doctor may have suspected
tkat the girl was poisoned, but he had no right to
bribe the keeper of a cemetery for the purpose of
taking her out of the vault where she had been
placed with loving grief by her parents, He will
conclude that the body was stolen. He may strong-
ly suspect that you employed certain people to steal
it. But where is his proof? Let him come here and
accuse you, Ah, you can meet him!”

Evelyn slowly nodded her head. Her face looked
hard as marble while she did so.

“Yes, I can meet him!” she murmured, through
her set teeth.

Just then a servant knocked at the door. A mo-
ment later the ecard of Frederick Westerveldt was
handed to Evelyn. She gave a slight nervous start.
Then she said to the servant:

“Tell Mr. Westerveldt that I will see him imme-
diately.”

After the departure of the servant Evelyn turned
to Natalie.

“Are you sure,” she said, ‘that Mr. Westerveldt
did not see his daughter’s face in that receding train
when Marian saw him ?”

“Oh, I am certain,” returned Natalie. ‘Nor is it
by any means sure, mistress, that the person she
saw was her father. I have always believed it some
accidental resemblance, and nothing more; for what
is less probable than. that Mr. Westerveldt should
have returned to L—— that same day, after he had
already been there when the funeral took place, and
gone back with us, as we both know?”

“Right,” responded Evelyn, She appeared to muse
again. ‘Come down stairs with me, Natalie,” she
said, presently,” and stand near one of the door-

vays, so that you can hear just what passes. Per-
haps that will be better.”

Shortly afterward Evelyn descended. She was
perfectly collected and tranquil as she entered the
drawing-room where Frederick Westerveldt sat. He
rose as she appeared. He was very pale and grave.
Something in his manner made Evelyn feel a sudden
nervous thrill as she looked at him.

She tried to smile, but the smile was somehow a
failure.

“T hope you have brought me good news,’ she
said. And then she put out her hand.

Westerveldt did not take it. He looked at her in-
stead, with a gaze of burning keenness.

“T bring you this news,” he said, “that you and
your servant, Natalie, gave a drug to my daughter
which threw her into a trance state. ‘That in this
state she was buried. That Natalie, or you, or cer-
tain agents of yours, entered the lodge of the keeper
of L cemetery last night, where the body of my
daughter was lying, resuscitated her and conveyed
her to New York by the final evening train. You
see, I know all. You need not attempt to dissemble
with me. It will be wholly useless. As for the loan
you made me, I will return it before five o'clock this
afternoon. I have new means of doing so. And as
for the further loans you have promised me, I reject
them with scorn.”

These sentences, quietly uttered and yet uttered
with aterrible emphasis, were a series of thunder-
strokes to Evelyn Effingham. She receded, panting,
gasping.

Just then Natalie hurried into the room. She faced
Westerveldt with ber dark lips curling, and her
black Southern eyes flashing.

“Prove what you say !” cried the mulattress, while
eatching one of her mistress’ hands in both her own,
and thus holding it. ‘You merely state all this, but
you can not prove it, and I defy you to do so!”

Westerveldt gave a contemptuous smile. He looked
calm as ice, and as cold, too.

“There are two men waiting outside,” he said,
‘who are private officers of the law. These men can
be summoned by me at an instant’s warning, Un-
less you, Evelyn Effingham, go with me at once to the
place where you have dared to conceal my daughter,
Marian, both you and your shrewd San Domingan
maid there shall sleep in a prison to-night.”

 

lips gave the mau who had dealt her this new pain—f

 

 

either hip and stared at Marian once more, with a | :
ms -- “| completely, and FOR G N T rS ONLY ri
Then she suddenly seized | pletely d FOR GOOD IN A FEW DAYS ONLY, leaving

ordinary |

it, with the silent contempt that brute force will
assault makes |

to let herself be robed for rest and to lie down. But |

8

 

One Dollar and Twenty-five ots. per line
FOR BACH INSERTION CASH IN ADVANCE

WE WISH IT UNDERSTOOD THAT WE DO NOT HOLD
QURSELVES RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CONDUCT OF OUR
ADVERTISERS. IF WE FIND THAT ANY ARE UNRELIA-
ee IMMEDIATELY ORDER OUT THE ADVERTISE-

Ie

ees

Pimples, Blackheads

FLESH WORMS AND OILY SKIN. “MEDICATED
CREAM” is the ONLY KNOWN harmless, pleasant. and abso-
lutely SURE and infallible cure. It removes ALL clean,

skin Clear, smooth, and unblemished always, or money re-
funded. Mailed in plain wrapper for 30 cts., in stamps,

5 ‘ ( ; | or two for 650 cts., by GEO. N. STODDARD, 1226 Niagara
fant, she carried Marian bodily into the next room. | NP t
The girl struggled for a few seconds under this igno- |

St., Buffalo, N. Y. Pamphlet gives 236 true and genuine
testimonials. My FRECKLE WASH surely cures
Freckles, Tan, and makes the hands white; sent, post-
paid, for 30 cts. ( Exactly as represented, and the doe-
tor reliable; has been in Drug business in Buffalo over
16 years. Say you saw this in NEW YORK WEEKLY.

“BUCHUPAITBA.” Quick, complete cure, all annoy-
ing Kidney Diseases. $1, at druggists. 18-e4w52t

FREE to YOU!

A Six Months’ Subscription to a Valuable Paper
and a Magnificent Premium! Wishing to introduce
our great Literary, Agricultural and Family Paper, The

| Rural Heme Jeurnal, into thousands of homes where

it is not already known, we make the following unprece-
dented offer: Vo any one who will send us Twenty-one
Cents in postage stamps to cover cost of postage, packing,
and tabor involved, we will send The Rural Heme
Journal for Six Months. also an elegant Portfolio of
beautiful engravings called “*The Art Souvenir.” con-
taining eight superb reproductions of genuine steel en-
gravings of American and Foreign Scenery, Pleasing
Hone Subjects, etc., printed on heavy plate paper, beau-
tifully bound, and forming one of the most charming
adornments for the parlor or center table that could be
devised. THE RURAL HOME JOURNAL is an eight page,
82-column illustrated paper, devoted to stories, sketches,
poems, agriculture, horticulture, household hints and
recipes, ladies’ fancy work, wit and humor, news, and
everything to amuse, entertain, and instruct the whole
family. You will be delighted with it, and likewise with
the beautiful premium. We make this great offer simply
to introduce our Pan into new homes, hoping to retain
for future years all who subscribe now. Send at once!
Remember, we give you the paper and premium free,
merely asking the trifling sum of 21 cents to pay cost of
mailing and labor. Those who do not take advantage of
this offer will throw away a chance of a lifetime. If you
will obtain for usa -elub of five subscribers upon these
terms, and send us $1.05, we will send you, free, jor your
trouble, either an elegant Butter Knife, or Sugar Shell,
or Pickle Fork, heavily plated with pure coin silver on
steel, and warranted to wear. Address,

KF. M. LUPTON, Publisher, 27 Park Place, New York.

OPIUM

34-46

MATRIMONIAL GLOBE.

The spiciest paper published. Each number coutains

nearly Too advertisements of Ladies and Gents wating

correspondents. Sample copy (securely wrapped) 10 cts.

silver. Address, THE GLOBE, 117 22d S8t., Chicago, Lil.
34-3t-eow

A MONTH and Expenses paid Agents

to distribute circulars and

sell goods. $25 amonth and expenses to dis-

tribute circulars only. No capital required. Salary paid

monthly; expenses in advance. Contractand sample pack-
age of goods for 1léc. GEO. S. STICKLE, Madison, Wis.

3

FREE! Catalogues of 5c. music. C. Brehm, Erie, Pa.
W33-66

 

Eaters Easily Cured. By one that
used it for 13 years. Address
JOS. A. DUNN, Elizabeth, N. J.

 

 

Gilt-Edge Compliment Cards, with name, in ele-
gant case, 10 cents. H. M. COOK, peetee eth Senin
31-46

“ROUGH ON RATS.” Ask druggists for it. Clears
out rats, mice, roaches, bed-bugs, skunks. 15 cents.
_ 18-e4w52t
ELEGANT CHROMO, no two alike, with name,
10 cts. Samples 6c. DOWD & Co., Wiusted, Ct.
a: ial _ 30-13
r 3 Per Week can be made in any locality. Some-
thing entirely new. for agents. $5 outfit free.
G. W. INGRAHAM & CO., Boston, Mass.

 

25-266

(Cyaear ss ELECTRIC BELT, “for men only,”
cures nervous debility, premature decay, etc. Sealed
circulars for 3c. stamp. Address CHEEVER ELEC.
TRIC BELT CO., 103 Washington street, Chicago Ill.
47-52.
AISY SERIES. Best set of Cards out. Sent for six
1 cent stamps. GEM CARD Co., E. River, Conn.

a __ 29-186
¢ A WEEK. $12 a day at home easily made. Costly
d Outfit free. Address TRUE & Co., Augusta, Maine,

25-13
566 a week in yourown town. Terms and $5 outfit
free. Address H. HALLETT&CO., Portland, Maine

25-13t

; :

30 DAYS’ TRIAL FREE!
We send free on 30 days’ trial Dr. Dye’s Electro-
Voltaic Belts and other Electric Appliances TO
MEN suffering from Nervous Debility, Lost Vitality
and Kindred Troubles. Also for Rheumatism,

Liver and Kidney Troubles, and many other dis-
eases. Peete” cures guaranteed. Illustrated Pamphlet
ress

free. Ad $
VOLTAIC BELT CO., Marshall, Mich.

 

 

 

 

9-266

 

EMEDY FREE. Victims of youthful imprudence,
causing Nervous Debility, Premature Decay, and all
disorders brought on by indiscietion or excess, will learn
of a simple remedy, jfree, by addressing J. H. REEVES,
43 Chatham Street, New York. 12-266.

 

AQEARGE CHROMO CARDS, no two Slike, with

r

name, 10c, postpaid. G. I. Reed & Co., eee N. a
7—26t

 

per day at home. Samples worth $5 free.
Address Stinson & Co., Portland,Maine
; ;

25-13

$5 To $20

per week to Agents, male or female. Splendid
chance. Address Garside & Co., 201 Broadway,N.Y.

 

$75
19-13
YOUR NAME on 50 elegaut new Chromo Cards
10 cts., 14 pks. $1. Agents make
50 per cent. Please send 20 cts. for Agents’ Aibum ot 100
samples, and list of 200 Elegant Premiums, and #e-
duced Price List. We fill all orders promptly and guaran-
tee satisfaction. Blank Cards at wholesale. Established
1870. er ne CARD WORKS, Northford, Conn.
$1-138t

 

IRES’ IMPROVED ROOT BEER, Package 25
cents. Makes 5 gallons of a delicious, strengthen-
ing, and wholesome Drink. Sold by Druggists, or sent to
any address on receipt of 25 cents. Address CHARLES
KE. HIRES, 48 N. Dei. Ave., Philadelphia, Pa 6-24

 

"7 AH EG EM Cigarette Maker. A practical novelty, makes

perfect tobacco or cubeb Cigarette. By mail 30 cts. Cir

cular free to Agents. Ives & Co, Sole Mfrs, N ue eee Ct-
32-2t eow

 

50 Chromo, Shells, Comic, Roses, Scrolls, &c., cards,
name on, in case, 10c. Potter & Co., Montowese, Ct.

30-19teow

 

Finest gold edge Cards, one corner turned,elegantly
printed 15c. D. Van Bussum&Co, 83 aE ae ’
-6eow

SERIES FOR 1882.
»~ 1) Elegant Imported designs, all Chromos, (xxx hoard)
OU in beautiful colors, Gold & Silver, German & French
Florals. Scenery from the River Rhine,Arctic scenes, Moss-
rose series, Ocean Views, Bird Mottoes,&c, name in fancy
script type, 10¢, or 25 extra large size embossed chromeos,
name in any style. 10c. Ag’ts make 40 per cent. 14 packs
of either for $1.Our beautiful bound book of 100 styles for
1882. 25c. Full particulars with every order. Blank Cards
at wholesale. CARD MILLS, Northford, Conn.

24-8t-eow. :

 

IG PA Y— To sell our Rubber Printing Stamps. Sam
ples free. TAYLOR BROS. & CO., Cleveland, O.
3-26-0oW

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

cree ©

Number Six.
By Harry Horr.

GOFFEE-POT DICK THROWS OFF TENDER REMINIS-
CENCES OF OLD PELICAN P. M, AT GOOSE CREEK.

it was growing late, yet the boys heeded not the |
speeding hours as they volubly discoursed on one |

theme. Each was narrating, with marked emphasis
at times, their reminiscences of great men.

Ss

Geyser George had been with Grant in the army,

and drank wine with him in the White House.

Quiet Jim had often accepted a seat behind Vander- |

bilt’s fast trotter. Wolverine Williams had frequent-
iy danced in the same set with General Sherman.
Happy Adam gave Jay Gould his first stake when
that unfortunate first went into stocks. Rustling
Tom was the companion of Horace Greeley on his
memorable overland trip.
sharpening picks and drills for Mackey & Pair, the

bonanzists, and in fact each member of the circle |
had been intimate with one or more of America’s |

famous men.

Coffee-pot Dick was the last to come to the front |

with his reminiscences, which flowed along in this
smooth manner:

“T’ve been on the trail a long time,
with many a great man.

and camped

ing to having formed my acquaintance, would haye
been Presidents or Senators, or Indian agents, if
they hadn’t resided in the Territories where a fel-

low’s friends can’t rally around him and throw ina |
| i : Somehow cenius don’t |
seem to thrive in this thin atmosphere—I mean the |

vote or two between drinks.

kind of genius that camps with politics. Now, when

we have a way up old-timer, brimful of learning and |

Quartz Joe had paid for |

Every one of these big |
guns, whose extensive caliber was somewhat ow- |

he lit out to enjoy the peace and quietude, gener-
ally loafing in the;Goose Creek deestrict.

“He was there about two months when he was ap-
pointed postmaster.
was with the folks at Washington, or probably he
got the office because no one else would have it.
When he received news of his appointment you
would think from his actions that he had been com-
missioned lieutenant-general in the army and ad-
miral in the navy both at onee. He set them up for
the boys by the gallon, and just as they were having
a Foyed old time he got the blues—his heart was on
the ground. Says he, ‘Boys, I’ll just bet when all
the folks on the river hearabout my beinga genuine
postmaster the durn cusses will wit jealous like.
and they’ll open oué a post-office on every other
ranch.’ We swore that we would stand in with him
and would not allow any opposition outfit to start
up. Now, all this don’t go to» how that Old Pelican
wis a great man. But his first report to the depart-
ment showed genius «ropping out all along the
ledge. If this don’t show he was great then I give
itup. I took a eopy of the document, and have got
it right here. Listen to it:

“ ‘MISTER POSTMASTER-GENERAL, ESQ:

* ‘Dear Sir :—As you want it, and I’m through haying, I
send you my quarterly report. I think this will be more
than a quarter of a report, andif vou will give mecredit
for half a one, then send the balance in stamps. My fam-
ily is quite well Wedidn’t churn last week on account
of a pole-cat getting into the milk-house.
what do you folks pay for butterin Washington,
inquire price of skunk-skins. Goose Creek is
but the Yellowstone is uponits ear. The as real
root In this immediate vicinity they are all up in trees
waiting to jump aboard of Gabriel’s first train on the

ine. I hain’t got much to do in the post-office
manage to read the postal-cards and
in a day. Some of the boys complain
8 out to read and putting them inthe
t I do this se that they can have a va-

i Gago

Also

 

great 1Y
bi
papers ali t
of y tak
Wrobhe ¥
riety re

“T wisi

lately i
hrough
ng paper
ppers }
wails

slness

matter,
ou would order the ¢
| subs i and hav
els. The fe s [I tired of
| papers, and they are abont all the kind
| [ gota letter pouc ther day by
longed to the Helena offi w it ¢lid
a brass lock and ours have on couldn't
it, and being afraid that some of our mail ight
in there by mistake I therefore opene t by cutting
strap with a butcher knife. You neridn't fret about
for I complied with the requirements of the law
ing ona piece of pasteboard with the words opener
mistake, and also cautioning them under the penalt
the law not to use this pouch for letters again. Some of
the boys thought it would be about the square thing for
me to divide up the Helena mail between them, but I
didn’t think so, and trust that the Department will back
me up inthis. I’m doing pretty well in the stamp bus
iness, selling ten of the three-cent ones as high as fifty
cents.
lars’ worth. Sume smart alecks say I’ve just got to sell
stamps for what they are. IfI sell three-cent stamps for
three cents. and so on, I’d liketo know how I’m going to
getany tobaceo money ahead. I wish you would send
meé a power of attorney to arrest all persons who find
fault with the running of this office. My health is only so
so,and my wife sends her usual regards to
Master General, and incloses a piece of calico which your
wife will please match in Washington and send us eight-
teen yards of the same. Forher trouble you can deduct
| the amount from my’ first week’s salary, and the balance
| over send 1n tobacco, a gallon of Jamaica rum, and what’s
| left take it out in paragoric and a little hood for the baby.

“**Yours officially, his
** ‘PELICAN, X P.M.

“ ‘Witness, COFFEE-POT DICK.’ mark

“Now if that ain’t an able document fora person
who never went to Harvard, Columbia, or Sing
Sing, then I wouldn’t know one when I saw it,
| This is the last one he sent. Atthe meridian of his
sareer he invited the grim monster to roo-t on his
door-step. It came about in this way. One day a
postal card eame written in Chinese characters.
Old Pelican did his best to decipher it. The more
| he tried the less he got out of it. At last, owing to

an excessive strain on his brain, he took the postal
eard in one hand, and with the other wrapped the
waters of Goose Creek around his official form, and

went to that place where mail pouches are made of
chilled iron, if they have any, and postmasters’
| commissions are forwarded in brimstone envel-
opes.’’

MBut. Dick, how do you make him out a great
man ?” queried Honest Ned.

“Tf he didn’t prove himself great who did? Any
other postmaster wouldn’t pay any attention to that
| postal eard. Old Pelican was different. He tackled
it and didn’t get away with it. So tosum it up he
thought his days of official usefulness had passed if
he couldn’t decipher anything passing through his
| office. He said he wouldn’t want to live if he was to
be beat by a contemptible China postal ecard, This
was the last camel that busted the hares back. He
was beat by the card, and great manas he was
he took it with him. He eouldn’t decipher it
here, and he might down there. ‘he post-office de-
partment went into mouring for him for. thirty
days. Pass the vial.

- —— > 9 ~~

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

of this office to
m send for nov-
eading Montana
that comes here
mistake It be
because it had
unlock
ot

t
the

istomers
ture papers, 6 tn
tt

u tring

h here
i Kne
iron 8

have

by tack

ry

 

running over with ability, and us fellows are get- |

ting ready to bet our last ounce that he is going t
get a certain Federal position—then we all get left.
Why? Because some fourth-rate lawyer—some
played-out, rum-sucking dead beat of a
politician—comes out from the States with his little
gripsack, and takes a position he is as competent to
fill as I am to teach music in a female Seminary, or
keep astrict account of the drinks these carpet-
baggers entice the barkeepers to. put for safe-
keeping on their slates. No, boys, them ain't the
great men [I’m barking about, and I ain't a-going to
insult white men by mentioning them. But I/

known great men. Now there was Sim Larkey.
Sim was a genius. He was a lover of art when
young. His studio was an expansive one. The
roof was heaven’s own blue, and Mother Earth
rustled around-and furnished the carpeting. He
was an artist. His wood-cuts were thrown off to
his admirers with a rapidity bordering on the reck

ek-
less. I used to file hissaw for him, and he awes me

a balance on account of one dollar and six bits, but |

like him, I will let it pass. Sim at last became a
nabob sawyer, and had three portable sa.w-mills
running, each with a whole Chinaman as engineer,
boss sawyer. and all. Soonhe got to running wit
a machine, which of course gave him an entrance
into the highest political circles. Sim now dis-
charged the gentleman from China, and substi-
tuted therefor white men, after adding three more
portable saw-mills and investing in a large, gold-
headed cane, a paste diamond pin, and a weak-
eyed bulldog. This made him popular with the
masses.

“At the next election he came out as coroner, and
was given a grand, complimentary supper,
he paid for on the sly.
livered on that occasion, and written for him be-
fore the election, cost him
numerous drinks,
and here is where his greatness cropped out.

‘During that time he became well versed wen
eould |

legal and medical terms. Everything he
pick up at an inquest pertaining to either profes-
fession he stowed awayin his mind’s garret. At
last he tossed up an eagle to see which he would be,
a lawyer or doctor.
shop, and a week after the sign read:

De SLM LARK BY: ME De:
PHYSICIAN, SURGEON, &c., &e.
Ofice Hours from M. to P. M.
“He just coined money, and had the satisfaction of
sending more over the riverand up the long trail than

he eyer sat uponin the palmiest days of his coroner- |
He eyentually died by taking a dose of his |

ship. ey
own medicine through mistake.
all that went with him,

His virtues and

with a successful wood sawyer as sheis to break
out on a common roustabout. But the
public man I ever knew was ‘Old Pelican.’

born without one just like Emperor. William and
Queen Victoria. Howsomeyer a great man like him
didn’t need but one name in his business.

eattle.
simply because the grand jury couldn’t quite agree
on tt themselves. Howsomever, that business as
earried on by him had too many

: jac rplexing cares
and annoying anxieties connecte

e
a with it, andso

deeayed |

I have |

ime which |
His impromptu speech de- |

twenty dollars, besides |
He was coroner for three terms,

That day he went toa paint- |

I only speak of Dr, Sim |
Larkey just to show that genius is as liable to camp |

greatest |
l I don’t |
remember his front name, and I reckon he was|

- ‘ [ 3. Before |
I got acquainted with him he was engaged in raising |
How he raised them I ain’t agoing to say, |

| Edited by Mrs. Virginia Ingram.

“A Country Girl,’—I1st. All wash goods shrink a little.
| Itis best to allow for this in cutting them out. 2d. The
| less sizing or stiffening in the material the less apt itis to
| shrink; but entire immunity from stiffening does not pre-
vent the liability tosome shrinkage. 3d. The arms’ eyes
of dresses are never corded now with the consent of fash-
| ion, and the improvement in the appearance of the figure
which this omission imparts will make the revival of cord-
| ing highly improbable. 4th. The lower edges of silk and
| worsted basques, from the closing to the side-back seams,
} and often all the way around, are more frequently plainly
| finished with an under-facing than by any other means,
| such a completion being almost universally becoming and

always in fashion. Thisdoes not mean that no other mode
|} is fashionable. Ladies of slender tigure and good height
may add lace ruffles, plaitings, etc., to the edges of their
dress-bodies without detracting from the dignity of their
stature; but ladies who are undersized or corpulent should
avoid such decorations,

to them a new idea in decorative effect. 2d. Everybody
} can tell you of magnificent things, butit isnot everybody
| who can tell you how to make pretty and useful things
| without any, great expenditure. 3d. The very general
| use of cretonne for some time past has resulted in the
| collection of numerous pieces of that material, for which
| there seemed to be no use under the sun. But there is.
| So whoever has these pieces (and who has not?) will do
well to piek out the prettiest and make them 1rto a table-
cover. All thatis required besides the cretonne is some
Silesia for lining, an inexpensive fringe, the velvet or
| braid--you may use either—to divide into squares, some
yellow fluss, and then some tassels.

“‘Dressmaker.”—Il1st. Filigree and buttercup buttons
are very much worn. The filigree is a globular in shape.
with a hollow interior, and is in open-work design, while
| the buttercup is in the shape of the flower from which it
| takes its name indicates, having golden-colored petals
| and steel stamens. The mirror button, as its name indi-
cates, reflects as does a mirror. Itshowsa polishea sur-
face of the color of either gold, silver, or tempered steel,
and on it isa raised figure of a parrot perched on a limb.
2d. The “Roman pearl” is a round, flat button. It shows
in relief against a ground of pearl a metal stork in the act
| of swallowing afish. 3d. Colored bead embroidery is still
| a favorite, as are also steelgimps. Buttons are now made
| Of both steel and beads to match these embroideries.

“M. H ’—Wear with your business and flannel costumes
| the small linen collar known as the “Clerical.” More
| elaborate designs are chosen for thoseintended to be worn

with evening or house costumes. Turned-back cuffs, so
| dressy in effect, are again seen, and people who wear out
their sleeves at the wrists will welcome them gladly, as
much because of their beauty as for their concealing
powers.

I make alittle reduction when folks take five dol. |

All these pretty things can be made at home. |

This shows how popular he |

heavy, however, plaitings are usually lined with tarlatan

| or thin crinoline, and this does away with the necessity

for stitching showing upun the outside.

“Little Schoolgirl.’’—Cunning parasols for the wee ones
are polka-dotted, and trimmed, with frills of the material
daintily pinked out, or else with frills of lace. Anybody
who has ever seen the¢appiness experienced by a wee
maiden carrying her first parasol, would certainly con-
cluce that not only the giver, but the manutacturer was a
philanthropist.

“Nellie W.,” Syracuse.—A very satisfactory pattern for

|

| another shot, at me.

 

my follyin sparing him, but it was now too late.
Nimbly he sprang from tree to tree, trying to get
I fired twice, but missed both

| times, and then lost sight of him.

a petticoat of any materia] is No. 8,106; price 30 cents. If |

bleached muslin is used Hamburg embroidery
suitable trimming. There is a gore for the front, one
for each side, aud a back breadth and back flounce com-
prised in the formation.

“New Subscriber.—lst. A dark green silk costume,
trimmed with moire, will be pretty and suitable for all
summer, c :
have one, a cream-white tin’s vailing, trimmed with white

| Spanish lace, would be prettiest, and will allow of your

real low, |

{

| not like
} . . . . . ‘ .
| and one evening while in camp, seeing him stand-

wearing many Colors with it.

“S.8.,”’ Baltimore, Md.--lst. White nun’s vailing and

will be |

| reconnoitering, I stepped

“How long I waited I could not tell, but it seemed |
tome anage. My wounds were smarting me, and
at last I determined to stand it no longer, and |
poked my head from behind the tree and looked

about. I could see nothing, and, after carefully

out. Iwas still cautious, |
for I feared the young redskin was hiding behind |
one of the trees and would shoot me. Gliding |
from tree to tree, 1 looked all about, but could not

find him. He surely had gone off, and I went over |
to where the old Tadtan lay and took a look at him. |

| He had fallen on his face, and I turned him over on

| his back.

The dead eyes stared up at me, and one |

| hand on the already stiffened arm raised up as if to |

|;my big butcher-knife, I stooped to sealp the old
2d. For an evgning dress, as yon are only to |

| Stunned mey and a loud report rang through the

white mull dresses may be worn by a lady dressing in deep |
mourning; crepe lisse can be worn as a trimming for the |

Attach the vail to the bonnet with dead black
it need not be worn over the face, after the

neck. 2¢.
ball-pins.

By the way, | first three months, unless one Chooses so to wear it.

“A Young Housekeeper.”—White dotted muslin cur

tains, trimmed with ruffles of the same, will curtain your |

windows etfectively and inexpensively, as a fine quality
of muslin need not be gotten.

“Lady Lovel.”’—We do not know where the “‘words”’ can
be obtained.

“W. K. S.”’—We can send you any book named in your
letter for the price mentioned on the list.

——>@—<

LIVER-EATING JOHNSON.

| watching me and waiting for a good opportunity to
| Shoot, for he had his gun to his shoulder.

| degrees; fanned my cheek and plunged into the
| ground. ;
| deliberate aim was the work of an instant.

A THRILLING STORY OF THE PLAINS |

By Gen. JAscs S. Brisbin.

Hi tall 6 man, large-boned, and had
ieét-black hair. Mis eye was soft and large, but he
ick, nervous way of looking about him..as
sx pected to seesomebody or something he did
His strange name attracted my attention,

ras spa!

had a qt
if

| ing alone before his camp-fire, I called him to me,

Mrs. Post- |

and giving him a stool in front of my tent, asked
him to tell me his history.

“How,” said I, “did you come bythe strange name
you bear of Liver-Eating Johnson?”

“Did you never hear about that?” ho inquired,
with some surprise.

“Never.” I said; “and you will oblige me by tell- | 7 E
; }
master who would ride him no more.

ing me all about it.”
“It's. a long story,” said the scout, ‘but I will
make it as short as possible.’ ee
‘Never mind the brevity,” I answered We have

actors themselves. I expect your life. like the lives

times of great peril.”
“You are right,’ he replied, ‘‘and when I think
over some of the Mrs i have passed through I
cannot but wonder that I am alivevand here.”

the fire burn brightiy« 1 filled up a pipe, and, hand-
ing it to the scoutesaid

“Fire away, old man!”

For some time
said:

“You want fo kno,
name, and I will tei von.

ie
4i0

how I came by my strange
It isnowa litile over

| earth, the body striking the ground with a dull thud |
;} ond bounding upward.

| not attempt to get it.
| dead when I reached his body. and once more draw-
| ing my butcher-knife I lifted his hair.
| lalso performed for the old man and without mo-

| my sealps on some sticks to «

'

|

|

upbraid me for \he act lhad done. Drawing out |
man, when just as the knife touched his head a bal]
whistled by my ear, So close that for a moment it
forest. treed again and began to look about;
where had the shot come from? I could neither
see nor hearany one. My blood was up, and I de-
termined to make an ending of the fight. I dodged
from tree to tree around a circle, but could find no
one. Suddenly an idea struck me, and I began to
lonk up in the trees.

“Hardly had I done so when I saw my young red-
skin perched in the’ forks of a cottonwood fully
twenty feet from the ground. He was evidently

“I sprang behind the near: st tree, and as I did so
a ball, descending at an angle of nearly forty-five

To raise my rifle to my shoulder and take |
The |
young redsxin had begun to chant his death-sone,
knowing he had been discovered and that his d: ath
was now certain. Hardly had the first sounds of
his sad song been uttered when I pulled the trig- |
ger, and the chant was changed into a yell of agony.

He fell forward and descended headforemost to the |

 

His gun remained in the |
crotea of the tree, where it probably still is, as I did
The young Indian wis quite

This service

a Having stretched
ry I sat down to re-
flect on my situation. My enemies were both dead,
my wounds, though severe, were not necessarily fa-
tal, and that I was still alive after the fearful strug-
gle I had passed through was a matter of no slight
congratulation.

“Night was setting in and promised to be stormy.
The air. which had been cold all day, had suddenly
become warm, betokening ons of those heavy snow-
storms so peculiar tothe plains. I looked for my
pony, but nowhere could I find him.

“One ofthe Indian horses stood quite near, evi-
dently waiting. with well-trained docility, for the |
I attempted |

lestation in my second atiem

 

| to catch the little beast, but he would not allow me |

| to approach him. Finally he ran away, and it being |
| now quite dark, I set myself to making a camp for

| the night by a fallen tree.

la long evening before us, and I am fond of tales of |
adventure, especially when they are related by the |

-“Thad a few matches in my pocket, and soon |
lighted a fire at one end of the log. By placing |

e {some pieces of cottonwood bark against the log
of most of our scouts, has not been passed without |

on either side, I madea cave that would shelter me

| from the storm and keep me dry. I had no blankets

| or food, and lay down to sleep,
| having first torn up my red

tired

and hungry,
annel

undershirt to}

[ | make bandages for my wounds, which I tied up as |
Ordering the orderly to pile up the logs and make |

wellas ITecould. Being feverish and thirsty, I ate

| great quantities of snow to slake my thirst and cool
my burning mouth.

smoked in silence, and then |

ten years ago since I carried the mail between Fort |

Stephenson and Fort Buford onthe Missouri River.

| The country was very dangerous at that time, and

| button my great-«
Indians raise his

we were constantly eautioned to look out for In-
dians.
and, as nothing hid happened, I had become some-
what careless, I PI It was
eold winter day, an:l I hadtheup mail for Buford. I
was justthinkingabout camping for the night, when
IT heard a noise -and, looking up, saw two Indians

suppose.

|ecome round,

I had been on the route nearly six months, |
| and the wolves secampered off.
atthe close of a

| solved to stay awake.

mounted on ponies in the path directly ahead of |}

rae.
vards distant, and the other just behind him.
first instinet was to draw my rifle, but ITremem-
bered I had foolishly s:rapped it to my saddle. I
then thought of my revolver, but before I could un-
1tand get at it, Lsaw one of the
iffato his shoulder and draw a
beailon me. I-attenipted to dismount and get my
pony between me dnd the impending danger, but
I was too Jate. Ags drew my right foot from the

The nearest Padian was not more than twenty

| stirrup. I felta shatp pang in my left shoulder and

| instantly fell to the

| ear reminding me I

round.
retting my rifle from the boot,

way and r5 to th
vee and draw up my rile was
pment. I felt faint, and,.as I

bead on the nearest indian,
My my side, and the rifle came
round. A ball whistled by my
must be more careful.

“T sat down and watched carefully to the right and
left for the Indians. }I knew the Indian tactics, and
that they would separate and try to get a shot at ine
from opposite sides.
I feigned death, keeping an eye out for the enemy.
Presently one of the Indians showed himself, and
taking a careful aim at his leg, which was the only
exposed partof his body, I fired. With a yell he

and sueceeded in
when the pony bro
To spring behind

but the work of a
attemnied te dras
m'y left arm droppt
near falling onthe

rn

ground. As quickly as I could in my maimed condi-
tion I drew up, and as he attempted to get behind
the tree again firedand had the satisfaction of see-

| ing hi all back on the ground.
“Mrs. G. K.,” Albany, N. Y.—1st. All women love pret- ing him fall back omthe gro

| ty homes, and are best satisfied when there has been given |

“At that instant Ifelt another sharp painin my
right leg, and knew I had been hit by the other In-
dian. Feeling confident one of the Indians had been

done for, and that Inow had but one to fight, Ire- |

solved to be doubly cautious and flattened myself in
thesnow. Ifelt the blood running down into my
boot, but could work my toes and move my foot, so I
knew no bones had been broken.

“How long [lay Ido not know, but it seemed to |

| me an interminable
hear nothing of the other Indian, and bé@gan to hope |
he had gone off, when a slight noise behind me caused |

length of time I could see nor

me to turn my head and there he stood, Ho was &
boy, a mere child in fact, but he had his knife in his

| hand, and, thinking me dead from my long inactivity,

‘hé had come to scalp me.

| war with the pale-faces;

| The materials are inexpensive, and in many instances |

| may be found hidden away in the capacious bag or basket
| where the economical housekeeper puts that which she
did not need “just now,” when ‘‘just now” meant the fu-

; ture.
“Miss J. W. M.,” Wheeling, W. Va.—lst. In the grena-
dines the Spanish patterns predominate, but there are also
other desirable designs. 2d. Nun’s vailing may be truth-

| fully called the most desirable woolen fabric of the sea- |

| son. Itlends itself to such graceful lines and drapings,

| being the desideratum of the woman who expects to get
| goud value from the money she expends. The last novel-

Indian fashion, where he had flung it, believing the
battie was over. To cover him with my gun was
the work of an instant.

*‘Now,” said I, in Sioux, “itis my turn.”

“<«The white man can killif he chooses, The In-
dian is a fool,’ and he ealmly folded his arms on his
breast to await the fatal shot.

“For an instant [ thonght I would killthe young

redskin, then seeing he wasa child, and _ entirely |
| gun all ready to fire.

defenseless, pity overcame me, and I asked him:

***What brings you here, and why have you sought
my life?’

““The great chief of the Uncapapas has gone to
he bid us kill the mail-
riders and bring him the sacks, that he might see
what the white

ters) to each other. The Indian dare not disobey

| his chief.’

ee

2 nan all the mail-riders have been killed?’ I
asked.

“*Not all,’ he replied; ‘but all soon will be.’

“ “Who was the Indian with you ?’

** "My father.’

“And is he dead?’

***Yes; the white man has killed him.’

**And you thought I was dead?’

“Yes.
white man.’

“Tt was you, you young rascal that shot mein
the leg, was it?’ I asked.

‘***T shot the white man,’ he proudly replied, anda
smile lit up his dusky teataures,

“*You expect me to kill you, I suppose?’ I

| asked.
| is so light and even-looking, and wears so well—the last |

‘I thought the white man was
dead, and came to take his sealp. The Indian isa

| fool, and must die.’

| ty innun’s vailing shows half the width striped. plaided, }

| ora melange, and the other half plain. Or, better still,
| one half plain and the other covered with work not un-
| like that of a camel’s-hair shawl.
regarded as the outcome of the embroidered goods.

“Mrs. G. W.,” Fall River, Mass.--In sewing wash laces
to the edges of plaitings, ruffles, etc., it is preferable to do
so by hand, unless you are enough of an expert with the
sewing-machine. to be able to hold the lace a little
full as you are sewing it on, or prefer to baste it to posi-

|
|
|
| 7 7 ° . d
| tion first, which takes nearly as much timeas to sew it on
|

| with an over-and-over stitch. All wash laces, being
| loosely woven, will shrink more when wet than the ma-
| terial to which they are sewed, and a general drawing in
| or curling about the edges will be the result, unless the
means described are employed to prevent it.

“A Milliner.’—Lace and embroidery, flowers and
| feathers, buckles and ornaments, velvet and silk, crape
and tulle, straw and jet, fringe and passementerie, are all

used on this season’s bonnets. Black lace, lace that
might be called ‘‘soiled,” of such a queer yellow hue is it,
green, brown. and scarlet laces are all seen in great
quantities. Put on en cascade, as valance frills, or ap-
plied flatly to the brim, are they noticed. Entire shapes
| are covered with lace, or crowns of it with straw or vel-
vet brims are seen.

“H.W. S.”—The lower edges of skirts are usually fin-
ished with braid, applied as a binding or sewed flatly un-
| derneath, with half its width below the lower edge. Plait-

| ings, ruffles, and almost all trimmings that require hem-
| ming are blind-hemmed in the manner explained in a for-
| mer part of this article. Unless the material is very

Naturally, this may \ ;
ily, this may b© i treachery of these

[ held onto my pony, |

woods. }

My |

 

| body.

| draught of elear, eold
| reasoned that what I had eaten could at least do me |

His rifle was at his back, |

| eat them up entirely rather than starve.
| my fire, fixed my shelter under the log, and sat |
| down to wait events.

| tom the low, long ery of a pack of wolves.

men are saying on the paper (let- |

“Worn out with the excitement of the day, I at |
last fellinto a heavy slumber, from which I was
awakened by a piece of bark falling on my hend,
and what I tookin my first moments of wakeful-
ness to be the yells of Indians. I found they were
only wolves, and I heard them fighting over the
bodies of the dead Indians. One old fellow had
and in jumping over the log, had
knocked down a piece of bark, which had awakened
me. Taking up my gun, I fired one or two shots,
Making up my fire,
I found the day was breaking in the east, and-re- |
My wounds pained me, and
I felt a gnawing of hunger in my stomach. I had
eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, and was very
hungry.

“As soon as it was light I started out to seeif I}
eould find my pony, hoping I might get at my bag |
of provisions: After hunting over two hours and |
finding nothing, I came back to camp and sat down |
to rest. Iwas very hungry, and almost burning up |
with fever. A little stream near by, which I had |
not observed the night before, gave me plenty of |
fresh water to drink, and I quenched my thirst |
again and again. What was I todo for something}
to eat? I would certainly starve to death unless I |
found meat. The snow had’ been falling-all night |
long, and now lay nearly three feet deepon the |
ground. In my present exhausted condition Leould
not think of making my waywn foot to Fort Buford,
nearly a hund@red miles distaut, and. even if { could,
what would I live on along the way? }

“I wished I had shot the Indian’s pony, orthat I |
had shota wolf, and from thinking of wolf-meat I
-ame to think of the Indians. I had often heard of |
cannibals, and that they said human flesh was |
sweet and good. Ihad heard, too, of men eating |
each other atsea. What harm could there be in

|} eating an Indian? I would takea look at them.
Crouching low on the ground |

Going to the boy’s body, I found the wolves had
eaten one of his arms and a leg almost off, but the |
body was still whole. |

om

Taking my knife, I cut out the liver and heart,

| and washed them clean in the stream. They looked |
leaped to the opposite side of the tree and fell to the |

just like the liver and heart of an antelope, of which
was very fond.

“I roasted the liver on a stick before the fire,
and tried to forget that it was part of a human
The smell of the roasting meat made me}
ravenous, and shutting my eyes when it was done, |
I devoured it as aman would take medicine. The |}
meat was nutritious, but I could not forget it. was
human. After I had eaten all I wanted I feli better.
and washing down my horrible repast with a
water from the stream, I |

no harm. How many meals must I make on In- }
dian, I asked _myself over and over again, ani feel- |
ing stronger 1 went out once more to Jook for my |
pony. It was nearly night when I returned again
from, my fruitless search, and prepared for my
second meal off Indian. I had determined to wait
and see if the wolves woul: not return, and if they |
did, to secure a full supply of wolf-meat. Still I]
did not care to take any further chances, and I}
dragged my dead Indians into camp, determined to |
I made up

It was nearly midnight, and I |
was seriously thinking of making a supper on In-
dian and retiring, when I heard far down the bot-
Nearer
and nearer came the ery, until they were close to
my camp. I had gotten under the log, and had my
The pack sat down ina semi- |
circle around the fire and bayed fora long time, |
when one old fellow bolder than the rest sprang |
forward and seized hold of one of the Indians. }

“L waited until a young wolf came up, and taking
deliberate aim by the light of the fire shot him
through the heart. He leaped into the air, turned |
a complete somerset, and fell dead. The other,)

| wolves ran off; and to bleed and skin my wolf was |

but the work of a few minutes. He was a young |

| fellow, only about_half-grown, and I knew he was |
| juicy andtender. I cut off a hind-quarter, washed |
| itclein in the stream, and in a little while was}

| tions to I
| good as any other kind of meat.
| that I did not have to eat Indian, and after filling |
My father fired last, and I also shot the |

“Lhad kept the muzzle of my gun steadily bear- }

ing on the Indian boy’s breast and my finger on the
trigger ready to fire in an instant, for I knew _ the
young vipers,and that if he

|caught me off my guard forasingle moment he

| would improve the

 

opportunity by eovering me
with his rifle and blowing my brains out.

“IT did not like to kill the young Indian, and yet I
knewif Ispared him he would probably kill me. I
was badly maimed, and should I become helpless he

; tell you.

toasting the meat before the fire. I have no objec- |
wolf-meat when hungry; it tastes just as :
I felt thankful |

myself up, lay down and slept soundly until morn- |

ng.

“T had been in camp three days, and was getting
tired of it when, to my great jov, Bill Nelson, the |
down mail-ecarrier, came along leading my pony.
He said he had met the pony onthe trail about
forty miles this side of Buford, making his usual |}
trip up with the mail,and nearly ontime. Ashe}
had no rider, Bill supposed he had got away and |
ee me on foot on the prairie, and so brought him |
pack. i

“When Nelson saw the dead Indians, and heard
my story of the fight, he was mightily astonishe.
and when he got to Stephenson, told all the people
there how I had killed two Indians and eaten the
liver of one.

“Bill and I had ajolly time that night in eamp, I
Roast Indian or wolf were nowhere, and |

| we dined off ham, coffee, fresh beef, and pan- |

would cut my throat with as little hesitation as he |

would cut the throat of a wild beast.
pity for him and said:
“Throw down your knife.’

Sti a | :
til F felt a | make myself sic

“He did as I commanded and threw it several feet |

from him.

““‘Now put down your gun.’

“The gun was laid on the ground.

, “Stand back!’ I said, and he fell back a pace or

wo.
“ ‘Further! further!’ I cried, until I had backed
him a full rod from the gun.

“I then lowered my rifle and attempted to rise.
My shoulder was burning like coals of fire, and my
leg pained me considerably. Still I got on my feet,
and going to the spot where the Indian’s gun lay, I
took it up and broke the stock against a tree. Ithen
picke:l up the knife, and when I looked for him the
young Indian was gone, Instinctively I sprang be-
hind a tree, and not a moment too soon, for, as I did
so, a ball raised the bark and cut a piece out of my
eoat-collar. The young Indian had taken advan-

 

tage of my being off my guard for an instant to get |

his dead father’s gun and try to shoot me.

cakes.

“Bill had a strip of fresh beef tied to his saddle
and «lot of flour, and I never tasted anything so |
good in all my life. I ate until Bill said I would
k and took the things away.

“Then we smoked an | talked over my adventure
until almost micnight, and when I did finally go to |
bed I had my rollofblankets and slept likea prince. |
In the morning, before starting down to Stephenson |
wth the mail, Bill dressed my wounds as well as
any doctor could have done it, and having pressed |
my hand again and again, we parted, he for Sie-}
phenson and I for Buford. The people at Buford |
were mighty anxious and feared something had
happened to me; but I brought them their mail all!
right and only four days late. When I told. my story
they were a litile incredulous, but when Nelson came |
up and said he had seen the dead Indians and told |

| them how he had met the pony on the trail and |

found me in camp living on woll-meat, they be- |
lieved it all,
‘Ever since then they have called me Liver-Eat-
ing Johnson.”
—_——_—_—_—_—_—__»-@—~<—______

The police of Berlin last year arrested 32,931 beg- !

I cursed | gars, of whom over 30,000 were men.

| to the ground.

| and beth pledded his cuuse glibly, Miss Higgins ref
| to regard the offer as anything but an insult, and had t
}

| War’s man

| 3,300 feet below the surface.

| worth.

| People’s Library, No.

The Inventor of Paper Kites.

This was no less a personage than the illustrious
Sir Isaac Newton. His father was a farmer at
Woolsthrope, in Lincolnshire, England, and when he
was a lad, Isaac used to make models of windmills.
The little monkey used to delight also in sending up
kites, on dark nights, with a lantern at their tail
and frightening all the villagers round about out of
their wits by making them believe that they were
great comets.

While he was at schoo! at Grantham, too, he made
a sun-dial by watching the movement of the shadows
through the day, and this was long known in the
town by the name of *‘Isaae’s Dial,”

They wanted to make a farmer of little Isaac, so
he was taken away from school and sent to Gran-
tham market with the old farm servant, to sell the
things; but instead of striving to get the best price
for the corn, and bargaining with the cattie-dealers,
the young rascal used to stay outside the town, and
sit under a tree by the road-side, studying a book.

So, one market-day, as Master Isaac lay stretched
on a bank, reading some book, a little way out of the
town, who should come by but his uncle, who was
the rector of one of the parishes hard by; but the
boy was so taken up with what he was studying that
he actually didn’t know anybody was nigh—right at
his elbow, and looking over his book. His uncle was
astonished to find Isaac was engaged in learning
about angles, circles, and the like. Luekily, though.
the rector was a sensible kind of man, so he advised
the boy’s mother and step-father (for Tsaac’s own
father had been dead many years) to send bim to
college, saying that a bo¥ hike him wasn’t fit to look
after plowing and reaping.

Well, Isaac went to college, and staid there, {n-
creasing in learning, until the plague broke out—that
dreadful disease that killed thonsands a week—and

| then he was obliged to leave Camb: idge and go back

to the farm at Woolsthrope.

Now it was while he was tere, one day, sitting
under one of the trees in the orchard, that young
Isaac saw an apple drop from one of the boughs to
the ground. He knew it was gravitation that made
the pippin fall; for, though many people fancy he
discovered that, they are mistaken, because the force
that draws things down to the earth was known long
before his time.

As he turned the matter over in his mind, Isaac
mused something after this fashion: ‘Since it’s the
attraction of the earth that pulls the apple down to
the ground, and since, if I were to go up to the tops
of the highest buildings and the peaks of the loftiest
mountains, the attraction of the earth would do the
same thing there, and it’s the same force again
which makes the hail-stones and the rain-drops fall
down from the clouds, where does it end ?”

So Isaac asked himself whether there could be any
point where the attraction of the earth would cease?
And, if there was no such point, why then the at-
traction must reach to the noon and be pulhng that
down to the earth, all the same as if it were an apple
or a stone.

Isaac went to work and proved by figures that the
moon is continually being drawn down to the earth,
and that by the very same force that draws the stone
He showed, too, that was why the
moon goes On revolving round about our globe; and
not only is the force of gravitation the cause of the
moon’s revolving about the earth, but he proved
that it was the very same power that made the earth
itself and all the planets revolve about the sun.

r B. G.
> © <«—__-__—_—_—

Items of Interest.

Mrs. Stephen Daley, of Rochester, N. Y., handed
her pocket-book to her child to hold, and the little one
carelessly dropped it into a parasol in the hands of Miss
Fanny Benson, a visitor. A short time afterward the lat-
ter lady, while in the street, opened her parasol and the
pocket-book dropped to the ground. A geutleman picked

| it up and handed it to her, but she disclaimed the owner-

finder, however, said he was confident she
She afterward learned of Mrs. Daley’s loss,

ship. The
dropped it.

| and returned the pocket-buok.

Shortly after the funeral of Longfellow, a Michigan

| poetess sent to the village newspaper some memorial

stanzas, entitled “Toour Dead Singer.”’ The editor, who
was a thoroughly unsentimental man, merely glanced at
the title, refolded the manuscript. and writing a brief in-
dorsement across it, handed the precious contribution to
the office boy, with instructions to return it to the gifted
authoress when she called. The indorsement read as fol-
ane “Declined with thanks: .Am sorry your cat is
dead.”’

An audacious barber, in Denver, Ind., fell in love
with Miss Higgins, and although a stranger to her, en-
deavored to carry her affections by storm. .He took outa
license to marry her, and presented it to her as an intro-
auction, asking her to name the day. Although he was
accompanied by his sisteras an cvidenee of “poubT inith,

j sed
he
cheesy barber ejecied.

As a lady in Pawtucket, R. I., was walking on the
street she was accosted by ja stranger, who politely
begged her pardon, but, really, he would like to know
what her dress cost, as he liked the looks of it, and
wanted to get a similar one for his own wife. Much
amused, she kindly informed him of the costof the ma-
terial and the number of yards, as near as she could re-
member, and he went away satisfied.

“The Spanish main” is a seaman’s phrase that is
often misapplied. It means the mainland in the Gulf of
Mexico which once belonged to Spain. .When a man-of-
states that he has been for six months cruis-
ing on the Spanish main, he means that he has been for
the time mentioned on the coast of the continental re-
publics formerly colonies of Spain.

Some butchers still continue the practice of
p

making their mutton look plump by “blowing” it. This
is done by the butcher making an incision in the skin of
each quarter, shortly after slaughtering, and inflating the
cellular tissue with the breath from his own lungs. As
some men have not a very sweet breath, this practice has
a decaying effect upon the meat.

yy]

The deepest mine in the world is the Pribrand
silver mine in Bohemia. The lowest depth is nearly
At this depth the tempera-
ture of the rocks is only 75.90 deg. F.; and the tempera-

| ture of the air is 76.3 deg. F. so that up to tht present only

natural ventilation has been required.
Meyer Schreiber, a resident of Albany, N. Y., was
embarrassed for funds, and required $1,500 to save him

from ruin. He telegraphed to a Boston friend for the
money. The telegram-was delayed three hours, and
Schreiber, thinking his friend refused to aid him, com-

| mitted suicide.

church organist lives in Phila-
bent with age, and the other day at
antique Philadelphia belle whom he
before, he astonished everybody by
on the air “‘When You and I were

The meanest
delphia. He is all
the wedding of an
knew many years
playing a fantasie
Young.”

A grocer named Hutchinson, residing in Gates-
head, England, has thirteen daughters, all stutterers.
When they engage in a dispute, and all chatter together,
the discord reminds the listeners of the -confusion of
tongues at the Tower of Babel.

“Uncle Tom’s Cabin” has had a run of three
nights and a half as an opera in Philadelphia. On the
fractional night the singers struck for their pay when
the performance was half through, and the audience of
87 persons was dismissed.

In reply toa question from Postmaster Hunt, of
Rochester, Treasurer Gilfillan has written that United
States coins, affected by natural abrasion only and not

| mutilated in any way, must be received by Government
} officers at their face value.

A corner Jotin this city, with a frontage of 25 feet
4inches on Broadway, and 100 feet 8 inches on Liberty
street, was recently sold for $356,000. This is equal to
over $139 a square foot.

———_—_——_>-@©-~<¢

Recent Publications.
POT-BOUILLE. By Emile Zola. Publishers, T. B. Peter-
son & Brothers, Philadelphia. John Stirling has achieved
quite a reputation as a translator of Zola’s novels. Heis

| able and faithful, and consequently his translations are

greatly admired. ‘Pot-Bouille” is a romance that will be
read with interest, because it treats of the home life of
the middle classes of Paris, and is characterized by the
striking originality which marks all of Zola’s productions.
Price, paper cover, 75 cents.

A BROKEN WEDDING RING.
Thorne.”

By the author of ‘Dora
People’s Library, No. 277; price 20 cents.
A FLAW IN THE MARRIAGE CHAIN. By E. S. South-
People’s Library, No. 272; price 20 cents.

REPENTED AT LEISURE. By the author of “Dora Thorne.
People’s People’s Library, No. 270; price 20 cents.

BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. By B. L. Farjeon.

271; price 10 cents.

SOMEBODY’s LUGGAGE, By Chas. Dickens.
Library, No. 269; price 10 cents.

THE TELEGRAPH GIRL. By Anthony Trollope. People’s
Library, No. 273; price 10 cents.

CHRISTIAN’S MISTAKE. By Miss Muloch. People’s Li-
brary, No. 276; price 10 cents.

For His SAKE. By Jessie Fothergill.
ry, No. 274; price 10 cents.

MUGBY JUNCTION. By Chas. Dickens. People’s Library
No. 268; price 10 cents.

BACHELOR BROWN. People’s Library, No. 275; price 10
cents.

The People’s Library is published by J. 8S. Ogilvie &
Co., 25 Rose street, New York, and is for sale by all News
Agents.

People’s

People’s Libra-