ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE,

By BERTHA M. CLAY.

WO

Great Stories Week After Next!

MAGGIE,

THE GHARITY CHILD

FRANCIS S. SMITH.

 

 

A go

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1887

 

Office

Vol. 42,

 

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

 

 

. Xy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. Q.

York, March 19, 1887,

_ Entered at the Post Ofice, New York,

 

 

THIRTY YEARS AGO.
BY F. P. A.

Tis thirty years ago, my friend,
Ay, thirty years ago,

And the heyday of our youth is past,
Our sun is sinking low.

There's a dimness in the once bright eye,
And the bounding step is slow,

And a thousand changes time has wrought
Since thirty years ago.

 

Then how the pulses of our hearts
Beat with a buoyant thrill,

And naught could check our careless mirth,
Or curb our wayward will.

No silvery thread flecked the bright hair,
No furrow marked the brow ;

*Twas thirty years ago, my friend,
And ail is altered now.

We've passed the boundary line that marks
The parting of our way,

And middle age is on us now,
And youth is far away—

Far in the shadows of the past,
Far in the misty haze,

Through which we look so lovingly,
Back on our early days.

Fain would I live one little span,
As in that pleasant time
When life and love and thou and I
Were in our golden prime!
But vain the wish, and vainer still
The thoughts that backward flow
To all that memory holds so dear
Of thirty years ago.
—>—@—<—___——-
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

RUBY'S REWARD,

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘*The Forsnken Bride,’’ ‘“Brownie’s Tri-
umph,” “That Dowdy,” etc.

CHAPTER I.
A STORY, A DEATH, AND A WILL.
»..** Walter.”

“Yes, Uncle Ralph.”

“Tt know that my days are numbered. I have felt that
the end was drawing near during the last week, and
now there are twoor three things that I want to say to
you privately. Come nearer, Walter, where I can see
you while I tell you what I have in mind.”

Slanting beamsof sunlight streamed in through the
western window of a lofty room, lighting up its deli-
cately tinted walls, brightening the warm, rich hues of

the handsome carpet, and touching with a gentle ra- |

diance all the beautiful and luxurious furnishings which
gave to the apartment an air of elegance and comfort.

Upon the quaintly carved and canopied bed, from which
the costly lace and silkep curtains had been drawn far
back to allow the air to circulate more freely, there lay
agray-haired old man, whose sunken features, fading
eyes, and a labored breathing, told but too plainly that
his days were indeed ‘‘numbered.”

A young man, who had been sitting by another win-
dow, arose upon being addressed as above, came for-
ward, and, seating himself by the bedside, bent over
the invalid, with a look of mingled love and grief upon
his face.

He was apparently about twenty years of age, |
with a finely Shaped head, clear and cameo-like fea- |
tures, intelligent eyes of dark brown, with large pupils, |
frank and steadfast in their gaze, and shaded with long
brown lashes, while his hair was of the same color, and
fine and glossy as a child’s.

It was a good face; honest, tender, and true; a face
to win the heurt of a loving woman, the confidence
of innocent children, and the faith of strong men; and |
the eyes of the sick man lingered fondly and wistfully
upon it, as if striving to impress its every lineament
upon his heart ere it should fade from his sight forever.

“J am afraid you will tax your strength too much,
Uncle Ralph, if you try to talk,” the young man said, in
tones as gentle as a woman’s.

“No, I think not, Walter; but, if it should, I must
tell you all the same,” was the resolute reply. Then,
after a moment or two of thought, the sufferer con-
tinued :

“You have long known how I came to take you, when
you were a little lad, to rear and educate you.”

“Yes.”

“But you have not known the story of a dozen years
or more previous. You have not known that your
mother was the love of my early manhood.”

“No;” and the young man looked up with a start,
while a vivid flush mantled his brow at this intelligence.

“Yes,” pursued hiscompanion, with along-drawn sigh,
and a slight quiver of his pale. thin lips. ‘‘Sadie Walcot
was a lovely girl, the belle of the village where we lived,
and I loved her as man loves but oncein his life. We
were pledged to each other, and were to be married in
a few months, when someone poisoned her mind
against me. She called me to account. I was head-
strong, passionate. Iresented her lack of faithin me,
and we partedin anger. [left the place immediately,
and went West, where I launched recklessly into specula-
tion. My operations exceeded my most sanguine ex-
pectations, and after three or four years I resolved to
come East again, find my Sadie, beg her forgiveness for
having been so unreasonable, and ask her to give her-
self to me again, and share my good fortune. But I
learned that misfortune had overtaken her, and she had
left the place, but where she had gone I could not ascer-
tain, although I spent nearly three months searching
for her. 1 then returned to the West, and, after a time,
married a wealthy and beautiful girl who did honor to
the position I gave her as long as she lived.”

Again a deep sigh heaved the sick man’s chest, as if
the memory of his married life had not been all that he
could have desired, even though his proud, beautiful
wife had honored her position, and shone a brilliant
Star in the circle in which she had moved.

Well,” he resumed, “you remember how one day I
met you in the great city of New York, and something
in your poor, little pinched face attracted me. You
begged me for a nickel to buy your mother some bread.
Iasked your name, but that told me nothing, though
something impelled me to go home with you to see if
your story of destitution was true ; and—oh, my boy! I
2annot think of it even now without a thrill of horror!
there I found my long-lost Sadie—starving |”

“You know,” he went on, stifling a sob, “that it was
too late to do more than make her comfortable for the
little while that she was to live; but I trust—yes, I
know, that I brightened her last hours by promising to
care for you as tenderly as if you were my Own son. I
have tried to keep that promise to the letter, my boy.”

“And you have, Uncle Ralph,” the young man inter-
rupted, with deep emotion. ‘No father could have been
more faithful and kind to me than you have been. I have
often wondered why you were so gentle and kind to me,
and now I understand it: it was for my mother’s sake—
because you loved her.”

“Yes, [ loved her far too well for my own peace of
mind, for I never forgot her, nor ceased to long for the
tender love which I knew she would have given me.
Perhaps it is weak in me to confess so much; but wealth

 

 

 

and fashion do not always contribute to the highest
happiness of home ; remember that, Walter, when you

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

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choose your wife, as you will do one of these days. But |
it has not been wholly for your mother’s sake that I |
have loved and cared for you; it has been for your own |
as well. You have always been a good and dutiful boy. |
You have been a great comfort to me, and I have taken
great pride in watching you develop. But I must not
dwell upon the past, for there are other things which I |
wish to talk to you about. Your mother wished me to
tell you something when you should become of age; but |
first I want to speak about your plans for the future. |
Just before you entered college you said something |
about a profession.”

“Yes, Uncle Ralph, I have always wanted to be an
architect; and after I graduated from the academy, I
felt as if I ought to begin to do something for myself;
but you appeared so set upon my going to college that
I finally yielded the point.”

“Of course it was best that you should have a colle-
giate education, and I knew there would be time enough
for a profession after that. You have two years more at
college, and Walter, it is my wish that you complete
them. After that you shall be an architect, or any-
thing else that you choose. I have made ample pro-
vision for you; there will be abundant means—for you—
to do whatever—you like. Ah! oh!—what is this ?”

The invalid stopped, gasped, clutched at his throat,
and grew ghastly white, and then suddenly lost con-
sciousness.

The watcher at his bedside sprang to his feet, and
rang the bell a furious peal.

He had offered to sit with the invalid while the
trained nurse went out for a restand change, and Ralph
Carpenter had seized this opportunity to make known
his wishes respecting the boy whom he had taken from
his dying mother, and reared and loved as his own son;
also a communication of importance which that mother
had desired should be made known to him when he
should come of age.

But he was weaker than he had thought, while the
excitement of recalling the past had been more than he
could bear, and had brought on this attack, from which
he was never to recover.

Walter's ring*was immediately answered by the ap-
pearance of a servant, who was followed by a young
man of perhaps twenty-five years, whose face instantly
assumed a disagreeable frown as he saw Walter bend-
ing over his unconscious friend, and using such restora-
tives as were at hand.

This young man was Edmund Carpenter, only son of
Ralph Carpenter, and Walter Richardson. the child of
his father’s early love, had never been a favorite with
him, as we shall see later.

A physician was summoned at once, and everything
that human agency could do was done to arouse the
dying man from the stupor into which he had fallen.

But every effort proved unavailing.

The learned and skillful doctor pronounced the sud-
den attack a stroke of paralysis, and said that a few
hours would doubtless terminate the patient’s life, for
vitality was at such a low ebb that he could not possibly
rally.

> * * * * -

That night, while the nurse kept watch in the cham-
ber of death, together with Walter, who could not be
persuaded to leave the bedside of his beloved benefactor
while life remained, and who kept hoping against hope
that he might rally and speak to him just once more,
Edmund Carpenter was locked in the sumptuous library
below, where, with curtains drawn close and a heavily

| after hour,

 

shaded lamp, he was busily, though noiselessly, engaged
in examinining the contents of his father’s private desk.

This was a quaint, ponderous, old-fashioned affair,
which Mr. Carpenter had purchased from a friend who
had met with reverses and was obliged to sacrifice his |
household goods, among which was this desk, that a
wealthy ancestor had brought from England in old colo-
nial times.

It was a treasure of its kind, and would have delighted
the heart of any lover of antiquated furniture, for it
contained all manner of mysterious nooks and corners, ,

 

LIPPED AS SHE STEPPED UPON THE PLATFORM, AND SHE WOULD HAVE FALLEN HAD NOT THE YOUNG MAN

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“CHOOSE YOUR OWN PATH
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————
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SPRUNG FORWARD.

 

 

 

such as pigeon-holes, closets, secreidrawers, and sliding-
panels, for the concealment and reception of important
documents and papers.

It was well filled with things of this sort, and, hour
Edmund Carpenter sat before it, never
making a sound that could be heard outside the room,
but examining most critically every thing the desk con-

| tained.

Pigeon-holes were emptied and their contents looked
over; drawer after drawer unlocked and carefully in-
spected ; secret places were curiously peered into, but
evidently without accomplishing the purpose which the
young man had in view, for he wore afrowning brow
and his whole face, which was naturally of a hand-
some cast, was rendered extremely unpleasant by the
almost fierce expression that pervaded it.

Finally a little closet was all that remained to be ex-
amined, and this was locked.

But there was a tiny key, attached to the bunch be-
longing to the desk, which fitted it, and it was the work
of but a moment to unlock it and expose a pile of legal-
looking documents neatly stowed within.

Edmund Carpenter moved the lamp nearer—somehow
he hesitated to take those papers out as he had the
others—and, as the light fell upon the one lying at the
top, he read two words that made him start and grow
suddenly pale.

«Last will,” was all that he saw, though there was
something else written beneath it, but those words were
enough to set every drop of blood in his veins boiling
with anger, while his white teeth came together with a
vicious snap that betrayed the displeasure which the
knowledge that his father had made a will caused him.

“T was afraid of it—I was almost sure of it,” he
growled, under his breath, and then, leaning his head
on his hand, he sat for a long time absorbed in deep
thought.

But, at length, he aroused himself, and turned his at-
tention again to the contents of the closet.

He slipped his finger under the obnoxious document
that had so disturbed him, and peered at the one under-
neath.

It proved to be a mortgage.

Lifting one end of this, likewise, and one after another
of those remaining, he ran through the entire lot, all of
which were either mortgages, bonds, or insurance
papers.

Then, with a sigh, and an angry jerk of his hand, as
he realized that the wealth which those valuable docu-
ments represented, was doubtless destined to be shared
with one whom he had always despised, of whom’ he
had always been jealous, he let them settle back into
their ite: but in so doing the top one—that one
labeled ‘“‘Last Will”—slipped suddenly backward and
disappeared from sight.

A look of surprise came over Edmund UVarpenter'’s
face. He removed the other papers, and noticed that
at the back of that tiny closet there was quite a crack
between the panels.

The “Last Will” had fallen through this and now lay
somewhere underneath, in the interior of the quaint old
desk; but where, he could not tell without knocking the
thing topieces. A peculiar smile suddenly shot over the
face of the man,

“It would be a pity if either of these other valuable
documents should meet with a similar fate,” he mut-
tered, “I wonder if this bottom panel could not be
slipped back to close that crack,”

He pressed hard against it.

It moved a little.

He tried again; the board slipped into place, and the
crack was closed.

With a sigh of relief, and with a resolute air, he re-
placed the remaining papers as he had found them, locked
the tiny closet, put the rest of the desk in perfect order,

, Closing and locking the cover over all, extinguished his
| light, and then stole softly from the library to go to his

own room above.
oan he passed his father’s door he paused a moment to
listen.

 

'

He had hardly done so, when the door opened noise-
lessly, and Walter Richards contronted him on the
threshold.

“Ah, ha! How is he now?” the son stammered, in
some confusion at being found in that attitude.

“Failing. [ am going down to the dining-room for
some brandy. Will you go in?” Walter answered, as he
stepped aside to allow the dyinz man’s son to pass into
the room.

“Can I do any good ?” Edmund asked, casting a glance
of awe within the chamber of death.

‘Noone can do any good now,” Walter answered, with
a quivering lip; “but you may like to be with him at the
end.”

«“‘No—that is—I’m afraid it might unman me,” faltered
the dutiful son, with an ashen face at the thought; ‘‘but
if you need me, you—can Call me.”

Walten bowed and passed silently on about his errand,
while Edmund Carpenter crept away to his own room,
where, with the door closed and locked, he shook his
clenched fist in the direction of the hall, and muttered :

«There will be no fear now of your robbing me of my
inheritance. Give him all the attention you like, he is
past heeding your arts, and you will get nothing for it.”

Yes, Ralph Carpenter was past all knowledge of either
Walter's faithfulness or Edmund's neglect; past ever
righting a great wrong that had been perpetrated that
night; past making known more of his wishes regarding
the future of the boy whom he had so dearly loved, and
past revealing to him certain information respecting his
own ancestry, which might have made a vast difference
in the life that he was now destined to lead during the
years that were to follow.

CHAPTER II.
“CHOOSE YOUR OWN PATH, AND WALK UNAIDED IN IT.”

Ralph Carpenter, the master of Forestvale, a beauti-
ful estate in the suburbs of the City of Brotherly Love,
was dead.

He breathed his last toward morning of the next day
after the sudden attack mentioned in the preceding
chapter.

Walter and the nurse remained with him fill the end,
watching the tide of life ebb slowly away, and doing
what they could for his comfort, while the son and heir
slept soundly until morning, and awoke to be told that
his father was no more.

Edmund Carpenter made no outward demonstration
of grief, though he went about with a pale, set face, and
insisted that every mark of respect should be paid the
dead in the approaching obsequies. But down in his
heart there was really no deep-seated sorrow on account
of his loss; for, for long years he had been cherishing a
feeling of resentment toward his father for an act which
should have commanded his highest admiration and
love, and now the discovery that he had just made re-
garding a will having been left, had served to embitter
him ten-fold.

He had always been keenly jealous of Walter. The
boy, from the first, had been a veritable thorn in the
flesh to him, although he had taken pains to conceal the
fact from his father, from a fear of incurring his dis-
pleasure, but the feeling had grown with his growth
nevertheless.

Edmund Carpenter had been an extremely selfish boy;
he was, consequently, an extremely selfish man, and
the thought that any one should come between him and
any portion of his inheritance—as he had feared Walter
would, knowing how tenderly his father loved him—was
torture to him.

He was five years Walter’s senior, and had reached
fifteen years of age when Mr. Carpenter returned
from a trip to New York, bringing with him the little lad
who was henceforth to share equally with him in all
things.

Mrs. Carpenter had died two years previously, but she
had lived long enough to thoroughly imbue the mind of
Edmund with much of her own cold, proud nature.

She had always been a woman of the world, of fashion

and fleasure ; wealth, position, and style were more to
her than either love or home, hence her noble and sensi-
tive husband had been heart-starved and homesick dur-
ing ail his married life; and it was no wonder that he had
cherished the memory of, and longed for, the gentle,
beautiful girl whom he had loved so fondly in the days of
his early manhood.

He had confided to his son the story of this early love
when he brought Walter to his home, telling him how
sweet Sadie Walcot had been true to her affection for
him for long years, and then, being friendless and alone
in the world, had given her hand to a man who loved
her well enough to take her to his heart, even though
he could never occupy the first place in hers.

But all this confidence was sadly misplaced, for the
high-spirited youth had regarded the confession as an
insult to the proud woman whom he had called mother ;
he had regarded it as an insult to himself, also, to thus
force upon him, the son of a millionaire, the society of a
low-born beggar,” for thus he regarded Walter, and his
aversion continued to increase from year to yearas he
saw how fondly his father was growing to love him, and
how the boy devoted himself to the friend and benefactor
to whom he owed so much.

Ralph Carpenter had never hinted that he intended to
make a will; but Edmund had long suspected that he
had done so.

Had he not said from the first, ‘Henceforth Walter is
to be the Same as a brother to you. I want you to love
each other as brothers, and share alike in all things ?”

And he had made wo distinction in the years that fol-
lowed. Walter had had every thing that heart could
wish ; every luxury and pleasure, every advantage of
education, the same as if he had been an own son.

But of course he could not share in the property unless
some legal measures had been adopted to secure a por-
tion of itto him. If Ralph Carpenter made no will, all
his large estate—his bonds, mortgages, and bank ac-
count, would fall, by the law of inheritance, to Edmund,
hisson. This, he knew, would not be in accordance with
his father’s wishes, consequently he had been very sure
that there was a will somewhere, and when he knew
that he could not live many hours, he had set himself
the task of finding that will, determined to know its
contents before it could pass into other hands.

What more he intended to do we cannot say. We
simply know that he found the will, yet he did not learn
one word that it contained, for a strange fate wrested it
from his grasp before his desecrating hand could tamper
with it.

We know how eagerly he accepted the situation, and
what measure he adopted to preclude the possibility of
its ever being found, by closing the aperture through
which .t had fallen into some hidden nook in that quaint
old desk.

Of course no one would ever think of breaking the
thing to pieces to search for it, and there it might lie
for ages, and the law of inheritance would have its
way.

The obsequies were conducted with all the ceremony
which would naturally be expected for a man who had
stood so high as Ralph Carpenter had stood in the city,
where he had resided for SO Many years.

He had possessed many friends, and been profoundly
respected, both as a business man and a citizen, as the
large number of people who followed to his last resting-
place testified.

When all was over, of course, questions regarding the
settlement of his large property came up for discussion.

Everybody knew that Walter Richardson had been
like a dear son to the man; he had been carefully
reared and educated; there had, apparently, been no
distinction made between him and Edmund, and people
naturally expected that some handsome provision had
been made for him.

On the return of the family from the costly tomb in
Laurel Hill Cemetery, Mr. Fairbanks, a firm friend of
Mr. Carpenter, and one who had occasionally transacted
important business for him, asked Edmund if he sup-
posed his father had made a will.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
always been very fond of Walter, and he may have wished

. ever my father’s papers and see how matters stand.”

7
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_ earning something for your own support.”

 

 

«ais THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

—

 

“He may have done so, Mr. Fairbanks,” replied the
young man, with apparent candor. ‘You know he has

to secure something to him, which, of course, could only
be done in that way. Suppose you assist me in looking

Mr. Fairbanks was agreeable to this ody. eaoaguecur and a
thorough investigation was made; but no will was
found, although that intricate old aesk was ransacked
from end to end.

The gentleman expressed himself greatly surprised at
this result, for he said that he had heard Mr. Carpenter
repeatedly remark that he intended to provide liberally
for Walter’s future. +

“I presume father felt he could safely leave that
matter to me,” Edmund remarked, with some dignity.
“Of course,” he added, “it would have simplitied things
somewhat, if we could have known just what his wishes
were ; but since we cannot, we shall have to do the next
best way,” and there the subject rested.

But Mrs. Coxon, the faithful old housekeeper, who had
served many years in the family, and who had been al-
most like a mother to the two young men, could not be
reconciied to the fact.

After her first expressions of surprise and dismay, she
had looked very wise, and remarked with some asperity,
that, “It was very strange, for she had been requested
by her master, more than two years before, to sign a
document—whether it was‘a will, mortgage or, what all,
she couldn’t say ; but she believed on her honor that it
was a will. Mr. Simons, Mr. Carpenter’s most intimate
friend, had signed it also.”

This was a revelation to Edmund Carpenter; but he
took it very calmly, for Mr. Simons had been abroad for
nearly a year and was likely to remain as much longer.
But even in the event of his return, since no will could
be round. his interests could not be seriously affected, as
it would be natural to infer, that, if his father had ever
drawn up such a document, he must afterward have
destroyed it.

To Walter, however, this state of things seemed inex-
plicable.

He had confidently believed that his Uncle Ralph, as
he had been taught to call him, had made a will; for he
had distinctly told him, only a few hours before he died,
that ‘he had made ample provision for him; that there
would be abundant means to enable him to do anything
he liked.”

But now he was dependent entirely upon Edmund’s
generosity, dnd the feeling of dependence was very gall- |
ing tohim. He knew that Edmund had never regarded
him with favor; there had been a hundred ways by
which he had betrayed it when not in the presence of
his father, and his life, now that his best friend was
gone, was lonely and sad indeed.

He was left very much to himself, to go or cOme as he
pleased. Edmund seldom addressed him or noticed him
in any way. Atmeal time his presence at table was |
ignored, except when good Mrs. Coxon would try to)
make things a little more cheerful and pleasant, by |
seeking to draw him into conversation, whereupon Ed-
mund would immediately subside into dignitied silence ;
and, as the days went on and the time for his return to |
college drew near, there were many ways by which |
Walter was made to feel like an alien and an intruder |
in the house.

His liberal allowance, with which Mr. Carpenter had
supplied him from month to month, had given out; |
nothing had been said about replenishing his wardrobe |
for the coming fall; no mention had even been mide of |
his return to Yale.

At length he made up his mind that he could endure ;
this state of things no longer, and he resolved to have |
an interview with Edmund, and come to some distinct |
understanding regarding his future.

Accordingly, one morning he boldly knocked upon the
library door, after having seen Edmunda enter the room.

“Come in,” was the response from within.

Walter entered and was quick to notice the frown that
settled over the young man’s face at his appearance.

“Do I interrupt you ?” he asked, in his frank, straight-
forward way. ;

“No; if you have anything you wish to say tome, Iam |
at your service. There’s a chair; sit down.”

Walter seated himself, but with the feeling that he
was a very unwelcome guest.

He had resolved, however, to have his future relations
with the master of Forestvale settled without delay,
and he came to the point at once.

«I have come to ask you, Edmund,” he sald, “‘if the
plans which Uncle Ralph laid out for me, regarding my
future, meet with your approbation ?”

‘“‘What were they?’ was the brief, cold query of his
companion.

«That I should complete my college course, and after
that study to be an architect.”

“Indeed! Ishould think the best preparation for that
profession would be to learn the carpenter’s trade,” ob-
served Mr. Carpenter, sarcastically.

“[ suppose I could learn to design buildings without
going into rough work like that,” responded Walter, but
with a flush of anger at his companion’s fone.

“So you intend to complete your college course ?”*Ed-
mund asked, ignoring his reply.

‘It was Uncle Ralph’s wish that I should do so.”

“At that rate it will cost something to prepare you for
the real business of life.”

“Yes; but if you object to my going back to Yale, I
will give up my course and begin the study of my profes-
sion at once,” Walter returned, trying to speak calmly,
= he felt it would be a great trial to give up his educa-

- tion.

“How do you intend to study for your profession ?”

 

you pO cere: b
We Sot eeome Vaperieneel mee Soe ae :

self under him.”
“Yes; but you would have to be supported mean-
while. You could not earn much for the first year or

“No.”
“How old are you ?”
“7 ghall be twenty in a couple of weeks,” Walter re-
a but feeling very sure that Edmund Carpenter
new his exact age as well as he did.
It seems to me you are old enough to be

,

“Twenty !

“]T wish I were prepared to do so, Edmund,” Walter an-
swered, a vivid crimson shooting athwart his white
forehead ; ‘but Uncle Ralph distinctly said, during the
last conversation I had with him, that it was his wish
that I complete my course, and after thatI might feel
free to choose any profession I preferred.”

“Indeed. itis a pity, then, that he did not provide
for you to do so.”

Walter opened his lips, as if to reply to this sarcastic |
retort, but checked himself. R ;

He had been on the point of repeating what Mr. Car- |
penter had said to him about having provided hand-
somely for him; but second thought told him that it |
would be unwise to say anything to arouse Edmund’s |
anger, so he made no reply at all.

“7 think,” the young heir resumed, cfter an awkward ;
pause, ‘‘thatit is high time that you were doing some- |
thing to support yourself. You have received a good |
education—far better than the majority ot boys in -your |

 

“position receive—and you ought now to be able to go}

- borne him; and it was more than he could tamely bear

into some business without further preparation.
you a good accountant ?”

“I believe I stand fairly in mathematics,” Walter re- |
sponded, modestly, though he was almost first in his
class.

“Then I will make you a proposition.” Edmund Car- |
penter returned. a hard, determined look settling over }
his face. “Since no provision appears to have been}
made for you by my father, you will doubtless feel the }
necessity of beginning to depend upon yourseif. I wish |
to give you a tair start in life because of the interest |
which he manifested in you; therefore I will arrange for }
you to go into our office as assistant book-keeper, giv- }
ing you nine dollars a week and your board for the first
year, With a promotion in view if you do well at your}

st.” 7

Are

post. '

Walter's heart sank heavily at this proposition. }

wWas he doomed to give up all thought of completing |
his education, and to go into a close, dark office where |
he must sit, day in and day out, cramped over a desk |
and endless lines of figures ? |

Must all his bright hopes of becoming an architect |
and attaining eminence in the profession, be blighted |
in this sudden and cruel manner? The* thought was |
utterly obnoxious to hiim.

“If,” continued Edmund, relentlessly, “you are still |
anxious to begin your architectural studies at once, |
there are evening schools where @rawing is taught in all |
its branches, and where in time you may, with applica- |
tion, be able to attain your desire and become an archi-

pat

Walter’s spirit arose at this supreme irony and heart- |
less speech.

He knew that Edmund Carpenter must have inherited
nearly, if not quite, a million dollars from his father;
he knew, too, that a portion of this money should have
been his by virtue of the love that the dead man had }

to be told that he must enter an office for the paltry sum
of nine dollars a week, which was less than his usual
allowance for spending money had been; and, more than
this, that he must study nights, after the labors of the
day, if he still entertained any ambition to become an
architect.

He looked oP into the dark, sinister face opposite him,
and said, resolutely -

“Edmund Carpenter, Uncle Ralph told me, only the
evening before he died, that he had made ample pro-
vision for me, and that there would be abundant means
for me to study for whatever I liked after I should com-
plete my college course. I am very sure he would not
have been pleased with any such arrangement as you
have proposed to me.”

Edmund Carpenter knew weli enough that all this was
‘true, but it angered him to discover that Walter had
been told so much, and to discover that he suspected the
existence of a will.

An angry req suffused his face; his eyes flashed om-
inously, and bis lips curled with an ugly smile.

“Really,” he sneered, ‘‘you appear to attach consid-
erable significance to the wanderings of a feeble mind in
its last hours. If my father made such ample provision
for you, there ought to be something to show ib.”

Involuntarily Walter’s eyes wandered toward Mr. Car-
penter’s desk, which stood near him.

“Yes, there ought,” he admitted, absently.

The young man opposite turned fiercely upon him,

“Perhaps you imagine that Mr. Fairbanks and I have
acted dishonorably and suppressed important documents
belonging to you. Here are the keys to my father’s
desk. You can examine his papers for yourself, if you

“but I am very sure that Uncle Ralph intended and
wished me to complete my course. I frankly confess
that I do not like the idea of going into the counting-
room even for atime; it would put me back so that
ee elapse before I could go into business for
myself.’

“Of course ; but then you must remember that circum-
stances alter cases.”

‘‘Edmund,” Walter suddenly said, ignoring this last
sarcasm, ‘‘why will you not advance me money sufficient
to enable me to commence as an architect? I will give
up the two remaining years of ray collegiate course
cheerfully—you have abundance, and could easily do it,
while I will repay every dollar of it as soon as I can
earn it.”

“I have made you an offer, Walter; if you do not
choose to accept it, | wash my hands of you entirely,”
was the cold reply. ‘I feel that you have had a great
deal done for you already—more than any boy, situated
as you were, had any right to expect. My father was
quixotic in some of his notions, but, of course, if he
chose to indulge in sentiment on your account, he could
afford to do it, and it was no affair of mine, although I
must confess I have always considered it a mark of dis-
respect toward my mother that he should have con-
fessed to a weakness for another woman and installed
her son here ou an equal footing with his own. But
now matters are upon an entirely different basis ; Ihave
no money to throw away upon uncertainties, and I have
no proof that you would ever be able to make an efficient
architect, even if you study tor that purpose. If you

choose to accept my offer, well and good,if not, you |

ee select yourown path and walk unaided
n it.’

With which unfeeling speech, Edmund Carpenter |

arose and abruptly left the room, thus putting an end to
the conference.

CHAPTER III.
A PLEASANT ENCOUNTER,
Walter sat a long time lost in troubled thought after

Edmund left him. He felt deeply hurt and indignant |
* | Conant, obs

over the treatment that he had received.

He knew that his Uncle Ralph never would have al-|
lowed him to be turned thus adrift upon the world if he |
had dreamed of the possibility of such treatment from |

Edmund; while, in spite of all evidence to the contrary,
he still believed that there must exist some document
providing forhis future: F

He was not suspicious enough to think that Edmund
ae or suppress such an instrument if it had
existed.

something of his abundance with him. He knew that
he had never really liked him—that he had even been
jealous of his love for his father, but he was unprepared
tor quite such a display of aversion and heartlessness as
he had manifested toward him.

His offer of a position in the counting-room and the
sneering reference to a ‘‘promotion” if he ‘did well at
his post,” had galled him almost beyond endurance ;
while what he had said about his father indulging in
quixotic sentiment on his account, and the insult offered
to the late Mrs. Carpenter, by bringing him—the son of

Mr. Carpenter's first love—into his home, made every |

nerve in his body tingle with indignation.

“1 wfll not be under obligation te him for another dol-
lar!” he cried at length, starting to his feet with a crim-
son face and flashing eyes.

And yet, as his glance wandered about the beautiful
room, and he thought how much he had enjoyed, in that
home of luxury, with the one who was now gone from
it forever, a feeling of loneliness and homesickness,
such as he had never before experienced oppressed him.

But he would not stop to grieve or repine, and, with a
resolute air, he strode from the house, turning his steps
at once toward the city, to see what he could do to pro-
vide for his own future.

But it was no light thing for him to give up the hopes
that he had entertained for the next two years—to turn
his back upon college, where he had stood well, and
been ambitious to do honor to himself and to the friend
who had been so kind to him. lt was no light thing to
feel that he must go out from that pleasant, luxurious
home, to give up his liberal income, and be obliged to
labor long hours in order to secure even an humble lodg-
ing and food to satisfy his hunger, and bitter thoughts
crowded thick and fast upon his mind as he sped on to-

ward the busy town where he was destined to battle’)

with fate during the next few years.

He had along distance to walk before he could take a
car. Usually he rode into the city, but to-day he had not
felt that he had a right to use even the horse which
Mr. Carpenter had given him for his especial driving a
couple of years previous.

He reached the corner at length and stopped, ok
handsome residence, to wait until his car should appear.
His attention was almost immediately attracted, and

the tenor of his thoughts changed, by the sound of a_
clear, bird-like voice which came floating out upon the

air through an open window, beneath which he was
standing.

Up and down the scale it ran, sweet, strong, and flex-
ible ; then suddenly changed and burst into a charming
little song, a verse of which Walter caught, and which
rang rhythmically in his brain long after.

“T will thy name repeat, Marguerite, Marguerite,
For it is so sweet, so swe : "
That the bird
And the tangle
in thy golden
BRIE SUCT A BO

“I wonder if her n
ter, “I know she mus

voice like that.” : 5

The sweet song see itt something ur-
den from his heart, and he would gladly have lingered
to hear more of it, but just then there came the tink-
ling of the car-bell in the distance, and, casting one
wistful glance toward the house whence that lovely voice
had proceeded, he walked to the edge of the sidewalk to
hail his car.

The next moment the door of the mansion, near which
she had been standing, opened, and there skipped out
a bewildering little fairy in the daintiest and crispest of
blue lawns, with a cluster of pink roses in her belt, the
prettiest of hats, adorned with the whitest and most
gracefulot feathers, upon her golden head.

yes of liquid blue looked shyly out from beneath
silken fringed lids; delicate rings of sunny hair lay with
careless grace upon her white forehead ; a-lovely pink
fluttered in her rounded cheek, and a merry smile
parted a pair of red lips, thus revealing two rows of

| small, milk-white teeth beneath them.

She had a coquettish little bag of blue silk and velvet
in one hand, and a music roll of Russia leather under
her arm, which indicated that she was the songstress of
atew moments before and was now going to the city for

; her lesson.

She turned back as she reached the sidewalk and
said, with pretty imperiousness :

“Now, mind, Estelle, do not go driving until I get
home; Vll maké madam shorten my lesson, and come
back just as soon as I can,” and, kissing the tips of her
fingers to the invisible personage within, the beautiful
girlran forward to the curb just as the car, in obedience
to Walter’s signal, came to a stop.

Walter could not control the admiring look that
sprang to his fine eyes as he stood one side to allow her
to enter first.

She flashed hima swift glance and smile of thanks,
while the color deepened in her cheeks as she met his
eyes.

But her little foot slipped as she stepped upon the
platform, and she would have fallen had not the young
man sprung forward and assisted her to recover her
balance.

“J hope you are not hurt,” he said, as she gave a
startled cry. while he picked up and restored the music-

| roll which she had dropped.

“Oh, no, thank you;” she returned. giving him a grate-
ful look, «‘though doubtless I should have been but for
your kindness.”

She passed on into the car and took a seat. There was
room enough for another and almost involuntarily she
motioned him to sit beside her, a privilege of which he
unhesitatingly availed himself, though with quickened
pulses and a strange thrill in the region of his heart.

The young lady appeared a trifle shy, and Walter did
not feel at liberty to open a conversation, though he

longed to hear her voice again and to learn whoshe was; |

so they both sat silent, but very conscious of a deep in-
terest in each other, all the Way down town.

Walter had seen the initials R. G. engraven upon the
clasp ot her music-roll as he picked it up, and he puzzled
himself during the ride to fit them to appropriate names

| for the fair divinity that had so suddenly burst upon his

vision.

He was at length obliged to leave without having the
mystery solved, and rising, he lifted his hat with all the
courtesy of which he was master, bowed his adieus, and
went his way, followed by as witching a pair of blue
eyes as ever watched a gallant knight out of sight.

A regretful sigh escaped the little lady as he disap-

eared.

P “J wish I could learn who heis; I wonder if I shail
ever see him again,” she thought, and all during the
singing lesson with madam, a pair of frank, handsome
eyes, and a fine, broad white brow, crowned with waving
brown hair, haunted her mind, while that gentle yet
strong and helpful clasp of his good right hand, as it
was laid upon her arm to keep her trom falling, seemed
still to thrill along her nerves.

Meanwhile, Walter proceeded directly to the business
portion of the city, and finally stopped before a door,
above which was a sign bearing the name, ‘Albert
Conant, Architect and Builder.”

He entered the building and in a few moments was in
the architect’s private office.

Mr. Conant was alone and engaged with some plans
that were spread out upon a desk before him.

Walter bowed, and, removing his hat, said:

“Mr. Conant, my name is Walter Richardson, and I
have called to ask if you are in need of office help ?”

“Ah!

attractive face of the visitor.

“Not much, practically, Iam afraid, sir,
have given considerable time and study
branches of it.

to certain

that endin view.”

Mr. Conant asked him a number of questions, and ap-
peared considerably surprised upon being told that he |

had been reared by Ralph Carpenter.

 

 

He merely thought it must have been mislaid |
or lost; but he was greatly surprised and hurt to find |
that the son of his dearest friend was unwilling to share |

| learning ?

 

 

 

| child.
| but has finally agreed.
Do you know anything about my business, Mr. |
Richardson ?” inquired Mr. Conant, studying the frank, |

although T |

But I have a desire to learn it thorougly, |
and have come to see if 1 could find an opening, with |

man just how he was situated, although he tried to cast |

mS oe reflection as possible upon the son of his bene
actor,

Mr. Conant appeared to be deeply interested in his |
story, and his lips curled scornfully when Walter men- |
tioned the paltry offer that he had received to induce |
him to become a plodding clerk.

“So you did not feel inclined to take up with Mr. Ed- |
mund Carpenter's offer?” he observed dryly, as Walter |
concluded. 3

“No, sir. I cannot make up my mind to enter a count-
ing-room—I have po taste for that kind of life; while it
seemed like a w ‘Of time to attempt to earn my living
and study eve I should prefer to begin upon the
business [ have fi mind, and work for less for awhile, for
I should feel that I was learning all the time. J have heard
it said,” he added, with a smile, ‘‘ ‘once a clerk alwaysa
clerk,’ and I do not feel as if I could sit my life out ona
Stool and become simply a mathematical automaton.”

Mr. Conant smiled. He liked the ring of decision and
character in the young man’s tones.

= book-keepers receive very good salaries,’ ’ he
said. :

“True ; but the majority do not, and I wish to become
an independent business man, by and by. I believe itis
in me, and I mean to try for it.”

“What is your idea about learning to become an ar-
chitect ?”

“Tam afraid my ideas are somewhat crude upon that
point, sir, I simply know that it is a profitable busi-
ness. I am attracted toward it. I believe 1 have a
natural aptitude for it, and I am willing to begin at the
lowest round of the ladder and work my way up.”

“T like that ; it sounds as it you really mean business,”
returned Jobs with an approving nod;
what wouk |
year learn |

Walter's a quick flush mounted to his |
brow. It} at Edmund Carpenter had said to |
him, and i beginning much lower than he |
had imagir | be obliged to commence. |

“Does ti ittle rough?” questioned MTr. |

appointment. ‘I should advise |
y own son. All architects should |
ge of the construction of build- |
-ftoO plan them understandingly. |

I was a yOung man, and it has |

vo me.”

age it?—who will teach me ?” |
ering how he was to live, and |
aS a carpenter’s apprentice, a |
young man. ne who had never been ac- |
customed t E ith a hand as delicate as a/|
girl's. 3
n very kindly. |
le ; he saw that he was eager |
be guided by his superior wis- |
m deepened accordingly.
hat matter for you ; that is, if |
for awhile; you cannot ex- |
along quite as smoothly as |
the protege of the wealthy |

 

r.

the same if you!
have a practic:
ings, in order t
Llearned the &
been of inest

“But how
stammered
who would

dom, and his
“f think

but how can I live while I am |
ust have shelter; clothing [|
he present.”
lere you are ?
r plans ?”
rimson.
would not accept his offer he |
ft me entirely.’ I would not |
my way. Mr. Conant, after that
elf; make my own way, and be

im,” he said, proudly.

Mr. Conan tly. He admired the young
fellow’s pluc pendence, while he despised the
meanness ol Oo, with great wealth at his
command, mtended to turn adrift the boy
whom his fa and befriended.

“Well,” bi thinking awhile, ‘I do not}
know as ID reckon we can manage some |
way Without his re. Ido not clearly see just |
how at this mom you come to me again at this
hour to-morrow, shall be able to speak more
definitely reg: utter.”

Walter tha H and then took his leave, though
it must be co S S with a rather heavy heart.

He was alm ost. f ars Old, and he must spend

tore he could hope to begin
It seemed hard, and yet
solution; anything was preier-
that Edmund Carpenter had

am well su

“Can you I Will not young |

under no obi

public library, where he spent
hen took a car for home.

racted his attention, as he en-
With a long white feather. A
s’met his. and then the golden
od of recognition, which brought |
mresponse, and a Jook into his face |
girl, whom he had met an hour |}

 

air of lustrous 8
ead gave him a]
his hat off instantly

that made the lov:
before, blush delightfully. |
Walter felt str ely happy and elated over this sec- |
ond encounter, and when he signaled for the conductor
to stop at the corn¢r where he was to get off, he assist- |
ed her to alight, ang os a low, sweet “thank you”
that thrilled him and made him resolve to seek a forma
introduction to her the firs

a

ef

or

. 2 = : om }
interview with Mr, |

| Conant would be.
| Mr. Storms.

(80 BE CONTINUED.]
eae ER ai ne ectentntarenin

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

A Heart's Bitterness

By BERTHA M. CLAF,
* AUTHOR OF

**For Another's Sin,” “A Fair Mystery,” etc.

| wrapped arms, laid them side by side upon the sward;
|} and Lord Leigh was stretched at Adam’s feet; and
| Helen, cold and still, lay before her bridegroom.

{A Heart’s Bitterness” was commenced in No. 45. Back

numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER LXXXI.
“ey WANE MY PROMISED BRIDE.”

On that glorious morning of the parting summer, |
while Norman Leighihurried to his doom, Violet was in |
the nursery, seated by the porcelain tub wherein Magery |
was giving that laughing cherub, Rupert, his daily bath.
Admiring the health'and enjoyment of the child, Violet |
forgot her troubles, and while the subdued sadness
never left her eyes, the dimples returned to her cheeks,
and smiles curved her lovely mouth, answering to the |
shouting mirth of the babe. For the past week Nor-
man had refrained from brandy and opium, had spoken
more kindly to her, and had taken more notice of the |
child. She was planning to win him, in this softened |
mood, to more interest in his family, and the duties of
his position. {

To Violet, Rupert seemed the most lovely thing on |
earth, and when the child was dressed she had Jenny

go with her and carry bim to Lord Leigh’s dressing-room., |
Not finding Norman there, she went to the library and |
the billiard-room. They were alike empty. The bell |
pealed tor breakfast, and, after waiting for a while, Vio- |
let breakfasted alone.

An undefined dread and uneasiness hung over her,
and as the morning hours passed she sent Kate to make
inquiries, and found that one of the gardeners had seen
Lord Leigh walking early on the terrace, and had sent
to him a lad who camé@with a note.

‘He has been calied bff by the steward,” thought Vio-
let.
But when lunch-time came, and no Lord Leigh, old
Adam, sharing his lady’s disturbance, tottered off to the
Earl’s Folly to seek his master. The little building was
empty. All about it was a warm, slumberous silence ;
dragon flies and beetles darted over the treacherous sur-
face of the fatal Pool, and along the margin gold thread
and bracken, and cardinal flowers, swayed above the
water. There was no trace of Lord Leigh there.

Luncheon had been over for an hour when Mr, Storms
arrived. Violet met him, saying:

“Lord Leigh went our before breakfast, and has not
yet returned.” :

‘He appointed this afternoon, at three, for a consulta-
tion with me. I sent him atelegram yesterday that I
should be here promptly, as Ihave little spare time. He
wished me to draw up his will.”

“What is that for? asked Violet, uneasily. ‘Is he
ill?”

“I think he is not taking good care of himself, and
there are some things from which, no doubt, your influ-
ence will wean him, Lady Leigh,” said the lawyer, who
could not but know many ofthe mysteries of Leigh’s
life. ‘You know he was threatened with dangerous ill-
ness lately, and I renewed my arguments with him to
make his will and appoint guardians for his heir in case
anything happened. It was only justice to you and the
He has been very averse to mentioning a will,
I shall not leave here now until
itis drawn up.”

«He will surely be back by dinner-time,” said Violet,
and left Mr. Storms to enjoy himself in the gardens
and library until Lord Leigh’s return.

But the countess an@ the lawyer ate dinner together |
at sunset, and no master of the house had come, and
both were seriously uneasy.

Atter dinner, they went to the library. Violet kept
her child up as long as she dared, for its innocent pres-
ence comforted her unrest.

About nine, the bell clanged loudly.

| household was astir.

| altar.

Walter considered a moment, and then freely told the | ‘Tt isalie!” Heis here! He sits gloating over his | Haviland are the ones that can comfort her, and no

evil work! Peer or beggar, I'll have his life for it! ”
Mr. Storms sprang up and rushed into the hall. |

| There, with disordered garments, face and hair dripping | day.

with perspiration from his hurried movements, stood |
Bart Kemp.

‘You here, Kemp? What now?” cried Mr. Storms. |

“J want my wife, my promised bride, and I'll have |
her! Right is on my side now, and Ill claim it, even if |
you are here to screen the peer’s iniquities.”

“Oh, what is it?—what do you mean ?—who are you? |
—for whom are you looking ?” cried Violet, pressing for- |
ward. She stood in the full light of the great hall chan-
delier, her dress of amethyst velvet, with ruffies of lace at |
neck and sleeves, falling in along train of mingled light |
and shadow ; the abundant silken, dark hair wrapped
about her graceful head, had for sole ornament astar of |
pearls. Her beautiful, anxious, child-like face was |
turned toward Bart ar i

In all his excitement, the man recognized the power |
of her gentle, winsome beauty.

‘Who are you, lady ?” he demanded, hoarsely.

‘I am the Countess of Leigh,” said Violet, gently.

«7? wouldn’t ever have done that; what I did, if I had
seen you first,” said Kemp, looking at her with honest
admiration. ‘But now its I who am right. He has
you, and why can’t he let her, my bride, alone ?”

«Will you not tell us what you mean, and of whom
you are speaking ?’’ said Violet, gently still, but trem.
ling very much.

“Pm speaking of Lord Norman Leigh, your husband, |
and of Helen Hope who promised to marry me in church
this morning at eleven o'clock. Where is she 2?”

«But how can we tell?” interposed Mr. Storms. “We
have not seen her. Why do you come here for her ?”

Kemp took from his pocket a crumpled note, and held |
it toward Violet, his*hand shaking as with palsy, in his |
strong agitation. Yiolet read:

“T am going to the Earl’s Folly to see Norman Leigh. |
If I do not return, seek me there. HELEN HOPE.” |

Violet stood silent, motionless, as if, like Niobe,
smitten into stone in her despair.

“TJ waited at the church,” cried Kemp, frantically; |
“she did not come; and this afternoon I received this.
I want my bride. Where is she? Has he murdered |
her ?”

Violet made no sound, but life and color left her face, |
and she fell forward senseless, as she leaned toward |
Kemp, holding still that fatal note.

!
|

The man caught her in his arms.
rugged heart.

“Poor little soul, this is hard for her,” he muttered, |
and strode into the library and laid her on a sofa, while |
Mr. Storms rang for help.

Adam, with some of the other servants, had come at the |
confusion, and a few words from the footmen in the hall
told him the trouble. Mr. Storms showed him the note
which he had taken from the hand of the fainting count-

Pity moved his

“He is not there. I looked for him there—this after- |
noon,” said Adam. ;

You are all leagued to hide her—to deceive me,”
shouted Kemp.

“Hush !” said Mr. Storms. ‘You will find we are all
leagued to ferret out this affair at once. Believe me,
the woman is farmore dangerous thantheman. Adam,

| Call two of the gardeners, and a keeper and a groom;

those four, with Kemp and myself, will search the park |
and the vicinity of the Folly. Get torches and lanterns.” |
In a little while they went out to the search. All the |

Mr. Storms, questioning the young gardener as to the |
boy seen in the morning, sent a footman for the Jad, and |
at midnight came back with Kemp to see the boy in the |
library. Violet, recovered from her swoon, had refused
to go to her rest, and the pallid agony of her face mocked
the rich beauty of her attire as she waited in the library.

“Did you bring a message to Lord Leigh, boy ?” asked |
Mr. Storms.

“A bit of a note from a lady. She met me nigh the |

| wood.”

“How did she look ?” demanded Kemp, fiercely.

“She was tall and handsome, pale as the dead, and all |
in white, like a bride to a weddin’,” said the boy.

‘Helen! Helen!” groaned Kemp.

*‘And what did she say ?” asked the lawyer.

«Fly to Lord Leigh with that, and let no one else see
oo And then she turned and walked quick in the cedar |
wood.”

CHAPTER LXXXIII.
THE LORD OF LEIGH FOR THE LAST TIME CAME HOME.

Again, with renewed numbers, the search went on.
At three Mr. Storms came in, and said that as soon as |
the day was clear they should drag the Black Pool. He |
had sent to the family physician to come at once, fear- |
ing for Violet, and desiring also the testimony and pres-
ence of the physician in case their worst fears were real-
ized. 4
Day dawned, and, sleepless and haggard, Violet Leigh |
watched from the eastern windows the brightening of
the beg aye sky to red and gold. She had heard the |
tread of many feet, as, carrying canoes and drags, the
men went by to search out the secrets of the Black Pool.
The servants hung about in little groups, faces awe-

1 ‘ Of all the household only the babe

il up ae eg were put ye]
touc the water some one calle
mone? i 5 eatent ome Tow rpraneh at

5S :
pint of the pool. They rowed thither
t hat known to be Lord Leigh’s. In
i] 7 poats parted at this point, and moved in
opposite directions around the pool, to meet at the level,
open spot near the Folly, where stood Kemp, Adam, and

When almost the entire circuit had been made with
the drags, not far from the Folly, there was a resistance;
the drags of one boat caught some heavy object, and
both boats came together. In breathless, terrified
silence they drew slowly, slowly from the black depths
their prey.

A whiteness gleamed under the turbid water; then,
closely clasped together, two still forms—a woman, all
in snowy white, a man in a light woolen suit, heavy with
water. Her arms were clinched fast about his neck; |
his right arm held about her waist, but his left hand, as
she dragged him down, had instinctively grasped the
first thing it touched, and that, alas! the strong, tough
roots of plants at the bottom of the Pool, and as he held
fast to these in his death-grip, the doomed pair had not
risen even once to the surface when they fell.

They brought the bodies in, and loosening the en-

 

Kemp knelt down and touched the bridal garments.

“She said, when I saw her again it should be in these,”
said he; ‘‘and she has come, my bride, but not at the
He has murdered her !”

“No, Kemp; she has revenged herself on him, and
drawn him with her to her death. See this!” said Mr.
Storms, taking from Lord Leigh’s vest pocket a note, the
corner of which had protruded, and carefully unfolding
iton his palm. ‘See here! She has summoned him
here, and under a false name and plea, to insure his
coming. She sought him, and not he her, in that fatal
hour.”

‘That's the lady, and that’s the note,” said a voice.

At the head of the two bodies stood the urchin who
had been Helen’s last messenger.

“She meant to die with him,” said Kemp to Mr.
Storms.

‘Yes; no doubt.”

-‘She never loved me, but—I loved her!” said the man,
bursting into a vehement passion of griet. :

The other men fell back, with the respect due to an-
guish, and indulged him for a little space, as he knelt |

 

| by the woman he had loved, and smoothed the wet bair |

from her brow, and called her by her name, and touched |
her dank bridal array. }
«We must take them to the house,” said Mr. Storms. |
The men lifted two of the lower shutters of the Folly |
from their hinges. Over one they laid the lion-skin rug,
and on the other the leopard skin. Then on each im-
provised bier they laid a cold, still form, with water |
slowly streaming from its garments, and through the |

| narrow aisles of the cedar wood they took their way

with their burden.

Some had run before, and the news had spread.

“They are found!” ‘Both together!” <‘ Dead!” |
«Drowned in the Black Pool!”

These were the fragments of news that reached the
house, and which they meant to keep from the ears of
the young Countess of Leigh.

But she heard them, as such things are ever heard.
She heard the cries of horror, the bursts of weeping, the
smothered warnings ofsilence. It was only what she
had been sure would come. She bad known well, since
midnight, how it wouldend. She knew by what way,
at the avenue facing the great entrance of her princely
home, they would bring its dead lord in; and, wan and
trembling, out into the wide sunshine went Violet,
Countess of Leigh, widowed, and alone.

Young and forlorn as she was, and looked, there was
a new dignity and resolve about her, that made her first
in the scene, and suffered no remonstrances, as with set
face and folded arms, she stood upon the marble steps
of the entrance, where the Leigh lions, asleep in stone,
crouched on either hand. The rector had heard of the
search and had come over early, and he and the doctor |
stood near, behind the young countess, as she waited for
her dead.

And thus, slowly carried, drenched and rigid with |
open unseeing eyes, and clenched hands. Norman Leigh |
came for the last time to his ancestral home.

Slowly up the broad steps came the men, carrying the |
first bier, where the face of the dead had been covered |
With Adam’s kerchief.

Then the bearers of the second bier stood still.

«What shall be done with the woman’s body ?”

 

“Bring her in,” said the young countess, in a firm, low |

tone; “one cannot refuse hospitality to the dead.”

Mr. Storms passed first—and arm in arm Adam and
Kemp followed, each the ruin of his hope—the idol of his
life.

They laid the bodies down in the billiard room, and
then the rector taking Violet’s hand and drawing her to
him as if she were his child, said, while tears rained over
his white beard and wrinkled cheeks:

‘Dear child, your work for him is ended. You have
still your boy ; come to him.”

And bowed above the cradle of her babe, the over-
wrought heart of Violet Leigh found the relief of tears.

| both for checking evil speech about him.
| not tell the relief of Violet, in finding that no ill reports
| were to be rife of him whose name she bore and who

| hour's sleep in an easy-chair.

4 with 2me,—

Vol. 42—No. 20.

others.” ,

Shut alone in her room, Violet passed that terrible
The coroner's inquest was held, the preparations
for the burial wenton. Henry Ainslie and his wife, and
the Earl of Montressor, and Colonel Hartington, were
summoned, but Violet saw no one, until another day
dawned, and a swift step passed up the stair, and Kate
gave acry of joy, as she opened the door of her lady’s
room, and Edna Haviland folded the forlorn little widow
to her bosom. Held in those strong fond arms, soothed
by that sweet, loving voice, she who had learned to
console, having had many sorrows of her own in her
young, innocent life, brought the balm of comfort to the
wounded heart of Violet.

Only a little over two years had the tragedy of her
wretched, mfrried life lasted. With its pains and its
pathos, it had tnded now in darkness. Violet was as

| one exhausted, nearly lost, worn from hard battle with

a stormy sea, cast at last into Shelter, but conscious only

| as yet of the loss and the storm. But, finally, in the

arms of Edna, she sank into restful slumber.

CHAPTER LXXXIY.
“IN DEATH UNDIVIDED.”

In those dark days Edna was the light and stay of the
household at the Towers. Mrs. Ainslie, kind-hearted

| and helpless, could only weep and lament ; Lady Burton,
| at Violet’s entreaty, took her place in the household,

and Violet remained in her suite of rooms, with Edna

| and Rupert, seeing the members of the family only fora
| few minutes each day, as they came to inquire for her
health.

The astuteness of Mr. Storms had suggested a plaus-

| ible reason for the appearance of Lord Leigh at the

Folly; and his view that the earl lost his life, in the
effort to keep Helen Hope from throwing herself into
the Pool, gained general credence.

Leigh had been an earl, he was dead, good reasons
Words can-

was the father of her child.

On the second .day Helen Hope was quietly buried in
the church-yard near Leigh Towers. Kemp insisted that
she should be buried in her dridal dress, and he placed
in her cold hand a bouquet of tuberoses.

“She asked for them, and she shall have them,” he
said; and he followed poor Helen, hersole, but sincere
mourner.

That evening Violet sent for him to her boudoir.

“T learn that you are going to Australia again.”

“Yes, to-day week. I'll never see England more.”

“You are very unhappy,” said Violet, in her soft, gen-
tle voice. ‘I can feel for you, for I know what unhappi-
ness is. And I have learned, too, that when we are un-
happy we get the most comfort in trying to be good.
You do not need anything to help you toremember the

| woman you loved, but I have found @ little trinket of

hers which I think you may like to have.” She handed
him a small morocco box, in which was the pearl lunar-

| moth which Edna had once given to Helen.

Kemp looked at it, and his face worked strongly.
“My lady, how can you think to try and comfort me,

‘when you know that I was like to rob you and him.”

He pointed to the child, sleeping in his cradle.
‘We are told to forgive our enemies,” said Violet.
«T’ve had a hard life, and a rough one,” said Kemp,
‘but I will be a better man from this out, for your sake.”
“You have energy and money, and can do much good

/if you will, and that will soothe your sorrows,” said

Violet.

“TI promise you, my'lady, I will be another man.”

‘Here is a seal ring that was my father’s,” said Violet ;
‘“‘will you wear it in memory of that promise, and if you
can help poor orphans and foundlings with your money,
do it, tor poor Helen’s sake.”

Kemp went softly from her presence, as if he had left
a sanctuary.

It was the night before the day set for the funeral.
The various members of the mourning household had
gone-to-their rooms, when-a-wild-cry rang.through .the
Towers, followed by long wails. Violet heard it in her
boudoir, where, still dressed, she was trying to catch an
Her heart at once woke
to terror tor her child. What had happened to Rupert?”

She fiew to the nursery. It was empty; but the
sounds of lamentation had roused Rupert, who was
struggling to lift himself in his cradle. Relieved of anx-
iety for him, Violet caught him in her arms, and as the
wails still continued, she ran in excitement down the

| Stairs. The door of the great, black-hung drawing-room

was open; the coffin or Lord Norman lay under the
dimly lit chandelier in the center. At its head knelt old
Adam ; beside him stood Magery, wringing her hands,
and crying wildly; while the servants were grouped
about. As the little countess, in her deep-mourning
robe, holding the child, in his little white night-gown,
crossed the threshold, Kate hastened to her, and took
the child from her.

‘Don’t come here, my lady dear.
you. He is dead.”

“T know he is dead,” said Violet, tears welling in her

eyes.
ady, It is Adam—old

It is no place for

“J don’t mean my lord,
Adam—we found deg
heart broke for his m

and clasped her _

gether; let us go
other. Adam has died |
buried by him.”

She turned, and saw her uncle, Henry Ainslie, enter-

a rc
aster, and he 8l

| ing the room.

“Uncle,” she said, ‘‘give orders to have Adam buried
with Lord Leigh, and Jet his coffin be placed in the Leigh
vault, at his lord’s feet. He has followed him all his
life ; he shall lie with him in death.”

It was graciously thought and said, and brought the
first ray of consolation to poor Magery.

Next day they buried Lord Norman and his faithful
servant. A long, pompous train followed the magnifi-
cent bier, and laid Norman Leigh beside his fathers.

AS swallows fly from the frosts, and orioles vanish in

| the train of summer, so guests fly from the house of

sorrow as soon as funeral rites are finished.

Colonel Hartington and Lady Clare were first to go.
As they waited for their carriage, Lady Clare looked at
little Rupert, whom Jenny was carrying up and down
the terrace—maid and child in mourning.

“But for that baby,” she said, “you would now be
staying here as Earl of Leigh.”

“Yes,” said the colonel; ‘‘but there is the child, and
aa might as well put away all expectation of the earl-

om.

Lae is only one life now between you and the cor-
onet.’

“But what the assurance societies would cali ‘a very

good life.” After all, Clare, we must not begrudge the

little man his existence.”

‘ “I don’t,” said Clare, slowly, ‘but he is a disadvantage
0 Us.’

“Think how miserable his mother would be without
him.” said the colonel, pulling on his gloves,

“Pooh! She would marry again in no time,” said
Clare, bitterly. ‘She is a born coquette.”

With Clare went the Montressor kin, and Mrs. Ainslie
deperted next. She had been summoned to the funeral
when she was in the midst of preparations for Anna’s
marriage to Captain Gore. She disliked the match for
her daughter, but was intent on a splendid trousseau.

Henry Ainslie tarried a little longer than his wite.

“Some arrangements must be made for you, Violet ;”
he said. ‘Your husband made no will, appointed no
guardians. I don’t know just what you are to do.”

‘J mean to stay here, and bring up my son on his
estates among his own people, to be a good earl,” said
Violet. ‘‘Edna will be with me much, and I shall ask
Anna and Gore to spend the winter with me.”

“That may do—but the guardians. If Montressor
were not so indolent—and, I suppose it is my duty
again.”

“Dear uncle, I will not trouble you, and I do not wish
the Earl of Montressor. The Lord Chancellor was one
of the strongest friends of Norman’s father, and I shall
write to him to appoint Rupert’s guardians, and our
trustees. He will.”

“ft think that is good sense,” said Uncle Henry. ‘And
Storms and the steward can advise you about the
estate.”

He brightened visibly when he found he need not be

| guardian, and took leave of his niece, protesting that

she was developing into a wonderful little woman.”

Violet wrote to the Lord Chancellor, who was laid up
with gout at his London house.

And now all the guests were gone but Edna. The
family at the Towers were all in deep black, but the
black hangings were removed, and the doors and win-
dows were open to the sun and the fragrance of fruit
and flowers.

It was a late September morning, and Violet and Edna
were seated together in a charming little room overlook-
ing the gardens, when a servant entered with two let-
ters, one from the Lord Chancellor, and one from Ken-
neth Keith.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Ow

FOR INDIGESTION.

It is asserted now by some of the highest medical
authorities that lime-water and milk are not only food
and medicine at an early period of life, but also at a
later, when, as in case of infants, functions of digestion
and assimilation are feeble and easily perverted. It is
j found that astomach taxed by gluttony, irritated by
| improper food, inflamed by alcohol, enfeebled by dis-
| ease or Otherwise unfitted for its duties—as is shown by
| the various symptoms attendant upon indigestion—will
| resume its work, and do it energetically, on an exclusive
| diet of bread and milk and lime-water. A goblet of
| cow’s milk may have four tablespoonfuis of lime-water
|} added toit with good effect; the lime-water may be -
| made by putting a few lumps of unslaked lime ina stone
| jar and adding water until the lime is slaked and of

about the consistence of thick cream—the lime settling
and leaving the pure and clean lime water on top.

pe a
|

Horstord’s Acid Phosphate.

 

 

“She cannot be alone so, poor, friendless little heiress |
that she has always been,” said Mr. Storms, pityingly. |
«We must send for some one. For her aunts ?” nef a

“Tf I might be so bold,” said Kate. “I suppose the re-| peared. Be sure that the word ““HORSFORD’s
'Jations must be sent for, but Lady Burton and Miss' ison the wrapper. None are genuine without it

“I knew Mr. Carpenter well,” he said. ‘So you are |
the boy whom he adopted? If he was as fond of you as |
Ihave heard, I am surprised at the necessity of your ap-
plying to me for employment, for he was a very rich |
man, and ought to have liberally provided for you.”

‘He has come!” cried Violet. starting up.

But a high, fierce voice was heard in the hall,

“Where is Lord Leigh ?”

“He has been from home all day—we do not know
where,” replied the footman.

doubt our integrity.”

a turned his frank, clear gaze upon his com-
panion.

‘I have no right to doubt you or Mr. Fairbanks, and I
have no wish to examine your father’s papers,” he said;

Beware of hnitations.
Imitations and counterfeits have again ap-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No. 20,

ENDURANCE.

How much the heart may bear. and yet not break!

How much the flesh may suffer and not die!
I question much if any pain or ache
soul or body brings our end more nigh.
Death chooses his own time ; till thatis worn,
All evils may be borne.

We shrink and shudder at the surgeon’s knife,
Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel,

Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life;
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal

That still, although the trembling flesh be torn,

‘This, also, can be borne.

We see a sorrow rising in our way,
And try to fee trom the approaching ill,

We seek some small escape—we weep and pray,
But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still,

Not that the pain is ofits sharpness sho:n,

But think it can be borne.

We wind our life about another life,
We hold it closer, dearer than our own,
Anon it faints and falls in deadly strife,
Leaving us stunned, and stricken, and alone,;
Butah! we do not die with those we mourn,

This, also, can be borne.

,

Behold, we live through all things, famine, thirst,
Bereavement, pain ; all grief and misery,
All woe and sorrow ; life i ts its worst
On soul and body, but we cannot die,
‘Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn;
Lo! all things can be borne.

—_——_——__ > 9-+___——_-
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

he Belle of the Palace

OR

THE FALSE HEIRESS.

—

By LENA T. WEAVER,

{“THe BELLE OF THE PALACE” was commenced in No. 11.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER XXII.
AT DAYTON’S BLUFF.

Lucia Ashleigh turned about and faced the invisible
intruder. She had been too much accustomed to dan-
gers and strange experiences in the course of her ad-
yenturous life to stand in fear of anything tangible or
intangible.

_ “Who is there? What do you want?” she asked,
sternly. _

Edward Ashleigh’s voice replied:

“Why, Lucia, is it you? What are you doing here in
this chamber, of all others, and at this time of night 2”

“7 might ask you the same question,” she answered.

“True. And I might answer it. I heard sounds in
the house, and fancied that, perhaps, another burglary
might be in progress. I got up, and coming down the
corridor to see if you were safe, Lucia, I saw a light
stream from beneath the door of this room——”

“You came tosee if I was safe, Edward?” said the
girl, ina voice whose strange gladness surprised and
puzzied the young man. ‘And you—you really cared
whether I was safe or not?” :

“Cared, Lucia? Why should I not care? My dear
and only sister! It would be strange, indeed, if I did
not care”

His hand sought hers in the darkness, and he pressed
it closely against his heart.

“Ah,” thought Lucia, “if I could only die now before
aught comes to disturb the happiness that throbs
through every pulse.”

“Of course you care,” she said, in her accustomed quiet
voice. “I was silly tosuppose that you did not. But
sometimes it seems that you do not love me as you used
todo. Since—since Florence came into your life you
have been different.” -

“My dear little goose ofa Lucia! Jealous of Florence,
1 Go believe. Why, you would not have me live on
singie, and develop intoa cross-grained old bachelor,
sewing ot his-.ewn.buttons, ng all womankind,
because he had never
one woman all for his own.”

“J believe I am jealous of Florence,” she returned,

tly; ‘but, of course, it is foolishin me. It will all
be right by and by. It is—let me see—how long, now,
pefore she will come here—to stay ?”

“Just three weeks, please God!” answered the young
man. ina voice whose depth betrayed how very deep
was the love he bore for the eo young girl who was
soon to become his wife; ‘‘and I trust that you and she
will be very happy together.”

‘No doubt we shall be,’ said Lucia, and there was a
hard ringin ber voice which struck a strange chill to
-Edward’s heart; though he would not acknowledge it to

lf. .

“Poor Lucia!’ he said to himself, ‘she loves me so
much that she cannot. bear to think of another coming
between us. 1 wish she could meet the man whois
worthy of her. Then aloud he said, “But come out of
this dreadful room, Lucia. Whatever made you venture
here at this time, and alone? Father would be fearfully
-. if he should know.”

: ia felt that she stood on the very edge of the mys-
tery of Ashleigh house, bur she dared not advance a step
further, lest she should betray her own secret.

“Why should I fear to come in here?” she asked.
«There is nothing here to make me afraid.”

. “But you used to be so terrified at the thought,” said
| the young man. . ‘Don’t you remember how, for months
atter, after that dreadful night, you did not dare come

past the door, and that even last summer you owned to

me that you always ran past it in the night time?”

“But 1 am braver now, Edward.”

«You are. Icansee thatin many ways made mani-
fest. But I should not have expected to find you here,
nevertheless. Come out. The air of the place is thick
and unwholesome. Let me close «it up again, and leave
it to the dust and the spiders.”

He drew Lucia quickly out into the corridor, closed
and locked the door with a key he carried attached to
a ring which held numerous other keys.

How glad Lucia was that she had taken the precau-
tion to withdraw the skeleton key trom the lock, after
entering the.south chamber, before she had, proceeded
toleok around her. A key of that description might
have given occasion for the propounding of questions
whieh she would have found it difficult to answer.

She had expected the interrogatory which Edward put
to her after he had closed and locked the door.

“How did you get into that room, Lucia ?”

+ founda some keys in my chamber, in a long-disused
drawer, and I fancied that one of them might fit the
lock of the south chamber.”

*sWill you give me that key?”

*] will not.”

“Why not? Lucia, itis our father’s request that the
room we have just left be never opened, in his life-time,
to the light of day. Let us respect the wish.”

“Jtis a foolish and unprecedented thing todo, Ed-
ward! In this enlightened nineteenth century, to keep
the best rooms in the house closed and unused, because
of—well, because of something unpleasant that has hap-
pened there——”

“Unpleasant! Good Heaven, Lucia? How can you
speak in that way ?”

“Well, I ask you if it is not a folly to close that room,
and what is beyondit ?”

“Perhaps it is—or was. Perhaps it would have been
better to have kept the rooms open, and got accus-
tomed to the horror. It would have worn off in time, I

suppose. But I will confess that, man as I am, I cannot
pass the door of that chamber without feeling the same
cold shudder pass over me that I felt that night when—
But, great Heaven! why dol dwell upon it? Let me
gee you-safely in your room, Lucia, and promise me,
dea?, that you will neverrepeat to-night’s act!”
_ “J will respect your wishes, Edward, but I cannot bind
myself by any promise.”

He looked curiously at her by the light shed down on
her face from the gas-jet which burned in the gilded
globe at the extremity of the passage.

Her cheeks were crimson, and her eyes were bright as
stars. She met his gaze without flinching.

“Dol look frightened, Edward? Am I not a brave
woman, after all?”

“Yes, you ave a brave woman, Lucia. I make no
doubt of that, after to-night. But 1do not understand
the change in you.”

- «There are things it may be better not to understand,”
said the girl, gravely. “And Florence—what will she
think of this—this mysterious chamber ?”

“Florence knows all. 1 deemed it my duty to tell her
the story before I asked her tobe mine. The story—not
as the world knows it, but as we, the Ashleighs, know
it—in all its horrible strangeness! And Florence will
never tell of it. I have her promise.”

“Very well. There, the clock is striking two. Good-

7

“Good-night, dear.” He stooped and kissed her fore-
head, and Lucia, blushing like the sunrise, passed into
her roor, and closed the door.

She did not go to bed then. She sat down before the
mirror, and turned on the gas to a full blaze. The face
she saw beaming forth upon her was one which might
well have fired the heart of any lover of beauty.

The great dark eyes were brilliant as diamonds, the
fair, round cheeks outblossomed the rose, tne dewy lips

“were perfect in their curve, and across the low, white
forehead curled the heavy mass of luxuriant brown gold
hair, which was the envy and admiration of every wo-

And hatin | W :
known the sweetness OF Davilig |

 

 

 

 

 

 

man who saw it. She bared her soft, white throat, and
clasped it with her snowy tngers.

«A hangman’s rope would look out of place here,” she

said, with a coolness which had something horrible about
it; ‘but there are people living who would say [had won
the right to such an ornament. |! wonder—yes, I won-
der what John St. Clair sees in my face that makes his
own Wear such a puzzled and frightened look? I amsure
I have never seen him—and yet, how can I be sure but
that out of the thousands who looked on my face that
day he may not have been one? Pshaw! I am nervous
to-night. I will not be a fool. So Florence knows all,
does she? I will penetrate the mystery of that cham-
ber. But I must be cautious. My brother Edward—my
brother indeed!” she paused, and laughed softly to her-
self, «is keen as a grayhound on the scent! And what
would he do if he should discover the truth? Heavens!
What would he do?”

She turned out the gas with a sudden movement, as if
there were danger even then in allowing the light to
shine over her, and throwing herself dressed upon the
bed, she tossed about till morning in an uneasy slumber.

At the breakfast table she looked pale, and there were
dark circles about her eyes, which the banker noticed,
and inquired anxiously if she was not well.

«Quite well, father; but I had bad dreams,” she said,
lightly. ‘Too much supper, and indigestion, perhaps.”

“My dear,” said the banker, gravely, ‘at your age you
should never have indigestion. Attend toit atonce. it
is the source of a great deal of misery. J must call Dr.
Lincoln in to prescribe for you. An, after-dinner pill,
now and then, will do- wonders for you.”

“Oh, it is not so bad as that, father. I am all right
now. - What shall we do to pass this lovely day?”

She lifted aside the heavy curtain, and looked out on
the snow-clad world glistening in the morning sunlight.

“A sleigh ride, my dear,” said the banker; ‘‘the very
morning for a Sleigh ride. Suppose we have out the
grays, and ride over to Dayton’s Bluff? The toboggan
slides there are famous, they tell me.”

“Will Edward go?” asked Lucia, plucking a white rose
from a blooming bush in the window, and looking into
creamy heart, as if she expected to find an answer

ere.

“Edward will go if his fair sister wishes him to,” said
the Lag 4 man, entering the room at that moment, and
hearing the question she had put to his father.

He came to her side, put his arm around her shoulder,
and sought to look in her face, but she dropped her
head, and taking the rose from her fingers he placed it
in her hair.

‘Fairer than the rose itself,” he said, fondly. ‘And
now tell me where it is that you want me to go.”

«We were speaking of a sleigh ride to Dayton’s Bluff,”
said Mr. Ashleigh. ‘Just the morning for it. Fine and
bracing. Iam sure I do not see how any one can com-
plain of our climate. It may be cold, but cold weather
Stirs the blood, and makes an old man feel young again,
By Jove! you young people don't half begin to enjoy
yourselves asl used to when I wasa boy. Such jolly
times as we used to have. Coasting, skating, sleigh
riding! Why, Mary and I——”

He stopped suddenly, a deathly pallor overspread his
face, he sank back feebly in his chair, and then, making
a brave effort to conquer his emotion, he rang the bell,
and greta told the servant who appeared to put on
more coal, for the rooms were like the climate of the
north pole.

“Mr. St. Clair is coming to call at eleven,” said Edward.
“We will take him along with us. He ought to see
something of our city. I hope you and he will be great
friends, Lucia.” /

“No doubt we shall be,” said the girl: but Edward
could not tell whether there was a sneer in her voice or
not. There were so many things about this sister of his
which he could not understand.

“St. Clair is the ideal old Englishman over again, bar-
ring the old,” said Mr. Ashleigh. ‘‘I declare, I have not
seen a young man for many a day so courteous and re-
fined, and withal so genial. That is right, Edward, cul-
tivate him! He is the right sort!”

“There will be room for Florence, too,” said Edward ;
‘we will drive round and take her. She looked a little
pale yesterday.”

“No wonder! with the important event so near at
hand!” said the banker; ‘‘with such a fate impending
over her, no wonder she looks pale!” and he struck his
son on the back to emphasize his joke.

Edward srailed.

“I trust itis a happy fate. At least it shall not be my
fault if it is not,” he said, gravely.

Lucia was looking trom the window, and did not join
in the conversation.

“It seems sheer nonsense to me,” said Mr. Ashleigh,
“to have such a bedlam of dressmakers and milliners
for six months before a weddiug. Now, I’ll venture to
say that Florence will have clothes enough made up to
last her for ten years. Just asifshe thought her bus-
band was never going to be able to give her anything in
the way of dry goods.” :

; Toy Aiea follow the fashions and customs of the age,
ather.’

“Yes, yes, of course, of course,” said the banker;
“that is allright. And the bridal trip is to the South,
including Washington, eh ?”

“That is the programme.”

“Well, well, I hope you will enjoy it, and hasten home
as soon as possible. I am growing old, my son ; I realize
it more more and more every day, and the business
needs a younger, stronger hand, and a more active
brain than mine. And Florence will make sunshine in
the house; for she is like a beam of sunshine. Gentle,
aua-sweet, and loving: and Lucia and she will be so
happy together, eh, my daughter ?” re

“So very happy, father!’ returned Lucia, in the same
strange, hard voice which smote so unpleasantly on
Edward’s ear.

The old ancestral clock in the hall struck slowly the
hour of eleven, and simultaneously the door-bell rang,
and the footman announced Mr. St. Clair.

The young Englishman came forward, his fair, blonde
face flushed with the sharp winter air, his blue eyes
bright and questioning.

They turned first to Lucia, and the questioning ex-
pression grew intensified, until his whole face appeared
like an animated interrogation point.

But his words were bland and courteous. He accepted
the invitation to ride with ready grace, and sat down
before the fire, and talked about stocks and markets with
the banker, and watched Lucia’s every gesture from be-
neath his dark brows, and marked every tone anc inflec-
tion of her voice.

Under the consciousness of his observation the girl
grew impatient, though by not the slightest movement
did she betray it. Her pale face remained just as pale
and impassive, and the white hand, which held a carved
ivory-sticked tan between her delicate cheek and the
bright glow of the coal in the grate, did not quiver.

She rose with the slow grace peculiar to her, and
asked to be excused. She must dress tor the ride. St.
Clair rose to attend her to the door.

“Refrain trom making yourself too charming!” he
said, bowing. ‘Have some merey on the hearts of the
unfortunate men we are to meet on the way.”

She made him some light answer, and he closed the
door behind her. Very thoughtful was his face as he re-
turned to his seat beside the banker.

“Your daughter is a magnificently beautiful woman,”
he said, adimiringly. “Has she—has she ever been
abroad ?”

“Never,” replied the banker; ‘‘she has always hada
horror of crossing the water. I have regretted it ex-
ceedingly, for Lucia would so much have enjoyed the
scenery and paintings in the old country !”

St. Clair did not reply, but he knitted his brows in ap-
parent perplexity, and after a moment roused himself
and spoke on some indifferent subjects.

A half hour later the horses were brought round, and
Lucia came down the broad stairway in carriage cos-
tume.

Few women in St. Paul, or in any other city, could
have worn the pale green velvet hat, with its costly
plumes just the color of the apple blossom’s heart, and
the fur cloak of white, unrelieved by a single darker
color, but they became her perfectly, and as she ad-
vanced toward him, St. Clair was obliged to confess to
himself that nowhere in the course of his life, even
among the fair beauties of ruyal courts, had he ever seen
a face and figure more perfect, and more magnificently
beautitul.

He took the Falher: hand, and led her to the sleigh
which waited. man could not do otherwise than be
courteous to such a woman, |

He took the seat beside her; the banker sat in front,
and Edward took the reins from the coachman.

“JT will drive to-day, Martin; the grays are uncom-
monly lively.”

“That they be, sir, and a finer pair of ’em there is not
in hoe city,” said Martin, with a touch of pride in his
voice.

They drove around for Florence May, who, blooming
and pretty, soon joined them. The warmth of Lucid’s
greeting flushed the young jiancee’s face with pleasure.
Her little soft hand sought Lucia’s under the fur robes.

“JT am so glad you love me a little!” she whispered. “1
was afraid you would never, never torgive me for tak-
ing your brother’s attention.”

“Nonsense, child!” returned Lucia; “how silly you
are !"

The horses were in good spirits, the sleighing was
superb, and the party enjoy the drive greatly. Mr.
Ashleigh most of all.

“Tt makes me feel young again to hear the mad jingle
of the bells, and to see how the grays spin along. By
Jove! there is nothing more exhilarating than to sit be-
hind a good horse, and dash along through an atimos-
phere like this! Nothing like it in England, or in Texas
either—eh, St. Clair ?”

“Nothing,” said the young Englishman, ae
away a bit of ice which the fiery hoofs of the horses h
sent flying into his face. ‘Nothing at all, unless it be a
scamper over the plains on one of the wild horses of the
country. And then, one cannot have such company
there.” glancing at Lucia.

They reached Dayton’s Bluff, and leaving the horses
in care of Martin, the party went to look at the Slide,
which was alive with gayly dressed coasters.

Lucia fell back a little behind the party, and for a mo-
ment they did not notice her absence.

A dark, short-set man had come out of the crowd of
spectators, and halted by her side.

“| must speak to you!” be said. in a muffled voice.

Lucia followed him without a word.

A few moments later, the banker, looking around from
his eager observance of the tobogganers, to address
some remark to his daughter, saw that she was not in
sight. And then the others of the party perceived it
also.

«Where is Lucia ?” he cried, excitedly. <‘Good heavens!
where is my daughter ?”

“She was here but a moment ago,” said Edward. ‘Do
not get excited, father. She has probably stepped in
among the crowd to get a better view of the slide. Stay
here ; I will find her.

 

“JT will go with you,” said St. Clair. “It is hardly a
crowd for a young lady to encounter; but then your
American girls are so independent.”

A look of alarm had spread over Edward’s face, in
spite of his asSuring words, and that look had increased
to distress, when a half hour later he had to come back
© nis father, and tell him that no trace of Lucia could be
ound.

“Oh, heaven!” cried the poor old man, despairingly,
‘itis the old trouble over again! I was a fool ever to
ae that Villain of a Vail a chance to play his hand
again.” ‘

“T ought to bave shot him on sight,”"ymuttered Edward
Ashleigh, between his set teeth, ‘‘and will, if I ever see
him again !” kat

CHAPTER XXIII.
REUNITED.

When the steamer upon which the Courtneys had
taken passage sunk, the reader will remember that Mrs.
Courtney had been taken in charge by the engineer, and
when the man saw that the time was at hand he seized
her in his arms and leaped into the water. :

And Captain Pierce had followed. ;

Both men rose to the surface several fathoms distant
from the place where the boat had plunged down, and
within a few feet of each other.

The engineer still clung to Mrs. Courtney, and the
men conferred together as to the best course to pursue.

The chances of rescue were small, for. there was not

-| even a plank to cling to, and without seme sop they

knew that they could not long keep afloat and sustain
this helpless-woman. And ned were neither of them
men to Save their own lives af the expense of her safety.

The captain argued that the boat which had been
swamped in launching had floated toward the north;
and his surmise proved to be correct, for in a few mo-
ments they saw the dark outline of the boat twenty rods
distant, and succeeded in reaching it.

To their infinite joy, they found that it was right side
up, but nearly filled with water. To bail this out was
their next care; but the process was slow, for only the
captain could work, and he had only a tin drinking-cup
to work with.

But after a while it was accomplished, and Mrs. Court-
ney was lifted into the boat. i ’

Then her scattered senses return, and she began
mourning, and questioning about the fate of her son and
Theresa.

“We will hope for the best, madehi,” said the engi-
neer, wringing the salt water from his jacket. ‘There's
a good many chances to escape from drowning. If their
time had come, they're gone, and nothing could have
saved ’em; but if their time hadn’t come, they’re safe,
or will be. We don't, any on us, go till the Lord wants
us.” 4

“Oh, Reade! Oh, my son! my son!" wailed the poor
woman, wringing her hands. “Why did we ever un-
dertake this miserable journey ?”

«Twas for your health, ma'am, ag I understand,” said
the captain, who was a very literal"man; ‘‘and I hope
you'll be better of what ailed you, though I must contess
that this is ratner damp work. But, thank fortune, we've
got a plank under us again, and that is better than
water. Are you comfortable, ma’am ?”

‘Comfortable !” cried Mrs. Courtney. *‘What do I care
for comfort? I want my son—my r son! What is
life to me without him ?”

“Don’t give way !” said the engineer, cheerfully. ‘The
morning is coming, and maybe we Shall sail across his
track. Stranger things have happened.”

Mrs. Courtney did not reply, butsat, wet and forlorn,
in the bottom of the boat, brooding over her great grief.

She had'seen but little of what we eall trouble in the
course of her easy and sheltered life. Her husband had
idolized her, and when he died she mourned him Sin-
cerely, but he had had a long sicknéeSs, and suffered in-
tensely, and she had been prepared for the separation.
He left behind him a large fortune.and an honorable
name, and he slept at peace beneatiga costly monument
at Mount Auburn. After his 4, Mrs. Courtney’s
whole life interest centered in her sgh. ;

She was a beautiful and talented woman, and, natu-
rally, she was a ‘power in society. Sie had plenty of
money always at her control; she had a large circle of
friends, and a home where all that taste could select and
wealth purchase was gathered.

The mothers of marriageable daughters pronounced
Reade Courtney perfect, and regarded him as the most
eligible “catch” in the matrimonial market; aud what
more could any reasonable mother ask for ?

But she had been so apprehensive lest Reade might
make love to Some woman who had never had a grand-
father, that she had brought him Nome, and cast him
into the society of Theresa, hoping that tue young girl's
grace and beauty might captivate his fancy. And it
was for this that the voyage tothe Bahamas had been
undertaken, and now it had ended thus! She wished
she had gone down with the ste&mer, and then she
would never have known the terrible auguish which
tore her heart. ig ,

For through her solicitations, and her planning for the
furtherance of her own selfish puxposes, her son had
met his death.

— was the view she took of tlje case, and nothing

» St e eer, touching the drooping figure
of the woman, ‘‘only see how bright the Sun shines. Let
us accept it as a token that all will Be well. And that
we shall yet tina your son, and his young woman, safe.”

“It only shines on the faithless water which is his
grave,” she cried, breaking out into a fit of sobbing so
violent that both the men turned away helpless, and
wished they had gone to the bottom instead of being
compelled to sit idly there and hear that poor mother
weep.

“Don't do it! don't do it, ma’am,” the captain kept re-
peating, hopelessly. ‘I wish you wouldn't, now.”

And poor Mrs. Courtney, hearing the tears in the
man's voice, only wept the harder.

‘My stars,” said the captain, rubbing his eyes with his
grimy fist, “it beats all my experience with women. I
thought Mary Aun took it hard when little Jim died, but
*twarn't a sarcumstance. And I guess the more upper-
tennish a woman is, the harder she takes on.”

oer Mrs. Courtney dried her eyes and stopped
sobbing.

“TI am distressing you by my grief,” she said, control-
ling herself with a great effort, ‘‘and all the weeping in
the world will not bring Reade back. I will be calm.
Heaven knows what is best. I have said so many a time
to the poor creatures who had logt what they loved, but
I never realized till now how little real comfort there is
in the consolatiou we are in the iabit of offering.”

She sat upright in the boat an@jooked straight before
her, despair on ber fine old face, and in the eyes grown
heavy and dull with weeping.

Her hair, slightly gray, waved back from her beautiful
forehead and shone like silver'in the morning light.
The two men looked on her with respectful admiration,
and the captain remarked to the engineer, in a subdued
voice :

“She was a beauty in her day, ll warrant. A woman
that’ll wash, in these times, is worth looking at, as I’ve
often told Mary Ann.”

All at once Mrs. Courtney starfed up, and put her
hand over her eyes to Shade them from the light of the
water.

“What is that I see? Straightahead there! Talland
dark! Straight abead !”

The two men looked in the direction she indicated,
and both exclaimed :

“It is a palm tree! An island is at hand!”

The eyes of the women sought their faces eagerly ;
they knew the question she would ask before she spoke
it aloud.

‘‘May not he have found it ?”

“We will hope so," said the engineer, but she saw the
shade of doubt on his face, and asked him :

“How far away is it?”

“Two or three miles.”

“Ah, heaven!’ she cried, despairingly, ‘‘and he had
nothing but his hands to keep him afloat. No, he could
never doit. Heisdead. They are both dead. Heaven
help me !”

She sank down in the bottom of the boat, and the men
made no attempt to cheer her, for they knew how little
probability there was of thet! finding Mr. Courtney at
the island before them.

The men had previously torn out the seats of the boat,
and were using them for oars, and now they plied them
with a will.

Momentarily the palm tree drew nearer, rising taller
aud more stately out of the water, and very soon they
saw the low sandy shore, and the stretch of white
beach, aud back of it a little cluster of houses em-
bowered in green foliage.

They nad-struck one of the lower Bahamas, and it,was
inhabited !

Help and safety were near.

The thought nerved them to renewed effort, and with
vigorous strokes they sent the boat dancing across the
waves. The shadow of the palm tree fell over them, the
keel of the boat grated on the sand, and in a moment
more it was beached, and they were sate.

A dozen dusky islanders greeted them, and helped to
lift out the exhaus.ed woman who had never a word of
gratitude to offer at her deliverance from death.

But as she set foot on the land a glad cry met her ears
—acrythat sent the blood coursing through her veins
like fire—a cry that made her live again, and shamed
the doubt in God’s mercy which had held her silent.

“Mother! Mother!’

Reade’s arms were around her! his kisses were warm
on her lips! she asked or cared for nothing more!

After a little while she remembered Theresa.

“You need not tell me that she is dead, my son, I
know it cannot be otherwise! Poor, dear girl! and it
was I who induced her to undertake this fatal journey.
How shall I ever forgive myself ?”

“My darling mother! See, here is Theresa herself,
coming to welcome you.”

Looking up, Mrs. Courtney saw, advancing joyfully
toward her, the loveliest and bluest blooded daughter of
Boston, clad in an old suit of Turkey red calico, and
with a sun-bonnet on-her head, all the property of the
kind-hearted old negro woman in whose cot she had
found refuge. and dry clothes.

Mrs. Courtney put her arms around the girl and rested
her head on her shoulder.

“My son is saved! and you are here! I ask nothing
more !” she said, eran, “God is good, and I am the
happiest woman in the universe.”

“Come in, mother, and haye some dry clothes,” was

7

 

ne:

«<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 ~

Reade's practical suggestion,

as he drew his mother’s
hand inside his arm. :

CHAPTER XXIV.
BETWEEN LIFE AND DEATH.

In the cabin of the lumbermen, Mary White was still a
guest. Tossing in the wild delirium of a fever which
anya her never @ moment of quiet—raving of things

isconnected, vague, and utterly incomprehensible to
the listener, she lay for three weeks, and no sign of an
improvement in her condition.

Kanute, the old Indian physician, spent half his time
in stolid silence at her bedside.

But no loving mother’s hand was ever gentler than his,
and no mother’s voice was ever softer, and more sooth-
ing than his when he spoke to the poor sufferer.

Old Jake had resolved over in his mind the propriety
of sending for a physician from the city, but he had seen
men drawn through terrible straits by Kanute, and
oe out alive and well, and he had faith in the In-

an.

But, aside from this consideration, there was a certain
indetinable somethiug which he could not explain, which
seemed to hold him back from making Mary White's case
known to outsiders.

Perhaps it was because he suspected, from the first,
that she was of good family, and because he feared that
there might be circumstances attending her singular
nett ga which it would be better to keep from the
public.

Rosine watched her with the tenderest and most de-
voted care; and the sick girl grew to look anxiously for
her with her great wild eyes, and to sink to the only
quiet slumber she knew when Kosine sat beside her,
and held her hot hands.

‘I shall never find them, never!” the poor girl kept
repeating over and over, until the refrain grew so sad
and wearisome that old Jake would quit the cabin, and
out in the fresh air, smoking a solacing pipe, he would
revolve over and over again in his mind the best thing
todo, and he invariably ended with resolving to let
fhatters take their course.

“She will either be better or worse soon,” said the old
man, philosophically ; ‘‘and when she is better, she can
tell us who she is, and what she wants to do, and if she
dies, why, there’s an end of it. 1 will trust Kanute.”

There came, in the third week of Mary White’s sick-
ness, periods when she would for hours lie still. Her poor
head, that had tossed so wearily to and fro on the pillow,
seemed to find rest; her thin hands, which had so in-
cessantly fumbled among the bed-clothes, were fokied
quietly ; her breath came regularly, and Rosine’s heart
swelled with hope.

These periods of rest and quiet would be succeeded by
wild paroxysms of pain and fever, wien it seemed as if
the frail body could no longer hold the distressed and
struggling spirit, and every one around her, except the
old Indian. gave up in despair.

In the fourth week she sank into a sort of stupor, from
which nothing seemed to rouse her; and Rosine, who
had grown to love her very dearly, sat weeping by her
side, and grew herself almost as pale and shadowy as
the invalid she tended.

One night, when the moon was bright, and shone In
through the one little window of the cabin, and fell
across the face of the sick girl, she opened her eyes, and
for a moment it seemed to Rosine that there was a gleam
of intelligence in them.

She bent over her quickly.

«What is it, dear?’

“Edward!” said the girl, faintly, ‘‘why does he never
come to see me ?”

“Edward? Whois he ?” asked Rosine.

Mary passed her hand feebly across her forehead, and
the gleam of light vanished from her eyes, and the old
look of pain and suffering returned.

“I shall never, never find them!” she moaned ; and
then, for the first time since she had come to the cabin,
she broke out into a wild and frenzied fit of weeping.

Rosine lifted her up on her bosom, and with her cheek
against that of the poor sufferer, strove by every tender
g08 SOME, word and caress to soothe her, but to no
avail. ‘

Kanute came forward out of -the shadows, and stood,
bara weap arms and stolid face, gazing down upon the

wo girls.

«Let her ery,” he said, drawing Rosine away from the
bed. ‘It willdo her good. It is nature. Women cry
always. Kanuteis glad. The Great Spirit is good. He
has not forgot.”

«You think she will live? Oh, you think she will get
well?” cried Rosine, joyfully.

“| think nothing. Poor business to think—poor busi-
ness, Nopay. Wait.”

«But we have waited so long, my good Kanute.”

Everything waits. The summer waits for the spring.
The time when the harvest is gathered waits for the hot
sun of summer to ripen the corn. A man does not
grow upinaday. The Wild Rose of the pale-face is too
much hurry.”

“But you think she is better ?”

Ihave told you that Kanute no thinks at all.
waits.”

A day or two more passed wearily on, and Jake had
ly made up his mind to send one of his men to the

ra physician. He spoke to Kanute aboutit. The

made no objection.

vite man must do as he likes,” he said, manifesting

of interest.
“But do you not think that a man trained in the school
‘orld, experienced in different cases, having had

tor ObSErValion tot Spen-to-ene here in. these

He

ght think of something new in the way of treat- |

ment.? Might be able to see this case in a different light,
and manage it with better success.”

The Indian turned his full, dark, and melancholy eyes
on Jake, and regarded him silently tor a moment before
he spoke.

“The white men have schools, where much money and
many big words are found. Big words sound well, aud
are cheap. But, after all, the pale-faced medicine men
come to the forests for their healing. They draw their
medicines from nature, like the Indian. And when the
sick man dies, they say, like the Indian, it was the will
of the Great Spirit. Where is the difference between
the two?”

And Jake resolved to wait yet a little longer.

The cold weather now had begun to give way before
the approach of spring. To use the lumberman’s ex-
pression, the backbone of winter was broken, and dur-
ing the long sunny days in early March, the snow melted
a little in sheltered places, and the sky showed signs of
mellowness and warmth.

“When warm weather comes,” Rosine said hopefully
to her father, “she will be better. She cannot help it
when she drinks in the balmy breath of the pine trees,
and hears the birds sing in the branches.”

She opened wide the door, and let the soft south wind
stealin, and fancied-that the sick girl’s face grew more
calm and peaceful, and that her breath came more
naturally through her parted lips.

“There is healing in this heavenly air,” she said to her-
self, drawing a long inspiration, ‘‘and it seems so
strange that any one can breathe it, and be sick.” .

She closed the door at length, for the breeze began to
be chilly with the coming of night, and went back to
Mary White.

She started back with an exclamation of dismay.

There had been a change—a terrible and startling
change in the face of the invalid, and Rosine’s tender
heart grew cold within her.

Her exclamation drew Kanute, who was walking to
and fro outside the door. He looked at Mary a moment,
and his swart face grew gray.

«The crisis is at hand,” he said. ‘What I have waited
for iscoming. Itis either life or death!”

«Which ?” asked Rosine, laying her hand on her breast
to still the wild, fierce throbbings of her heart.

“The Great Spirit alone knows!” said the Indian,
reverently, and sinking on one knee he bowed his head
over the wrist of the patient, and listened for the faint
beatings of the feeble pulse.

The old-fashioned bull's-eye watch which hung on a
hook at the head of the bed ticked with preternatural
loudness, the wood fire on the rude hearth crackled and
snapped, as a great brand fell down, and broke in two,
and the ashes rolled out unheeded on the plank floor.

Tick, tick, tick, the watch went on. Fainter and
fainter grew the pulse of the sick girl; a gray shadow
settled over her face; her lips closed convulsively ; the
sweat stood on her forehead in great drops of agony.

The watch-dog, always kept in the room outside, stole
stealthily in, and sat regarding the scene with almost
human intelligence, and back among the shadows old
Jake stood breathless, and, ike Kanute—waited!

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
+ @-~«
THE KEY OF DEATH.

In the collection of curiosities preserved in the arsenal
of Venice there isa key , of which the following singu-
lar tradition is related: About the year 1660, one-of
those dangerous men in whom extraordinary talent is
only the fearful source of crime and wickedness beyond
that of ordinary men, came to establish himself as a
merchant at Vehice. The stranger, whose name was
Tebaldo, became enamored of the daughter of an ancient
house, already affianced to another. He demanded her
hand in marriage, and was refused. Enraged at this
he studied how to be revenged. Profoundly skilled in

the mechanical arts, he allowed himself no rest until he
had invented the most formidable weapon which could
be imagined. This was a key of large size, the handle
of which was so constructed that it could be turned
round with little difficulty. When turned. it disclosed
a spring which, on presusre, launched from the
other end a needle or lancet, of such subtle fineness
that it entered into the fiesh and buried itself there
without leaving external trace.

Tebaldo waited in disguise at the door of the church
in which the maiden whom he loved was about to re-
ceive the nuptial benediction. The assassin sent the
slender steel, unperceived, into the breast of the bride-
groom. The wounded man had no suspicion of injury,
but, seized with a sudden and sharp pain in the midst
of the ceremony he fainted and was carried to his house
amid the lamentations of the bridal party. Vain was the
skill ot all the physicians, whv could not divine the cause
of this strange illness, and in a few days he died. Tebal-
do again demanded the hand of the maiden from her pa-
rents, and received a second refusal. They, too, perished
miserably in afew days. The alarm which these deaths
which appeared almost miraculous, occasioned, excited

 

the utmost vigilance of the magistrates; and, when, on

close examination of the bodies, the small instrument,

‘| feeling of oppressive sadness came over him.

 

ea Shan

was found in the gangrened flesh, terror was universal ;
every one feared his own life. The maiden thus cruelly
orphaned had passed the first month of her mourning
in a convent, when Tebaldo, hoping to bend her to his
will. entreated to speak with her at the gate. Her
reply was most decisive in the negative.

Tebaldo, beyond himself with rage, attempted to
wound her through the gate and succeeded; the ob-
scurity of the place prevented his movements from be-
ing observed. On her return to her room the maiden
felt a pain in her breast, and uncovering it she found it
spotted with a single drop of blood. The pain increased ;
the surgeons who hastened to her assistance, taught by
the past, wasted no time in conjecture, but cutting
deep into the wounded part, extracted the needle before
any mortal mischief had commenced, and saved the life
of the lady. The State Inquisition used every means to
discover the hand which dealt these insidious and irre-
sistible blows. The visit of Tebaldo to the convent
caused suspicion to fall heavily on him; his house was
carefully searched, the infamous invention discovered,
and he perished on the gibbet.

—>- @—<

PUNISHING A COQUETTE.

Clara Howard was a charming girl. Her blue eyes
were Clear and full of expression ; the lashes were long?
curling, and ofa golden color. Her complexion was fair :
on her cheeks were the crimson tints of the sea-sheil.
Her voice was like the falling of drops of water from a
fountain; her laugh like the rippling music that comes
from the piano when its keys are lightly swept by the
fingers.

Unfortunately, however, she was a coquette. A tall,
dashing young naval officer beheld her, one day, as she
was stepping into her carriage, and felt in an instant
that the little fairy had stolen his heart out of his breast.

He jumped into a cab and pursued the carriage con-
taining the beautiful thief!

Soon, however, he lost sight of the vehicle, and a
His ship
must saila week later; before then he must get an
introduction to the maiden, or give up all idea of making
her acquaintance. -

Luckily, or perhaps unluckily,.fortune favored him.
He saw the young girl at a ball, was introduced to her
by a friend,‘and through her movher, who was much
pleased with the gold lace on his cap, he obtainéd per-
mission to call upon his new acquaintances.

Clara’s heart was touched by the graceful, dignified
manners of her suitor ; she resolved, however, to make
him suffer a little before giving him the slightest
encouragement.

When a man’s ship is to sailin a few days, he naturally
feels like pushing matters to the point at once with the
fair one who can confer a heaven of happiness upon hina
by simply saying one word.

Lieutenant Waterton was no exception to the rule.
He asked Miss Howard the all-important question just
twelve hours before the time fixed for his departure.

Clara blushed ; then a saucy sparkle came to her blue
eyes, and she burst into a fit of immoderate laughter,

“What does this mean ?” inquired Waterton, erect and
indignant. ‘Have you trifled with me ?”

Feeling conscious of her power over him, she now eyed
him in a very quiet, demure sort of a way, with her lithe
figure half turned from him, that he might not see the
heaving of her bosom.

He fairly ground his teeth, feeling that she treated him
as if he were a mere boy ; then, swelling with indignation
and wounded pride, he turned and rushed from the
room.

A half-choked voice called him back, but he heeded it
not. He sprang into a carriage as soon as he- had quitted
the house, and was whirled toward his lodging.

A pretty little scented note, from Miss Howard, did
not reach him in time. He was aboard the vessel, and
the craft had set sail, under everything she could carry.

* * x * * * * 4

Julia suffered much; but woman's pride soon came te
her aid. She seemed the gayest of the gay, and never
looked more handsome than now.

Four years passed. Miss Howard, who had heard
nothing of Waterton since his departure, gave her hand
to an old, decrepit millionaire, who represented himself
as a doctor, lately arrived from Bermuda.

An hour after the union took place the young wife was
found lying senseless in her chamber, with a bottle, half
filled with laudanum, held in one hand.

The alarm was given, and the old husband came
limping into the room.

“She will recover,” said he, glancing at the botiie.
“She has taken too large a dose to be killed by it.”

He was right; and proper remedies being applied,
the wife soon opened her eyes. to see the old man throw
off his wig, his bushy white whiskers, his huwmp—a bag
of cotton—and his long dressing gown, thus revealing
the face and figure of her first and only lover, Guy
Waterton !”

“Forgive me,” he said, as he folded her to his bosom.
“In my assumed character of an old man, Ihave played
the spy upon your actions for many months, thus
discovering the tv-uwe state of your heart. I have perceived
—what this attempt at self-destruction fully proves—
that you really loved me.”

“Dear Guy,” she murmured, ‘‘you can never guess how
much. May God be praised for restoring you to the arms
which would never have clasped any form-but yours.”

Mrs. Waterton still lives. She is the happy mother of
a beautiful daughter, who bids fair to profit by her
mother’s warning against coquetry.

>o~<
THE LAST OF THE HORSE.

When a horse has succumbed to age or ill-usage, it
requires very little time to turn every part of his remains
to account. The carcase is taken to a rendering factory,
and there the hideis at once removed, the hoofs are taken
off and placed with the sinews, the flesh is cut into

chunks and boiled and pressed, and the fat is put into
the rendering kettle. The bones are boiled clean of
meat. No portion of the carcase goes to waste. The
hide is sent to the tanner, and after treatment is made
useful in covering lounges and other articles of furniture,
and is also made into gloves and shoes. The hair goes
into haircloth and.is used on sofas and chairs, aud pious.
monks wear it next to the skin as a penance. The
hoofs and sinews go into glue. The meat is made into
fertilizing material. The bones, except the hard shin
bones are used for lamp black and for clarifying sugar.
The shin bones re harder than the rest, and if not boiled
too much are saved and sold for the making of knife
handles. If the boiling has continued too long, so that
they are too soft for that purpose, they are ground up
into bone dust and make a desirable fertilizing material.
The fat is tried out, and is sold to make different kinds
of oils or goes into axle grease, so that the dead animal
in its last condition helps lighten the labors of his living
brothers.

The rendering kettle takes no account of different
strains of blood. The horse that has drawn the scav-
enger's cart yields as rich an oil as the blue blooded
race. The Hambletonian, the Messenger, the Eclipse
descendants are no better for fertilizers than the scrub-
biest nag of the street, and the blood of Leamington and
Lexington is no better in the final test than that of the
commonest one. When the breath is once out of a horse
his virtues lie no longer in individuality, but in assim-
ilative qualities, and he represents no longer minutes
and seconds of wonderful speed, but so many gallons of
oil or pounds of fertilizer.

ia ag a la

DROPPING DYNAMITE FROM BALLOONS.

Prof. Rufus Gibbon Wells, the experienced zronaut,
of Indianapolis, who made balloons for the German
army in 1870, proposes to defend our harbors by drop-
ping dynamite upon an enemy’s ships from balloons.
This is his plan :

‘Let me explain how a balloon could be used to pro-
tect a harbor like that of New York or Boston. A cable
attached to the balloon would be connected with an
immense windlass on shore. Prevailing winds on our
eastern coast are from the west. The balloon could be
let out by the cable, just like.a kite. There would be a
telegraph operator on the air ship and one at thé wind-
lass, so that communication could be kept up between
them—or telephone communication would answer. The
balloon manceuvred in this way could be brought di-
rectly over an enemy’s war vessel. Balls dropped from
the balloon could determine whether directly over the
ship or not, and when the exact position was found,
dynamite in any quantity, up to even a ton, couid be
dropped upon the ship. This, of course, would mean
annihilation to any vessel so operated upon. A harbor
with a dynamite balloon, poised over its entrance in
this way, would be safe from all invasion.”

STARTING A BALKY HORSE,

A street car horse in Columbia, S. C., began to act ugly,
so much so as to frighten the lady passengers. The
driver became very mad at the horse’s behavior, and a
male passenger proposed throwing sand in the animals)
eyes. —
“Oh, no!” said Colonel James R. “don’t do that; 161%
unnecessary andinhuman. The poor beast only needs
to be diverted. Tie a handkerchief around his fore leg
and he will start off promptly.”

The driver agreed to try so simple an expedient, and
the horse moved at once with the utmost placidity. As
the animal started the driver snatched his whip, looked
at the colonel, and exclaimed :

“If that don’t beat the Dutch !”

+ >o<______—_—-

A VENERABLE FISH.

Professor Baird says that as a fish has no maturity
there is nothing to prevent it from living indefinitely
and growing continually. He cites in proof a pike living
in Russia whose age dates back to the Fifteenth Century.
In the Royal Aquarium at St. Petersburg there are fish
that have been there 140 years.

 

 

 

 

 
ee

 

 

 

 

 

SA THE N EW YORK WEEKLY. P= vo, 2-No. 20.

NEW YORK, MARCH 19, 1887.

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Remit by express money order, draft, P. O. order, or regis-
tered letter.

We employ no traveling agents.

All letters should be addressed to

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

TIDE'S COMING IN.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

$5.00

“You had better make the most of it.”

“How so ?” asked the young man of the elder man, his
friend who made the first remark.

“Why, 1 mean,” was the reply, ‘that the tide’s coming
in with you, these days and years, and you are a fool if
you do not make the most of it.”

Now, as I sat there in the car, I couldn’t help overhear-
ing the sound advice which the elder gentleman gave
the prosperous younger one. He told him that every
man, who lived a decent and industrious life, saw his day
of rising, and at length of high tide. He had observed,
to charge the figure, that luck had its bud, its blossom,
and its ripe apple ; after that the apple of luck began to
decay, and no power on earth could stop it. Every man
Saw the time once in his life when he was making good
wages and a little more than his expenses.

“Every man?” questioned the youth.

«Yes, every decent and industrious man. The trouble
with most of us was that when the luck was ripest we
were the biggest fools, and increased our expenses, our
vanity, and our conceit accordingly; we supposed it was
only asign of biggerdaystocome. Butit wasonly nearly
ripe, fully ripe. We were at our best in all things. Our
health, our endurance, our experience, our dexterity with
our craft, all at their best. ‘The best will continue for a

season, just as the full moon continues for two evenings.
But then comes the sure decline. Depend upon it, my
boy, you are seeing your best days. Now don’t be a
dunce and throw the surplus away on fast horses and
fast friends; but just float your home, your mortgage
on it, and your endowment of your children, your life
insurance, your favorite charity, on this high tide.”

There is sound wisdom in that. It is singular, too,
that a man’s high tide is generally at the exact time of
his greatest duties. It is just when his family need
schooling, his son needs books, and his daughter music ;
his lodge needs help and his church needs his hands.
The middle years are the most productive years with
most men. The God of nature asks the most of him just
then. As he declines in strength, in ability of all kinds,
his family has decreased, his sons and daughters are
married off and established in business, younger men
come to the front and begin to claim recognition in his
lodge and church. His strength is failing and the de-
mands on him are lessened. Such, at least, ought to be
the case in an ideal life. It maddens me to see chil-
dren grown pile-heavy burdens on father as he declines.
It saddens me to see a man of sixty obliged to toil and
Strain himself, as he only ought to have done from
thirty to'fifty, to meet the exactions of hard fortune or
earlier profligacy. It is not natural.

A man is at his best in later youth and on to the be-

nnings of his physical decline. I say his physical, not

is mental. The mind often increases in power up to
absolute physical decrepitude ; but as the body has be-
gun tocripple he ought to have easier tasks. A man
Should know when he is at his best, and make the most
of it. He ought not to spend all the money he is mak-
ing. He ought not to embark in schemes that need in-
creasing and yet increasing strength. He ought not to
calculate that this. mighty vigor, this zestful relish for
hard toil, this magnificent sense of competency, is going
to grow. He ought not to be deceived into the conceit
that the rough experience of all the ages is to be re-
versed in his case, and he alone be able to escape fatigue
and exhaustion. He should be grateful to God and wise
with himself, and confess to himself, “Iam fully ripe
just these days. This is the best of me,” and act accord-
ingly.

Cccortingt? That is, prepare to holdin: be sure to
Save ; look out for squalls before they come ; deliberately
plan to take things easier, rather than harder, in the
near future. A man at his best will avoid conceit; he
will not boast; he knows full well what is coming to him
as it has Come to all men who have lived longer than he.
He will. if wise, occasionally take calm views of what he
has done in the world; will ask himself if he is quite
satisfied; willdo with a true heart any errands to which
the heart prompts him to-day, and not leave it for to-
morrow. A man who ought to know that he is to-day in
the fullness of his powers will not adjourn any hard
duty long; if it is hard to-day, with all his strength on
him, Heaven knows it will seem no easier in avy future
day while he lives.

A man in the fullness of his powers will enjoy what
he has. He will eat his bread and stop to taste it, if he
is wise; for the poor old stomach will wear out. He
will enjoy his eyes and his ears, his hands and _ his feet,
rationally and fully knowing that those members will
never have any greater power to make happy than to-
day. He will be a miser as regards excesses of all
kinds, but a spendthrift of thankful prudence in all
ways. He willvoften sit and thank his Maker for the
tide that is coming in, that is at the flood. It will teach
him gentle pity tor the aged whose tide is running out,
and kind indulgence for callow youth whose tide has
hardly yet begun to rise. He will take daily photo-
graphs of his present full tide to carry on with him into
that age which sees the rocks bare, and sea-weed droop-
ing from many a pile of wreckage. On these photo-
graphs he will gaze with thanks, and keep his spirit
Sweet in decrepitude, by saying. “I was not always
as you see me now, with scant locks, with short breath,
with watery eyes. I, too, had my manhood, in my
turn. I have been strong. I have had my good lot.

God has been as kind to me as to you young ones He

seems now. Be warned, for your tide will also turn.

ONE MAN,

BY KATE THORN.

“Tt’s a nice place, a good community, but there is only
one eligible young man in the whole town!”

We heard this remark made by one gentleman to
another in regard toa certain town in one of our Eastern
States, and it set us to thinking.

Only one young man in town!

What a state of things for the girls! Why, a pretty
girl might as well be out of the world as to live in such
aplace! And, indeed, it would not make the slightest
difference whether she was pretty or otherwise, since
there would be no one to admire her.

And there would be no chance of making the young
man aforesaid jealous, because there is no other man to
flirt with! No chance to drive him frantic when he calls
by pleading ‘‘an engagement,” because there is nobody
to be engaged with.

No ‘cutting out” some other girl, ‘just for the fun of
it,”—no chance to make a lucky choice, because the only
choice is Hobson’s.

And if the condition of the young women in that town
is lamentable, what shall we say of the condition of the
sole and solitary young man ?

Think of paying for ice-cream and oysters for all the
women in town! Think of being expected to escort
home the half-dozen intimate young lady friends of your
sister, and each of them being in opposite sections of

the town, and a special trip to be made with each one!
Think of taking moonlight walks with five or six girls!
Think of the delights of hanging over half a dozen
ety front gates on the same moonlight evening !
k of dividing the attentions of one delicate and
tal young man equitably among a whole township of
women! The country expects every man to do his duty,
of course, and the only young man in town will be hard
rushed to attend to it. He will eat no idle bread.

What a cheerful place that town must be where there
is an evening party! What a chance for skating rinks
to pay well, and for toboggan manufacturers to flourish.

ust imagine the solitary young man of the Village,
walking to the skating pond—pursuing the path of duty
—loaded down with the skates, and extra shawls of the
ten or a dozen young girls, old maids, and disconsolate
widows, whom he is escorting, and all of them following
after him like the tail to a kite,

Think of him buckling on those twelve pairs of skates,
Think of him trying to support, with his manly arm,
those twelve helpless women, who look up to him as
their natural protector, and their support, in time of
trouble, on slippery ice.

Think of him at Christmas time, when good cheer
abounds, and the mistletoe branch hangs low, and a

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

man is naturally expected to donate gold bracelets and

ten-dollar albums, in return for crochetted slippers and
mufflers, that he will never wear. Think of him at the
rural country husking. when all the girls expect that
the legendary “red ear of corn” will be found, and its
precepts and privileges acted upon. Pity him, ye gods!
for his case is one for your special interference.

‘The town with only one young man in it is a field for
philanthropists who wish to benetit their race. Let
philanthropists who are out of business strike in at once.
If the Cannibal Islands are regenerated, as some good
people would have us believe, go to work at home. See
after the town we are writing about, and a good many
more towns just like it.

Give the single women there, who are spending their
lives in painting owls and storks on dust-pans and bean-
pots, hope of something different. Hold out to them
the cheering intelligence that if they will go West, and
brace up, they may have the inestimable privilege of
marrying 2 man of their own, and likewise of support-
ing him and his children, while he goes into politics and
saves the country.

THE WONDERS OF VARIOUS MAGNETISM.

BY PROF. M. RUDOLPH.

No. 9.

In previous articles we have discussed the subject of
electro magnetism. It is not among the least wonders of
science that substantially the same effects are produced
by different causes. Thus we have magnetic results
from heat as well as from chemical action.

Still more surprising, we have like results from ani-
mats of various kinds.

If we take the head of an ox just killed, and while it
is yet warm, and place it ona table, and draw out the
tongue, and then, wetting one ear with salt water, and
also your hand, we are prepared for a most startling ex-
periment.. Everything being thus ready—care being
taken that the. head-of--the animal is warm—grasp
firmly the wet ear with your wet hand, and with the
other hand, holding a blunt metallic rod, touch the
tongue of the ox, and an electric spark will be seen, if
the room be partially darkened. This remarkable ex-
periment may be often repeated while the head is warm,
but not after it has become cool.

From this we plainly see that the head is an electric
battery.

This spark will produce proportionately all the usual
effects of electricity, with suitable apparatus. It is as-
certained that the brain is the source of this electric
spark. If the head of an elephant, or of a whale, could
be experimented with in like manner, we should doubt-
less obtain a much larger and more brilliant spark, as
the brain of these animals is so much larger.

AS man has more brain, in proportion to his size, than
an Ox, we may Safely infer that a spark nearly, if not
quite as large, might be obtained from a human head
as from that of an ox. The heads of animals, then, we
may justly conclude, are galvanic batteries, and send
out along the nerves—which all connect with the brain
—an electric current, which is in some way, unknown
to us, the cause of sensibility or feeling. Hence, any de-
rangement of the head generally affects very sensibly
the whole nervous system, and renders the sufferer pe-
culiarly sensitiv slight annoyances from loud sounds
or pain, which ordinarily would pass unnoticed.

To prove the galvanic power of the brain, portions of
it have been removed from the skull of animals, and by
proper adjustment of apparatus, very sensible electric
results have been obtained.

This explains why, at times, when ill, we are so sen-
sitive to the bare touch of another person ; such momen-
tary contact giving us a shock like an electric machine.
In perfect health no such effects are ordinarily seen.

We come now to far more extraordinary developments
of animal electricity, as seen in various fishes that
possess this mysterious power to a remarkable degree.

The gymnotus is a striking instance of a natural and
animated electric machine. This very extraordinary
creature has the power to give a shock that will in-
Stantly benumb or kill a fish, upon which it then feeds.
But this is not the extent of its electrical power. It
can give a shock that will paralyse a large and robust
man, and even render helpless a horse, so that it will
sink and drown. The gymnotus is found in small
Streams and stagnant pools in large numbers in South
America, It is shaped somewhat like an eel, but rather
thicker ; is of an olive-green color, and of various length,
say about four feet.

Humboldt, the great traveler, accidentally placed his
foot on One of these creatures, and instantly received
a violent shock, as from a powerful battery, which gave
him a severe pain that continued for the greater part
of a day.

The native Indians carefully avoid them; but as they
wish to secure them for food, they call to their aid the
half-wild horses that abound there. Driving these ani-
mals into the small lakes or basins where these fish
are found, they disturb and excife them to such a de-
gree that the eels @ischarge their electricity upon the
poor brutes with such violence, that they are completely
benumed and often drowned. By continuing this for
some time, the fish temporarily exhaust their electric
power, and then, while in this exhausted condition,
they are harpooned by the savages and drawn out.

This remarkable fish can give not only a shock, but
even a brilliant spark. Sir Humphry Davy was able,
with carefully prepared apparatus, to decompose acidu-
lated water, and iodide of potassium, and even to mag-
netize a needle that was encircled by a coil of wire, and
ie apparatus all brought into contact with the wonder-
ful fish.

Nor was this all. The same distinguished philosopher
was able to heat platinum wire by the electric currrent
creat from one of these animal electric batteries
alone!

Dr. Farraday performed somewhat similar experi-
ments, by holding a gymnotus in a small tank of water,
by metallic saddles attached to handles, and these
handles insulated by them and passing through glass
tubes, the metal holders being in connection with the
apparatus. When the eel was undisturbed and quiet,
no electric results were seen; but when the holders
were Shaken, the gymnotus was excited and gave
shocks and sparks, and magnetized steel needles as be-
tore.

The two species of electrical fishes best known to us
are the gymnotus and torpedo, which latter somewhat
resembles in shape the ray fish, to which species it be-
longs. There is a third, called the electricus siluvus, or
electrical eel, which is also of the eel form, and has
considerable electrical power, though not so great as
those mentioned.

The torpedo is often buried just beneath the sand,
from which the tide has just receded. When the foot
happens to press the slight sandy covering, the traveler
is instantly prostrated, and often severely benumbed,
by the powerful shock the fish is able to give, even
through some inches of sand.

Such is the electrical capacity of the mysterious crea-
tures we have partially described. Let us now look at
the peculiar organization by which they are able to pro-
duce such extraordinary results.

Tbe electric organs of these fishes are somewhat like
the Voltaic pile already described. The torpedo has on
each side of the head and gills a large number of five or
six-sided prisms. Hunter discovered 1,182 of these
prisms in one organ. Each one is divided into many
parts by partitions placed horizontally. Sometimes 150
of these are found in the space of a single inch. These
organs are filled with a gelatinous or jelly-like sub-
stance, and abound in’ fine, delicate nerves. These
nerves seem to play a most important part in the elec-
trical performances of the fish.

The head of the fish may be cut entirely off; the
whole skin may be removed; and the shocks can still
be given with: unabated force. But if these delicate
nerves—apparently so insignificant—be severed or in-
jured, all electrical power is at once destroyed, though
head and skin and all else remain untouched.

This, again, shows the importance of the nervous sys-
tem in the animal economy,

The electric apparatus of the gymnotus is somewhat
different from that of the torpedo. In the torpedo we
tound the electric cells confined to the sides of the head
and gills;,butin the gymnotus they extend trom the
head to the tail.

They consist of several long, horizontal chambers, di-
vided crosswise into numerous small apartments or
cells, and these all filled, as in the torpedo, with a jelly-
like fluid, abounding in nerves. This apparatus is
double—that is, on both sides of the fish. This exten-
sive electrical apparatus running through the whole
length of the fish, and occupying so large a part of the
body, accounts for the extraordinary power of the gym-
notus. No other animal is known to have equal capacity
for giving severe shocks.

But while these just mentioned possess such unusual
electrical power, it is probably safe to say that every
living organization is an electrical machine of more or
less power. Wherever there is brain, there probably is
electrical force in greater or‘less degree. With each
grasp of the hand there is an exchange of el€ctrical in-
fluence. And even without such grasp, there doubtless
goes out from some a peculiar electrical power, suffi-
cient sometimes to affect the will of another, even
against his will. How this electrical force acts upon
mind, we can no more tell than how it acts upon matter.
We must wait to know. Reverently we say it, as we
close this series of articles, that, in a limited sense, this
wondrous agent is like its Great Creator, invisible and
incomprehensible to us in our present state.

—————_ >--0.-~
Two Attractive Stories Week After Next.

Two fascinating stories. will be begun week after next.
One is by BeRTHA M. CLaAy, and is entitled “ANOTHER
Man’s WIFE;” the other is ‘MaGGIz, THE CHARITY
CHILD,” by FRANCIS S. SmIru.

>-e~«

ALMOST any one can advise a way out of others’ difi-
culties, but it is not every fool that can step into another’s
shoes and prove the theory.

 

 

 

 

CITY CHARACTERS,
No. 6-THE BROKER.

BY ELLIS LAWRENCE.

The broker is a being who is found only in large cities.
This explains why, all the great cities of antiquity be-
came howling wildernesses, and all the great cities of
the present day arg going the same way as fast as they
can. ;

He is the sort of fellow who never can let anything
pass through his hands without making it smaller; so it
stands to reason that if anything will pass through his
hands often enough there won't be anything left of it.

Thus when the broker is done with a man, the poor
fellow feels very much as if he had been handled by a
thief. The broker may be honest—the thief never is;
but what does thé’difference amount to, when one or
the other of them have cleaned a man’s pockets out?
The thief takes all the cash at once; the broker doesn’t
—that’s the only diffierence to the loser.

There is a generalimpression in the community that
brokers deal only in stocks, andon Wall street. Thisis
a great mistake. Wherever there is a man who wants to
speculate in something he knows nothing about, there
at his elbow is sure to be a broker who will buy and
sell for him, charging for his services each time.

There are brokers in stocks, oil, grain, provisions,
houses, lands, horses ; brokers even in rags and gar-

bage. There are brokers in votes, for tools who jump
into politics before they know how deep the pool of poli-
tics is; brokers in germons for ministers too lazy to
write their own; bre&sers for thieves, who are afraid to
sell their plunder themselves. But it doesn’t matter
What the broker's bwsiness is, so far as he is concerned ;
all he has to dois to charge his commission and collect
it, which is why the longer a man does business with
him, the more money he throws away.

It isn’t the broker's fault—so that broker himself says.
He never asks anybody to buy or sell any particular
article; he merely dees business when_they want to buy
or sell.

He is so honest, the dear good man! that he never
gives advice. He really feels hurt at being asked his
opinion as to whether this or that is going up or down.
He says he doesn’t want to be to blame for anybody’s
mistakes. :

The real truth is, thatif he was to give his honest
opinion he would advise people to not speculate at all.
But where would that sort of advice leave the broker?
Brokers are human; they have to pay their butchers
and grocers and landlords, just like other people, and
they must make their living in some way.

There are some honest brokers (this is not a joke)—
some brokers who dofair work for their pay, and look
out for the interests of their customers. Each speculator
believes his broker ig just this kind; this would be a
joke, if it didn’t always turn out seriously.

There are twenty thousand brokers doing business in
Wall street stocks every day. All of them wear good
clothes, smoke fine cigars, live in first-class houses or at
swell hotels, and drink champagne instead of beer, and
buy the best seats apes theaters. They makeno money
out of €ach Otner ; Zi toeir protits, like gamblers’ profits, |
come from fools who don’t know any thing about the |
business.

This is a pretty big gang for the public to support
without getting anything in return. All New York’s|
State prisons put together don’t hold a quarter as many
men as this, nor cost_@ quarter as much, and the pris-
oners really have to do something in the way of honest
work for their own support.

The broker is a great fellow to drive prices up or down,
not because,he believes they are too high or too low,
but because he wants to get people excited enough to
lose their heads. Then they will lose their money—and
he will find it.

Halt a dozen of these fellows, not owning a share of
railroad stock, will combine to scare widows and orphans
into selling their investments at aloss. Without a bushel
of wheat in the world, much less a barrel of flour, a lot of
them are now combining tosend up prices enough to
make bread two cents & pound dearer thanit is now.
If two or three country, tramps were even to try this,
their neighbors would ride them on rails—perhaps lynch
them, but city tramps @an do it with perfect Safety, so
long as they wear good clothes, and call. themselves
“brokers.” ‘

Any broker is bad enough to be avoided by any one who
can, but some brokers are a good deal worse than others.
There are some who make a business of searching out
people who have money in the savings bank, or have
inherited something, oranade a lucky strike in business,
so as to have some casi in hand. The broker makes
himself acquainted with such a person, talks about the
iniquity of speculation, abuses nearly every railroad
security in the market, but finally admits that So-and-So
is bound to go up. Sooner or later the victim snaps at
the bait; then the broker, according to his nature, either
plays fast and loose with him for a little while, or lands
him at once, but it doesmt matter much either way, for |
his money is all gone, and the broker is exactly that |
much the richer. I have seen this game played at least |
a thousand times, and never knew a single broker killed |
for it. This shows how forgiving a people we Americans |
are, and how quick we are to respect a rascal if he will |
call himself by a name even half way respectable. |

What will become of the brokers when the millennium |
arrives is hard to say, for if they can’t make a living
except out of fools, whom will they then have for cus-
tomers? But nothing short of the millennium of Judg-
ment Day will rid great cities of these scourges. There
may. be people just as mean in the country districts, but |
at any rate they’re not such hypocrites and liars as fhe
average New York broker,

 

 

 

> e—<—___

ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE,

A powerful and pathetic emotional story, with the
expressive title “ANOTHER MAN’s. WIFE,” will be begun
week after next. It is by the popular BERTHA M. CLAY.

e-~

LES MISERABLES.

BY HELEN CORWIN PIERCE.

jt may sound paradoxical, but positively there are
people in this world who are never so happy as when
they are miserable. I have seen them. I can put my
finger on one this minute—a very nice kind of a body,
too, but comfort seems to disagree with her.

Don’t you know there are some folks who take to
trouble as a duck does to water? Don’t you know there
are people who suck sorrow as a calf does its mother’s
milk ? Of course you do. It is not for you or me to judge,

but it does seem as if complaining was their meat and
their drink.

“Suffer and be happy,” is their motto. ‘In the dumps”
their normal condition. They season their food—to say
nothing of other people’s—with sighs. They weep
enough to float a navy, and sigh enough to sail it.

We have all heard of wet blankets—some of us know
what they are—these folks are like wet blankets. They
exhale dampness wherever they go, and under the most
drying circumstances.

They breed malaria in the healthiest localities.

I presume I am uncharitable ; but don’t ‘we all know
such? Don’t you know people who toss all night on
beds of roses, and rise in the morning to pour the sweet
wine of life on the ground, and drink the bitter lees? If
there were only some nice uncomfortable place, where
these happy wretches could go, and be miserable at
their ease, without disturbing other people who would
like to laugh once in a while, if it is a sorrowful world.

If there were only some soft, swampy spot, where |
they could congregate and have the grass grow down-

ward, the sunshine only when it was asked for, the birds |

have chronic sore throats, and the young lambs move
about coe and decorously, as if at a perpetual
funeral!

The apples, and peaches, and cherries ought all to be

| which an old farmer prominently figures.”

 

wormy, and the people who sold them liars and cheats.
The sky in this second Paradise should be hung witn

black, the earth sown with tombstones, and handker-

chiefs the size of small sheets furnished gratis to cry
into.

This sort of a place wouldn’t be at all like Paradise to
some of us, but it would to others, and I know several
places that would be quite heavenly, if certain people
were away from them.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.
STAMPS.

Itiza mathematical fakt, that thoze the most capable
ov giving good advice, are the least able to follow it
themselts.

I believe in moral swashun az an alterative, but I don’t
loose sight ov the whipping post az a tonick.

The days ov martyrdom are over, One live martyr iz
worth a dozen ded ones, to run a saw mill, or a politikal
kaukuss,

There's lots ov people standing around, who kan see a
dime father off than they can see a dollar.

Guessing iz just az cluss az phrophecying, and the
misses don’t kount agin us.

One third ov the world don’t hav eny umbrellers, and
another third throw away the one they hay, az soon az
the sun breaks out from under a kloud.

Fortune iz a coquette, and must be won bi dash rather
than by siege or stealth.

_Thare iz most allways a rainbo in the East, for thoze
who are looking for rainbows.

This iz an age of kulture, an age ov skool philosophy ;
and while we hav more literary profuseness, I don’t
see that we hav got a. single point to the windward oy
late lamented grand dads.

Life, at best, seems to be an innocent kind ov a farse,
with a kradle at each end ov it.

‘|The roac to wisdom iz no avenue; it iz a stiff and
thorny path, and fu there be who travel it very tar.

The wizer a man gets the more certain he iz ov hiz
ignorance. This iz the perfeckshun ov human knowl-
edge.

Thare are. menny people in the world who are always
behind hand. They seem to hay been born late, and
hav been losing time ever since.

Metaphisicks seem to be the science ov knowing @
grate deal more than we kan tell others, or understan
ourselfs.

Iffreethinkers, atheists, and infidels were satisfied
with thare opinions, kreeds, or delusions, they would sit
down, and keep still, and not always be so anxious to
prove them.

Charity that iz born in the heart iz allways sakred ;
that which is born in the head haz allwuss the color of
vulgarity. ra

Superstition makes an ass ov a man, skepticism a
krank, and bigotry a tyrant.

Innocence haz a delightful color ov ignorance in it.

Wise men never guess nor wonder, phools never cease
to do it.

Genius iz the gift ov God, and iz copyrighted.

The man who luvs praizes, luvs virtew more than vice,
oy this I am sartin.

>o~

QUEER HAPPENINGS.

BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

A NEWSPAPER EDITOR in Boston gave an interview to
an unknown poet who wished to dispose of a poem on “The
Return of Spring,” covering twenty-seven pages of foolscap,
and patiently listened to the reading of the production. At
its finish he seized a dangerous-looking pair of shears,
chopped the poem into small “takes” for the printers, gave
the poet one hundred and fifty dollars, and told him that he
would like to hear from him again.

A yours of seventeen years and strong lungs, who
was taking lessons on the trombone and practiced an hour
at home every evening, has been presented by his grateful
neighbors with a purse of $2,000 to enable him to go to Europe
to pursue and complete his musical studies. Heretofore it
has been the custom to kill the amateur trombonist.

A STRANGE THING happened at a “‘first-ciass minstrel
entertainment” one night last week. During the first part of
the performance that decrepit joke about “putting down
whisky” was omitted, and the entire audience indignantly
left the house, and demanded that their money be refunded.

A WOMAN entered a crowded street car the other day,
and when a young man arose and gave her his seat, she
smiled sweetly, and said, “Oh, thank you, sir.” The young
man fell dead on the spot.

A GENTLEMAN left a five-dollar suk umbrelia-standing
in a public hallway one rainy afternoon. He was absent two
hours. When he returned the umbrella was still there.

IN A PASSENGER CAR On the Q. & V. R. R., a few even-
ings since, a lady and gentleman were observed sitting very
close together, and acting in a very affectionate manner.
While laughing and chatting, the woman’ s head would un-
consciously lean over on the man’s shoulder, and his arm,
which rested across the back of the seat, would involuntarily
slip down, now and then, and rest on her back. Every person
in the car supposed they were either engaged loversor a
spooney couple on their wedding tour. It was afterward
learned that they had been married fifteen years, and the
wife’s mother lived with them.

AN ENGLISHMAN who Visited this country last fall, and
remained three weeks, has written and published a book en-
titled ‘“‘America and its People.” The book is aremarkable
curiosity, and differs from previous works of the kind, in
that it doesn’t locate New York in Ohio or Chicago in Phila-
delphia.

A MAN went home at one A. M., one night, recently,
with a highly demoralized pair of legs, and his necktie sig-
nificantly awry. His wife, who was waiting up for him,
greeted him in a tone of withering sarcasm: “I suppose
you have been down at the lodge again, conferring the
seventeenth degree or something?” “No, (hic) my dear,” he
returned, grasping the hat-rack to steady himself; ‘no,
(hic)my dear, I’ve been out with the boys, an’ ’m (hic)
drunk asa biled (hic) owl—thash all.”

A MAN who journeyed across the seas, and visited many
foreign countries, was engaged in conversation with a num-
ber of friends, about a week after his return home, and
although he did most of the talking, which lasted a couple of
hours, he never once remarked, ‘‘When I wasin Europe,” or
made the slightest reference to his travels abroad.

“Say,” said a city gentleman, who had been conversing
with an old farmer in the rural districts half an hour: “I
have been around among the tillers of the soil considerably
of late, and talked with scores of them, and I have not yet
heard one of you say ‘b’gosh’ a dozen times in a five minutes’
conversation. This never occurs in ‘a humorous article in
“It never occurs
outside of such an article,” replied the granger, sententiously.

A FASHIONABLY DRESSED LADY, a stranger in a rural
town, entered church after services had commenced last
Sunday morning, and not a female member of the congrega-
tion turned her head to scan the late comer.

A GENTLEMAN picked up a morning paper in the read-
ing room of a New York hotel one day, recently, and sustained
a severe nervous shock at failing to find in its columns a sin-
gle paragraph about Mrs. James Brown Potter.

AT A SOLDIERS’ REUNION a few nights ago, a veteran
declared that though he had been engaged in every im-
portant battle in the late rebellion, he had not written a
magazine article on the Battle of Gettysburg, and did not
intend to,

A REMARKABLE OCCURRENCE Was witnessed in an in-
terior town the other day. One of a gang of. day laborers,
at work on the streets, was actually seen to raise his pick in
the air after the town-hall clock had commenced to strike
twelve.

A YOUNG LADY entered a shoe store in Sharon one day
last week to make a purchase. She took the first pair of shoes
she tried on, declaying them ‘‘a perfect fit.” The shoe-dealer
was dumfounded. He said he had been engaged in the busi-
ness forty years, and she was the first woman who had not
pronounced the first pair of shoes tried on ‘‘a mile too big.”

AN ODD SPECTACLE Was witnessed at the American
Opera the other night. The ballet was one hundred strong,
and had been condemned by the clergy. ‘The house was
crowded, of course, and all the front seats were occupied by
long-haired men, while the bald heads were seen in the
upper tier and in the family circle near the rear door.

AN AMERICAN BANK CASHIER Suddenly left home a
couple of weeks ago, and was subsequently heard from in
Canada. His accounts at the bank were allright, and it is
supposed he went to Montreal to see the Ice Carnival.

>-e~

A KNOWLEDGE Of human nature teaches us that the
best characters have a mixture of infirmities, and that

| in the worst there are some redeeming virtues.

EDUCATION begins the gentleman; but reading, good
company, and refiection must finish him.

HE that blows the coals in quarrels he has nothing to
do with, has no right to complain if the sparks fly in his
face.

A WISE man gets learning from those who have none
themselves.

 

 

*

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

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

J. F. D., Des Moines, Iowa.—lst. The United States Marine
Corps consists of fifteen hundred enlisted men, stationed at
the various Navy Yards. If you wish to enlist, write to the
Washington City Navy Yard, Washington, D. C. 2d. When
the services of the Marine Corps are on land its members are
under the direction of the military establishment, but are
commanded by their own officers. Atsea, they are subject
to the authority of the commandant of the vessel, and sub-
ject to naval regulations, but, as a body, act under the offi-
cers of their corps. The are usually equipped like infantry,
but in battle often use the pike, pistol, or cutlass. They are
very proficient in cierentns boarding. They are stationed,
in battle, on the deck, the round-top, or other parts of the
vessel. Although not required to perform the duties of com-
mon sailors, they often become expert seamen, and render
most useful service in the management of the vessels when
employed. The officers bear the same titles as in the army,
are appointed in the same manner, and held by the same
tenure. So important have been the services of the marines

in our wars, that Congress has voted them bounty lands the
same as soldiers.

Abigail S., Providence, R. I.—ist. In England the title of
prince strictly belongs only to persons of the. blood royal,
who receive it by right of birth, and without a formal invest-
ment, asin the creation of dukes or other orders of nobility.
The youngest sons of the sovereign retain it until another
title is conferred upon them, but the daughters remain prin-
cesses. A special exception is made in the case of the eldest
son who is created by patent Prince of Wales. In France,
under the old regime, the title was borne orincipally by per-
sons of distinction connected with the blood royal. Napo-
leon IL. conferred it upon several of his marshals and minis-
ters. In- Germany there were formerly many petty states
called principalities, governed by hereditary princes, mos tof
whom at present have no territorial sovereignty. In Russia,
where it was formerly borne by the sovereigns, and else-
where in Europe, the title is the highest that can be con-
ferred upon a subject. 2d. “‘Carleton’s Classical Dictionary,”

a condensed mythology for popular use, will be sent to you
for 75 cents.

Jennie F. M., La Porte, Ind.—ist. To make plain clam chow-
der, first wash the clams, and put them into a large pan. Turn
boiling water over them, and cover them tight. Let them
stand ten or fifteen minutes; then take them out and cut off
the black heads, and flour and season them well with a little
nutmeg, mace, pepper, and salt. Take three quarts of the
liquor, and Pe into a saucepan to boil. To half a pound of
butter braid in three tablespoonfuls of flour. Stir in the
liquor, and put in the clams, and let it boil fifteen minutes.
If you like, add a pint of cream or milk. 2d. The story named
is not in book-form. 3d. In addition to “Thaddeus of War-
saw” and “The Scottish Chiefs,” Miss Jane Porter wrote “The

Pastor’s Fireside,” ‘‘Duke Christian of Luneburgh,” ‘The
Field of Forty Footsteps,” and “Sir Edward Seaward’s
Diary.” Her sister, Anna Maria, wrote a number of books,
the latest of which, we believe was, “Tales Round a Winter's
Hearth.” 4th. peceecetass are notin request by us at pres-
ent. 5th. Spelling good, andwriting fair.

W. B. A., Pine City, Minn.—ist. The sand eelis found in
both Europe and America, but only in salt water. Itis so
called because it lives in the sand, into which it can dart
head foremost and bury itself very quickly. 2d. They are
caught for food and bait,and much use is made of them
for the latter purpose on the fishing grounds of Newfound-
land. 3d. In Long Island Sound and along the coast of New
York the sand eels constitute the principal food of the blue
fish and bass. 4th. There are said to be about fifty kinds of
eels in different parts of the world. The European conger, or
sea eel, caught on the coasts of France and England, is often
ten feet long, and not unfrequently weighs a hundred
pounds. 5th. The ordinary eel in this section of the United

States is sometimes two and a half feet long ; the conger eel
from three to five feet.

Matilda C., Minneapolis.—ist. Missoula is a post village in
Montana. It is on the route of the Northern Pacific Railroad,
and is in a fertile valley near the Rocky Mountains. It has
a long suspension bridge over the Missoula River, a fine
court-house, a national bank, newspaper offices and church-
es. 2d. We can scarcely understand how an educated young
lady should prefer one of the suitors in question to the other.
Of course it 1s always better for thé hand to go with the heart;
but you must remember that there may be love without re-
spect, and if your “intended” should prove uncongenial for
lack of education, the union might be anything but a happy
one. 3d. Your penmanship is fair.

F. B. C., Hudson, N. Y.—1st. The State of Missouri was ad-
mitted to the Union in 1821, after a protracted and exciting
political struggle, which ended in the “Missouri Compromise”
(subsequently repealed) of 1820, by which the new State was
permitted to retain slavery. 2d. Missouri never passed an
ordinance of secession, but the State was the theater of many
active campaigns; various parts of it being exposed more or
less to the ravages of the war of 1861—65. 3d. Missouri has
been called the “Pennsylvania of the West” on account of
her rich stores of coal, iron, zinc, and lead.

Albert S. N., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The term of Leland Stan-
ford, United States Senator from California, expires in 1891.
He was born in Albany county, N. ¥., March 9, 1824; and-is of
English descent. He was the fourth of eleven sons, and his
father was a farmer. He served a term as Governor of Cali-
fornia, and shoveled the first earth for the Central Pacific
Railroad, of which he was president, on February 22, 1863 ;
and _ at noon on May 10, 1869, drove a golden spike, witha
solid silver hammer, into a beautiful laurel tie, which was
decorated with silver plates suitably inscribed.

Violet, Buffalo, N. Y.—Lindley Murray, the grammarian,
was not a native of England. He was born at Swatara, Lan-
caster County, Pa., in 1745. He received his primary educa-
tion in Philadelphia. Some time after the close of the Reyo-
lutionary war he repaired to England with his family, where
he purchased an estate, and occupied himself chiefly with
literary pursuits. His “Grammar of the English Language,”
first issued in 1795, and enlarged and improved in successive
editions, for many years superseded all others. He died near
York, Eng., on Feb. 16, 1826.

Nancy, Portland, Me.—The celebrated porcelain tower of
Nanking, China, destroyed during the Taiping rebellion, was
built in 1431-32, and was of octagonal form, 260 feet high, ia
nine stories, each adorned with a cornice and gallery, and
covered with a roof of green tiles, with a bell suspended at
each corner, which sounded when moved by the wind. On
the top was a pinnacle in the shape of a pineapple, sur-
ees by a gilded ball. A spiral staircase led to the sum-
mit.

Irene, Poughkeepsie.—The masque was a species of dramatic
entertainment, and was much cultivated in Europe during
the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. It included scenic
effects and dancing. Originating in the pageants of the mid-
dle ages, the actors in which wore masks, it gradually became
a recognized form of the spoken drama. In the reign of
J ames L, leading dramatic authors, with the exception of
Shakespeare, wrote masques for the court.

T. L. H., Springfield, Tenn. —ist. The “Salvation Army”
was organized in the East End of London, by William Booth,
in 1865. Its articles of incorporation in America bear date,
Jan. 29, 1885. 2d. The object of the organization is to secure
hearers who do not enter ordinary places of worship. 3d. It
holds that “‘the Bible is the written exposition of the will of
God.” 4th. Beef marrow is recommended to promote the
growth of the hair. 5th and 6th. No.

B. B. B., Woodlawn, Kansas.—The terrible fire in Chicago
occurred in October, 1871. There had been several unusually
large fires on previous days, but on Sunday evening, Oct. 8,
the great fire originated from the upsetting, as is supposed, of
a lighted kerosene lamp. The fire continued all day Monday,
and the eee “ eee Pani was ae checked until Tuesday
morning. The value o € property destroyed was not less
than $190,000.00. . ' F

E. E. K., San Francisco.—A good embrocation for sprains
and bruises is made as follows: Pour upon two ounces of car-
bonate of ammonia (smelling salts) as much distilled vinegar
as will dissolve it ; then add one and a half pints of common
rectified spirits, and shake the whole togetherin a bottle.
Moisten and rub the part affected with a cloth or sponge
dipped in the liquid.

Hoila, Atlanta, Ga.—1st. Moles should not be removed with-
out the aid of a physician. 2d A vail is the best protection
against freckles. If removed, they will appear again as soon
as the face is much exposed to the sun. 3d. Glycerine acidu-
lated with a little fresh lemon juice will help to whiten and
soften the skin.

M. S., Reserve, Ind.—1st. The first Congress under the
constitution met in 1789; consequently the present is the
Forty-ninth Congress. There are two sessions in each Con-

gress. 2d. The Taylor who was the Democratic candidate
was elected Governor of Tennessee at the last election.

Anonymous.—Iist. Rainwater is always soft ; but the waters
of springs and rivers may become hard by runuing through
rocks which have gypsum in them, or through limestone

rocks or soil which contain chalk. 2d. The degrees of heat
vary according to the seasons.

Wilhelm Rivers, Dayton, Ohio.—Offenbach is the chief
manufacturing town of the grand duchy of Hesse, Germ any:
It contains a castle. and has manufactories of cottons and
woolens, carriages, cards, musical instruments, jewelry, and
other wares.

Ida May.—1st. Damon and Pythias were natives of Syra-
cuse, Sicily, Date, 387B. C. 2d. A book of drawing, ete,.
will be sent to you for 50cents. 3d. ““Brownie’s Triumph” is in
book-form, Price $1.50.

Edward A. R., Ridersville.—“The American Book of Sports
and Games,” a repository of indoor and outdoor amusements
for boys and men, will be sent to you for $2. It has over six
hundred illustrations,

Young Reader.—A book of excellent recitat:ons and dia-
logues for children between the ages of five and twelve years
will cost 25 cents. It will be sent to you on receipt of the
price.

G. S., Huntington, Ind.—A red tinge may be given to oil

by steeping, for two or three days, a little alkanet root—say
two or three drams—in each pint of the oil.

Mrs. M. M., Greenwich, Conn.—Thank you for your praise

oftthe NEw York WEEKLY. Your requests will be duly con-
sidered. Handwriting fair.

Mrs. G, W., Monroe, Iowa, and Dealer, Utica.—We can send
you a coin book for 25 cents. It will prove of service to you.

M. F.—A simple remedy for weak eyes is to bathe them oc-
casionally in a moderate solution of table salt and water.

M. C. C., Newburgh, N. ¥.—Officers of the United States
Army and Navy are retired at the age of sixty-two.

M. B. O., Manchester, N. H.—Write to Chief Probate Reg-
istry, Somerset House, London. :

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL, 42—No. 20;

 

ema THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 32>

 

 

A SILVERY LINING TO EVERY CLOUD.

BY F. HARVEY.

Tho’ the world may be dark, and our footsteps be lone,
No sunshine to gladden or cheer us,

When the hearts that are round us are cold as a stone,
And no loving bosom be near us,

Tho’ fortune may frown on our desolate path,
And no ray of ligbt be seen shining,

Still joy, tho’ unseen, hovers over the hearth,
For each cloud has a silvery lining.

Tho’ friends may forsake us, or treat us with scorn,
Yet still we must try to remember
That the gloomiest night has a radiant morn,
And the flowers bloom in spite of December.
And what tho’ the joys of our youth should depart,
They will not be restored by repining ;
For hope yet remains to enliven the heart,
And each cloud has a silvery lining.

Tho’ the winter be o’er us. and all may seem drear,
And the birds e’en their nests have forsaken,

Yet comfort’s at hand, for the spring-time is near;
Let your confidence never be shaken.

As the ivy clings to the oak’s crumbling bark,
So round hope your young heart should be twining ;

And when you look up, tho’ the sky may be dark,
Think cach cloud has a silvery lining.

When trial and conflict would render you sad,
When your pleasure is mingled with care,

Then smile on your fortune, and try to be glad,
But, oh, never give way to despair!

And when the rough gales of the winter are o’er,
And the bright sun above us is shining,

Yow'll find that your sorrows have all gone before,
And each cloud has a silvery lining.

>-oe-<

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

A Wall Street Hau

OR,

A BOLD STROKE FOR A FORTUNE.

By the Author of ‘‘The Old Detective's Pupil. ,

(“A WaLL STREET HAavuL” was commenced LAST WEEK.]

CHAPTER V.
THE BLACK MASK.

After the startling head-lines followed an account of
the burglary, together with an interview with Mr. El
dredge, who, to Nick’s intense disgust, had talked even
more freely with the reporter than with him; for the
reporter, caring more for sensation than for accuracy,
had induced the pompous banker to say a great deal
which was only surmise.

While Nick was reading, Mr. Bedford had recovered
consciousness, and was sitting erect on the lounge, look-
ing at him in a dazed, utterly broken way.

Before he had finished reading the quick-witted detec-
tive had decided what course to pursue. He turned to
Mr. Bedford.

“T am sincerely sorry for you, sir, and will do whatI
can to help you.
that you had come to try to keep suspicion from your
son. Do you know he is guilty, or do you only suspect
your son ?”

«Only suspect,” was the heart-broken answer.

«Will you tell me why ?”

“No, I cannot bea witness against him.”

“What you tell me will bein confidence. I have rea-
son to believe that your son is not the principal in this
affair, but only a tool, and one who will be sacrificed to
save others. I[f you will tell me all you know I will see

the young man and induce him, ifI can, toturn State’s
evidence, and so save himself.”

“He will never do that.”

“He may, if 1 show him thatI know enough already
to convict not only him, but the ones he would save by
silence.”

“You are not deceiving me,” cried the poor man, be-
seeciingiy.

“Upon my honor, I am not.”

I] will trust you. No worse can come, after all, and
if1 could take Herbert far away to some distant place
he might return to his old self again ; for, Mr.Jones, he
is naturally honest and upright.”

 

I knew before you said a word to me |.

 

it walked along with the air of a man who neither fears
nor suspects anything.

His trained eyes noticed what would have escaped the
genuine Mr. Bedford—two detectives on guard!

“Aha!” chuckled Nick ‘Mat Soloman’s engineering
this job. Then I must be quick and cunning, or the
old tox will trap me. Let me see!” He ran his eye
carelessly along the row of houses. ‘“‘Ah! if you haven’t
thought of the roof, Mat, I'll slip through your fingers,
and nobody’ll know I’m on this case till I’ve finished it.
But no,” he muttered, thoughtfully; ‘1 can’t use the
roof even if it is not guarded, though it probably will be.
Ill teach Mat a new trick.”

As he supposed would be the case, he was not molest-
ed as he walked up the stoop and leisurely opened the
door with a pass-key.

The trim young woman met him in the hall. She had
evidently been waiting there, but her first words showed
that 1t was not the elder Mr. Bedford she hoped to see.

“Oh, it’s you!” she said, sadly. She had been crying.

“You thought it would be Herbert ?”

“LT hoped so. Oh, isn’t it dreadful, sir? What does it
mean ?”

“Alas, Susie, dissipation and bad company.”

“How can you say so?” cried Susie, indignantly. ‘‘He
never stole the money any more’n | did; I don’t care who
says So.”

“T hope he has not been wicked enough to engage
your affections, my poor girl ?”

“Shame on you, sir, his own father, to say sucha
thing! Dissipated he may be, but a kind-hearted, hon-
orable gentleman always.”

“So he is, Susie, and I thank you for defending him.
I was only trying you; for he has, poor boy, so many
enemies, that 1 don’t know whom to trust. We must
help him, Susie; and we must be quick, for the house is
watched. Please answer my questions without hesita-
tion, will you ?”

“Tl try, sir.”

«What were Herbert’s movements last night, as far
as you know ?”

“Well, sir; you went tothe whist party about eight
o'clock, I think.”

“About then.”

“Then it was half past that Herbert came home, with
another young gentleman—a kind 0’ swellish gent he
was—and the two went up to Mr. Herbert's room. About
a quarter of an hour later Mr. Herbert went out, and was
gone till nine o'clock. 1 met him here, sir, and for a bit
of fun—he was always full of his jokes, you know—he put
on a black mask, and said, ‘Your money or your life.’ ”

“A black mask, eh ?” thought Nick, remembering the
man who was seen ip the door-way of the bank.

The same condemning thought seemed to strike the
girl, too, almost as she said it, for she immediately cried,

in terror:

“Oh, life o’ me! What did he with the mask ?”

“Tt seems bad, Susie,” said Nick, fearful that she
would not continue before an interruption came; ‘‘but
we must believe in him, in spite of appearances.”

‘And | will, sir,” she cried, stoutly. *‘He turned my
poor father from a drunkard, and made my mother a
happy woman, and I’ll never believe him anything but
good, God help me !”

‘But go on, Susie. After the mask ?”

“When he said that about my money and life, I told
him he was welcome to both, as he was, sir, for his
kindness. He took off the mask, laughed in his jolly
way, and ran up stairs, saying I was so confoundedly
grateful there was no living with me. Is’pose it was
half an hour later he and the other gentleman came
down stairs, and went out and got into a hack that was
waiting for them. I don’t know when he came home.”

“Never mind about that. S-sh! There are steps on
the stoop. The detectives are coming to arrest me.
Where’s Norah ?”

“In the kitchen.”

“You run down there, too.

“But they’ll arrest you.’

“111 try to persuade them not to. Go down, please.

The obedient girl went, and Nick awaited develop-
ments.

“Tf it’s Mat himself,” he muttered, laughing, ‘he'll
never forgive this trick on him; but hell learn how to
gag and tie a man before he can move or speak.”

A vigorous pull at the bell made it sound again. Nick
waited a few moments, and then called out, in a
woman’s voice :

“Who is it ?”

“Open the door, and find out.”

“Tl not open the door; no such thing.”

“Open it, or Pll break it down. Iman Officer of the
law, with a warrant for the arrest of Edgar Bedford,
and I know he’s here. Open it

—

I'll open the door.”

 

Whatever the son might be, Nick vowed to himself he |_

would save him for his father’s sake.

“Tell me, then, as quickly as may be, what you know,
for I must lose no time.”

Mr. Bedford told Nick what had passed between Her-
bert and himself in the morning.

Nick listened carefully, asked a few questions to make
some points clearer, and then, after a few moments’
silence, said, deliberately :

“What you tellme bas a very grave look, and yet
there does not appear any guilt in the words or manner
as you report, either.”

Oh, sir, if you, an expert in——”

“Stop. Do not build hope on whatI said, for there
are one or two circumstances that need explanation. I
must find out how much he had todo with the girl

Mattie Hooper. Was she attractive, bold, dressed above |
Modest |

her station ?”
“Pretty, yes; sweet and innocent-looking.
and, as | remember her always, quietly dressed.”
“H’m. Ill go into that matter more thoroughly. Car-
bett was her lover, they say. What sort of man was
he ?”
Pama | always liked him, and ésteemed him perfectly
honest.’
“Hm! Well, now for your own case.
propose to do ?”
«What ShallI do? I put myself in your hands.”
«There are but two courses that Ican see for you. One
to give yourself up, the other to hide yourself until the
whole affair has been Cleared up.”
“Tf I give myself u
“You will be impr: aoe until the real criminals are

found.”
“IT have no place to hide. Where couldI go? What
Hide. If you will

do you advise ?”

“J ought not to advise, but [ will.
give me your word of honor never to reveal anything
that may come to your knowledge about me, I will
secrete you.’
gon sive 5 you my word.”

- “Quick, then, come in here, and I will so change your
_ identity that you will not recognize yourself.. You will
stay here as my assistant. Your meals will come to you
on this waiter,”
ing-room. ‘Put the dishes back on the waiter when
you are through with them ; and trust nobody, not even
your son, should he seek you here. Take off your
clothes and put—— But stop! stand there a few mo-
ments.”

Mr. Bedford, with increasing amazement, watched
Nick, as with magical rapidity he drew various articles
from different drawers aud placed them upon a table
before him.

Taking up a gray beard he began cutting and trimming
it, looking on Mr. Bedford as he did so. Then a gray
wig was treated in the same way.

Then Nick left the room with those too articles in his
hand. In a few minutes he returned with them on.

He was thus particular about changing his disguise
because since his first case he had never allowed | any-
body but his wife to know who he was or what he looked
like.

His real self was a profound mystery, and to that fact
he owed more than one escape from deadly peril.

Wonderingly obeying, Mr. Bedford now changed his
outer garments for ones supplied by Nick, while the lat-
ter donned those of Mr. Bedtord.

A few touches of paint. and powder—a very, very little
—finished Nick’s new disguise, and he was a perfect
counterpart of the cashier.

“What are you going to do?” asked the startled gen-
tleman

“First, I’m going to touch up your face a little bit, and
then I’m going to your house to interview your servants
and make what discoveriesIcan. If there’s anything
Sey must have from the house I'll get it, but it will be

tter to leave things as they are.”

‘I care for nothing. Do you think my son has been
arrested yet?”

“I doubt it. My own opinion is that that newspaper
account was published with the one idea of being seen
by him as soon as by the police, so that he might from
choice or fear make his escape.”

“How far beyond the surface you see,”

“Tt is my business. Good-by ; be easy ; don’t leave
the house on any pretext, and have faith that I will help

ou.”

: “fT have that faith, sir.
inspire confidence.”

«Because I feel confident; that is all.”

Nick took time to make a flying visit to his wife,
and informed her of Mr. Bedford’s presence up stairs,
and of the necessity of sending up his meais.

Then he walked out into the early dusk, saying to
himself:

«| mustn't forget who I am, and that I’m liable to ar-
rest. However, it'll only be a policeman or a greenhorn
who'd arrest me without shadowing me first. The house
will be watched back and front, but I guess they'll let
me goin without trouble. Then if they’ll only give me
time enough to interview the servants, particularly the
young woman Mr. Bedford spoke of, they may do as they

lease.” ‘

R On his way to the cashier’s-house Nick avoided obser-
vation as much as possible, but as soon as he was near

What do you

I do not know why, but you

young un’s up stairs.

 

pointing toa dumb-waiter in the din- |

 

\5

A FEW TOUCHES FINISHED NICK’S NEW DISGUISE, AND HE
WAS A PERFECT COUNTERPART OF THE CASHIER.

“Quick, sir! run up stairs,” cried Nick, still in his
woman’s voice, and as if urging Mr. Bedford to escape.
“Will you open that door ?” cried the angry detective,
who had heard the words to the supposed Mr. Bedford.

“Tam opening it,” answered Nick, slowly shooting
back the bolts.

His object was to exasperate the man into violence,
and he succeeded ; for no sooner had he turned the key
than the man, with an oath, flung open the door, and
sprang in.

In an incredibly short space of time the detective was |

| lying, as Nick had predicted, gagged and bound on the

floor.

‘‘Very sorry,
politely, ‘‘and I wouldn’t interfere with the law, only
I’ve decided to make way with myself. as the easiest
way out of this trouble.”

Then stepping to the front door, he whispered, in |
Mat’s voice :

“Come up here. I’ve got the old un all slick, The
Come on.”

As he had supposed, a detective had been posted at
the lower door.

At this summons he sprang joyfully up the area steps
with a vision, no doubt, of his share of the fifty thousand
dollars reward.

A few seconds later he lay on the hall floor by the side
of his chief and Nick was sAying, blandly :

“Tm afraid you may be a little cool here while waiting
for somebody to come; but it will keep you more or less
warm to have mein mind. Good-by, boys. If anybody
else should come for me please say you saw me go out.”

With a provoking little laugh Nick went out, shutting
the vestibule door and locking it behind him.

“There,” he muttered, ‘now I've puzzled them, for
they will know well enough I’m not Mr. Bedford, though
who I am they will never suspect.”

CHAPTER VI.
THE CLERGYMAN AND THE REPORTER.

Before leaving the vestibule Nick made one of his
characteristic changes of disguise, and when he stood
on the sidewalk no one would have suspected the de-
mure looking clergyman of having just tied and gagged
two expert detectives.

Looking at his watch he saw it was nearly six o’clock.

“Time enough yet,to make the acquaintance of Mr.
Howard Wilshaw,” he said.

And with that object in view he sought a hack and
was taken to the Benedick Club.

“Is Mr. Wilshaw in ?” he asked of one of the elaborately
dressed flunkeys.

‘Yes, Sit,” ’

‘Will you please say to him that the Reverend James
Sylvester would like to see him for a few moments—a
few moments only ?”

The man returned in a little while saying, with as
much of asmirk as he dared put on, that Mr. Wilshaw
would be down presently.

«*T judge from that fellow’s grin that Mr. Wilshaw said
something disrespectful to the cloth,” was Nick’s com-
ment to himselt.

Among the young gentleman’s virtues promptness
seemed to be one, for he was with Nick in less than two
minutes. And in as many seconds almost the young
detective had taken his moral and physical measure.
And this was how he expressed it to himself.

“Handsome face, magnificent muscles.
cold, hard, cunning. An ugly customer !”

And yet almost anybody else would have given an-
other verdict.

Howard Wilshaw was a popular man among men, and
a prime favorite among women.

“Well, sir,” he said, suavely enough, and yet witha
forbidding touch of insolence.

“Is this Mr. Wilshaw ?” cried Nick, effusively Stepping
forward and taking the young man’s hand in his. “I
am pleased, sir, to make your acquaintancs.”

Wilshaw coldly withdrew his hand, and said, haught-

Intelligent,

ly :
“Will you be good enough toexplain your business
with me, sir.”
“Certainly, certainly.
“You may.” :
“Thank you;” and Nick sat down on the edge of his
chair, and clasped his hands, as, with a fervent air, he

Shall we sit down ?”

indeed, to incommode you,” said Nick, |

| it go or Stay, old man ?”
Mr.

went on: “I have called to see you, to get your name to
head a list of charities for the benefit of widows and or-
phans. Oh, sir——”

“You may spare me and yourself,” interrupted Mr.
Wilshaw, with a cutting sneer. ‘I have no doubt that
what you have to say is very beautiful, and might even
make me weep, Butlam dressed for dinner now, and
tears would have a bad effect on mny shirt-front. Good-
evening, sir.”

And Mr. Wilshaw coolly leffsthe room, while Nick
could hear the suppressed titt@rof the flunkeys outside.

Probably, however, Nick had more enjoyment from
the scene than anybody else, for he laughed over it more
than once before he reached his next destination, which
was Mr. Eldredge’s palatial mansion.

On his way thither he had made a few trifling changes
in his disguise, and instead of aclergyman was now a
half-rakish, half seedy-looking tmdividual, who might
belong in any walk of life.

A gorgeous footman opened‘the door, and looked su-
perciliously at Nick.

‘‘WILL YOU BE GOOD ENOUGH TO EXPLAIN YOUR BUSINESS
WITH ME, SIR?”

With the utmost effrontery the latter pushed his way
into the house to the astonishment of the resisting foot-
man, who found his bulk and pauseles of no avail against
the visitor’s resistless strength, so carelessly exerted.

“Tell Mr. Eldredge.” said Nick, in a loud, peremptory
tone, ‘‘that Mr. Harvey Jones would like to see him.”

Very reluctantly the outraged funkey went to deliver
the message, and returned in afew minutes, saying his
master would see him.

“PH wait in here,” said Nick, coolly sauntering into
the magnificent reception-room, and beginning a tour
of the apartment to inspect its pictures and ornaments.

“The hill-bred puppy!” snorted the indignant foot-
man.

A portiere separated the reception-room from a larger
room beyond, and Nick was about to pursue his investi-
gations there, when the entranc&of Mr. Eldredge inter-
rupted him.

Disappointed in his attempt, Nigk did what seemed to
him next best, and that was 0 soSstation himself as to
see, by means of a mirror, anything that might occur in
the farther room, for he was satisfied that something
interesting would occur.

Mr. Eldredge in the meantime had stopped in’ sur-
prise, and was staring haughtily at the stranger.

“Ah!” said Nick, in a free-and- -easy tone, evidently
very offensive to the millionaire. »‘‘Expected to see the
fly cop, eh? I thought that’d fetch ye.”

“Sir, how dare you!”

The irate banker's tone was calculated to produce sus-
pension of the action of the heart ; but Nick only smiled
pleasantly and went on:

“Oh, you don’t know me; I don’t scare worth a cent.
Why, I’m the lad that walked right into Billy Vander-
bilt’s private office at the very minute he was foaming
at the mouth with saying so often he wouldn’t be inter-
viewed. I interviewed him, old man; you can bet I
did.” : ;

“‘Insolent scoundrel! .Leave "7 house at once! Be-

one!
a “Just as you say, Moneybags.” | Nick threw his hat
rakishly on his head. ‘I only cate out of _k iss. I
thought you'd like to know the a
gives for throwing up thee
want it to go Into. the ‘pal

a e was all

aper that you do not

isse rion phat you wete in collu-
sion with him so lone. a

“Stop, fellow! What do you mean? Has Mr, ‘Bedford

dared——”

‘Dared? Wait—just wait till you see the paper. He

has just laid you and your whole family out. You'll see
it in the morning paper ; and the account will end like
this: ‘A reporter called upon Mr. Eldredge and cour-
teously gave him the opportunity of denying the terrible
accusation. ‘The banker was too shrewd to commit
himself, however, evidently relying upon his enormous
wealth to purchase him immunity,”

The banker s face, during this harangue, was a study.
Rage, horror, stupefaction strove for the mastery.

“T’ll have you prosecuted.”

“That's what they all say ; but the boot may be on the
other leg. Thomas-the-door, please open and let me
out.”

All this while Nick had been aware of a listener in
the adjoining room, 4nd he was Certain that his lure
was working successfully.

And certainly it was; for as he playfully, and with
startling suddenness, thrust his finger in the ribs of the
upright Thomas, thereby making him double up like a
| jackknife, a vision of loveliness barst in trom behind
the portiere, and asilvery voice exglaimed :

“Papa, dear, don’t let the gentleman go so. I am sure
| he doesn’t mean to be rude”—a Jewitching glance at
! Nick—‘‘Mr. Bedford may have said dreadful things,
| which ought never to be printed, and which a few words
from you may”—another glance at Nick—‘keep out of
| the papers.”
| ‘There, old man,” cried Nick, in a tone of admiration,
“there’s wit and wisdom in the guise of beauty plead-
ing with your hard heart. This ‘aust: be ?”—he turned
| to the young lady—
“Miss Grace Eldredge,” smiling sweetly.

“Well named indeed,” said Nick, taking off his hat.
gallantly, and searching the blue eyes before him. “Is
he asked, turning pleasantly to
E ldredge, who was looking at his daughter with an

air of indecision.
“Your familiarity, sir, is shocking,” said Mr. Eld-
Wait

 

redge, by way of yielding gracefully.
cof amiliarity! You don’t know what it means.
till you’re better acquainted with me.”

 

“I GUESS I CAN MAKE UP A COLUMN NOW. GOOD-BY,
DREDGE, OLD MAN! BY-BY, GRACE!”

EL-

Nick winked pleasantly at Miss Grace, asif asking her
to enter into the fun, and, to his astonishment, she cer-
tainly did; for her blue eyes laughed wickedly at her
father’s discomfiture, though her voice was serious and
respectful, as she turned to him and said :

‘Papa, ask the gentleman to be. seated, won't you?
Thomas, a bottle of champagne.”

Nick smiled at her in a familiar, friendly way, and ob-
served, as he carelessly threw himself into a big chair:

“ve heard of Thomas-a-Kempis, but never before of
Thomas-a-bottle-of-champagne.”

Grace laughed outright. She evidently enjoyed the
reporter's free and easy ways,

‘“Now,” said the banker, stiffly enough, ‘‘tell me what
Mr. Bedford has had the wicked audacity to say about
me.’

“Oh, pshaw! Eldredge, my boy, don’t worry about
what he says. That doesn’t amount to a row of pins,
for I'll never let it go into the paper; but Harvey Jones
is different. What-he says will carry weight, and I’m
afraid people will believe him. Besides, it’ll be no use

 

4

 

 

to suppress it, for I’m afraid eeeiony will soon suspect
it, anyhow.

“What does he say ?”

“Ah! Here’s Thomas-a-bottle. You didn’t sample
this on the way, Tommy? Ladies first, fair son of Al-
bion. Here’s to beauty and old age! I say, Eldredge,
that’s the genuine imported. Oh, I’m fly. I know cider
and sulphuric acid trom the pure juice. Now that
Thomas-a-bottle, is gone; what did Harvey Jones say?
That’s the question, eh? Well, sir, he said you were a
pompous old jackass.”

“What, what? How dare he? How dare you ?”

. Nick was sure Grace turned her head away to hide a
augh.

“This girl isa study. She interests me,” he said to
himself, while aloud he answered, carelessly.

“Dare? Oh, that’s nothing; no doubt lots of people
have said it, only it never came to your ears before.
But I say, do you know he says he won’t work on the
— for you because you didn’t keep your word with

im.”

“Scoundrel!” cried the furious banker.

“Won't you please tell us what Mr. Bedford accused
papa of ?”

Miss Grace asked the question very sweetly.

“Lord bless you!” cried Nick, looking at her benevo-
lently. ‘‘You’re not worrying about that. Ill tell you
aboutit. You see I was detailed by the editor on this
case, and was told to getacolumn. Well, I saw Harvey
Jones, ard he told me what your father was, and that he
was going to drop the case. Then I went to see the
Bedford’s.” Nick rose and beamed pleasantly on the ex-
pectant father and daughter. ‘I couldn’t find either of
them home—sloped, I guess—so I came here, and I guess
Ican make upacolumn now. Good-by, Eldredge, old
man. By-by, Grace.”

And with an impudent leer Nick darted quickly from
the house, leaving Mr. Eldredge to fume, and storm, and
threaten, and Miss Grace to nearly expire with sup-
pressed mirth,

CHAPTER VII.
“a SMALLISH GENT.”

‘Something wrong there,” commented Nick, as he
walked up the street, ‘‘and ’'m going to find out what it
is. ASI live here comes Howard Wilshaw. He wasn’t
long over his dinner. I think I'll wait for you, my fine
gentleman.”

As foreseen, Wilshaw went up the steps which Nick
nee lust hurried down, and was admitted into the

ouse.

In less than half an*hour he came out again, this time
accompanied by Miss Grace, who looked exceedingly
dainty in a fur-trimmed sacque.

They walked leisurely down Madison avenue for several
blocks, and then turned down one of the side streets.

Nick never lost sight of them, but kept at a respectful
distance, wondering what strange adventure he was to
have now.

Through Park avenue they went, and after a block or
two turned.up toward Madison avenue again; crossed
it and went up the Fifth, into which they turned.

Nick was puzzled. The maneuver meant something,
of course ; but what?

The pair now quickened their pace, and it seemed to
the detective’s suspicious eye that they were walking
differently.

“J think I'll have a look at them,” decided Nick.

And forthwith he hastened his steps, overtook and
passed them, giving them a quick side glance as he did
so. Of course he had changed his disguise.

“This is no common foe for me to worst,” was Nick’s
mental exclamation as he went by the two.

The man was as unlike Howard Wilshaw as was pos-
sible. He had practiced Nick’s favorite trick of assum-
ing a disguise as he walked.

The woman was unrecognizable from having dropped
a thick vail over her face.

Once more Nick resumed his place in the rear without
exciting suspicion.

They walked along briskly, saying almost nothing to
each other, and, to Nick’s surprise, kept on until they
came to Fourteenth street.

“She’sa good walker,” thought Nick. ‘T’ll bet my
hat she hasn’t high heels and pointed toes.”

Down Fourteenth street they turned and kept on until
hear Broadway, when, with a quick turn, Grace
Eldredge left. her companion and fiew up a flight of stone
steps and disappeared through a door-way.

Howard Wilshaw lifted his hat and kept on his way as
if prepared for the sudden flight.

Nick hesitated a moment and then stopped.

qin

r

Mt

t he Macnmnsne“,

(

 

NICK PEERED AROUND THE CORNER DOWN THE DIMLY

, LIGHTED CORRIDOR.

 

“Why does she leave him?” he asked himself, and
then answered, ‘‘she was not disguised. She wants to
be, and goes up there to accomplish it. Ill follow and |
discover her hiding-place.” |

Very leisurely, and as if belonging there, Nick walked |
into the house, which he quickly saw was rented to all
sorts of people for offices, studios, and the like.

Up two flights of stairs and along the corridor to the |
back end walked the young lady. |

Lightly, quickly Nick sprang up the stairs and peered |
around the corner down the dimly lighted corridor. |

Grace was opening the last door on the left hand side |
by means of a latch key. |

eon * thought Nick. “I'll make a visit here some
time.”

He went down into the street again and waited. Ten |
minutes, perhaps, had elapsed when he saw a slight |
young man walk carelessly down the steps twirling a |
cane in one hand.

“Jupiter Ammon!” exclaimed Nick. “But this is}
beautiful. Better—ten times better than I had hoped |
for. It was a ‘smallish gent’, Susie said, was with Her-
bert Bedford last night. 1 wonder, now, if Miss Grace
with her brown mustache can be the ‘smallish gent’ ?

Without the least embarrassment Grace walked dow n}
Fourteenth street, taking out and lighting a ¢igar as |
she went. |

Occasionally she glanced around carelessly, asif with |
the idea that she might see some one she knew, but she |
did not check her steady pace.

Going directly and unhesitatingly to a fashionable but
disreputable music hall and dining- saloon, she entered
the door leading to the private supper-rooms, and went
up stairs.

Suspecting her destination, Nick had rapidly convert-
ed himself into a professional gambler, and now made
no hesitation about boldly following the singular girl.

At the head of the stairs she nodded familiarly to the
chief waiter, who stood there, and he, by his obsequious
bow, showed that he knew the young gentleman.

Nick, never losing sight of her, stopped to parley with
the waiter.

“I want a private room, and supper for two,” he said,
at the same time slipping a dollar into the man’s hand.
“Yes, sir--yes, sir; a very nice room down this way.

“No doubt; but I’ve been here before, and I know my
room. This way, general.”

“As you please, sir,” smirked the waiter, following
Nick, who led him to the room adjoining the one Grace
had entered.

“This engaged ?”

‘No, sir.”

“Then I'll take it.”

Yes, sir... Whatll you have, sir ?”

“What'll Ihave? Look here, judge-advocate-general !”
Nick laid a five-dollar billon the table and fastened it
nae, nt the blade of his penknife. ‘Do you see that ?’

*Y G8; Si.”

“Then don t ask any disagreeable questions, but have
a good supper for two brought right up.

a8 es, Sir, How’ll I know your friend? Who'll he ask
for ?”

“You're off your base, Benjamin Franklin. I’ve just
cleaned out afaro game, and I’m hungry. I’m myself
and my friend, too. So, hurry up that supper, if you
ever expect to finger that five. Scattoo, Jimmy !”

Once alone, Nick applied his ear to the door leading
to the next room, and could hear peal after peal of sil-
very laughter, mingled with an occasional hearty ha-ha.

“Having a good time in there,” thought Nick.

‘A pompous old jackass!” he heard Grace say. ‘Oh,
how, I nearly died to see the look that came into papa’s
face.”

“T wish I’d been there,” said Wilshaw, and again there
was a peal of laughter.

‘A fine sample of a loving daughter,” thought Nick.

“But what shall Ido about Herbert?” he heard her

say.

«Play the heroine and offer to sacrifice fair name and
fame to save him.”

‘‘He must suffer then ?”

“Ofcourse he must.”

«Why do you hate him so, How ?”

“] began hating him because I thought you liked him.
Afterward I hated him for his own sake.”

“Well, you're a good hater, How. and I just admire the
way you combine business and pleasure.”

«The whole secret of living, Gracie.”

 

| adopted daughter

|}en—an immense low-ceiled apartment,

“Sha’n’t I go see him now and have the thing over ?”

“No hurry ; he'll keep. When did he say he’d be at
the studio ?”

“The card said, Will G.
wait.’”

“Well, G. can wait here and get her supper.
plenty to occupy his mind.”

Nick heard the knob of his door turn, and in an in-
stant was promenading up and down the room.

He would have liked to hear more of the conversation,
but what he had heard was enough to set a new train of
thought in motion.

“] must overhear the interview between Grace and
Herbert,” he said to himself. ‘That will tell me some
things and then I’ll know what to do with the young
man.”

He was both hungry and hearty, but with the pros-
pect of sharp work before him he was too wise to over-
load his stomach.

He ate quickly, gave the waiter the five-dollar bill,
bade him clear the table and leave him to his cigar.

AS soon as he was alone again he stole once more to
the door, and listening could hear Grace warbling an air
from the Mascotte.

“Mr. Wilshaw knows how to take his pleasure,” he
thought, and though his business was a serious one he
could not help enjoying the clear, sweet tones of the
fresh young voice.

Per haps he became more absor bed than a detective
ought. At any rate he was roused in a way as disagree-
able as it was unexpected.

Without a word or sound of warning, his door was
suddenly and violently flung open, and as he straightened
up he stood face to face with Howard Wilshaw.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
oe <

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

A LATE REPENTANCE:

The Little White Hand.

By MRS. MARY A. DENISON.

‘Gone to dinner. please

He has

(“A LATE REPENTANCE” was commenced in No. 14. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XVMI.
TWENTY THOUSAND A YEAR,

‘Yes, Miss Markston, as fine a boy as ever you saw,
and such a name! Old John stood godfather. Bless
you, he’s as pleased as if it was his own son, and as
proud. The missis she was godmother, and she give as
elegant a silver mug as you ever saw.”

“What did they name him ?

“La! you’d never guess now. She was determined it
should be named for the family, and quite right, for it’s
everything they’ve done for her. Says she, this is his
name, Richard Staaks Dunniston. Now you see we
know the name of that man, though she stands up for
him yet.”

This conversation took place on the porch of the old
Staaks House, whose numerous gables, chimney tops,
and dormer windows were bathed in the red rays of the
setting sun. The participants were Mary Medway and
a neighbor. The subject was the infant son of the de
serted wife, that afternoon christened. The christen-

ing party was to come off that evening, and great
prepar ations were going On inthe shape of ples, cakes, *
jeliies, and various refreshing drinks.

As for Eden, seated in the spare room, where she was
installed as queen by right of her new dignity, with the
young princé upon her knee, never had she looked so
beautiful as now. Hope and love gave a new dignity to
her manner, flushed her cheeks, deepened the violet
blue of her eyes, perfected the sweetness of her smile.
To be sure, When her face was quite at rest, there was
an expression betokening a sorrow lived down but not
forgotten.

Dalton was worshiper now of both mother and child.
It was his greatest delight to hold and caress the latter,
anoble, beautiful boy, who already held his head after
the fashion of his father, and looked down as from a
height, imperiously on the subjects he swayed.with a
glance.

Good Mrs. Staaks petted the mother as if she had
been the baby. She came upin the afternoon, flushed
and excited, to dress.her protege, for the first time, all
in white muslin. 4

‘You do look as pretty as a bride!” she said, survey-
ing her critically, and touching up the effect with a
flower ora knot of ribbon here and there. ‘Dear me, if
I was a man now, wouldn’t I fall in love with you ?”

Eden shook her head.

“lve had quite enough of fallingin lov@ for a life-
time,” she said, half mournfully, and with an uncon-
scious sigh. ®

‘But now suppose some rich man——”

“You forget, dear mother,” said Eden,
quivering lips.

“True enough—tain’t so long since he was taken—but
Li my heart! I don’t see how you can mourn for
rum 1”

Eden was silent. Did she ever think that, accord-
ing to English law, the boy born under such adverse
circumstances might become, or even was now, the heir
toatitle? Yes, sometimes; but her heart was so dead
within her; she had seen so much of the duplicity of
those whom the world called great and honorable, that
she chose to ignore that possible future, and to think of
her child as a plain, untitled gentleman—even, should
Bie cage order it, earning his living ith his own

ands

The boy was carried down stairs in the aiviute arms of
his godmother, who showered kisses and caresses upon
him. He was her adopted son, as the mother was her
and everybody was called upon to

gently, with

admire both.

Dalton kept near Eden, as he always did, and she

| sometimes had an arm about him, for she loved the

bright, sensitive boy.

It was not a brilliant assemblage. Farmers and farm-
ers’ wives and daughters—some of these composed the
Dutch gentry —cousins and friends of the Staats; two or
three city gentlemen, who had been boarders at the
house off and on several summers, and who called Mrs.
Staats ‘‘mother,” and always brought her presents of

value when they came. There were also silent but fer-
Mg admirers of Eden, but they had seldom spoken to

er

To-night all the rooms, including the spacious kitch-
whitewashed
wherever whitewash could be made available—were
thrown wide open, and decorated very prettily with
flowers and pine boughs. Three tables were set in the

| living-room, and on the snowiest of table linen were

placed great plates of cold boned turkey, ham, beef, and
| other meats, such as coarser palates love. These were
| diversified with huge cakes, great piles of fruitof every
kind then in season, pitchers of lemonade, and the fra-
grant smell of coffee in the kitchen boiler made the at-
mosphere redolent of the East. The supper was sub-

| stantial, and many a health was drank to the uncon-
; scious boy,
| asleep in his bed up stairs.

who at the time of the feast was soundly

“‘Wouldn’tit be a good time to mention that Iam ready
now to go out in the world, and earn my living ?” Eden
had asked, anxiously, of Mrs. Staats.

‘None of that, now,” said the matron, with warning
finger uplifted. ‘I tell you you’re earning your living,
every day of your life, andJohn says so. Ain’t you one
of the family, and do you think we’d let one of the
family go outside of ourselves to work? You don’t
know us, John and I. Besides, that boy wants all your
time. Between times, if there are any, I'll give you all
you can do. I’m sure, whatever would Dalton do with-
out you? You’re good as three teachers for the boy.”

Eden smiled faintly. That was the way it always
ended. Soshe sat thinking while the under sort played
‘pillow,” and ‘‘spin the cover,” and old-fashioned games
such as made men and women seem children again just
to look at the sports.

Near Eden, during the height of the fun, while people
bumped their noses in paying forfeits, and measured off
yards of imaginary ribbon, two of the men of the better
sort of whom we have spoken above, sat talking to-
gether.

«Yes, I shouldn’t mind coming into that little sum ;”
said one of them. 1 read it in last week’s Post, and it
set me to musing upon the strangeness of some lives—
how they float away and get. wrecked.”

The word wrecked had a strange fascination for Eden,
and she strained her attention a little more, that she
might hear distinctly.

“The name was Wane, wasn't it?” queried the other,
“singular name. I think I never came across one like it
in my life.”

Eden started forward a little. Just then Dalton made
his appearance with a pillow, white as swan’s-down,
and apparently filled with something quite as light.
He had been waiting for hours for this one opportunity,
and it was not in her heart to refuse him.

“7 won’t kneel down, Dalton,” she said, sweetly, ‘‘but
I'll kiss you all the same;” and under a pretty pretense
of whispering her soft red lips touched his cheek, and
made him happy for an indefinite time.

Then Eden turned her attention again to the two men.
They appeared to be observing the games, now, and one
of them was laughing heartily at the attempt of a fat
man with an almost imperceptible nose, chasing round
a fat woman whose nasal development was something
extraordinary, and which ended in both tumbling down
the steps into another room, and being instantly halt
smothered with pillows, which were thrown upon the m
pell-mell. Eden never smiled; she was too anxious, her
cheek grew paler as she bent over toward the two men,
and halt whispered :

“Gentlemen, were you saying anything about the
name of Wane ?” she asked, her heart beating almost to
suffocation.

They little knew to what scenes that name had car-

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

<i THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ><

ried her back, to what associations of love, beauty, and
mnocence.

“Yes, we were speaking of an advertisement that has
peen going the rounds of the New York papers. It
seems a person—— But here, I have it with me—cut it
ont yesterday; for you must know Lam rather a lover
of romance, and these little suggestions help me in my
professional line. Iam a city reporter.”

By this time he had produced the piece of newspaper,
which had been cut out very smoothly.

‘-Will you allow me to keep this for a few moments ?”
she asked, finding that her hands trembled and her eyes
were dim.

She had divined at once, with the instinct of.a mind
fil at ease, that possibly her father, heart-sick for want
of seeing her, had taken this way to show that he had
not forgotten her. Or perhaps it mentioned graver
matters.

The gentieman told her to keep it as long as she
wished, if it would be of any value to her.

She thanked him, and glided quietly by the revelers,
till she reached the hall, where the servants were stand-
~ looking on and laughing.

urrying up Stairs into her own room, she turned up
the light. and without looking at her sleeping boy, sat
down, with the paper before her.

It was some seconds before she could gather sufficient
courage to read the scrap. She sat smoothing it out,
feeling as if she might be looking upon her own death-
warrant; yet why, she could not tell, save that she had
& presentiment. At last she began:

«The undersigned, attorneys-at-law for Lewin Wane,
latel at Melbourne, Australia, are anxious to
obtain some clew to one of the family of the late Leonard
and Anne Wane of Streatford——”

Here the paper grew pale before her eyes, and all the

world soon? tted out. Her parents were then dead;
their dear faces’were hidden under the mold, while she,
an exile in a strange land, was thus left utterly alone.

- Stil the had been present with her for
months that they might have passed away, and it
seemed as if, having borne so much, she could bear this
also. So presently, through almost blinding tears, she
readon: —*- = ;

—*late Leonard and Anne Wane, of Streatford—whose
unmarried name was Eden Wane—and who has for
years been abroad, eitherin America or on the Conti-
nent. Said Lewin Wane left to his brother, said Leonard
Wane, and his wife, the sum of twenty thousand pounds
a year, to be used by them as they may be pleased to
devise. As the parents are now dead, the fortune goes
tothe daughter Eden, and she failing to be found, to
yarious charitable institutions. «Should this advertise-
ment meet the eye of the person aforesaid, or of per-
sons having a clew to her whereabouts, they will confer
a favor by communicating the same.to Drum & Kettle-
bury, lawyers, Broadway, New York.”

Eden drew a long breath, and for some moments sat
motionless, like one stunned out of vitality. Then she
lifted her hands; her face brightened with a wonderful

yi

“Oh, my fatherless little one!” she exclaimed, “for
your sakelam glad. You will never need toeat the
bread of dependence, and feel how bitter it is!”

A little later, Mrs. Staats, coming into her room,
found her still as death, seated before the table, her
head bowed upon her clasped hands. Bending over and
lightly touching the face, she lifted it. There were
traces of great tears on her fair cheeks; the eyes were
heavy with them.

“What! crying again, you naughty girl!” said the

woman, kissing her. ‘‘What shall 1 do to stop this
grieving ?” ;

*Oh, mother,” half sobbed Eden, -‘I have just heard
such sorrowful and such wonderful news! My poor old
parents are both dead, and I am left entirely alone in
the world, with no kin but my boy ; and—how glad Lam
ican say it—ican repay all your kindness tome. Iam
rich. very rich !”

“Rich! How, pray, my girl? I don’t understand.
Who told you? Where is the money? What does it
mean ?”

“My uncle died lately in Australia,’ she said, in low,
siow tones, ‘‘and left all his money tome. Ah, if this
had happened before! He wanted money,” she mur-
mured, in a quieter voice.

“Ym very glad he didn’t get it, then,’ said Mrs.
Staats, who was always. angered at any allusion to Dun-
piston, ‘‘and you ought to be. Well, what sort of an
heiress are you? How many hundreds or thousands of
dollars make the little woman rich ?”

‘It’s not thousands of dollars, dear, but thousands of
pounds—twenty thousand pounds a year. Can youcom-
pute that? I can't.”

“Twenty thousand pounds!” The woman stood aghast.
“One hundred thousand dollars a year! Why, she’s a
millionaire! I can’t believe it! Is it true? Let me see.”

She snatched up the paper, and read it hurriedly;
then caught up the lamp, and by its closer light read it
more attentively. Then, with a strange, excited cry,
she flung her arms abgyt Eden’s neck, and cried and
Jaughed ; then caught the boy out of the cradle, shout-
ing the good news. In fact, her head was a little
turned.

“Pray, pray, don’t speak of it to a soul to-night;

promise me,” said Eden. _.
Tt-will speak itself. Don’t bind

“Why, [tart fetp it.
me; I’tn too full {”

But Eden persisted ; and at last Mrs. Staats went qui-
étly down stairs with the paper, and gave it back to the
gentleman without a word.

* CHAPTER XIX.

THE “LITTLE WOMAN” ILL.

The good néws could not long be kept a’secret, how-
ever. Buzz, buzz went the little community. Before
the week was out such wonderful stories had been told
that the old tavern became the rage—was full from
morning till night. The fame of the beautiful widow
whose story, silent as they had tried to be, had yet
traveled abroad, and she was such an object of. wonder
and interest that she was obliged to keep her room.

Dalton was, figuratively speaking, ‘‘up in a balloon”
for the greater part of hisexistence. It Mrs. Dunniston,
as she allowed herself to be called now, went to Eng-
land, he was to go with her, and he could think of no
greater rapture. It had been the chief longing of his
life, since ever he had read of English customs and
easties.

Eden wrote to the lawyers, and they were thoughtful
enough to send their business agent to her, at this the
eleventh hour, and just as they had received what they
considered to be authentic news of her death,

The time consumed in communications, in gathering
proofs, andin sundry business operations was necessarily
quite long. The vicar, Rev. Mr. Dutton, had gone to the
Continent to recruit his health, and knew nothing: more
of the matter than he had learned of Lord Dunniston,
but his curate gave all necessary information as it was
required of him, without being enlightened as-to de-
tails. Eden, in the meantime, was furnished with as
much money as she needed. Her first anxiety was to
return to the old home, and there, in the midst of the
rural surroundings of the past, bring up her boy in peace
and innocence; but the yearning for her lost little Dotty
took precedence of all other wishes. Once again she
had recourse to the papers, doubling and trebling her
offer, till at last it had reached the sum of two thousand
pounds sterling. This was so widely circulated and so
thoroughly copied, that it reached the little home where
the child had been so unjustly detained.

Mt was a stormy winter’s night that Stephen read a
part of it aloud to his wife, but that was all. He made
no comments.. The little woman sat opposite, pale, and
thin. and wan. She had been suffering trom a rheumatic
difficulty for several months, crippled in hand and foot,
and seemed slowly wasting away.

“I’m sure,” said the little woman, after a futile at-
tempt at stoicism, ‘I want to do what's right. Why
don't you say something, Steenie? Ah, all the care’s
tallen on you now. And you'rea man and can’t bear it
So well.”

“J don’t complain,” said Stephen.

“J know you don’t, but I wish you did,” said his wife,
her eyes brimming over. ‘It’s your patience that’s
bringing me to my senses. Steenie, do you mind when
e was we two decided to keep the baby-——God bless

er?”

“Yes, [mind. It was nearly seven months ago, if I’m
right. Ill git the a’manac.”

“No, you needn't git the almanac, dear. I’m as good
an almanac as you need, for it was the very night our
barn blew down and nearly killed the cow. Steenie, I
was a willful woman then, and I’ve been looking back. I
do believe our bad luck beginned with that very day.”

«I'm afeared you're right, little woman,” said Steenie,
solemnly. ..‘“‘But 1 aided and abetted ye; I’m quite as
much to blame.”

*‘] won’t have ye say that, either, Steenie; ye consent-
ed, and what could a man do agin such tears and cries?
1 don’t blame you; I take all the blame to myself. All
these months we’ve been letting some poor woman’s
heart ache ae straight along, for see how she must a
longed for the poor baby? Ob, I can see the finger of
retribution. First, you burt your hand, and was laid up
for two months. By that means you lost your place just
when you needed it most. Then it cost us many a dollar
to have the cow doctored, and she’s not been quite right
since. After that little Dotty fell sick, and we came
mighty near saying good-by to her forever. And when
she got well, why I was took. So you see trouble has
followed trouble, and I'm afraid the Lord is angry with
bes for keeping the blessed child. What do you say, Stee-
nie 2?”

“What can I say, and you sick ? Your heart’s wrapped
up in her.”

At that moment in came Miss Prissy, longer and
flanker than ever. In her bony hand she bore a steam-
ing bowl, and sniffed the fragrance as she walked. Her
shaker, perched upon the top of her head, fell over on
her nose as she walked.

“Don't stir it,” she said; looking with bent brows on
Stephen, as if she considered him the cause of all the
trouble, and st ole out like a cat.

The little woman tasted the mixture, then set it down
on a table by her side, and shook her head.

“Nothing tastes good to me now,” she said, wearily,
and sighed.

*Stephen,” she said, after another moment of silence,
“we've got to talk it out Ican’t keep still; something
s eems to trouble me; and I’m afraid”—her voice trem-
bled and sank—‘‘I’m afraid we’ve got to give her up.
We're even getting too poor to take care of her.”

“J didn’t read all the advertisement,” said Steenie,
taking advantage of her mood. ‘*What do you suppose
they offer now for her recovery ?”

* pa hy, it was five hundred before; have they doubled

‘Moubled it!” said Stephen; “I should think they
have. What do you say now to—a thousand pounds ?”

“Why, that’s five thousand dollars,” said the little
woman, catching her breath as suddenly as if somebody
had thrown water in her face; that’s a fortune—a for-
tune, Steenie, even to better than we.”

“Double it, little woman,” said Steenie, rubbing his
hands gleefully, ‘‘and then throw tn the heart-breaking
joy of the mother who longs for her child.”

“Not ten thousand, Steenie!—not ten thousand dol-
lars!—one hundred times one hundred. Oh, Steenie,
you’d never haye to work sohard again. What you
could do with ten thousand !”

“Stock a farm and put money in the bank,” said
Steenie, folding his arms, settling back and putting his
feet on the stove-hearth. “Make a man of me, and
adopt some little one for you.”

“So we might, Steenie; well——”

She caught her breath again.

The gleeful voice of the child was heard out in the
kitchen at that moment. Miss Prissy, whose aid was
invaluable, came in tor Dotty’s night-dress.

~I do declare, that child is the peartest and the droll-
est little creeter!” she said, coming forward; “but
she'll grow out of it; and some man'll git her at the
last, I spose,” She added, with suppressed wrath.

“That's so, Steenie,” aud the little woman -laughed,
faintly. ‘““Think of her as much as we might, she'll grow
away from us, ye know, love somebody better, and all
that. We'll spare ourselves that suffering to let her go
now. Steenie, | guess we will.” She drove back a sob.
“She hasn’t been with me so much for a month or two,
and if she goes now, it won’t be so hard, will it?”

‘I don’t think it will, little woman,” replied Steenie.

«And then I’ve been thinking thatit's downright sin
for us.to keep her—downright sin, Steenie.”

“It looks like it, little woman.”

«So, to-morrow you shall answer the advertisement.”

Then there was dead silence.

CHAPTER XX.
THE DEAD ALIVE!

‘Laura, you've trod the lace off my dress,” said Iso-
line Huntley, her voice almest harsh in its cadence.

“Oh, my dear, I beg ten thousand pardons,” cried
Laura. ‘How could I be so careless ?”

«Such a pity,” murmured another fashionable dame.
“Tt cost twelve dollars a yard if it cost a cent.”

“But to wear lace there!’ cried an antiquated dame.
“A piece of useless extravagance.”

“Miss Huntley can afford to be extravagant,” said her
companion.

“No one can afford to be extravagant,” was the severe
reply.

It was the event of a ballin one of the most splendid
homes of Fifth avenue, New York. The house was one
blaze of light from basement to dome. . Carriages had
been ranged along the pavement for hours, and richly
dressed ladies were accommodated by stepping upon
the softest of velvet carpeting with which the walk and
the steps were covered.

Isoline Huntley received her guests in the long illu-
minated parlors. The rooms communicating on the
ground floor were all thrown open, divided only by
eurtains of crimson silk, and formed a magnificent
spectacle. New Yorkers are prodigal of flowers, of
statuary, of pictures, of all the luxuries and conve-
niences known to civilization. Judge Huntley, who,
as well as his daughter, was very wealthy, de-
lighted in Paris upholstery. Why then gointo detail,
when the least imaginative person can form a picture
of this home for himself, given the flowers, etc ?

Isoline Huntley was a rich woman, in her own right.
An uncle with whom she was a favorite had left her an
almost princely fortune, and she knew when and how
to spendit. She was a singular mixture of the penu-
rious and the extravagant. In her veins ran Jewish
blood that asserted itself in her magnificent dark eyes,
.and the faintest curve of a perfectly shaped nose.
“Stately,” ‘“queenly,” were the terms in which people
spoke of her. She was envied, loved, coveted, flattered,
and yet she kept her head. Men of wealth, men of
genius, men who lived by their wits, surrounded her
constantiy, but she was not impressed by them,

She had that peculiar faculty, native to some women—
and also to some ien—of winning much and giving lit-
tle. She could inspire affection, and at the same time
feel no mutual sympathy. She had been wont to say
that her heart had never been touched, but not of late.
One who stood aloof and only worshiped at a distance,
attracted first her scrutiny, then her regards. She often
declared that she should know her hero when he came,
and also that he must be all but faultless, pure in
morals, handsome in person, noble in intellect. high in
position.

How the Fates, who are said to weave our destiny,
must have laughed when in the person of Richard Wal-
ter Dunniston, she professed to have discovered all
these first-class qualities! And yet, almost blindly,
she gave her heart tohim. It was she who wooed rather
than he, and it was curious to see how she lavished her
attentions upon him.

 

 

 

 

Laura Veschoff had known him for some time as an
inmate of her brother’s family, and Laura and he had
flirted a little, though Isoline never knew that he was
anything more to her friend than an acquantance, but
he was. Laura had failen p lonately ip.lave_as. she
chose to Say to herself—and he had not escaped as heart
whole as he could wish. But his object was money.
He had wanted it all his life. He had slaved for it,
gamed for it, and it was quite in his heart to commit
additional follies, and even add crime, that he might
win the coveted gold.

Isoline Huntley fancied she had found her ideal, and
not the least among his high recommendations was the
fact that he was in line for a title. When, therefore,
she received that letter, bearing all the marks of
genuineness upon its face, just before embarking for
Europe, it threw her into an alarming illness whose
worst features were not palpable till the rest of the
party were gone, Then came the tidings of the loss, by
wreck, of the ill-fated Star, and isoline’s trouble needed
not the additional strain. Her whole nature seemed to
be changed.

Laura alone of all the friends who had composed that
memorable party, who with such high spirits had set out
on their voyage to Europe, came back to her as much
changed as she herself was. Laura had been favored
with his last words; she had seen his last living glance,
and henceforth Laura was her one chosen friend. She
also divined with her newly awakened consciousness that
Laura had loved him as dearly as she herself did, and
she was jealous of the dead.

At first Isoline Had passionately declared that she
would go into mourning for him. Laura had declared
nothing, but she did go into mourning, for from that
time she wore no colors.

For along time Isoline kept in seclusion. The gay
world mourned, but she professed to have cut the gay
world, and if there had been a nice Protestant convent,
she would at once have gone into it, and there hidden
all her sorrows. But she did not, and this, her first ball,
might have been considered an advertisement that she
was out again.

The dancing had been going on foran hour. Jsoline
had received many appeals for just one dance, but she

solutely set herself against them all. She could not

ance yet.

“See here, now,” said young Lieutentant Stanhope,
who was scarcely twenty-one, and too old a friend for
any one to consider him a lover, ‘I’ve a wager depend-
ing. Give me one dance—only half adance. Take half
a dozen turns.”

Tsoline’s eyes blazed.

“How dare you bet on such a thing ?” she asked.

“Ah, but I did so want a new hat!” he murmured,
pathetically, ‘‘and it was with—come now, guess.”

“T won’t guess, and you are an impudent boy,” she
said, smartly.

“It was with your papa, Isoline dear.”

Miss Huntley laughed. i

“You grow worse and worse,” she said, ‘‘and so does
papa. The idea of his betting!”

“Blue blood tells,” laughed the young man, saucily.
“My ancestor bet at Agincourt when the bullets were fly-
ing around him, that he should be shot in the head—and
he won,” he added, with another laugh.

“And died ?”

“Of course.”

“Then how could he win ?”

“Oh, the wager was paid to his son.”

“Horrible!” said Isoline, with a shudder.

-“Yes, if you view it in one light, but a certain devil-
may-care bravery if in the other, begging your pardon
for speaking so brusquely.”

“J think you ought to be aware of your incivility.”

“Oh, now, not so bad as that. Come, give me this
dance, and let me win. Otherwise your father will laugh
at me.”

“J hope he will,” said Isoline; ‘you deserve to be
laughed at.”

“Oh, by the way,” said the young lieutenant, with
provoking nonchalance, ‘‘I’ve a letter for you.”

“A letter for me—you?”

“Yes, me. It was inclosed in one to my brother in-
law. It’s from—no, I won't tell you that; but it’s from
England.”

“From England!” almost gasped Isoline, feeling her
color go. ‘*Who is there in England would have written
to me—under cover, I mean?”

‘And I've some astounding news! By Jove! whata
forgetful fellow lam! Who do you think has turned up?
Not a friend of mine you may believe, for I never liked
him. But men whom men don't like are sometimes the
very persons best liked by women, I thipk. Well, Dun-
niston—‘that fellow with the eyes,’ I always called him
—never got drowned after all. How luck follows some
men, eh? And to crown it all, two or three people had
died just at the right moment, and he is now Lord Dun-
niston. Isn’t that a precious bit of good fortune?”

Isoline stood there cold and staring. Living! and Lord
Dunniston! How could she help it-if-everybody in: pass-
ing stopped and looked at her as ifshe had been a petri-
tied statue. Fortunately Lieutenant Stanhope had been
spoken to just at this juncture of affairs, and he did not
see the blanched cheeks, compressed lips, and heaving
bosom. Before he turned again Isoline had partly re-
covered.

“Did you—did you hear this from a reliable source?”
she asked in a constrained voice.

“Why, yes—rather—that is it might be considered so,”
said the other, playing mercilessly with her feelings.
‘“He—wrote the news himself.”

A great shock thrilled Isoline from head to foot.

Oh, then—the letter——” she began in an excited
tone, the blood pouring back into her cheeks, lips, and
even her arms and neck.

“Ah! and so I have excited your interest—your curi-
ae ; Very well, one dance, and you shall have the

r.”

 

“T will not! You are too exacting—you are ungenerous
—you have no right to withhold what is mine;” and then
came a delirious sort of rapture. The letter must be
from him; and to write if he must be tree.

“Ah! but thinkof my hat, of my impecunious state
of pocket.”

She laughed excitedly.
familiar handwriting.

“Once down the room then,” she said. and he whirled
her triumphantly, theugh gracefully. right under the
eyes of the old judge wh@ shook his finger at him.

‘“Now—the letter,” she said, breathlessly. ‘I’ve
earned it; but I hate you for your exaction,” she added,
with a momentary spite.

“Any thing is better than indifference,” he said, gal-
lantly.. «I am one of that sort; like either to be loved
or hated. Now, you know Iladore you. Why, where the

Anything for a sight of that

duse is the letter ?” and he pretended to search in every |
pocket while she grew cold with fear, lest after all the |

young seapegrace should be fooling her.

«You left it behind you then, after all,” she said, white,
to the lips.

“No, I did not—I hope I haven’t Jost it,” and having
played with her fears to his satisfaction, he drew out
the letter, and offered it with a flourish.

She took it. Her fingers tingled as they closed upon it,
and she breathed a great sigh of relief. It was just a
moment after this that she made that impetuous re-
mark to Laura Veschoff that she had trodden her lace
off.
For Laura had noticed all the changes in Isoline from
the first moment that the young lieutenant spoke, to the
moment she clasped the letter and hid it in the folds of
her dress.

What could agaitate the haughty, reposeful girl in
that manner? What but some news of the most terri-
ble import—or something of the most ecstatic? She
knew all her moods—knew that she was not easily un-
nerved, and followed her every movement with her eyes,
always keeping herin sight. Then, in too great haste
to be on her track, she trod upon the lace, and tore it off,
a yard or so in length:

‘‘How could I be so careless ?” Laura had said.
up stairs with you this moment and sew it on.”

“Oh, Stratton can dg that,” responded Isoline, still
wae ne the letter.. *f won’t trouble you.”

“But Pili do it for-péfiance. Besides, I've got some-
thing on my mind, and#I want to speak to you away
from all this crowd.” ¥

To get away ‘‘from ali this crowd” was exactly what
Isoline wanted to do, though she could have dispensed
with Laura’s company; sothey went together, Laura
holding the train up with its severed appendage.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—>@<—_—_

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

A Detec ve by Chance

A GHASE ROUND THE WORLD,

By MARIPOSA WETR,

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

‘VT ll go

(‘A DETECTIVE/BY CHA¥CE” was commenced in No.7. Back
oumbers can be obtaines of all News Agents. ]}

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THEKLA BENHAM—THE LADY AND THE PAGE.

While Giorno was developing to Da Ponte the bloody
programme of wholesale murder outlined at the close of
the last chapter, two females were engaged in an earn-
est conversation in one of the upper apartments of the
house.

One was a large, solidly built woman of about forty.
Her figure, though massive, did not lack symmetry, and
she had a kind of coarse beauty which, for a certain
class of men, would have possessed powerful attrac-
tions. ‘ :

Her complexion was of a clear, rich olive tint. Her
hair, abundant and pf luxuriant growth, though not
fine, was of that peculiar dead black color which is so
common among the women of Southern Italy. Her large,
bold eyes, strong nost, and solid chin, cleft by a deep
dimple, indicated firmness, and inflexible resolution.

This was Signora Spagnoli, the successor of the treach- ,

erous Madame Chegaray.
The other occupgsawheke room. is not -se'casy te-de-
scribe. In her countenance and expression there was,

in fact, much that bafties all attempts at description.

She was standing near a window looking out upon the
court, and as she turned and walked across the room to
a sofa upon which she seated herself in a reclining po-
sition, the supple, willowy grace of her figure and muve-
ment had init the effect of musical rhythm, and she
seemed, like Tennyson's Grecian Helen,

“ A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.”

Her long, slender arms, exquisitely rounded ; her slim
hand and tapering fingers, the poise of the graceful
head, the clear-cut features—all gave her an air of aris-
tocratic distinction. But the mild, candid eyes, and the
child-like simplicity of her expression, were the very re-
verse of aristocratic hauteur. From her step and figure,
as she walked across the room, one would have taken
her to be a woman of twenty at least, while a glance at
the sweet young face would have produced the impres-
sion that she was a girl of not more than sixteen.

But the something about her not to be described, and
which the most skillful painter would have failed to rep-
resent on canvas, waS a Strange air of dreamy languor
and abstraction that hung about her features like a vail,
so that she seemed buf half conscious of what was pass-
ing around her and before her eyes, like one walking
and speaking in a traiice.

Such is.the best pormeatt fam able to draw of Signora
Spagnoli’s companion, Who, as the intelligent reader has
already guessed, is n@ other than Thekla, the unfor-
tunate and strangely afflicted daughter of Colonel Ben-
ham.

“Signora,” she said, a few moments after having seated
herself, ‘‘do you not tind the heat oppressive? The
night is certainly lovely, but the air seems sultry.”

The voice in which these words were spoken was clear
and sweet, but not strong. It had a cadence that was
pensive rather than sad, and seemed like the voice of a
child in a serious mood.

“Yes,” assented the signora, ‘it does seem dreadfully
close. There is nota breath of air stirring. Shall we
take a promenade upon_the root ?”

“I think I should like it,” answered Thekla, ‘‘if it is
permitted.”

“There can be no objection,” rejoined the elder lady,
decisively. ‘‘The garden is forbidden; for you might be
seen there. Let us go.”

All the houses of Caifo are built with flat roofs, which
serve for domestic purposes, and are the common resort
of the family on warm evenings, being frequently fitted
up with seats and couches for that purpose, and guarded
at the sides by parapets nearly breast high, to prevent
accidents. As the houses are built inclosing an un-
covered court, the, roof affords a promenade around it,
from which, on each of the inner sides. one can look
down upon the court, and the rear of the opposite side.

“J do not know,” said Thekla, when they had reath-
ed the roof, ‘‘that if is really any cooler here than below.
But with the open skybove us, and this glorious land-
scape around, it seems less close and sultry than with
it all shut out by the £@r walls of a room.”

The young girl devofred the magnificent view with
her eyes. The tropical trees of the garden were not
tall enough to obstruct it, few of them rising much
higher than the level of the roof. Westward spread the
broad expanse of the most mysterious and wonderful
river of the world. The great obelisk of Heliopolis
loomed up in the east. Southward, towered Mount Mo-
kattem, with its ruined castles and moidering aomes,
while far away in the south-west could be seen the
massive outlines ol the mighty Pyramids of Ghizeh.

As the two wonieén stood leaning over the outer para-
pet, looking out toward the Nile, where the dark groves
of the Island of Rhoda Were just visible beyond the ruins
of Old Cairo, Thekla asked her companion what day of
the month it was. i

“The twenty-tifth,” replied the signora.

“Then, in a few days more,” said Thekla, with a deep
sign, “it will be two months since l was taken away
from my home.”

“It is so strange,” said the signora, fixing her big eyes
on Thekla’s face with an expression of blank wonder.
“It is something that [ shall never be able to under-
stand.”

“You mean about my leaving home ?”

«Yes, with Signor Giorno, whom I know you do not
love, whom you never did love, whom you fear and de-
test. It is truly incomprehensible.”

“So every one will say. No one can understand it.
1 do not understand it myself. Itisadark, unfathom-
able mystery.”

The girl’s voice sank to a low murmur as she uttered
these words, and she gave a little shudder

The signora eyed her fixedly, with a piercing, i puz-
zled gaze, but said nothing, and ‘l'hekla resumed :

“Jt all seems to me like a dream. I feel as if I had
been dreaming ever since the moment I stepped out on to
the porch of my father’s house with Giorno, at his re-
quest. to point out a shorter way to the road than that
by which he had come. He had asked me to walk with
him, and I had declined; but I could not refuse to show
him the trail—I could do this trom the door—I did not
mean to go farther. [ went out with bim upon the
lawn, and told him which way to go. After that, Lre
member nothing distinctly. I repeat, that it all seems
to me like a dream, from which I am just awaking. This
is a strange story, I know—and who will believe it 2”

The signora said nothing, but looked more bewildered
than ever. 7

“Tt can

site ver be explained,” resumed Thekla, mourn-
ully. "2

human beingin all the world, but my own

*

 

father, will listen to the tale without suspicion or in- |
credulity.”

“But,” said the signora, ‘“‘you will marry Signor Gi-
orno, and then all will be right.”

“Never !’ cried Thekla, with energy. ‘“‘What! marry
pic villain who has blighted my whole life? I will die
irst.’

«But, dear child, itis the only way.. After leaving your
father’s house with him, and traveling for months in his
company. Ah! my pretty one, I should fancy you would
be glad to be his wife.”

“Never!” repeated Thekla, firmly. ‘I shall never
marry. If I can only be restored to my father, I will de-
vote my life to him, or retire from the world to some
seclusion where I may remain unseen and unknown,
until death releases me.”

. At this moment, Thekla, who was standing with her
arms resting on the parapet, and her head bent over it,
thought she heard a long-drawn sigh near her.

It certainly was not the signora who uttered this
mournful sound, and after a moment's reflection, the
girl concluded that it must proceed from the room, the
window of which was just below where she stood. While
she was listening to see if it was repeated, a few ran-
dom notes of a guitar were heard from the same spot, as
if some one were engaged tuning the instrument.

“Itis Signor Giorno’s page,” said Thekla’s attendant,
in answer to her inquiring look. “They have locked
him up in his room for some reason; and the poor boy is
trying to amuse himself with his guitar, which he plays
charmingly. By my faith, he is a pretty youth, though
more bashful than becomes his years. But then he
tells me that he is country-bred, which accounts for his
shyness.”

In fact, the signora, who notwithstanding her mature
years had conceived a fancy for the handsome page, and
had-made one or two attempts to practice her powers of
fascination upon him, was somewhat mortified by the
coldness with which her advances had been met, though
she attributed it to his inexperierce and timidity, rather
than any insensibility to her charms.

“JT have noted,” answered Thekla, ‘‘that he has a
voice of rare sweetness, and at times a look of sadness,
as if he had some secret sorrow. But what can he have
done to incur his master’s displeasure ?”

“Well, then,” said the signora, “do you not know why
we left Venice i such a hurry ? Do you not know that
ever since his departure from America Signor Giorno
has been pursued—whether by your father, or your
brother, or some other person, I know not; but cer-
tainly by some one, whose presence in Venice caused |
our hasty flight. Signor Da Ponte thinks the page has |
communicated with the pursuer. He fears that we
may be followed even here, and that if Stefano were at
liberty he would give information, or send some message
to those who are seeking you; and that is why the poor
youth is imprisoned.” ‘

The idea that Giorno was pursued in his flight; that
friends were endeavoring to trace and rescue her, was
not new to Thekla. Indeed, how could she believe the
contrary, knowing her father as she did? The rapidity
with which she was hurried from place to place naturally
suggested this suspicion. And finally, Madame Chega-
ray had several times grown quite confidential and
communicative with her charge—generally when she
had been indulging too freely in absinthe, her favorite
beverage.

Indeed, the madam. who had formed her own theory
in regard to the matter, had explicitly told Thekla,
while they were at Venice, that ‘ther brother” had ar-
rived in that city in pursuit of her, and had intimated
her own willingness to communicate with him, if she
could be assured of a suitable reward for her services,
which she modestly estimated at twenty thousand
francs. But the day after she broached the subject to
Thekla, Giorno had given her her dismissal, and fled
from Venice.

While Thekla was reflecting upon what the signora
had just told her, it occurred to her that on several oc-
casions the page bad seemed desirous of making some
communication to her. But she had never seen him ex-
cept in the presence of her vigilant attendant, when he
could say nothing that she, too, would not have heard.

It also occurred to her, thatif she had heard so dis-
tinctly his light touch upon the guitar, and the deep sigh
that had first attracted her attention, he must also
have heard, through his open. window just below the
parapet where she was standing, the conversation be-
tween herself and Signora Spaguolli.

Asthese thoughts were passing through her mind,
the sound of the guitar was again heard, accompanied
by a sweet, pure voice singing in French. The words
were so distinctly articulated that she had no difficulty
in understanding them. The song may be thus rendered
in English :

“The wicked knight, with cruel might,
Has borne the lady fair away ;
Far from her home, in mournful plight,
He sailed by night, he sailed by day.

*O’er seas and lands, to foreign strands
He fied, and bore the captive maid ;
O’er seas and lands, true hearts, strong hands,
Pursued their flight to bring her aid.

“Then, lady fair, do not despair,
Yield not to doubt, yield not to fear ;
Let him, the wicked knight, beware,
The swift avenger now is near.”

As Thekia listehered to these words, her heart swelleG
with the new-born excitement of hope. She could not
doubt that the song applied to her own situation. The
page had been accused of treachery to his master in
communicating with friends who were in search of her,
and here was a plain assurance that such friends, with
true hearts and strong hands, were at this moment
actually near ler.

‘How beautifully he sings,” cried the signora, who did
not understand a word of French. ‘Doubtless itis a
love song, poor youth! But the air is beginning to grow
cool. Let us descend.”

CHAPTER XXXIX.

SHOOBRA, AND THE SPRING OF HAROUN AL RASCHID.

When the party set out for the Gardens of Shoobra,
the little cavalcade presented an appearance at once
picturesque aud comical. The Egyptian donkey is the
smallest of his species, though wonderfully strong, and
capable of carrying prodigious burdens ; and when men
of the great size of Mustapha and Juan are mounted
astride of these diminutive animals, the spectacle is irre-
sistibly ludicrous.

The dragoman, in his tremendous turban and gorgeous
attire, with his wide flowing trousers, looked even
larger than he really was; and by contrast, so dwarted
the little beast that bore him, that it seemed scarcely
larger than an ordinary Newfoundland dog. As to Juan,
whose legs were longer, in proportion, than his body, he
had great difficulty in keeping his feet clear of the
ground; and the enormous broad-brimmed straw hat
he wore, seemed to spread its ample circumference from
the head to the tail of his donkey, so that the little
beast presented a resemblance, in the words ot its rider,
to ‘‘a toad under a toad-stool.”

AS a general rule, the owners of donkeysin Cairo
Seldom hire them out by the day, without insisting that
the animals shall be accompauied by a ‘‘donkey-boy,”
who, armed with a stout stick, follows behind it, and
keeps it at a brisk pace by belaboring it with blows, or
poking it dexterously iu the rear. On this occasion,
however, Mustapha had managed to dispense with this
sort of attendance, and the party set out alone.

Madame Chegaray had intimated the preceding even-
ing that she should not join in the excursion uuless some
sort of a wheeled vehicle was provided for her accommo-
dation, and as this had.been neglected, that lady re-
mained at home.

Tbe dragoman rode in advance. Juan kept close be-
hind him, watching his every movement with unsleep-
ing vigilance, while Irke and D’Estree followed at the
distance of some fifteen or twnty paces, riding side by
side.

In this order they left the hotel, and entered upon the
broad road, shaded by magnificent acacias, which leads
to Shoobra. ;

It was nearly 11 o’clock when the party reached the
palace situated inthe midst of a fragrant wilderness of
roses, geraniums, and Orange trees. Some hours were
spent inranging through this scene of enchantment, or
loitering beside the artificialflake fed with forty living
streams gushing from the mouths of as many marble
crocodiles, or inspecting the divans and apartments
which are thrown open to visitors.

Mastapha, who, in his character as dragoman, had
shown hundreds of parties from every quarter of the
civilized world through the palace and gardens, seemed
to take as much pleasure in the discharge of his duties
as cicerone, as it all these wo ders were new to him.

D'Estree was enthusiastic in his enjoyment of this
spectacle of oriental magnificence ; and honest Juan, to
whom it was all like some vision of fairy-land, was too
bewildered to speak, and more thari once paused and

‘rubbe. his eyes as it doubting whether he was awake

or dreaming.

Irke alonerappeared to take little interest in what he
saw. His manner was absent and abstracted, as if he
were dwelling upon other things than the marvels by
which he was surrounded. In fact, his thoughts were
occupied with doubts and fears that prevented him
from enjoying the excursion. It was now more than a
week siuce he had sailed from Brindise, and still no in-
telligence came from this unknown friend. Was it pos-
sible that he had been lured to Egypt by false informa-
tion, and that Giorno and his unfortunate victim were
now thousands of miles away in some other quarter of
the globe ?

Absorbed in such gloomy reflections, he wandered
from the party, and climbed an elevation covered with
banana and orange trees, in the midst of which was a
little kiosk. The spot commanded a glorious peer
of the Nile, with the Pyramids of Sakhara and Ghizeb
in the distance, and beyond them the vast, arid expanse
of the Libyan Desert. But the charm of the landscape
was utterly lost upon him.

The kiosk seemed to be deserted. Entering through
an open door, he found hiinself in an octagonal apart-
ment, the floors and walls of which were of oriental
alabaster. In the center a fountain threw a sparkling
stream high in the air from the raised head of an enor-
mous serpent, the water falling with a soft spiash into a
circular basin. Seating himself beside the fountain, he
spon became lost in dreamy reverie.

A cheerful voice roused him from his gloomy refiec-
tions, and looking up, he saw D’Estree at the entrance
of the Kiosk.

«Was there ever such a scene of lovelieness ?” he ex-
claimed, seating himself at the side of his friend;
«Shobra will haunt me in my dreams. This alone is
worth poping to Egypt for. Itis like a page out of the
Arabian Nights.”

“Yes, it is very wonderful,” returned Irke, with a

| friend ?

 

VOL. 42—No. 20,

sigh, ‘‘but Icannot eujoy it. I was thinking -how long

; we have been in Cairo, without having advanced a

Single step in the object that brought us here.”

«And so you have lost your faith in your mysterious
But I feel a stronger confidence than ever that
we have not been misled in coming to Cairo. 1 know

} not why it is, but 1 have a profound conviction that be-

fore the week is out you will receive the promised mes-
sage.”

‘I hope so,” said Irke, ‘and 1 heartily wish I could
share your conviction.”

“My dear Irke,” said D’Estree, abruptly changing the
subject, “I have long wished to ask you a question ; one
which I have no right to ask, and which, were it not
for our long friendship, might be regarded as imperti-
nent.”

Irke fixed his eyes on the speaker with a puzzled look,
and by a gesture bade him proeeed.

‘Well, then, old friend, do you love Thekla Ben-
ham ?”

Irke started, and gazed in D’Estree’s face with undis-
guised amazement.

«You know 1 have never seen her,” he said, after a
brief pause.

“Ah! my dear Irke, that is no answer to my question.
It is not impossible to love one you have never actuaily
seen. The imagination may shape a picture that en-
thralls the heart. You one day showed me a likeness—
when we met in Venice—the representation of a face
that ever since has been constantly before my
eyes. I see it always, sleeping or awake. And
it has seemed to me that J ought to tell you this. For I
recognize your prior claims ; and if your affections are
set upon this lovely being, | have no right to become
your rival. Duty and honor would require me to Strive
to obliterate her image from my heart.”

irke uttered a low laugh.

“My dear Hyppolite,” he said, ‘‘we are a pair of ro-
mantic fools. I see how it is. We have both fallen in love
with a shadow. Or at least, we fancy we are in love.”

Pa is no fancy on my part,’ said D’ Estree, with a
sigh.

“Well, then, my friend,” said Irke, grasping his hand,
‘hear me. From the moment I first set eyes on her pic-
ture, I imagined that I adored Thekla Benham. But of
late I have had doubts. My thoughts have wandered from
her to the mysterious being, the Great Unknown, whose
voice I heard in the abbey vaults at Treppi, and again in
my dungeon at Venice. I am consumed by an eager
desire to look upon the face of my preserver. You will
say that this is another shadow. Beit so. Still, I have
a presentiment that my destiny is linked with that of
my unknown visitant. And more. I believe, whoever
she be, that she loves me. The mention of the name of
Thekla Benham seemed to awaken her jealousy; anda
certain ill-concealed bitterness came into her voice at
every allusion to her. Our first business is to discover
and rescue the unfortunate daughter of Colonel Benham.
When that is done, if the feeling you have confessed still
animates your heart, you are free to urge yoursuit. If]
too should experience a revival of my first fancy, let us
be frank and honorable rivals.”

At this moment a huge shadow darkened the entrance
to the kiosk. The two young men looked up, as Juan
entered, and by his presence put an end to thelr confer-
ence.

“It is time we were going,” saidhe. ‘Old Ebony is in
no hurry; I b’leeve he’d like to keep us here till dark.
But I'd ruther git back to the hotel by daylight.”

«What an unaccountable suspicion you have conceived
against the Nubian,” cried D’Estree, laughing. ‘Surely
you are not afraid of him ?”

‘‘Afeard of him!” answered Juan, with a snort that
would have done credit to a hippopotamus, ‘‘afeard of
him! Crokydiles and sea sarpints, no! Leastways, not
in a fair fignt; though I do b’leeve he’d be a cantanker-
ous customer. It’s his cunning and dev’lish trechrous-
ness I’m afeard of. There’s trech’ry in his eye. He knows
I’m watchin’ him. And this hull day, he hasn't once
looked me squar in the face. I’m as sure he’s plottin’
some villainy~as ef a fortun’-teller had.toid.me.so,”

“Well,” said Irke, ‘‘we have seen all that there fs to be
seen, and there is no reason for longer delaying our re-
turn.”

The party had ridden about a mile and a half on the
road to Cairo, when the dragoman suddenly halted.

“I torgot to give our beasts any water at Shoobra,” he
said, ‘‘and they are nearly perishing of thirst. The
Spring of Haroun al Raschid is in yonder little oasis
where you see the clump of date trees. Let us go there
and rest in the shade a few moments while I water the
donkeys.”

“T guess they can wait till we git to town,” said Juan,
gruffly. ‘It is only a couple of miles.”

“Then,” cried D’Estree, ‘‘we can the better afford a
little delay. As for me, I would fain see the spring, and
take a draught of its water, if it were only for the name’s
sake.’

Mustapha chose to accept this as settling the matter,
and led the way toward the green spot where the date
trees towered in plain sight, at apparently not more
than a few hundred yards trom the road.

Juan followed, muttering to mimseli, with his hand on
his revolver.

Irke and D’Estree, engaged in conversation, rode a
short distance behind.

“My dear Hyppolite,” said the former, ‘I find myself
oppressed by an unaccountable foreboding of coming
evil. It anything sbould happen to me, will you give me
your promise to pursue the search to which I am
pledged ?”

‘Heaven forbid,” answered D’Kstree, ‘‘that any evil
should befall you. But,in any event, I give you the
promise you ask. I will never rest until that unfortu-
nate and lovely being is restored to her father.”

“It is enough,” said Irke, grasping his trieud’s hand,
“and I doubt not that you will show greater sagacity
and prudence in the task than I have evinced.”

Mustapha and Juan had now reached the spring,
which was situated in the hollow of a little dell, sur-
rounded by loose rocks and a dense tangle of shrubbery.
They had both dismounted, and the dragoman led the
two donkeys to the water, while Juan kept close at his
side, never removing his grasp from his pistol.

The water, of a clear, deep, beautiful blue, overfiowed
a large rocky basin, imparting a bright azure tint to the
pebbles and sand at the bottom.

“How beautiful!” exclaimed D'Estree, as he reached
the spot and hastily sprang from his donkey; then
dipping up some of the water in the hollow of his joined
hands, he added :

“I drink to the glorious memory of the caliph after
whom thisspring is named. To the memory of Haroun
al Raschid, not forgetting Sindbad the Suilor, and
Aladdin of the wonderful lamp.”

But the draught never reached his lips. As he bent
his head over his palms to drink, a sudden rustling in
the thicket caught his ear, and looking up, a swarthy
face, and the glimmer of steel shone through the foliage.

At the same instant Mustapha, as if by accident,
dropped a stone into the fountain with a loud plash.

“f know'd it!” cried Juan, as on every side, obedient
to the signal, dark forms sprang up from behind the
rocks, and cimeters flashed in the red light of the set-
ting sun from every bush, I know'd it! But you'll
never live to brag of your trech’ry !”

AS he spoke, he leveled his pistol full at Mustapha’s
head and fired; but the Nubian did not tall. A second
and a third shot followed in rapid succession; but the
dragoman stood unhurt, with a mocking smile on his jet-
black visage, while he made a sign to his band, and said
in a low, hoarse whisper :

‘Be quick—and silent! Cut them down!”

(TO BE CONTINUED. ]
Oe
KNOCKED ABOUT IN THE WORLD.

It is agood thing for a young man to be “knocked
about in the world,” though his soft-hearted parents
may not think so. All youths, or if not all, certainly
nineteen-twentieths of the sum total, enter life with a
surplusage of self-conceit. The sooner they are relieved
of it the better. If, in measuring themselves with wiser
and older men than they are, they discover that it is

unwarranted, and get rid of it gracefully, of their own
accord, well and good; if not, it is desirable, for their
own sakes, that it be knocked out of them.

A boy who is sent to a large school soon finds his level.
His will may have been paramount at home; but school
boys are democratic in their ideas, and, if arrogant, he
is sure to be thrashed into a recognition of the golden
rule. The world isa great public school, and it soon
teaches a new pupil his proper place. If he has the
attributes that belong to a leader, he will be installed
in the position of a leader; if not, whatever his own
opinton of his abilities may be, he will be compelled to
fall in with the rank and file. If not destined to great-
ness, the next best thing to which he can aspire is
respectability ; but no man can either be truly great or
truly respectable who is vain, pompous and overbearing.

By the time the novice has found his legitimate social
position, be the same high. or low, the probability is that
the disagreeable traits of his character will be softened
down or worn away. Most likely the process of abrasion
will be rough, perhaps very rough; but when it is all
over, and he begins to see himself as others see him, and
not as reflected in the mirror of self-conceit, he will be
thankful that he has run the gauntlet and arrived,
though hy a rough road, at self-knowledge. Upon the
whole, whatever loving mother may think to the con-
trary, it is a good thing for youths to be knocked about
in the world—it makes men of them.

— @ 4
A PERFECT GENTLEMAN.

Sir Philip Sydney appears to have more nearly ap-
proached the ideal of a perfect gentleman than any
other public character in English history. Even his
early years were marked by striking traits of natural

genius, purity of mind, and generosity of sentiment. He
was born in Penhurst, England, in the year 1554, at the
ancient country seat of the Sydneys. Famous both as a
poet anda soldier, his most attractive qualities were
brought out while on the tented field. One incident of
his military career deserves particular reference. In
September, 1586, at the battle of Zutphen, he received a
mortal wound. Getting weak from its effects, he puta
flask to his mouth ; but when about to drink, he noticed
a wounded private soldier lying on the ground, his
eloquent eyes silently asking for a draught, but his
tongue not daring toexpress therequest. ‘Take it,”
said Sir Philip, stooping over his horse, and putting the
fiask in the poor man’s hand. ‘You need it more than
I.” The wound, as before said, proved fatal to Sir Philip,
a days after receiving it, he breathed his
ast. ,

 

; ee :
eer

i.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 42—No.: 20,

 

“TIME AND ETERNITY.

“The world is wide, and life is long,”
Youth sang, and looked before him, !
As on the chariot of time
In rapid circles bore him.

“The world is narrow, time is short,
Cried Manhood, grieving sorely,
As on the topmust rung of life
He read its little story.

Age pointed upward: “In my home
Jope’s blossoms perish never ;

Earth lasts but for a passing day,
Eternity forever.”

> @~+— —____

LOVE'S YOUNG DREAM:

Mystery of Gower Hall.

By MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING,

Author of “Guy Earlscourt’s Wife,” “A Wonderful
Woman,” etc.

(“Love's Younc DREAM” was commenced in No. 6. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXXVII.—(CONTINUED.)

The period of Monsieur Le Touche’s stay was rapidly
drawing to close. March was at its end, too, and the
last night of the month. The eve of departure was cele-
brated at Gower Hall by a social party. The eider
Misses Delaplaine on that occasion were as lovely and
as much admixed as ever, and Messrs. Stanford and Le

Touche were envied by more than one gentleman pres-
ent. Grace’s engagement to Captain Delaplaine had
become a subject of gossip, and she shared the interest
with her step-daughters-elect.

Early next morning the two young gentlemen left.
There was breakfast almost before it was daylight, and
everybody got up to see them off.. It was a most de-
pressing morning. March had gone out like an idiotic
lamb, and April came in in sapping rain and enervating
mist. Ceaselessly the rain beat against the window-
glass, and the wind had a desolate echo that sounded
far more like winter than spring.

Pale, in the dismal morning light, Kate and Rose
Delaplaine bade their lovers adieu, and watched them
drive down the dripping avenue and disappear

An bour before he had come down stairs that dreary
morning, Mr. Stanford had written a letter. It was
very short:

“DEAR OLD Boy:—I'm off. In an hour I shall be on
my way to Ottawa, and from thence I will write you
next. Do you know why 1 am going? I am running
away from myself! ‘Lead us not into temptation ;’ and
Satan seems to have me hard and fast at Gower Hall.
Lauderdale, in spite of your bad opinion of men, | don’t
want to be a Villain if [can helpit. {[ don’t want to do
any harm; I do want to be true! And here it is impos-
sible. I have become intoxicated with flowing curls,
and with flashing dark eyes, and all the pretty, be-
witching, foolish, irresistible ways of that piquant litle
beauty, whom I have no business under heaven to think
of. I know sbeis silly, and frivolous, and coquettish,
and vain; butIlove her! There! the murder is out,
and I feel better after it. But, withal, I want to be
faithful to the girl who loves ine (ah, wretch that I am!)
and sol fly. A month out of sight of that sweet face—
a month out of hearing of that gay young voice—a month
shoting, and riding, and exploring these Canadian wilds,
wild do me good, and bring me back a newman. At
least I hope so: and don’t you set me downas a villain
for the next four weeks, at least.”

The day of departure was miserably long and dull at
Gower Hall. It rained ceaselessly, and that made it
worse. Rose never left her room; her plea was head-
ache. Kate wandered dreamily up stairs and down
stairs, and felt desolate and forsaken beyond all pre-
cedent.

There was a strange, forlorn stillness about the house,
as if one lay dead in it ; and from morning to night the
wind never ceased its melancholy complaining.

“Oh, my darling!” said Kate, looking out at the
wretched prospect, blurred and dim. ‘What would life
be if I lost you!”

Of course this abnormal state of things could not last.
Sunshine came next day, and Kate was herself again.

The preparations tor the treble wedding must now be-
gin in earnest; shopping, dressmakers, milliners, jew-
elers, all had to be seen after. .A-.journey to Montreal
must be taken immediately, and business commenced.
Kate held a long consultation with Rose in her boudoir ;
but Rose, strange to tell, took very little interest in the
subject. She, who all her life made dress the great con-
cern of her existence, all at once, in this important
crisis, grew indifferent.

She accompanied Kate to Montreal, however, and
hel in the selection of laces and silks and flowers
and ribbons; and another dressmaker was hunted up,
and carried back to Gower Hall.

It was a busy time after that. The needles of the
seamstress Eunice and the new dressmaker flew from
morning until night. Grace lent her assistance, and
Kate was always occupied superintending, and getting
fitted and refitted, and had no time to think how lonely
the house was, or how much she missed Reginald Stan-
ford. She was happy beyond the power of words to de-
scribe. The time was near when they would never part
again—when she would be his—his happy wife.

lt was all different with Rose. She had changed in a
most unaccountable manner. All her movements were
languid and listless; she who had been wont to keep
the house astir, took no interest in the bridal dresses
and jewelry. She shrank from every one, and wanted
to be alone. She grew pale, and thin, and hysterical,
and so petulant that it was a risk to speak to her. What
was the matter? Every one asked that question, and
Grace and Grace’s brother were the only two who
guessed within a mile of the truth.

And so April wore away. Time-that goes on forever,
steadily, steadily, for the happy as well as the miserable
—was bringing the fated time near. The sun had fled,
the new grass and fresh buds were green on the lawn
and trees, and the birds sang their glorias in the
branches so lately tossed by the wintry winds.

Doctor Delaplaine was still at Saint Croix, but he was
going away, too.

May came, and with it came Mr. Stanford, looking
sunburned and-fresh, but handsomer than ever. As on
- the eve of his departure trom Gower Hall, so on the eve
of his departure from Ottawa, he had written to his
confidential friend :

“DEAR LAUDERDALE :—The month of probation has ex-
ired. To-morrow [I return to Gower Hall. Whatever
appens, I have done my best. If fate is arbitrary. am I

to blame? Look forme in June, and be ready to pay
your respects to Mrs. Stanford.” ;

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
ONE OF EARTH’S ANGELS.

Mr. Stanford’s visit to Ottawa had changed him
somewhat, it seemed to Kafe. The eyes that love us
are sharp ; the heart that sets us up for its idol is quick
to feel every variation. Reginald was changed—vaguely,
almost indefinably, but certainly changed. He was
more silent than of old, and had a habit of falling into
long, brown studies in the midst of the most interesting
conversation. He took almost as little interest in the
bridal paraphernalia as Rose, and he sauntered lazily
about the grounds, or lay on the tender, new grass,
under the trees, smoking numerous cigars, and looking
dreamily up at the patches of bright, blue sky, and
thinking, thinking—ot what?

Kate saw it, felt it, and was uneasy. Grace saw it
too; for Grace had her suspicions of this fascinating
young English officer, and watched him closely. They
were not very good friends, somehow, Grace and Kate
Delaplaine—a sort of armed neutrality existed between
them, and had ever since Kate had heard of ner father’s
approaching marriage. She had never liked Grace
much—she liked her less than ever now. She was mar-
rying her father from the basest and most mercenary
motives; and Kate despised her, and was frigidly civil
and polite whenever she met her. She took it very
‘quietly, this calm Grace, as she took all things, and was
respectful to Miss Delaplaine, as became Miss Dela-
plaine’s father’s housekeeper,

“Frank, don’t you think Mr. Stanford has altered

* somehow, since he went to Ottawa ?” she said, one day,
to her brother, as they sat alone together at the dining-
room window.

Doctor Delaplainc looked out. Mr. Stanford was
sauntering down the avenue, a fishing-rod. over his
shoulder, and his bride-elect lounging on his arm.

“Altered! How ?”

“T don't know how,” said Grace, ‘but he has altered.
There is something changed about him, I don’t know
what. I don’t think he is settled in his mind.”

“My dear Grace, what are you talking about! Not
settled in his mind! A man who is to marry the hand-
somest girl in Canada!”

«7 don’t care for that? JI wouldn’t trust Mr. Reginald
Stanford as tar as I could see him!” ,

“You wouldn’t? But then you are an oddity, Grace!
Of what do you suspec* him ?”

“Never mind—my suspicions are my own. Of one
thing I am certain, he is no more worthy to marry Kate
Delaplaine than | am to marry a prince.”

“Nonsense! He is as handsome as Apollo; he sings,
he dances, and talks divinely! Are you not a little se-
vere, Miss Grace ?”

Grace closed her lips.

“We won't talk about it,
matter with Rose ?”

«*T wasn’t aware there was anything the matter. An
excess of happiness, probably—girls like to be married,
you know, Grace.”

“Fiddlestick! She has gone to a shadow. She mopes
in her room all day long, and hasn’t a word for any one
—she who used to be the veriest chatterbox alive |”

.

What do you suppose is the

 

SCRA

“All very naturally accounted for, my dear. M. Le
Touche is absent—doubtiless she is pining for him.”

“Just about as much as I am. [ tell you, Frank, I
hope things will go right next June, but I don’t believe
it. Hush#—Here is Miss Delaplaine.”

Miss Delaplaine opened the dining-room door, and
seeing who was there, bowed coldly and retired again.

Meantime, Mr. Stanford sauntered along the village,
with his fishing-rod, nodding good-humoredly right and
left. Short as had been his stay at Gower Hall, he was
very well known in the village, and had won golden
opinions from all sorts of people. From the black-eyed
girls who fell in love with his handsome face, to the
urchins sporting by the road-side, and to whom he flung
handfuls of pennies as he passed, he was a universal
favorite. The world and Mr. Stanford went remarkably
well with each other; and whistling all the way, he
reached his destination in half an hour—a clear, siivery
stream, Shadowed by waving trees and famous in fish-
ing annals. He flung himself down on the tutty sward,
lighted a cigar, and began smoking, and staring reflect-
ively at vacancy. The afternoon was lovely, warm as
June, the sky was of cloudless azure, and the sunlight
glittered in golden ripples on the stream. All things
were favorable; but Mr. Stanford was evidently nota
very enthusiastic disciple of Isaak Walton; for his cigar
was Smoked out, the stump thrown away, and his fish-
ing-rod lay unused still. He took it up at last, and
dropped it scientifically in the water.

“{t’s a bad business,” he soliloquized, ‘‘and hanging,
drawing, and Serene would be too good forme. But
what the duse is a fellow to do? and then sheis so fond
of me, too—poor little girl!”

He laid the tishing-rod down again, drew from an in-
ner pocket a note-book and pencil. From between the
leaves he drew out a sheet of pink-tinted, gilt-edged
note-paper, and using the note-book for a desk, began to
write. It was a letter, evidently; and after he wrote the
first line, he paused and looked at it with an odd smile.
The line was:

“Angel of my dreams.”

“] think she will like the style of that,” he mused ;
‘it’s Frenchified and sentimental, and she rather affects
that sort of thing. Poorchild! I don’t see how I ever
got to be so fond of her!”

Mr. Stanford went on with his letter. It wasin French,
and he wrote very slowly and thoughtfully. He filled
the four sides, ending with “Wholly thine, Reginaki
Reincourt Stanford.”

Carefully he read what he had written, made some
erasions, folded the note, and put it in an envelope.

As he sealed the envelope, a big dog came bounding
down the bank, and poked its cold black nose inquisi-
tively in his face.

“Ah! Tiger, how are you! Where is your master?’

‘‘Here,” said Doctor Delaplaine ; ‘‘don’t let me intrude!
Write the address, by all means.”

“Not now,” said Mr. Stanford, coolly, putting the let-
ter in his note-book, and the note-book in his pocket.
*‘] thought you were off to-day ?”

“No, to-morrow. I must be up and doing now—I am
about tired of Saint Croix, and nothing to do.”

*“Are you ever coming back ?”

“Certainly. I shall come back on the fourth of June,
So willing, to see you made the happiest man in crea-
tion.”

“Have a cigar?” said Mr. Stanford, presenting his
cigar-case. ‘| can recommend them. You would be
the happiest man in creation in my place—wouldn’t you,
now ?”

‘Most decidedly! But I wasn’t born, like some other
folks I know of, with a silver spoon inmy mouth. Beau-
ful wives drop into some men’s arins, ripe and ready, but
Lam not one of them.”

“Oh, don’t despond! Your turn may come yet.”

‘7 don’t despond; 1 leave that to—but comparisons
are odious.”

“Go ahead.”

“To Miss Rose Delaplaine. She is pining on the stem,
at the near approach of matrimony, and growing as thin
asa shadow. What’s the matter with her?”

“You ought to know best. You're a doctor.”

‘But love-sickness—I don’t believe there is anything
in the whole range of,physic to cure that. What's this—
a fishing-rod ?”

“Yes, Said Mr. Stanford, taking a more comfortable
position on the grass. ‘I thought I would try my luck
this fine afternoon, but somehow I don’t seem to progress
very tast.”

ne should think not, indeed. Let me see what I can

0

Reginald watched him lazily, as he dropped the line
into the placid water.

“What do you think about it yourself?” he asked,
aiter a pause.

«About what!”

“This new alliance on the tapis. He's a very nice lit-
tle fellow, | have no doubt; but if I were a pretty girl,
I don’t think I should like nice little fellows. He is just
the last sort of man in the world { could fancy our bright
little Rose marrying.”

“Of course he is! It’s a failing of the sex to marry the
very last man their friends would expect. But are you
quite sure in this case—no April day was ever more
changeful than Rose Delaplaine !”

“I don’t know what you mean. They'll be married to
a dead certainty !”

“What will you bet on the event 2”

“I’m not rich enough to bet; but if I were it wouldn't
be honorable, you know.”

Doctor Delaplaine gave him a queer look, as he hooked
2 fish out.of the water. wt spell Rep aehtbn :

“Oh, if it becomes a question of honor, I have no more
to = a Do you see this fellow wriggling on my hook ?”

es res.

“Well, when this fish swims again, Rose Delaplaine
will be Madame Le Touche, and you know it.”

He said the last words so significantly, and with such
a look, that all the blood of all the Stanfords rushed red
to Reginald’s face.

“The duse take your innuendoes!” he exclaimed.
‘What do you mean ?”

‘Don’t ask me,” said Doctor Delaplaine. ‘I hate to
tell a lie ;.and I won’t say what I suspect. Suppose we
change the subject. Where is Sir Ronald Craig »”’

“In New Brunswick, doing the wildwoods and shoot-
ing bears. Poor wretch! with all his sixty thousand a
year, and that paradise in Scotland of his, Glen Craig,
I don‘tenvy him. I never saw any one so helplessly
gone as he.”

‘You're a fortunate fellow, Stanford; but I doubt if you
know it. Sir Ronald would be afar happier man in your
place.”

The handsome face of the young Englishman dark-
ened as suddenly as a Summer sky.

«Perhaps there is such a thing as being too fortunate,
and getting satiated. I wish I could be steadfast, and
firm, and faithful forever to one thing, like some men,
but I can’t. Sir Ronald’s one of that kind, and so are
you, Delaplaine; but I——”

He threw his cigar into the water, and left the sen-
tence unfinished. ‘There was a long silence. Doctor
Delaplaine tished away as if his life depended on it; and
Mr. Stanford lay and watched him, and thought—who
knows what ?

The May afternoon wore on; the slanting lines of the
red sunset flamed in the tree-tops, and shed its refiected
glory on the placid water. The hum of evening bustle
came up from the village drowsily; and Doctor Dela-
plaine, laying down his line, looked at his watch.

“Are you asleep, Stanford? Do you know it is six
o’clock ?”

“By George!” said Reginald, starting up. ‘I had no
idea it was so late. Are you for Gower Hall ?”

“Of course. Don’t I deserve my dinner in return for
this string of silvery fish? Come along.”

The two young men walked leisurely and rather si-
lently homeward. As they entered the! gates they
caught sight of a young lady advancing slowly toward
them—a young lady dressed in pale pink, with ribbons
fluttering and curls flowing.

«The first rose of summer!” said Doctor Delaplaine—
“the future Madame Le Touche !”

ford. ‘Very polite of you.”

«— won’t be in your way,” said the doctor; ‘I'll go on.”

Rose turned with Reginald, and Doctor Delaplaine
walked on ahead, leaving them to follow at their leisure.

In the hall he met Kate, stately and beautiful, dressed
in rustling silk, and with flowers in her golden hair.

“Have you seen Mr. Stanford?” she asked, glancing
askance at the fish.

«Yes; he is in the grounds, with Rose.”

She bowed, and swept past majestically.

Doetor Delaplaine looked after her witha glance of
unmistakable admiration,

“Blind! blind! blind!” he thought. ‘What fools men
are! Only children of a larger growth, throwing away
gold for the pitiful glistening of tinsel !”

Kate caught a glimpse of a pink skirt, fluttering in and
out among the trees, and made forit. Her light step in
the velvet sward gave back no echo. How earnestly
Reginald was talking—how intently Rose was listening,
with downcast face. What was that he was giving her ?
A letter! Surely not; and yet how much it looked like
it. Another moment, and she was beside them, and
Rose had started away from Reginald’s side, her face
crimson. If ever guilt’s red banner hung out on any
countenance, it did on hers; and Kate’s violet eyes wan-
dered wonderingly from one to the other. Mr. Stanford’s
face was as placid as the serene sunset-sky above them.
Like Talleyrand, if he had been kicked from behind, his
face would never have shown it!

“TI thought you were away fishing,” said Kate. ‘Had
you Rose with you ?”

‘] was not so blessed! I had only Doctor Frank Dela-
plaine. Oh, don’t be in a hurry to leave us; it is not
dinner-time yet!”

This last to Rose, who was edging off, still the picture
of confusion, and one hand clutching something white,
hidden in the folds of her dress. With a contused apology.
she turned suddenly, and disappeared among the trees,
Kate fixed her large, deep eyes suspiciously on her
lover's laughing face.

“Well ?” she said, Ta

“Well ?” he repeated, mimicking her tone.

“What is the meaning of all this?”

Mr. Stanford laughed carelessly, and drew her hand
within his arm.

“It means, my dear, that pretty sister of yours is a
goose! I paid/her a compliment, and she blushed after
it, at sight of you, asif I had been making love to her.
Come, let us have a walk before dinner.”

“J thought I saw you give her something?
letter 2?”

Not a musele of his face moved; not a shadow" of
change was in his tone, as he answered :

“A letter! Ofcourse not! You heard her ask me the
other day for that old English song I sung? I wrote it
down this afternoon, and gave it to her. Are you jealous,
Kate ?”

“Dreadfully! Don’t you go paying compliments to

Was it a

 

-the-path-with--hic.cane, 2

| Captain.

 

Rose, sir ; reserve your compliments for me. Come down
the tamarac-walk.”

Leaning fondly on his arm, Kate Delaplaine walked
with her lover up and down the green avenue until the
dinner-bell summoned them in.

And all the time, Rose, up in her own room, was read-
ing, with flushed cheeks and glistening eyes, that letter
written by the brookside, ginning “‘Angel of my
dreams!”

When the family assembled at dinner, it was found
that Rose was absent. A servant sentin search of her
returned with word that Miss Rose had a headache, and
begged they would excuse her.

Kate went up to her room immediately after dinner,
but found it locked. She rapped and called, but there
was no Sign and no response irom within.

“She is asleep,” thought Kate, and went down again.

She tried again, some hours later, on her way to her
own room, but still was unable to obtain entrance or
answer: If she could only have seen Rose, all the while
she was trying so vainly to obtain admission, sitting by
the window, reading and re-reading, that letter in
French, beginning “Angel of my dreams!”

Rose came down to breakfast next morning, quite well
again. The morning's post had brought her a letter
from Quebec, and She read it as she sipped her coffee.

“Is it from Virginie Leblanc?” asked Evyvy. “She is
your only correspondent in Quebec.”

Rose nodded. and went on reading.

«What does she want ?” Evvy persisted.

“She wants me to pay her visit,” said Rose, folding up
her ietter.

“And of course you won't go ?"

*“No—yes—I don’t know.”

She spoke absently, crumbling the roll on her plate,
and not eating. She lingered.in the reom after break-
fast, when all the rest had lefé it, looking out of the
window. She was still there when, half an hour after,
Grace came in to sew—but not alone. Mr. Stanford was
peneng beside her, and Grace caught his last low
words :

“It is the most fortunate thing that could have hap-
pened. Don’t lose any time.’

He saw Grace, and stopped, Spoke to her, and saun-
tered out of the room. Rose did not turn from the win-
dow for fully ten minutes. When she did, it was to ask
where her father was.

“Tn his study.’ .

She left the room, and went the study. Captain Del-
aplaine looked up from his wfitteg at her entrance in
some surprise. es

Rose stood behind him, her 4rm round his neck, her
face concealed. - ,

‘Don’t choke me, my dear. What is it?”

“Papa, may I go to Quebec ?”’

“Quebec! My dear, how can you go?’

“Very easily, papa. Virginie wants me to go, and I
should like to see her. I won’t Stay there long.”

“But all your wedding finery, Rose—how is it to be
made if you go away 2”

‘It is nearly all made, papa; and for what remains,
they can get along just as welmjvithout me. Ob, papa!
say yes. [I want to go dreadfully; and I will only stay a
week or so. Dosay yes; there’s a darling papa!”

“Well, my dear, go, if you Wish; but don’tforget to
come back in time. It will never do for Monsieur Le
Touche to come here the fourth of June and find his
bride missing.” ‘

I won’t stay in Quebec until June, papa,” said Rose,
kissing him and running out of the room.

He called after her as she was shutting the door:

‘Doctor Delaplaine goes to Montreal this afternoon.
If you are ready, you might go with him.”

“Yes, papa; Pilbe ready.” —— .

Rose set to work packing at once, declining all assist-
ance. She filled her trunk with all her favorite dresses ;
stowed away all her jewelry—taking a very unnecessary
amount of luggage, one would think, for a week’s visit.

Every one was surprised, at luncheon, when Rose’s
departure was announced. None~more-so than Mr.
Stantord. ; : ;

«Tt is just like Rose!” exclaitied Evvy; ‘she is every-
thing by starts, and nothing long. Flying off to Quebec
for a week, just as she is going to be married, with half
her dresses unmade, Its absurd.”

The afternoon trains for Montreal passed through
Saint Croix at three o’clock. Kate and Reginald drove
to the station with her, and saw wer safely seated beside
Doctor Delaplaine. Her vail of drab gauze was down
over her face, flushed and excited; and she kissed her
sister good-by without lifting it. Reginald Stanford
shook Ranas with her—a long, warm, lingering clasp—
and flashed a bright electric glance that torilied to her
inmost heart. An instant later, and the train was in
motion, and Rose was gone, _

The morning of the third day after brought a note

from Quebec. Rose had arrived safely, and the Lablanc |

family were delighted to see her. That was all.

That evening, Mr. Stanford made an announcement
that he was to depart for Montreal next morning. It
was to Kate, of course. She had strolled down to the
gate to meet him, in the red light of the sunset, as he
Came home from a day’s gunning. He had taken, of
late, to being absent a great deal, fishing and shooting;
and those last three days he had been away from break-
fast until dinner-time.

“Going to Montreal!” repeated Kate ; ‘“‘what for ?”

“To see a friend of mine—Major Forsyth. He has
come over lately, with his wife, and I have just heard of
it. Besides, [have a few purchases to make.” |

He was switching the tremulow¥s spring fiowers along

neh ooking af her as he
spoke. d

‘‘How long shall you be gone ?” she. asked.

He laughed. ;

‘“Montreai has no charms for me, you know,” he re-
plied ; «(I shall not remain there long ; probably not over
a week.” 3

“The house will be lonely when you are gone—now
that Rose is away.”

She sighed a little, saying it. Somehow, a vague feel-
ing of uneasiness had disturbed her of late—something
wanting in Reginald—something she could not define,
which used to be there, and was gone. She did not like
this readiness of his to leave her on all occasions. She
loved him with such a devoted and entire love, that the
shortest parting wag f her acutest pain.

“Are you coming in?” he asked, seeing her linger
under the trees.

“Not yet; the evening is too fine.”

«Then I must leave you. It will hardly be the thing,
I suppose, to go to dinner in this shooting-jacket.”

He entered the house and rah up to hisroom. The

dinner-bell was ringing before he finished dressing; but |
when he descended Kate was still lingering out of doors. |

He stoced by the window watching her as she came
slowly up the lawn. The yellow glory of the sunset

made an aureole round her radiant hair; her queenly |
figure robed in shimmering silk; her motion floating |

and light. He remembered that picture long afterward
in the May sunsets seen in Italign skies—that Canadian
landscape, that blue silvery mig filling the air, and the
tall, graceful girl coming slowly homeward, with the
fading yellow light in her golden hair.

After dinner, when the moon rose, they all left the
drawing-room for the hall and portico. Kate, a white

cashmere shawl on her shoulders, sat on the stone |

stoop, her guitar in her hand, and sang, softly and
sweetly, ‘The Young May Mooa.” Mr. Stanford leaned
lightly against one of the stone pillars, smoking a cigar,
and looking up at the blue, far-off sky, his handsome
tace pale and still.

“Kate, sing ‘When the Swallows Homeward Fly,’” her
father said.

She-sang the songs softly and a little sadly, with some
dim foreshadowing of trouble -sveighing at her heart.
They lingered there until the clock struck ten—Kate’s
songs and the moonlight charming the hours away.
When they went into the house and took their night-
lamps, Mr. Stanford bade them good-by.

“I shall probably be off before any of you open your
eyes to-morrow morning,” he said, ‘and so had better

say good-by now.”
“Have you come to meet us, Rose ?” asked Mr. Stan- ! vA y

“You leave by the eight, A. M., train, then,” said the
“Tt seems to me everybody is running off just
when they ought to stay at home.”

Mr. Stanford laughed, and shook hands with Grace
and Kate—with one as warmly as the other—and was
gone. Kate's face looked pale and sad, as she went
slowly up stairs with that dim foreshadowing still at
her heart. Be,

Breakfast was waiting the traveler next morning at
half past seven, when he rad Gown stairs, arrayed for
his journey. More than brealgfast was waiting. Kate
Delaplaine stood by the Windies looking out dreamily
at the morning sunlight. ‘

“Up so early, Kate!” her lever said, with no expres-
sion of rapture. ‘‘Why did you take the trouble ?”

“It was no trouble,” Kate said, slowly, feeling cold
and strange.

He sat down to table, but only drank a cup of coffee.
As he arose, Captain Delaplaine and Grace came in.

“We got up betimes to see you off,” said the
captain. ‘A delightful morning for your journey.
There is Sam, with the gig, now. Look sharp, Reginald;
only fifteen minutes lett.”

Reginald snatched up his overcoat.

“«Good-by,” he said, hurriedly, shaking hands with the
captain, then with Grace.

Kate, standing by the window, never turned round.
He went up to her, very, very pale, as they all remem-
bered afterward, holding out his hand.

“Good-by, Kate.”

The hand she gave him was icy cold, her face perfectly
colorless. The cold fingers lingered around his for a
moment ;.the deep, clear, violet eyes were fixed wist-
fully on his face. That was her only good-by—she did
not speak. In another moment he was out of the house ;
in another he was riding rapidly down the avenue; in
another he was gone—and forever!

And so they parted—those two, plighted man and
wife—parted forever! Nevermore to clasp hands, even
in cold friendship, nevermore to exchange words, never-
more to think of each other, but with anguish on one
side, and shame. and remorse on the other. Never to meet
again on this side of the grave as they parted that sunny
May morning.

CHAPTER SXYIX.
EPISTOLARY.
{From Madame Les.ianc te Captain DELAPLAINE.]
QUEBEC, May 17, 18—.
DEAR Sir :—I write to you in the utmost distress and
confusion of mind. I hardly know bow to break to you
the news it is my painful duty to reveal, lest some blame
should attach itself to me or mine, where I assure none
is deserved. Your daughter Rose has left us—run away;
in fact, I believed eloped! Ihave reason to think she
was married yesterday; but to whom, i have not yet
discovered. I beg to assure you, Captain Delaplaine,

that neither I nor any one in my house had the remotest
idea of her intention ; and we are all in the greatest con-
sternation since the discovery has been made. I would
not for worlds such athing had happened under my
roof, and I earnestly trust you will not hold me to
blame.

Six days ago, on the afternoon of the 11th, your daugh-
ter arrived here.. We were all delighted to see her, Vir-
ginie in particular: for, hearing of her approaching mar-
riage to Monsieur Le Touche, we were afraid she might
not come. We all noticed a change in her, her manner
different from what it used to be—a languor, an apathy
in all things; a general listlessness that nothing could
arouse her from. She, who used to be so full of life and
spirits, was now the quietest in the house, and seemed
to like nothing so well as being by herself, and dream-
ing the hours away.

On the evening of the third day this lassitude left her.
She grew restless and nervous, almost feverishly so.
Next morning this feverish restlessness grew worse.
She refused to leave the house in the afternoon to ac-
company my daughter on a shopping expedition. Her
plea was toothache, and Virginie went alone. The early
afternoon post brought her what I believe she was wait-
ing for—a letter. She ran up with 1t to her own room,
which she did not leave until dusk. I was standing in
the entrance-hall, when she came down, dressed fora
walk, and wearing a vail over her face. I asked her
where she was going. She answered, for a walk—it
might help her toothache. An hour afterward Virginie
returned. Her first question was for Rose. 1 informed
her she had gone out.

“Then,” exclaimed Virginie; ‘‘it must have been Rose
that 1 met in the next street, walking with a gentleman.
I thought the dress and figure were hers, but I could not
see her face, as she wore a thick vail. The gentleman
was talland dark, and very handsome.”

Half an hour later Rose came back. We teased her a
little about the gentleman ; but she put it off quite in-
differently, saying he was an acquaintance she had en-
countered in the street, and that she had promised to go
with him next morning to call on a lady friend of hers,
a Mrs. Major Forsyth.

We thought no more about it; and next morning, when
the gentleman called in a carriage, Rose was quite ready,
and went away with him. It was then about eleven
o’clock, and she did not return until five in the after-
noon. Her face was flushed, her manner excited, and
she broke away from Virginie, and ran up to her room.

altered, her spirits extravagantly high, and color like
fever in her face. She and Virginie shared the same
room, and when they went up stairs for the night, she
would not go to bed.

“You can go,” she said to Virginie; «I have a long let-
ter to write, and you must not talk to me, dear.”

Virginie went to bed. She isa very sound sleeper, and
rarely wakes, when she lies down, till morning. She
fell asfeep, and never awoke all night. It was morning
when she opened her eyes. She was alone. Rose was
neither in the bed nor in the room.

Virginie thought nothing of it. She got up, dressed,
came_down to breakfast, expecting to find Rose before
her. Rose was not before her—she was not in the house.
We waited breakfast until ten, anxiously looking for
her, but she never came. .None of the servants had
seen her, but thatshe had gone out very early was evi-
dent; for the house-door was unlocked and unbolted
when the kitchen-girl came down at six in the morning.
We waited all the forenoon, but she never came. Our
anxiety trebly increased when we made the discovery
that she had taken her trunk with her. How she had
got it out of the house was the profoundest mystery.
We questioned the servants, but they all denied stoutly.
Whether to believe them or not I cannot tell, but I doubt
the housemaid.

The early afternoon post brought Virginie a note. I
inclose it. It tells you alli can tell. I write immediate-
ly, distressed by what has occurred more than I can
say. I’ earnestly trust the poor child has not thrown
herself away. I hope with all my heart it may not be so
bad. as at first sight.it seems. :

Belieye me, my dear sir, | am truly sorry for what has
eecurred, and I trust you will acquit me of blame.

With the deepest sympathy, I remain, yours sincerely,

MATHILDE LEBLANC.

{Miss ROSE DELAPLAINE to Mile. ViRGINIE LEBLANC.
Inclosed in the preceding.]

WEDNESDAY NIGHT.
My DARLING VIRGINIE :—When you read this, we shall
have parted—perhaps forever. My pet, I am married!
To-day, when | drove away, it was not to call on Mrs.
Major Forsyth, but to be married. Oh, my dearest,
dearest Virginie, Iam so happy, so blessed—so—so—oh,
I can't tell you of my unutterable joy! LIlovehim! I
love him! I feel as if lshould go mad with ecstacy! Iam
going away to-night, in half an hour. I shall kiss
you good-by as you sleep. In a few hours I leave
Canada forever, to be happy beyond the power of words
to describe, in another land. Adieu, my pet. If we

never meet, don’t forget your happy, happy +
OSE.

[Miss GRACE DELAPLAINE to Doctor FRANK DELAPLAINE.]

GOWER HALL, May 21, 18—.

My DEAR FRANK :—Do you recollect your last words
to me as you left St. Croix?—‘Write to me, Grace.
think you will have news to send me before long.” Had
you, asI had, a presentiment of what was to come?

My worst forebodings are realized. Rose has eloped.
MRecinald Stanford is S villaii—they are niarriea! “Tiere
are no positive proofs as yet, but I am morally certain
of the fact. I have long suspected that he admired that
frivolous Rose more than he had any right to do, but I
hardly thought it would .come to this. Heaven forgive
them, and Heaven pity Kate, who loved them both so
well. She knows nothing of the matter as yet. I dread
the time when the truth will be revealed.

The morning of the 19th brought Captain Delaplaine
a letter from Quebec, in a strange hand. It came after
breakfast, and I carried it myself into his study. Ire-
turned to the dining-room before he opened it, and sat
down to work; but in about fifteen minutes the captain
came in, his face flushed, his manner more agitated
and excited than I had ever seen it.

‘Read that,” was all he could say, thrusting the open
letter into my hand. No wonder he was agitated—it
was from Madame Leblanc, and contained the news
that Rose had made a clandestine marriage, and was
gone, no one knew where.

Inclosed there was a short and rapturous note from
Rose herself, saying that she had been married that
day, and was blessed beyond the power of words to de-
| scribe, and was on the point of leaVing Canada forever.
| She did not give her new name. She said nothing of her
husband, but that she loved him passionately. There
| Was but one name mentioned in the letter,that of a Mrs.

 

| Major Forsyth, whom she left home ostensibly to visit.

From the moment I read the letter, I had no doubt to
whom she was married. ‘Three days after Rose’s depar-
ture for Quebec, Mr. Stanford left us for Montreal, He
was only to be absent a week ; the week has nearly ex-
pired, and there is no news of him. I knew instantly,
as I have said, with whom Rose had run away; butas I
looked up, 1 saw no shadow of a suspicion of the truth
in Captain Delaplaine’s face.

‘‘What does it mean ?” he asked, with a bewildered
look. ‘‘{ can’t understand it.”

There was no use in disguising the truth; sooner or
| later he must find it out.

“T think I can,” I answered. ‘‘I believe Rose left here
| for the very purpose she has accomplished, and not to
| visit Virginie Leblanc.”

‘You believe that damnable letter, then ?”

“Yes; I fear it is too true.”

‘But, heavens above! what would she elope for ?
were all willing she should marry Le Tonche.”

“TY don’t think it is with Monsieur Le Touche,” I said,
reluctantly. ‘I wish it were! Iam afraid it is worse
than that.”

He stood looking at me, waiting, too agitated to speak.
I told him the worst at once.

«J am afraid it is with Reginald Stanford.”

“Grace !” he said, looking utterly confounded, ‘‘what
do you mean ?”

I made him sit down, and told him what, perhaps, [
should have told him long ago, my suspicions of that
young Englishman. I told him I was certain that Rose
had been his daily visitor during that six weeks’ illness
at the village; that she had been passionately in love
with him from the first, and that he was a villain anda
traitor. A thousand things, too slight to recapitulate,
but all tending to the same end, convinced me of it. He
was changeful by nature. Rose's pretty, piquant beauty
bewitched him; and this was the end,

“J hope ] may be mistaken,” I said; ‘‘for Kate’s sake I
hope so, tor shedoves him with a love of which he is
totally unworthy. but I confess I doubt it.”

I cannot describe to you the anger of Captain Dela-
plaine, and [ pray I may never witness the like again.
When men like him, quiet and good-natured by habit,
get intoa passion, the passion is terrible ineeed.

“Ths villain!” he cried, through his clenched teeth.
“The infernal villain! Ill shoot him like a dog!”

I was frightened. I quail even now at the recoilec-
tion, and the dread of what may come. I tried to quiet
him, but in vain; he shook me off like a child.

“Let me alone, Grace Delaplaine,” he said passion-
ately. ‘I shall never rest until I have sent a bullet
through his brain!”

it was then half-past eleven, the train for Montreal
passed through Saint Croix at twelve. Captain Dela-
piaine went out and ordered round bis gig,in a tone
that made the stable-boy stare. I followed him to his
room, and found him putting his pistols in his coat-
pocket. Iasked him where he was going, almost afraid
to speak to him, his face was so changed.

‘l'o Montreal first,” was his answer; ‘‘to look for that
matchless scoundrel; afterward to Quebec, to blow out
his brains, and those of my shameful daughter !”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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eas, THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32

KEEP ME HUMBLE.

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

Whene’er my heart is lifted up
With arrogance and pride,
Whene’er in haughtiness of soul
My neighbors I deride,
Whene’er in my own failing strength
I daily put my trust,
Then am | lowest of the low,
And fit to bite the dust.

But when I feel my weakness most,
And see my failings clear,

When others, better than myself,
In word and deed appear,

When from the waters at my feet
I drink an humble cup,

And scarcely dare to raise mine eyes,
Then am | lifted up.

‘Oh, keep me humble, blessed Lord,
That I may look and see

The beauties of Thy inner courts
And there commune with Thee.

Oh, let me sink that I may rise,
Descend, that I may soar

‘With angels on the wings of love,
To leave Thee nevermore.

-@

A FEARFUL MISTAKE.

BY EMERSON BENNETT.

The ‘case, as reported by George Redacre, the Sheriff
of County, Missouri, is one of the most remarkable
on record, and shows that too much care cannot be ex-
ercised in the reception of circumstantial evidence. We
give the facts as nearly as possible in the words of the
narrator,

In the summer of 1872, Ida Carlton, daughter of a well-
to-do farmer, left home to gather a basket of berries
from a pasture lot about half a mile from the dwelling,
saying she would be back before evening.

When night set in, and she had not returned, her
family became alarmed and instituted a search for her.

She was not found that night, ana the next morning
the searchers were increased in number.

She was at last discovered, dead—murdered—under
circumstances calculated to excite the greatest wrath
and horror. There had evidently been a long, flerce
struggle; her face, arms, and hands were scratched
and bruised; her clothes were torn, and a portion of
them missing; some gold beads, which she had worn
around her neck, were also missing; two gold rings had
been taken from her fingers, and she had apparently
been choked to death by human hands.

The news spread rapidly, crowds gathered at the

farm-house and about the tragic scene, and the citizens
in the vicinity became almost wild with excitement and
ot

Who had done the foul deed? What fiend in human
shape had dared to come into that peaceful locality and
perpetrate such a horrid crime? If they could find
him they would tear him to pieces!

Ida Carlton had been much beloved by all who knew
her. She was twenty years of age, tall and handsome,
and was engaged to be married to one Eben Staver, a
young man of twenty-three, who had bought a nice
farm about a mile from her father’s and was to take pos-
session immediately after the nuptials, which were to be
celebrated the following spring. ‘

He was not at home at the time of the murder. In
fact, he had left that very day, and could not be found.
His anxious family could give no clew to his where-
abouts, and were much worried in consequence.

On the third day, however, he appeared at the coro-
ner’s inquest, nearly prostrated with grief, and said he

had been to look at a quarry, about three miles from |

home, and had fallen down and injured his head so
badly that he had been delirious tor two days, and
knew nothing of what had happened meantime; in
proof of which he showed a number of bruises and
scratches on his face and hands.

His family also stated that he had come home weak,
gaunt, and nearly starved; and when informed of the
awful tragedy, and the loss of his beloved, he had taken
the matter so deeply to heart that fora time it was
feared he would lose his reason.

It. is possible that in the minds of some, under the cir-
cumstances, a troublesome Suspicion might have been
excited against the unhappy lover if it had not sud-
denly been diverted to another quarter.

A dirty tramp, though a young man, had been found
about two miles from the scene, lying at the toot of a
large tree, a short distance from the road-side, so weak
and ill that he could not travel any farther. His face
was bruised, and scratched, and swollen, his clothes
were torn as if in a struggle, and as if to complete the
chain of suspicion, a missing ring of the dead girl was
found on his little finger.

Fortunately for the ends of justice, the finder of this
tramp was a respectable, law-abiding farmer, who, in-
stead of first ee his discovery to the furious
mob, and having the fellow torn to pieces without a
trial, brought the news to me.

As sheriff of the county I immediately summoned all
my deputies, and swore in a large posse of the best

citizens to ald me in protecting the man from the |

violence of a mob who would seek to murder him as
ssoon as the facts should become known.

‘Aiter first lodging my man in jail for security, I sum-
mened a physician, who soon discovered that the, fellow
had been badly handled, had probably been unconscious
and delirlous a part of the time in consequence, but
that his immediate weakness was owing to a total lack
of food—in fact, that he was half dead from starvation.

Under proper treatment he rapidly recovered, so as to
be able to sit up and converse.

He then gave his name as Adam Wheeler, said he was
from Indiana, was a joiner by trade, and, being out of
work and money, was trying to reach Topeka, Kansas,
where he had a friend, a boss carpenter, who had
promised to give him steady employment ; that on his
way he had turned into the lot where the tragedy had
occurred, to pick some berries ; that while thus engaged
he had been startled by faint cries of murder in a fe-
male voice ; that on hurrying to the place whence the
sounds had proceeded, he had discovered a young man
in the act of leaving what appeared to be a dead wo-
man; that the man, seeing him, had at once assaulted
him, and a fierce struggle had taken place; that he had
been overpowered and lost consciousness for a time;
and that on coming to himself he had seen the woman
dead within a few feet of him, had become alarmed lest
he should be mistaken for the murderer, had fled in
dismay, and that from that time to the present he could
not remember anything except as a wild, troubled
dreain.

This improbable story, of course, was not believed by
any; but as the man, however guilty, was at least en-
titled to a fair trial, I determined he should have one,
and took every means in my power to give him that
protection which the law guarantees to the vilest of
criminals.

“If your story is true, Adam Wheeler,” I said to him,
after he had-made his statement, ‘how do you account
for the fact of having one of the murdered girl's rings
on your finger at the time you were discovered and ar-
rested *”

“What ring?” he asked, in what appeared to be a
frightened and guilty way. ‘I don’t understand you,
sir!” y

“This,” I said, displaying the jewel. ‘‘Isuppose you
recognize it; though, of course, you are not bound to
“‘criminate yourself.”

“Tl take my solemn oath that I don’t know what you
mean, sir!” he said, in alarm.

«Well, then,” I replied, ‘‘this ring, which belonged to
Jda Carlton, the murdered young lady, was found on
your little finger when you were arrested.”

“Before God,” he now exclaimed, with a bold, inno-
cent look, “I don’t know anything about thatring! I
don't remember ever seeing it before; and if it was on
my finger, it must have been put there by the villain
who left me for dead, in order to make it appear as if
Ya murdered and robbed the poor girl!”

Of course this denial was no more believed than the
other statements of the prisoner, who was regarded by
the populace as a wretch too vile to be allowed the
honor of a respectable trial. And only for my precau-
tions and constant vigilance, night and day, his case
would never have come before a court of justice.

So great was the excitement, in fact, so clamorous
was the great body of respectable citizens fora sum-
mary execution of the fellow, thatit was not deemed
safe at first to bring him outside the jail; andin order
to have him present at the inquest, the coroner sat with
his jury within the walls of the prison.

Of course the verdict of the coroner’s jury was dead
against him; the next grand jury found a true bill, and
in due course of time his trial came on.

By that time the murderous excitement had so far
subsided that there were no fonger fears of his being
lynched in case of conviction, though a verdict of not
guilty by the jury might have resulted in a fearful riot.

The trial was nota long one. The prisoner was de-
fended by one of the ablest lawyers in the county, who,

from some cause (let us Suppose it to bein the way of

humanity, for the culprit had not a dollar to fee him),
had volunteered his services, and who told me privately,

at the conclusion of the trial, with the verdict of guilty
ringing in his ears, that he believed the accused to be

as innocent of the murder as himself.

One incident, during the progress of the case, had

made a deep impression on me, and set me to thinking,
wondering, and speculating, in a very serious manner.
It was when the lover of the murdered girl, Even Staver,

had been placed upon the stand, to give some not very
I happened to be standing near
the accused when he first put eyes on the witness; and
I saw him start, clasp his hands, turn deadty pale, and

important evidence.

sink back on his seat in a fainting condition; and on his
counsel hurrying to him with a glass of water, I heard
him gasp out:

“That's the man I had my fight with, and who’d just
murdered the young lady !”

“Hush!” said his lawyer. ‘Say nothing more now!”

When he came to cross-examine the witness, who had
been called for the prosecution, I noticed that Walter
Graham put some very curious questions, which the
other side objected to as irrelevant, and that the man
on the stand became very much agitated, perfectly pal-
lid, and once or twice seemed to gasp for breath.

Of course everybody was surprised; but probably,
outside of the prisoner, his counsel, myself, ana a couple
of confidential friends, not a soul in the court-room sus-
pected the real cause.

‘My client is innocent, and Eben Staver, the lover of
the murdered Ida Carlton, is the man who committed the
foul deed, and ought to swing!” said Graham to me
after the verdict.of. guilty had been rendered. ‘Mark
you, Sheriff Redacre, we must save this innocent man,
even if it be by hunting the guilty one down!” he said,
impressively.

I confess that when I recalled the fact of the absence
for two or three days of Eben Staver, his personal con-
dition when he appeared at the inquest, and the im-
probable story he had told of his accident and wander-
ings, and thought how easily it might all glide intoa
sequel to the statement of the prisoner, I was a good
deal shocked and staggered, and inclined to side with
the lawyer.

“But we have no proof that Staver was there and did
the deed,” I replied to Mr. Graham? ‘On the contrary,
everything seems to point the other way. This young
man was the accepted lover of the girl, remember—
they were actually engaged to be married—the farm on
which they were to live had actually been bought—and
there is no evidence of a quarrel, or of jealousy, or of
any motive whatever for taking her life. You see at
once that the idea of accusing this man is preposter-
ous !”

“Notwithstanding,” returned Graham, positively, ‘T
believe him to be the guilty wretch! Hark you! Why
should my client tell the tale he did, and then, when he
saw this man in court for the first time after the mur-
der, become so affected, and make that terrible accusa-
tion against him of all others? What did he know
about him? I tell you, sheriff, there is some awful mys-
tery hidden which it is our duty to bring to light.”

“But how begin—how set about it ?” I queried.

I see,” smiled. Graham; ‘you are a sheriff, not a de-
tective. Very well, we both have power to set a detec:
tive to work. You will bearin mind that, though only
one poor ring was found.on the person of my client,
other jewels were taken from the person of the dead
girl, What became of them ?”

“Hal Yes, I see!’

“Let us find them, Sheriff Redacre.”

“So we will, Lawyer Graham, if it be possible; and
there is my hand on it.”

‘“‘Not a word of our suspicions to a living soul till we
are ready to strike.”

“Not a word!” concluded I.

Adam Wheeler, the condemned, was a few days later
sentenced to death.

An effort had been made for a new trial, which had
not been granted. An appeal was then taken to the
Supreme Court, and in due time the sentence of the
lower court was affirmed. The governor was asked to
grant a pardon, but he refused.

Nothing was then left for the poor man but to swing,
unless we could find evidence that would clear him in
the eyes of the public, who were loudly clamoring for
his death, and would have lynched him in spite of us if
a rumor had gone abroad that he was to be set free.
Meantime 1 had sent for a Chicago detective, a man
not known in those parts, who succeeded in getting em-
ployment on the farm of the elder Staver, and was thus
brought more or less in contact with the suspected son,
who still resided with his father.

But nothing came of this till the day fixed for the exe-
cution drew so near that 1 became wretchedly nervous
lest I Should be compelled in the line of my duty to hang
an innocent man—for I now, after many conversations
with the condemned, came firmly into the belief that he
was not guilty of the heinous crime.

At length the dreaded death-warrant arrived, which
my duty compelled me to read to the prisoner, and at
the same time assure him there was no longer any hope ;
and in the painful performance of this requirement L
fairly broke down, and wept and sobbed like a child;
and so did his counsel; though the poor fellow himself
bore up bravely, and even tried to console us.

As I left the prison, with my friend Graham, I was
met just outside by my detective, who brought the wel-
come news that he had actually discovered the dead
girl's missing jewelry on the person of Eben Staver—that
he carried it carefully concealed in his bosom—and that
he had caught him in the act of examining and weeping
over it when he thought himself concealed from all
human eyes.

Upon this information I lost no time in acting.
oan at once swore out a warrant, and I served it
myself.

‘All is discovered, Eben Staver,” I said, as I placed
my hand upon his shoulder, ‘‘and [ now arrest you for
the murder of Ida Carlton !”

Ghastly and quivering, he sank down, dumfounded,
at my very feet.

i 1 immediately searched him, and found the missing
ewelry.

“Behold,” said I, sternly, ‘the proofs of your crime!”
AS soon as he could command his voice he tremblingly
confessed that he was the sole author of the foul deed,
| for which an innocent man was on the point of being
executed.

|

‘ confession, though repeatedly caution
| inating himself.
As this news began to spread, anda new excitement

to agitate the public, I hurried him off to prison, to pro-
; tect him, as I had previously done Adam Wheeler, from
| Summary vengeance. ;
| When questioned as to his motive for killing his
| affianced, Staver declared that he knew of none, ‘‘ex-
; cept that Satan had got possession of him.”
| He was never brought to trial; for, a week later, he
'

 

against crim-

was found dead in his cell, hanging by his suspenders to
the bars of the window.

When, in consequence of this timely revelation, Adam
Wheeler regained his freedom, the same people who
were lately so eager to tear him to pieces vied with
; each other in doing him honor.

He was earnestly urged to take up his abode in the
county town, and finally consented.

By means. of public contributions, a fine shop and set
of tools were furnished him; and being a good, honest,
| industrious mechanic, he at once started upon a pros-
| perous career, which he has continued to this day, and
| is now known and respected as one of the best citizens
| of the place.
| I have only to add, in conclusion, that I am the happier
; to-day for having been made the instrument of saving
i aninnocent man from a degrading death, and that I
' shall always lift up my voice against the evil practice of
| lynching, and against the assumption of absolute cer-
} tainty in any case of mere circumstantial evidence in
| which there is a possibility of a fearful mistake.

|

>-oe<+—

NOISES FROM THE SEA.

Oftentimes noises that come from the sea and are
; seemingly unexplainable, proceed from certain small
animals. That many fishes utter sounds is well known;
as many as sixty different species of finny vocalists have
been heard from time to time.

A number of years ago, while on a fishing trip in the
Gulf of Mexico, in the City of Yucatan, I hauled in a
small fish, known to science as the Hzemulon, and to
sailors as the grunt, and never was a fish better named,

' as no sooner did I take it in hand than it rolled a most
expressive pair of eyes as far asa fish could roll them,
and commenced an appeal that quite astonished me.
First the grunts were low and uttered singly ; then they

grew louder and faster, and finally the fish hurled at me
a perfect volley of sounds that I accepted as an entreaty
for mercy, and hurriedly tossed him back. Later I caught
many grunts, and they were all very talkative out of
water : but whether these sounds could be uttered in
their native element it would be difficult to determine.

I have heard the Hzemulon grunt, the grouper, as well
as a number of fishes, croak,- and the dogfish bark
(croak). The little seahorse, Hipwocampus, utters a
eurious sound that is caused by the vibrations of certain
small voluntary muscles. Dr. C.C. Abbott heard the
mud sunfish, Acantharchus promittis, utter a deep,
grunting sound, and the gizzard shad makes an audible
whirring noise. The chub sucker, Erimyzon oblongam,
utters a single prolonged note, while the catfish, Amiu-
rus lynx, produces a gentle humming sound. Abbott
believes, however, that the most musical of the fishes is
the eel, that utters a single note frequently repeated,
and has a slightly metallic resonance. The fact that
the organ of hearing in these musical fishes is very well
developed would seem to point to the belief that the
notes were Calls ; and as the air bladder in fish repre-
sents to some extent the lungs of other animals, there
is no reason for not thinking that the fishes have vocal
communication. The musical notes and noises are pro-
duced in several ways. Some are due to the action of
the pneumatic duct and swimming bladder, while
others are accidental, or produced involuntarily by the
lips or the pharangeal or intermaxillary bones. The
notes made by the carp and tench are due to the latter
while those of the catfishes and eels are made by fore-
ing air from the swimming bladder intothe cesophagus. .

A SHOWMAN’S TRICK.

That fishes utter sounds has been known for many
centuries, and some years ago it was taken advantage
of by a showman at a watering-place in England to
deceive the general public. The owner of the talking
fish had a portable aquarium upon the beach, and in it
several fishes, and when a crowd would gather about
the tank he would announce that the fish would answer
questions. He would then lift one of the fishes out of
the water and allow the spectators to listen to its grunt,
explaining that it could talk only when under water.
The fish was then returned and some one would ask a
question upon which a fish would dart to the surface and
a soft, low voice would be heard answering the question
correctly. But the secretof this very remarkable fish
was finally found out, the trick being carried out on the
same plan as the famous chess player. A very small
man was concealed in the imitation of rock work of the
tank, who replied to the questions through a tube that
led to the surface, the opening being concealed in the
rockwork near the fishes. When a question was asked
the exhibitor dropped some food unobserved into the
water, which made the fish dart upward in a very nat-
ural manner, and the voice being heard at the same

 

 

 

When taken before a magistrate, he persisted in his |

time, the illusion was complete, and many ignorant
people were deceived.

The drumfish Pongonius is one of the loudest talkers
in the American waters. When the nets are hauled on
the Jersey coast and a large number of drumfish are
caught, their protests are often very loud. That these
fishes utter sounds under water there can be no doubt.

The sailors on vessels anchored off shore have heard
the strange noise rising about them, and described it as
booming, while others thought it was occasioned by
drums being beaten Onshore. The fish utter the sounds,
according to some authorities. by striking their pharyn-
geal teeth together, while other writers think that they
beat their bodies against.the sides of vessels to rub off
certain parasites that infest them.

A vessel lying in the China Sea, some years ago, had a
most remarkable experience. The sounds that arose
about her greatly alarmed the crew, and were described
by the captain as resembling escaping steam, the clang-
ing of bells, the notes of an enormous harp, with others
difficult to describe. The concert lasted some hours,
and was attributed to a school of fishes that was seen in
the vicinity. The cuckoo grunard has been known to
utter grunting sounds, andI have heard our common
grunard grunt so loudly thatthe grunt could be heard
twenty feet away. The herring and cotters make a
similar sound, and the air bladder theory would not be
tenable in the latter.

Pleasant Paragraphs.

{Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib-
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of the
NEw YorRK WEEKLY, and they will oblige us by sending for
peblicgson anything which may be deemed of sufficient in-

erest for arene! perusal. It is not necessary that the arti-
cles should be penned in scholarly style; so long as they are
Leben $Y and likely to afford amusement, minor defects will be
rem >

She Spoke One Word.

“Speak but one word,” he cried, '
And madly clasped her hand;

“Speak but one word, my love,
And I shall qnderstand.,

“T ask no sweet Caress
Of lovers witen they part;
Iam content to wait;
Speak but one word, dear heart.®

‘Mine is a trusting soul,
That rests its faith in thee;
It asks no vows of love ;
Speak but one word to me.

“Speak ! speak !” he cried, ‘‘and still
My heart's Wild pit-a-pats—”
She looked int his eyes
And softly whispered, ‘‘Rats!”

-— That Inquisitive Boy Again.

A young lady and a small bright eyed boy entered a
street car yesterday afternoon, The lady deposited her
fare and the boy’s and the bell rang.
Ri Ella,” said the boy, ‘“‘what makes the bell
ring ?
“The driver rings the bell," was the reply.
«What does he do that for ?”
“Why, he does it to register the fare.”
«“‘What does he do that for ?”
“Because he has to.”
‘ ‘Oh y”
Then there was silence for halfa minute. Presently
the boy said:
“What is that round thing up there ?”
“That is the register.”
«What is that for ?”
“To register the fare.
“You said the ring registered the fare.”
“No, I didn’t say that.”
«Yes, you did, Aunt Ella.”
“Now, Johnny, don’t you contradict me; you area
naughty boy.”
“Well, that’s what you said.”
A silence of two minutes followed. It was broken by
the boy, who said:
“Say, Aunt Ella, what made you tell me that the ring
registered the fare ?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“You did say so, didn’t * Ella ?”
“Yes, Johnny.” es
«Then what made you say. that you didn’t say it ?”
> = didn’t say that I didn’t’say so. Don’t bother me,

obnny.

After another brief silence the boy returned to the
attack. :
“Say, Aunt Ella, did you go to Sunday-school when
you was little ?” 7
“Yes, child, of course I did.”
“Did you take any prizes ?”
“Yes, lots of them.”
“Did you tell wrong storiesas much then as you do
now ?”
“Johnny, you are a bad boy. I shall tell your mother.”
eT, wish you would tell her two times: that’s what I
wish.”
“Why, Johnny ?” i ;
~ ‘Cause. ou sone Sy he.same.stoery two times ;
that would let me out,” -

The Parson’s Joke.
A clergyman, a widower, recently created quite a sen-
sation in his household, which consisted of seven grown-
up daughters. The reyerend gentleman was absent
from home for. a number of days, visiting in an adjoin-
ing county. The daughters received a letter from their
father which stated that he had ‘‘married a widow with
six sprightly children,” and that he might be expected
home at a certain time. The effect of that news was a
great shock to the happy family. The girls; noted for
their meekness and amfable temperaments, seemed
another set of beings; there was weeping, and wailing,
and tearing of hair, and all manner of naughty things
were said. The tidy home was neglected, and when
the day of arrival came the house was anything but in-
viting. At last the Rev. Mr. X. came; but he was alone.
He greeted his daughters as usual, and, as he viewed
the neglected apartments, there was a merry twinkle
inhiseye. The daughters were nervous and evidently
anxious. At last the eldest mustered courage and
asked:
«‘Where is our mother ?”
“In heaven,” said the good man. -
«But where is the widow with six children whom you
wrote you had married ?”
“Why, I married her to another man, my dears,” he
replied, delighted at the.success of his joke.

Not God Grammar.
A young lady was sitting with her lover in a charmingly

Scotchman dining at the same table, “I take a great
deal of butter to my fish.”

“Ay,” said the Scotchman, ‘‘an’ a deevilish deal o’ fish
to your butter, too!” ®

Waiting for Her to Retract.
“Orlando, I didn’t. see you with Miss Brown at the
concert last night.”
“No, Perey. I’m not calling on her any more. I can’t
until she retracts what she said the other week.”
“Ah—what did she say ?”
**Well, she said I needn’t call any more.”

Nothing to Say.
“Clara was telling ma about your singing at Mrs. Hob-
son’s party, Mr. Featherly,” remarked Bobby.
“Yes ?” said Featherly, complacently ; ‘‘and what did
she say ?”
“Oh, she didn’t say anything. She just laughed.”

An Accommodating Clerk.
Fair customer—‘‘Have you the ‘Lady’s Companion ?’”
Clerk—*‘Eh ?”
“Tam going into the country and I want a ‘Lady’s
Companion’ to take with me.”
“You do,eh? Well, what’s the matter with me?”
Light Enough.
van I light the gas ?” asked the landlady at the sup-
r table.

“Oh, it isn’t necessary,” answered the new boarder,
“the supper is light enoygh.”

In the Boarding-House.
«‘Which is correct, "asked Mrs. Coldtea. «‘ ‘The biscuit
are light,’ or ‘the biscuits are light ?”
‘‘Neither,” replied the first floor front, ‘‘‘The biscuits
are heavy,’ is correct.”

A Large Party.
Brown—“‘I believe you are to have a large party at your
house, Jones, to celebrate your tin wedding.”
Jones—‘‘So I believe. My wite’s mother iscoming. She
weighs 250 pounds.

Mirthful Morsels.

Catharine Owen has published a book called ‘Ten
Doliars Enough.” She may think so now; but by the
time she gets all the jet trimming and stuff lor the over-
skirt, she will find that about ten dollars more is neces-
sary, not including the dressmaker’s bill. Ten dollars is
enough for the material, but the trimming and the mak-
ing cost like sixty.

A Brooklyn man is bent on going to sea. He has been
reading the Enoch Arden class of stories till his soui is
fired with an ambition to be wrecked and come home
and find his wife married to some other fellow.

A combination lock makes a very good chest-protector.
Some one wants to know what is more disagreeable
than a woman with a crying baby. The answer to this
is ‘‘the baby.”

Daughter—‘‘Ma, why does Uncle John say ‘er—er’ so
much when he talks?” Mother—‘To err is human, my
chlid.”
Grandpa—‘“‘Well, Fred, you're an uncle now.
ought to be real proudoverit.” Little Fred—‘But I ain’t
no uncle.” Grandpa—‘‘Why not?’ Little Fred—‘Be-
cause I’m aaunt. The new baby’s a girl.”

Ths telephone operator has a perpetual holler-day.
Light labor—Cleaning lamps.

The Czar of Russia is not as sarcastic as he might be
considering that his very mouth is a Czar-chasm.

It is only married men who want but little ear below.
We don’t like to see ladies with very small feet. Ladies
should not stand upon trifles.

The mathematician’s favorite season is the sum-mer.
The milkman’s is the spring.

we

- A FATAL WAGER.

You

BY CASPAR GREVILLE.

Two young men, the Count de Brechtenstein and the
Baron de Leiftern, both natives of Vienna, and com-
panions at school and university, were living at Pesth
in the very closest intimacy. The first was in the habit
of boasting continually of his courage and intrepidity,
which he said were such that no circumstances, how-
ever sudden or alarming, could shake them.

“Not even supernatural things ?” said M. de Leiftern
to him one day.

‘Those still less than others; and that for the good
reason that they do not exist,” answered his friend.

“You are deceived,” replied Leiftern, ‘‘as [can con-
vince you, and [ will bet you one hundred ducats that
you shall feel fear.”

“laccept the wager,” answered De Brechtenstein ;
and the two friends forthwith shook hands in confirm-
ation of the bet. 3

M. de Leiftern permitted upward of four months to
lapse without mentioning the wager to M. de Brech-
tenstein ; until one evening when he knew that the
latter was at the theater, he repaired to his friend's resi-
dence, situate at the gates of the city, and under pretext
of wishing to have a joke with him, he obtained trom
his valet-de-chamber permission to hide himself under
the bed wherein M. de Brechtenstein usually slept alone
and which was in a sort of summer-house situated upon
the edge of a forest, chosen for the sake of quietude.

M. de Leiftern was dressed completely in black, and
he had brought with him a sheet and a mask represent-
ing a skull, which he put on, and before creeping under
the bed he took the precaution of drawing the balls from
two loaded pistols which were always suspended close
to the head of his friend’s bed. e
M. de Brechtenstein, on his return from the theater,
undressed, extinguished the light, and got into bed. As
soon as he was asleep, M. de Leiftern, disguised as a |
specter, crept softly from under the bed, raised himself
up to his full hight at the foot, and began to draw off
the coverlid. M. de Brechtenstein awoke; he looked
steadily at the specter; and then with a calm voice,
said: ‘Go away and let me be quiet.”

M. de Leittern continued to withdraw the covering,
and M. de Brechtenstein again ordered him a second
and a third time to withdraw ; but seeing that the specter
made no attempt to doso, he seized one of his pistols,
and aiming steadily at his object fired. M. de Leiftern
remained in the same position, and rolled along the
coverlid of the bed, toward his friend, one of the balls
which he had abstracted from the pistols.

Immediately upon this M. de Brechtenstein, who was
then sitting up, fell backward. M. de Leiftern snatched

 

decorated recess. On her knee wasa diminutive niece.
In an adjoining room, with door open, were the rest of
the company. Says the little niece, in a jealous and
very audible voice.

«Auntie, kiss me, too.”

We leave you to imagine what had happened.

“You should say twice, Ethel, dear; twois not gram-
mar,” was the immediate rejoinder.

Clever girl.

He was the One Per Cent.
Patient—‘Tell me candidly, doctor, do you think Tl
pull through ?,’

Doctor—‘‘Oh, you are bound to get well; you can’t
help yourself. The Medical Record shows that out of
one hundred cases like yours, one per cent. recovers
invariably.”
“That's a cheerful prospect.”
“What more do you want? I’ve treated ninety-nine
cases, and every one of them died. Why, man alive!
you can’t die-if you try. There’s no humbug about
statistics.”

She Let Him Hang.
When a certain backwoodsman, a score of years ago,
was found with a rope around his neck, suspended from
a kitchen beam, suspicion attached to his wite with whom
he had not been on the best of terms. At the inquest
she was sharply questioned.
“You say you found hifm hanging to the beam when
you went into the kitchem?”
“I do, sir.”
«Well, why didn’t you Sut him down ?”
“Why, law, he warn’t dead yet.”

Why He Was Happy.

Mr. Minks—‘“‘I met an old schoolmate to-day for the
first time in forty years, and we had a grand talk about
old times.” :

Mrs. Minks—‘‘Tt was a man, [ suppose.”

“Oh, yes, and as long as I’ve lived I never saw such a
perfect example of contentment and earthly happiness
as he is.”

“Did he marry any oneI know ?”

“No, he never married.”

A Professional.
«Beautiful sport—beautiful,” said the drummer. ‘Sixty
birds in two hours and only missed two shots.”

A quiet gentleman sitting in a corner of the hotel office,
put down his paper, rushed across the room and grasped
him warmly by the hand.

«Allow me to congratulate you, sir,” he said, “I am a
professional myself.”

«Professional sportsman ?”

“No; professional liar.”

A Wise Provision.
Two old men lamenting the changes that have taken
lace.
First Old Man (sadly)—“I cannot enjoy myself now as
I could when I was a boy. I can’t eat half as much.”
Second Old Man—‘‘l cannot eat as much now as I
could when I was a boy, but i regard that asrather a
wise provision.”
“Why so ?” :
“Because I haven’t as*much to eat.”

Couldn’t be Otherwise.

“Look! look!” said the prosecuting attorney in his
speech to a the jury, ‘‘at that man. He is the very epitome
of a villain, a smooth face, a smooth tongue, a smooth
manner, a—” ; ,

“Of course,” interrupted the prisoner's counsel, ‘‘the
man couldn’t be otherwise than smooth. He was ironed
before he came into court.”

Equal Sauce and Solid.

 

off his mask and the bed sheet in which he was envel-
oped, spoke to him and told him who he was, took him
by the hand and endeavored to raise him, but in vain:
his friend was dead. A violent attack of apoplexy had
killed him.

>e~<

The. Ladies’ Work-Box,

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

“Irke,” Washington, D. C.—ist. The spring fashions in
gentlemen’s hats are not greatly changed since last season.
2d. The fashionable collar is high, with a wide spread, while
cuffs are rather larger, with either round or square corners,
and fastened with linked cuff-buttons. 3d. Trousers are cut
larger in the leg, and the patterns are mostly in stripes,
though some checked goods will be worn. 4th. There is a
great demand for ties of plain white lawn or linen, the lawn
being preferred, as they are the more easily tied. 5th. The
most popular gloves for street wear are those of a light tan
color, with three spear-points stitched upon the back, while
those for evening dress are pearl colored, embroidered upon

the back in the same color. 6th. Shoes are made with low
heels, tips upon'the toes, and are broad-toed, and laced _ with
porpoise skin, while light-colored uppers are worn_by dudes
oe exquisites, and patent leather gaiters are the proper
thing for afternoons and evenings. 7th. Business suits are
made principally in four-button sack coats, shaped to the
figure, and cut long, the breast pocket being patched and the
side pockets furnished with flaps, while for afternoon wear,
three-button diagonal cutaways are in vogue, the coat and
yest being cut lower than last season, thus displaying a
wider expanse of shirt bosom. 8th. Striped shirts, with
white collars and cuffs, are worn with business suits, as for-
merly, while dress goods are of rib goods, some being
embroidered in pique figures. 9th. In driving in a carriage
with ladies, a gentleman should take his seat with his back
to the horses, and should not sit beside a lady unless re-
quested by her to do so.

“Effie E. V.,” Kansas.—ist. The handsomest trimming for an
all black silk dress, to be worn at dinners and small gather-
ings, consists of collar, cuffs, and revers of the silk, dotted
and _ edged with jets or pendant ornaments, while, if more
sparkle be desired, the plastron may be of jetted net. 2d. V’s
of jet are still worn in the back of basques, and sleeves have
two ornaments on them, one at the wrist, pointing up, and
the other at the shoulder, tapering to the elbow.

‘Dotty,” Ogden City, Utah.—Box-plaited skirts now have
each edge stitched down to within the depth of a flounce, the
lower part falling loosely, and having a stitched hem, while

the apron drapery is similarly finished, and the basque seams
are turned in, lapped, and stitched down in true tailor style.
This description, however, is only suitable for heavy, smooth
cloths, and ladies with stout figures generally dispense with
the apron drapery.

“Ella B.”—Small bonnets and large hats will be worn dur-
ing the spring, while importers predict the general use of

fancy braids, though many Milan straws are shown in dark

shades of color. There seems to be an effort to introduce

lower crowns, though high square crowns are seen on all the

hats, and most of the bonnets, which remain very close at the

ag the trimming being massed on top to suit the face of
e@ wearer.

“Mrs. O. B.”—An economical fashion is the use of plain vel-
yet plush, or cloth skirts, diversified by a variety; of waists
and over-draperies. A dark green, brown, or blue velvet skirt

may be used with all kinds of plain and fancy woolens similar
in tone and color, while the vest, collar, and cuffs of the
basque may be of velvet to match, if preferred, though plain
cloth without trimming is equally as stylish.

“Lillie C.,” Plainfield, N. J.—ist. Little Japanese trays are

 

“You see,” said an English gentleman, who was
handling his dinner with a wonderful appetite, to a

formed into plaques by being covered with a plain or shaded

VOL. 42—No. 20.

scape, while they are greatty Gapeored by being mounted on
a piece of: thin wood covered with plush, 2d. We can furnish
a Breceica! guide to “Oil and Water-Color Painting” for fifty
cents.

“Florence Z.”—Brilliant red shades are worn by young
ladies for house dresses, while dahlia red is another popular

shade, and is handsome in silk or velvet. 2d. Though black
woolen goods are greatly worn, an all black costume is sel-
dom seen, for they are combined with red, tan, green, helio-
trope, or some of the fancy velvets in bright colors.

“Miss Dollie W., Pocahoutas, Va.”—Butterfly-shaped pin-
cushions have cardboard wings, covered with satin, and

painted ; the body is made of a roll, covered with velvet,
and the pins are thrust through this part, the whole affair
being suspended by a satin ribbon, which is tied in a large
bow where it passes over the nail.

“Mrs. G. L.”—Ostrich pompons, tips, aigrettes of feathers,
and aigrettes and pigques of fine flowers, will be used, while
epans aus piece velvet will be standard trimmings for hats
and bonnets.

tome

“Lidie K.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Rolling collars, with notched

revers, ending in a point at the bottom of the basque, are
we with plaited chemisettes and high collars of silk, crape,
or linen.

“Miss Dorothy H.,” Hartford, Conn.—The latest rage are
the Garibaldi waists, now made closer in fit, and of striped’
saat with collar, cuffs, and V-shaped vest of plain —
goods. ot

‘Mamie E.”—Plaited frills, with bias folds of silk caslite’
on the outside, are worn in the necks of dresses, and tulle

frills come in white, colors, black edged with white, and vice
versa.

“Edward.”—Spring overcoats are made short, shaped to
fret pe ond stitched upon the edges, while they are shown
ight colors.

“Daisy P.,”—Feather stitching is not only used on flannel,
but on silk and satin, for the mnbet elaborate dresses,

“Ten Years’ Reader.”—We can furnish a book on “Flower
Painting” in water colors for fifty cents.

“E. 8S. C.,” Philadelphia, Pa.—Collars, cuffs,
chiefs are made to match.

“Marie.”—We will mail you a “Ball-Room Guide” on re-
ceipt of fifty cents.

and handker-

——___—__ > 9 =—______

PEOPLE WHO MISCONSTRUE.

Among the most unpleasant people one is compelled
to rub shoulders with on life’s highway, are the class
whose minds take hold of everything, as it were, the
wrong end foremost. They are usually as obstinate as
perverse, and the false inferences they draw from mis-
apprehended premises they adhere to with as much
tenacity as if they were gospel truths. One knows not
how to deal with such incorrigibles. Good-humored
rallying they are as Hkely as not to mistake for studied
insult, endeavors to instruct and convince for airs of
superiority, and whatever one may do or say with a
view of benefiting them, for insidious attempts to get on
their blind side. Their field of moral vision is filled with
a mist of suspieion which distorts everything, and it is
in vain to reason with them, for you can no more do
away with their absurd impressions than you can wipe
out graven letters with asponge. Error, we suppose, is
to them what truth is to right-headed men and women,
and they cling to it because they believe init. They are —
objects of commiseration: yet being unabatable
nuisances, it is prudent to give them a wide berth. It is.
really a sad thing to be predisposed by nature to mis
conceive and misconstrue; but it is equally unpleasant
to be misunderstood and miseonstrued. We therefore:
make it a rule to have as little as possible to do with
inveterate wrongheads.

+ © +

A LUCKY GIRL.

There ts @ stroke of luck experienced by Miss Julia A.
Malcom, of New Haven, Conn. Some ten years ago, Mr:
Thomas F. Clark, by way of a joke, gave her, in proper
legal form, a deed which made her the owner of certain
Colorado lands, which he thought to be valueless. She
Said that she’d keep the document to remember him by,
locked it up, and has stnee been earning her living
teaching school. The other day she received a letter
from Colorado, saying that there was a lead mine on her
property, and $250,000 was offered for it. Miss Maleom
thought it a joke, but finding that it wasn’t, she accepted
the offer, and the check is on its way East.

Items of Interest.

A cashier who has no use for money dwells im Paris.
He has few bad habits, and cares nothing for diamonds,
champagne, cigars, or even fine clothes. He belongs toa
menagerie, and is a lion, whose owner calls him Cashier.
The receipts of the menagerie are put every evening in a
leather bag, and the bag is deposited in the middle of the
Cashier's cage. No burglar has yet attempted to meddle
with the funds of that menagerie.

The coyote is the enemy of the jack rabbit, and used
to keep hisnumbers down. But some years ago a bounty
was puton the coyote in California, and he has since de-
creased and the jack rabbit increased, until now the latter
does great damage to the vineyards and orchards. It is
therefore proposed to take the bounty off of the coyote and
put it on the jack rabbit.

Mr. Alvin Riehtmyer,of Gilboa, N. Y., has a hand-
made, solid mdhogany bureau which has been in the family
for more than six generations, and is said to be nearly 350.
years old. It contains four large drawers below, and sixteen
small ones at the top, one of which isa secret drawer for
valuables, so constructed as to deceive the most expert bur-
glar even in these times.

A hog belonging to Farmer Redmond, near Sturgeoa,
Mo., could not breathé through its nose. Its owner, there-
fore, trained it to carrya cob in its mouth to keep its jaws
open so that it could breathe. For the past four years the
hog has been going around withaeob. When it wants to
eat it lays down its cob, and when it gets through picks it up
again.

Six-year-old Frankie Knox, of Woodbury, Conn., hada
severe sore throat last week, and was kept indoors for a day
or two, much against his will. On the second day he asked
to go out, and on being refused, said: “Mamma, do angels
have wings?” “Yes,” answered his mother “Then TI’ll bet
Dll fly around some when I get to heaven,” he replied.

An intelligent colly dog is owned by Mrs. B. T. Rogers,
of Kenosha, Wis. Some weeks ago she lost a gold watch, and
no trace of it could be found. On Sunday morning the dog
walked into the house with the missing article in his mouth.
The Rogers family firmly believe the dog heard them talking
about it, and looked for it and found it.

Two funny fellows in Evesboro, N. J., attempted to
play a practical joke on a colored man named Mitchell. After
covering themselves wlth sheets, they hid behind a fence,
and rushed out at their victim, who, instead of running,
seized one of the jokers, and beat him soseverely that he has
been unable to leave the house since.

A merchant in Carthage, Ill, hit upon a novel adver-
tising scheme. He had caused to be painted a number of
prodigious boot-tracks, all leading from each side of the
square to his establishment. The scheme worked to perfec-
tion, for everybody seemed curious enough to follow them
to their destination.

The sixtieth anniversary of the marriage of Mr. and
Mrs. William Goose, of Jeffersonville, Ky., has just been cele-
brated. They still occupy the farm on which they settled
when they began housekeeping ; and here their nine children
were born, the eldest of whom is 59 years of age.

A bull pup in Rondout, N. Y.. could not resist the
piteous appeal of arat. The pup had been placed in a pit
with five rats, and in ashort time shook the life out of four
of them. The fifth lifted his pawsin an appeal for mercy,
and the dog spared its life.

When the Satvation Army in East Portland, Oregon,
halted in front of a saloon, the other day, and began singing
lines, the words of which were, “It is water we want, not
beer,” the saloon-keeper, a genial and obliging person, turned
the hose on them. :
Barrels made of paper pulp are now used as recep-
tacles for flour, sugar, etc., and all kinds of liquids. They
cost about the same as those made of wood. A patented ma-
chine turns them out, with the aid of two men, at the rate of
600 barrels a day.

A girl working in one of the Biddeford mills is the
thirty-second child of the same father and mother, and
twenty-three of her brothers still live and write to her every
week. She recéives more letters than any woman in Bidde-
ford.

A gentleman in North Strahave, Pa., is proud of his
teeth. They are all double. and so strong that with them he
can crack a walnut, bite a ten-penny nail in two, or lifta
quarter of beef.

The oldest fox-hunter in Connecticut is James F. Tal-
bot, of North Coventry, who, though in his 85th year, still
goes out with his sons when they go for foxes, and gets his
share every time.

The rare manuscripts In the great Paris Library are
to be photographed so that they may be reproduced if de-
stroyed.

Seven bears have been killed the past winter by Mrs.
Lillie Prok, of Olalla, Oregon. .

 

 

 

 

background, and decorated with flowers, figures, or a land-

Over 1,000 women own and manage farms in Iowa.