“Buffalo Bill's Best Shot,” b Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1886, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of *tongress, Washington, D. C0. a -Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. Office Vol. 42. P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. 3! Rose St. N ew York, November 20, 1886. : Three Dollars Two Copies Five Dollars. No. Per Year, 3. THE FAMILY PEW. BY a aN eee! We are wont in this wearisome world of ours To sigh for the days that forever are fled ; The heavens are dark, and even the flowers Seem lacking the odor of those long dead ; And the years slip round in a different style, And there’s little old memories to renew, As I walk up the softly carpeted aisle, And peer in vain for the family pew. "Tis a stylish church, and the organ swells Like the sob of a spirit that seeks release From its cankering care, then, falling, tells To wayworn wanderers tales of peagee. But where is the valiant village choir, Or the clarionet-player with visage blue, And one eye fixed on the portly squire, Watching his skill from the family pew ? The place is all varnish. None hear the drone Of the old clerk reading the Hundreth Psalm, And the white-robed boys in the choir intone The service with supercilious calm ; And the sermon it lasts ten minutes—no more— And is caviare to all but a few, And even the lord of the manor can’t snore In peace in the dear old family pew. Ah, well! ’tis fitting should fade away The things we loved in the far-off years; And. tho’ an old fogy who’s had his day, I think with a sorrow too deep for tears Of the sunshine streaming on maiden fair, And turn from a moss-grown grave to woo The silent presence that waits me there, In the shade of the dear old family pew. And the joy of the spring is o’er all the land, As we read from the self-same book once more Shyly together, hand clasping hand, Or wander far, when the sermon’s 0’er, Through lush green meadows unto the stile Where fate condemned us to bidadieu, And I see for a moment her parting smile, Then wake alone in the family pew! - > @ ~<- [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] WAITING FOR H OR; THE WHITE HAND. — By the Author of ‘Jennie Vail’s Mission,” ‘“* The White Sapphire,” etc. (‘Waiting for Him” was commenced LAST WEEE. ] CHAPTER IV. MR. DACRE’S EXPLANATION. The ladies caught each other’s hands in their aston- | ishment. Clive the miscreant who had caused the railway acci- dent ? Clive’s face, fiercely set and defiant, looked like ‘‘No.” Grace, curling her proud, blanching lips, muttered : «Impossible \” Rosamond, trembling with horror, faltered : “Dacreés friend ? Oh, monstrous !” Meanwhile a crowd was gathering, questions were being asked. ‘‘What’s up with the nob ?” *‘Nob be hanged! Monty Dacre’s bottle-holder !” “You hold your jaw! Mr. Clive’s a gent, and no mis- take. Claws off, mister, afore you’re made to.” “Let us go on,” said Rosamond, faintly. “No,” returned Grace, with her fair countenance bent, | steadily upon the rough throng. } The constable, seeing signs that he had long ago learned to understand, sprung his rattle. The crowd gave a threatening roar. «“Aren’t old Carew too sharp, when he snaps off our best man for nothing ?” cried an enraged Violet. “Carew aren’t got nothing to do with it. It’s for tear- : in’ up the rail-track for to cause asmash!” shouteda Scarlet. ‘Doesn’t we know Audley Glive better’n that? Aren’t he Ashley born and true as steel ?” ‘Ho, ho, ho, ho!” The taunting laughter mingled with the threatening roar and changed to a hurricane of hissing as the crowd surged round the constable, and the arrested man, and the girl who had accused him. The carriage was caught in the tide and rooted immovable. Clive stood by the officer’s side, desperately calm, and seemingly unconscious of the pale taces that looked out trom the carriage window. “Oh, Mr. Bran!” exclaimed Rosamond, in a tremulous voice, as she caught sight of the old squire elbowing his way toward them, ‘do go for Mr. Dacre! It is acruel mistake, 1am sure! Mr. Clive is his friend. Oh, do go and tell him! They will listen to him!” Some heard the words, falteringly spoken as they were, and a quick pattering of questions and answers fell like hail about them. “Leave the swell alone; he's a friend of these here | carriage folks.” “No, he aren't—he’s their toady.” “Who says Audley Clive’s a toady ? on.” “Oh, Grace, let us get out of this fearful place.” 0.” and confused Let him come oN A group of men appeared, forcing their way through the crowd, and bestowing scientific taps with their clubs upon the heads of those who withstood them. They were the constables who had been summoned. Then rose such a pandemonium of yells and curses, that Rosamond shrank down in ber corner horrified, and Grace, too, sat with an expression of solemn fright grow- ing upon her delicate face. A swift shower of stones—snatched from the street— torn from the pavement—plucked out of the very walls it would seem—were hurled at the new-comers, while | coarse, and rage-contorted faces passed by ; their oaths | almost shouted into the ears of the ladies; their foul garments almost brushing the ladies’ silken clothing ; for the door had been swung open by the jostling crowd, and jammed against the wheel, while the coachman needed all his strength to prevent the plunging horses from trampling some of them to death. The posse of officers made their way resolutely through the convulsed throng—now struggling with a furious Violet man—now shoved on by the Scarlet tag-rags of the election. At last they reached their comrade with his prisoner, and forming a body guard began to force their way to- wards the jail-cab, which stood at a little distance. Miss Annandale watched spell-bound, attempting to do nothing—feeling nothing, as it would seem, but aston- ishment, “Ts he really arrested ?” she muttered once, and an urchin who was crowded on to her carriage step, hear- ing the words, glanced up with a too knowing wink, and chuckled : “You bet, mum.” And at that very moment, Audley Clive, at the door of the jail-cab, looked round once at her, over the sea of raging humanity, just as if he had heard her, and smiled bitterly as though he were saying : “Good-by toyou. I have forever lost you.” In a few more minutes, the man was whirled away. | fifty throats. | cowardly that I despise you.” , Shot from her eyes. spreading out her hands to them im mournful appeal. | her condemning eyes from face to face, and they shrunk | backward, not repentant, for your mob is not so impres- | derstood the young lady. | left, and Montalieu Dacre made his appearance, pressing | toward the carriage, with a countenance expressive of ‘YOU MUST TAKE ME AT MY WORD, LORD VINCENT.” Then an ominous growl crept in and out among the throng. It changed its character in an instant from a champion mob, to a mob eager for vengeance. Even the Scarlet men were carried away by the red- handed enthusiasm, and a terrible yell broke forth from ‘‘Where’s the gal that lied on Audley Clive? Sling her over to us—sling her over.” A white sun-bonnet was abruptly disclosed by a part- ing of the mob, stranded high and dry out of the retir- ing current of her protectors, the constables, by a swirl of the flood. Quivering-lipped, panting, MamieePrimrose looked on every side at the threatening faces, as if scarcely com- prehending the purport of their hoarse cries. There was a rush, a hustling, a convulsive scream, and the white sun-bonnet disappeared. Rosamond pressed her hands to her eyes, and moaned and trembled. Grace gazed on, and her gray eyes were full of a still white heat; and there was a sickly pallor about the beautiful lips. Was this pandemonium about to offer to her loathing eyes a scene of murder? } The small brown face of the peasant girl uprose again from the writhing mass, its wild gipsy hair disheveled, its wild dark eyes staring with fright, its blanched cheek striped with blood. Brutal hands snatched at her gown, at her hair, at her heaving throat, like hungry wolves. She caught sight of the face that was framed in by a silk-draped carriage- window, and made one wild leap toward it, and fell on her knees between the wheels, and the urchin perched {| upon the step did his share by giving her a kick with his bare heel. “Girl, come in, quickly,” said Grace Annandale, stretching out her slender hand, and she pulled her into the sumptuous carriage, and faced the maddened throng. “For shame!” she said, low-voiced; and the clamor ceased before that silver tone, ‘You are so brutal, so They shrank before the blaze of indignation which ‘Suppose she was one of your own?” cried Grace, “How would you like your sister to be trodden upon and butchered by a hundred dastardly ruffians ?” Not a voice was raised against her; she looked with sible as that; but having no answer ready at the mo- ment, and a little abashed, because they scarcely un- At this moment the crowd began to part right and the utmost alarm. ‘“‘Make way there,” he shouted; ‘“‘how dare you block up the ladies’ carriage? My good men, will none of you see that those ladies are not insulted ?” He manfully crushed through them to the carriage door, and grasped Miss Annandale’s hand with a mutter- ed word of reassurance, while his eye dwelt on Rosa- mond’s blanched face ; then he addressed his constitu- ents trom the carriage step in curt and decided tones. “You had better be off to the ‘Unicorn,’ where there’s plenty of good cheer awaiting you, .and where I shall expect you to drink to your own better manners. There is nothing to raise a riot. about. Mr. Clive has been ar- rested through a ridiculous mistake, but of course we, his friends, will see that he is liberated immediately. Be off now; you haven’t much time before the poll closes, when you will hear that which I hope will please you.” A cheer for Dacre was raised as he stepped into the carriage, shut the door, and drew down both the blinds, At last the hustings were cleared. CHAPTER V. SPEAKING GLANCES. In the soft, greenish gloom, Mr. Dacre looked un- naturally pale. ‘What does all this mean?’ he asked. ‘J. do not un- | derstand.” } The Hon. Mr. Annandale was an indolent and luxur ious man who had been a foreign attache for many | years to a certain European court, but had now retired from public life, to enjoy the society of his charming wife and daughters. Mrs. Annandale, whose father, Colonel Tremenhaer, had fallen in the Crimean war, was a high-spirited lady whose present ambition was to marry her daughters well. The daughters were merely handsome and accom- plished girls, who knew little of what lay beyond the pale of their own gorgeous existence, and waited for matrimony as their destiny with gentle curiosity. Look at this blue-blooded family now as they cluster in the stately saloon after dinner, each characteristically employed. Mr. Annandale, who is interested in Mr. Dacre’s suc- cess, is just scanning over the columns of the Ashley- Down Patriot, and sighing for the extra which is prom- ised, when the-_returns are known. Mrs. Annandale who is interested, too, in Mr. Dacre’s success, is fanning herself lazily with an Indian fan, and putting a few questions now and again to her lord. Rosamond who is interested most of all in Mr. Dacre’s success, sits behind her harp listening with shining eyes, and striking a soft note now and again as if she were not listening at all. Grace in the window, lapped in a billowy, brocaded easy-chair, looks down the vista of chalk cliffs to the blue-tinted sea, across which a glorious path is thrown from the moon’s red rim: She is in opal-hued garments, which glisten softly, and her cheek is gray and cold like that of a statue in the, dawn. There are bands about her life, bands about her heart, and she feels them to-night. Why did she never feel them before ? She cannot answer that question; she wonders over it silently. The footman announces a visitor—Lord Vincent. The family rise and greet him warmly; the graceful figure in the window stands with a half smile,. waiting his approach. Lord Vincent is a gentleman of ancient family; wealthy, handsome, and twenty-six; holds the honor- able position of “Charge D’Affaires” at Naples, and has come home to get an English wite. Mrs. Ammandale having manipulated his attentions a | little, has had the happiness to be asked to accord her consent to his addressing her eldest daughter: since | which, Miss Grace proving perfectly dutitul, he has fas- | tened the eye of appropriation upon her. “So you had a narrow escape on the railroad, the girls tell me,” says the hazy voice of Mr. Annandale. ‘Narrow enough,” replies the young man, glancing toward his opal-hued divinity. ‘I don’t want to. be much nearer my last gasp than that.” “So you were really on board?’ murmured Grace, shaking hands with him rather more cordially than he had ever seen her do before. “Yes. You remembered it then ?” «Tell us about the accident, Lord Vincent,” says Mrs. Annandale. “It is but a short story so far asIam concerned. I | was dozing in} my corner of the car when the alarm | whistle caused us all to“dash down the windows and | look out. We saw nothing but a blazing fire. by the | track, while two females ran toward us waving things Z | to attract our attention. ) Our engineer reversed the en- gine, and jammed down the brakes just in time to stop | us afoot. orso off the torn up rails, where we would “Ob, it has been dreadful!” cried Rosamond, weeping, ' and still smiling ; ‘“‘and it was so good of you to come.” “Certainly, I came as soon as I saw your carriage blocked by the mob, and I hope you will permit me to see you safely home. But this arrest—what does it mean? My friend Clive! Impossible!” z “This young girl,” answered Grace, ‘accuses him of having caused the accident at Caburn Bank by removing the rails.” Dacre gave a shocked exclamation, and for a moment was speechless. “How infamous to blame him!” said he, after this shocked pause. <‘‘I give you my word of honor he is in- capable.of it. How can you supppose he did it, girl ?” Mamie Primrose, huddled upon the floor of the car- riage between the two ladies, made no answer. He stooped and touched her, but she never moved. He bent still closer, and looked at the down-dropped face. «She seems insensible,” said he; ‘‘and she is hurt.” Grace raised the head of the girl to her lap, and 1look- ed upon her, shrinkingly. Her clothes were rent and reeking with the mud which had been spattered upon her by her fiendish assaulters, and blood was oozing from her temple which. a brutal fist had cut open. Grace turned away her head from the shocking sight with a deathly shiver. She was not used to anything like this—had never been so close to the masses in her life before, and did not know that such things could happen in the world. She took her perfumed handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the blood from the girl’s face, and bound up the wound with it, and felt in the doing of it a strange revulsion from disgust to sorrow and compassion. The childish brown face, and the round cheeks, and the sealed eyelids, fringed as they were with glorious | dark lashes, said to her heart : *“T also am flesh and blood, the casket of a precious soul !” The lady wept as she bound up the wounds of this humble creature. «We had better take her to the infirmary, and leave her in a doctor’s hands as quickly as possible,” said Da- cre, watching these ministrations anxiously. «Yes, that will be best.” The coachman was informed, and they drove briskly through the streets. “How did the poor girl imagine that Clive had been on the rails?” asked Dacre. “By his hand—and a ring on his little finger.” “Good heavens! Where could she have seen that ?” “Through some fence where she was. The accusation is a miserable one.” “The girl must be mad! Did she see his face ?” ‘| do not know. Ihave heard nothing coherent.” “Ah, she is recovering! Are we near the infirmary, Miss Annandale ?” Grace glanced out. Yes, we are nearing it.” Mr. Dacre let down one of the windows, that the girl might have air, and sat well into a corner that they might give her room. When poor Mamie Primrose opened her eyes she found her head in a lady’s silken lap, her cheek resting upon a shining hand, soft as a flower, while a strange, earnest, puzzled face, whose eyes were full of large tears, bent over her like a dream. She roused herself still more at the sudden stopping of the carriage, and saw a tall gentleman open the door and step out, while a young lady, clad in silken gar- ments, with a face like tinted china, leaned out after him, saying something smilingly. Mamie sat up and looked from one to the other of the ladies, wondering. ‘Poor girl! do you feel sick ?” softly asked Rosamond. “No, ma‘am ; I—I—I don’t know as I do.” «What is your name ?” asked Grace, tenderly. ‘“‘Mamie—Miriam Primrose, ma’am. Oh, my! how my | poor head aches!” She put her hand up, her little tanned hand, all inno- cent of a glove, to the bandaged brow, and began to look | frightened. “You were hurt, my dear, by the mob at the hustings, and have got a little cut on the forehead. Don’t be alarmed; you are going to get it nicely dressed here, | and you will soon be quite gomfortable.” | Mamie got very white, and began to cry. “J wish I hadn't left mother!” she sobbed. ‘She is a fretting for me now at Caburn, and me nearly torn to rags among ’em !” j ‘You came from Caburn ?” «Yes, ma’am. It was just by our house that the rails were torn up.” “Was there much—were there many deaths?” asked Grace, rather faintly. “Oh, no, ma’am. We saved ’em—mother and me!” said the girl, glowing through her tears. ‘We lit a bon- fire, and they stopped the train in time.” Grace leaned against the carriage window and closed her eyes, while a warm flush stole over her countenance. She was so thankful that there was to be no shocking termination to her acquaintanceship with Lord Vincent. “Miss, I thank ye both kindly for taking care of me,” said the peasant girl; ‘‘and I don’t think Pll need a doc- tor; sol’ find my way, please, miss, to my Cousin Ward- low/’s, as lives in Cheshire street.” She hurriedly began to untie the handkerchief from around her head. «Do not remove it,” said Rosamond, hastily; ‘‘you must leave it on.” «But, miss,” said simple Mamie, ‘isn’t it yours? I must give it ye back.” “No, no!” shuddered Rosamond, Then turning to her sister, she murmured: ‘‘How dreadful these people are! This sort of thing makes me quite sick!” and she buried her delicate nostrils in her cambric handkerchief. Low as were the words, the rustic girl heard them, and, with burning cheeks, stepped out of the carriage. “Stop, Miriam,” said Grace, rousing herself; ‘you must not go until Mr. Dacre has got the doctor to examine your wound.” “Thank ye, ma’am,” returned Mamie, tremulously, “but you’ve no Call to care about the likes o’ me.” ‘You're a brave girl; you saved a great number of peo- ple from death, you say. Mamie, we must hear more about this, and have you rewarded.” “Thank ye, ma’am,” muttered Mamie, dropping a nervous courtesy; then she glanced at the other lady, dropped another courtesy, and started off at a run down the street, her bare head, and tossing hair, and ban- daged forehead attracting general attention. Rosamond madé a few remarks about the lack of in- telligence to be found among the lower classes, with her dainty head nestling back among the scented carriage cushions, to which Grace assented absently; after which Mr. Dacre returned, drawing on his lavender gloves, and accompanied by a gentleman from the infirmary. Being informed that the bird had flown, and how, Mr. Dacre volunteered to find her at the place she had men- tioned in Cheshire street, and to send her medical aid, should she require it; after which the officer from the infirmary retired. Mr. Dacre then escorted the ladies in safety to Stony- hurst, and returned immediately to Ashley Downs, to see what could be done for Mr. Clive, with a promise that if possible, he would bring pp to the park news ot the issue of the election that night. Stonyhurst Park was a fine old domain, extending through the whole width of one of the prettiest vales in the southern countries. The ancient castle had been pulled down by the pres- ent owner, and a grand Aladdin palace raised on its ruins. The great front windows commanded the whole sweep of the British Channel through a vista of bold chalk-cliffs ; the rear windows looked upon a ravishingly beautiful landscape-garden. A dome-shaped crystal green-house stood at the south- ern side, and within glowed flowers of ardent hues, and towered trees of stately tropical growth ; and indeed the conservatory of the Hon. Algernon Darley Annandale deserved to be celebrated, for he had spent.a fortune on his plants. The observatory on the roof of the mansion command- ed a noble view of three counties lying map-like from horizon to horizon, and on a clear day overlooked the coast of Boulogne, across a crawling waste of sea. Within, sumptuous adornments and lavish expendi- ture prevailed from. topmost chamber to lowermost cellar; and all the modern improvements rendered the army of servants mere machine workers, who performed their duties as if by magic. Stonyhurst aimed to be a representative mansion of the nineteenth century aristocrat. have been shot over a bank forty or fifty feet in height. Those two females, an old peasant woman and her daughter, had made a bonfire of their household furni- ture to signal us in time.” «Poor creatures! What remarkable intelligence! We must congratulate you on your escape.” “Thanks. What is this about a Mr. Clive having been arrested on suspicion ? Surely not the Audley Clive that canvassed the borough for Dacre ?” “That’s the man,” says Mr. Annandale; ‘but, of course, it is a mistake, and the thing is an abominable absurdity. The young man is quite respectable; why we have had him in this very house.” ‘“) met Dacre and him at Hathaway the day before yesterday,” said Lord Vincent, meditatively; “and I heard Dacre make a brilliant election speech. Told them then that I hoped to be up last night in time to give my vote to-day, and to eat my dinner with the new member. Wasn’t though.” Rosamond wheels her harp to one side, and is seen no longer through the glancing strings, but with the soft light of a console-lamp glimmering upin the fair face and thistle-down hair. Somehow Grace cannot help looking at her, and the sisters’ eyes meet, and Rosamond looks shocked and terrified, while Grace becomes dark-eyed and intent. Vincent, drawing his long, straw-colored mustaches between his tapering finger-tips, remarks the two with indolent attention, and wonders what they are thinking of. The talk goes on briskly, and the subject is discussed in all its bearings. Grace and Rosamond get together fora moment, and the elder sister whispers ; «What did you mean ?’ To which Rosamond raises her sapphire blue eyes sol- emnly, and replies: ' «Jealousy |” CHAPTER VI. LORD VINCENT ASKS A QUESTION. In due time Lord Vincent expresses a vehement de- sire to see how the new calciolarias are flourishing, so Mrs. Annandale directs her eldest daughter to accom- pany him tothe conservatory, and Mr. Annandale dis- covers at the same moment that he is hungry for one of Rosamond’s songs. Under cover of the performance the*young pair retire, and are soon lost among the eastern frondage of the conservatory. Grace sinks down on the first garden chair, which is made of the cedar of Lebanon, and over which a beauti- ful Psyche bends from a porphyry pedestal, and she crosses her light hands on her lap, and looks down half sadly. She is thinking: “What a pity that I do not love anybody !” She is sorry for herself, and sorry for the ‘young man who is about to offer her his heart. She remembers the harsh words of the man who did love her: ««Will you sell yourself ?” and she is troubled. Lord Vincent so sincerely admires the perfect face and figure before him, that he is quite complacent over his task. “7 wish you would give me your opinion on a matter of some importance, Miss Annandale.” “Oh, do not come tome! I cannot help you.” “Perhaps you can. - Let me try your capacity.” “Better not. Opinions, unless they be one’s own, are never desirable.” “Jt is the wish of my life to hear youropinion on this subject.” “Oh, dear! is it soimportant as that ?” “J wish to knowif this beautiful hand can ever be mine.” He gently takes it between both hisown. She flushes faintly—looks down at the perforated marble f#oor—and seems almost inclined to withdraw her hand. “Will you sell yourself ?” Her face quivers into pale gravity, and she somewhat coldly releases herself. “My dear Miss Annandale,” says the suitor, speaking fast, ‘from the first hourin which I saw you, I have dared to covet you for my wife.” “Why ?”stammers she. My lord is disconcerted, not being accustomed to ana- lyze emotions. So he shirks the inconvenient query by plucking a wax-white geranium, and weaving it into her dark coils of hair. ‘You will wear my colors, will you not ?” he murmurs, sentimentally. A long, long pause, during which she slowly, sadly lays down freedom, and accepts her destiny. “Tf you wish,” she says at last, quietly. Lord Vincent imprints a respectful kiss upon her fore- head ; thanks her very elegantly for the rich boon of her love; draws her hand through his arm, and leads her up and down among the flower-pots, that he may say the pretty things appropriate to the occasion. When he has acquitted himself with equal grace and ease, he leads his fiancee back to the family circle, to an- Viscountess St. Manfred.” ) } —" < ewaisa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 nounce the joyful consummation of their finessing. Cool and pale as a frost-flower, Miss Annandale receives their congratulations ; in the midst of which Mr. Dacre is announced, along with two or three gentlemen of blood, who are in high spirits. “We have great pleasure in presenting to you the new member,” cries Sir Roderick Valance. “Mr. Dacre looks haggard and care-worn.” ‘And no wonder. after the stiff fight he has had,” they say; but he responds to the congratulations with his usual brilliant elegance of style, and soon finds an opportu- nity to read in Rosamond's flashing eyes her feelings to- ward his success. “And Clive ?” asks the elder sister, as they are a mo- ment alone. Dacre’s tace falls. . “1 have bailed him,” he mutters, gloomily; ‘‘and he has retained me in his defense. Please Heaven I willdo my best.” “You are satisfied, of course, as to his innocence ?” He clenches his hands and his teeth. “T would stake my honor on Audley Clive !” he mutters, | | leisure half hour to spare.” “and I know more about him than any one here.” “Grace smiles a little at that, and answers nothing. Later in the evening, when the visitors are gone, Lord Viucent, again in the conservatory, bidding adieu to his lady-love, is stopped in the midst of a very successful | rhapsody, by the lady asking a strange question. “Do you think an honorabie man could be tempted to commit murder for the sake of jealousy ?” “Dearest Grace,” (a new privilege) ‘‘what a question.” He ponders very wisely for a few moments. “7 think,” says he, feeling rather awkward over the unaccustomed exercise, ‘‘that an honorable man, under certain circumstances, could easily be tempted to slay his rival. Duels, you know, are a very——” «Yes, [know. Not by a duel, though; by a cruel—a wholesale murder ?” Lord Vincent looks down at the set and rather icy face of his jiancee; the indolent expression creeps from his patrician face, the lazy light from his blue eyes. “A railway accident, for instance ?” asked he. “e had not said so. Well—that may do as an in- “1 don’t know—what honorable man—would tear up the rails so as to hurl a hundred passengers down to death—for jealousy!” said he, with something like a wrathiul gasp between the pauses. They stop beneath a flaming azalea. Its scarlet tints seem to flood the lady’s countenance, and to bathe her thinly vailed neck with warm color. “Neither do I,” she replies, with earnestness. ‘I am | ° | girl, with whom the young viscount had fallen in love Now tell me where such a thing ever hap- | ; Grosvenor square. glad we think alike.” : “So aml. pened.” “f do not know that such a thing ever happened.” “A parallel case then. Come love, I feel curious.” “T have nothing to tell you, Lord Vincent.” “Upon my word, Grace, I think you are driving at | | all. Clive. Had he a rival on board the train 2” tily “You must alivays take me at my word, my lord,” she | ‘ t Cerita Elmsley, the daughter of the innkeeper at Val- So even on the first evening of their betrothal they | says. are very near having a difference. (TO BE CONTINUED.) >2e~< (THIS StORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] WIFE AND WIDOW; The Bride af the Alps, By LUCY RANDALL COMFORT, Author of “Twice an Heiress.” “The Widowed Bride,” etc. (“Wife and Widow” was commenced in No. 42. Back num- bers can be obtained of all Newsdealers.]} ; CHAPTER XXXTX. CERITA STILL TRIUMPHS. ‘“‘A month—only a month! Ishall triumph over them all yet!” Cerita Elmley’s heart beat with conscious elation, as | she stood ‘alone in her elegant little boudoir at the Sil- | verstein Hotel, after Lord St. Manfred had left her. And Mrs. Fortescue Raymond, furtively watching her from beneath her white eyelashes, perceived that some great crisis in her destiny had just transpired. She asked no | him. Miss Annandale draws herself away from him haugh- | questions. It was Mrs. Fortescue Raymond’s style to find out things without the vulgar and commonplace preliminary of asking questions. From what Adrienne had told her, and she perceived for herself, she formed | a very accurate guess at the true state of affairs. ‘My dear Miss Elmsley,” her honeyed voice fell on Cerita’s ears at last, ‘‘you are flushed and fatigued. Let me order a cup of tea for you ?” “Thanks,” smiled Cerita; ‘‘you are very kind. lieve I am a little tired.” | And when the two ladies sat together over the fra- | grant decoction, Miss Elmsley took Mrs. Fortescue Ray- | Tbe | mond into her confidence. “Dear Mrs. Fortescue Raymond,” she purred, ‘‘you have been a happy, trusting bride yourself——” “Alas, yes!” sighed Mrs. Fortescue Raymond, adding another lump of sugar to the tea that was not quite suf- | ficiently s\eet to suit her taste. | ‘And therefore,” went on Cerita, ‘‘you will the more | thoroughly appreciate my feelings when I confess to | ou that one month from to-day lam to become the | Mrs. Fortescue Raymond immediately laid down her | teaspoon and kissed Cerita on the forehead with a neat | little dab of a kiss. | “Allow me to congratulate you,” she exclaimed, | ecstatically, “Such sweet and unsolicited confidence can but serve to tighten the bonds of tenderness be- | tween us, Alas, my love, how vividly does this scene | recall to my heart the circumstances of my own be-; trothal !” | As Mr. Fortescue Raymond had been a pussy and | apoplectic old gentleman, forty years older than his bride, with a purple nose, and a temper something’ of | the shortest, the simile was not quite as complete as it } might have been. But Miss Elmsley knew nothing of | the “circumstances,” so that Mrs. Fortescue Raymond's | allusion was quite safe. | “And now,” said Cerita, “I need your advice and sug- | gestions about—about my trousseau.”- ’ uit a | “The very thing, if I may venture to say 80,” cried | Mrs. Fortescue Raymond, ‘‘on which Ifeel myselt best | fitted to advise and counsel you, my dear young friend. | My taste has been so fortunate as to be complimented | service.” “But,” ingenuously added Cerita, ‘I have no money— thatis, not enough to buy what I want.” “Oh!” said Mrs. Fortescue Raymond. “You see,” Said Cerita, with alittle outward gesture of her hands, ‘‘in what a puzzling position I am ed. Although the future Viscountess St. Manfred will revel in gold, Miss Elmsley has barely enough to meet the ordinary every-day expenses of London life. Now what amitodo? Oe SELF-CONTROL consists in the willful ahd intentional closing of the mind against dnbious views and the heart against passions. THREE things to cuitivate—good books, good friends, and good humor. ’ A FRETFUL disposition takes the fragrance out of one’s life. ->—@ + —— A leading member of the Legal Profession of N. Y. City. CHARLES CARROL LEEDS, 120 Broadway, says: ‘“Liebig Co’s Coca Beef Tonic strengthened my wife as no_ other tonic ever has done, and it is, besides, very agreeable to take.” It will reconstruct thg most shattered and enfeebled, reinvigorate the aged and inhrm, and make sickly children and infants blooming and healthy. with | | HOME. BY LORD ROSSLYN. Sweet word that spans all space, that knows no bound, Yet dwells in narrowest compass; welcome word! Dear type of peace—though sheltered by the sword ; Mid Saxon-speaking races only found. Our earliest recollections all abound With little notes of thee ; our years are stored With memories of thee ; each spot adored By youth, in age becometh holy ground. Thou clingest in the handgrip of the sire; Thou meltest in the mother’s tender kiss ; The wanderer long’s to reach thee—guiding star Of all his thoughts ; like Israel’s pillared tire By night thou leadest him through childhood’s bliss To that loved home he pictures from afar, , > @~< (f HIS STORY WILL NOL BE PULISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] AVIS GREY, THE DAUGHTER OF THE GRAFT, A Story of the Mystic Tie. BY WALTER HORTON. (“Avis GREY” was commenced in No. 48. Back aumbers can be obtained of all News ents. } CHAPTER XXXIV. THE MARRIAGE CEREMONY. On the evening following the day of Finkey’s visit with Dr. Raspel to Avis’ room a heart-rending scene might have been witnessed in the apartment in which she had first been imprisoned. decked out in bridal attire by a female attendant. Why was it that she did not recognize in her atten- dant the woman who, but a short time before, was so skillfully enacting the part of Mrs. Mapleton ? on everything. She wgs in a stupor and submitted like a doll to being dressed, knowing not what was being done or who did it. Down stairs, in the parlor of the mad-house, another part of the terrible comedy was being played. The Reverend Mr. Mansfield, a kind-hearted, unsus- picious man had just come in with Finkey, and had been met by a benevolent looking gentleman of middle age. “Oh, Mr. Grey,” epied Finkey, with évery appearance of deep concern. “How isshe now? dow ismy Avis *” With well acted emotion the prete Mr. Grey put his hand on Finkey’s shoulder, and adly :, “T hope she is better. The doctor h her now. She has recovered from the shock, bu ed: “It. is too bad to have to postpone the W it 1 fear it must be so,” = “Oh, yes,” faltered Finkey, ‘‘I co any but my own merry, laughing g sir,” he turned to the good clergyman, ‘‘y me the trouble I have caused you.” “My good sir,” expostulated the- clergy- I ly. not speak of such a thing. ot my heart. Tell me can I -Pirkey, | iy, “how is she ? May I see her ? Oh, may I not see her?” time bowing courteously to the clergyman. ter—out of real dan; think. She asks for you all the | time now, though she is dazed.” | “Let me go to her at ate igs He started as it to go, but was detained by the doctor. | “Wait, 1 wish to say something—lay an idea that has | occurred to me, before Mr. Grey. And you, sir, who are | aclergyman, can aid us. Besides, being the family phy- | sician I am also, sir, an old friend of the family, and I | feel that I ought to speak in both capacities.” | “Anything in my power you may command me to do,” | said Mr. Mansfield, feelingly. a “It is your advice more than anything else. I know friends here.-feel-avout marrying poor Avis: while she , ill, but it is my opinion oT ought to bet! 80.”" a “No, no,” cried Finkey, “I could not do it.” “Hush, my friend, hush. Think not of yourself but of | Avis. It is necessary for her to have you constantly by | her side. You, sir,” appealing to the clergyman, ‘‘will surely add your opinion to mine.” “Why, if it will really benetit the young lady, perlaps Mr. Raspel ought to sacrifice his own feelings: but | do} not feel competent to decide such an important matter.” | “Ab; well!” sighed Finkey, ‘if you, too, think so I} will yield, byt it is dreadful to think of how different it | was to have been.” i “And do you still think,” asked Mr. Grey, ‘‘that she | ought to go by the steamer to-night ?” i “By all means. I do not hesitate to say that the sea voyage, with Mr. Raspel as her nurse, will completely restore her.” “Then there must be no further delay,” cried Mr. | Grey. ‘tAre you ready, Raspel ? field ?” “Mr. Mansfield, completely deceived by the clever act- | ing of the scoundrels, answered that he was in readiness, | When he reached Avis’ room he found her holding rigidly to the back of a chair, and staring about her with a look of returning intelligence. “why didn’t you give her more of the drug ?” “T didn’t dare, she has had so much.” “Bah! Give it to me quickly. obstinate fool!” He forced her to swallow a teaspoonful of a liquid he took from a bottle on the mantel-shelt. ‘Is the antidote ready ? I want her to take it as soon as I get her to the other house.” “Here it is, this bottle at the right hand end. You'd better hurry. She’s so weak the stuff won’t keep her under long, and many more doses would make her idiotic for good and all.” “Mind your own business, and don’t bother about mine,” said Finkey, sharply. : “T think I have minded it pretty well,” retorted the Finkey made no answer, but taking Avis, once more stupefied, on his arm, led her slowly down stairs. The clergyman was shocked by her appearance, and but for the cunningly arranged conversation which had been prepared tor his benefit, would never have con- sented to perform the ceremony. As it was, he could not refrain trom asking: “Are you sure she will comprehend what is being done or said ?” “Oh, yes,” asserted the doctor. ‘Ask her, Raspel, if she is conscious of what she is doing.’ ‘Avis, darling,” cried that scoundrel, ‘‘do you wish to be married now ? If so, merely say yes.” “Yes,” camé the half audible, mechanical answer. Not more than half satisfied, but persuaded by the pared to perform the ceremony. beautiful, but corpse-like, and he so strange a contrast to her. The service of the Episcopal Church was used, and all through the beautiful first part the poor child stood gazing vacantly at the fioor. The ceremony proceeded properly until, having asked the groom if he would take Avis for his wife, he turned to Avis, and, in a peculiarly solemn tone; asked her if she would take him for her husband. “Darling Avis, say I will,” prompted Finkey. But before the words trembling on her pallid lips could be uttered, a wild, piercing shriek rang through the house. CHAPTER XXXYV. “LET ME NOT SEE HIS FACE.” “What was that?’ involuntarily exclaimed the cler- yman. ere other men stared at each other in startled sur- prise for a few seconds, until Finkey, suddenly recalling his startled senses, exclaimed, with a meaning look at his brother : “It must be that poor suffering creature who was so badly burned. You go see her, doctor. Proceed with the ceremony, sir.” The doctor hastily left the room, saying : “Ah, yes—another paroxysm of pain.” But underneath their appearance of composure was a feeling of the utmost alarm. All had recognized the voice as that of Avis’ attendant, Why should she scream so ? Knowing that detectives had been shadowing him, Finkey was keenly alive to the necessity of haste. Once married, he relied upon the secret passage for afford- ing him asafe exit to his new retreat, but until the ceremony was over he did not feel safe for a moment. Outwardly calm, he was inwardly asking himself could the woman’s screams have any special signifi- cance as applied to his dangerous position? If so, what ought he to,do ? The clergyman, totally unaware of all these violent but hidden undercurrents of events, had been satisfied by che explanation, and had, after the doctor’s depart- ure, in his calm, solemn way, taken up the ceremony with the repeated eon “Avis, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded hus- band, to-—” “Help! help! Mur-der-r-r!” It was the doctor's voice that broke upon their star- Thither she had been conveyed and was now being | Alas! the poor child’s eyes gazed with vacant dullness | "ies re comes the doctor. Doctor,” | | “Calm yourselt,” said the doctor, gravely, at the same | «She is bet- | | she gazed at ita Are you, Mr. Mans- | and Finkey, with a most doleful air, left the room to get | the bride. «You fool!” he cried, angrily to the woman with her, There! take that, you | Then angrily | turning to the woman, he demanded: ' woman.” | fervent protestations of the doctor, Mr. Mansfield pre- | The singular couple stood before him—she, young, | VOL. 42—No., 38. eee tled ears now. It had the unmistakable ring of fear, fand was suddenly checked on the last long-drawn syl- | lable. | Without a word Finkey and the false Mr. Grey stared ‘at each other a moment, and then, with one impulse | Sprang to the door and darted up Stairs, leaving Avis to | Sink helplessly to the floor. | Both men had drawn pistols. They seemed to know | that the sounds came from Avis’ room, for they made at | once for it. | The door was wide open, and everything was silent | The false Mr. Grey was in advance, and seeing nothing, ran boldly into the room, closely followed by Finkey. The former had notgone three steps into the room before he was felled senseless by a quick, sudden blow trom behind. Finkey saw the assailant too late toretreat, but he | instantly raised his pistol to shoot. | Hewas not quick enough, however; for, as if certain that his blow would be effective, the man turned like a flash to Finkey, and wrenched the upraised pistol trom him with one hand, while with the other he caught the little man by the throat in a vise-like grasp. “Don’t over-exert yourself,” was the advice mockingly | given. ‘It does seem ashame to spoil a nice wedding 1 know, but it’s just my blundering way, old man. Oh, youre going to behawe, eh? That’s right. And you won’t yell if I stop squeezing you so affectionately ” Won’teh? Well, old man, you're at liberty to breathe.’ “What kind of a trick is this to play on me, Dick ?” gasped Finkey. “Hold on a minute,” said Gentleman Dick, politely: “f’'m not quite ready for conversation yet.” With a dexterous twist he had Finkey’s arms behind him and securely tied with a piece of rope evidently ready for the purpose. Next he tied his feet, and then, with unrelaxed rapidity, he bound and gagged the false Mr. Gray. Finkey followed every movement with the keenest at- tention, and glancing quickly around the room, saw that the doctor and the woman were also bound and gagged. «‘Who’s in with you?” he demanded, with poorly con- cealed anxiety. “Don’t worry,” said Dick, with a short, derisive laugh; | “'m quite alone. Jack isn’t with me, but he wants to | see you dreadfully.” “And what do you want ?” ‘s “Why, Finkey, old man, TH tell you. I’m after Avis Gray, and sinee I’ve made all secure here’—he looked around, with a mocking smile, at the prostrate bodies— ‘T guess I'll go get her. ‘l'a-ta!” ‘Look here, Dick, can’t we arrange this thing ?—go aw on it? She’s my wife now, and you might as we : *‘Might.as well gag you, old man, before you lie any more,” interrupted Dick. “There!” he said, with his mock pleasantry, after he had gagged Finkey. ‘‘Now I guess we are as comfort- able asmay be. If I don’t have time tosee you again, good-by. This is the antidote, I belleve?” He took the right bottle from the mantel. ‘Don’t worry; you'll be | released pretty soon. There's a lot of fly-cops on their way here: but if they should get lost, I'll tell Jack you’re here, and he’ll be sure to come. Good-by.” With all his talking, Dick had lost but little time, but Se with haste down stairs, as if to make up for that ttle. Mr. Mansfield had taken Avis up, and half-helped, hali- carried her to a lounge,-where she was lying like one dead when Dick entered the room. Asif unconscious of the clergyman’s presence, Dick | ran quickly to the prostrate girl, and cried, fiercely : | ‘Oh, the fiends! If they have killed her Tl murder | them with my own hands. Here, sir,” to the astonished clergyman, ‘raise her up while 1 give her some of this,’ | * But,’ demurred the good man, ‘‘who are——’ | “Oh, bosh! Do as I tell you and talk as much as you | please afterward. Ah, if she should die!” | Greatly taken aback, but impressed by Dick’s man- | her, the clergyman raised Avis’ head while Dick with } caretul hand poured out a spoonful from the bottle and administered it. The effect was instantaneous and startling. A Shiver seemed to run through the limp form and uddenly the pale face became suffused with blood. | In another instant she had started to her feet; and , With quick, paintul respirations was gazing wildly about | her as ing a supreme effort to collect her senses. | What has happened? Where am 1?” . | “Everything is all right, Miss Avis,” said Dick, sooth- ingly, ‘‘you are with friends.” Still bewildered Avis turned sharply toward him, and Iseem to know you and yet—my : pressed her brow with her hand and turn- y to the elergyman. had not before noticed his ministerial garb. Now moment, looked around the brilliantly lighted room, then glanced at her bridal dress, and a low cry of horror broke from her lips. “Oh, no, no! Not married !” She stared from one to the other witb a terrible agony in her expression. “No, n0, you are not married, Miss Avis. I am Gen- tleman Dick. Don’t you remember, you nursed me ? We are friends.” “But, but him,” she panted, pointing to the clergy- man. y Ses “Why don’t you tell her she isn’t Per cried Dick; ~ angrily, stamping his foot. “No—no—you—are not married yét,” stammered the stupefled ‘clergyman; “but,” he suddenly cried, as 4 sense of the strangeness of the proceedings came over him, ‘‘what is the meaning of all this? Where are Mr. Raspel, Mr. Grey, and the doctor? And who are you, sir?” There was a flash of wicked humor in the answer. “The gentlemen you speak of are nicely tied and gagged up stairs. As for me, [ma gentle bank burglar. known in the profession as Gentieman Dick. Any fur- ther particulars may be gathered from Captain Gerald, of the detective force, Who will soon be here. Thank Heaven, Miss Avis!” he cried, with asudden change trom his flippant tone to a fervent one, ‘I reached here | in time to save you.” “Then I am not married ?” “No. But it wouldn’t have mattered anyhow. The marriage wouldn’t have been legal. Now, sit down and rest yourself; they will soon be here.” “Who ?” “The detectives and Mr. Mapleton.” “Mr. Mapleton? Here ?” To Dick’s surprise she bounded up again from the | lounge and caught him by the arm. “Yes; Mr. Mapleton will be here at any moment | how,” he said, soothingly. : “Oh,” she cried, wildly, ‘‘then I must go! ; see him now.” | Dick thought her mind was affected. I must not He put out bis hand and detained her, saying kindly, as to a child : “You can see him. I[tisallright. You are not mar- , ried.” “Oh, no, no!” she cried, wringing herhands, ‘‘Ifis not that: you do not understand. I cannot meet him ; Imust not. I would rather die!” | ‘But, Miss Avis,” expostulated Dick, in great per- plexity, ‘he is almost crazy with anxiety about you. You should not run away from him now.” | You think me demented,” exclaimed Avis, suddenly. , “Indeed lam not. Hark! what is that noise ?” ' Dick’s keen ear had caught the sound too. If was | that of several footsteps on the wooden steps in front of | the house. With a sigh of relief, he answered : “The detectives have come.” ‘And he is with them ?” Pog Sa | S$héran and placed her hand upon his arm, and de- | manded, vehemently : } ‘Have you no gratitude for what I did for you ?” “My life 1 owe to you, anditis yours, Miss Avis,” he answered, fervently. | «Then will you not—on my knees I beg it of you”—she | fellon her knees before he could prevent it—‘‘let me | not see his face. I will not get up until you promise to { take me from here, They are breaking down the door You will not aid me. But I will not see him.” | She started to her feet and ran to the hall-way. At that very moment the door was breaking inward i under the terrific blows piled upon each other. Dick had sprung after the fleeing girl and laid his hand upon her shoulder, saying : ; «Where would you go ?” “There must be a back way. me. I know what lam doing. to have to see him.” Her anguish was so evident and so great that, right or | wrong, Dick could stand it no longer. | “Come, then,” he said; -‘I Know a way out.” But at that moment the door was burst in with < ; crash, and almost the first visible thing was the form o ( Ethelbert Mapleton leaping over the debris, With a wild cry, Avis recognized him, made a step t¢ fly, and fell back senseless in Dick's arms. There was no more time for thought. If he would d as he had promised and take Avis from Mr. Mapleto) he must act promptly. He did so. . He caught the falling girl, and lifting her up, ran Iii adeer along the hall to a corridor turning trom if at right angles. Quickly as all this had taken place, it had been seen by Ethelbert Mapleton. He had seen Avis faint; had seen Dick catch her up and run, He cared for nothing more. To him it was evident that an attempt was being made to prevent Avis’ rescue, With a fierce cry, he bounded in pursuit. He easily gained upon the laden man, whose strength tyvas not equal to his tirst great speed. ae he could only reach the door at the end of the cor- ridor! He struggled manfully. He could feel the outstretched hand of his pursuer on his shoulder. The door is gained. His haniis on the knob, One furious bound and Ethelbert Mapleton’s strong hand clutches him by the neck. The door is open. ‘Scoundrel, release her!” Oh, sir, do not detain Indeed it would kill ine CHAPTER XXXVI. A SERIES OF ESCAPES. It was a trying situation for Dick. Up to the moment of seeing Avis he had striven to re- store her to liberty with the one idea of uniting her to the very man who now held him by the throat and called him scoundrel. He was not willingly taking Avis from Ethelbert Maple- po pao yet as she wished it, it must be if he could con- trive it. + { Praga: i [SAR nna s ie il. ss mornin i ‘ { Tae ron nengceensir tn tht tn ¥ BEE, 8a ge oy ewes wag Be Tuyen. : | : / . . VOL. 42—No. 3. Qo eo He hastily thrust Avis into the passage and Saga th door. Then he wrenched himself tree from the cther’ grasp, and ‘conirontedshim. “Be advised by me,Sir,” said Dick, with a sort of Pol in his voice, “and leave the young lady with me.” «Out of the way.’ Ethelbert Mapleton was beside himself with fury. Moreover Capfain Gerald was hastening toward the Ss PRO be true to Avis’ wishes Dick must risk misappre- hension of his motives, but he did not hesitate. He had noaiternative. He must use force to rid him- sélf of Ethe/bert Mapleton, else Avis would be compelled to show herself. He was a smaller man than Mr. Mapleton, and still somewhet weak trom his illness, but he was cool- headed/acecustomed to facin ger, and a master’ of strategy. “tsa pity,” he said to hitns “that the first good actiof | try my hand at should get me into a scrape, but since it must be, w hy——” Almost as these thoughts had flashed through his active brain he had permitted himself to be pushed aside as if unable to resist, and then with a sudden and un- expected spring had thrown himself on his antagonist in such a way as Lo cast him violently against the opposite wall. With a quick moyement Dick then snatched open the door, and was behind it before Mr. Mapleton could re- cover himself or Captain Gerald could reach the spot. “Gentieman Dick, as I live!” cried the detective. He caught the knob of the door, and pulled it vio- lently. It was too late, however. it securely. . “Here, quick! Bring that log this way,” he cried. Ethelbert Mapleton was im no mood to wait for the coming of the log with which to batter down the door. Avis Grey was on the other side within hearing. His one thought was to reach her. ‘He was a heavy, powerful man. He pushed the de tective to one side. drew back a few steps, and with a short run threw himself bodily against the door. The panels of the door gave way with a crash, splin- ring inward zing the broken pieces with the strength of excite- ment, he tore them furiously off. Another tremendous push of his powerful shoulder made a hole big enough to pass through. He was about to do so. “Stop!” cried Gerald; ‘‘that scoundrel would as lief kill you as not.” “I do not fear cc He sprang through the opening. Captain Gerald fol- lowed close behind him, with his bull’s-eye lantern open ‘The passage was empty. A door at the further end gg to indicate the way the fugitives had gone with vis. By this time the other detectives had come up with the log. Mr. Mapleton snatched it from them and hurled its end against the door. The log rebounded with a dull thud. “The door’s only a blind,” cried the detective. asecret way out of this.” Taking the butt of his pistol he began tapping the wall. Presently a hollow sound was returned. “Here itis. Ah! We can’t use the log in this narrow assage.” “Let me try.” Ethelbert Mapleton braced his feet against the oppo- Dick had already fastened «There’s site wall his back against the hollow -sounding spot. In this w e obtained a tremendous pressure. He exerted every muscle. He felt the wall behind him yield. It cracked; gave way. in two minutes more he was dashing headlong down agentle incline. A narrow, sloping passage had been discovered. “I¢ was not very long, and opened into the stable be- longing to the house. There was neither sight nor sound of the fugitives ywhere, and no clew to lead the pursuers any further. “J feared as much when Dick got the start of .us at the | “Tom and Dan, take the | door,” said Captain Gerald. field here, and do the best you_can. Let us hurry back and search the house. It ought to have been done at once. I'm afraid we’ll be too late.” A glance into the parlor and other rooms on that floor showed they were empty. ““Fred, look about down stairs. Mr. Mapleton and I will go up.”’ The first room they came to was the one most recently oceupied by Avis. The Reverend Mr. Manstield, looking the very picture of bewilderment, stood in the middle of the roe staring helplessly at the two men as they en- terec “You are the Reverend Mr. Mansfield 2” Gemanded the | captain, sharply. Yes, sir.” “I thought so. Where are the others 4 “If you mean——” ‘That's just what I mean. Wher®are they ?” “I do not recognize your right to question me so, but if you mea? Mr. Raspel, Mr. Grey, and the doctor, they are gone. Just gone.” “Gone where? Auswer quickly, I am ane Gerald of the detective force.” He showed his badge. ‘Down stairs. They wished me to go, but suspecting something was wrong I refused. What is the matter ?” “TU know er when I’ve asked you some more questions. _D: e@ men say where they were going ?” “No; th ae * large force of burglars had entered the Lotsetied @ me go with them, and when I ie wore "at me, and ran, taking the woman t W oman 2?” “{ don’t know. I never saw her before.” “Not Miss Grey ?” “Wot the one I married at least.” ‘Married !” gasped Mr. Mapleton, clutching the star- tled clergy man by the breast of his gown. “Married, you say ? “The ceremony was not concluded. “Why not?” demanded the captain, ‘or wait a mo- ment. Fred!” he called, going into the hall. ‘Don’t waste any more time down there, they've escaped. Come up here and search the rooms. Now, sir,” as he returned, ‘please tell us from tiie very beginning what you know of ahs matter.” The good did as requested, and from his account it was ora tO that Avis had been drugged. Up to the point where thefirst interruption occurred his story was complete and accurate, but from that time he had been so confused that though seeming to tell quite as straight a story, he in fact only told those parts which had most impressed his startled mind. All of the conversation between Avis and Dick, part of which he must have heard distinctly, he had forgot- ten. All that he remembered was that Dick, announcing himself a bank burglar, had given some drug to Avis which had restored her, whereupon she had fallen at | Dick’s feet and begged of him to do something which he | —the clergy man ene not remember. carried her off. Atter that, the detectives having rushed by the door | so hurriedly, he felt that he ought to go up Stairs and | see what had taken place up there. This he did, and to his surprise found the three men | and a woman lying bound and gagged on the floor. He} at once released them, and they, hastily saying burg- lars had entered the house, and ur cing him ‘to join | them in flight, lett Being by this time suspicious of some wrong, he had refused to go. «I wish you’d been suspicious before you let these vil- jains go, man's simpHeity was nothing but stupidity. “Howeve er, 1s’pose you did the best you couid. Mr. Mapleton”—he turned to that gentleman—‘‘It is a mixed up affair; but { seem to see that that rascal, Gentleman Dick, has played the traitor to Finkey, in order to benefit himself. He’s the worst villain of the lot, apparently; but he'll be easier to catch than Finkey. So, have courage for a while longer.” CHAPTER XXXVI. SYMPATHY. As soon as the door of the passage was closed and fas- tened, Dick turned to Avis, who, having regained con- a stood leaning against the wall, and said to er “Once more let me.ask you, w ill you not think better of your resolution, and see him?’ “J would rather die.” “Til urge you no more, Come,” ; He led her rapidly through the secret door, and down the sloping corridor, into the stable. ae way was easy now, but Avis seemed unable to via 8 it he had been in his utmost vigor instead of weak- dane by illness, the gallant fellow took her in his arms oe carrien her rapidly to where he knew he would find a hac Putting her inside, he bade the driver go to Twenty- third street, “Now, Miss Avis,” he said, as soon as they were off, ‘where do you wish to go?” “I don’t know.” “Ah, 1 forgot you have no friends.” “Not now.” ‘Tt was simply said, but the bank-burglar felt some- thing quite unusual to him rise“in his throat. --T did not mean that,” he cried. “But at least you nal one true triend— an unworthy man, but devoted to you, Miss Avis.” «tT am grateful—indeed I am.” “ft is your due. But where shall I take you 2” “Anywhere.” “Anywhere is nowhere to an outeast.like me. Places enough there are where J could hide forever, almost, but unfortunately they are not fit for you.” “Forme! And why not? Any place where I am safe, and where I cannot be found, is fit for me. Oh, why did they not kill me ?” ‘For Heaven’s sake, don’t go on like that, Miss Avis! Come—it’s always darkest before dawn. There now, see, I've thought ot just the place. Humble, to be sure, but safe and honest.” “You are very good to me. ay more.’ “Oh, as for that, never mind. A little distress may do me good ; but I can't bear you to be so unhappy. Driver,” he cried, coe his head out of the window, “take us to the nearest Third avenue elevated station.” They went on fora little while in silence, which was broken at last by Dick asking : “{ don’t want to seem impertinent—it’s a good motive that prompts me to ask—why do you want to hide ‘away? and why won't you see Mr. Mapleton ? ? One answer will do for both questions, I fancy.’ “Yes, one answer will do; but, please forgive me, I’d rather not talk about it. It ‘is not a mere whim. I have I'll try not to distress you Then he had | ” growled Captain Gerald, to whom the clergy- ‘ORK WEEKLY. +> 1 must hide or he would Why— i reasons—indeed, I have. k me out, and—and—oh! I cannot see him. why did i ever see him ?” «Are you sure—forgive me for pressing it—but are you ~~. that you have not been in some way tricked by ‘inkey ? “I had thought of that, too. until [ heard it from his own lips. fered enough! I would not credit it Oh, sir, I had suf- human beings, and yet he was less cruel than he who— Heaven pardon him !—told me Le loved me.” “TJ know that he does love you—love you devotedly.” “It may be so. I love him, too—love him so thatI dare not see him lest 1 give way; and yet I loathe him from the depths of my soul. Oh, do not make me talk ofit! If L begin to think of it again I shall go mad— mad! Oh, why did I not die?” Shocked and puzzled, Dick felt that some strange mys- tery was hidden behind the young girl's evident agony, and he made up his mind that he would clear it up. He felt that he was too good a judge of men to have made so gross an error in Ethelbert Mapleton’s char- acter as to believe him pure and high-minded when, in tact, he was capable of the w ickedness to justify such abhorrence of him. However, he said no more, and, except for an occa- sional cheery word, kept silence until they alighted trom the cars and walked toward the Hast River. Then he said, in his natural half-careless, half-gay way : ‘The people I am taking you to are heathen. Tbey have put me up ona pedestal and bow down and wor- ship me. I was forced by an accident to do a service for the man, and he has exaggerated it, till spite of being what Iam, though they don’t know it, he and his whole family claim to my face that ’m nothing short of an } angel. Well, they are good people, and w hen I tell them | you are to be kept from being too much seen, they will guard you as if you were the casket holding the queen’s | jewels. » “Could I not go out of the city to some far away | country place, So that I would never be found “Yes, aiter a little while.” Avis walked silently by his side. Presently they stopped before a small house, and Dick led the way up ‘the stoop and into the house. «They have the upper halt of the house only,” said he, by way of explaining why the door was unlocked. Going up One flight of stairs he knocked at the door of | the frontroom. A plump, sweet looking girl of Avis’ age opened the door. «Not abed yet, eh ?” he said, gayly. “Oh, Dick! Comein. Papa, mamma, it’s Dick.” Dick’s standing in the household was at once made | apparent by the glad cries with which the pretty girl’s parents hurried to the door to welcome him. “Come in, come in,’ they cried. “T have somebody with me,” said he. “Well, well,” they exclaimed, in a tone that plainly | said that was no reason for not coming in. He stepped aside and a little forw ard so that the light | fell on Avis. gravely and feelingly: = This lady needs seclusion and a home fora short time. welcome here ?” “You do not need to ask,” answered the woman, a sweet, motherly creature whoat once took Avis by the hand. ‘Our home and happiness are yours, Dick, and we are only too glad to share it with you or yours.” “T knew she would be welcome, but I wished her to hear you say soin your cordial way. I owe her my life and much more. Through vo fault of her own she has been: terribly persecuted. I don’t wish to explain further, nor does she.” “We will ask no questions, Dick. Let me take your | things dear. Bessie help me. Avis had listened to all that was said in silence. She | had in a glance comprehended that she had fallen into a | happy home. In spite of herself the contrast with her- | self had come up before her, and the big tears were roll- ; ing down he cheeks. “Please do ry,” begged Bessie, taking her hand, coaxingly, be en her two plump, dimpled ones, ‘‘or —or—you iy make—me—too.” And tears of sympathy started down her cheeks, Avis checked her own tears, gratefully pressed Bes- sie’s hand, and with a gentle, pitiful smile that touched them all, said : “J didn’t mean to bring: my woes here, knew how I needed a home and—and sympathy. I have suffered so !” In spite of herself the wailing cry broke from her, and | she sobbed like a child. Bessie wound her arm lovingly around her, and led } her gently to the sofa, and sat down beside her. Let her cry, Mrs. Remsen,” whispered Dick. now. Jil be here agam to-morrow. Good-night He was gone. round | If you only | oh, aa ll go (TO BE CONTINUED.) ——_——__ > @-<— {THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] Allo Bill's Bast Sho OR, THE HEART OF SPOTTED TAIL. By NED BUNTLINE, AUTHOR OF “ROVER WILD,” “NAVIGATOR NED,” etc. “RED DICK,” (“BuFFALO BrLu’s BEst SHOT” was commenced in No. 47 Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXXIII. A PAINFUL “The Long Rifle is a true man! INTERVIEW. | Soldier Chiet is breaking camp to go on his journey.” This was said by Spotted Tail, as Buffalo Bill rode at full gallop into his camp and haltea where the chief | stood in front of his lodge. | «Where is your girl? WhatI have to say must be sald | soon. The camp is breaking up, and I must lead in, as I | led out,” said the scout. “In there; she is weak and sick. Say kind words to Spotted deat her life, for she is the heart of my heart. | Tail is a child when he thinks she will die before his face !” the lodge. A fire was blazing in its center, for it was a cold, bleak day. By its blaze everything inside the lodge was made plainly visible. Seated on a bed of furs, her hands crossed upon her sud-taced, that the noble-hearted scout felt both pity ‘prise T rl raised her eyes.only when he stood before her late, that it spoke more than words could say. Nation ?” he asked, in a gentle tone. she not hungry or dry ?” “Yes—hungry like the babe when its mother is dead and there is no milk for it—d7y like the ground when there is no rain to cool its hot bosom. Dove Eye is hun- gry for what cannot be hers. Sie is sick here!” aos the poor girl, sad-voiced, laid her hand over her hea r Mean Rifle is very sorry. Wéill.not-Dove Eye eat and drink and grow strong for fis sake ?” “For him? Does Long Rifle ask her to be strong for his sake ?” The scout did not wish to pain her, nor yet to let her misconstrue the intent of his words. He answered, in a low, kind tone: “Long Rifle wishes Dove Eye to live. not eat, she will die. perish.” “Will Long Rifle take Dove Eye with him, if she eats and drinks ?” head of the escort, to take the Great Chiefs back to the iron road.” “Will he let Dove Eye follow him? She will be no trouble to him.. She has her own horses, her own lodge, her own blankets, and hunters to get meat for her,” ‘Dove Eye could not travel so far as Iam going,” re- ‘ the scout. “I am going off to where the sun rises. Vhere the villages of my race are so large that it takes almost a sun to ride through one of them. ._Dove Eye take.” last upon. him.!” “Long Rifle does not want Dove Eye to die. She must live for her father.” “Dove Eye has lived for him long enough. to live for Long Rifle now.’ “Then eat and drink and live. Long Rifle must go} now. The Great Chiets wait for him.” “Stop—stop one breath, that Dove Eye may know what | she is todo. Is she to go, to the lodge of Long Ritle by | the river, where the big trees grow and the white braves have their tort ?” She wants wife in the lodge of Long Rifle who will let no other wife come there.” “Then Dove Eye must die. The flower that has no sun | to shine upon it by day, no dew to wet its lips at night, must die. Why did Long Rifle come here? He came to mock the poor Indian girl.” “No; he came to comfort her, to ask her to live.” He—that man Finkey—kept me chained | hand and foot to the wall, away from sight and sound of He took her hand to lead her in, saying | Have I done right in telling her she would be | He has kept his word . | with Spotted Tail, for he comes even while the Great | The scout made no reply, but dismounted and entered bosom, her eyes cast down, was Dove Eye, so pale. so | and spoke, and then with a look so hopeless and deso- | “What ails my sister, the beautiful Rose of the Sioux | “Her father tells | me she is sick—that she will neither eat nor drink. Is | Tf she does | If she does not drink, she will | “He cannot now, for he must ride very fast at the | could never stand such journeys as Long Rifle must | “Then she could die where her eyes could look their | “No. Dove Eye must stay with her father. There is a | Go, great brave, go; and the Great Spirit guard you! Dove Eye will whisper to. Him every night while she lives and ask Him to make Long Rifle happy !” The beautiful girl bowed her head upon her rounded arms, and a sob proke from her lips as the hunter turned to go. But again Spotted Tail stood in his path. “Long Rifle has spoken with a forked tongue to the red man,” he said, sternly. ‘He told Spotted Tail he would come with words of comfort to his child. He has hot spoken them. She bows her head, for her heart is all gone !” “Chiet, I have spoken straight words. [: have asked her to live for you. I have asked her for my Sake to eat and drink and grow strong. If she will not, and she dies, it is not my ‘fault. So, good-by. I will Stay no longer. 1 have my duty to do, and will do it!” The firm tone and look of the scout told full well that he would remain no longer, and Spotted Tail was too near the camp of the white soldiers to dare to use force, though his looks told that he would have done so gladly had he dared. So he fell back out of the way of the young scout, who went forth with a consciousness -of having kept his promise, and having tried to cure the girl of ‘her obstin- ate and useless passion. In another second he was in his saddle, riding at full speed toward headquarters. CHAPTER XXXIV.’ BUFFALO BILL TAKES THE FEINS. “Well, Mr. Cody—ali ready for a start ?” said General | Sheridan, as he left the marquee incompany with his | imperial guest and approached the ambulance, which the scout was carefully examining tp see that running gear, harness and all, was in perfect prder. “Yes, general; [was looking things over to see if they would stand wear and tear, for we’ ve got to rush things to get in by dark.” “All right, my brave man—all right Had you not bet- | ter take the reins and show the Gmnd Duke how you used to drive the overland? He has read about Hank Monk taking Horace Greeley over the Sierra Nevadas in | Six hours, and he cannot believe it.” - “Wait till we get to the Long Canon, general, and I'll | ar ive there. There is a four mile stretch down hill, and I think I can accommodate his views as to speed.” “All right. In the meantime you ride at the rate which will carry us through, and the teams must be kept to it. For my escort—they’ reused to going like leaves before a gale. Ah! General Custer is in the | saddle. I thought he would take tle other ambulance.” “Not before im, general,” said fhe scout, in so low a | tone that the Grand Duke, who w as looking at the young | general, did not notice his remark, “How did he become a general while yet so young?” | asked the Grand Duke, turning to General Sheridan. “In | | Russia, few gain that rank before their hairs have be- come white in service.” won his stars by dash and bravery, your imperial high- | | ness,” said General Sheridan. ‘During our late civil war old-fogyism went by the board, aS.you sailors say, and | true merit took its place. I donot know exactly how old Custer was when he got bis brigadier’s stars, but I | remember that the gallant Charles CG. Dodge was made | a brigadier when he was not quite tw enty- -three years | |} old. Gailantry was never orerlodked by the nobie Lin- | coln, and those whom he placed in position deserved it. | I hope it will not be forgotten in our country, for he who | serves, knowing service is rewarded, will be faithful and zealous.” “True, general. Yours, though a young country, is great in ideas and in progress. I have learned more in | |} afew weeks in America of What men can be and whata |! people can do, than I had ever dreamed of before. There | are two countries*which, united, could bid defiance to | an armed Ww orld outside. Amer ic ce and Russia are those | | countries.’ | “America, your imperial hig’ , extends from Cape | Born. to the Pole—or, at 1 the Russian Posses- } sions. i : ‘True—but I mean the Unitea States—the only part | of the continent that I recognize as Ameriea proper. Those Republics of the South—Mexico, Venezuela, Peru, Chili, and the rest—ever mixed in civil broils and con- | stant revolutions, amount to thing. it is the land | | Which exists under that beautifil flag that I speak of.” The noble visitor pointed to the small company flag | carried by the color bearer, spoke. “TI believe your imperial highness means more than a | ‘ compliment,” said General Sheridan, smiling. “IT do, indeed. And do not you think so, general ? You {have been in Europe in war- “time. Did the French and | | Germans fight such battles ou have seen here ?” “NO, y: our imperial highn 0 speak the truth, they ‘did not. They fought well, in some cases splendidly, ,| but our armies tought desperately. Such courage as | that at Shiloh, Malvern Hill, Gettysburg, and othe that I could name, never e en in Europe. Thus Genera is imperial guest on, treely giving their opinions to each other until the had changed horses at theffirs? relay, and with a team of four noble bays W ere. dashing forward with newed speed. “We are about to enter the Long Canon, general. Shall I take the reins now ?” asked our hero, as he rode | up alongside of the ambulance. “Yes. I have told the Grand Duke so much about our oyerland journeys bet allroad was built, that I want him to see how the ip could be made from sea to | sea in two week over Snow-capped mountains and | across parched de me Buffalo Bill si Oo Weal then leaped fromi“his saatie¥and took the reins, while | the ambulance driver toyk his horse. The escorts, some in front and others in the rear, were ordered to look out for themselves, for Buffalo B. was known as an yo c pod fearless driver, and | ota “tall driving” ¥ for when he. got on the box. re The canon was narr wa bluffs rising on either | side, but-it had the advange of Delng nearly straight, | tolerably smooth, though¥x pisces rat descent in all its grade. ‘All ready, general. Tell his highness to keep his - strapped down, for the ambulance curtains are | all up.” “All right, my hero—give them the string !” Buffalo Bill drew the reins well in till he felt every bit, then he swung the heavy lash in the air and gave a yell | which woke the echoes miles away. The horses seemed to know who was behind them, for | they leaped forward at their maddest speed, almost litt- | ing” the carriage from the ground as they flew on. Again:and again the lash: whistled through the air, and in a second the pace was territic. The Grand Duke, undoubtedly as:brave as the bravest, grew nervous, He had to hold to his seat to keep there, tor a very small bowlder touched by the wheel would lift | the carriage Clear of the ground, and at times it seemed as if the wheels spun in the air instead of over the | ground. Rocks and trees were seen inaw hirl, as you see them | on the lightning express when you dash through wood- land, and yetit seemed, as that lash whistled through the | air, and the yell of Buffalo Bill rang louder and louder, that the horses went taster and faster as they sped on. The ambulance leaped on—now rolling from side to | Side, and then pitching as if in a sea—until it seemed as if wood and iron couldn't stand the pressure. From time totime General Sheridan looked at his | guest, who did not wish to exhibit what he certainly did feel—as who would not ?—alarm, when the least break | ot carriage or harness would be wreck and ruin to that, | at least, if not to limb or life; and at last he asked him | how he enjoyed that kind ot riding, | «tds very fine, I have no. doubt, for fast people,” re- | plied the Grand Duke, ‘‘but, for my part, 1 would rather ride a little slower.” His Imperial Highness got this speech out by jerks, for it Was impossible. to keepin one place while he ‘spoke, and he gave a long sigh of relief when, at a sign from | General Sheridan, Buifalo Bill drew the horses down to | the canon, into the open plain. “What distance did we make at that terrific speed ?” asked the Grand Duke, when the ambulance stopped to receive the regular driver. “Only four miles in about ten minutes,” said General Sheridan. ‘‘Thatis a fair rate of speed. Twelve miles an hour is the rule yet on some stage routes; but that is so slow that we are throwing railroads into every part of the country. Another century will undoubtedly find them altogether too slow, and we shall travel in pneu- matie tubes, with patent inhalers to keep us in breath while we go. I had a long talk with my friend, General Sickles, about this the other day, and he says that an invention has been made, and will likely soon be made | public, which will more than quadruple the present | speed of travel.” “Impossible!” ejaculated the Grand Duke. ‘Yet, after | what 1 have seen in your land of wonders, nothing seems impossible to you Americans. I. haye seen bridges of iren, swung on Wires, spanning your widest rivers. I have seen a city with more than a million anda half of people in it, supplied with water brought almost a hun- dred miles. I have seen a vast nation obedient to laws | and rules made by themselves, and bowing to a man | raised by themselves trom themselves, who willlay down his command when his term expires with the same grace and ease exhibited in taking it up. which makes me hesitate to believe there is any right” in kingship. would benefit the heart of any crowned monarch, if not | nis head, to visit her shores and inspect her institu- tions.” The earnest tone of the imperial speaker, and his | grave, thoughtful look told but too plainly that he felt ‘all which he uttered, and the noble-hearted Sheridan Was more than gratified to hear him thus speak of a land which he loved so well and had served so glorious- “divine | TsGcn they came to the next relay of horses, and with fresh teams sped away toward the Platte, the trees upon its banks being already visible. True to his word, our hero had the party in on time, | and when the sun set in the west His Imperial Hi shness | was seated in the luxurious Pullman car provided for | ; his use. Here he expressed his gratification at the termina- | tion of the first hunting w ip he had ever enjoyed, and thanked Buffalo Bill for his part of the work of gratifi- cation. He also presented him with a beautiful tur- quois scarf pin, studded with diamonds, and sent another to the loved and loving wife of our hero, even | more valuable. | “For,” he said, ‘‘the lady who could win and keep the ' heart ot so brave and true a man, is worthy of all res- | pect and honor!” _ “To live, and not for him ? Dove Eye cannot—will not! j € ! ; ee he “General Custer, like many vert now in our camp, ‘oe wer to check his horses, er steep, being a | a trot, and let them get their wind, as they went out of | I have seen that | a America is a land of. lessons, and it The scout, ever modest, accepted the gifts with diffi- dence, only saying he would «keep them as long as he lived, in memory of the noble giver. Then, shaking the imperial hand with a hearty, honest grasp, he bade hit good-by, mounted his horse and rode at a gallop across ‘the br idge to rejoin the dear ones in his home hear McPherson, and to tell what a glorious jolting he gave the Grand Duke in the Long Canon. CHAPTER XXXV. ‘ CAPTURE OF BUFFALO BILL. “Lou, my little angel, can you and the little ones spare me for four or five weeks ? This was the question asked by our hero, after he had shown his presents to her and placed the Grand Duke’s gift upon her bosom, the next day after the hunt. “7 have to spare you very often, whether I wish it or not, and suppose I must as long as you remain an army scout!” said the gentle lady. “Ah, William, you know pot what hours Of sadness [ pass, even with these bright-eyed cherubs about me, when you are afar off, exposed" to constant danger! “This trip, my love, w ill not be a dangerous one. It is the one so often deferred—a visit to some esteemed friends whose acquaintance I made on the plains—the Jeromes, the Heckshers, the Bennetts, and others who oan me as their guide have seen a little of frontier life.’ “Ah, my brother,” said Nellie, Buffalo Bill’s noble- hearted sister, ‘to some men there are more deadly perils in the great cities ef the East than there would be on the plains of the West, for the border men usually prepare themselves tor enemies, while the enemy often comes upon them unaware in the haunts of Civiliza- tion.” “There is truth in what you say Nellie,” responded Bill; ‘‘but I shall ever be on my guard. Ah, who comes here ?” he continued, as he saw a mounted soldier ap- proaching. “Mr. Cody is wanted at the fort,” said an orderly, rid- ing up. ‘A herder reports a gang of Indians skulking among’ the hills four or five miles back.” «“Pawnees, I reckon, trom below, to hunt for antelope and black-tailed deer,” said Bill, carelessly. “But Vl ride over and see what is wanted. Tell Texas Jack when he comes in where I have gone, soif Im gone long, he can take my trail, Lou.” The scout bent down and kissed his little daughter, and then raised his baby-son up in his arms. «Juddie, my boy, you grow like a young panther,” he | said, as he kissed his plump cheek. ‘One of these days you'll be the champion of my scouts, and then the reds | will have to scatter, eh? We'll show ’em that you'rea | chip from the old block, eh? Take good care of your- | ‘selves, all—I’ll be back soon, I reckon. These herders | are such hands at getting up scares, and they know the | Third is new out here. They’ll keep in the saddle half the time it the post commandant listens to all that he ars.’ «When will you get back, Willie dear ?” asked the fond | wife, as she reached his Mexican blanket and threw it | over his shoulder. “Just as soon as 1 can, and maybe a little sooner. Do you know how that can be? Ordo you give up the co- | nundrunv? Well, Ili tell you. I'll hear what the re- |; port is up at the fort, and I may not have to go at all.” Bill now kissed both wife and sister, and “heard the | soft “God bless you,” which each breathed, and then hurried out and mounted his horse. ; Don’t torget to tell Texas Jack which way I’ve gone when he comes in,” cried the scout, as he turned his horse toward the fort. The wife and sister stood at the open door for some | time to see whether he rode away or not, and about | twenty minutes later they saw him riding up the river | alone and at full speed. “IT do not like to see him go alone,” said Nellie. “He says he is safest alone,” said the wife, sadly. ‘He has nearly lost his life several times in saving men who were with him, when, with his fleet horse, alone, he | could have gotaway without a scratch when numbers | pressed him. He has told me so often that he feels | Safest when alone that I cannot but believe that it is so, | He rides very tast. There must have been truth in | the report or he would rot be in sucha hurry to look ; into it.” | «There comes Texas Jack and his hunters,” said Nel- | tie, “They, too, ride in fast. Perhaps they have seena tr ra ” The hunter whom she named, a rather young but | most formidable looking man, who rode ye phe dash ' for which the Texan men are famous, ca p to the men, who, armed like himself, were covered with dust trom a long and rapid ride. «Where's Cap’n Bill, ma’am ?” named, as he rode up to the door. “Off up the river on a scout. fort, and he is just out of sight!” “Up the river? Did you say up the river, ma’am ?” “Yes—had you been five minutes sooner you could | ' have seen him for yourself. asked the hunter first T hey sent for him at i ‘He has gone on a false trail, ma’am, as sure as my | name is Texas Jack. We crossed a big trail, four hours ago, tending off to the nor’west toward the Big Horn country ! hunters took a wide ran oe,” | «Then my husband will be back all the sooner. left word that I must tell you where his. trail went!” | ‘Allright, ma’am. If he don’t come back in a few | hours we'll saddle fresh horses and go after him !” He 1 There is a report of hostile | . | looking Indians lurking about in that direction.” Particulars in letter by return Mail 4 | Sold by Druggists. The game was all scattered too, as if their | CURE ior THEDEAF Buffalo Bill did not come back in a few hours, nor in all | | the long night, the uneasy night to her who watched | F | and prayed for his coming. When the morning star rose, Texas Jack, alone, took | il | the trail of his iriend and employer. When the sun was an hour high he was seen spurring | | his horse madly toward the fort. He came, as he went, al alone, | specialists without ‘“‘My husband—the father of my children! murmured | | the loving wife and mother, | where are you now ?’ Quickly she threw a Shawl over .her shoulders and | hurried to the fort to learn what news Texas Jack had | brought. “Oh, W iliam— William, | | As she came near the parade ground, she saw a com- hy pany forming for the march, officers hurrying to mount, ' and signs of an immediate movement of the {roops. | «‘Where are you going? W vets i. the news? of an orderly who was passing The man Was new at the are yi did not know her, or he would have been more cautious in what he said. “The Indians have got Buffalo Bill, the scout, ma’am— . ee Jack has just brought in his hat and one of his | pistols! Most women would have sunk fainting to the earth. | But the wife of the hero was strong of heart in the dark | hour, and she only said : “God of merey help him!” signs of a struggle where the hat and pistol were found, and proof that he had fallen into a well-laid ambuscade, | wounded. Texas Jack had taken the right step, and even while i Mrs. Cody was listenlng to the story, two gallant com- | panies were moving off up the river at a gallop, with ; Texas Jack and his hunters in the lead and The yvoung ranger knew there was n | and that if Buffaio Bill's life had bee time, it Was more than likely only say suffer more in a Savage death by and by. ce he led the column at all the speed his horse could make, {TO BE CONTINUED.] —> @<— Out of Percentage. “Oh, Mr. Smith,” “T want your help for a moment.” Certainly,” replied Mr. Smith. you ?” “T have just sold a tidy for fifteen dollars that cost “What can I do for that is.” “A transaction of that kind, my dear Miss B.,” Mr. Smith, who is a lawyer, into larceny.” said An Awful Doom of any nature is usually avoided by those who have foresight. Those who read this who have foresight will lose no time in writing to Hallett & Co., Portland. 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We are furnishing pleasant and easily ieaiieudh work, which can be done at home ; good wages LADIES given: no canvassing; all materials furnished. 25c. sample of work and full particulars sent free. HOME MANUFACTURING CO., BOSTON, MASS. P. O. Box 1916. ¥ 4 — oy r ene : i a —— & NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 20, 1886, Vee OI Ir Vee eee eee Terms to Mail Subscribers: (POSTAGE FREE.) 3months. .. » \95e|2 copies .-. ». $5.00 4months- . $1.00|4 copies . - . . ~~ 10.00 1 Year 3.00 | 8 copies . Cte aee eee 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. "A MORNING GROWL, BY HARKLEY HARKER. Snap, snarl, growl! That's the way it is with me some mornings. I have just had such a morning. Iam feeling amiable now— except that 1 am ashamed of myself. I have had my coffee, and digestion is going on. Hence lam pleasant. People to see me now would not vote me a bad fellow in the family or office; but if they had seen me two hours ago, I blush to even suspect their judgment upon me. Now I want tosit down and compare notes with all the other Morning Growlers who read this. What did ailus? There is no effect without a cause. We are not habitually irascible men. It is the early hour, generally, that betrays us; so much I think is certain. 1 trace next a pathological connection between my matutinal irritability and overstrain the previous day. One may not always realize the overstrain at the time. Often a secondary nervous excitement comes in to make even the midnight task wonderfully energetic in execution. Butthe early morning shows carbon in the blood. The ashes of consumed nerve, brain, and muscle are torturing the physical machinery. The liver and kidneys have not been able to get rid of the waste, the result of the previous day’s excess. Sleep has not been able to build in new material, by using the last meal; and mainly because the stomach, sharing in the effects of the overstrain, could not digest what was given toit. A cross morning is just as sure an index of excessive vital expenditure as rising mercury is of high temperature. If many of our mornings are of this char- acter it is time to take alarm. If all our mornings are ugly we are in a fair way for physical wreck. I suggest, Brother Growlers, that even if we get out of bed complacent, the above effects in others sometimes set us off. The servant, the clerk, the employee may be overworked. He bungles his task as the result. We lose our temper with him, and think we are excusable. The morning starts hard, and everything goes wrong. But are we requiring too much of the clerk? Are we imposing unhealthy conditions of toil, ill-ventilated rooms, too long hours, speed, weather, exposure, es- pecially hot weather, or in any other way contributing to his surplus of carbon about the nerves? If our ser- vant is out nights: on his own ill errands, if he is a glut- ton or a drunkard, his morning ugliness is unbearable. But if we have pushed him, or otherwise maltreated him, we have no right to plead the contagion of his morning crossness. Yet how often, in the fashionable household, is the lady’s maid, the porter, the coachman, and the cook, pushed to irritable exhaustion, till the family starts every morning with creaking wheels, and everybody is as ugly as possible till after the lubrication of breakfast. Brother Growler, I, for one, confess that a too big day’s work ahead often sours my morning. Haste is never gracious. Hurry is generally snappish. Anxiety is never lovely. When the day looks formidable I am apt to be curt at the breakfast-table. {it is the same overstrain, only in another direction. Happy is he who can keep his business at his place of business. The habit of preparing for the next day by taking home pa- pers and sitting up half the night with them is sure to wear out the temper. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof. Let the morrow take care for the things of itself. Is there any right more inalienable than my right to dress atleisure? Is there any mark of slavery more un- questionable than being obliged to jump into one’s clothes like a fireman? Give me time to make up before I get up, oh, my day’s duty—time to freely use those common bounties of God, clean water and the breath of the morning. There is no medicine like the morning bath to tranquillize the nervous system. I plead for leisure in the morning. I accuse late entertainments or excursions, not half so much for anything else as for the hurry that they necessitate for the morning, thus making us ugly. - I may be more curious than philosophical ; but I have a notion that the tongue, a mere muscle, after a long rest while we slept, runs from mere muscular spasm of exercise in the early morning. Just as colts kick when turned out to pasture; just as you stretch. your arms after long writing; a muscular spasm sets off the tongue and vocal organs early in theday. But since we bave hardly waked up in the brain and heart, the tongue growls because it has no ideas. It is the mere ani- mal growl. Itis the sort of noise the human animal would have made had no intellect nor affections, no soul been given him by the Creator. Hence there is nothing of character in it, one way or the other; it is not worth minding; it doesnot mean anything. Let the animal growl till he is fed and pcaceable, ‘ If ere is any small kindness that I crave of my home circle, it is the charity of ‘‘not minding” what I say in my morning growl; if they will only let it go in at one ear and out at the other. I do love them all; I hope they have no doubt on that point. 1 would rather cut my right hand off than do any of my loved ones an in- ury. I hope I.am capable of real sacrifice in their be- half. So, then, let me growl in the morning, and laugh ‘at me. Never tell me an hour later what I said. Mean- “while, may God give me help to keep the peace. May I have the wisdom to go out to the stable or talk to the four walls; at least say as little as possible to the family while the infirmity is on me. Happy the man whose family is wise enough to see this; whose general Char- acter for solid worth and genuine kindness is strong enough to induce his clerks and operatives or fellow- workmen to laugh at his irritability, and value him still for the good underneath his growl. >@e-~< PEOPLE WE ALL KNOW. BY ELLIS LAWRENCE. No. 11.-THE CREDULOUS MAN. Dear old Josh Billings once said: ‘Bless the Lord fur fools; fur if t¥usn’t fur them, what would the rest oy us hav to laugh at?” But there are some fools whom it is hard to laugh at, for they make endless trouble, and one of them is the credulous man—the person who believes everything he hears. He may be as industrious as a honey bee, as pure as snow, and have a heart as big as a barn door, but if he believes whatever he hears, he will always be next to useless to himself, and do perpetual injustice to every- body else. ; Most men and women learn early, by sad experience, to take many stories with a grain, or more, of salt, and that as many more stories are so badly spoiled tha t can’t save them: but the credulous person swallows whatever is offered him. Generally honest himself, he cannot comprehend that all people are not just like him in this respect. " He may have many friends, and love them dearly, but let any stranger tell him a shocking story about his best and purest friend, and he believes every word of it—he doesn’t seem able to help it. His children may be very good, but if some malicious person or practical joker telis him that his son has be- come a gambler, and his daughter is getting ready to run away with askating-rink professor, his heart begins to break, for it doesn’t occur to him to doubt what he has heard. His wife may be the pink of perfection, but any one who owes her a grudge can tell her husband a story that will send him home with a pistol in his hand and a fu- neral in his heart; he generally shoots first, and ques- tions afterward—when it is toolate. The late lamented Othelio, otherwise known as ‘‘The Moor of Venice,” was a fair type of the credulous man. The credulous man is the mainstay of the working politician, for the campaign lie, which is the leading ar- gument in all election struggles, is devised expressly for his benefit. He meets you one day with a sweet smile and an out- stretched hand; next day he will eye you suspiciously, or cross the street so as not to meet you. The change means that he has heard something against you, and of course he believes it. It is the credulous person upon whom church people depend who want to get rid of a pastor who hits their sins too frequently ; the worse the story, the surer the credulous will be to believe it. The same trustful soul is relied upon by women and ay cocaexa «~6THE NEW YORK girls who want to ruin the reputation of some other woman or girl. no matter how pure and harmless, who is more attractive than they. And the stricter the con- fidence in which the lies are told, the more firmly the credulous person believes them. There is no limit to the credulous person’s capacity ; he will believe a fortune-teller or a tramp as quickly as a dying saint or a proved and tried friend; the bigger the story, the more fully he absorbs it. Tell him that a worthless railroad stock is going up, and he will draw all his money out of the savings bank to ‘‘invest.” Tell him that somebody has patented a process for turning gutter mud into beefsteak, and he will sell his house to buy stock in the new process. If it were not for the credulous man, there would not be a humbug scheme on the market, nor would it be so hard to get money for practical projects. Inform the credulous man that the world will come to an end on a given date, and he will give up all prepara- tions for going on living after that time. He may be deceived a dozen times, or a hundred, but that merely changes supposed facts—it doesn’t change his nature in the slightest, nor make him any the less likely to be- lieve whatever yarn he may hear next. Bad as his fault is, it is generally accompanied by an- other which is just as mischievous—he cannot help re- peating whatever he hears, You only need to put a circular of a quack medicine in his hand, as he goes down town, to have him tell every- body he meets that the nostrum advertised is a sure cure for whatever may be their particular ailments ; as every- body believes him honest, some people take his advice only to lose their money and their health too, You need only whisper to him something against the reputation of some shop-mate or fellow-workman to make a whole building hot for the unsuspecting wretch, He can destroy the peace of a neighborh uicker than the worst gossip in the town, for the goss ip en- erally is a sly and cautious villain, while the credulous person never is suspected of meaning anything out of the way. ' You can never tell where to find the credulous person, mentally. To-day he has such strong beliefs about relig- ion, politics, and business that it seems he could give odds to the eternal hills in a competitive match for steadiness ; to-morrow, however, he will have an entire- ly new set of beliefs, each apparently as strong as the old ones. It merely means that somebody witha new doctrine has been talking to him. You may ask his opinion, for business purposes, about one of his friends or neighbors, and he will honestly tell you exactly what he believes, but if you repeat the question next day you will wonder whether your memory is failing or your informant is a shameless liar, for the two stories will not agree in the slightest particu- lar. His talk is the basis of numberless libel suits and other legal proceedings, but when he gets upon the witness stand he never can make his stories hang together, no matter how large a stack of Bibles youswear him on. The only way to get along with the credulous man is to say ‘‘How do you know ?” to everything he tells you. He never likes to talk to a person who demands proof, for it makes a demand upon him that he never can sup- ply. If he is honest, this course may cure him, but it is just as likely to kill him, the change will be so violent. Fortunately, however, the more his kind is killed off, the less trouble there will be in the world. Take Your Comfort While You Can. BY KATE THORN. If you are ever expecting to be happy, be so now—to- day! Don’t put it off. Don’t wait till you are old, and gray, and rheumatic, before you make the most of your life. It is too much a custom to think: ‘“‘When I have done so and so, then I shall be able to enjoy myself.” Don’t fall into any such fallacious way of thinking. The happiness you are looking for willnever come. You must take your comfort day by day. If there is any- thing pleasant in the life around you, enjoy it now. You will never be in a better mood for it; you willnever have any more time than there is, and there is just as much to-day as there ever will be. Do not put off any pleasure you are able to enjoy to- day until next week. Next week will bring its cares, its crosses, and its inexorable duties. Love your wife and your children now, and be kind to them, and study their comfort now, instead of waiting till you get rich, and, they are dead, or scattered beyond your power to in. fluence their happiness. T We are all apt to have mistaken ideas of taking com- fort. Almost everybody iates happiness” and wealth together, as if the oné could not possibly exist without the other. Now, in our observation, wealth alone never insures happiness. There must be some- thing within a man—independent of his surroundings— to bring him happiness. A long bank account will not do it. A heavy pocket-book will not doit. A stack of railway Shares and government bonds, with a lank- haired clerk to cut off the coupons, will not do it. it is nice to have plenty of means. Nobody denies it. We should all like it. The desire for it is filling our insane asylums with victims; itis fattening our grave-yards ; it is sending our misguided business meén criminals from the country; it is digging the graves of suicides all over the land. But there is something better than wealth. There is something which will bring happiness into the life when money fails to purchase it. Itis the conscious- ness in a man’s own soul that he has done, and is doing his duty, and that day by ot “he takes the goods the gods provide,” and is thankful. : Life is not all sunshine; but we need the storms to make the blue sky brighter. Andit isso true that we never fully appreciate our blessings until they are taken away. Why, it seems to us that the man who is well—who has the power to walk abroad over the land; to breathe in the pure, sweet air of freedom; to look on the green hills and buttercup-spangled meadows of summer; to feast his eyes on the snowy mountain-tops and the ice- laden pine trees of winter; to bask in the clear, bright sunshine, and see around him those whom he loves and those who love him, even though he hardens his hands with daily toil, and wearies his feet in the struggle for bread—it seems to us that he cannot help being happy. > e<_____ MORSELS OF MYTHOLOGY—No. II. BY J. H. WILLIAMS, . APOLLO. Apollo’s tailor’s bills, judging from the stone pictures of the young man handed down to posterity, didn’t fi ty cents ayear. He wore such a paucity of hat it is doubttul if he would have been ad- ‘@ Washington ‘full dress” reception. His Sunday dress consisted of a graceful figure, an innocent expression, and a bow and quiver—and we should think he would quiver when a cold wave from Manitoba sent the thermometer down to six degrees below zero. He | wore the same clothes on week days. Apollo was what in the classics is called a ‘“‘masher.” He had as many female admirers as if he had been a handsome imported actor. ‘Oh, isn’t he sweet!” and ‘‘isn’t he just too love- ly for anything!” were a few of the feminine expres- sions heard when Apollo promenaded the piazza of a watering-place hotel. Even the married women flooded him with invitations to afternoon teas, koffee, klatches, and kettle-drums, but he invariably sent an Apollogy. ~ Apollo’s mother, in consequence of the jealousy of Juno, fied from home, and, after wandering all over the country, found refuge on Delos, a floating island, which was fastened to the bottom of the sea by means of lofty columns. Jules Verne, it is inferred, was the architect of this island. They have gone out of fashion now. In these earthquakial days, the columns would be knocked from under the island, and it would disappear so rapidly that it would make one’s headswim. The Eastlakeand Queen Anne Style of islands are preferred now. On the island Delos Apollo was born. He was subse- quently borne off it. Soon after his birth, at an age when other children amused themselves with building- blocks, painted monkeys on a pole, and penny rattles, Apollo armed himself with a bow and arrow and organ- ized himself into an archery club te fight the powers of darkness. He was a crack shot. He could fire at a target five hours in one inning without inserting an arrow in any of the cows in an adjoining meadow. With his arrows he slew the giant of Tityus. It is said that he also destroyed the serpent Python, a monster that dined on both men and cattle; but this must be an error, for during the past several weeks the monster serpent has been seen divers times as far north as the Hudson River. Apollo performed deeds of valor with his bow, but, strange as it may appear, he was never welcomed on his return home by a brass band and an admiring throng of his fellow citizens. If he had beén a champion base ball club it would have been different. Apollo was also the protector or the streets—a sort of policeman, but greatly differing from the modern guar- dian of the peace, in that he could always be found when wanted. He was not only able to send disease and death, but had the power to protect against physical maladies. This was a dangerous gift for a man to possess. He was liable to abuse it. When Apollo was short of funds he sent an epidemic upon the people, and then cured the victims, charging five dollars a visit. His patients occupied so much of his time that he made a doctor of his son Aisculapius, and they had a larger practice than all the other physicians in the city. Apollo was the leader of the only nine in Olympus. It was not a base ball vine. It was a musical nine—the nine Muses, who played ‘“‘star” engagements in the pal- ace of Zeus, They elicited very favorable criticisms from the newspaper critics, although the editor of the Olym- pus Lyre, who had not been favored with'a free pass, said Miss Melpomene’s voice was very weak in the up- per register, und Miss Clio’s notes were uneven and de- fective. The Muses didn’t advertise in the Lyre. AS a god of prophecy Apollo won international fame. but he never predicted earthquakes. He set up an orac- ular shrine at Delphi, whose oracle could tell more chunks of the future in one day than all the American weather prophets could truthfully predict in a life-time. The Pythian games were celebrated at Delphi. One rash god, who proposed to introduce the game of lawn tennis at Delphi, wag found next morning ,on the high- way with twenty-seven arrows sticking in various por- tions of his body. It is supposed he died from heart fail- ure, Apollo was wont to boast that his wife never got out of bed when he was asleep and went through his trou- sers pocket for loose change. And Mrs. Apollo used to say that her husband never found a collar button miss- ing, nor asked her to sew on a suspender button, 1 A New Series of Instructive Papers. As the power of electricity, notwithstanding its various uses at the present day, seems to be only in the infancy of development, any information on this theme, presented in a clear and concise manner, will be sure to arrest general atigntion. We have therefore secured a new series of entertaining and instructive papers de- criptive of the ‘‘WoNnDERS OF ELECTRICITY,” and will be- gin their publicatign next week. They are by our emi-) nent contributor, Professor RupoLPH, whose articles on “The Wondersof Nature” have aroused such deep in- terest. a a ae THE BRIDE'S DREAM, BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES. It was a wild and tempestuous night in February, the air full of driving sheets of snow, the wind howling, like some disembodied spirit, down the vast chimneys of the old Ryckdale mansion house, but within all was peace and brightness. The large, antique parlor was ablaze with the white stars of wax candles, in old fashioned silver candelabra—the fire roared and crackled on the wide marble hearth, and the velvet pile of the Turkish carpet deadened every step as if it were a bed of forest moss. Amber satin dreperiés hung at the windows, and the furniture, covered also with amber satin, was of carved mahogany, black with years. ~ , Mrs. Ryckdale sat sewing in front of the blaze, a pretty matron, whose soft brown hair was scarcely threaded with silver as jet, and whose complexion was fresh as a girl’s; and her only companion, a beautiful brunette of seventeen or eighteen summers, sat.on the hearth rug, in a position unconsciously graceful, with her cheek, slightly flushed from the vicinity of the flames, sup- ported on one hand. Mabel Ryckdale was tall, yet slightly made, with a small head poised regally on a white, column-like throat, purple-black masses of magnificent hair, and eyes large, soft, and liquid as those of a Creole, while the deep crimson of her lips andthe rosy glow-on either cheek, were more like the tin of wax, in depth and deli- cacy, than the hue of al flesh and blood. Asshe sat there, in her dress of soft pink cashmere, relieved by trimmings of black lace, looking lovely as an Eastern houri, her mother's voice fell softly on her ear. - ‘*Mabel !” “Mamma !” She started quickly to-her feet. Mrs: Ryckdale smiled. slightly. . My dating: what were you thinking of with that sad face and those tren’ lips? I hope you are not uneasy because the train is late. This storm renders delay not only probable, but certain, and I doubt not we shall see Harry here in another half-hour with your orphaned cousin.” , eS “Mamma,” said Mabel, wistfully, ‘I almost wish Ger- trude were not coming he live.” wv * «My love !” et «7 know it’s selfish, mamma, and wicked, but we are happy together, you, and J, and Harry. It seems as we want ho stranger t 1X in_our bliss.” ‘Mrs. Ryckdale smoothéd, dawn ughter’s jetty r with a caressing touch as she answered : e, Mabel, but Gert : Lyndon is left penniless and orphaned; there is no me for my brother’s Italian-born daughter but my house, and I hope that when I have passed away you and Harry, a sober old married couple, most probably, by that time,” she add- ed, with a smile, ‘‘will still extend to’her the privilege of a home.” c Y “Oh, mamma, certain - Mabel, her generous heart touched at once. ‘A that reminds me Harry was speaking to me just bejpre he went away about— about our marriage.” , F ad “What about it, love 2” ao “He wishes it to take pla#e Immediately.” «And you, Mabel ?” ; “Oh, mamma,” faltered the girl, hiding her face on her mother’s shoulder, ‘‘you know, how I love him !” “Then we will have se “iding in May. Gertrude will make a charming li maid for you, it all I hear of her beauty is truéU , f 3 “Yes, mamma.” Mabel sat@quietly for a minute or two, and then resumed: “M a, do you believe in dreams ?” ; “Certainly not!” : ; “Because I had, oh, such a dreadful one last night! It has haunted me all day long. I wish I could forget it.” She shuddered slightly, and clasped her hands over her eyes. “So this accounts for your dejection all day. Your smiles have been as few and far between as April violets. But what was the vision, Mabel?” asked her mother, playfuily. é “I thought I was coming into this room, mamma, only it was summer, and the windows were wide open and the air was full of the scent of roses, and here upon the hearth stood Harry, with the most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life clasped to his breast. She was small, with large blue eyes, with a peculiar cast in them as she looked straight at me, and golden hair that streamed like a vail down over her dress. And then there was such an evil triumph in her look, and I knew that she had stolen Harry’s heart away from me.” : The tears sparkled beneath Mabel’s drooping lids as she concluded. Mrs. Ryckdale drew her daughter ten- derly toward her. “My dear, forget this foolish dream. Be my own brave, courageous little girl once more. Harry Elles- ford’s love is too deeply rooted to admit of the possi- bility of a doubt. When you are his happy wife, you, too, will laugh at these idle phantasies. up, for I hear the roll of the earriage-wheels.” The color flashed into Mabel’s cheeks; the dewy moisture of her eyes made them lovelier still-as she stood awaiting the entrance of her new cousin and Mr. Ellesford, who had gone to New York to escort home | the new member of the Ryckdale household. He entered presently—a tall, handsome man, with sunny-brown hair, hazel eyes, and a face handsome enough to serve as a model tor Hyperion. And leaning on his arm was a Slight, sylph-like creature, beside whom Mabel felt paintully conscious of seeming large and coarse—a girl whose deep mourning dress but served to set off her dazzling complexion of snow and | roses, and the vivid gold of her shining hair. Like a vision of beauty she burst on them, as Mrs. Ryckdale caressingly withdrew her black vail and impressed the kiss of welcome on her scarlet lips. «This is your cousin Mabel, Gertrude,” she said, lead- ing the fair-haired elf forward. But as Gertrude Lyn- don put up her cherry mouth for the expected kiss, a peculiar expression of the blue melting eyes, strangely akin to a cast, met Mabel’s glance. She shuddered and drew back ; the next moment she held out her hand—it was as cold as ice. “Cousin Mabel,” lisped the lovely blonde, ‘‘will you not love me ?” “7 will try.” A strange coldness in her voice and manner struck them all. ‘“‘Why, Bell, what is the matter ?” Ellesford demanded, as he eagerly advanced to relieve Gertrude Lyndon of her superfluous wrappings, and a slight frown darkened his forehead as he spoke. *‘Mabel is a little nervous to-day,” Mrs. Ryckdale said, ae eae “Let me unfasten your bonnet, Gertie, my ove.’ As she removed the slight coiffure of black crape and jet bugles, the net that fastened Miss Lyndon’s hair slipped off, and, ‘‘like a golden vail,” the shining tresses. rippled down almost to the floor. “What magnificent hair!” Ellesford exclaimed, eager- ly; and Gertrude, blushing and smiling, assisted her aunt once more to tie it up, with soft apologies for her awkwardness. But Mabel stood like one stricken to stone—pale, cold, and silent. For before her she saw the very siren of her dreams, blue-eyed and radiant, and vailed with a shining mist of golden hair. It was but for an instant, and then she recovered her- self, with a pang of her sensitive conscience. ‘How foolish I am—and it was but a dream after allt What a wicked girl I must be to allow such a mere trifle to prejudice me against this poor little orphaned cousin. I must love her all the more to atone for my momentary coldness.” And Mabel herself led Gertrude upto her room, hold- ing her lovingly round the waist as they went, and whispering to her how happy they would be together. “Isn't she beautiful, Mrs. Ryckdale »” cried Harry Ellesford, enthusiastically. ‘I never saw so perfect a type of loveliness in my life.” “She is indeed,” assented Mrs. Ryckdale, ‘‘and as dif- ferent from Mabel in her style as & “Oh, Mabel .can’t compare with her,” interrupted Ellesford, with a dash of scorn in histone. ‘That is,” he added, seeing the slight shadow that crossed Mrs. Ryckdale’s clear brow, ‘‘May is very nice, and all that Now brighten | sort of thing, but an artist, like myself, looks at outlines and coloring. Gertie is simply perfect.” a a, WEEKLY. Pe VOL. 42—No. 3, | 1 The spring came with roses and honeysuckles, crimson sunsets burning into the purple gloom of tw light such. as lovers delight in, and Mabel Ryckdale w ee a shade paler than of old. She ought not to ave been, for her wedding-day was set, and Gertie was already embroidering the dress of white India muslin which was to grace the bride’s slender form. It was the night before the wedding, and Mabel sat by the window gazing thoughtfully out over the spring landscape, ‘* Alone, Mabel?” «Why, where is Harry “He went out with Gertie to gather lilies of the valley to dress the bridal rooms, mamma.” “But that was two hours ago. Surely they ought to be back by this time.” : In the same moment Gertrude Lyndon’s soft, silvery laugh was heard, echoed by Ellesford’s deeper tones, and the lovely blonde showered down a basket of silvery a sheathed in their shining green leaves, at Mabel’s eet. anne her mother’s voice. “Are they not lovely, May ?” Mabel looked up into her cousin’s dimpled, glowing face, fresh with soft bloom, shadowed with the gold of her streaming hair, and felt, with a strange, inscrutable pang, that not one blossom was half so lovely as the girl who stood before her in the picturesque attitude nat- ural to the curves of her exquisite shape. She glanced toward Ellestord. He, too, was looking admiringly down on Gertie, and a cold chill crept to her heart. “Yes, they are pretty enough,” sae said, indifferently. “Ah,” sighed Gertie, softly, ‘she does not appreciate our tribute, Harry.” “Our tribute!” Mabel felt half indignant that Ger- trude should dare thus to speak of herown affianced husband; and then with the reaction native to a gener- ous nature, she smiled and thanked Gertie, and suffered the pretty little clinging thing to shower dimpled kisses on her brow and cheeks, and twine her white arms about her neck, and chatter her artless nonsense, Clear and cloudless the morning of the bridal day dawned, and the earliest songs of the crimson-breasted robins woke Mabel from her disturbed slumbers. “Mamma, are you there ?” Mrs. Ryckdale advanced softly from behind the snow- white draperies of the bed. Mabel clung round her neck, with flushed cheek and tear-wet eyes. ; “Oh, mamma! that dream—that awful dream again! Harry, my Harry, with Gertrude at his side!” “Nay, nay, Mabel; it is only a dream.” “But it means something, mamma. Oh, why was I not warned in time ?” - ‘See, darling!” said the mother, hoping to turn the current of Mabel’s troubled refiections; ‘‘your bridal wreath has come! Do you like those orange buds ?” Mabel sat up in bed, parting her jetty locks with white, wandering fingers, and looking out through the half-open windows with a vague, dreaming gaze. “{ shall never wear them, mamma!” : ‘‘Mabel, what do you mean ?” «J mean, mamma, that I shall never be married.” Mrs. Ryckdale rose, with a troubled look. «It is early yet, love, but I am going to send Gertie and Rose Wynne to you. I shall call Harry, too.” Mrs. Ryckdale left theroom. Rose Wynne, the young- er bride-maid, was up and dressed; but there was no answer when she tapped at Gertrude Lyndon’s door. She knocked a second time, and then turned the handle and entered. The little white bed, draped in lace, was untouched, the pillows unpressed, and on the bureau, pinned to the cushion, lay a slip of paper, in Gertrude’s delicate hand- writing. “T am tired of this stupid life, and I am off with Harry Ellesford to try the atmosphere of la belle Paris. Com- pliments to Cousin May; she will be glad to get rid of me, for she always hated me. - GERTIE.” The note fell from Mrs. Ryckdale’s palsied fingers ; she hurried down the hall to Harry Ellesford’s room. Gertie’s malicious words had been but too true—the room was vacant. The recreant bridegroom and the false-hearted friend had shared each other’s guilty flight, and Mabel was deserted. te With a face like ashes, Mrs. Ryckdale returned to her daughter’s bedside and broke to her, as gently as pos- sible, the fatal news. Mabel listened in silence. “T knew it, mamma,” she said, when her mother had ceased speaking. ‘I told you Ishould never be married. Take the orange blossoms away; Ido not need them now. And that was all the moan she made. It seemed as if the bleeding of her heart was all inward, and she pined away like a fading flower, until in the autumn she died, as peacefully as though she had fallen asleep. er dream had come true. ADVENTURE WITH A PANTHER, BY L. B. ANGELL. Some years ago, while J was spending the summer in the northern ‘part of Maine, I had much leisure time for the sports of that section of the country. I was passion- ately addicted to hunting,'and the dense forests which abounded there gave me every opportunity to enjoy the pastime. Often would I take my rifle and sally forth. It was during one of these excursions that an adventure befell me which I cannot think of, even now, without a certain thrill of fear. I had left a friend’s house with the intention of shooting some birds for supper, but not meeting with success, I kept traveling in various direc- tions until nearly sunset. I now found thatI wasina portion of the forest which I had never before fre- quented. Huge fir and hemlock trees, of a century’s growth, towered upon every side of me, their giant branches forming a thick net-work overhead, through which the sun’s rays could scarcely penetrate. It was now about sunset, and I was ready to retrace my steps toward home; but, alas! which way was I to go? Having taken no particular notice of the way I had come, and having changed my course several times during the afternoon, I had not the least idea in regard to the direction I should pursue. I traveled some distance, when I came to a huge pile of rocks around which was quite a large opening in the forest. On examination I discovered that among these rocks was a large excavation, which appeared to lead to some kind of a cavern of considerable size. I cocked my rifle, and proceeded to examine more minutely the open- ing. Isoon found it to be, as [ had conjectured, the en- trance to a large cavern, some fifteen or twenty feet in length by nearly as many in breadth. It was now evident to me that I must pass a night in the forest, as it was getting quite dark, and there was no more prospect of getting clear of the forest than there was when I first made the attempt. Thick, heavy clouds began to make their appoenenee in the sky, and the sighing of the wind through the trees foretold an ap- proaching storm. Icame to the conclusion that it was best to take up my abode in this cave during the night, as it seemed to answer my purpose as well as any place T had seen. I collected some dry brush and leaves, and soon had a roaring fire within, which lit up the cave and caused the place to assume quite a cheerful aspect. After partak- ing of some bread and meat which [ had with me, I re- eee the fire and lay down torest. It was not long efore I fell into asound slumber, from which I was awakened by a most terrific crash, as if all the artillery in the world had been simultaneously discharged. Upon looking out into the darkness, I found that the} storm which had been brewing before nightfall wa raging furiously; the wind was blowing almost ah cane, which was accompanied by the most deaf peals of thunder and blinding flashes of lightning. some time I sat watching this terrific warring of the ele- ments, and thanking my stars that I was fortunate enough to be safely sheltered from their fury. I went back and lay down by the fire, and tried to re- sume my nap; but sleep was out of the question amid such a din as was going on outside. Occasionally I would fall into a doze, from which I would be suddenly awak- ened by some awful clap of thunder that would fairly jar the earth. ai On one occasion, as I was aroused from one of these sleepy spells, I happened to cast my eyes toward the mouth of the cavern. As I did so, I beheld, about two yards from the entrance, what at first seemed to be two small, glittering orbs of fire, but which I soon made out to be the eyes of some animal, of what species I could oe determine. I grasped my rifle, asif to dispatch him at once. A low growl now greeted my ears, and caused me to pause fora moment. By a slight movement I succeeded in placing myseif exactly facing my enemy. Isat in this position for about an hour, as mute and motionless as a Statue, with my eyes fixed intently upon the beast before me, when suddenly the animal seemed to advance with soft, stealthy, cat-like tread. All was still as death within the cave, nothing being heard save the fierce rag- ing of the storm without. The fire, which had smolder- ed down to afew coals, was the only thing which seemed to keep the animal at bay. I at once threw more brush upon the fire, which soon becamea light blaze, and en- abled me to see the monster before me quite distinctly. He seemed as if about to spring at me. His mouth was half open, disclosing a set of long white teeth; his eyes oe fire, and he lashed his sides furiously with his From his looks and actions I took my enemy to be nothing more or less than a huge panther. I kept the fire as bright as possible, and occupied the rest of the time in watching the dreaded foe. Owing to the dimness of the light I dare not fire at the brute, for had I fired and only wounded him, I should probably have been obliged to have a hand-to-hand contest, which would have been anything but agreeable. 1 threw the last particle of wood upon the fire, and then braced myseif in a firm position, expecting that my foe would only wait for the fire to go down, when he would commence an attack. Andso it was. Assoon as the few twigs which I threw on were consumed, he advanced still nearer with a deep, hoarse growl. Iheld my weapon ready for instant use, and waited until he was within about two yards, when I pulled the trigger. There was a flash and report, accompanied by a blood-curdling yell, and I felt myself struck to the ground by a powerful blow upon the shoulder, which seemed to tear the flesh from my bones. Quick as thought 1 grasped my knife and dealt the ferocious brute several well directed blows, some o rr rnd eee tee tee h must have reached a vital part, for with a deep , I felt the hold uponmy shoulder relax, when by little exertion I succeeded in rolling him off me onto ‘the ground where he lay appatently lifeless. But to make sure work of it I gave two Or three more thrusts into the brute’s body, and then proceeded to examine my own wounds, I found my left shoulder in a rather bad condition, the flesh having been stripped to the bone, tor the length of three inches. Ihad received several other wounds, but they were of little consequence. I bound my shoulder as well as circumstances would admit, and sat down by the side of the fire. The storm had now subsided; the clouds had broken away and the moon, which was at its full, Came out in splendor upon the scene, , My wounds now gave me great pain. hours passed and day todawn. Assoon asit ~ fully light I started on! ah fore I heard the report ie some distance ahead, which I soon answered by arging my own, and ac- eon anying it by a loud halloo, when I heard a voice not ‘ar found me, Two long weary when we went back to the cave, old male panther of the very largest cies. divested him of his hide, together with his claws and some of his teeth, all of which I retain to this day. >o~+ Correspondence. GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS. t2¥- 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. {We desire to call the attention of our readers to this depart- ment which we intend to make a specialty :2 our pourna, Every question here propounded shall be answered fully and fairly, even though it take a great deal of research to arrive at the facts. No expense or pains shall be spared to render the answers to questions absolutely reliable.] 2 Lillian, Long Island.—Sea-weeds make attractive collec- tions. They should be gathered when moist and fresh, and soaked in a basin of fresh water, to clean them from sand and salt. Next seléct a good piece, la# it on a soup-plate filled with fresh water, and slip it under a sheet of white paper. While in the water the sea-weed may be easily spread out evenly on the a. by means of a camel’s hair ye or brush. When this has been done the paper may > gently from the water, and the sea-weed will keep its form, Let the water drain off and then lay the paper on a sheet of blotting-paper ; over the sea-weed lay a piece of linen cloth, and over that another sheet of blotting-paper. The linen cloth is put _in to keep the blotting-paper from sticking to the sea-weed. After arranging all the pieces of sea-wi in this way, pile them up between two and put some weights on them, and leave them for three or four i to dry. When dry take off the blotting-paper and rag from each carefully, so as not to pull up the sea-weed. Most sea- weeds are gummy and stick to the r, but some hard ones need a little mucilage. When we ied the papers may be neatly arran according to their sizes on the page, but if they are small, they may be placed in numerous pretty ways. - little mucilage vane the corners of each paper will hold them securely. : Cecile, Baltimore, Md.— George Peabody’s public gifts during his life-time amounted in thejaggregate to a very large sum. In 1852 he gave $10,000 toward the second Grinnell arc- tic expedition under Dr. Kane, and $30,000 to found the Pea- body Institute in the southern portion of Danvers Mass. (now Peabody). to which he efeaeaese iy. added $170,000, with $50,000 more for a similar institution in North Danvers. 1857 he founded the Peabody Institute in Baltimore, Md., with Fan nn, subsequently increased to $1,000,000.. In 1862 he matw is eee for building lodging nen for the poor in London, contributing in all, $2, an institute of archeology, in connection with Harvard Col- lege, with $150,000, gave $150,000 toward ade ment “Es ; ical science in Yale College, and made a gift of $2,100,000, in- j ; on of education c in 1869 to $3,500,000, for the the South, besides contributing to 000. In the same year he gave Newburyport, Mass., 000 M 20,000 the y. ass., $20, nd ; the public library of Metfor vt. 000 Ohio, and $60,000 to Washington baile Va. To he left about $5, oun net ep A. R. L., Cincinnati.—Ist. The signature of the cross—the mark which persons who are unable to write are required to make instead of their signatures—was anciently not con- fined to illiterate persons ; for among the Saxons the mark of the cross, as an ati of the good faith of the Ds signing, was n to be attached to the signature of those who could, as well as to stand in the place of the signa- ture of those who could write. The the symbol of an oath, its sacred as the mark generally adopted. Hence the ori; e pression “‘God save the mark,” as a form of ejaculation ap- proaching the character of an oath. 2d. The word “boo!” used to frighten children, is a corruption of Boh, the name of a fierce Gothic eral, the son of Odin, the mention of whose name spread a panic anong. iis ies. 3d. The architect of St. Paul’s Cathedral in nwas Sir Chris- topher Wren. 4th. Bartholemew Binns was chosen to suc- ceed William Marwood‘as England’s hangman. appoint- ment eee on Sept. 27,1883. Marwood di » co 3= tion of the lungs and jaundice.’ : Wes Brawn, Rusk, Texas.—ist. The houses preceding” Tudors in England were those of Normandy, Plantagenet, Lancaster, and York. The one following the Stuarts was the house of Hanover. 2d. The oldest of the ancient translations of the Old Testament, and the most celebrated, is the Greek version, called the Septuagint from its seventy-two S- lators, or P igen de from the seventy-two members of the San- hedrim who sanctioned it. It was commenced about 280 B. C. and was finished in the course of years evidently by different hands. 3d. Susa was one of the capital cities an Empire which Cyrus founded. 4th. Esther, the Persian ueen of Jewish descent, was the wife of Ahasuerus. 5th. on f-marrow is recommended to promote the growth of the air. R. C. W.—To preserve furs, it is necessary to keep them dry and well aired, and to protect them from moths. The latter object is often accomplished by frequently beating the furs and keeping them in a camphor-wood or cedar-wood trunk or apartment, or by sprinkling them with camphor, tobacco, or powdered ar or sandal wood. Some of the largest dealers in furs find that the most effective method for preserving furs from moths is simply to beat them about once a month with a rattan. Louise, Plainfield, N. J—To make food for mocking birds, mix together two parts of corn meal, two parts of pea meal, and one part of moss meal. Add a little melted lard, but not sufficient to make the mixture too greasy, and sweeten with molasses. Fry in a frying pan for half an hour, stirring con- stantly, and taking care not to let it brown. This makes it keep well. Put itina covered jar. The moss meal is pre- on ig by drying and grinding the imported German moss seed. Selena, Port Jefferson.—ist. There is no demand at present to our knowledge for the Washington token deseribed. 2d. Meringue for pies is made of beaten whites of eggs and pow- dered sugar. In making a meringue the usual proportions are the wnites of four eggs anda pound of powde sugar. The whites of the eggs must first whisked to astiff, firm froth, and the — then beaten into it gradually, a spoon- ful at a time, the flavoring being added at the last. E Reginald, Toronto.—ist. The old monster steamship Great Eastern, at last accounts, was a floating variety theater, and was anchored off Liverpool. After visiting the principal ports on the English coast, it is said, she will be tak 4 ken to the colonies. 2d. The largest passenger steamship is now the City of Rome. E. N.—If not invited in, the lady’s escort should take his { leave at once; not linger at the door; and if he persists in loitering it is the lady’s privilege to bid him _ good-night and retire within the house. The same rule applies to the escorts of the two ladies referred to as well as to one. L. R. M., Savannah, Ga.—Yellow dock root is reecommend- ed for the blood. Preparations of it can be obtained of any druggist. It is astringent and gently tonic, and is sup- posed to an alterative property, which renders it use- ful in cutaneous eruptions, and in scrofula. : L. B. C.,—The first exposure of the Tweed Ring frauds in this city was made on July 16, 1871. Tweed was arrested in a civil suit on Oct. 28, 1871,and gave bail in $1,000,000. The charge was malfeasance. He was subsequen arrested on criminal charges of fraud. Clay, New Orleans, La.—For the information you desire, : apply + letter to the Public Printer, Government Printing Office, Washington, D. C, Under the new administration cer- tain changes in the rules and regulations have been made, and the force reduced. - C. H. F., Wilmington, Ill.—ist. ‘‘Holden’s Book on Birds’’ will enlighten you. Price 50 cents. If you desire it, write direct to the NEw YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. 2d. Prcportions of the ingredients in the recipe quoted not known to us. X. ¥. Z., Williamsville, N. Y.—1st. We recommend the read- ing of historical works. 2d. “How to Draw and Paint” will cost 50 cents; the “Art of Wood Engraving” 25 cents. 3d. Neither story named is in book-form. M. J. Johnson, King City, Mo.—Feb. 6, 1855, fell on Tues- day; May 20, 1858, on Thursday; June 2, 1860, on Saturday; Sept. 26, 1862, on Friday; March 3, 1870, on Thursday; Aug. 26, 1872, on Monday. A Subscriber, Canton,—A “Manual of Fencing” can be sent to you for 25 cents; “Dick’s Art of Gymuastics” for $1; and the “Art of Self-Defense” for 25 cents. M.—Your three questions relate to the same subject—fiirta- tion—the encouragement of which we advise you to avoid. S. S. L.—The New York Croton oo was completed in 1842. It was commenced in 1837 cost was $10,375,000. J. H. S., Miltonvale, Kans.—The drama entitled “Ten Nights in a Barroom” will cost 15 cents. J. C.K., St. Landry Parish, La.—ist. No. 2d. The story named is not in book-form. W. G., Milford, Ia.—Address:a letter to the Western Union Telegraph Office, this city. P. G. D., Brooklyn.—We cannot say. Write to the address of the party you name. Reader, Denver, Colo.—Not known to us. Ada H.—See ‘“The Ladies’ Work-Box.” To ConTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS. are declined: “Fly Back, O Years,” ‘‘Tennie’s Mistake, Bless My Boy,” “Ruin,” “Jessie’s Engagement,” “The Old eet» “Beautiful Childhood's Home,” “Wisdom of the eople. respectfully istant which I knew to be that of a friend. pidge and on dragging the animal out to the light, found we had an — We soon | e specimens are large only one can te put ona ee ) | i sn eens in oe ape aR ’ t ight, 4 a it ot 4 Sp ~ the bitter and unkind thoughts that had occupied his — a . — runs soeasa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 A PICTURE. BY FRANCIS S. SMITH. Two tiny white hands raised at even, Two melting soft blue eyes turned toward Heaven! A marble brow—a wealth of golden hair— Two parted rosebud lips murmuring this prayer : «« Jesus, when my eyes I close, Lull me gently to repose! ; Thou hast kept me through this day, Keep me through the night, I pray! Loving Saviour! God’s dear Son! Help a feeble little one! “Tf to-day I’ve wicked been, Let me not offend again! ~ Cleanse me with Thy precious blood— Make me dutiful and good! Loving Saviour! God’s dear Son! Help a feeble little one! '« While I'm sleeping tranquilly. Let me dream of Heaven and Thee! Should I wake ere morning light, Let Thy presence banish fright! Loving Saviour! God’s dear Son! Help a feeble little one! «« Bless my parents, kind and true, 4 My sisters and my brothers, too! Bless my teachers for their care! Bless all people everywhere! Loving Saviour! God’s dear Son! Help a feeble little one! a [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] THAT DOWDY. By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of “The Forsaken Bride.” “Two IKeys,” “stella Rosevelt,” etc. [“THat Dowpy” was commenced in No. 50. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] ‘ CHAPTER XIII. * A DOUBLE AFFLICTION. The greatest consternation prevailed in the Living- stone household upon receiving this startling intelli- gence. ’ Miss Frothingham fainted, and was borne to her room to be cared for by the servants, while Mr. Living- stone and Allan—the latter now filled with remorse for mind regarding Gertrude’s absence—bestirred them- selves instantly to institute a thorough search for the missing girl. es They proposed to send out men and boats in all direc- tions; but the day, which had been so gloriously vbeau- tiful, threatened to end in cloud and storm ; for the sky gradually became overcast, the wind arose, and a fine mist began to fall, and everybody said it would be use- less to search for any one on suchanight, for they would be able to see nothing an oar’s length ‘before them, and not a man could be found who was willing to undertake the unpromising task. }t would be better, they advised, to wait until morn- ing, when they could charter a steam tug and send it after the missing lady, whom, to tell the truth, no one ever expected to see again. Mr. Livingstone and Allan were obliged to submit to this proposition, but to their agonized hearts it seemed as if they never could bear the delay, and the night of horror and suspense that followed can be imagined. Miss Frothingham revived from one swoon only to fallinto another, upon being told that there was no news from Gertrude, and they feared that the shock to her system might prove to be a very serious one. Mr. Livingstone Sat all night by a fire that had been kindled in the library, for the night was very chilly, andinastate of anxiety and misery indescribable, as | he thought of the delicate girl far out at sea in an open boat and tossed about by the merciless waves in the | storm, and darkness, and cold, if, indeed, she had not already fallen a victim to the hungry waters. He had never believed it possible fora human heart to be so desolate and utterly wretched as his was at this time. Were the afflictions that were crowding so fast upon hima judgment for the great wrong that he commitied against his son and ward four years | His suffering heart and awakened conscience almost | years since morning. | Allan paced hour after hour upon the veranda un-} / mindful of the inclemency of the weather, and in astate of mind bordering upon despair. But wearied out at length with his monotonous exercise, he stole softly up to Gertrude’s room, feeling as if there would be some comfort in seeing about him the things that belonged to her and that she had handled and looked upon from day to day. The first object that caught his eyes, as he opened the door, was that dainty white robe, with its fresh, delicate ruches and graceful cluster of satin ribbons that she had laid out upon her bed ready to put on to receive himin. There lay her handkerchief, too, faintly perfumed with rose, a pair of silken hose, and little kid slippers, with black velvet rosettes, while on her table there was a tiny vase of beautiful sprays of heliotrope, his own favorite flower. A thrill of delight, that was yet keenest agony, per- yaded his heart as he noted these things, for they were very significant to him. She had not meant to run away from him after all; these preparations had been made for his at and showed care and thought for him, even in the midst of her own grief for his mother and her dearest friend. She had intended to be there toreceive him, and had hoped, perhaps, to make his return a little less sad by wearing white in place of the somber black, which was customary ix a house of mourning. He was deeply touched and ‘very remorseful for his previous bitterness against her. He fell upon his knees beside the bed, and, with his face buriedin the folds of that soft, white robe, gave vent, for the first time, to all the sorrow that had been pent up within his heart, sorrow for the idolized mother who was lying so near himin that silent, pulseless sleep of death, whose hand would never again clasp his, whose lips would never again bless him or speak his name; sorrow, too, for the fair young wife whom he had hastened to meet with so much of mingled hope and fear. He prayed that she might be ‘guarded out on the trackless ocean, that she might be kept from a tragic end accepted them as such, and he felt asif he had lived | and spared to him, and he would try to shield and pre- serve her from every future ill. Strong man though he was, his grief and suspense nearly exhausted him ; but, with the first sign of break- | ing day, he went below to make arrangements tor the sad work before him, and at an early hour three steam- tugs were plowing the waters of the bay in different directions in search of Gertrude. The day was not propitious, for there was a drizzling rain, while the wind was still blowing directly from the shore, and would thus carry the hapless lady, if in- deed she was still alive and in her boat, away out to sea. ‘All day long those energetic little vessels ranged the sea and returned at night, each hoping for favorable tidings from the others. But, alas! there was nothing to tell, except of weary hours of suspense and fruitless search, and Allan went . home looking ten years older than when he had arrived the evening before, so full of life and hope and joy. Another night of agony was passed, then another day of search, and so on for three weary, never-to-be-forgot- ten days, and then all hope was blotted from every heart by thereturn of one of the tugs, which brought with it Gertrude’s boat—the dainty ‘‘White Swan,” its pretty cushioned seats all soaked and discolored with sea water, her hat, and handkerchief, and one of her gloves lying at the bottom.” One oar had been found ae Sie oe — dae the of the steam-tug’s tain was, that, having los he cane. ofe Rad ed Me recover it and had lost her balance, fallen overboard and been drowned. It was a terribl tion, doubly so, coming so soon after Mrs. Livingstone’s death, and the whole family were paralyzed by it.” The burial of that lady could no longer be delayed, and she was borne back to Livingstone Elms and laid in the family vault, by her heart-broken husband and son, who felt as if life could never again hold anything of hope or joy tor them. P he excitement and grief proved to be too much for Miss Frothingham, who was stricken with fever, and a long illness followed. hen at length she began to get better, however, she longed todo something to comfort Allan; for his wan, white face, heavy eyes and listless manner told that he was suffering very keenly. : She talked much with him of his mother, telling him of her many hopes and plans regarding hisreturn. She had spent several weeks with her sister during the early Bat of the summer, and many circumstances jhad anspired during her visit which she knew would in- terest him. Then she told him of Gertrude, of her life at school, of her brilliant examination and the sensation sne had created when she graduated. “You can have no idea how lovely she was, Allan,” she said, after creer how she had appeared that day. “She had changed wonderfully during the four years of your absence, you never would have known her, er face had grown more delicate and refined, her com- -plexion a clear pink and white, while, you know, she always had beautiful eyes.” “Ts there no picture of her anywhere?” Allan asked, with a terrible sense of longing and desolation. ‘No; your mother told me she could never persuade her to have any taken—though why, !’m sure I cannot understand. Itis a great pity though, for now you can never know how she looked. She was so talanted, too, you can see that in her paintings which are all over the house; and oh! if you could have heard her sing! She would have drawn your heart right out of your keeping.” “JT believe she had done that long before I came home, by soine nameless charm and influence that pervaded all her letters,” Allan replied, with a deep sigh. “I am glad to hear you say that,” replied his aunt, though tears of regret sprang to her eyes—regret that the poor little wife could not have known it also. ‘‘Ihave feared that the unfortunate circumstances attending your marriage might darken all your future.” “T feared so, too. In fact for more than two years I fully believed that I could never be reconciled to it. But about that time I began to be aware that a great change had taken place in Gertrude. I realized that she was rapidly becoming a refined, cultured woman ; that study was developing a superior intellect; and I began to be very proua of her. My mother’s letters were filled with praises of her. Her own language was graceful, fasci- nating, and I devoured every epistle with strange eager- hess fora man who had once asserted that his wife | = Then [ began to be piqued and troubled because of her coldness and re- would never be congenial to him. serve. She never once penned a single word that could be construed into a term of affection. It seemed to me that she simply felt it to be her duty to write to me, and would not fail in any obligation that belonged to her to perform. “How were your own letters? Miss Frothingham, regarding him sadly. “T am afraid not,” he said, in a regretful tone. sensitive—I am proud. anything of the change that has been going on in my heart, although I have been conscious for some time that I was going to love her.” “Oh, you ought to have told her of it.” “Perhaps so; but knowing that she had overheard all those cruel things that I said on the day of my departure, I feared she might regard me as insincere, and. feel, perhaps, that I was trying merely to reconcile her to the inevitable. 1 tried to comfort myself with the thought thatI might win ber by degrees, as any lover would win the girl whom he loved, upon my return.” “Oh! she was already won. She has loved you faith- fully, Allan, from the first. It was this very affection that inspired her to educate herself and improve every talent that she possessed, in order to be fitted for the position which she would occupy as your wife.” Allan groaned in spirit as he listened and realized how little he had known and appreciated the depth and beauty of Gertrude’s character, and how near he had come to a life of happiness on miss it at last. Miss Frothingham continue ry delicate after get- ting up from her illness—so much so, indeed, that the family physician said that unless she had a change of climate he feared she might go into a decline. Allan was of the same opinion; while, too, his own grief oppressed him so heavily that he could settle him- self to nothing. So when the physician prescribed change of climate for Miss Frothingham, the inmates of J.iivingstone Elms concluded that it would be beneficial for ali of them to go away for a time, and it was finally arranged that they should make a trip to Southern Cali- fornia, spend a couple of months there, after which they would go to Florida, and perhaps return by the first of May to their home upon the banks of the Hudson once more. In accordance with this arrangement, the beautiful mansion was closed, and the grief-stricken trio set out upon their journey, to see what travel and change would do toward mitigating their sorrow, and restoring health and vigor to their bodies. CHAPTER XIV. “THE PRINCESS.” Miss Frothingham was still so frail and weak that Al- lan feared that she might not be able to endure the fa- | tigue of traveling. ut the excitement and change seemed to do her good from the moment of starting. “oH! SHE WAS ALREADY WON—SHE HAS LOVED YOU FAITH- FULLY ALLAN, FROM THE FIRST.” Reaching Chicago, they rested for a few days, and the | lady seemed so much stronger and brighter that they all began to look forward to the journey with more of interest than they had yet experienced. It was a bright, beautiful day, late in September, when our party took their seats in the handsome Pullman ear that was to be their rolling home for the next week. Everything that affection and kindness could suggest had been provided by Allan to make Miss Frothingham comfortable. It lacked only a few moments of the time for starting, when the affable and handsome porter of the car bus- tled in, his hands full of bags, baskets, and packages, and followed by a strikingly beautiful young ady, who was attired in a plain but stylish traveling costume, a modest, dark hat, relieved by a single knot of blue velvet, perched in the most becoming manner upon her golden head, while her every movement bespoke the cultured, high-bred lady. She was conducted to the section directly opposite that occupied by our own travelers, who could not fail to be interested by her grace and beauty; by her quiet yet in- telligent directions to the porter regarding the disposal of her belongings, and the few pertinent questions she asked regarding the route, accommodations, etc. Evidently she was accustomed to travel, and knew how to make the most of every convenience, for her par- cels and baskets were arranged in a way to cause very little trouble in getting at their contents. Presently the signal for startiug was ave and the train rolled out of the station into the full light of day. Then Allan Livingstone noticed that she took in, with one slow, sweeping glanceof a pair of wonderful blue eyes, every occupant of the car. Her attention seemed to be specially attracted to the party from Livingstone Elms, for her look lingered a moment upon Allan’s handsome face, passed his father by rather indifferently, then dwelt with a pitiful, sym- pathetic look upon Miss Frothingham’s wan counte- nance and drooping form. Our young physician thought he had never seen any one quite so lovely before. In figure the lady was tall, slight, graceful; her small head, with its aureole of fluffy gold, was proudly poised upon a pair of exquisite shoulders, while her face was without a flaw—clear cut, star-like ; her complexion colorless—but not unhealth- fully so—except for the vivid line of scarlet beauty that formed her lips. Her eyes were of that purplish tint styled ‘‘pansy eyes,” a trifle cold in expression perhaps, but very beautiful withal. The very simplicity of her dress, which fitted her per- fect form without a wrinkle, only seemed to enhance her loveliness, while there was not an article of jewelry about her, save the eprey of crimson coral that clasped the lace scarf worn about her slender neck. She was perhaps twenty or twenty-one, though, in full dress, and by gas-light, Allan thought she might appear much younger. & In manner she was perfectly collected and self-pos- sessed, showing that she was accustomed both to travel and society, while every motion stamped her the ‘lady of high degree.” “Who can she be? How like a princess she carries herself !” was Allan’s mental comment, as he covertly watched her and wondered if she was to be their travel- ing companion all the way to San Francisco. He thought of her as ‘‘The Princess” after that until he discovered her name. She appeared to take no notice of him, however, after that one lingering glance; she seemed utterly indiffer- ent to his presence, though he could see that those pansy eyes often wandered to his aunt’s face with a wistful tenderness which betrayed that she recognized her as an invalid and was sorry for her. But she bad half a score of books in one of her dainty bags, and she kept herself employed with them almost wholly during that first day and evidently did not care to make friends with any one. Atnoon the porter came to assist her to the dining-room car, where she had a seat somewhat remote from the Livingstones. At evening the same dusky individual performed the same service for her, and with an atten- tiveness which betrayed that he had received instruc- tions upon this point, supplemented with liberal dou- ceur, The next day she is as quiet as before—absorbed in her books ; but the weather is exceedingly warm and the creamy colorless face of yesterday is flushed a lovely pink, while the little rings of hair upon her forehead lie moist and dark upon its alabaster whiteness, Were they what they should have been under such circumstances ?” asked “Tam Gertrude once told my mother that our marriage was an injury that she would never forgive, and sol have never allowed myself to express _ |. “Yes,” returned self wondering if she is not lonely traveling by herself, with no one but the porter to speak to. “No, apparently not, for hour after hour she reads on, lifting her eyes occasionally to glance at the changing landscape, or leaning from her window to note the sta- tions where the train stops. But this tantalizing reserve is destined to be disturbed ere long. The weather is very sultry for the season; the car is close, for people donot like cinders and will not have the windows open, and all at once Miss Frothingham wilts, sinking white, and still, and breathless before her com- panions. “The salts—camphor! Allan!” Mr. Livingstore cried, in a startled voice ; ‘‘they are in the leather bag.” Allan tried to find them, but like everything else wanted in a hurry, they were not easily found. While he was turning over the contents of the leather bag in a flurried manner, the graceful form opposite glided over to them, and a hand like that of the Capi- toline Venus proffered a cut glass vinaigrette with a golden stopper. NI S| \ 7 Q bas.) ‘‘aH! DR. LIVINGSTONE, I DO NOT NEED AN INTRODUCTION TO YOU,” SHE SAID, WITH EAGER CORDIALITY. «The lady has fainted,” said a musical voice, witha pitying accent, ‘use this—untie her bonnet, loosen her scarf and get some water.” | Mr. Livingstone seized the little bottle and put it to his sister’s nostrils, while Allan tried to remove her bonnet and scarf in obedience to the directions of ‘The Princess.” But somehow he is clumsy. off, the strings have slipped into an intricate knot. and he only makes matters worse by trying to untie them. | ‘Let me try,” said the same musical voice, but with a | little note of authority in it, that made him instinctively relinquish his position, when their beautiful traveling companion sank into the seat he had vacated, and deftly | removed both bonnet and scarf. - | Meantime Mr. Livingstone had found the camphor and | a bottle or eau-de-cologne: | . “That is better than the camphor,” said the self-con- ; Stituted nurse, holding out her hand for the latter; and | saturating a clean handkerehief which she took from her | own ‘pocket, she bathed Miss Frothingham’s face and head with the fragrant liquid, until®$he began to show | Signs of returning animation. Allan was ready with a restorative which he made her swallow as soon as she was able, and she soon came fully to herself. : “You are better,” saidothe fair stranger, gently, and smiling a beautiful smile. «Now I know you wanta | drink of water and this window raised a little to let the jair in upon you. My mamma is subject to fainting turns, and I have helped her out of them so many times that I know just what to do.” Allan was off instantly with his silver mug for the water, while his father raised the window, and the young lady, unfurling a fan that lay beside her, kept a steady current of air flowing upon the invalid. «You are very kind,” said Miss Frothingham, a faint smile parting her sti#—pale lips, for it was a delight simply to gaze upopy that lovely fage and to note the tender look that had come into her beautitul eyes. «You are our young traveling companion opposite,” she added, with a glance toward her empty section. “Yes; my name is Blanch Van Ausdel,” she an- swered, frankly introducing herself; ‘‘and I came to you because the gentleman could not untie your bonnet. You know ladies’ fingers are much more deft in getting out knots,” she concluded, smiling and bestowing an arch glance upon Avian, who had returned with the water for his atiy ou feeling@yjuite comfortabie now ?” she contin = ’ Miss Froyhingham had had her drink-* * “Thanks, Iam much better,” that lady replied. ‘I have just recovered from a long illness, but am not strong yet. The heat is very oppressive, and I am some- what wearied with ttte fhotion of the cars.” “T wonder if there isnt. something else I can do for | you ?” Miss Van Ausdel said, thoughtfully. he elder lady, as she looked into the bright face with a great longing, while she thought of that other beautiful girl whom, in imagination, she always seemed to see lying cold and still at the bottom of the ocean, ‘‘you can do something more for me, if } you will sit there and talk to me for alittle while; it , does me good tosee your young face and hear your fresh voice. Miss Yan Ausdel’s pee eyes flashed a bright look at the sweet invalid, and her bewildering smile re- ‘ vealed two rows of perfect, milk-white teeth at this re- | quest. «That will be very agreeable, I am sure,” she said. But the slight fiush that arose to her cheek, and the shy look which she slot at Allan and his father, re- minded Miss Frothingham of a neglected duty, and that the young lady would not feel quite comfortable to sit there in utter ignorance of who her companions were. “Forgive my thoughtlessness,” she said. ‘I should have introduced my brother, Mr. Livingstone, and my nephew, Dr. Allan Livingstone.” Miss Van Ausdel acknowledged the introductions with easy grace, and laughed musically as Allan remarked, with a ceremonious wave of his hand: “And my aunt, Miss Frothingiam, must not be neg- lected in these formalities, Miss Van Ausdel; it is fit- ting that you should know upon whom your efficient | attentions have been bestowed.” _ A familiar footing having been thus established be- tween all parties, the young lady devoted herself to the task of entertaining the interesting invalid, which she “SHE WAS A SCHOOLMATE OF MINE, AND HER NAME WAS GERTRUDE LIVINGSTONE !” did so acceptably that dinner was announced as served before they could realize how the hours had sped. — CHAPTER XY. ‘HIS. WIFE! I NEVER DREAMED IT.” The porter came as usual for Miss Van Ausdel, but Allan begged to be allowed to take her out this time, and as Miss Frothingham did not feel able to leave her section, he persuaded her to Sone his aunt’s seat at their table; and as she sat opposite him, fully at ease, talking of the wh the scenery, the easy mode.of travel- ing nowadays, with so many conveniences and elegant et there seemed to be a fascination, a charm about her, that he had never seen in any woman before. He experienced a sense of pleasure and satisfaction when she told him that she was traveling through to San Francisco. She was going to visit friends, and would remain two months in the great city, after which she would return to Chicago, her native place, and where she and her mother had, during the six or eight weeks just past, been keeping house for a sister who was traveling in Europe. She was very frank and unaffected, speaking of her plans as freely as if she was talking to an old friend, and She seems more lovely than ever, and Allan finds him- “The bonnet will not come | yet there was not the least objectionable familiarity in her manner. Later in the day a little accident served to draw them still nearer, and increased the admiration which Allan already felt for her. Miss Van Ausdel had had her window up for a little while; but, in trying to close it, she brought it down with cruel force upon one of her delicate fingers. She did not cry out or make any fuss over it; but Al- lan, who had seen the whole performance, knew that she was badly hurt, and sprang to the rescue. “That was too bad, Miss Van Ausdel,” he said, in a low, earnest tone, as with one motion of his strong hand a raised the window, and liberated the wounded mem- of The nail grew rapidly purple, and the finger instantly began to swell. “It isa severe bruise, and you are suffering,” he added, as he bent to examine it. “T am afraid I am a trifle,” the beautifui girl returned, quietly, but her very lips were white from pain, while her whole hand quivered like a wounded bird. Allan went for his bag of remedies, and brought forth a bottle of lotion and some old linen. «You must allow me todressit. I am physician and surgeon-general to the company,” he said, a kindly concern in his tone. She surrendered her hand to him without a demur, and talked as calmly, all the time he was binding it up, as if she were not suffering the slightest pain, although he could feel the quivering of her nerves as he bandaged the finger and applied his lotion. “Tam sorry this has happened, for I know that the pain will be severe for several hours,” he said, regretful- ily; adding, with a little accent of authority: “The |next time you wish your window opened or closed 5 please make your desire known.” A wave of color swept over her cheek as she thanked 4 him, and then she turned again to her book and was very quiet during the remainder of the day. The next morn- |ing the pain had partially subsided, and the following day her wound had improved so much, under Allan’s continued treatment, that she became quite gay and went into ecstasies over the granduer of the scenery through which they were passing. ; “She is very charming,” Miss Frothingham said, to herself, over and over again, but with a sigh, as she saw how Allan was enjoying her society, ‘‘but I wish he could have seen Gertrude. She is brilliant, well edu- cated, accomplished, but she lacks something that Ger- trude possessed; I wonder if it can be ‘heart’; she seems kind and sympathetic, however.” The remainder of the journey was delightful. Frothingham improved daily, and enjoyed the fine scenery exceedingly. Allan and Miss Van Ausdel be- came almost inseparable companions. They parted at Oakland, however, for Miss Van Ausdel’s friends, the Farquars, met her there, but not until an exchange of | visits had been promised,.when they should be rested | from the journey. The Livingstones were to remain a fortnight or more | in the great western city and so there would be an op- portunity for meeting several times. Three days after their arrival they received cards, bidding them to a reception at the Farquars’, and given by them in honor of Miss Van Ausdel and to introduce her to San Francisco society. Miss Frothingham was not able to go, Mr. Livingstone had no heart for anything of the kind, and so Allan felt obliged to respond in person, although he, too, was far too sad to enjoy the thought of gay company. Miss Van Ausdel’s friends were wealthy people and lived luxuriously. Their home was a palace for elegance and beauty. The drawing-room into which Allan was ushered was a marvel of richness; furnished in white and gold; divided into three sections by arches and graceful pillars : frescoed in delicate tints: draped with folds of creamy silk and rich lace; laid with a carpet of white velvet thickly strewn with purple and golden-hearted pansies ; pictures, bronzes, statues, vases, and all those beautiful and costly trifles, that help to make up a perfect furnish- ing; in every nook and corner, it was, in the blaze of the wonderful chandeliers of crystal and gold, a room fit for a queen’s reception. Miss Van Ausdel was standing at one end of this en- chanting place with her hostess, by whom she was pre- | sented to their guests as they arrived, while she looked, indeed, and in truth “a princess,” in her trailing dress of heavy white silk, profusely trimmed with rich lace; Miss “HIS WIFE!” SHE CRIED, HOARSELY. ‘‘DR. LIVINGSTONE MARRIED! I NEVER DREAMED IT.” diamonds on her white neck and arms, and a diamond star in the heavy coils of her burnished hair. Her eyes flashed a dazzling glance at Allan as he came forward to greet her, and her scarlet lips parted ina bewildering smile of welcome. “Ah! Dr. Livingstone, Ido not need an introduction to you,” she said, with eager cordiality, as she made a place for him beside her, ‘“‘and it is so pleasant to see some one whom I have known before—every body here is a total stranger to me.” She presented him to one or two others, but evidently had no intention of allowing him to pass on, as others had done, and so engaged him in conversation. “T was half afraid you would not come,” she remarked, “and I am sorry you are alone. How is dear Miss Froth- ingham after her tedious journey ?” “My aunt is very comfortable, but, of course, some- what weary. She and my father desired me to express their regrets that they could not be present to-night.” Allan responded, wondering if there was another woman living who was as beautiful as Miss Van Ausdel. Her face was absolutely faultless—a perfect oval; the round cheeks faintly flushed, the purple blue eyes gleam- ing like stars beneath her beautifully curved brows, and the golden aureole above them ; her scarlet lips wreathed with smiles. Every movement, too, was replete with grace; she had a charming way of receiving her guests, and of say- ing something sweet and gracious to every one. But her especial attention was directed to Allan. She turned to him whenever she was at leisure, fascinating him with her brilliant conversation, holding him spell- bound with her smiles, her exceeding loveliness. . Later in the evening he stood watching her as she be- came the center of an admiring group, and wondered at her peculiar tact in making every one at ease, at her quick repartee and brilliant sallies. “Society must be her native element, I believe,” he said to himself; and then some one at his side echoed his thoughts by remarking : «What a wondertully lovely woman Miss Van Aus- del is!” He turned, and recognized a lady to whom he had been introduced. “7 think that must be the opinion of every one pres- ent, Miss Prescott,” he said, smiling. “J wonder if all Chicago ladies are beauties? I have met several, and they seem to be Pee aa gifted in that respect,” continued the lady, who was rather plain herselt, but very engaging in manner. “I cannot enlighten you upon that point, never having passed more than a day or two in that city,” said Allan, smiling. “TI have never seen but one lady whom I considered as lovely as Miss Van Ausdel,” resumed Miss Prescott, med- itatively. “She was a New York lady, and a schoolmate of mine; and, by the way, Dr. Livingstone, her name was the same as yours. I wonder if she migkt not be a relative? Her name was Gertrude Livingstone.” Allan started, and grew pale. “Yes; I had arelative by that name,” he said, with unsteady lips. “Had! She is not—you do not mean——” incoherently exclaimed his companion, looking alarmed. ‘Yes; Ido mean just what you fear, Miss Prescott. She was drowned about two months ago.” “Drowned!” repeated the young lady, in an awe- stricken tone. How dreadful!” “Yes, it has been a great shock to us all,” Allan re- sponded, in a pained voice; and then he related some of the circumstances to Gertrude’s former schoolmate. “JTtis very sad,” she said, as he concluded. ‘‘Was she your sister, Dr. Livingstone ?” “No,” he said, with Paes lips; ‘‘but she was a very dear relative, and had made her home with my family for many years—in fact, we grew up together.” “And you say this accident occurred on the very day of your return from abroad ?” “Yes; I had not seen her for four years.” “She must have changed very much during that time,” observed Miss Prescott. ‘Indeed, she changed during the three years that I knew her, and I must say she was one of the loveliest, most talented girls Lever saw. You should have heard her valedictory, Dr. Livingstone! It was conceded to be the most brilliant one ever delivered before the faculty, and everybody was charmed with her.” A wild longing came into Allan Livingstone’s heart as he listened to these encomiums on his lost wife. Oh! if he could but have seen her and known some thing of her loveliness, i Everywhere he went he heard her praises rehearsed, and a yearning that was at times almost unbearable filled him. He knew that he should have loved her most fondly, that she would have swayed him by her magic influence, and it seemed too cruel that she should have been snatched from him at the very moment when she would have crowned his life with happiness. Miss Prescott saw that the conversation pained him, and changed the subject, speaking of the attractions of her own city, of its importance, rapid growth, etc., until supper was announced, and Mrs. Farquar came to ask Allan to take Miss Van Ausdel out. Of course he was bound to comply with the request, although he was so heart-sore and sad that he would have been glad to steal away unobserved and return to his hotel. But it was not long before the beautiful girl had charmed the smiles back to his lips, and almost made him forget the pain which Miss Prescott’s reminiscences had recalled, and he at last went home much lighter of nee than he would have believed possible an hour pre- vious. Miss Van Ausdel adroitly planned for several excur- sions, in which the Livingstones were included, and the next two weeks passed very quickly in the round of sight seeing. *‘T shall be so lonely when you are gone,” Blanch said to Miss Frothingham, on the day before they were to leave for the Yosemite, when she went to make her fare- well call upon her. id glance wandered unconsciously (?) to Allan as she spoke. “Lonely,” said the lady in surprise, ‘‘when you are among such gay people here.” “T know that sounds strange,” Blanck returned, color- ing, “but meeting you as I did on the way, and then coming among so many strangers, made me ‘feel almost as if you were old triends. I do hope we shall meet again some time, dear Miss Frothingham.” “1 hope so too, my dear,” returned her friend, regard- ing the beautiful girl, wistfully, ‘for you make me think, once in a while, of a dear niece whom have recently lost, although you do not resemble her.” - “Ah!” exclaimed Blanch, with a sympathetic inflec- ion. Then turning to Allan, she said in a low, reproachful me : “Dr, Livingstone, why have you never told me that you have recently lost a sister? Ifear my levity must have sometimes seemed ill-timed, and given you pain.” Allan opened his lips as if to reply, then as if suddenly overcome by. some sacred memory, he abruptly arose and left the room. “Oh, Miss Frothingham! what have I said to hurt him now ?” the girl exclaimed, in real distress. “My dear,” gently explained Miss Frothingham, ‘‘it was not a sister—it was Allan’s wife whom we lost.” The startled girl sprang suddenly from her seat, and stood gazing wildly down into the face of her com- panion. : “His wife!” she cried, hoarsely. “Dr. Livingstone married! I never dreamed it.” : (TO BE CONTINUED.) ———__ > © + (THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.} A heart's Bitterness. By BERTHA M. CLAY, AUTHOR OF “Kor Another’s Sin,” “A Fair Mystery,” etc. | ae (‘A Heart’s Bitterness” was commenced in No. 45. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXXI. ‘‘WHY DID YOU NOT LET ME DIE 2”’ Thus, like Iphigenia, with a “bright death glittering at her throat,” Violet saw no more. She was dimly conscious of arush and crash in the bushes, that she was seized by the shoulder and flung back, and that before and above her, between her and death, stood the form of Kenneth Keith. In an instant, not being given to swooning, Violet collected herself to see the unarmed but well-knit figure of Lord Keith planted in the narrow space between her- self and the maniac. Keith’s arms. were crossed, his head thrown back; his eyes, steadfast and commanding, held the reluctant gaze of the man who through rum- madness had become a beast. How long he could so have dominated him cannot be told. Three men came dashing down the road, the first on horseback, who, suddenly flinging a broad leather band over the insane creature’s shoulders, jerked it back with a buckle, and had him firmly pinioned, the hatchet dropping at his feet. “It’s Saunders, the smith, my lord,” cried one of the men. ‘He's clean and forever out of his head along of drink. He got away from us while we was watchirg for this keeper to come carry he to’sylum. He might have been the death of you and Lady Leigh.” Lord Keith said not a word; the peril to Violet had been so awful and imminent that he needed time to col- lect himself. Violet, still lying almost breathless on the turf, and unable to believe in her sudden danger and escape, saw the three men carry off the er and rebelling Saunders, his burly strength, nurtured in the smithy, and now .intensified by madness, threatening to over- power his captors. ; When he was finally taken round a turn in the Violet lifted herself up and shook the dust fr dress. She did not see that Keith was pale and ling so he he could not even assist her; she ey she owed him her life, and she remembered that he looked dangerously magnificent, standing before — and daring death for her sweet sake. Instead of grati- tude, the wayward child was filled with rebellion, and her first articulate cry was: I should by this time “Why did you not let me die? be done with it.” This base thanklessness stung Kenneth Keith toa pale fury. He simply stood and looked at her. Violet rushed on, in her excitement: “fam not happy; f would rather be dead!” But this hard injustice was foreign to her really sweet nature, and with the words on her lips, she took shame to herself for-them. Dead? All her warm young life brutally put out in its dawn? And he—he mi now be lying a bleeding corpse, smitten to death in her de- fense. She repented. “Oh, Lord Keith! what am I saying? your life for me! place !” “I did my duty,” said Keith, in freezing tones. To be only on the placid ground of friendship, the calm ground of propriety with Keith, was Violet’s deep desire, and yet so loving was she, and so craving love, and so shut out from love, that when the one man in all the world who was really dear to her said of saving her life, coldly, sharply, ‘‘I did my duty,” Violet burst forth, angrily: “It is a pity you did.” “Why are you averse to living ?” cried Keith, in a fury. “Because I am so unhappy,” said Violet, bitterly. ‘Tf you consider yourself unhappy pray what am I ?” said Keith, forgetting himself in foolish anger at Violet’s contradictory conduct. “I don’t know what I think,” said Violet, bursting into a flocd of tears; ‘only we can neither of us live forever ; you and I will both be dead some day, and that is all we have to look for.” The wide, earnest gaze that Violet had for a moment fixed on Kenneth was drowned in tears. Incapable of saying a wordmore, or of leaving the spot, she turned her head away, Gropped on the mossy bank, and hid her face in her hands. Her experiences of life, though very bitter, had been very brief ;*her childhood had fled, but the dignity, calmness, and strength of the woman had not yetcome to her, But. only a noble, self-restrained, and trustworthy spirit looked at her out of Kenneth Keith’s deep blue eyes. He stood in silence, waiting for her to grow calm ; feeling angry with himself, that he had for a single mo- ment lost control of himself, and been vexed at what was merely one phase of her sorrow. He thought of the lines he had read much of late, though he was of loftier, less selfish genius than their hero: * “Oh, my Amy, tender-hearted, h, my Amy, mine no more !” He bent near Violet. “Dear child, I hope the life that hasgbeen saved this hour will yet be filled with goodness and happiness. Let us go home.” He took the little hand, raised her to her feet, and drawing the trembling arm through his, turned their steps back toward the Towers. t somehow it seemed that every attempt made by Keith to adjust their trouble only increased it, and un- less some good angel intervened these young people were liable to make a terrible tangle of their history be- fore they finished it. As they loitered along, because Violet was too shaken by fright to hasten, the warm summer breezes fanned them, the air blowing over the Towers gardens was full of intoxicating perfume, birds sang in the woods, oh, happy, happy birds that mated by choice and made no mistakes ; coveted nothing, needed nothing but what God gave day by day. Kenneth fell to thinking how blissfully happy he would be if they were walking this way in Keith wood- lands, and Violet were his, and all their days might drift by in love’s glad ministry, and he could fill the craving of this lovely heart, and she could crown his life with joy. Violet, glancing with shy eyes at that kingly figure, and conscious of the might of his late protection, was not thinking of anything but him, how blue were his eyes, what gold was in the rings of his hair, what square shoulders and ample brow, what proud, well-curved mouth and chin, what a strong step, timed to her light paces! How had she ever given him up, and, alas! for- ever and forever ! Surely in that hour some guardian angel—perhaps the long dead mother—intervened for the heart-im- poverished child. You risked You miga&t have been killed in my § ae { ¢ & —\—- oma THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 VOL, 42—No. 3. The sound of voices echoed through the woodlands, and Grace, Anna, Churchill, and Captain Gore appeared. As they were heard, Keith removed Violet’s hand from his arm, and gathering a flower from the path, began io. study its structure as he went on. i “Oh, are you here! Where have you been ?” said Anna, “Having an adventure,” said Kenneth, coolly. ‘‘Lady Leigh was run at by acrazy man who threatened to kill her as she walked alone. I heard the noise of his threats and rushed up, but three keepers were alter him, so all easily ended.” “dle would surely have murdered me if Lord Keith had not come up,” said Violet, pale at the recollection. ‘He need not make so light of it; he was very brave.” «For merey’s sake, don’t tell mamma,” said Anna, ‘we shall none of us have any peace, ever after.” “Tom, since all is over safely, I wish you and I had had the adventure,” said Grace, “so that it might have ended as adventures should, by conferring on the knight- erramt the hand of the distressed damsel.” “If it is necessary to your happiness, perhaps I can order up.a crazy man. Keith, where is he? Do you think he would be let loose by his keepers fora consider- ation ?” “Tf you had seen how horrible it was,” said Violet, ‘vou could not jest over the affair. Just the thought of it makes me sick. Captain Gore, will you give me your arm to the house. Anna, I willleave ygu to entertain the knight-errant.” “Thatisa good name for Keith,” “He is one of the manliest of men.” The clock over the distant dairy struck. “Why, it is past lunch-time !” cried Violet. “Did you not know it? We had come from lunch, If said Captain Gore. room, that Kate brought her a cup of tea, and then prushed out her silken rings of dark hair, and tied them back with a ribbon, and put on her white pique dressing you and Leigh had been off together we could say, ‘the | Kenneth’s room. Ser ae ae amt ” : Rie , boy. “Oh, ain’t he asmart man, and a good ’un, 9 prea of the beloved had made the time short.’” The young man was sitting by his table, his head bent two syllables already'| B-a—ba-b-y, baby! How Is that Yau bet! ‘He saved iy Wapnnee 8 —~ Violet flushed. Should the time ever come when evil | on his hands. pe = gee that thinks about gettin’ married, one of | ‘oy Was that 2” asked Lilly, with much interest. ' tongues should make such flings about her and Keith. His mother started as he lifted his face, and she saw “y natiova you are crazy, Tony, that’s a fact!” ex- “Well, you see, ma’am,” replied the boy, ‘I never had ; Ae a TR ERS ere where she was howay hie ie Use ina eh your room.” claimed Jennie Brown, blushing ; “and if you can’t talk na Cities ton, mother oat ee Of. A 1 sae as Le “Thank you for bringing me to the house,” she said to “You wanted = my dear 2” : os, ‘senate yyou had better be off to your work at te od a oat duu, Soule aan an Captain Gore. ‘I shall go to my wb — dinner.” “J wished to ask you to finish your visit here alone, ‘Its nothing but the truth,” replied Tony, “crazy or she had her hide full of bad whisky came penind b She looked so wan and weary when she reached her | for I must leave to-night, or to-morrow morning. Heé Ip no crazy. Who'd ha’ thought it ot that old sucker? (my brains out J iv + robe. peet to win enough of love or gratitude to have any in- fluence. I must go through life lonely as I am. Oh, say that it will not last long!” “Dear, that will be as Heaven wills!” ‘After to-day I may never see you again much,” said Violet: ‘let me tell you how I love you, and how I wish 1 had been more under your guidance.” “But surely we will meet, as ever. You must be in London next, season; you must be presented at court— that belongs to your position; and I am to present your friend, Grace, when your aunt, the Countess Montressor, presents you. You must take your place in the world, as here at the Towers, Valiantly, if you mean to fight your battle well to the end. You are young; these new and changing scenes will help you.” “T don’t look forward at all,” said Violet; ‘I only take up day by day, And if I am in London, I shall meet— Kenneth.” “Not often; and, believe me, you need fear no more from him. He shall help you bury a love that fate has said must die. Give us until to-morrow morning to leave. When the letters come this evening, I will an- nounce an immediate departure, and no comment will be excited.” CHAPTER XXXII. {HE MOTTO OF THE KEITHS. Violet had gone back to her room, to try and rest her aching head, and calm her wildly beating heart, and drive away the traces of tears, so that she might quietly meet her friends at dinner. After a little time given to grief and musing on the blighted love of her son and Violet, Lady Burton went to me to go away without comment,” His mother looked fixedly at him. He took her hand, and drew her toward the table near which he sat. Over it was spread a white silk kerchief. It was as if one had LOOK UP. BY WILLIAM WARD. Look up! the world is wide. On land and sea, On ship or shore, there is no rust, no rest ; A heart throbs outward from each human breast, And moves it onward to its destiny. What if its hidden doom must end in death? Why, meet it bravely, with the honest thought Of no good deed undone, no ruin wrought, To kill the hope that soothes a dying breath. He who would soar from darkness into light, And, like the Icarus, mount on waxen wings, Will never reach and touch the golden springs That open the gates that close upon the night. Who rises, lifting others up with him, Is strong indeed. Within his call or reach Are hands that aid him—hearts that help him teach What he has learned himself, and taught to them. We build our thoughts like mountains to the clouds, The mystery of our being still unsalved, Save that we know our lives are not evolved For the sole end of filling empty shrouds. —_—— > @-—+- ("HIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] a “We are both very well,” returned Jennie Brown, with affected displeasure, ‘but we are none the better tor seeing you. I should like to know what takes. you away trom your business at this hour of the day ? You'll be getting yourself in trouble next with your flying around from post to pillar, when you ought to be at your work.” “Come, come, Brownie!” returned Tony, with a merry laugh, ‘no chin music of that sort, you eouldn’t do worse than that if we were married! Why, bless your soul, I haven’t seen Lilly since she was bailed. The old man sent me down this way on. an errand, and on my way back I thought I'd just like to look in on,her, that’s all! As for gettin’ myself in trouble on account of neg- lectin’ my work, there ain’t much danger of that.” “Well, 1 should think there was great danger of it,” retorted Jennie, “if 1 know anything about old Flint, and I think I do.” «That's just it!” exclaimed Tony, eagerly ; “I'magoing to tell you both something that’/ll surprise you! You'll think I'm a dreaming, or crazy, or drunk maybe! but it’s the truth (’m goin’ to tell you, and no shenanigan about. it. You know that old snoozer—that old Dutchman— who called upon you and Ernest Hartley, at the Tombs, Lilly ? Well, he paid a visit to old Flint at the shop. I was the firsé one to see him, and | felt like punchin’ his head, for I didn’t believe into him. music together, and, in the course of his talk, he said he rather liked me, and that he was going to get old Flint to double my wages, and send me to school. Of course I only laughed at this, and didn’t think any more about it; but, as sure as you live, he kept his word. Old Flint has doubled my pay; and I’m goin’ to school every after- noon! How is that for high? The first thing you know Ull be pattering German and French, and puttin’ on loud airs! Only think of it! I’m spellin’ words of Howeyer, I ain’t got time to stay any longer, so good- by, gals, and allow me to give you a free-and-easy senti- ment: ‘On your journey up the hill of prosperity, may We had a little chin’ Seating herself at the the table, Lilly wrote a few lines to her triend Jennie, merely stating that she had been unexpectedly called away, and would return in a few hours; and then, preceded by the boy, she went forth into the street—first, however, locking the door of the room and placing the key where she knew her fellow- lodger would find it. CHAPTER XXXII. THE IMP GETS A SCARE. Lilly Davis did not feel very comfortable as she walked along toward the Jersey City terry. by the side of her strange companion. She had no idea of treachery, tor she knew the letter was from her father, and she could not believe him to be base enough to wish to injure her more than he had already done. Still the errard upon which she was bent was a disagreeable one at the best, and sympathy for him whom she supposed was dying was mingled with a feeling of dread and shame at the idea of being known by stranger's as the daughter of a man who had so black a record as the one who pleaded so patheticatly tor her presence at his bedside. “You say the place is about one or two miles distant trom the ferry,” said Lilly, as they walked along. “How are we to get there? Shall we have to walk ?” “Qh, bless your soul, no!” replied the Imp. ‘Don’t you know I told you there’d be a carriage there waitin’ for us? You don’t suppose Mr. Hainés would allow sich a delicate, pooty little lady as you are to walk all the way, do you?” % “True—true,” replied Lilly. ‘I forgot you said there was to be a carriage. But whois Mr. Haines ?” “Qh, he’s the gentleman that tends to matters at the institution, and keeps everything straight,” replied the with an ax, but Mr. Haines h been on one of his misshinary visits up the alley, and he come up just in time to catch the ax as it was a-comin’ down onto me, in the alley-way, and was he knock Then he took me away from her and took me home with . ieee ; pe ee vO CRETE | » 1 a aed Soa 7 Y Ls eee as es oy tee 2 or Feral. Mii SEA ny eae 2g 6 as) ah = , you never meet a friend! Because if you should meet 4 rs Rb bering geckos Mee end eg 9 gph ie Sea | ss basing comin gone ont 0 B88 Good | Aitendn ay ualetion snd take mena busines With . ribbons. I shall wear it to-night. And get me pink| He drew away the handkerchief. There on the table i Se OA GY ASE SES DAS Bi ae EN, mE peepee! ae hey Gee eared pia 45 | jaim one 0 these days.” ee -. geraniums from the conservatory bo wear with it.” lay a little sheat of notes, tied with a pink ribbon, that | ayrhor of ‘‘Bertha, the Sewing-Machine Girl,” | “Staya moment, Tony “she said: “is it quite true | _ The boy's story was true as far as it went, but had When Kate was shut up with her sewing, Violet | had bound a young girl’s hair, a curl of soft brown. : 5 ; a wits na SaSek P $ z . Se D : ae s " Lilly known what sort of missionary labor Mr. aines stole softly from her room to the apartment of Lady Lady Burtonavould have recognized ane of Violet’s silken Natngnit Oe os pild, m pice et pe nahi) oly tom hp he us fe ties Tbe, was es at the time he fell in with the street Arab Burton. rings anywhere. A photograph of Violet, looking al- or. 1e. Ferry-House Meeting, ear 7 9) ’ | or what kind of education he was now giving him, she ; Sr most as now, in a white dress, with a full waist, and her . “Eveleen Wilson,” etc. ee ork Aan Tony, in a tone of astonishment— would not have held him in such high ee. she did ” = CHAPTER XXXII hair over her shoulders ; a few little trinkets. “gure ofit? Am I sure that this ere right duke bel not know, however, and so she set Mr. Haines down in Kenneth Keith laid his head on his mother’s arm, and oes ees ee a ongs | her own mind as one of the very best men that s ‘YE IS THE ONE LOVE OF MY LIFE.” said, simply ; : (“LrrrLe SUNSHINE” was commenced in No, 44. Back tome?” Here he doubled up his right fist. “Am [sure fived on a au filled nets ante of sym pp Prager iia “Ee “come!” said Lady Burton, in response’ to Violet's “Mother, 1 am making the grave of my only love.” numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. J that little Brownie there is the sweetest and best little ge ner ey with tea ympathy, as r } . ’ s J a : c > J i . - ’ ar 9 4 7 roy rk ? . i faint knock. She was lying on her sofa, resting, and “You love Violet! My son, she has been with me and Fr : gal i oo aon _ - we sie ea ao ‘ing ° «What a kind, good man Mr. Haines must be, and how ' when the door swung open, and showed the little Count- | told me all.” CHAPTER XXX. os Pe tae oe a rs aoabe cia pe ea : you ought to love him.” , F ess of Leigh, pale as a snow-drop, clad in white, dark, | ‘Blessings on her true heart! You know the whole ?” : naan ick that old rooster Sak of a thousand all bla: Shed “J do,” replied the boy—‘‘you bet!” And again the om nervous rings aoe Oe eyes, na motherly | ‘Yes; I Know that until now, you and she have been THE COUNTERFEITERS DEN. up iy wigvet minstrels.” ; - Imp spoke truthfully. He was not without gratitude, ; arms of her friend were held out to her, and Violet, with | innocent sufferers—wronged, unhappy, wronging none. i : : E ick Wu ot a nit i ert aot areca? ge ; - 7 a. and Haines was about the only person who had ever be- ; a cry, sprang forward, and hid her face on the bosom of | But henceforth, my son. if you meet, except in the most | Within two or three milles of Jersey CH TR OT ea a a agp wegyniny Ben musingly : and | triended him, and, although be was harsh with him. at the one who truly loved her. | casual and formal way, you wrong a sworn faith, and and lonely position, is a rise of ground known as Snake [eestor pumamancn of 4 founiced ieaieiah veh times, and kicked and knocked him about at pleasure, Lady Burton softly stroked the silken hair, murmuring: | tempt yourselves to sin.” Hill. At present the place is used by the New Jersey | that it was the same stran ‘oe gentleman that went our | be bore it all with the patience and fidelity of a spaniel, “My darling, my dear little girl, what is grieving you ?” | “lam going. I thoughtI could school myself—that I ities, who have built there an alms-house and | bail.” Be & iced and was always ready to kiss the hand which chastised Wiih shrinking shame and sensitive self-scorn, Violet | could heip her, and yet be strong, and oh, it was so very authorities, who have bul 0: an BINS Houses. At “Perhaps it was,” assented Jennie; “but what could | him. “I do love him.” he continued, ‘‘and I believe I'd nad been hiding her miserable story in her heart, and | sweet, to see her, and hear her voice! But I see | must other buildings devoted to eleemosynary purposes, but | ) 1.4 Soee hissanotiye ?” ; c lose my life to save his. Oh, he’s a good ’un, he is! Anc , wearing oT oe Peace teat eb get aac peer | go. bs Sa ot us can endure this. Oh, mother, | at the time of which we are writing a band of counter- | «J am sure I cannot imagire,” returned Lilly. so smart! You'd be astonished to see the way he m hour for reserve was passed: her womanly sense told c “My dearest oy. ‘to unite. you. and. Violet was the | felters who had flooded the \eountry wi Spurious | ot ae “ee ey ee ee ee ane ent Hes pap egeernrndetenty ho tgs said Lilly. : her that safety now lay in this triend and counselor ; | choice hope ot my heart. looked forward to your reyurn, | money had their headquarters there. pints ar ae ie ike tons ot Se pee an. | “Yes,” replied the boy, “I guess he’s a missioner—any > a but her only answer for a time was wretchedly sobbing | when She was woman-grown, hoping you would meet The place was admirably adapted to the nefarious ated 1 But Ate Is, good-by !” and Tony | W@Y he often leaves the house with his pockets full of in Lady Burton's arms. and love, and the news of her marriage was a deep grief j . : sae >| cery, sure! But once more, gals, g y: an OnY | money, and goes down into the Fourth Ward and b ‘Av bat isit?” said Lady Burton, caressingly.. “What | to me.” — % trade mentioned, it being entirely out of the line of i? oe at ered #nen Harnest Barticy, i pines aaah the bummers and snoozers, and gets rid é has troubled the lovely little chatelaine of the Towers?| “Oh, mother, what might have been, if I had trusted | traffic, and almost unapproachable, save that portion | ,.7 A ean oon aie iee csiattod, cee aeteplan (aes of every cent of it before he comes back again.” ’ eee and fortune, and happiness oppressed you, | oe tee beens ie yh) aiewr Rea 1 il - oe shame that | of it which skirted the Hackensgck River. On the other | jands, while he ‘exchanged a friendly nod with Jennie as coke gee must love him very much, toe,” | be ide , F < ; ». I thought s ac e. FP ey . 5 Py CEE ale Shin exclaimed : i f y ventured to say. ee “Happiness! Oh, Lady Burton, I am the most miser- His mother silently passed her hand over his head. side it could be reached only by a long walk through the eso vis joy, Lily! Ihave such excellent news to “Not so much as they ougtut to,” replied the boy. “He's ; able woman in the world! Whocould be so wretched as 1 am ?” «Dear child, how little, it seems tome, that you know ot sorrow? What can I dotor you, my darling ?” “Youcan go away! Oh, go, please go! Leave the | Towers this day, this hour!” «Violet! Have I grieved youin any way that you wish | me to leaye you?” “You? Oh, no, Lady Burton; you only in all tite world | have seemed like a real motherto me. But you must go. Go, and take Lord Keith with you. Let me never see him again! Never! never!” Lady Burton started. “Violet what does this mean? How has my boy an- | gered you? J am sure any cause of grievence, must, on | Said Kenneth. |.she wrote me in those blessed days, tied with the ribbon ! from me, for fear some one should find it. “She has told you all—how we met in Lincolnshire ?” “See, mother, there are the little notes that bound her lovely hair, the day she found me sleep- ing in the wood. This silver bracelet, of India work, I | took from her pretty dimpled wrist, and this little ring she gave me when I lett her; but she wouid take none Poor child, neither she nor I noticed that it wasa fatal, changeful opal, like our fate! This photograph she gave me in those days, and this brown curl from her dear little head. | , 4 sul | dence in so dismal a locality. | rounded the place, which was heightened by the tact I shall burn the letters, the ribbon, and this crumpled glove. You will give her back the bracelet and the ring. But the picture and the curl I can neither find it in my. heart to return, destroy, nor keep.. You must take them, Jersey marshes—a walk which ‘nobody would ever have thought of taking, aS urged by some matter of very great importance. was easy of access from the river, however, and the outlaws who resorted there never went to or from the place except at night, and then they rowed with muffied oars, s@ that few were aware that the place Was tenanted, and those few neither knew nor cared what kind of peopte had chosen a resi- An air of mystery sur- that a rumor had got abroad that the spot was haunted, a fact which in itself would have kept the ignorant and tell you! It seems so glorious after the terrible ordeal through which I have passed! Would you believe it ?— my employers, who cast me off when this great trouble came upon us, and refused to grant me an interview, have not only restored me to my position, with many apologies for having suspected me, but haye doubled my salary as well.” “Of course, sombody must have interceded in your behalf,” replied Lilly, as she returned her lover's em- brace. “Who wasit? Do you know ?” “I do know,” returned Hartley; ‘‘and you will be surprised when I tell you that it was the same old Ger- man who visited us in prison.” “Not much surprised,” rejoined Lilly, with a smile ; “for Tony has just left here, and he has told us that the been a father to them, and has been the means of send- in’ a good many of ’em toa beautiful country residence up the river, and yet they ain’t got a bit of gratitude, A good many of ’em would go back onto him if they dared, but they’d get their brains knocked out some fine night by some of the others wot he’s helped, and so they have to take it out in growlin’.”’ z “And who are the other members of the family in which you live ?” asked Lilly. “Why, there’s old Mother Clinker,” replied the Imp. “She takes care of the house and keeps things straight. Then there’s five or six gentlemen and their sisters, and then chere’s Denny the Slugger—Handsome Denny we call him, for short—he’s the man that has charge of the boat, and he'll row us over the river when we get his part, be unintentional. He is most delicate and | mother until the day when this grief dies out of MY | gyne - fr ar i 5 a 5 , : 4 there.” chivalrous in all his ings toward wor : ¢ ae if itiateer 9 superstitious from going near it at night. same person interfered in his behalf, and with the same | “Ere: . chivalrous in all his feelings toward women. If he has | heart, it it ever does. i ; 2 ' : i days atter ae Renta detailed in the last chap- a in your case. Who can he be, and what eae “Why, there’s quite a large family!” said Lilly, who was offended you, let me mediate between you. 1 want to! “Some day—some day,” said his mother, softly, | ter, three men were seated in the principal room in the | est can he have in us personally ?” gratified to hear that there were a number of ladies in see you two friends. I could not have hate between my son, and this little girl that I love.” “Hate! Oh, Lady Burton, are you so blind? Cannot | you see that itis not hate between us—bat love! But thank God that you have not seen, that you do not know, for then I am sure, no one will guess this terrible | secret of wasted and embittered hearts. Lady Burton | take him away, 1 beseech you! I cannot endure the torture of his presence. He is the one love of. my life! | And, oh, I am married to another—to.love Kenneth is a praying in her heart that the ill-starred love might fade, | and a happier affection take its place, so that the noble house of Keith might not end in loneiy gloom. “T think, mother, if we had not met again, since those early years,” said Keith, “she might have remained my sweetest memory, and she might never have learned tor loving. But when I saw her in Paris—alone, lonely, and so sweet, trusting, loving, child-like—my love awoke a | man, ; thirty years of age. how much she eared for me, how great was her capacity | man, about thirty ye ae counterfeiters’ den, upon whos? Toma tenances the deep- est anxiety was depicted. pn These men were-Lauke Davis, Lowa Mortimer Littleton, and another, to whom the readet{ has not been pre- viously introduced. This latter was a rather handsome od hat is to say, he would have been thought handsome at a first glance, but an acute judge of character would have detected a | look of cunning and cruelty in his steel-blue eyes, as “Phat Tam ata loss to conjecture,” replied her lover, with a puzzled expression ; ‘‘but for some reason he is deeply interested in us. Of this I am certain, for he not only interested himself in my behalf as i have Stated, but he has requested me to meet him at the district at- torney’s office this morning, to discuss a very important project, in which I am to take an active part.” «“And what project can that possibly be ?” asked Lilly, in a tone of wonder. the house. “Oh, yes,” replied the Imp; “‘you bet it’s a large family, and so quiet! You never saw such a family! Why, there's no time hardly, miss, that you couldn't hear a pin drop around there. You see they don’t want to dis- turb the neighbors nor attract the attention of parties sailing on the river. Oh, they does everything on the | quiet. They are such nice folks! But here we are, ma’am, to the ferry. You needn’t bother about the fare, “Ah! that | cannot tell even to you,” darling, an- | a eo ee gave me money to pay the fare, swered Hartley, ‘tor I am pledged to the closest secrecy. | ~ a eERe SS rod E et I can only go so far as to assure you that it is a move- | And as he spoke he paid the fare for both, and they ment which interests us both deeply, and on the suc- | Passed through and took seats in the cabin of the boat. cessful completion of which our acquittal of the false “Thunder and fury !” suddenly exclaimed the Imp, as charge which has been made against us ina great meas- | Re looked through the side-light out into the ferry slip, ure depends. And, by the way, I have no further time cere t Hank, the fly-cop! to spend with you at present, for I have much to do be- | opener ens es fore I can keep my appointment. I should not have | , Lilly looked at the boy,and was surprised to see that called upon you at all, in fact, if I had not been anxious | his face was deadly pale, and evinced every indication ot | } | | to a ten-fold passion. I have lived an agony of adoration | Wan as; 4 ine ‘ sin.” tor her, and indignation at him, who isso unworthy the | ree evidence & Oatmg me beeing in Soncras Lady Burton turned deathly pale. She took Violet by | care of such a treasure.” | “sq tell you Luke® said th t described, “I the shoulders, and held her back, scrutinizing the white, | ‘‘Unworthy, I tear,” sighed Lady Burton. | don't ee it at all. Both the es er loyer are outon ; all. 3 gs are Don some Of the fly- tear-wet face. «Mother he will simply break her heart. He is acute | ‘ a “4 : “What!” she cried, ‘has my son, whom I have reared | to conceal his sins, but he is now where sin has 80 much | ro ane ere page etal Sik, that you furnished * to be the soul of honor, come to his friend’s house and | the mastery, that it is rampant, and will break forth | fer ait the afeae If they eyer set hold of that fact i employed his time in making love to his friend’s wife 2” | publicly. He is intensely selfish, anything that he | j¢ ott t oe fon beivre thay wi trace the whole mat- “No, no! Do not blame him, it is not Kenneth, it is} might Call love, would only be an immense egotism. He | ter, a a ‘ nail have ‘them shundering at our doors all my fault—not bis—only mine.” is most mercenary; he married Violet for her fortune, ae ne e c ht when we least expect them. I tell you “{— donot understand. My poor child, what is this ?— |} and now that he has it he cares nothing for her. In him is | ae ta ar iikh it, and L insist - ee the cirl ie be have you given your heart so easily—in these less than } neither pity, sympathy, nor protection. He is.a gambler, | ae ah a forthwith If she is in ox power before she three weeks ?” | aman With whom play is a master-passion, who must | ae al Pia ie nate @nohuh. and nad plaay bay Tei: “Do not sookat. me! so, Lady Burton. Help me. pity | live on excitement. If you could have seen him as I | ane ee i the fly-cops in New York ” y p me. It is not in these weeks only that I have seen him. ; found him at Homburg! Haggard, red-eyed, disheveled, | ono A e D antioth eis T tell OU Jack Haines, that ur years ago—four years! tor such six happy | trembling, half mad. his whole soul on that green table. | tae ti recessarily ‘alarmed. ” *¢ lied Luke Davis. ~ “I ‘ag never were lived anywhere else out of heaven. | If I had told him this ancestral home and its treasures | oy onot had the girl with me cihot dhe Wage baby With: jim in Lincolnshire, and we loved, and promised | had perished in flame, that his name was dishonored, end ee rg Faanuent - She would suffer avant ther to. be true-and we were parted—and- my | his fortune ruined, his wife a corpse, I doubt if he would | tte pl be pti, Hagens ye etiernd batocanhe would brat grandmother came between, and made me think bim | have given it a thought while he watched that wheel! | her oath Gs I thought she could be induced to peach, by false. Ob, Lady Burton, how weak and faithless in| And that was the man, his soul on fire, bis breath hot | tha a 5 bove 7 I would strangle her as ekd e oa Kenneth was my heart! 1 did not see him again until | with brandy, that I must drag to his hotel, sober with | a Aa Sit & ie However ik you Goel Tadaey abot it was married! AndI found he had loved me, and hoped | soda water and baths, tone up with tonics, pay his dis- | . mt be tl . neice thing in Hn world to get her here, for me, all that time. And then it was too late !” | honorable debts, teed him sedatives, and so bring him | } Y th e hb Phir res Will be at reat.” 8 4 What! this that Lady Burton had mostedesired—the | back as sole friend, protecter, guardian, the husband of ae oR 1 ‘; DY joined Jack Haines: “and the sooner honest love of Kenneth and Violet—had been, had ended | my sweet, innocent, child-like Violet !” torte ne ae tae Motion: for von ume Bae i, Of ta0 in utter darkness; they had loved but to part and be | You Bet DAP Bete Te ors Las ay finald aoe: Now 1 wonder what to make you aware of my good fortune. So, farewell, | Seat fear. : os pet, till we meet again !” ‘and in another moment the | _ ‘‘What is the matter, my poor boy?" she asked, with two girls were alone again. muchconcern. = ; a Yor some time they continued to discuss the singular | ,; “Do you see that sucker a standin’ there, leanin’ agin turn which events had taken, and then Jennie Brown | that rail?” asked the boy. “I mean that tall feller with was obliged to leave her friend and go to her daily oil. | @ long gray beard, dressed like a countryman ? Lilly Davis sat reading a book after her friend's depart- | Lilly nodded her head affirmatively. ure, when suddenly she was startled by a knock at the | , “Well. continued the boy, “he’s one o’ the worst fél- door, upon opening which, the “Imp,” the boy whom | lets livin, he is! Vil tell you all about him when the we have previously introduced in the counterfeiters’ | boat goes off—that’s if he don't come aboard. | But if he den, stood before her. | does come aboard I must dodge him, for it won’t do for - fe was a strange-looking boy, and the most astute | Lim to see me, not no how. Now, don’t you speak to judge of character would lave found it hard to make | M€, ma’am, not even one word—not tll us boat goes hinr out exactly. He had a nervous, frightened look— | , for T'll have all I can do to wateh him? the look of an abject coward; but, after all, the pre- | apne wor pie ony» eaten ores a the man as though dominant expression on his countenance was one of | Lilly also looked sharply at the man, but could see Lady Burton drew her son’shead to her breast, and | iniserable. | She folded the sobbing girl to her. breast, and in the | safe shelter Of her arms Violet breathed out all the mis- | erable story.” She hid nothing; her struggles, her pain, | her husband’s unlovingness, and the times that Keith | had saved her, going to Homburg to bring home her hus- | pand: and that very day saving her from adeath, which | sometimes she passionately desired. “It must end,” she moaned, “You remember how I said, ‘I should always do my duty? And you yourself told me on that fatal marriage day, that when all was lost save honor, one must live for honor. I am Lord | Leigh's wife, and I must be.a faithful wife until I die. Leigh wrote, he feared I was ill and unhappy, and he her tears fell on his hair like rain. “My son,” said Lady Burton, at last, “the motto of the Keiths is, Veritas Vincit—Truth Conquers. Thisincludes all honor. way which now I cannot see, toassured peace, To-mor- row you and I leave here together. I cannot abandon you in your sorrow; and to Violet I should only be a re- minder of lost love. IJ will take these treasures that you commit to me, and lay them away as sacred memorials otone dead. And you are right to burn these other mementoes.” Keith gathered up the letters, ribbon, and glove, and a “Such a divine creature could not have loved Leigh.” | ularly as you say she is very handsome. A noble fidelity to virtue shall take the sting | irom this most unhappy love, and. bring you, 1h some | nave any such idea as that, you may as well discard it | | give you the benefit of his experience.” long. Besides, it is so long since I enjoyed ety that 1 shall be rejoiced to have her with us—partic- ' Perhaps I may marry her, and get her to pal with us—who knows a “J know,” returned Luke Davis, decidedly. ‘‘If you | at once: for I tell you honestly you have no more chance i ot winning her than you would have of swimming up Ni- | |agara Falis. Our friend, Lord Littleton, has made some | | little effort in that direction, and he will undoubtedly | “You can do nothing with her, Jack,” said Lord Little- ton, in a positive tone; ‘she’s too blarsted honest, you cunning. ’ Lilly did not fancy the boy’s look; but in one of her innocent and pure nature suspicion of others could hard- ly be said to have had an abiding-place ; so, smothering her dislike, she asked, kindly : “Whom do you wish to see, little boy ?” ‘If you please, ma’am,” replied the Imp, in a whining tone, ‘can you'tell me where Miss Lilly Davis lives ?” «She lives here,” replied Lilly ; ‘1 am Lilly Davis.” “Oh, ain’t I glad!” exclaimed the boy, in a gratified | tone. “I was so afraid of goin’ into the different houses! I’ve got a letter for you, miss, and here it is,” and as he spoke, he placed in Lilly’s hand the letter which Luke but I am repentant now, and anxious, as far as in me | nothing in his appearance to excite such terror. He was | @ very plain-looking man, and, as the Imp had remarked, | Was dressed like a countryman, but Lilly could see noth- | ing remarkable in his face, save that his eyes were very | large and peculiarly keen, and that his countenance | wore a look of great determination. The boy never once removed his eyes from the sttanger | til the boat was rung off and had got some distance from the ferry slip—then he heaved a deep sigh ot relief, | as though some great burden had been lifted. from his | mind, and exclaimed, more to himself than to Lilly: «Ain't 1 glad the sucker didn’t see me! He couldn’t | fool me with his disguise! Not much! Now, I wonder fore, that sucker is one of the worst fellers livin’, and if ncn ct ; . Rae 8 Sar ‘ods ‘deliver he 5 ae aed j ; | know. By Jove, I’ve tried her once, and I would as soon | Davis had written. And, Lady Burton, how can 1 pray to God ‘deliver me | faded wild rose or two, and laying them on his hearth, | think of “approaching Queen Victorla now—I would, by | Our heroine took the letter, and recognized her tather’s | What he’s loafin’ around there for! He’s waitin’ 60 | from temptation,’ when I daily live in temptation ? | lit them, kneeling, grimly watching until they were con- | yove ; writing in the superscription, broke it open, not with- | meet somebody—that’s what’s the matter! I must tell a “You are right, my own, sweet, noble love; we will sumed; as one would kneel by an altar of sacrifice. “Ye s. but you are not me,” replied Jack Haines, with a | out ¢ secret dread that it pod xd nO good, nd read as | the governor, sure !” r — wo. {will spare you this at least—the presence of the| “Kenneth,” said the mother, “Violet, in addition to | encapiras bae . oe pros! aoa . good, and read as | "Now. per oe ; ; go. spare | is ab. least—the presence Kenneth,” sald mother, olet, ddition tO | siance at himself ina glass which hung opposite. “I | follows: | Now, perhaps you will tell me why that man fright- man you love. Oh, how wrong it was for him to come | other grief, has the belief that her husband loves an- | Gon wonder that she would have nothing to do with | | ened you so ?” said Lilly, as the boy seated himself at her hore: - hte i . | other.” That very Miss Ambrose-Haviland we met In the | yoy, put I shall wonder greatly it Tam unable to make | “My Dear Davcurer:—J am sick to death—dying | side. 5 “Do not blame him, Lady Burton, From what Lord tw ood. her yield. But,1 say, Davis, how will you bring her | 2Meng Strangers. Come tome. I havebeena bad man,| ‘‘Of course I will,” was the reply. “AsI told you be- | | could not stay away; he wanted to help me; to have | you help me—but the best help is for him to stay away 1 | When I see how much better, and handsomer, and | kinder he is than—than any one else; how can I help | loving him more? And I must not, I will not do that,” | said Violet, ingenuously, lifting her innocent, child-like | prown eyes to-Lady Burton’s face. i “My darling, I honor and love you for this frank con- fidence. | shall devote myself to trying to help and com- | tort you both.” “Only when very young, and misconceiving his char- | acter. He is good-looking and plausibie. Butit seems to me, that in that girl, will somehow be help and com- tort for Violet. . I feel inclined to go and call on her, on some excuse, and see where our Way will lead.” “You cannot, she has gone. I met old Adam to-day, going to some poor family, whom he told. me Miss Am- brose, or Haviland, had put in his care. He said she had left here forever.” “Gone! Then you may be sure it is from Leigh’s im- | here ?” | | «The easiest thing in the world,” was the reply. “I | | will write her a letter, stating that Iam lying.at death’s | | door, very repentant, anxious to do justice to her and | | others before I die, and all that sort of thing. This I will | | dispatch by our imp, giving him instructions to guide | the girl hither, and she will accompany him without the | slightest hesitation.” ‘ “Excellent !” exclaimed Jack Haines; ‘‘and please set | about the matter at once, for I shall not feel safe till she | is in our power.” lies, to atone for all my past transgressions. I cannot die without seeing you, for I have certain revelations to make which are all important to you. Come at once. Do not waste a moment or you may be too late. The people with whom I am staying are good Christian peo- ple, and are very kind to me; but the confession which I;have to make must be made to you alone, Come, there- fore, and come quickly. Do not deny your dying father this last request. If you do you will regret it to the last moment of your life, for it is more on your account than he had seed you and me together he’d a-follered us all the way home, and tried to lay some plot agin us. You wouldn't believe. now, that that ere feller would be mean enough and wicked enough to break up our happy | home if he could, and bring misery, and trouble, and | sorrow into it ?” “No, Lshould hardly think such depravity possible,” replied Lilly, with a look of horror. «Jes’ so,” answered the boy, significantly; «but he would though, quicker’n lightnin’ if he got the chance— } “Yes, think of him,” said Violet, simply. ‘I would | portunities.” . gone ‘ ee \ - own that I wish to s : The bearer of thi hat same feller is . i ahs , , se 3 " vu : 6 “She shall be with us inside of four hours,” said Luke | 02 My ownthat I wish to see you. 1€ rer of this | that same feller is down on the missioners heavy! Ob, ; far rather be unhappy, than have him unhappy, and | “No doubt. Curse—— re : Ay note will conduct you tome. You may trust him thor-) ma’am, you don’t know one-half the wickedne you do not know how sad his heart is. He really loves| Son!” hismother laid her hand on his mouth, **‘What- Davis, ‘or 1 am no prophet. By the way, Littleton, I l% is p world! ; A She eeemee Soe F me for myself, Lady Burton. | tew can do that?” ® «Who could help: loving you, sweetest and best of girls ?” said Lady Burton, drawing her'arm closer, as she thought of all she had lost in this charming creature. “4 isa: comfort. to me, in alb my sorrow,” said Violet, weeping, ‘to know that 1 have been loved bya good manlike Kenneth: it makesime feel more sure of my- self, andI am resolved always to! try to’ be good and noble, so-he shall feel he was not mistakeninme. But, Lady Burton, do you think F must live years, and years, so unhappily ? . Will I live to:suffer ag long as youand my mother did? 1t seems;that I am not so fearfully strong that sorrow will not be able to kill me quickly.” ‘Dear Violet, neither grief nor. joy kill, the. young quickly. It is the, old, those, whose natural, springs : of life and vigor are weakened, that die of the pressure, of Is it not strange, when so ever you suffer, keep yourself free from evil.” Great was the sorrow expressed at. the Towers, when Lady Burton announced, that evening, that she and Lord Keith must leave the next morning. Lady Burton was loved by all; Leigh had found Keith most. convenient as an escort to his wife; Mrs. Ainslie beheld the ruin of her dream of engaging Anna to a peer even before the dear girl had come out. She poured forth her chagrin to Violet : “Why can’t you make him stay, for Anna’s sake! Think how 1 labored to secure a good match, like Leigh, for you, my love. If Keith goes, Anna will be left en- tirely to the escort of Captain Gore, and they are. too much together now; he has no title, and scarcely nine hundred a year. I see Anna begins to like his society. If there is more of it, I shall-take her home.” “My dear aunt, I beg you, never curse your daughters understood you to say that you could not find out who went bail for the pair?” “No, 1 could not,” replied Littleton. ‘‘They were so blarsted sly, you know, that I couldn’t find out anything about it. I’m sure I don’t see why they wished to keep the matter secret, do you?” “No,” rejoined Luke Davis; ‘‘and, to tell the truth, I care but little about it. One thing is pretty certain, which is that whoever he may be he will most likely be obliged to pay the girl’s bail bond for his trouble. But now about bringing her here.” And taking pen, ink, and paper from a table-drawer near him, Luke Davis proceeded to write to Lilly a letter excellently well calculated to bring her to his side. This he folded and sealed, and then struck a call-bell which stood on the table. : The call was answered by a dirty-faced boy about twelve years of age, with carroty, unkempt hair, and ughly : for, though somewhat simple, he is faithful. Once more l conjure you to come at once. Your loving father, LUKE Davis.” Lilly studied over the letter forsome moments, She hardly knew how to act. She never doubted that the let- ter was genuine. She was too well acquainted with her father’s Chirography to doubt it. But she thought of the desperate life which Luke Davis had led, and of the trouble and @isgrace which he had brought upon her, and she could not help asking herself if he was acting honestly now.. After mature reflection, however, her unsuspicious nature would not allow her to believe that he could be so terrible a hypocrite as to write such a letter without a foundation for it. “You know the writer of this letter, boy ?” asked Lilly. “Yes’m; if you please, ma’am, it’s Mr. Luke Davis, That ere same feller has broke up at leasta dozen sich tamilies as ours and scattered ’em to the four winds of heaven, and he’s layin’ his plans to hurt some- body this very minit, you bet! But he'll be smart if he gets a chance at us, for he don’t know where we live and he can’t find out.” ; Here the boat struck the bridge, and hurrying Lilly through the gate, he took her to a carriage which stood in an out-of-the-way place a short distance off, entered with her, and they were driven rapidly away. (T0 BE CONTINUED.] —_—"_-> ® ~< HAPPINESS IN CHILDHOOD.—The child who is habitu- ated to feel kindly and to act pleasantly and graciously -to-every one at all times—to desire their happiness and rl eeniepseciictnnnsaiasinitilncttatincettitinRte ote a ee Do not long for oat wi makes, my | witha ae TLR bury them. Let them | j,)c¢, staring, gray eyes. — i; told a oe he a ae father, gas replied to promote it when he can, to have a cheerful smile or a es yeart ache—and you so.young and fain}, Who can sym- | marry for love, or stay single,” sai Violet. Instruc S this interes he Imp. ‘‘Oh, he wan o see you so bad, ma’am! | cordial word or a quick act of self-sacrifice always ready Be oe AE ay tei wacaare aa Bij. ae, ean a: ae Pa? nstructing this interesting juvenile how to act, Luke ‘ ‘ ; o eaay ; hos Sy 7 ay pathaa wii Vousa wells Leahy, Mine veg Gough | 'Shoray afte. brosast ext any, Ce party atthe | pave apatched him, wath promioe to turr tao | night wsee you, man and the Good Deople have Ween | often. ertaneously che est sole DUE NA alas | Iny.d@aty, and my child came to,console me and to give | guests,” Keith and his mother Lond, Laat had said | Sight if he did not ‘succeed in bringing Lilly with him, | g prayin’ with him. It would make you cry to hear ‘em ai all elroumst che ier ute ia” ge a vate ; me something sweet to live for.” ' good-by at the breakfast table, pleading a pressing en- | 224 then at ee to await i rig erat the mat- | ma‘am, and I can’t help a cryin’ now when | think of it,” pane om Saar eh Per = i ; | «But I shall never have that comfort, I. fear,” said | Zagement. ter over with his companions in the meantime. and the Imp wept copiously. : ar “Lam doomed not to be best loved where I can | Violet bore up bravely to kiss her friend, Lady Burton, bau PP Pa Ny he is with are very pious people, are Sot ae a Oe err ae eee A ove.” ; % and give her little quivering hand to Keith. Both were CHAPTER XXX1. ney ?” asked Lilly, : : “Do not think that, dear. ; Your innocent, life, your deathly pale. They felt that they parted finally. WHAT THE COUNT GUROWSEI DID «‘Ain’t they, though = replied the boy, in a sort of rapt . Recent Publications. Kindness, may be an inapiradon to youn Aushands you! Violet,” said Kenneth, in a whisper, ‘I ask only one deat ‘cite Chives ‘ah if te ; : ae conten ee bet! 1 uted coer aor Pr ad —_—— . may Save I rom..evil Ways, a j S love; 2 , i san, Oe are i any tr C as juke Vi al 118 ullty rer é 3 r yin’ a * EF ? . é new we Aawant e Rave W are ve nate behantea, “When Bio ON ra een aie SPAS A HO I ot iene the Capen of Lilly Davis, Duets yo eliag Sauty, ane theses hard-workiy’ peaple: too eeey ee wars ant PERLEY'S REMINISCENCES OF SixTy YEARS IN THE Na- my. Kenneth's father, on his death-bed, called.me. to “J shall come,” said Violet, lifting her sweet eyes. her friend Jennie Brown, were seated in their humble | night than they do in the day-time. They don’t have no | TIONAL METRopouis. By Ben. Perley Poore. Publishers, him, and thanked me for all I had been,to him, and said Was it a prophecy ? abode. discussing our heroine’s unlooked-for liberation | time for studyin’ mischief—they don’t, you bet !” Hubbard Brothers, Philadelphia. No reader who takes an —_ he had learned to appreciate and love me, then J felt repaid.for what had suffered.” “That can never be-for.me,” Leigh not only, does not love me, but he does love some said. Violet, ‘‘for Lord They were gone. Around Violet Leigh the summer day grew dark, To hide trom every eye she fied into the park, to alittle hidden covert that she loved. She. lay there, her face buried in the green moss. Some one, from prison, and speculating as to the future. «“Tcan’t imagine who could have gone bail for us,” said Lilly. ‘Tt have no friend who is wealthy enough to enter into bonds for us, and even if 1 had he would not «And what do they work at ?” asked Lilly. “They make pictures and things, and sells ‘em ata | big Oh, they make a rofit,” replied the Imp, readily. g deal of money, ma’am ; but they’re very poor, they interest in the lives of the celebrated men who have figured | in Washington in times past will fail to appreciate the rem- iniscences of the veteran correspondent whose letters have é { one else. l have heard her spoken. of as. a wonderful} hurrying madly along, almost trod on, her prostrate be apt to take such a step without notifying me. It is | are, ’cos they gives so much away in charity. Will you | always been well written and highly interesting. The vol- } beauty. She lives near here. Ue wanted her invited | form, yet did notsee her. very strange !” ~ |go,ma’am? °Cos your poor dyin’ father said I waS to | ume just issued is handsomely and profusely illustrated ; * Were. Only think of that! Her name is Miss Ambrose.” | It was Lord, Leigh, blind with wrath and passion, “] agree with you that it is very strange,” assented | fetch you as soou as possible. The doctor said he | contdining fair portraits of the men of whom reminiscences 2 “Miss Ambrose?’ cried Lady Burton, with a start. “Yes... Do you know her ?” Lady Burton, was, silent. coming.from Rose Lodge, where he. had been inturiated to find Edna gone, leaving no address, Ten minutes later, a step that had no sound came over Jennie, ‘‘but I don’t think I should bother my head about it, if I were in your place. It is enough for you to know that you are innocent and that you are out of that horrid mightn’t live two hours, ma’am, when I lett.” “Then | must indeed make haste!” exclaimed Lilly, whose sympathies were greatly aroused, ‘or the vital | are given, and a remarkably good picture of the author him- | self. The book is sold exclusively by subscription. It is neatly printed and reflects credit upon the publishers. ‘ Violet insisted ; the mosses, and a hand touched the shoulder of the Tombs. It is also evident that whoever bailed you and | spark will have fled before I reach him, and that would | “Tell me-—have you.ever seen her 2” prostrate Violet. ; Ernest is satisfied of your innocence, and will make | be terrible. How far is it, boy, to where my father is ede ee gee } “Yes, I have.’ said Lady Burton, reluctantly, It was Helen Hope. himself known to you some day.” stopping ?” ; * * “And—what was She like 2” asked. Violet, timidly. (TO BE CONTINUED.) “Perhaps so,” returned Lilly, with a sigh; “hope so,| ‘Us only about a mile anda half from the ferry, Horsford’s Acid Phosphate f “My dear, She is heavenly fair. She looks like a good GT hah ; at all events. God bless him, whoever he may be.” ma’am, on the other side of the river,” replied the boy ; Invaluable. angel... 1 am.-sure she would be,no, source of danger or sorrow to.you. She could never lure any, Man fron duty, for if faces mean anything, hers means the noblest of minds, the purest ot lives, the sweetest of natures,” “That only all shows how hopeless it is for me to ex- ae Cc. €. SHAYNE, manufacturer of Sealskin Gar- ments and Fashionable Furs, will retail at lowest cash wholesalgforices this month. Send for Price List. 103 Prince street, N@wpYork. 522 Nicollett avenue, Minneapolis. “Amen. with all my heart,” ejaculated Jennie. “But, | asl live, here comes Tony!” And, a moment later, Tony Tucker, beaming with good nature, stood before them. “Hello, gals!” he exclaimed, heartily, ‘how are you both ?” «and there’ll be a carriage there waiting for you. Come along, ma’am, quick—please, do—if! shouldn’t get you there in time I’d suffer orful. you bet! ghost would haunt me every night—hope m’ die if it wouldn’t !” Your father’s Dr. B. A. CABLE, Dauphin, Pa., says: ‘‘I find it invaluable in all cases for which it is recom- | mended, and I cheerfully attest my appreciation of its excellence.” VOL. 42—No. 3. Sparen AN ere gece ree ere me EVER TRUE! BY GEORGE WEATHERLY. Joyous at heart as a summer day A lassie stands by the meadow way, And looks at a face that is very dear, And wonders in words that know nothing of fear— *“Will you be true, love? will you be true ? Will you love me as I love you ? Will love grow stronger as years roll on, And be truest when youth and beauty have gone ? Will you be true, love? will you be true ?” Joyous at heart on their wedding-morn, Husband and wife walk home through the corn, And each seems to hear the old-time song As, hand in hand, they wander along : ‘Will you be true, love? will you be true ? Will you love me as I love you ? Will love grow stronger as years roll on, And be truest when youth and beauty have gone ? Will you be true, love? will you be true ? Joyous at heart when their hair is gray, Husband and wife together stray, And hand clasps hand as they pass along, And the heart of each is glad with song: «You have been true. love! you have been true! Loving me well as I loved you! And time and change, and good and il Have linked us closer and closer still— Hearts ever true, love! hearts ever true!” -o~< {THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] THE Old Detectives Pupil; OR, THE Mysterious Crime of Madison Square. By the Author of the “ American Marquis.” (“THE OLD DETECTIVE’s PUPIL” was commenced in No. 46. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXXVII. A HORRIBLE REVELATION. Nick was possessed of a fierce determination to bring the case to an end at once. Consequently he had no hesitation in going boldly into Jerry’s saloon, and after calling for a drink, sitting down and watching a game of cards. The place had the worst of reputations, because it was the haunt of the most desperate of the criminal classes. It was protected by politicians, who had their own reasons for doing so, and Consequently was a Safe resort for men who were wanted by the police. The upper part of the building was used by manufac- turers of suspicious goods and by publishers of the worst reputation. ' The buildings on either side were of the same char- acter. and the whole neighborhood, indeed, was perhaps the worst in the city. Nick could see none of the men he was seeking, and fearing the two he had preceded would soon reach the place, he decided to make an attempt to reach the top | floor. ile noticed that boys from the establishments up stairs came in by a side door to get beer to take up, and he therefore went carelessly to the door, opened it, and walked leisurely up. me He was well armed, and if he fell into any unpleasant- ness from which his address could not extricate him, he was prepared for the worst. CRIA | There was not the least difficulty in reaching the top floor, for the different floors were shut off from the Stairs. i As be began to mount the top flight, Nick stepped | noiselessly, not Knowing what he should come upon. i That floor, like the others, was shut off, however, and | divided into apartments. None of them were occupied apparently, for the doors } had no signs on them. | Nick listened carefully, but could hear no voices. | The doors were all open, and as softly as a cat he! peered into each one. They were all untenanted, but in the back room were | atable and some chairs, indicating to Nick that there | was the new rendezvous. A thin wooden partition separated the room from a} smaller room, and into that Nick concluded he might as | well go and wait. | He fastened the door after him by a bolt, and then | studied his position. | There was one window room did. Hoisting tackle hung from the middle of the top of | the house, apparently to enable tenants to haul up | heavy goods. | The yard below was small, and was surrounded by unusually high fences. i | in the room right there that does. ; enough. “My eye!’ cried Mansfield, with alaugh; ‘but wouldn't she have played the abused damsei then !” “Well, she would!” said Dave, with a chuckle. “I'll bet that girl has roped in more fellows than any woman in New York. She looks that innocent and——” “Oh, let up on Ethel!” growled Billy. ‘“She’s right What's the plan ?” «Why, she sought protection with some good Chris- tian people, and Dave followed her to see where she went. “Then Ethel wrote to Mr. Johnson—that’s what she calls him—and my nibs went up to take her under his protection. “But, alas! somebody had beguiled the innocent child away! “It was pretty thin, but he didn’t seem to see through it. And we did work it pretty nicely anyhow; for my wife took her away, and then Mansfield went up and asked for her; so you see, Mr. Johnson can’t tell wheth- er we have her or if somebody else is detaining the dear, innocent creature. «We were in a tight place for alittle while, but thanks to Ethel’s pretty face and more or less wicked brain, we are on the way to better things. «The plan is this: You, Billy, are to go to his nibs, and make believe you are out with the whole thing on ac- count of Dave leaving you in the lurch. ; «You are to offer to give itall away. and to take him to the place where Ethel is imprisoned. «Ethel will write to him in the meantime, and tell him some sort of a yarn—anything will do—and then he will be hot to go with you. : «You are to bring him here, and then we will fix him before he has a chance to play any of his games on us.” “Pm your man,” said Billy. ‘I ain’t much on actin’, but I'm dead in earnest for this racket, and I'll have him here to-night.” “No, no; that won’t do. Jane and Ethel will both be here to-night, for we’ve got to do some planning. To- morrow will be time enough. He'll keep.” a oe all, isn’t it, for this afternoon?” said Mans- eld. “That’sall. Eight o’clock to-night.” “Then let’s go, for ’m hungry.” In a few minutes they had all gone down stairs, and Nick was alone. CHAPTER XXXVIII. €AUGHT AT Like a man who has received a sudden and awful shock, Nick stood with his hand on his forehead staring at the partition. Had he really heard all that was ringing in his brain ? Could such loveliness hide such infamy ? He walked slowly, recklessly down the stairs and into the street, giving thought to nothing but what was in his mind. He would not believe it until he saw it with his own eyes and heard it with his own ears from her own lips. Eight o'clock to-night! He must wait until then. He ate some dinner mechanically because he thought he must. Then he went to his rooms and waited, waited, waited. He ate some supper—ate it as he had eaten his din- ner. After that he roamed through the streets. He gave no care to anything outside of himself. Alas, had he but done so he would have noticed that he was shadowed—that he had been so ever since in his reckless mood he had walked down the stairs after hear- ing that dreadful story. Asearly as he dared he went to Jerry’s, and easily made his way up Stairs. . Had he not been so absorbed he would have noticed that he had too little difficulty. Very few men were hanging around the entrance. Nobody was in the room.up Stairs. He entered the little room and bolted the door. It was dark and he did not notice that there was noth- ing to catch the bolt. He put up the window, for in his mood the airin the little room was stifling. By and by the men began to come up. Dave came first. That was his light step. Then Billy, making the stairs creak and the floors shake. Then Mansfield and Gilbert. Anybody else ? No, not yet. «“When’ll Jane get here ?”-asked Billy. “Pretty soon; She had to wait for Ethel, who has such an opinion of the cuteness of Mr. Johnson that she won't go out except in disguise.” There was a general laugh at Gilbert’s answer. Nick did not understand why they should laugh, or why the laugh should make his blood run cold. He was not usually affected by such things. But now there was astrange foreboding, a heavy feeling at his LAST, ; heart. Could he have seen the covert glances at the partition behind which he stood he might have understood. There were footsteps on the stairs. “There come Jane and Ethel now,” said Gilbert. Another laugh followed this speech. Again that-teeling at Nick’s heart. What was the matter with him ? Why should he feel so? “Is that you, Ethel ?” called Gilbert. “Yes, is me,” answered a hoarse voice. And again there was a laugh in the next room. “Jane there, too ?” “Oh, yes, Jane’s here. all the girls with you.” A number of heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs, and it was evident that several men were on their way Come along, Jane, and bring p. They did not go inte the room, but stood on the in the room, and it overlooked | !anding. the back yard, just as the two windows inthe larger | b o “Who called Ethel ?” asked the voice which had spoken efore. “T did,” answered Gilbert. “Well, here I am, what d’ye want ?” “Oh, I don’t want you: but there’s‘a nice young man Walk right in.” The next moment the door of Nick’s room was kicked Aglance into the adjoining back yards proved what | Pen, and the glare of a lantern fell upon Nick. Nick had been told, that the neighborhood was a vile | one. i : | He had not much time for these observations, how- ever, for soon atter he wasin the room he heard foot- | steps on the stairs. i There was no talking, and it was not until several He understood now why the men had laughed. Now, too late, he became himself again. He stood erect and faced the dozen blood-thirsty men who had come for his life. “Wanted to see Ethel, did ye ?” Nick did not auswer. He seemed to be calculating persons had entered the next room that Nick was made | the Chances ot escape by dashing through the crowd. certain that he was in the right place. | «Don't shut the door.” | It was Gilbert's voice. “Why not ?” asked Mansfield. ‘Because if it. is left open we can see if anybody comes up. Although,” he added, with a laugh, ‘I guess our | enterprising iriend would think twice before coming | here. You are sure, Dave, you were not followed ?” “Dead sure. But, for goodness sake, tell Billy what | happened last night or he'll be for choking me again.” “Again ?” oi he took the measure of my throat this morning, an i “Give us a rest on that,” growled Billy. bottle and go on.” There was a clicking of glasses, and Gilbert began. «In the first place, Billy, Dave left you for dead. And | no wonder when the fly cop said he’d’ stuck you in the | heart and you never'said a word back. “So Dave made for the. High Bridge shanty like a) streak of greazed lightning. | “And just before he got there what does he see but somebody after him. “That was the first thing he told us when he got in and you may just bet your life that we were properly scared when right on top of it he said you were dead. “J don’t know who was scared’*most, but, anyhow, | Ethel was the first to get her wits. She'd outwit Satan, himself, that girl would. Quick asa wink, she said: «Phat’s the darling that’s stuck on me. He’ll look for me sure, and if you play the thing right we’ll- down him | for certain this time. I'll go upto the crazy room—he | can’t get in there on account of the bars—and you can get up a cod on him that you're going to do me up. If you play itright, old man, he'll nibble. Just as soon as I hear him at the window I'll do the grand tragedy act and pile the furniture against the door. Some ot you come up and kick down the door, and the others go out- side and do him up. “She's a daisy—that girl is, and it was a good racket. It all worked right till it came to handling him, Jane and Mansfield, here, were to do that and both swear they did their best. I s’pose they did. but anyhow——” “We did do our best,” angrily interjected Mansfield. «You've all had your try at him, why haven’t any of you done him up? I’m getting tired of being blamed so much..-If it comes to that what kind of a game was it to send Ethel to save him from the gas, [ don’t think | that was so dused smart.” “Don’t be too cheeky, my young friend,” cried Gilbert, threateningly, “Well, 1 GOh’t see but he’s right, anyhow,” growled Billy. “If Vd had my way we'd have let him choke.” ‘{ thought I could use him,” said Gilbert, as if taken aback by Billy’s defection. “Well, I guess you've changed your mind, now,” said Manstield, rejoiced at Billy’s support. “All right,” said Gilbert, angrily, ‘‘you don’t like my way of dojng. It’seasy enough to fix that. Ill drop out. Good-day. gentlemen. I wish you prosperity.” Gilbert was evidently walking off. “Oh, don’t. be so huffy, Gilbert,” said Dave, ‘soothingly. “Nobody has said he could run it as well as you, and nobody wants to.” ‘Mansfield seems to think——” **Look here, Gilbert,” cried Mansfield. ‘I only don’t want to be made the monkey every time anything goes wrong. I’m willing to admit you've got the brains of us all. It’s all working right now, and it’s your plan.” Gilbert was mollified. “Let's have a drink to success this time, Ethel’s plan, though.” “Well, go on with the story,” growled Billy. “Where was il? Oh, yes. Well, however it was, he got ore and wasup at the window singing out for {thel. ' “By that time, though, we were safe on our way out by the underground exit,.and would all have gone to the Forty-third street house, only Ethel said she knew the detective would get there somehow, and then she pro- posed the present plan. “She was right, too. He’s the downiest cop ever I came across. Didn’t he play that hospital racket on us beau- “Open that It’s mostly titully? If Ethel had been there he'd have carried her . off sure.” The man slowly raised his pistol. “My friend.” he said, jeeringly, for you. Get out of it.” His finger pressed the trigger. CHAPTER XXXIX. A NARROW ESCAPE. The shot was well-aimed, and had Nick stood still he “this world’s too good | would have troubled no more rascals. Nick did not propose to be shot yet, however, if he | could help it. He had not failed to notice that the brutes were so sure of their victim that none of them except the depu- | ted.assassin was aiming at him. To step aside, and so evade the bullet, required only coolness, and of that Nick now had plenty. So certain were the ruffians that the detective was | mortally hurt that after. the shot there were a few mo- ments of inaction. Out of this they were quickly roused by the sight of | Nick darting to the open window and climbing out. Was he going to dash himself against the earth below ? They stood spell-bound looking at him. Without hesitating a moment, Nick rose to his feet on the narrow sill, poised himself a second, and sprang out into space. Acry broke from the crowd, and all rushed to the | windows, expecting to see Nick’s body lying motionless in the yard below. It was bright moonlight, but for a moment nothing could be seen of the daring detective. Suddenly some one cried out: “He's sliding down the hoist-rope !” “He can’t get out of the yard. Down stairs, quick !” yelled the man who had fired at Nick. Pell-mell they rushed down the stairs and out into the little yard. “No shooting,” cried some one, ‘‘or the cops ’ll come, Knite him. All together at him.” Nick found himself in as bad a trap as betore. Death seemed to stare him in the face, Hie could not make his way through that crowd of des- perate men. ; } he fence was too high for even his great agility. He had measured it with his eye and given it up. He drew that terrible short knife of his and waited for the onset. The whole crowd surged forward. Nick did not wait for it any longer. * Like a panther he bounded forward, and his right arm rose and fell. The bread. bright blade flashed in the moonlight. A yell broke from-the throat of the leader. In another moment the erowd fell back, beaten down. Like another Hercules, Nick had caught up the dead’ man, and was swinging him like a huge club. ; : Before another rush could,be made he had sprung up- ward, and was rapidly climbing up the rope again, hand over hand, his glittering knife between his teeth. “Cuvit!’ yelled the:crowd, looking up. Nick, too, lookedup, and saw Gilbert leaning out, with a knife in his hand, cutting at.the heavy rope. A’ man was climbing up from below. Like a flash Nick’s blade was in his hand, and at one deft blow the rope was cut short off below him. He hung suspended. above the crowd. The strands were yielding one by one to Gilbert’s efforts. To fall was to die. Slowly at tirst—it seemed an age to Nick with the strands gradually being cutover his head—he swung back and forth. Now quicker and quicker he swung, as with all the grace of the perfect gymnast he aided the motion. Would the rope hold out, he asked. What is he trying to do, asked the crowd. They had their answer; he his. . Suddenly he shot himself clear over the fence into the next yard. ‘ At the same moment almost the severed rope fell upon the crowd below. There was an angry howl anda wild rush for the street. The wild beast was roused in the brutes, and they would not let him escape if they had to kill« him in the street. He had not passed through the house when they reached the street. roe threw open the door and ran through into the yard, He was not there. “Got him ?” cried Gilbert, eagerly. “No. Which way did he go?” “Into the house,” Back again and through the building they ran, every- body eagerly joining in the chase as soon as it was un- derstood that a fly cop was the object. He was nowhere to be seen. Where had he gone ? He was with the crowd, searching with as great eager- ness as any of them for himself. As soon as he was in the yard, he darted into the house, changing his disguise with marvelous dexterity. At the front door he heard his pursuers coming. Standing back in the darkness, he joined the first on- ward rush, and was the person toask Gilbert which way himself had gone. The search was not continued long, and to most of the party the attempted murder of the detective was merely an exciting episode to be talked over enjoyingly. Nick did not leave the neighborhood until a late hour, watching every person who went in or out of the house. He saw nobody he recognized, and at last went home. He would have waited longer and staid there all night, even, had it been any longer necessary to keep track of the plotters; but he had formed a plan which he hoped would accomplish his purpose sufficiently well without any more help through them. Besides, he was sure that they would not lose sight of him, er as long as he lived, their plans would be fruitless. CHAPTER XL. TWO SINGULAR OFFERS. One of Nick's first cares in the morning was to write to Ralph, praising him for his report and telling him to come home. He went to Station D, hoping, perhaps, to find a let- ter from Ethel, but failed to do so. ; At ten o’clock he was in Union square waiting for