A Mystifying and Powerlul Story, “The Reporter Detective,” by Donald J. McKenzie, Next Wee

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. vy Streer

& Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. 0.

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Enterea at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.

 

Office 3! Rose St.
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.
BY M. 6.

The yule flashes bright on the garlanded hearth!
Now tell the sweet story of old,

When night, like a mother, hung over the earth
As the shepherds lay watching the fold;

When earth, like a censer by seraphim swung,
Breathed incense o’er mountain and sea,

While the Star of Judea o’er Bethlehem hung,
And shone soft upon fair Galilee!

And tell how those shepherds abandoned the fold
And followed that mystical star,
Till Jerusalem flashed, like a city of gold,
And Bethlehem glistened afar!
Oh, Lord! let Thy love be about us all day,
Let it shine, like the stars, through the night,
Give us faith, like those shepherds, to rise and obey
And follow Thy pathway of light!

And tell how they entered the stable and saw
The Saviour of men, lowly born;
And tell how they knelt in devotion and awe,
And worshiped and watched until morn;
Oh, tell, that our hearts may renounce transient things,
The tinsel and trappings of pride,
Of the manger that cradled the sovereign of kings,
Of the angel that knelt by His side!

And tell how Jerusalem, gorged to the brim,
Holding feast on the brink of her grave,
Shut her heart and her doors ’gainst the mother of Him
Who came to redeem her and save;
And tell how they passed from the city of light.
That our hearts may remember the poor
Who wander, like them, on this festival night—
Oh, Christ! give them grace to endure!

And tell how the lights of that city were quenched!
How her pride was trailed deep in the dust!

And tell how her halls and her temples were drenched
With her hot blood of riot and lust;

And tell how her kings are as desert dust_ blown
By the wings of the pitiless wind!

How the glory that hallowed her temples has flown.
Leaving ruin and sorrow behind.

Oh, Lord, let our hearts be as temples of Love,
Ever open to Thee and to Thine!

Let our thoughts, like Thy seraphs, in harmony move,
Our teeds like high altar tights shiuet

And though monarchs may fall, and proud cities be hurled,
In Thy Wrath, to the depths of the sea,

Secure in Thy strength, o’er the wreck of the world,
We shall stand, for we’ve built upon Thee!

And thus, while the yule flashes bright on the hearth,
And the holly hangs green in the hall,
The story of Jesus doth hallow our mirth,
Who came and who suffered for all!
And now, while each heart into melody swells,
In songs of thanksgiving and prayer,
Lo! the rich chimes of the silver-tongued bells
Ride joyous abroad on the air!

Se ee

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

A GREAT WRONG;

OR, THE

Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

By EMMA GARRISON JONES,

Author of ‘A Terrible Crime,” “‘A Southern Prin-
cess,” “Ruby,” “The Missing Bride,” etc.

(‘A GREAT WRONG” was commenced in No. 4.

Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XIII.—(CONTINUED.)

Ishbel clings to him with a little gasping sob. He
glances about the room with eager eyes. There is a
dark mantle on the bed; he seizes it and wraps her
init. Then he throws the casement wide open and
clasps her in his aims, as the snow comes driving in.

“Cling close to me, darling,” he whispers, as he
passes out, ‘‘and in two minutes we are safe!”

She utters a piteous cry, but she clings to him with
trembling arms. He leaps out and clambers down
the gnarled vine, clasping her with his strong right
arm.

They stand on the snowy walk below, just opposite
the gleaming windows.

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur!’ she whispers, in an agony
of fear.

He silences her with a kiss, and catches her up
again as if she were a feather.

“My love, hush! One minute, and we are safe!”

He darts across the lawn, passes under the snow-
laden cedars, and is presently beside his sleigh. In
another minute they are in the back seat, and he is
wrapping the buffalo robes about her. 3

“Drive like the wind,” he commands, briefly, to the
driver, ‘“‘and I’ll double your reward.” r :

There is a sudden clash of bells, and the sleigh flies
over the drifts like a bird. :

Ishbel sinks into her lover’s arms with a moaning
ery. :

“Oh, Arthur, Arthur, what have I done?’ she whis-
pers. “What will papa and Maudie say? What will
Ambrose do ?”’

“Do you care?” cries Arthur, hotly. “Do you love
Ambrose, or anybody else, better than me? If you do
I’ll stop the horses and take you back this minute;
and—and—your marriage can go on, and Pll puta
bullet through my head, and have done with it.” 5

She utters a suppressed shriek, and clasps him
close with trembling arms.

“Oh, please do not talkso; you frighten me,” she
implores. “You know I love you, only you, Arthur!”

“Then you shall be my wife,” he answers, in tri-
umph, clasping her close. “It is only right that you
should be. It would be sin to loveme and wed with
another. ; Bos wea

She shivers in his arms, and lifting her head, looks
back through the white haze of snow. The. horses
have been going at a wild pace, and the lights from
the farm-house windows shine far away. Ishbel sees
them, and bursts into tears. ;

She beholds the fading lights of her girlhood’s

dazed and bewildered; she cannot give him up.
Wrapped in each other’s arms, while the winds
roar amid the distant hills, and the snow drifts and
blows, they hurry on to the music of their muffled
bells.
Meanwhile, at the old farm-house the wedding sup-

| falters poor Maud.

D | ery escapes him.
home; but the glamour of his love is over her; she is |

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THE BODY OF A YOUNG MAN LIES PROSTRATE BEFORE THEM, HIS UPTURNED FACE GHASTLY IN THE WINTRY LIGHT.

 

 

peris eaten, the warm drinks dispensed, but the
great bride’s cake, with its frosted summit towering
up like a miniature mountain, remains untouched.

A dozen Highlanders wrap their tartans close, and
muster their good sheep-dogs, and set forth again to
hunt for the missing bridegroom.
“We'll fetch him this time, squire, be he dead or
alive,” the leader calls back.

“Ay, ay. Heaven grant ye may find him alive,”
the farmer answers.

Maud turns from the open door, her face almost as
white as the drifts without. }

“What a fright you look, lass!’ cries her father,
cheerily, returning to the sitting-room. ‘Come,
come, we won't give up so soon. Mayhap the lad
may turnup allright after all, Come, boys, tune up
your fiddles and scrape away; a bit of a dance will
put heart mus and help to make the time fly. And
you, Maud,.run up and fetch the little one down; she
sha'n’t sit up there all by herself and mope the night
out.”

The fiddlers strike up with a will, filling the old:
house with merry music, and a dozen couples take |
the floor in a twinkling.

Somehow the merriment grates harshly on Maud’s
ears, and she goes up to her sister’s. chamber with a
heavy heart.

A keen blast strikes her as she opens the door; the
window is wide open, the snow beating in and lying
over everything in heavy, white drifts. Maud stands
like one stunned.

“Tshbel, where are you, child?’ she calls, after an
instant. ‘‘Why have you left the casement open ?”’
There is no answer. She darts into the adjoining
chamber, but Ishbel is not there.

“What does itmean;, Where has the child gone?
Surely not out in the storm to look for Ambrose ?”’
Maud leans out at the open window and- peers
about the white grounds with affrighted eyes. The
vine, all torn and trailing, is the only trace she
sees.

A sudden thought flashes through her mind. She |
reels back, white and sick, with a ery of sharp pain.

“Oh, poor, poor Ambrose!’ she whispers. ‘‘Surely
she could not have done it. Ishbel would not have
done such a cruel thing.”

She:stands white and stunned, the snow still pour-
ing through the open casement. She hears the music |
below, and the sound of the dancers’ feet, and pres- |
ently her father’s voice.

“Maud, [ say, fetch the little one down, else Ill
come after her myself.”

She wrings her hands in mute agony.
“What shall I say to him?’ she whispers.
shall I tell Ambrose when he comes ?”’

The old father waits impatiently for a few mo-
ments, and, receiving no answer, he bounds up the |
stairs.
Maud meets him at the door, and her white face |
startles him asif it were a ghost.

‘*What is it?’ he questions. “Is the little lass ill?” |
Then he sees the open window and the drifting
snow, and stands silent and aghast.

“Father, the window was open when I came up,”
“Tshbel has gone.”’

“Gone?’ he repeats. “Gone where? Not outin
this storm, lass ?”’

Maud makes no answer; she only looks at him,
her eyes full of unutterable pain and pity. Some-
thing inthe look makes the old father start, and
drives the color from his ruddy cheek.

*You don’t mean to say—you don’t think,” he |
stammers, putting his hand to his head, like one
bewildered.

Then he rushes to the open casement, and looking |
out, sees the torn and trailing vine. A hoarse, pitiful
He turns to Maud entreatingly.
“Maudie, Maudie, don’t tell me ’tis so,” he falters’; |
‘it can’tbe, child! Why, she was in her wedding |
clothes. She wouldn’t have left her old father so.
No, no; come Maud, we’ll find her. Come, lass!”

ass:
He rushes, down the stairs. and Maud follows,

|

 

“How |

 

 

through the room, filled with music and dancing, out
into the wild winter night.

| the drifted moorlands.
| Sided, the snow has ceased, and the sky breaks out

| is gone, andin the next room,

“Come, lass,” he repeats, leading on toward the

stables, and Maud follows, her black hair all wreathed |

with snow.

A stable boy comes out with a lantern in his hand.

“Has young Mr. Marlowe gone, my lad?’ demands
the squire, struggling vainly to keep his
steady.

“Ay, sir—gone this hour, mebbe!”’

“You saw him go, then ?”’

“Ay, sir,” with a grin, and a knowing leer.

The old man hesitates, and breathes fast and hard;
at last he gulps out the question.

“Did any one go with him, Tim ?%”’

Tim winks the snow out of his eyes, and wears an
innocent face.

“Yes, squire, he took a lady he
answers.

There is dead silence for a full minute, then the
squire turns fiercely on his daughter.

“It is true, Maud,” he gasps, his voice thick and
hoarse; “he has carried her off. Curse him, and
curse her!”

“Oh, father, hush!” entreats Maud, clinging to his
arm.

But he throws her off, his eyes glaring, his chest
heaving, his face swollen and purple.

“Curse him!” he repeats, huskily.

with him!”

“He has stolen

her from me, my innocent darling, he will bring her |

toshame and sorrow. Goandfetch her back. Maud,
I say; follow them, and fetch the little one home.”
The words die in inarticulate gasps, he pulls fierce-

ly at his collar asif it choked him, then throws up |
his two hands, and falls like a log, face downward, in

the drifts.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE FAITHFUL DOG.
Day dawns over the white, highland hills, and over
The fierce winds have sub-
here and there in clear, opaline rifts.
The Highlanders, who have scoured the hill-paths

| through all the terrible night hours, cluster about
| the huge fire in the farm-house kitchen, with awed
| faces and silent lips; even the panting dogs, Stretch-
|. ed before the hearth, look up with wistful, sympa-

thizing eyes.

A great calamity has fallen upon the hitherto
happy occupants of the old farm-house. Little Ishbel
where the curtains
are drawn; and silence reigns, her fond old father
lies dying.

Maud sits at his pillow, white and calm, moistening |
| his livid lips. counting his labored, stertorous breath-
next room, the faded wedding |

ings; and in the
garlandS hang, and the remnants of the wedding

} supper are still visible.

A couple of neighboring farmers have gone in
search of Ishhel, with small hope, however, of find-
ing her; and of Ambrose, the bridegroom, no tidings

| can be gained.

The highland lads, and their trained dogs, have

| scoured the country for miles, but without success

There is no trace of Ambrose since he parted with
his fmother at the cottage door.

her husband, who has gone in search of
with afresh party. She sits in a corner,
her hands, and rocking berself to and fro,
plaining incessantly :

“My brave, handsome boy! my darling Ambrose!
Only to think of him lying under the drifts, stark and
cold!”

Meanwhile the father and his party are scouring
every inch of land between the cottage and the Fell-
side, but so far without success: They pause now, as

Ambrose
wringing
and com-

the red sun comes soaring up on the wild hill-range |

beyond which the haunted manor lies, worn out by
their long tramp, and utterly disheartened.

The father breaks out into a series of heart-broken
moans, and his grief unmans his comrades.

“Come, come, neighbor, keep heart!” cries one of

voice |

c 2 I And she, poor wo- |
| man, is beside herself with grief, and had to be re-
| strained from rushing out into the drifts to follow

the party.

off to her ruin! We may stumble on the lad yet.
Was he willing to the marriage, and full fond o’ the
lass, think ye?”

“Well, he wasn’t o’er eager, that’s a fact. The
match were o’ the dame’s making from first to last;
but Ambrose was fondo’ Ishbel, and she were a
| likely lassie, and if ye knew my son, mates, ye
| wouldn’t think him the man to back out, and leave

his bride a-waiting on her wedding-night, no matter
what she’d do!”

“Nay, nay; we all know that, neighbor.
| can ha’ become o’ the lad? He can’t be under the
| drifts, and the dogs miss him.”

“No, no; they’d a-dug him out long ago,” Gerhart
| makes answer. ‘But look ye at that dog yonder, and
| hark ye what a cry he gives; and he did the same

| thing when we passed that place before—the lad’s |

| own dog, too, as slept at his feet every blessed night.

| Comrades, what does it mean ?”’

| _ He poiuts across the hills, and they all see the gray

| dog that was thes
scudding through the Black Hollow, and making a
straight line for the haunted house. He darts along

| through the drifts, his nose to the ground, a curious,

| whining ery escaping him as he runs.

The men stand and watch him, and a pallid awe

| steals over their rough faces.

‘“‘What does it mean ?” they whisper one to another.
Surely the lad canna be in that house.”

Gerhart’s face grows very white and his lips twitch
nervously.

“Not unless he was decoyed there for some foul
purpose,” he answers. Then, with a shiver running
through all his strong limbs, “Heaven above us,
neighbors,” he breaks out, ‘the old manor were all

| alight last night, a thing that hasn’t happened for |

years.”
’ They stand shuddering and silent.

Gerhart watches the dog with anxious eyes. -He

with a cry that awakes a hundred echoes amid the
snowy hills.

‘“‘Hark ye, mates, he be calling us,” whispers Ger-
hart. ‘‘He’s struck the lad’s trail. Look, he’s across

whatacry!
lamb in the snow! Mates,” and he turns upon them
with a white, awe-stricken face, ‘‘ye ha’ been friendly
wi’ me in my trouble, and I’m not ongrateful. Get
ye home now, an’ ye can say to the missus as I’m
gone to follow the dog,”

He turns from them, and rushes headlong down the
hill-path.

They follow him to a man,

‘“‘Wait a bit, Donald,” they shout, simultaneously.
“D’ye think we'd let ye face the danger alone? Wait,

 

to all.”

He turns and grips hand after hand in grim silence.
Then they go tramping on side by side.

Down the path, across the Black Ho’ ow, where the
| murdered lady’s grave-stone arises pule and spectral
above the drifted snow, up the clid, and across the
grounds to the terrace steps.

The dog sees them coming, and flies down to meet
meet them, uttering cries of joy and fawning at his
master’s feet.

“What is it, my brave dog? Have ye found him 2”
asks Donald.

The creature looks up, his eyes shining with an in-
telligence almost human; then, with a plaintive cry,
he darts away.

The dog bounds onward, closely followed by the
men, and does not halt until he comes to a spectral
| figure recumbent on the snow.

A loud bark and an almost natural expression of
pain call tife attention of the men to the motions of
the intelligent animal.

Presently they come up, and a strange sight meets
their eyes.

The body of a young man lies prostrate before them,

 

Three Dollars Per Year,

“It is not as bad wi’ you as them at the
Fellside farm—the squire a-dying, and the lass gone |

But what |

pecial pet and favorite of Ambrose |

runs on across the grounds, through the gate, and up |
the terrace steps; then he pauses and looks back

the terrace now and on the door-steps, and hark ye |
The very cry he gives when he finds a |

man, we’ll go abreast, and if harm comes, let it come |

No. 10.

Dollars.

his upturned face ghastly in the wintry light, his
manly limbs rigid, a pool of blood staining the snow
beneath his right side.

Thus they find Ambrose, the handsome bride-
groom,

A rude litter is hastily constructed, and with all
possible speed they get him from the accursed place,
and bear him across the snowy hills to his father’s
cottage—dead, as they believe him—foully murdered
at the Haunted Manor on his wedding-night.

CHAPTER XY.

BLESSED IS THE BRIDE WHOM THE SUN SHINES ON.

London looks its dreariest this wintry morning.
Smoke and yellow fog hang over everything like a
| pall; the gas-lamps, still burning, although it is high

noon, flare and glimmer in the raw wind, and the
incessant winter rain beats against the window at
which Ishbel stands—a forlorn little figure to look at;
her pretty child’s face pale with weariness, the
white silk bridal dress all soiled and crumpled; and
she is not a bride yet.

The cold was so bitter, the drifted snow so deep,
that Arthur decided to make no stop, so they have
traveled day and night to London.

He has gone off somewhere to make arrangements
for their marriage, and to draw on his banker for
money, and Ishbelis alone. She stands at the win-
dow of the secluded lodging-house and looks down
upon the flaring lamps, and the dismal streets, and
the bedraggled passengers, with a crnel pain at her
young heart.

She has never seen Londoh before, and this first
glimpse of it is unutterably wretched. She thinks
of the cheery old home amid the Scottish valleys, of
the glowing fireside, her father sitting in his great
chair, and Maud at her little sewing stand. Do they
miss her, she wonders? Will they ever forgive her
and love her again?

The door opens, and the landlady looks in.

“Well, my dear,” she begins, fluttering back her
pink cap ribbons, “show are you now? Not a-eryin’,
surely? Why, that'll never do. You’ll spile your
eyes, and look quite a fright when the gentleman
gets back. A ore gentleman he ’pears to be,
too, and nota bit close. which he paid me down in
advance; and two shillin’ over an’ above my charge,
arm then put his purse—an’ it a erammin’ wi’ Bank o’
Hengland bills—in my Belindy Jane’s hands and
sent her out to buy your outfit, miss, with orders to
buy the best of everything, and not to spare change,
which I hope he means honest by you, miss; other-
ways Sore feel onwilling to have you underneath
my roof.’

ishbel turns round at last, with wide, tear filled

res.
a What did you say, madam %? she falters. “I don’t
think I quite understand you.”
; Mrs. Hobbs makes her pink streamers flutter in her
virtuous excitement.

“T say, miss, us I hope as this young gentleman
means to act honestly by you.”

Ishbel’s eyes widen and her lips quiver likea
child’s, but in her trustful innocence she does not
fully comprehend the landlady’s meaning. She turns
back to the window, and down below, amid the
smoke and rain, she sees her lover. A glad cry
breaks from her lips and her eyes light with rapture.
In another minute he is at the door, and she flies to
welcome him.

“Arthur, Arthur, I have been so wretched!
so glad you have come!”

He clasps her close, looking tenderly down upon
the slim, disheveled figure.

“Never mind, love, I shall not leave you again,” he
says, soothingly. ‘‘My arrangements are all made,
and here comes the young woman with your outfit.
Nothing remains to be done now but to get yourself
ready and drive with me to church. Before this
beastly day ends, you will be my wife, and to-morrow
morning, if I receive an answer to my message, we
will start for Marlowe Hall.”

The landlady draws along breath of relief.

“I’m glad to hear you say the same, sir,” she puts
in, pushing up in front of the young couple, ‘‘though
I was satisfied you meant her fair and honest.”

The baronet’s soy silences her with a single flash
| of his handsome eyes.

“That will do, Mrs. Hobbs, thanking you all the
same for your good intentions,” he says, haughtily.
“Please have the goodness to assist your daughterin
unwrapping her purchases, and when we’ye selected

| a suitable outfit, I’ trouble you to help this lady
| with her toilet.”

A good deal cut, the landlady compresses her lips
| and makes haste to assist Belindy Jane, who comes
| in, panting under the weight of her packages. Mean-
while Arthur takes a pretty casket from his bosom,
and turrs to Ishbel.

“Look, dearest, here is your bridal present,’ he
| says, displaying an exquisite set of pearls and @ia-

monds, and here is your wedding-ring, the mystic
| little circle that will make us two one.”
| Ishbel screams and claps her hands like a child.
| “Oh, how lovely! Oh, if Maudie could see them!
| Arthur, Arthur, you are so good to me!”

 

Tam

 

He smiles with pleased admiration.

“Ym glad you like them, dear. By and by, when

| you are Lady Marlowe, you shall have costlier gems

| and finer robes than these.”

“She couldn’t well have finer nor handsomer than
these, if you please, sir,” puts in Belindy Jane, push-

ing up with an open parcel in her hands.

She shakes out a gaudy robe of flimsy silk, pea-green
in hue, and profusely adorned with flashy bugles and
cheap lace.

Ishbel stares with round, amazed eyes, while her
lover swallows something very like an imprecation.

It soon becomes apparent that the gaudy and
| flimsy fineries purchased by Belindy Jane are ut-
| terly unsuitable for a bride. With an angry exclama-
| tion, Arthur kisses Ishbel, begs her to be patient for
an hour or so, and hastens from the house.

Ishbel is still gazing from the window, two hours
later, when through the heavy rain, a cap whirls up
to the door.

Arthur comes, and brings with him an immense
covered trunk and a small, sharp-eyed, slim-waisted
French modiste.

She hastens up the stairs, and flutters into the dull
room like a bird, and the great trunk follows. It is
packed to the brim with all sorts and shapes of daimity
feminine articles, on the very top a bridal dress of
mouse-gray silk, with lace at the cuffs and throat,
that a duchess might wear. It is brought forth, with
| a little gem of a hat, and tiny gloves and boots to

match, and with much chattering and gesticulation
| on the paat of the modiste, Ishbel, like a second Cin-
| derella, is relieved of her crumpled robes, and attired
for her bridal... All her bright curls are re-arranged,
and she smiles, and dimples, and blushes, and looks
the very fairest bride in town.

By and by a second carriage comes, and Arthur
leads her down and seats her amid the cushions at
his side, and they are whirled away, throngh the
| rainy twilight, to the old chureh called St. Elfrida,
and there, in the presence of pictured. saints and
sculptured monks, while the organ thunders, and the
dreary winter night falls, they are made man and
wife. “What God hath joined together, let no man
put asunder!”

At the same hour, just as the wintry day dies and the
twilight falls, @own in the old Fellside farm-house,
Squire Melville breathes his last. He has never ral-
lied from that awful shock which struek him down
like a eruel blow.

He opens his eyes and looks about him with con-
scious glances, for the first time, as the wintry sun
goes down.

“Maud !” he calls, in a whisper.

She bends over him, and lays her tender hand on
his brow.

‘‘Maud, did they find the little lass? Did they fetch
her back ?”’

z rs crushes down a great sob. The truth must

e told.

“No, father; they could not find her.”

He groans, and turns his face to the wall. When,he
looks back again, that gray shadow which sooner or

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

2

 

a ol cea eo 7

4

 

later falls on all human faces, darkens his solemn
eyes.

‘Poor little lass! poor, foolish lamb !’’ he murmurs,
brokenly. ‘*‘They’ll break her heart! I shall never
see her again, Maud—I’m going out with the winter
day—but you'll find her. She’ll come back to you in
her sorrow and shame. Poor little lass! I cursed her
in my wrath, but I didn’t meanit. Tell her, when
she comes, Maud, that her old father forgave her,
and blessed her with his dying breath—my poor
little tender lamb !”

And these were his last words. When the dark-
ness fell, Maud sat alone with her dead.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

Virgie's Inheritance,

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “That Dowdy,” “Brownie’s Triumph,”
‘“Ruby’s Reward,” “‘The Forsaken Bride,” etc.

(‘“VIRGIE’S INHERITANCE” was commenced in No, 43.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XLITI.
SOME STARTLING DISCOVERIES.

F course the attention of all
centered at once upon Lady
Linton, and Sir William’s in-
terest in his beautiful but un-
known daughter was, for the
time, merged in his anxiety

a for his sister.

; As it happened, there was
no one else in the room just
then, and Rupert and his
guardian laid the appareutly
unconscious woman upon a

lounge that was standing near, and immediately ex-
erted themselves for her recovery.

Virgie, too, was very helpful, dipping her own
dainty haudkerchief into some water that Rupert
brought, and bathing Lady Linton's face with it,
while she gave directions to Sir William about chaf-
ing her hands to assist in restoring circulation.

When the woman began to show signs of recovery
and opened her eyes, she found herself looking di-

rectly up into the face of the lovely girl whose pres-
ence there had caused her so much concern. .

“Where is my brother?’ she demanded, jerking her
head away from the gentle hand that was minister-
ing so tenderly to her. ,

“Tam here, Miriam,” said Sir William, bending
over her; ‘‘what shall I do for you ?”

“Take me home,” she replied, with a shiver, as she
glanced darkly at Virgie, who had drawn back and
was standing beside Rupert.

“T will, as soon as you are able,” her brother re-
plied.

“Tam able now,” and she sat up with surprising
energy for one who, but a few moments before, had
appeared so seriously ill.

“Very well; I will attend you immediately,” Sir
William responded; ‘‘but,’’ he added, as he regarded
her anxiously, “what could have caused this sudden
attack? I never knew you to faint before.’’

A guilty stain shot for a moment into Lady Lin-
ton’s cheeks. ‘

“T imagine the rooms are overheated, and I have
not been quite myself this evening,” she said, which
was true enough, for there had been a deadly sink-
ing at her heart ever since her encounter with her
brother’s former wife. 3

She glanced uneasily toward the door as she spoke,
for she was in mortal terror lest she should chance
to make her appearance there in search of her daugh-
ter, and she felt that she would rather drop dead,
there at her brother’s feet, than to have those two, so
tape NAT vee by her plotting, meet and become recon-
ciled.

Her purpose now was to get him out of that house
and away from London as soon as possible. and she
resolved to stop at nothing to accomplish her object.
It was a terrible blow to her to find that woman
there. So many years had elapsed, during which she
had kept silence, that she had grown to feel very
secure in her position as mistress of her brother’s
home, and she had fully expected that she would re-
tain it aslong as she should live, and had come to
regard the threats which the injured wife had made
in the past as so many idle words.

Life of late had looked brighter to her than at any
previous time since her marriage. Percy had re-
cently become engaged to a beautiful girl—one in
every way worthy of him, and who, when she be-
came his wite, would bring with her a noble dower;
indeed, her father was so much pleased with his pro-
spective son-in-law, that he had himself proposed to
relieve Linton Grange of all incumbrances, and thus
all the burden entailed by his father’s profligacy
would be lifted from the young lord’s shoulders.

Lillian’s debut in society had been very brilliant;
she was greatly admired and much sought after; so
the mother’s cup of pride and joy in her children
seemed to be full to the brim.

The only bitter drop init was Lillian’s unrequited
affection for Rupert, and Lady Linton had never re-
linquished the hope of succeeding in accomplishing
even this marriage, until. after the young man’s re-
turn from America.

He had seemed very different since then; restless
and preoccupied, but betraying at the same time an
undercurrent of joy which told of some sweet hope
cherished in his heart, the fulfillment of which he
was eagerly awaiting.

His treatment of Lillian was courteous and respect-
ful, but not calculated to inspire any one witb the be-
lief that he regarded her with feelings of more than
ordinary friendship, and thus Lady Linton had be-
gun to fear that her favorite and his magnificent for-
tune were likely to slip from her grasp and become
the prey of some more fortunate beauty and belle.

She had not, however, had a suspicion of who was
to be the favored maiden, until she came so suddenly
upon that group in the Japanese parlor, when she
had taken in ata glance the mortifying and exasp-
erating truth, and immediately she was wrought
almost into a frenzy between anger and fear, and
ready to adept the most daring measures to protect
herself from exposure.

But to return to the Japanese parlor.

Lady Linton arose as she replied to her brother’s

peetion and signified her readiness to leave imme-

iately.

“Wait a moment here,” he said, “while I go to
make our excuses to Lady Dunforth and tell Lillian
that we are going.”

“No—oh! do not leave me, William,” pleaded Lady
Linton, growing frightfully pale again and treim-
bling visibly ; she would not trusthim one moment in
that drawing-room, lest he should meet Virginia
Alexander. “I am afraid I shall have another faint-
ing turn. Let Rupert see her ladyship—will you?’
she asked, turning to him.

“Certainly,” he answered, readily.

“Thank you. And now, William, if you will please
ring for a servant to bring my wraps here. I do not
feel equal to the effort of going for them.”

Sir William did as she requested, wondering to see
her so unnerved. Nothing had ever seemed to un-
settle her like this before. :

“And, Rupert,” she continued, “‘won’t you be so
good as to look after Lillian for the rest of the even-
ing, and see that she gets home safely ?”

“T will do anything you wish,” the young man re-
turned, although he was not very well pleased with
this latter commission, for he had anticipated a
pleasant drive and chat with Virgie, as it had been
his intention to attend her home.

“IT do particularly wish this,’? Lady Linton said,
with decision. ‘It would not be proper for Lillian
to come by herself, and I do not quite like to alarm
her or tear her away so early while she is enjoying
herself so much. Ah! here come my wraps,” she
concluded, with a sigh of relief, as a servant appear-
ed with them.

She put them on with nervous haste, and then
turning to her brother said, almost peremptorily :

“Come, William, I am ready.”

“In one moment, Miriam.”

He had stepped back and was standing before Vir-
gie, who, keenly sensitive regarding Lady Linton’s
evident aversion to her, had withdrawn herself from
her immediate presence. ,

He held out his hand to her, saying, as he smiled
almost tenderly down on her upturned face:

“Tt has been a great-pleasure to me to meet you.
I trust we shall see each other again soon.”

“I think you will. Uncle Will,” Rupert interposed,
in atone that. made his guardian turn and regard
him searchingly, while he said to himself:

“I do believe the young scampisin love with her.
I would not wish a more charming little wife for
him, but Iam afraid it will be rather hard on Lil-
lian.”

“Thank you, Sir William,” Virgie returned, and
there was a slight tremor in her voice, for the pres-
ence of this man thrilled her strangely. “I am sure
the pleasure has been mutual, and I should feel very
sorry if I thought I should not meet you again.”

“William,” interrupted his sister, impatiently; and
giving the soft hand he was holding a last, lingering
pressure, the baronet turned away with a sigh, and
attended his sister to her carriage, while Rupert
took Virgie to the drawing-room, where he sought Lil-
lian to inform her of her mother’s sudden indispo-
sition and departure. ~

An hour later Mrs. Alexander and Virgie retired,
for the former was not strong yet, and therefore un-
equal to very much dissipation.

Rupert attended them to their carriage, but just as
they were about to enter it an elegant coupe drew up
beside it, and Mrs. Alexander’s attention was in-
stantly attracted by a device that was emblazoned
upon one of its panels.

She stopped with her foot upon the step, and turned
for a nearer view. .

A startled, surprised look came into her face.

The coat-of-arms represented a patriarchal cross,
while underneath it there were stamped the words,
“Droit et Loyal.” , ;

“Whose carriage is that?’ Mrs. Alexander asked of
Rupert. : .

He glanced in the direction indicated.

“That is Lady Linton’s” he replied; ‘‘she has sent
it back for Lillian.” e

“Lady Linton’s!” repeated Mrs. Alexander, with a
start, while she thought it a little strange that he
should speak so familiarly of her daughter and be so
well informed of the lady’s movements.

“Yes; Sir William Heath, her brother, presented
both carriage and horses to her for her individual
use one Christinas,” Rupert explained. ;

“And what is that device upon the panel of the
earriage-door?”

“Tt is the Linton coat-of-arms.”

“The Linton coat-of-arms! You seem to know the
family well, Mr. Hamilton.”

“And why should [ not?’ Rupert returned, smiling.
“T have made my home with them during the last
top or twelve years. Sir William Heath is my guar-

ian.’

“What?” cried his listener, sharply.

“Have I not told you before?’ Rupert asked, look-
ing upin surprise at her tone. ‘You must pardon
me, Mrs. Alexander, for being so negligent; but,
surely, I thought I had informed you of the fact.”

Mrs. Alexander clutched at the carriage-door for
support, and for a moment thought she must fall to
the ground; two such startling discoveries as she
had just made were sufficient to make her heart stand
still and her blood run cold, and she scarcely had
strength to move.

Rupert Hamilton Sir William Heath’s ward!

It was a strange fate that had decreed that her
daughter and his should become the fiancee of the
young man he had reared,

She was aghast; her brain reeled, and she stum-
bled into the earriage and sank weakly upon the
seat, anxious to be gone, to be alone, and think it all
out. by herself.

Her face was deathly in its paleness, and Rupert,
though he wondered at her strange behavior, so at
variance with her usual courtesy, feared that she
was displeased with him for his negligence.

“Am I forgiven?” he asked, smilingly, as he leaned
im to tuck the robes about them.

His question brought the stricken woman some-
what to herself, and she replied:

“There is nothing to forgive, Mr. Hamilton. Of
course, it was an oversight, your not mentioning
that Sir William Heath was your guardian. Did Vir-
gie know ?”’

“Yes, mamma, Rupert introduced me to him to-
night as his best friend; but he had told me before,
and I thought you knew,” said the young girl, mar-
veling at her mother’s strange emotion.

“Introduced you to him to-night! Was he here?’
cried the woman, with a gasp and a sense of suffo-
cation. :

“Yes. But, mamma, how strangely you act! Are
you ill?’ Virgie inquired, noticing, with increasing
alarm, her mother’s pale face and uncontrollable
agitation.

“No—yes. Let me get home as soon as we can—I
believe [am not well,” and she sank bk eat f back
among the cushions, almost panting for breath.

“Shall I cothe, too? Will you need me?” Rupert
asked, anxiously.

“No, thank you,” Mrs. Alexander answered, with a
great effort. ‘It is not far—we shall soon be there—
good-night !”

The young man would gladly have gone, but her
tone was decisive, and he turned back into the man-
sion as the carriage drove away, greatly puzzled by
her strange manner, and at the way she had spoken
of his guardian.

Mrs. Alexander scarcely spoke all the way home,
and insisted upon going directly to her room alone,
although Virgie begged to be allowed to do some-
thing for her—to stay with her during the night.

‘‘All that I need is rest and quiet,” she said. ““Good-
night my darling!” 7

She kissed her tenderly, wondering, with a terrible
heart-pang, how she could ever tell her that her loy-
er’s guardian was her own father—the man who had
so. cruelly wronged his wife and child more than
eighteen years ago.

Once in her room, without even stopping to remove
her wraps, she went to her writing-desk, drew forth
a package from a drawer in it, and took it to the
light for examination.

It was the mysterious package which her uncle,
Mark Alexander, had confided to her on his death-
bed, charging her to return it to the owner should
she ever discover who ‘hat person was.. ;

She had discovered that night to whom it belonged.
She held the seal close to the candle, and gazed
upon it with darkening eyes and sternly compressed
lips. It was stamped with a shield bearing a patri-
archal cross, and under it the motto, ‘‘ Drott et Loyal.”

“How strange?’ she murmured. ‘It belongs to

his sister—to that woman who mocked and scorned
me; whom I saved from a dreadful death, and nursed
through a critical illmess! She must have been one
of those women whom Uncle Mark heard conversing
together that day in the hotel parlor here in London.
How wonderful that anything belonging to her should
have fallen into my hands! How wonderful every-
thing is—Virgie’s betrothal to Rupert—her meeting
with him to-night! How will it all end? To think
that he wAs there, in the same house with me, this
evening! Iam really curious to know what this con-
tains,” she continued, turning.the package over and
over, and regarding it with troubled eyes, while her
thoughts were busy with the past.
“Well,” she concluded, after musing for’ several
minutes, “it must’ be returned to its owner, I sup-
pose. I promised, and I must fulfill my word.
Yes,” lifting her head resolutely, ‘she shall have it
on the day that my daughter stands within her an-
cestral halls the acknowledged heiress of Heathdale,
not before.”

CHAPTER XLIV.
A SUDDEN FLITTING.

The next morning Mrs. Alexander’s lawyer, Mr.
Thurston, made a call upon his client, and had an
ene with her of more than two hours’ dura-
ion.
After his departure she sought Virgie, with a very
grave face, and explained the nature of his business,
which caused the young girl to open wide her lovely
eyes and exclaim, with astonishment:
“Why, mamma, itis the strangest romance in the
world! I never heard anything like it!”
“Well, dear, get yourself ready as soon as possible,
for we must leave town this afternoon, as there is
no time to lose,’ her mother replied, as she arose to
go to make her own preparations for the proposed
journey,

“But, mamma, what shall I do about Rupert?’
Virgie asked, looking troubled.

Mrs. Alexander’s face fell at the mention of the

young man’s name.
She had scarcely slept during the previous night,
for many things troubled her, and, among others,
the thought that Virgie’s engagement te Rupert
Hamilton seemed likely to complicate matters very
much when she should be ready to make her claim
upon Sir William Heath.

“You can leave a note telling him that we are
obliged to leave town fora while, and we can ex-
plain further to him when we ascertain just how we
are to be situated,” her mother replied, after consid-
ering a moment.

So, when Rupert called that evening, he found only
anote awaiting him instead of the bright face he
had hoped to see, while it told him that his betrothed
and her mother had been unexpectedly called away
from London upon important business, Which might
detain them a week, Poe longer.

“It is very strange that she does not mention where
they are going,” he said, as he read the note over for
the second time and remarked this omission. ‘Mrs.
Alexander acted very strangely last evening. I won-
der if this sudden departure can have had anything
to do with that?’

He retraced his steps, feeling unaccountably de-
pressed over the absence of Virgie, and he resolved
to seek an interview with Sir William and acquaint
him with the fact of his engagement that very even-
ing.

He did not, however, find his guardian upon his
return; he had gone out upon a matter of business,
his valet told the young man, and would not be back
until late; so he retired, resolving to improve the
first opportunity on the morrow.

The next morning, after breakfast, he said, in a
quiet aside:

“CanIhave a few moments’ conversation with
you, Uncle Will ?”’

“Certainly, my boy. Come into the library in about
ten minutes, and I will be there.” ;

Lady Linton, always on the alert for everything of
a mysterious nature, and doubly keen now to sus-
pect mischie.. heard this request, and at once re-
solved to become acquainted with the nature of the

interview.

Sir William’s chamber was just back of the li-
brary, although there was no door communicating
with it.

The-same furnace-pipe, however, conducted heat
to the two rooms, and, by stationing herself Close to
this, her ladyship knew she could overhear whatever
might pass between the two men. She therefore
slipped quietly into her brother’s bedroom, locked
the door, and, creeping close to the register, laid her
eager ear against it. *

Rupert was already with Sir William, for the house-
keeper had detained Lady Linton for a few moments
with questions regarding some domestic matter; but
she was in season to hear him broach the subject so
near his heart.

“Thave come to make a confession to you, Uncle
Will,” he said, as he seated himself opposite his
guardian.

“A confession! Nothing very serious, I hope,’ said

 

his ward.

“Yes, [think it is of rather a serious nature,” he
returned, smiling slightly. ‘‘I wish to tell you that I
have become deeply attached to Miss Alexander, to
whom I introduced you last night, and to ask your
sanction to our engagement.”

“Aha! has it gone so far as that?’ inquired Sir
William, “I began to surmise last evening that she
was taking your heart captive, but did not imagine
matters had reached a crisis yet.” :

“Don’t you think her lovely, Uncle Will?” Rupert
asked, eagerly. ;

“Very lovely; but, my boy, the ocean rolls between
England and America. I ape bear the thought of
a separation from you, Rupert.”

“Nord from you, my dear guardian; and, I assure
you, you need not fearit, for the young lady does
not object to a permanent residence in England.
trust you will not oppose my marriage with Miss
Alexander.” ‘ :

“Rupert,” said Sir William, gravely, “my only wish
is for your happiness, and if Miss Alexander is the
woman of your choice—if you are sure that she alone
can make you happy—then I can only say Heaven
bless you and grant that your future may be all that
you desire.”

“Thank you, Uncle Will. I—I hope you do not dis-
approve of my choice in a wife?’ Rupert said, re-
garding his guardian’s grave face anxiously.

“No, no,” returned the baronet, hastily. “I ad-
mired the little lady very much during the few mo-
ments that I spentrwith her last evening. She seems
a lovely girl. My first thought was that she might
take you from us.”

“No. Although she was born in America, she is
herself of English descent on her father’s side, and
she and her mother are uow in this country for the

purpose of claiming some property inherited from

im,” Rupert explained. :

“Ah! then she has no father.’

“No; he—she—lost him when she was a child.”

The young man began to fear he was trespassing
somewhat upon Mrs. Alexander’s confidence, and re-
solved that he would betray no 1nore at present.

“Are you sure that the family is one with which
you will feel proud to ally yourself?’ Sir William in-
quired. :

“T know but very little concerning their family,”
Rupert admitted. ‘I doubt if they h@ve any; but
everything about them indicates that they are above
reproach, while Mr. Knight, the gentleman whom I
met in America, and of whom you have often heard
me speak, introduces them, and he is of irreproach-
able character. He occupies a high position in New
York, and it isin compliance with his request that

| they are presented here, and chaperoned by the

Huntingtons.” ‘

“The Huntingtons are all right, and would intro-
duce no one regarding whom there was any ques-
tion,” Sir William said; in a satisfied tone. ‘Is Mrs.
Alexander as much of a beauty as her daughter?” he
concluded, smilingly. :

“Hardly in my eyes,” returned the young man,
with heightened color; ‘‘and yet she is a remarkably
handsome woman. Ihope I may be able to arrange
for you to maketheir acquaintance very soon; but
until then please regard what I have told you as
strictly confidential.”

“Ah! Then you do not intend to announce your
engagement just yet,” remarked Sir William, with
some surprise.

“No, sir. At Mrs. Alexander’s request we shall de-

of which I have already spokex.”

“How much of an heiress is your pretty fiancee go-
ing to be, Rupert?’ his guardian asked.

“T cannot tell. I donot even know of what this
prapenty consists,” the young man answered, thought-
fully. \ ; ;

“T am afraid thereis something a little mysterious
about these ladies. Doesn’tit strike youso ?” inquired
Sir William, gravely, yet without a suspicion of the
wonderful truth. —

Rupert knew there was, but he was not going to
confess it, and he replied, evasively:

“T do not imagine-there is an g but what will
soon be satisfactorily explained to us all.” .

Lady Linton, hearing all this, and knowing so
much more than either Rupert or her brother, grew
deadly faint as she listened and realized how near
she stood to the verge of a terrible exposure.

Just then there came a brisk tap upon the library
door, and the next moment Lillian put her bright
face into the room, and looking as lovely as the morn-
ing itself in her white flannel wrapper, fastened at
the waist with cherry ribbons and with hands full of
jacqueminot roses. - ; .

Her face assumed a look of surprise as she saw
Rupert there, and she regarded him with searching
curiosity. ee

“Pardon me, Uncle Will,” she said, flushing; “I did
not know that you were engaged with any one; I
haye just received a box of flowers, and came to ar-
rangé some for your table. May Icomein? I won't
be long.” /

"Yes, indeed, come in; you are doubly welcome
coming with so much beauty and fragrance,” said
her uncle, smiling.

Rupert arose as she entered, and asked with an
arch smile: .

“What enamored swain has been guilty of the ex-
travagance of lavishing such costly flowers upon
you, Lillian ?”’ feerees .

“Lord Ernest Rathburn is the donor; he has “ex-
quisite taste. I wish you could have seen the box
when it came,” the girl replied, with a conscious
drooping of her brilliant eyes.

“Lord Ernest Rathburn!” repeated Rupert in a
Pees tone, which brought the angry color to

illian’s cheek. % 3

Lord Ernest was a young nobleman with a large
revenue, but possessing far less brains than mus-
tache, and who was regarded with contempt by all
manly young men, on account of his effeminacy and
excesses. , 3 sa

“T wish,” he added, “‘that you could meet a friend
of mine, Lillian; you will, I hope, before very long.
Lord Ernest would sink into insignificance by com-
parison.”

“And who may this paragon of manly excellence
be, Mr. Hamilton, if I may inquire?’ Lillian asked,
with a toss of her head.

“Harry Webster, the young man with whom I
traveled, last winter, in America.”

“I despise Americans,” retorted Miss Linton, with
considersble asperity.

“That is rather a sweeping assertion; isn’t it, my
dear?’ asked Sir William, looking a trifle amused.

“Tt is the truth, Uncle Will, whatever else it may
be,” she retorted, as she began to arrange her
flowers ina vase on the table. ‘I am English to the
backbone. I am thoronghly imbued with alove for
my own people, and I shall never permit myself to
draw disloyal comparisons.”

Rupert laughed outright as, in his mind, he placed
the stooping figure and imbecile face of the half-
witted young lord beside the grandly developed
form and frank, handsome countenance of his
American friend.

“Tf you could place the two men side by side, I
warrant you would be compelled to draw disloyal
comparisons, in spite of your very preisonarny
patriotism, my fair consin,’ he said, a roguish
twinkle in his eyes.

Lillian shot an angry glance at those last words;
nothing annoyed her more than to be called “sister”
or “cousin” by Rupert. .

“T thank you for acknowledging that I am imbued
with patriotism. I wonder what has become of
yours,” she said, sareastically.

“Thave plenty of it, only [donot allow itto warp my
judgment; I can epereniate both beauty and good-
ness wherever I find it, at home or abroad.”

' “That is a self-evident fact,” remarked the young
girl, dryly, and Rupert colored consciously.

“I give you credit for just as nice discrimination,”
he retorted. “Wait till you see my friend, Webster,
and if he doesn’t take the palm I shall ‘lose my guess,’
as the Yankees say.”

“That is American slang; they are all insufferably
coarse,” Lillian returned, contemptuously.

“Did you meet the pretty little American, Miss
Alexander, at Lady Dunforth’s the other evening,
Lillian ?” inquired Sir William.

icone I met her,” the girl admitted, rather ungra-
ciously.

‘Well, you would hardly class her among those
whom you term coarse, would you? J thought her an
unusually attractive girl.”

“No; Ladmit she appeared very pretty and lady-
like; and yet I have no doubt that she would soon
betray her nationality if one was to see much of her.”

“Neither have I; and she would be proud to own
it, also, Pll wager,’ Rupert observed, with some
spirit.

He was out of patience with Lillian’s unreasonable
prejudices, and her slighting tone in speaking of
Virgie made him indignant.

che looked up at him with a mocking smile on her
red lips.

“When shall we have the pleasure of tongratu-

sate you upon your Amercan conquest?” she asked,
saucily.
'“T shall take great pleasure in informing you when
the proper time arrives,’ he replied, with studied
politeness, and with a seriousness that drove all
color from the girl’s face and made her heart sink
like lead in her bosom.

At that moment the butler entered the room with
a telegram, which he presented to Sir WiHiam, and
then withdrew.

The baronet tore it open and read:

“Come to Middlewich at once. William has had a
dangerous fall. MARGARET HEATH.”

Middlewich was the country seat of the nobleman
to whom the baronet’s cousin, William Heath, was
private secretary, and it was to this place that he was
now so peremptorily summoned. :

Lady Linton, in her hiding-place, heard her brother
read this telegram, with a thrill of joy.

She was glad of anything that would take him out
of London and away from the danger of meeting
“that woman,” and she resolved that it should go
hard with herif she could not find some way of op-
posing other barriers before his return. It was a
desperate case, and she was prepared for desperate
measures. e

 

Sir William, glancing keenly into the flushed face of

lay it for the present, until she secures the property |

She crept out of her brother’s chamber with a .
drawn face, saying toherself that Rupert Hamilton
should never fulfill his engagement with Virgie Alex-
ander, if there was any powet,on earth to prevent it;
she could never bear the humiliation of it.

She packed her brother’s portmanteau with alac-
rity, and promised to attend faithfully to his various
commissions during his absence, and uttered a sigh
of relief when the carriage drove from the door,
and she knew that he was well on his way to Mid-
dlewich. 5

. (TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

Detective Against Detective.

By DONALD J. McKENZIE, ~

Author of “‘ Miriam Blair,?? “The Wall Street
- Wonder,” ‘‘Under His Thumb,” “The Murray
Hill Mystery,” “‘The Grand Park
Sensation,” etc., etc.

(“DETECTIVE AGAINST DETECTIYR” was commenced in
No. 46. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents.]

&

CHAPTER XLVI.
A SINGULAR PREDICAMENT.

Croly was now in one of those situations which at
times come to all of us, where he would have liked to
possess a double personality, that he might be in two
separate localities at one and the same time.

was to make achoice between the two important
duties at hand. . fc

In the first place he had made an appointment to
meet Colton, who had promised a confession. It was
possible the man would fail to putin an appearance,
although it was more likely that he would do so,
since it was no longer for his interest to shield the
man who employed him. And here was the most
famous bank-burglar and safe-opener in the country,
and probably the chief actorin the Gilsey robbery,

evidently bent on escaping from the city. Ifhe got
away he might elude pursuit for years, go cautious
and crafty had he become.

“T can find Colton easier than this skillful rascal,”
was the mental suggestion that decided Croly, al-
most upon the instant, what to do.

At the same time he took note of the street-car en-
tered by Hope, to make sure that he could identify it
when it reached the ferry. Then he looked about him
for a public cab.

He saw one close at hand. A man had just hailed
it, and was in the act of entering the vehicle. In an
instant the detective was at his side, with a hand on
the stranger’s arm. : P

*‘Have you engaged this carriage, sir?”

The man was a young dry-goods clerk, and some-
thing of an upstart. He retorted insolently, without
glancing at the one who had addressed him.

“Looks like it, I should oe

“T am in great haste. I will give you five dollars to
find another vehiele and give this up to me.”

The young man flung off the detaining hand and
retorted, contemptuously ;

“T guess you can find another as wellasI can. Get
out ofmy way.”

And he placed one foot on the carriage steps.

But he was at that instant suddenly lifted from his
feet and deposited, in no gentle. manner, upon the
sidewalk. And before the young man could recover
from his astonishment, he saw the spectacled stran-

erspring into the carriage, and heard him shout,
mperatively, to the driver:

“To Desbrosses street ferry, quick! Double fare!”

The driver did not hesitate. e had eiough expe
rieneé with city characters to know which of t
two menit was advantageous to obey when there
was a conflict of authority. He chose such a man as
this crisp-toned, spectacled stranger, under such cir-
cumstances, every time. _ :

Croly kept an eye out for the horse-car which he
had “spotted” as containing Hope, the burglar.
Once or twice he ordered the driver to stop, that he
might scrutinize the numerous street-cars which
they were passing. : .

They soon cameup with the one which Hope had
entered, and Croly was even able to catch a glimpse
of the burglar himself in the car. :

That the man was on his way to the ferry the de-
tective had no doubt. And thence he was proba-
By. bound for one of the railway stations in Jersey

ty.

“And from there he will betake himself to parts
unknown,” was the detective’s reflection.

To follow the burglar without attracting the lat-
ter’s attention was not an easy thing todo. Theman
had for years been a fugitive from justice, baffling the
greatest detectives of the whole country.
Croly had slight hopes of being able to capture
him, eyen then. But he was resolved to have either
the burglar or the boosy which he had obtained from
the Gilsey Savings Bank. : ,

He had noticed that Hope carried a small gripsack
when he entered the street-car. It was not improb-
able that the valuables he had obtained were in that
simple receptacle, a means of transportation which
would be the least likely to attract notice. ,
Reaching the ferry, Croly dismissed the carriage,
and then stationed himself to watch for the arrival
of the famous burglar.

Having arrived in advance of the street-car, he
had several moments to wait. .

A ferry-boat was on the point of starting, and as it
would make close connectioir at Jersey City with a
West-bound express, the throng of passengers was
unusually large.

“He will be late for this boat, sure,’’ was the detec-
tive’s comment. ?

The words had scarcely shaped themselves in his
mind, however, before two or three persons rushed
past in frantic haste. The foremost was a lank
youth, who carried a gripsack, and, as Croly after-
ward decided, the same valise he had noticed in the
possession of Hope. Next followed a stout man,
who puffed hard with the violent exertion, and last
came James Hope himself, undisguised, and his in-
telligent countenance evincing no sign of apprehen-

sion.

Croly saw these three belated individuals hasten
aboard the boat. They were barely intime. ‘The de-
tective followed at the last moment, congratulating
himself upon his success in keeping so close to the
burglar.

Although thelank youth and Hope did not appear to
be even acquainted, the detective was soon convinced
that they were in reality in company ; in other words,
that the youth acted in the capacity of a sort of valet
to the famous burglar.

When they reached Jersey City, Croly saw them
both make their way to the passenger station of the
Pennsylvania Railroad ; yet they kept separate. He
saw Hope’ purchase a ticket, and within tiveminutes
Croly knew what station the fugitive’s ticket was’
for. But the lank youth bought no ticket, and in-
stead of remaining in the passenger waiting-rooms
he sauntered out upon the street, followed a moment
after by Hope. : 4

As the express was about to leave, Croly was sur-

prised to see them thus hazard losing their train, for
another for the station to which Hope had bought
the ticket would not leave for several hours.
The detective’s interest and curiosity were now as
keenly aroused as they had ever been in the course
of his experience. The ordinary criminal is sure to
do one of two or three things. But such a man as
James Hope; who had proved himself able to throw
the greatest detectives in the world off the scent,
on likely to do the most unlikely and unlooked-for
things. : :

The detective followed the burglar and the lank
youth to the street. He saw the latter hasten toward
the rear of a large builling; he saw Hope come
up with him, and the two exchange hasty words,
then separate.

Here again Croly needed a double ee: It
occurred to him, in a flash, that the lank youth had
the booty in the valise, and that he was to make his
escape in one way, while the burglar himself chose
another course. The detective wanted the man, and
he wanted still more the valuables which had been
burglarized from the vaults of the Gilsey Savings
Bank.

“There is hope of finding the man at some future
time,” he reasoned. “But the booty, it is likely, will
be so effectually disposed of that only apart of it, at
best, can be recovered. I must have the booty first—
the burglar next.” ~

This was the decision, which was acted upon the
instant it was taken.

The lank youth had left the street, and was then
skulking toward a spacious freight-yard, with its
ways of railroad tracks, switches, and cars.

This yard is supposed to be guarded atall times, to
prevent idlers from trespassing. But for some reason
the gatemen did not notice the lank youth as he
glided past, nor the alert detective who silently fol-
lowed. Perhaps the rain which had begun falling
drove them from their post, for gatemen, like other
mortals, are sometimes derelict in duty.

The locality was imperfectly ligh Numerous
trains were switching backward and forward; loco-
motives puffed and hissed; lanterns, red, green, or
white, glimmered here and there, or swung to and
fro and in circlesin the hands of signaling brake-
men.

Amid all this weird clatter and confusion Croly,

the detective, stole after the lank youth, who seemed,
despite frequent stopping and shifting of course, to
have a well-defined purpose and destination.

The detective was obliged to proceed with caution,

 

because if the me should see him there would be
an excellent chance for the latter to give him the

slip. Still the pursuer constantly drew nearer the
ae until confident that the time to strike was at
and.

The youth reached one of several cars standing on
one of the many turn-outs. This was a green freight-
car, Which looked almost black in the gloom; and the
wide door, standing open, seemed blacker yet. Croly
was close behind the youth as the latter stopped and
peered into the open car. The detective was on the
point of arresting him at the mom ; his hand was
outstretched for that purpose; but the youth, with a
sudden bound, sprang in through the yawning door-
way of the car and disappeared.

_“Thave him secure now, at all events,” the detec-
tive thought. At the same moment he heard the
sound of voices and approaching footsteps. Fearin

 

Since such a feat was impossible, all he could do |-

that the comers were brakemen who would compe
him to enter into explanations at a most inoppor-
tune moment, he hastily sprang into the car which
the lank youth had ontpeed. :

‘The instant he did so a descending club hissed over
his head, and before he could elude or ward off the
blow he was felled. to the floor of the ear.

For a minute or two his senses were benumbed by
the blow, and he lay perfectly motionless, only
faintly conscious of the sounds arennd him. Then
his senses came back to him and he struggled to his
feet. Me was enshrouded inimpenetrable gloom, and
could neither hear nor see anything of -his assailant.

A glance at the door of the car showed that it had
been closed, and doubtless it was padlocked and
sealed on the outside. That was not all. There was
a clatter, a jolt, and the car in whichC roly was thus
inadvertently imprisoned was in motion.

CHAPTER XLVII
THE VALISE.

Croly, the detective, was in a most unique situa-
tion.. To be imprisoned in a freight-car, which was
doubtless bound for some distant destination, was a
predicament. so totally unlooked for that he had had
no time to avert it. i

His head still whirled from the blow which he had
received. But the call for immediate action caused
his reason to assert itself, and in a moment he had
lighted his pocket-lantern, and by its focused rays
saw his surroundings. :

he car was nearly full of boxes and_ bales, there
being only a narrow unoccupied space in the middle
between the two doors. His assailant was not in
view. It was likely he had leaped from the ear the
instant the blow had been struck, and thus made
good his escape.

Croly sprang to the door and tried to roll it back,
butin vain. The car was moving slowly, but with a
jolting motion that proved the difference between
the springs of a freight and those of a passenger ear.
He heard a brakeman running along on tep of the
car, and presently the train came to a stop, after
several violent jolts that hearly threw the detective
off his feet. Then Croly heard voices outside, and
listening, overheard the following brief collequy.

“Who sealed up this car?’ demanded the first
speaker, in an authoritative tone. _

“T did. Joe told me to,” was the answer.

“Joe knew better, for there was a box of goods
a had been left out, and I intended to have it put
in here.” 7

“Joe said it could go in number 360.”

“All right, if there is room, But it ought to have
been put in this car, where it belonged.”

Then a hand rattled the padlock on the door, and
Croly, standing within, exclaimed: :

“Here! let me out!’ ;

As it chanced, however, the train again started at
the very moment the words were uttered. The clat-
ter drowned the detective’s voice, and the car was
jerked away from where the brakeman and con-
ductor were standing. 4 : ‘ ;

“Help! Here! here!’’ shouted Croly, in stentorian
tones.

But others beside himself were shouting, and the
moving cars, as they clattered over ‘frogs” and
switches, made a noise that was almost deafening to
the ieee detective. Thump, thump, thump,
sounded a pair of boots overhead—an r brake-
man running on top of the ear. Hiss, hiss from a
locomotive which passed on another track. And
Croly, the detective, made up his mind that he was
Sneqet to take a journey, whether he liked it or
not.

By this time the freight train was well under way.
There could be no doubt that it had done with
switching, and was now leaving Jersey City. And it
then occurred to Croly, with a force of logic as un-
welcome as it was potent, that the chances of escape
from the car before its destination should be reached
were far from being brilliant. Ae

Both doors were secure, and neither could be
broken down. So nothing could be done until the
train should stop ata station. It occurred to Croly
to glance at one of the boxes to see for what station
it was marked.
indicated was Chicago, Ill. And other packages
were marked the same, showing that the car would
not be unsealed until the city named was reached.
Croly seated himself to reflect. Then it occurred
to him to examine the goods stored in the car, to see
if there was anything in the way of food or drink, of
which necessities he would feel the need, if many
hours should intervene before he should succeed in
making his escape. : :

In overhauling the boxes and barrels, he discover-
ed a Small open space near the forward end of the
ear. And as he sent the focused rays of his lantern
into the dark space, a long, lank, human figure sprang
erect, and co mted him. It was the figure of the
youth whom he had seen enter the car with the
valise; and in his hand genet a@ revolver which
was held with remarkable steadiness ‘of aim, con-
sidering his seeming lack of years, .

“Oho!” exclaimed Croly, turning the rays of his
lantern full upon-the youth’s face. ea ;

“Aha!” retorted the other, in insolent imitation of
the detective’s voice andspeech.  __.

Scarcely had the exclamation passed his lips, how-
ever, before the pistol was knocked from his grasp;
and before he could recoil, another werful sweep
of the detective’s hand sent the youth himself tum-
bling headlong against a tier of boxed freight.

Croly followed up his attack so swiftly that the
other could not make even a show of defense. No
sooner did he attempt to regain his feet than another
blow sent. him reeling baékward n. Twice was
this maneuver repeated, with similar result. Then
the youth cowered upon the tier of boxes shakin;
with fear, and his head dizzy with the blows he
received. ¢

“Shall I follow up the treatment?’ Croly quietly
demanded. ; ‘ ; co as

“No. For mercy’s sake, don’t hit me again!”

oaned the youth; for the detective did not spare

is muscle in dealing the blows.

“Then stand up and let me look at you. If we are
to be fellow-passengers, we might as well get ac-
quainted.” ; ;

The youth stood up. He evidently realized that he
had: met more than his match, and yet there was
a sullen gleam in his lead-colored eyes that was
in its way defiant. :

“You look like the fellow who struck me a treach-
erous blow afew moments since. Why did you do
it? Tell the truth.” :

“T meant to throw you out of the car,” was the low

reply. - ‘
“Why did you wish to do that?’
“To get rid of you.”
“You preferred to ride alone ?”
“Yes,’

; “Have you paid your fare t
0.

on

“Then you are a stowaway ?”

“T suppose so.” :

“And do you know what the railroad company does
with such ?” ga’

‘No.’

“It prosecutes them, and makes them pay the se-
verest penalty.” : :

“That is allright. But they won’t prosecute me.”

“Why not?’ ;

“Because they won’t have a chance.” 3

oe that I arrest you myself, and give you
into the hands of the railway officials when we reach
the next station ?”

“You wouldn’t do that.” cs

“Why not?”

“Because you’re in the same boat, so to speak.
Ain’t you a stowaway, mister?”

“Not intentionally.”

“Then how d’ye happen to be in here ?”

“Because I was shut in by accident.”

“That’s just my case. All an accident, mister.”

And the odd youth grinned, displaying a double
row of yellow, uneven teeth. :

“Look here, young man,” said the detective, stern-
ly, “this is no time nor place for sport. You have
gotten yourself into serious difficulty. You dida
bold and treacherous thing when you knocked me
— few moments ago. What impelled you to

0 it

“T told ye I wanted to throw you out of the car.”

“Because you thought I was going to prevent your
escape 9 Soy te

“Yes.”

“Why did you not throw me out after you had
stunned me ?”’ :

“T didn’t have a chance.”

“What prevented ?”’

“Some of the railroad fellers came along and shut
the door.”

“Did they glance in ?”’

“Yes, and I skipped over here so they wouldn’t see
me. I didn’t care if they did find you.”

“You have told me a toletably straight story so far.
But you haven’t explained the whole affair yet. You
must tell tell me where you wished to go.”

“To Chicago,” was the answer, uttered with sullen
directness. *

“Why did you wish to'steal your ride ?”’

“To save money.” s

“Then you have no money ?” : ‘2

“T haven’t enough to take me to Chicago and do
what I want to after I get there.” ;

“Why didn’t your employer give you money ?”

“Hey! What do you mean?” ~ ;

“Just whatI say. Why did not the man whose
valise you have with you pay your fare on a passen-

 

ger train as civilized people do ?”

 

 

To his dismay the destination thus |

coca THE N EW YORK WEEKLY. eee 10,

«%

 

 

aan isin iepacetmeniscie ite = oa

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 483—No, 10.

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cae

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‘THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =~

 

The youth’s sallow cheeks turned pale, and he in-
voluntarily recoiled under the searching gaze of the
detective, who kept the rays of the small lantern con-

centrated full upon his countenance.
“T don’t understand, mister,” he faltered.
“T will explain, then.

into this car.”
The youth’s face lighted up.
“IT know what you mean now, mister.

take charge of a valise for him,” he said.

Croly wassurprised that the youth shouldso frankly
admit the truth. But he was not thus to be thrown

off his guard.

“TI followed you,” the detective resumed, in his
quiet, confident tones, ‘to arrest you and obtain
possession of the valise. What have you got to. say

about it?” ;
The other hesitated, and then said:
“You may
mister.”
‘““And the valise ?”
“You know as well where to find that as I do.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Croly, in sudden

excitement.

“T gave the yalise to somebody else just before I

got into the car, and he took care of it,” was the low,
triumphant reply. , ;
. “That is false, young man !” retorted the detective.

At the same instant he directed the rays from the
lantern across the open space, and they fell upon the

valise itself.
At the same instant Croly leaped
and seized the object of his quest.

struggle ensued.

CHAPTER XLVIITI.
A MYSTERIOUS BOX OF FREIGHT.

Although the youth fought most desperately to
take the valise away from the detective, it seemed
absurd that he should make a struggle which could
not be other than fruitless.

Croly amen him aside with scareely a moment's de-
lay, and had full possession of the valise. In another
moment he had placed handcuffs upon the youth,
thus putting an end to all further attempts at resist-
ence. , ;

Tu the excitement of the moment the detective’s
only thought had been to possess himself of what he
believed to be the receptacle of the valuables stolen
from the Gilsey Savings Bank. But as soon as the
struggle was over, and the prize in his possession, it
occurred to him that the youth’s attempt to conceal
the valise had not been as clever as seemed consist-
pone with the plan of escape upon which he had set
ou

Evenif the youth was dull-witted, Jimmy Hope,
the burglar, was not, and it was not likely that the
noted cracksman had left any moyes of importance
to be managed alone by an inefficient confederate.

With this reflection came a fear that the valise did

not contain the valuables, and to settle all doubts at |

the outset, Croly demanded of the youth:

“Where is the key to unlock this?” .

“T don’t know,” was the sullen reply.

ee the man give it to you?”

o“ — 7

“We'll see about it.”

Despite the youth’s remonstrances, the detective
made a thorough search of his pockets. But-to no
purpose. He then proceeded to try keys of his own;
but none of them would fit. At last he was compelled
to cut the leather of which the receptacle was made,
and thus, after a measure of irritating delay, at last
succeeded in disgorging it of its contents.

_The youth watched his movements with an expres-
- sion of interest and curiosity.

There were several packets of pa
done up as they do them in banks. ut the contents
of the first proved to be non-negotiable seeurities—
valuable to the bank from which they had been
stolen, but worthless to the burglar. The other
packets were of the same character. And Croly
realized that, although he had secured papers of
value, still the bulk of the booty taken from the Gil-
sey Bank remained to be recovered.

{n the meantime fully an hour had elapsed, during
which period the freight-train had rumbled and
jolted incessantly on its way.

At this juncture the detective’s interest was excited
by a perceptible decrease of speed. Again there was
the increased clatter made by the trucks passing
over switches and crossings: and there were other
sounds, indicating that, they were entering a large
station. —

In another moment the train came to a stop, and
the sounds of brakemen running along the top of the
ear, and of muffled voices, also were repeated.

Croly went to a door and beat upon it with an iron
bolt which he picked up in the car. He shouted at
the top of his voice, not wishing to journey further,
when his time was so valuable if he could be at
liberty. : 5 ;

But his attempts to attract attention again proved

fruitless. He persisted in them until the train was
again in motien.. Rub itv svumeut asvICsd, Ape » ae

length desisted, when, to his surprise, the train stop-
ped, backed, went forward, backed again, and came
to a pause which was not broken, although he could
hear the main part of the train moving away.
‘The meaning was easy to divine. This car, with
several others probably, had been switched onto a
side track ae there ee pee they were tobe opened
was among the uncertainties. ae
With moth tithe better to do, Croly returned to the
lank youth, who still lay helpless upon a bale of mer-
chandise.
ped,

i

rs, which were

“Our car has stop and it has not reached
Chicago either,” he said, watching the youth’s coun-
tenance closely. ‘

The latter expressed unmistakable surprise, not
unmingled with dismay.

“Are you sure it isn’t go
slight tremor in his tones.

“Tt has been lett on a side track, and the rest of the
train has gone along.” ar? a

“But this car was going through to Chicago.

“How do you know?” Parte

“The feller that told me to go in it said so.”

“How did he know?’ e

“Inquired at the freight office, I suppose.

“You may have entered the wrong car.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Course I am.”

ing on again?” he asked, a

There was a look on the fellow’s face that Croly

did not understand. He had some secret, it was

plain, which he had not yet explained in answer to

the detective’s question.
Croly continued :
“You were to mee
suppose ?”
“TT didn’t say s

t your employer at Chicago, I

0,” was the reply.

The detective let his hand fall oe on the

shoulder, and in a stern voice sai

routh’s
m ll me the truth about this matter,

“You will te
youn
that I have inside of me. ‘
too long already. Now, answer my question!”

‘The other trembled perceptibly, and his face turn-
ed pale. * ;

“JJ expected to see him at Chicago,” he faltering-

ly admitted.

“He was to arrive on another train—an express ?””

The other hesitated a moment, and then answered :

“Yes.”

“Why do you tell me this?” exclaimed Croly, shak-
ing his forefinger before the pallid face of the youth.

“Because it——”

You have a valise contain-
ing valuables, which a man hired you to run away
with. The man who employed you is a noted burg-
lar. Isaw you talking together just before you got

IT don’t know
anything about the man being a burglar, but he
wanted me to steal aride to Chicago, and I was to

put the darbies on me if you want to,

t the youth, :
The other uttered
a cry, and strove to take it away, and another brief

man, unless you care to stir wp the ugly streak
I have palavered with you

He had not long to wait. The men outside were
removing the -padlock and seal, and it struck Croly
that they were rather bungling about it, to judge by
the time they occupied. ;

“A queer time of night to openacar and remove
freight,” was the detective’s mental comment, as the
door of the car rolled back and two men with lan-
terns sprang in.

“A plain box, with holes in the side, and marked
‘B.S. B., Chicago,’” said one of the men, reading
from what appeared to be a forwarding bill.

“There it is,” said the other, pointing to a long,
narrow box which lay inconspicuously near several
smaller boxes. ,

They took hold of the box in question and ex-
amined it carefully. One of them tried to peer in
through the small apertures in the side. But he evi-
dently saw nothing. They then lifted it carefully
between them, and in another moment had deposited
it in the wagon, which in the meantime had been
backed up to the door.

Croly waited for them to drive away from the car.
Tt was very dark outside, and he found it easy ”
drop from the ear and crawl under it, just as one 0
the men returned to close and lock the door.

As the express wagon with the two men and their
mysterioug freight drove away, striking out upon a
quiet country road, neither suspected that the lithe
form of Croly, the detective, was clinging with pa-
tient persistence underneath the rear of the wagon-
body. It was astrange situation. How was it to end?

‘ (TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

—>

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

TWO “FAMOUS” GIRLS.

A STORY OF THE

Trials and Triumphs of Two Poor Girls.

By JOHN De MORGAN,
Author of “Nellie, the Mill-Hand,” etc.

(“Two ‘Famous’ GirLs” was commenced in No. 50
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.}

CHAPTER XXXVIII.—CONTINUED.)

OST men who looked upon
Patrice at once realized that
there was in her beauty some-
thing different from that in
any other pretty woman.
That difference could not be
described,. it must be seen
and felt.

There was an irresistible
something which caused
every one to look at her, and

; having looked, it was impos-
sible to prevent the eyes ever after turning in that
direction.

She was the “belle of the ball,” and while she was
so exquisitely beautiful, she was charming in her
manner. ory

No wonder that the heir to the Marmaduke millions
should crave the honor of her hand for the first
dance.

What a couple they were! He was tall and well

roportioned, manly in his bearing, and a perfect

aca while she, with her lovely auburn hair, and
“sweet face, made a striking contrast, and seemed to
make a perfect picture. 5

There were two men who watched the gyrations of
the couple, and were ill at ease.

Douglas Fitzgerald had been persuaded to come,
though his heart was heavy at the continued mystery
of Maggie’s absence, and as he watched his ward, his
heart beat wlth almost a fury of excitement.

Many a battle he had fought with himself. There
was such a fascination unintentionally exercised
over him by Patrice, that he often imagined he loved
her, but when he thought of Maggie, there was a
stronger feeling of love. Douglas was a man, not an
angel, and he loved both girls. Nay, start not. He
loved them both, but with a different love, and while
it might be true of him as of others that he often
felt—
“How happy could I be with either,
Were t’other dear charmer away,”
Yet his heart told him that Maggie was dearer to
him than Patrice, yet—and here was the difficulty—
as he saw Patrice whirl past him, and saw the smile
of gladness and pleasure_on.hex face, haxesolved thet
yer near him. . ;
But on the oppposite side of the room, there was
another watcher who bit his mustache, and wrinkled

 

 

 

ven. Mew Uta fem macs tkue ye
for your ¢c

and it is so in

“Patrice, I love you!
speak; I dare not delay. Oh, cannot you see
that my brain will go mad unless Ispeak? Oh, say!
can you not learn to love me? Be my wife—my own
for life! Without you life would-be a dreary blank, a
winter of snow and ice; but with you, my beautiful
Patrice, it would be transformed into a perpetual
summer, and from a desert would become a garden.
Oh, my darling, do notsay me nay. I can wait, if I
have but hope. The years even might pass, if I knew
that at their end I should clasp you in my arms, my
own, my very own! Say, dearest, can you love me!”

Patrice had listenedjto the sweet words, and won-
dered at herself. Gradually, as the honeyed phrases
which she knew to be honest, fell upon her ears and
cane deep into her heart, a great transformation took
place. ,

When she entered the conservatory she was a
child, happy, gay, and full of fun; now she was
transformed into a woman, and felt that she had to
decide as to her future, and would have to bear the
trials as well as enjoy the pleasures of life. 7

She felt a glow of life-tire pass over her. Every
nerve thrilled with joy; every fiber of her body
seemed animated with a new life. Was that love?
If so, she loved Tom Norton. She looked up shyly
into his eyes, and——

But there was no need for words; he had pressed
her to his breast, and the warm kisses of first love—
full of electricity, of life—were showered on the
beautiful mouth—a mouth which was made to kiss—
lips rich with nectar, which one had only to touch,
when love had waved her wand over them, to feel an
ecstasy which nothing in the world can ever equal,
and which cannot be excelled in the whole of God’s
universe.

In the midst of that passionate and happy moment
Patrice drew away and whispered hastily: —

“Tom, who is that talking ?”

Tom Norton was annoyed at the interruption—who
would not be ?—but listened.

“That is Harry Carondelet’s voice.”

“Are you sure?” —

“T am—the scoundrel! Why?’

“Tt was he who paid for the attempted murder of
Doctor McPherson.”

“Are you certain?’

“T could swear to that voice anywhere. Oh, Tom,
what shall we do!” -

It was a strange ending to that. happy time, but
Norton was quite as desirous of bringing Carondelet
to justice as any one, and he led Patrice round, the
eonservatory until they came face to face with the
accomplished scoundrel, and Patrice heard him
speak pee :

“Ttis he. I will swear it.”

“Then he shall be arrested. Come, my dear, and
we will commence-our engagement by bringing a
Villain to justice.

‘Our engagement?”

**Yes.” : :

“But you have not asked Douglas.”

‘Tom muttered something which did not sound the
most refined of expressions, but it showed that he
feared the result of that interview with the guardian
of the fair Patrice.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
“YoU SHALL NOT ESCAPE ME.”

When Maggie Coyle saw ‘Carondelet standing be-
fore her with a wicked gleam in his eye, she realized
the enue of her position.

What exaltation there was in that exclamation,
“You are mine, body and soul! Ha, ha! Mine!
mine!”

The villain was sure of his victim. Never did ab--
ductor make more certain of every aoe The people
he had employed to convey her to the haunted house
were his slaves—ay, no other word could possibly
express their condition. They were both guilty of
crimes which would eonsign them for years to the
living death of a prison cell, and at any moment
ae liberty was entirely at the mercy of Caron-
elet. :
He had but to speak the word and the sword would
fall. They knew his power, and he made them feel
it every day. They were to be free as long as they
served his purpose and. aided him in his vile plots,
but once let them hesitate or waver, and they real-
ized that nothing could save them.
It was not likely that any one would ever think of
searching for Maggie at the haunted house, and the
neighbors were too frightened ever to go near it.
All this passed through the active brain of Caron-
delet as he faced his intended victim.
Mange looked at him, but for a minute she did not
speak.
She was thinking over her position, and wondering
in what way she could escape his power.
Carondelet was furious. This. was a mood for
which he was unprepared. He expected she would
wear herself out with angry denunciation, and then,
in the hysteria which would follow, he would get her
to commit herself and so give him a good chance to
effect his PUREE: :
He stood and stared in blank amazement.
“Did you hear me. Maggie ?” he sneered.
Still she made no reply.
“Oh, you are a silent as well as a co

1d heauty, are
ompany.. I loved you—yes, it may appear
strange, but sometimes truth is stronger than fiction.
this case. I really loved you, though I
did not realize. how much at the time, but you were

 

his face many atime. For weeks Tom Norton had
een sick with the love vere and his passion for
Patrice amounted almost to a frenzy.

He was most miserable. The young Irish girl had |
eaptured all hearts, and from young Marmaduke
down, there was not a young man but lost his heart |
that night.

Was —— happy?

No. here was some
tell what it was, but oo ro told her that w

sould not be perfectly happy.
= At frst she was irritated by the conduct of Douglas
and Norton, who had both kept aloof from her.

That feeling became so strong that it was difficult
to restrain herself. The rebellious tears welled u
in her eyes, only making them, however, more beauti-
ful. Then her Irish blood asserted itself, and with a |
toss of her pretty head she resolved to havea merry |
time even if neither of her favorite eavaliers asked
her to dance. ‘i

aa one after another ‘craved the honor’ of adance
with her, the two masculine watchers saw her eyes
sparkle with delight, and her cheeks flush with
pleasure.

hing wanting. She could not
hex : ithout

 

“She is a born flirt!” thought Douglas.
“T would give my right hand, if I could win such a |
smile from her,” was Me idea which oceupi
in of the other cavalier. - 3

ene both seemed restrained from putting her to |
the test. ; |

“Tom, Tam ashamed of you. Not once have you
danced to-night,” and Mrs. Norton’s eyes flashed fire
as she admonished her son. ’

“Don’t care to dance.” b

“What nonsense! You are the best dancer in
room.”

“There is only one I care to dance
t card is full.”

“Sour grapes, eh?
mouse.” ‘ =

“But she cares not for me——”’ - A

“Faint heart never won fair lady, you know.”

Mrs. Norton’s dearest wish was that Patrice might
become her daughter-in-law, and she believed such
would be the case if Tom would but speak.

As she walked away, she felt almost angry
son.

As for Tom, he was nerv
mother’s words roused him,
he had written his name three d

ed the |

the
with, and her

Tom, your courage is that of a

with her

ous and ill at ease, but his
and a few minutes later
ifferent times on the

 

“Stop! .. want the truth.” The detective produced | belle’s card.

a revolver and pr

youth’s forehead. :

see if there is any virtue in force.

pect your e

press train. g sh

stowaway, like yourself. Now tell the truth.
“Yes, yes!” the other eagerly answered. iS
“Then why didn’t you say so in the first place?
“He told me not to tell.”

“Now for another question. On what train was he

to arrive—before, or after yourself ?”

The youth again hesitated, but the muzzle of the
weapon was pressed against his forehead with a

force that was fairly painful.

“The truth!” SE att

“He was to go on this train,

‘This was a surprise to the detective. “Jimmy’
Hope was indeed a deep one. At the same time
had taken a rest pers
stroke in all his checkered experience.

Before Croly fairly compreh
disclosure, something occurred
his attention. Some one ‘had

speaker held u
“And if the

to unload it.

it isn’t damaged.

P a lantern close to the door.

It is billed all straight, anyhow.
Pretty delicate sort of goods tk

send in this fashion,” remarked the other man out-

side. - :
A sudden thought flashed rk
detective. Could it be POS
And what should he do '
~ No sooner did he ask himself the last question that
his own alert brain found an wenswer. nding ove
the youth, he exclaimed, in an intense whisper :
“Whatever :
under penalty of a bullet through your brain.
mean whatI say. Do you comprenend ?*
“Yes, yes!” was the husky response.

The next moment the youth found himself lifted in
the strong arms of the detective and borne to the
There was a quan-
tity of furniture, loosely packed, and affording an ex- |

forward extremity of the car.
cellent hiding-place.
Thrusting

. and ee ate command’ re
silence, the de
forth to see what would next occur.

essed the cold muzzle against the
“Tf it must come to this, we will
You do not ex-
mployer to arrive at Chicago on an ex-

tre was coming in on a freight, as a

e
onal risk—perhaps the boldest

ended this startling
to effectually divert |
approached the door of
the car, or, rather, more than one person, for when
the sound of footsteps ceased those of voices began.

“This is the car,” said one voice, and Croly could
see a rift of light flash in through a crevice as the

reight is all right, all we have to do is
Hope

1 the brain of the
e asked himself.

happens, do you not utter a ee

is prisoner SON eae hae a

once veral articles,
aoe roreaeme” Wee Sete io ating absolute | such beauty so nerved him that, had his life depend-
tive crawled hastily aud cautiously | ed on silence, he wo

He had won moré than a smile, for had he but
known, there passed through Patrice a thrill which
she had not felt before, and as she gave him her card
her hand trembled and she was flushed and agi-

tated.

Oh! what a rapture she felt in that waltz! Both
were perfect dancers; their feet kept time to the
soft, dreamy music, and their hearts beat in unison
also. .
e Every throb of the one heart was answered by a
delicious thrill fromthe other. As Tom’s hand clasped
hers, she felt the electric shock of affinity pass through
her. It was arare happiness, and the very perfec-
tion of joy. :

The dance over,
conservatory.

She was ih a dreamy state of mind and had no
power of resistance, even if she had any desire to de-
cline the cool tete-a-tete.

Tom escorted Patrice to a pleasant seat. which
seemed formed for the very purpose. It was sur-
rounded by sweetly perfumed flowers and close to
them stood an orange tree laden with blossoms so
suggestive of Hymen’s sacred hour.

Tom had suddenly grown courageous, and was
already eloquent, at least so his companion thought.

“Miss Fitzgerald I think the waltz almost heaven-
ly,” said Tom, as he heard the music again com-
mence. i Sy

“Not heavenly, for it has one great fault.” .

“And that is ?”’

“It is too short,” responded Patrice.

“Yes. Oh, Patrice, it would be heav
have lasted for ever.” : }

The speech was a silly one, but Patrice thought it
the very essence of wisdom. :

If lovers could but see their speeches in print—as
some ill fated ones do their love letters when read in
a breach of promise case—how ashamed they would
feel.

Patrice made no answer. Tom followed up his ad-

vantage.

Would you like the waltz to last forever ; a

“T should get tired,” she answered.

“Tired of your partner, or the music?” _

“Guess, you silly fellow. Who would like to eter-
nally dance with the same partner ?”

She had turned the subject away from the danger-
round, but Tom was desperate now, and the
de of their retreat and the close proximity of

Tom led: his fair partner into the

»

)

enif it could

1
r

 

 

ous

solitu

uld have forfeited it rather than
not have spoken.

the cause of my humiliation.”

“You brought iton yourself,” she could not help

pees
No, don’t go away; I must

would rather die than be your wife.”

Carondelet ground his teeth with rage.
villain, and knew that if Maggie escaped that he
would be a fugitive from justice. His only hope now
was in her promise to marry him. For amoment he
hesitated.

There are times when the good and bad struggle
for the mastery. ( I
Catondelet hesitated as to his course.

unharmed, and trust to her generosity.
had he to force her to accept him against her will?
The evil spirit laughed and jeered at him, and call-

and that a strong man ought not tg succumh to a
weak young girl.

available was at hand.

which were very sharp.

She at least could cause him considerable pain, and
perhaps that would prevent his ever attempting
again to annoy her.

Carondelet had been looking out of the window,
and suddenly turned.

The evil had conquered.

into her very soul.

with excitement.

his passion was too great. When at, last he did

was standing with her back firmly pressed against

said :

“Maggie, be mine, and together we will, go far
away and live a life of bliss together.”

“Never.’”’

“But I eannot live without you. Promise. to be
mine and I will leave you; refuse and——’”

“T will never be yours—never!

shall be—J hate you.”
“Then, by thunder, you shall be mine!”
With a bound he crossed the room, and before

round the neck and his hot kisses burned and scorch-
ed her lips and cheeks.

in afew moments more she would be powerless.
She got one arm loose, and in an instant had sent
the point of the scissors a good way into his throat.

streaming down his clothes.
“You fiend!
as he pressed his handkerchief to the wound.

CHAPTER XL.
AN UNEQUAL CONTEST.
Maggie started back the moment she saw the tiny

ductor:
She covered her face with her hands, and for a mo-
ment was a prey to the deepest emotion.

quickness of a lightning flash she saw what the prob-

be mortally wounded and her hiding-place be dis-
covered.
The shock to her poor suffering mother would be
terrible, even though she knew that there was at
least one who would believe her version of the story.
Carondelet looked like a demon as he stood. there
trying to stanch the blood which gushed from the
tiny wound. He was speechless, not because his

strong will which had controlled him in the many
very narrow escapes he had experienced through |
life now came to his aid.
But though he did not speak, he glared and glow- |
ered at his intended victim. |
The two faced each other, and to an ontlooker the |
sight must have been in the highest sense ludicrous. |
What a combat! Onea strong athlete, with muscles |
like iron and sinews of steel-like strength, the other
a weak girl, without any physical power, and armed
only witha pair of scissors!
On Maggie’s face was a quiet look of determination. |
She was battling for her honor, and for even a higher |
principle than that—the right to protect herself |
against masculine aggression.

If Carondelet married her, she knew it would’ be a
loveless union, and Maggie had been taught that a
marriage without love was asin beyond compare.
Besides, her whole soul revolted against being
forced into a marriage with any one.

She loved as deeply 4s woman can.

Her love for Douglas, though all untold, was her
whole existence. It colored everything; and even if |
he never knew, even did he never love her, she would |
rather part with life than give up the exquisite bliss |
of that love. To her “’twas better to have loved and |
lost than never te haye loved AVA" us oe eeu vee
powerful, love a shop-girl? F

This she asked herself a thousand times, but when-
ever she did so the — always was the same, and
its burden never varied. 5
Mie loves me not,” she thought; “but I love him,
and for his sake I will never marry.”

}
|
|
|
|

 

es eae 9
“Let tha
tomer. I had.
manages there would not even
ordered me off the premises. That was your doing.
I vowed I would be equal with you. I would have
wooed you openly a Renorabiys but you gave me
uo chance, oat will be honest with you—I
was poor, and could not afford to marry a working-
girl. My time came. Isaw the chance and took it.
You are here, and mine!” / ‘

Maggie had listened attentively to his speech.
Carondelet was nearly exhausted with the excite-
ment; his lips and throat were dry, and his eyes
glared like balls of fire. _
~ Facing him, with her little hands clenched by her
sides, she said, through her closed teeth :

*T am here, I know, Sut I am not thine.”

‘Ha, ha, ha! Ihave not done. At the ‘Famous’
they believe you have eloped w ith alover, and your
place is filled by another. Your lover—ah, you start,
but I have seen how that cad, Fitzgerald, has looked
at you—your lover, I say, believes you false, and
your mother has disowned you.” }

“You lie, Mr. Carondelet! and your lies are so |
transparent that it is a wonder you are foolish enough
to utter them.’

Maggie was still cool, and her words seemed to

freeze into her abductor’s very Marrow.
“J lie, do 1? Then read this ;” and he handed to her
a copy of the Globe-Democrat, in which she read an
account of a young shop-girl who had eloped witha
wealthy lover. j

No names were given, but every line was so worded
that all her friends must know it referred to her.

“My God, forsake me not!” she eried, in the agony
of despair. | 5 s

“You did right to call upon Him, for no human aid
can ever cometo you, and youare old enough to
know that the One you have appealed to does not in-
terfere in the affairs of the world.” . )

“Tis false! God will protect me, and you will yet
be sorry that youever attempted to blight my charac-
ter and ruin my life.”

“No heroies, please! When I want them I go down
to Pope’s Theater, and pay for an easy-seat while lis-
tening. Now we have to deal with facts. Once again
I tell you that you are compromised. If you went
right back into the city now, not one of your friends
would believe you. Your former associates would
pass you as 80 much dirt. A girl who falls can never
get back her position. Ah, you shudder, because you
know it’s truth. You know well that mysteriously
staying away from home won't be a recominenda-
tion; besides, your own confession——

“My confession!” repeated Maggie,
eyes widely. 3

“Well, l mean that letter you sent to the ‘Famous.

“T sent no letter.” é ; ,

“They received one which sai
turn, that your lover had promised you a fine house.
with a carriage to ride in, plenty of jewels and other
fol-de-rols, and that you preferred a life of ease to
one of hard work.” b b

“Have you added forgery to your other crimes ?

“All is fair in love, you know.”

“Don’t pollute such a word as love by ever uttering
if, Love. sir, is pure and holy, and seeks the happi-
ness of the loved one, and not her ruin.”

“Call it what you like, I know this—I have wanted
you, Maggie, ever since I first saw you. I have
craved for you. My whole nature has eried out for
you, and now T have you. Do what you will, say
what you like, there is no power can rescue you from
these walls. This house is mine, andis believed to be
haunted; no one dares come near it. Be imine, and
you can choose the finest residence in the city; or,
if you prefer it, in this State, for we are in Dlinois—
perhaps you did not know it. All that: wealth can
procure you shall have.”

. “T thotight you were poor,” she sneered ; ‘too poor
to marry a working girl ?”

“What a dunderhead I am,” he thought, but aloud
said: “f was then, but now-—well, I can command
enough to give you every luxury.”

“T apurn your offer as [ spurn you.
starve than accept your wealth. N
would I feel if Ileapéd into the rushing waters, and
there found rest, than ever have to acknowledge that

ass. I enter the ‘Famous’ as a cus-
dealt there before, but the cad who
accept my money, but

opening her

vo

you would not re-

T would rather
Nay, far better

There is love like that in many a maiden’s heart to-
day, and though its possessor is called “an old maid,”
yet she derives eee from that conscious love
whieh glows in her breast. :

This Gan just the ease with Maggie Coyle, and her
love for Douglas was a sacred thing. | '

She glared at Carondelet and waited for him to
speak, but as he still remained silent, she could keep
back her feelings no longer. P
“Let me leave this prison, and I will never tell of
the crime you have committed.” :

He looked at her asif again the good spirit was
about to assert its power, but a twinge and a fresh
flow of blood hardened him, and in a low, harsh voice,
he hissed: s
“Leave this place? Never! I tell you, Maggie
Goyle, that you shall stay here until on your
knees you beseech me to. wed you. Refuse, and yet
I’ll have you, but with this difference, that you never
again walk from here— Curse it!” The excla-
mation was addressed not to Maggie, but to the
wound which was now painful, owing to the exer-
tion of speaking.

sight of you makes me loathe and detest you, and I |

He was a |

This was one of the times, and |
The~good spirit whispered him to let the girl go |
What right |

ed him coward. Told him that possession was sweet, |
While these influences were contending Maggie |
had been looking round for a weapon, but nothing |

She felt in her pocket, and the only article she pos- |
sessed was a sinall pair of scissors, the points of |

It was a poor weapon, but better than nothing. |

: His lips were dry and

parched, his eyes were glazed and seemed to pierce |
His whole body was covered |
with cold perspiration, and every muscle quivered |
Twice he attempted to speak, but |
somewhat control himself, he looked at’ Maggie, who |

the wall, and, with a voice husky with passion, he |

] ! If you torture |
me until death comes to my relief, my last words

Maggie could offer any resistance, he had seized her |

She had been pinioned and could not use her arms. |
Maggie felt her strength leaving her, and knew that |

He relaxed his hold, and sprang back, the blood |

You shall not escape me!” he yelled,

stream of blood gush from the neck of her cruel ab-

The busy brain became more active, and with the |

able consequences would be to her, should Carondelet |

| “Go 9
| thanks the man got for his pains.
pain was so great, but he knew that the more he ex: |
cited himself the greater would be the risk. The |

| could offer.

“Let me bind up the wound, and then I would ad-
vise you to go to a surgeon as early as you can.”

Carondelet had lost so much blood that he could
not answer her. He staggered and would have
fallen had she not slipped a chair toward him, into
which he sank.
| She loosened his eollar, and with tender hands
, bound a handerchief tightly over the wound.
| _ “Now is my chance,” she thought, for with Caron-
| delet unconscious, what was to hinder her escape ?

She went to the door. It was locked.
With desperation she returned to the unconscious
|man and searched every one of his pockets, but no
key could be found.

She was confused for a few minutes, but it gradu-
ally dawned upon her that she had heard the door
locked, but not by Carondelet.

“Help!” she cried.

There was no answer.

She went to the door and looked through the key-
hole, but there was no sign of life visible.

Placing -her lips near the small aperture, she
shouted :

“Help! Your master is dying!”

, The noise of footsteps was heard, and she was soon
trembling with joy at the thought of deliverance.
, She heard a key placed in the lock, and saw the
| door opened.
| Aman entered, but the door was again suddenly
closed, and she heard the lock shot into its socket.

‘What's up?” asked the new-comer. i

“Your master is sick and has fainted. Let me fetch
a doctor.” :

“Ha, ha, ha! that a good ’un, ain’t itmow? You'd
|fetch a doctor mighty sharp, and a cop, too, I

reckon.”

“Let me go. TI will send a doctor.”

“No, you don’t. Take it easy, miss, for he’s a hard
|’un,” pointing to Carondelet. ‘I tell you that here

you'll stay until he says go, and that he won’t until
| he’s tired on you.” 3
| Maggie looked at the man, and tried to gauge his
| character.

“Let me out, and I will pay you well.”

“Look you here, miss; I don’t say I ain’t sorry for
you, forlam. I had a daughter that he shut up in
the same way, but he soon got tired of her, and she—
Bae FoR talk about my Sally; she’s dead, and I’m
glad.”

The strong fellow, villain as he was, had difficulty
to restrain the tears which would well up in his
| eyes.

“He betrayed your daughter?” she asked.

“He did. Curse him! I wish he was dead. Some-

| times I think as how I would——” And he clutched
an imaginary neck, and with teeth firmly set and a

| vicious look on his face, showed how he would relish

the strangling of his employer.

“Oh, that would be wrong!” said Maggie, although
she had perhaps given him a fatal wound.

“Wrong! Wasit wrong for him to murder my Sally?
Will ite wrong to murder you, as he will?”

“Then let me escape.”

| “No!” The hardness had returned. “He owns me,
body and soul, and if he told me to kill you, I’d do it.
| So there!”
| ‘For your Sally’s sake.”
‘‘Don’t mention her to me or I shall kill you as you
| Stand, for——”
| The sentence remained unfinished.
Carondelet showed signs of reviving, and the man
went over to his master and tried to rouse him.
| When he failed, he left the room, and a moment
| later returned with a bottle in his hand.
| A portion of the fiery spirit was poured down Car-
| ondelet’s throat, and the effect was almost magical.
| The wounded man opened his eyes, the color came
back to his cheeks, and a life-vigor seemed to ani-
mate him.
This was to his servant, and was the only

“Gol”

The man hesitated as though he would like to dis-~
obey, but Carondelet turned on him a fierce look and
the man slunk away to the door, which was quickly
opened by his.confederate outside, and as rapidly
closed. F

Maggie shrank back into a corner, and her blood
felt like ice as she heard her torturer mutter, for it
could hardly be called speaking:

“Stay here, ay, until starvation shall take the flesh
off your bones—until your eyeballs start from your
sockets. J’ll see you every day, and laugh at your
misery. And when death comes, I'll still watch until
the worms eat away your flesh, and then I'll send
your bones to your lover.”

“Oh, Heaven save me!” she cried, as she listened
to the horrible delirium.

“Be mine, Maggie!’

“Never 1”

“Then die!”

He staggered to his feet and gave a peculiar rap on
the door, which received a quick response, and a mo-
ment later Maggie was again alone.

What pleasure it was—pleasure to be rid of his
hated presence; but what agony was hers as she
thought over the hopelessness of her position.

She felt certain that he would return and be pro-
vided with a sure defense against ally resistance she

her strength was failing.

AS dneknees coktiaress ontilt the earth, she heard the
door opened, and as she looked saw a tray pushed
through. The door was again closed.

The hot steam from a teapot worked like a charm
on her troubled nerves, and though she had resolved
that nothing should pass her lips while she was re-
strained of her liberty, she could not resist, and to
her great surprise. found herself eating a hearty
supper. She feltrefreshed and stronger. More than
ever was she determined that she would rather die
than become the wife of Harry Carondelet.

Another night beneath that roof had to be en-
dured, and as she sat by the window, straining her
eyes to catch a glimpse of any life outside, she won-
dered if escape would ever be possible. The mice
and rats scampered over the floor, until she even
overcame her nervousness and grew accustomed to
them. :

The night passed, and morning came. The first
rays of the sun shone on her pale face, and as she
sat in the chair fast asleep, the sight was one which
should have moved a demon, but Harry Carondelet
was again there to make another effort to win her.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
— or or
“Who is that brute across the street who slaps

those little boys? Feracent I’d go over and kick,
him.” “Leave him alone. It’s the only comfort he

 

Maggie had a tender heart, and the loveliness of
woman’s nature came to the surface again as she
said, calmly:

has.” Why?” ‘“He’s editor of the ‘Children’s Corner’
| department of a weekly paper.”

 

 

 

I

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for one moment I entertained your vile proposals.”
There was a calm dignity about Maggie which
made Carondelét still more determined that she
should not escape him.
“Indeed! And why should y
tion ?” 3
“Because that is preferable to dishonor.
“Maggie, say the word, and I will marry you—this

ou prefer starva-

 

very day! I love you, and would rather have you
live as my wife than—— But there, you will not be
foolish. Say, will you be my wife?” :

“No!—a thousand times, no! I hate you, the very

 

 

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a OmaammeOmOmaOaeeeer OOOO»

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A Hint to Santa Claus.

Again Christmas is here, the great holiday, which
for centuries has delighted the young, and reani-
mated the aged with pleasant recollections. It is the
time for kind wishes and good deeds—for the exer-
cise of the greatest of all virtues, “charity, which
covereth a multitude of sins.” It is the season of
general rejoicing and festivity, recognized in every
land where Christianity teaches the blessings of
peace, harmony, and good-will.

Kind deeds are seasonable all the year round,
put are never so much appreciated as at Christmas.
You who are on terms of intimacy with the jolly and
generous old Santa Claus, will be serving humanity
by invoking his good offices in favor of the lowly and
the needy. You, the favorites of Fortune, possess
the golden wand to whose talismanic touch Santa
Claus always promptly responds. The good-hearted
old fellow does not purposely shun any fireside, how-
ever humble; but he has so much to do about Christ-
mas time, and the period is so short for the great
amount of visiting he has to perform, that he cannot
be blamed if he sometimes misses a few of the habi-
tations where misfortune has long since forced ex-
pectancy to give place to hopelessness—where pale
and pinched faces look out upon the dreary land-
scape, while fond recollection pictures the cheerful
Christmases of other years, ere the breadwinners had
suffered business reverses, or had been summoned
to the better land, where Christmas gifts are equally
distributed, and happiness is eternal.

To the children of the poor the caprice of Santa
Claus is often a puzzling theme, and it.is not strange
that they occasionally wonder why he so frequently
hurries past the humble tenement, where he would
be so joyously welcomed, to make a long stay at the
rich man’s mansion, and there leave an abundance of
the good things which brighten existence. There must
besomething wrong—some strange mistake—the little
ones think, as they see their more fortunate play-
mates happy in the possession of what they do not
need, while poverty’s children lack clothing and
food.

Ah! the kind old Santa Claus is not to blame if he
sometimes seems neglectful of the poor. His mem-
ory is not so good now as when he was younger, and
he only needs a hint from some influential friend to

 

do all that any reasonable person can ask. You who.

have known the merry-faced fellow long and well,
whom he has fathfully served on many occasions,
from the time you lay a happy child in your cradle,
just give him a timely hint in regard to some desery-
ing family. The simple touch of your golden wand
will send the kind old fellow on missions of charity
and love. You can easily persuade him to work
miracles in cheerless homes, where the visits of
Santa Claus will be attended with the reviving sun-
shine which brings hope to the heart, puts a mirthful
tone in the voice, and makes the eye once more beam
with that brightness and happiness which should
universally prevail when even the atmosphere seems
to breathe the divine benison, ‘“PEACE ON EARTH—
Goop WILL TO MAN!”

THE OLD BACHELOR'S GIFT.

The Story of An Old-Fashioned Christmas.

 

 

BY EMMA WENBORN.

 

Jaramul Claverhouse came of a good English stock,
firmly grafted en American soil, some generations
back, and he made up his mind once on a time to
keep Christmas in the good old English manner. He
was an old bachelor, who had lost his love in early
youth, and he lived in a large house in the country,
that had lost any pretension it might have had to
fashion, even before Mr. Claverhouse had lost his
love, who was shipwrecked, and her body washed
ashore, 80 that there was no mistake in the matter.

Rumor said that Jaramul was out of his mind for
nearly a year after the tragedy, and envy added the
remark that he had never been init since. But that
he was deferred to, and greatly loved, might have
been owing to the fact that if his head was not as
hard as it might be, neither was his heart nor the
way to his purse. He went about with his spotless
linen and glossy broadcloth, supported by an old-
fashioned gold-headed walking-stick of dropsical

roportions, and told over stale conundrums, and

earned in his gossips the history of every one with-

in five miles of his old stone house; from the griey-
ances of Widow Martin’s dependent sister, who had
the asthma, to how Eben Bachelder made his large
fortune, yet had a son without a speck of his father’s
ambition. ;

“And how,” asked Mr. Claverhouse, of a drunken
laborer’s child, as the autumn morning became sharp
and frosty ; ‘show would you like a pair of new boots,
Tommy—fine strong ones, with brass toes and big
nails in the heels ?” :

“Don’t want boots,” replied Tommy, disdainfully.
“Tm none 0’ your dandy chaps.”

“A great splinter might run into your foot.”

“T could pull it out.”

“Well, Tommy, we won’t mind the boots till you
are more of a dandy, then. Now, what do you say to
a book with pictures for Christmas ?”’

“A drum ’ud be better,” replied the boy, with his
hands in his pockets; ‘‘or,’’ rolling his eyes heaven-
ward, ‘‘a jolly Christmas tree.”

“You are a bright boy, Tommy,” said the gentle-
man, patting him on the head, and walking away,
much to the disgust of that undandified urchin, who
heartily wished he had accepted the proposed pic-
ture-book.

Mr. Claverhouse took his gold-headed cane home,
and pondered how he could make a Christmas tree
large enough to accommodate all his friends. He
thought of this, and he thought of that, and at length
he came to the gleeful conclusion that he would keep
Christmas in the old-fashioned house, in the finest
old-fashioned manner, that ever an old-fashioned
bachelor kept it.

Prudence whispered that the expense would make
a terrible hole in his income, and that if he wanted
to be charitable, let him go down to the great city
and buy bread and coal for poor widows and orphans.
But Mr. Claverhouse profanely told prudence to be
hanged till after Christmas, and went on lavishly in-
venting some new surprise every day,-till rumor ran
high that the old stone house would soon see its mas-
ter locked up in an asylum very bad indeed with an
old-fashioned disease.

This was partly caused by the fact that the old
gentleman had abjured his gossips, and on his way
to take the first train every morning, was seen to
shake his head smilingly, but mysteriously, to each
of his peRerody friends who happened to be abroad
80 early.

Why, he even whispered to Alice Raymond, the old
paralyzed shoemaker’s daughter, who supported her
father by weaving, sewing, and doing most sweetly
and patiently all she could get to do, yet never neg-
lecting to wheel the old man’s chair into the bright-

 

est nook, and give him the paper that Mr. Claver-
house was sure to forget on taking his leave—he even
whispered to her the startling warning not to be
surprised if the earth opened and gave her——

He finished the broken sentence with the usual
mysterious smile. :

This very Alice Raymond was known by the whole
village to be the secret love of young Eben Bach-
elder, discountenanced by the young man’s family,
yet flourishing amid all its trials, though in rather a
cloudy way for the pretty, patient girl, and threaten-
ing at every stolen interview to burst into a storm
that should shipwreck her happiness for life.

One week before the great holiday everybody was
invited to spend Christmas Day at Mr. Claverhouse’s
old mansion, and they were to come at six o’clock in
the morning an@ never go away till twelve at night.
The mysterious head-shakings were explained now,
and every one was in such a flutter of expectation
that the day of all days never seemed so long before
in coming.

I don’t know whether it could be quite six o'clock
on that eventful morning, but it was yet dark, when
the drunken laborer, accompanied by his shivering
wife and three children, headed a straggling proces-
sion making its way through the blinding snow to-
ward the hospitable dwelling.

But lo! what a change had taken place!

The old house did not know itself, garlanded with
rows of colored lanterns, all lit up, and bursts of
melody and Christmas ¢arols issuing through its
wide door-way from a real brass band, the like of
which was never heard in all the village before. The
great barn, too, and another new building next to it
was so prettily decorated with pine and cedar boughs
that with the new snow resting on them they looked
like beautiful fairy grottoes. Mr. Claverhouse had
heard of a people—he did not quite remember
whether it was the Spaniards or Norwegians—who
put out a sheaf of wheat for the birds’ Christmas; ac-
cordingly a great sheaf on a long pole flourished and
nestled at each corner of the barn, promising such
beautiful supplies to the timid little creatures of the
air, that were it not for the brass band they might
have flocked in hundreds instead of tens. .

The drunken laborer hesitated on the steps and
rubbed his face in an abashed manner on the dress
of the child held in his arms.

“Come in, Joe! come in,” cried old Jaramul, stand-
ing serenely glowing on the threshold, his long hair
a match with the snow.

“T guess I'll turn back,” said the man; “this is too
grand forme. I’m more at home in a tavern, that’s
what [ am, and all I’m fit for.”

“T knew you, Joe,” said Mr. Claverhouse, not with-
out tears coming to his tine old eyes, ‘“‘when you
were the best scholar in the school, and later, when
no one in plowing or mowing could beat you.”

“An’ I never stole anything as I know of,” said Joe,
looking up. ‘But that was afore I took to the
glass.”

“And it will be again,” said the gentleman, taking
him heartily by the hand, ‘‘when you have left off
the glass, and broken it in bits under your feet. Come
in, man, come in, there’s a sideboard in the parlor
you'll find filled with the choicest liquors. Help
yourself if it is your wish, but mind, I want to re-
member you as a good scholar, and a mower and
plower, and—I trust you, Joe.” :

“It?s many a day since any one said that to me,
sir,” answered Joe, striving to keep back something
that fell glistening on the threshold and blessed it as
the man went Mm.

A earriage had been sent for Widow Martin and
her dependent sister, and another for old Mr. Ray-
mond and his daughter—the latter, on their arrival,
being taken in charge by the beaming housekeeper,
and the old gentleman installed in a brand-new me-
chanical chair of such luxurious easiness and won-
derful powers that it would almost go alone, or at
least with the slightest exertion of the occupant’s
hand or foot. The old one was immediately taken
out and chopped into the smallest pieces.

By the time it was fully daylight, and the colored
lamps had to be put out, all the company had ar-
rived, with the exception of Mr. Bachelder’s family,
who did not come till roon, and such a breakfast was
laid out in the decorated barn—connected with the
house by a covered way—that Tommy thought noth-
ing more could be gathered from the face of the
earth, though the dinner exceeded it, and the supper
that again, and there was nothing on any succeeding
table that had been on the one before it, but all as
fresh and diverse as possible.

I am sorry to say that Widow Martin’s dependent
sister indulged so heartily in all the dainties that
she was obliged to be put to bed after dinner, but got
up as fresh as a young lamb for the evening.

Games, pictures and tableaux kept the company
busy and interested till the dinner-bell sounded we
cisely at twelve o’clock, and with it the tinkling
silver bells, and pawing horses of: Mr. Bachelder’s
sleigh, containing the family, who, being seated at
the head of the table, and deferred to, and their
splendid appearance openly adinired, and Mr. Bach-
elder asked to ‘“‘‘make a very short speech*’ had
nothing left for it but to be smilingly condescending.

An excellent dramatic entertainment, grandly em-
bellished by the band, came after the midday meal,
and during its progress, old Jaramul, seated beside
Mr. Bachelder, said, abruptly:

“Confess now that she’s as pretty as a picture.”

“To whom do you allude?” asked his companion,
knowing very well without the question.

Mr. Claverhouse pointed grotesquely to where
Alice and her crippled father, with young Eben not
eee far from them, were absorbed in the
play.

“T don’t deny but that she’s pretty enough,” said
the gentleman, testily; ‘but, pshaw, friend! we
rich men must draw a line somewhere.”

“Now, Eben,” began old Jaramul, ‘‘you know you
commenced life as an errand boy in a bar-room——”

“Sir! if you were not a friend——”

“But Iam, you know, and I mean to talk to you
like one, by asking you what in the name of all good
keepers of Christmas do you mean by thwarting your
son’s inclination for the prettiest, and sweetest, and
best, and most patient’—Mr, Claverhouse paused for
a few more superlative appellations, but failing in
their quest brought up—‘‘of girls? What do you
mean by it, -I- ask you? Do you think to make him
happier or better?”

“JT hold myself accountable to no one, sir.”’

“You don’teh! Well, I hope you’ll get over such a
pig-headed disease.”

Eben. Bachelder got very red in the face, and was
about to. explode his wrath, when old Jaramul laid
his hand onthe other’s arm, and smiling good-
naturedly, said:

“Now, friend Eben, don’t make a stupid jackass of
yourself, but let. us talk it over like two sensible old
fellows, whose heads are not yet thick enough to
have forgotten their own youth. To begin, you don’t
object to Alice’s character or birth, do yon?”

“Well, friend Jaramul, although 1 don’t admit
Aged authority as a questioner, I cannot say that I

0.’

“Nor to her being better read than many poor
girls?’ went on the undaunted old champion.

“Nor to that either, sir.” ;

“Then we come to it at last. You object to her
poverty ?”’

“Mr. Claverhouse, you belong to a long line of
gentie-folks, and your position is certain. I ama
self-made man, unsupported by ancestry, and were I
to divide my fortune among my large family, with-
out any outward aid, they might easily sink back to
what I was once, and all my striving to make them
better prove a failure.”

. ee Raymond is heiress to twenty-five thousand
ollars !”

Old Jaramul delivered this like a cannon shot.

“The duse she is!” ;

A return cannon shot fully expected.

“In that case——” suggested Mr..Claverhouse.

“You think I would consent,” interrupted his
friend, ‘‘and I candidly tell you I would aiter a time.
ee ewe the world would see through me too
plainly.”

“Take the bull by the horns, Eben, and tell the
world to be —— hanged, sir, hanged. Now to please
an old friend, write down your consent to this mar-
riage, for Alice would not come unwelcome into your
family.”

“Can you vouch for the girl’s fortune ?”’

“On my word as a gentleman Ican. Here, Joe!
Where’s Joe Miller?” :

“Right behind you, sir.” > e

“Come down into the parlor, Joe. You’re a good
hand with the pen, or you were, you know, so just sit
down and write what I tell you.”

Joe wrote from the gentleman’s dictation, but so
awkwardly that the good hand at his pen seemed to
have used it but unfrequently.

Mr. Bachelder pompously signed his name to what
was written, when old Jaramul said, with a glance
toward the sideboard : , :

“Joe, Iam sadly in want of a man about the house,
and I think you had better move into the little cot-
tage by the gate, to-morrow, if work is not very brisk
with you.”

Soft old head that did not know that he had done
nothing for two months past! Soft old heart that
could not keep the happy tears back, when Joe so
suddenly left the room with his incoherent thanks!

At six o’clock precisely (Mr. Claverhouse kept prim-
itive hours) the supper-table displayed its array of
delicacies, and then the festive evening setin. First
and foremost the new building that had caused so
many conjectures, was visited, and found to con-
tain a brilliantly lighted Christmas tree of such di-
mensions that the top protruded ever so far through
the roof, and the widely spreading limbs were each
as large as ordinary forest trees. Rumor said that
old Jaramul had sat up two nights assisting to splice
ordinary forest trees together to produce this effect,
and envy as usual came in with the remark, that it
was just like the old ninny. =

Need it be told that everybody, from the humblest
| up to Eben Bachelder himself, was the recipient of
| some happy present hanging on that fruitful tree, or

that Tommy’s drum, of a frightfully loud tone,
‘| dangled within easy reach of that scoffer of dandies.
| But where was young Eben’s present, and where
was Alice Raymond ? re

Behold old Jaramul, when the tree was stripped,
coming forth from a door behind it, heading a little
crowd of eager faces, and supporting on his arm the

 

 

=

:
trembling Alice, dressed as a bride, and as pale as

her beautiful white satin dress, or the flowers in her
glinting hair.

A great weight seemed lifted off young Eben’s
mind, as he eagerly stepped forward to meet them,
but he did not appear to be as greatly astounded as
was expected of him. Indeed, if was quite apparent
that some one had given him a hint of all this.

“Here’s your Christmas gift, my dear boy,” said
Mr. Claverhouse, solemnly, as though a memory of
the beautiful face washed ashore so long ago was
upon him, ‘‘and may you both have long livés of hap-
ee and live to do by your grandchildren as I do

y you.

The young couple were too much affected to trust
themselves with words, but the pretty bride raised
his dear old hand to her lips and kissed it fervently,
vas she took her place beside Eben with two of his
little sisters as bride-maids, and under the great
Christmas tree was made his wife. After the cere-
mony, Eben’s father, who had witnessed it as be-
nignly magnanimous as though he had been the de-
viser of the whole scheme, came forward with his
weighty congratulations, but was forestalled by old
Jaramul, who left in the bride’s hand a little roll of
paper, which, on examination, proved to be a deed
of gift of twenty-five thousand dollars from Jaramul
Claverhouse to his protegee, Alice Raymond, ,

Need it be told of the merry dances, and songs, and
tales, making up that festive evening; of the quaint
devices planned by the host to decoy unsuspecting
maidens, under a genuine mistletoe-bough in the
great hall, or that as the clock struck twelve, his fine;
hale voice rang with the refrain of an old song that
seemed made for him :

“Then you shall sing a song, old boy,
And join us in our glee;
For we'll ne’er let merry Christmas pass
Without a lay from thee.”

LOTTIE’S TEMPTATION.

A STORY OF CHRISTMAS TIMES.

 

 

BY MRS, HELEN CORWIN PIERCE.

 

“Only two days more to Christmas, Mattie; ain’t
you glad? I wish somebody would give mea set of
drawing tools. I get so tired sitting here all day
with nothing todo. I wonder what you'll get, Mat?
I wish you could have that big doll you was telling
me about.”

Little Mattie’s blue eyes sparkled, but she shook
her head.

“We haven’t got papa now, you know, Fred, to
get us Christmas presents, and Lottie don’t have
much money. If I could earn money like Lottie, [’'d
get her a new dress just like the one papa bought
her the last Christmas, and mamma should have a
new cap, and you should have the drawing-box.”

Lottie Gilbert was tying her plain black straw hat
under the round white chin in the next room, pre-
paratory to going out, and she sighed as she heard
the two children. : es

“You’re a good little thing, Mattie,” she said,
stooping to kiss her young sister. ‘Lottie would get
you and Fred lots of nice things if she could.”

“Don’t you mind us, Lottie; we were only talk-
ing; we don’t care if we don’t have anything,” Fred
said, loftily. Fred was a oe and his sister sighed
again as sue kissed him and went out.

“Poor Fred,’ she said, “if I tould only manage
to get him the drawing tools, it would amuse him so
much, | I don’t see any way, but I’ll go in and price
them.

‘The obsequious clerk showed her set after set. But
the cheapest were a dollar and a half, and Lottie
proceeded on her way, feeling that it would be useless
to think of it with her slender purse.

As she entered Mrs. Morgan’s parlor to give her
customary music lesson, a tall, handsome, but rather
stern-looking gentleman, rose from his chair to greet
her, pressing her hand warmly, and looking admir-
ingly at the sweet face, flushed brightly now with
the exercise of her rapid walk, and possibly owing
some of its rich color to the consciousness of his
glance.

Lottie’s pupil, Katie Morgan, came in very soon
for her lesson, and in spite of Katie’s veto of such a
proceeding, Uncle Will Morgan staid till the lesson
was nearly through. Lottie heard him go out, and
was secretly sorry he had gone. The pale, pretty
music-teacher had not so many friends now as in the
life-time of the prosperous merchant her father had
been, and among her few acquaintances nobody ever
spoke so kindly to her as Mr. William Morgan. Mrs.
Morgan, Katie’s grandmother, came in when the les-
son was done, and paid Lottie for the quarter due
that day. She was a stately old lady, and on one or
two occasions, when Mr. Will had been in the par-
lor when she came in, she had seemed slightly dis-
pleased. Lottie fancied she was too afraid of the old
lady to count the money in her presence, so siinply
thanking her she said good-morning and went out.

“It’s a pretty face enough,” muttered+the old lady,
going to the window to look after her, ‘‘but my son's
wife must be something more than pretty. That's a
rare temptation I’ve put. in her way, and Christmas
iscoming. She won't be able to resist it. Fifty dol-
lars is something of a sum to spend on such an ex-
periment, but it will be well spent, too, if it convinces
that infatuated Will that his idol is made of common
clay after all.”

Lottie, meanwhile, having got as far as the hall
door, stopped to look at her money before going out.
One, two, three, four, five. What! She looked closer.
It was true. One of the fives was a fifty. Mrs.
Morgan must have given it to her by mistake, and
she turned back at once.

Mrs. Morgan had happened to drop the curtain be-
hind as she entered the deep window recess, or Lot-
tie must have seen her at once. She looked disap-
pointed, as after surveying the room, she saw no
one, and glanced again at the fifty in her hand.

“Perhaps Mrs. Morgan meant to give it to me,” she
said softly to herself, and then hurriedly ringing the
bell; “if she did I shall find it out, but, of course, it
must have been a mistake.” .

To the servant who answered her summons, she
said she would like to see Mrs. Morgan a moment.

While she waited, seated so close to the curtain
behind which Mrs. Morgan was that she could hear
every word, she murmured to herself in alow voice:

“Tf this money were mine, what a Christmas we
would have at home! Mamma should have a new
cap as pretty as those she used to wear when papa
was alive, and a new hat and cloak, too; the old ones
are very shabby. Fred should have his drawing
tools and a wheeled chair, poor fellow. How brave-
ly he told me not to mind him this morning. And
Mattie should have the prettiest red dress I could
find, and the biggest doll and some new shoes, and I
wonder if there would be anything left for me? I
need a new dress, that’s a fact.”

There was a sound outside of approaching foot-
steps. Lottie dropped the thread of her airy specu-
Jations with an audible laugh at their absurdity, and
Mr. Will Morgan came in.

“The servant said you were asking for my mother,”
he said, kindly, ‘‘but she cannot find her. Won’t I
do as well?” -

“It was only to correct a little mistake she made

in paying me,” Lottie said, blushing terribly. :
“Ah!

“She gave me a fifty instead of a five,’? extending
the bill to him.

Mr. Will swept aside the curtain to look at the bill,
but dropped it again very suddenly, and a queer
smile broke over his lips. /

“TI don’t think it was a mistake, Miss Lottie. I
think my mother gave it to you on purpose. She
has often expressed herself to me as very much
pleased with Katie’s progress. I think she gave
you this as a token of her appreciation of your ser-
vices.’

“No, sir, no. Iam quite sure it was a mistake.”

“At least, then, you will allow me to express my
own appreciation.”

He extended the bill, but the fiery blushes that suf-
fused Lottie’s face Were reflected for an instant in
his, as she drew back, saying decidedly :

“Thank you, sir, no.”

Mrs. Morgan stepped from the window recess at
this crisis, like a picture out of a frame.

“That is quite right, my chiid, quite right. I am
glad you are so sensible,” she said, patting the as-
tonished girl on the shoulder; “it was a mistake, my
dear, which I will rectify at once.”

She turned away a moment, fumbling in her pock-
et-book for a five in place of the fifty, scratching
Something with her pencil, and giving Lottie the
bill with the advice not to mind about counting it
again till she got home; she would find it all right
this time. . .

Lottie did look, though, as soon as she got beyond
the door, and found she had got the fifty back again,
and a scrap of paper with it, on which was written:

“Don't bring it back again, child. Humor an old
woman’s whim, and keep it.”

Lottie Gilbert caught her breath with rapture..

First she thought she should faint, and then she
thought she was treading on air.

Wouldwi they keep Christmas at home now? She
could hardly keep from throwing up her hat and hur-
rahing. It wouldn’t do to go home just yet. They
would all get her secret out of her, and she meant
they shouldn’t know—not one of. them—till Christ-
mas Eve.

* * * * * * *

It was the day before Christmas. Many a whis-
— consultation had been going on all day between
fattie and Fred, or Mattie and mamma, or mamma
and Fred, and Lottie alternated as general confi-
dante, for they had all their modest little secrets,
poor as they were. Mamma had scraped’ together
enough five-cent pieces to buy worsted for a pair of
loves for Lottie, and had knit them herself; Mattie
ad made her a pen-wiper; and Fred, who had quite
afund of mechanical genius, had managed, out of

, '

some bits of morocco that had been given him, to
manufacture a portfolio for her music, that was the
wonder and admiration of Mattie and Mrs. Gilbert.
From some quarter Lottie had obtained a *‘tree”’—
modest in proportions, but a delight the children.
It was put in aroom by itself, and Lottie took the

ly, and had had such a time smuggling her bundles
into the house.

Fifty dollars hadn’t gone quite as far as she had
thought it would (fifty dollars don’t nowadays);
but she had spent it judiciously and accomplished
wonders indeed. I think Mrs. Morgan would have
thought so, too.”

Well, when it became quite dark, while the chil-
dren waited in breathless awe, Lottie went in where
the tree was, remained there a few minutes, and then
threw open the door. 3

Such a glow asburst forth! Such a tree as that
was! Such a surprise, too! It was covered all over
with tapers, just like the “trees” they used to have,
red and blue and green and white, and hung with
bon-bons, candies, and kisses, and loaded with gifts;
such a doll at the top, and such a wonderful wheeled
Shee Pe under it. ~ :

Fred just covered his face with his little thin hands
and cried with pleasure when Lottie lifted him into
it. There never was such a cap or such a cloak as
Mrs. Gilbert’s, and—well, I couldn't begin to tell you,
so I won’t try; and in the midst they all discovered
that Lottie had got nothing to compare with the
rest, and Lottie protested that she had—all theirs
was hers, &e.

In the midst of the excitement somebody knocked,
and Mattie said maybe that was Lottie’s present,
and ran laughing to the door, when who should be
there but Mr. Will Morgan,,and asking for Lottie.

Lottie came. You can’t imagine how pretty she
looked at that moment, and Mr. Will was pertpotly
conscious of it, too. He hadn’t meant to be so ab-
rupt in what he had to say, bnt Lottie had bewitched
him, I guess.

“Lottie,” he said, keeping hold of her hand—he
never had called her anything but Miss Lottie before
—“T have come after my Christmas gift.”

“Have you, sir?” she stammered.

7 “Yes; [ want you!’ stooping and looking in her
ace.

“T—T don’t believe I understand you, sir. I should
like to call mamma.”

“We will see mamma presently. May I ask her to
give you to me for my wife?”

I doubt if Mr. Will himself more than guessed ‘at
Lottie’s reply, it was uttered in so low a tone; but I
know that he led her right in to Mrs. Giibert, and
then and there asked her for Lottie. Of course she
pi yes; she had long suspected Lottie of liking

im.

“Lottie, is Mr. Morgan your Christmas present?”
questioned Mattie, saucily, and for answer Mr. Will
kissed her. .

Lottie never knew till long after she was Mrs. Will
Morgan, the truth about that fifty-dollar bill.

Be Sure You'rd Right.

In choosing an acceptable present for your mother,
‘sister, or friend, you cannot make a mistake if you
select the NEw YoRK WEEKLY. It will cost only
three dollars to have it sent to any address for one
year, and its regular visits will always be a pleasant
reminder of your thoughtfulness. Sometimes it is
difficult to hit upon a present certain to please old or
young, but in choosing the NEw YORK WEEKLY, you
may be sure yow're right.

 

aad

Christmas Thoughts and Themes.

BY KATE THORN.

a

 

 

Along toward the twenty-fifth of December the
heart of man turns instinctively toward roast goose,
cranberry sauce, plum pudding, and Christmas
cards. aie

The business man with a large and interesting
family thinks how pleasant a season it would be if it
were not for the melancholy fact that his wife ex-
pects a new sealskin sacque, and each one of his
daughters will want fiew dresses, and jewelry, and
pocket-money to spend in making presents.

The poor man hopes that some rich relative or
friend will send him a box, and he will feel in a
measure disappointed if he does not receive some-
thing of that sort, though he knows well enough be-
forehand that he shall not. :

The churches hold meetings to see what they can
do to raise some money. Churches are always trying
to raise money. Itis the chronic condition of socie-
ties of all kinds—need of money! They put up their
evergreens around the pulpit and over the windows,
and the young people do a little sly courting under
cover of trimming the church, and the wise, long-
faced old deacons, who “have been there them-
selves,” are blind and deaf to it all; and the minister
looks at his blooming wife, and recalls the halcyon
days when he, too, was young, and there was no
fairer maiden in the world than his Mary.

The storekeepers rack their brains for fresh meth--
ods of advertising their wares so as to attract cus-
tomers, and they place their. most inviting looking
goods in the windows, and placard them “Only 25
cents to-day !” and everybody who looks at them is
impressed favorably with that word “only,” and
they religiously believe that if they neglect the op-
portunity of purchasing “to-day,” their last chance
will be gone.

All creation buys something to give away at Christ-
mas. There is a great deal of kindly feeling ex-
pressed in Christmas presents, but there are people
who bestow presents simply because they expect
something in return. Oh, yes, we have seen that
kind of people, so have you. }

The children have a good time almost always. In-
deed, the child who would not be satisfied with the
variety and the infinitude of the toys now gotten up
to please children, would ery for the moon, and feel
disappointed if you gave it to him, and threw in the
whole planetary system by way of a chromo.

The Christmas of 1887 is at hand.

It will never come again. A :

Let everybody enjoy it. Remember the poor. Be
thankful for what presents. you receive; and if you
do not receive anything solace yourself with the re-
membrance of the Biblical assurance that ‘Blessed
fare those who expect nothing.” This is the right
kind of doctrine when other things fail. ~

Put on your winter flannels. Stop np the holes in
your out-buildings so that the dumb animals can
keep a warin Christmas. Don’t puttoo much brandy
in your mince pies. Geta young turkey for dinner,
if you can. Invite your poor relations to dinner,
and make them welcome. ‘

Read the NEw YORK WEEKLY. : :

Be kind to every one. Be charitable, and likewise
be virtuous, and you will be happy. -

And may God bless you all, and give you a MERRY
CHRISTMAS.

Another Brisk Detective Story.

INSPECTOR BYRNES, who has advanced himself

from the ranks by his pluck, persistency, shrewdness,
and coolness, until he is now universally recognized
as one of the best rogue-catchers in the world—in
fact the equal of Vidocq, the great French deteetive
—has given us permission to reproduce, from a pho-
tograph taken from life, an incident often witnessed
at Police Headquarters. Itis -
An Experience Dreaded by Professional Criminals,
because so mortifying to whatever sense of pride is
left them. This scene is illustratedin the opening
installment of an animated story, entitled

THE REPORTER DETECTIVE ;

ASTRUGGLE FOR THE INNOCENT.
By DONALD J McKENZIE,

Author of ‘‘Detective Against Detective,” “Miriam
Blair,” “The Wall Street Wonder,” etc.

 

 

The early chapters are descriptive of a most per-
plexing mystery, which is so strange and apparently
unexplainable, that it arouses all the journalistic en-
thusiasm of

A Young Reporter,
who at once determines to seek a solution of the
inystifying affair. How he succeeds, and the ex-
citing dramatic events in which he participates, are
pictured with vigor and spirit in this brisk deteetive
story. :
It will be commenced next week. 4

 

An Entertaining Present.

An entertaining present, for old or young, is the,
NEW YORK WEEKLY. For three dollars, it will be

 

guardianship of it. She had kept her secret faithful- |

 

Correspondence.

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

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

 

A. P, E.—ist. You are right. Four standard meridians
were adopted, by general agreement and partial legisla-
tion, within the United States, in 1884, by which railroad
trains are run and local time regulated. These meridians
are 15 degrees, or 900 miles, apart, there being a difference
of just one hour in time from one meridian to another, as
there are 360 degrees in the earth's circumference, which
divided by. 24 hours gives 15 degrees to an hour. The
Eastern meridian, 75 degrees west om Greenwich, passes
4 minutes west of New York city. The Central meridian,
90 degrees west longitude, passes (nearly) through New
Orleans and St. Louis, and Chicago lies about 10!4 min-
utes east of it~ The Mountain standard meridian, 105
degrees west longitude, passes near Pike’s Peak, Rock
Mountains. The Pacific meridian, 120 aemoes west longi-

tude, is near the coast, San Francisco 4 mi
of it, 2d. Not known to us. . ne erellon WER

Mrs. H. C. M., Pittsburgh, Pa.—The Battle of the Thir-
ty is aname given, in English and French history, to an
engagement which took place at Midway Oak, half way
between the castles of Josselin and Ploermel, in France,

March 27, 1351. It was caused by the depredation: Ee
mitted by the English general, henbaaien The chal.
lenge to fight, which emanated from the French com-
mander, Beaumanoir, was promptly accepted by that of
the English, and, as_ previously Rocet upon, thirty
ae of each party, led by the anaes named, met in
hostile ee At first the English seemed likely to win
the day, but Bemborough having been killed, the French
were stimulated to greater efforts, and were finally vic-
torious. It was common for years afterward to say
anna wae never such hard fighting since the Battle of
2 nirty.’’ , .

L. C: Me. L., Concord, N. H.—1st. The sponges of com*
merce are brought mostly from Turkey and the West In.
dies, but the finest come from off the shores of Candia or
Crete and Cyprus. They also come from Florida, but are
coarser than those from the Mediterranean. They com-
monly grow at the bottom of the séa, on rocks, some in
deep and some in shallow water. 2d. Sponges, as we have
before stated to other correspondents, were long thought
to be Rogeae ion, but they are now known to be animals.

ae get their food from the water which washes into
nem,

F. 8. M., Shusan, N. Y.—1st. No demand for ‘either at
present. 2d The average for the first named is about $15—
per week. 3d. The necessary information will be impart-
ed to you by the Cooper Union, by letter,if the trade you
desire tolearn be taught there. In the art schools for
males are taught drawing from cast, form, perspective,
mechanical, architectural, industrial, ornamental, figure
and rudimental drawing, and modeling in clay. There
are only afew classes which are notfree. Address Cooper
Union, New York city.

Lois B., Georgetown, D. C.—The dance of death was a
medieval religious dance, long a favorite subject of
painting and poetry, in which persons of all ranks and
ages were represented as dancing together with
skeleton form of death, which led them to the =
One of the most interesting poems on the subject was
written in Spanish, and is found entire in the appendix

to Ticknor’s ‘‘History of Spanish Literature,’ which
work, in three volumes, can to ureiaked for $5."

J. H. W., Cairo, N. ¥.—1st. To make a silver-plating
fluid for ordinary purposes, dissolve one ounce of crystals
of nitrate of silver in twelve ounces of water. Then dis- -
solve in the water two ounces of cyanide of potassium.
Shake the whole together, and let it stand until it be-
comes clear. After half filling some half-ounce vials
with Paris white, fill them up with the liquid, and
the preparation will be ready for use. 2d. Can oe article
named as you would fresh fruit and vegetables. ;

Conrad Schuyler, Fort Meade, Dakota.—The cathedral
of Notre Dame, in Montreal, is capable of containing
from 10,000 to 12,000 persons. It is 255 feet long and 145
feet broad, with two towers 220 feet inheight. In the
north-east tower there is a fine chime of bells, and in the
north-west tower there is a bell-weighing 29,400 pounds.
The Roman Catholic Cathedral in Quebec will hold 4,000
persons. 1t covers, with the university attached, an
area of eight acres.

‘Will C., Albuquerque.—ist. “A Library of Poetry and
Song,” by William Cullen Bryant, will cost $5. It con-
sists of choice selections from the best poets, with an in-
troduction by Bryant. 2d. “Bryant’s American Poets”—
selections from the best American ts—will be sent to
you for 75 cents. 3d. A biographical sketch of Bryant. with

selections from his ms and other writings, will be fur-
nished for 75 cents. a * oer

E. L., Gadsden, Ala., and A. B. L., Chadron, Neb.—ist. _
See No. 20f the present volume. 2d. Your handwriting
can be greatly improved by daily practice. 3d. We should
call you a blonde. You are certainly nota brunette. 4th.
Indication of poet descent. 5th. She should weigh at
least a hundred pounds. 4

_Edna De Forest, New Haven.—ist. We know of nothing
that will remove superfluous hair without injury to the
skin. 2d. No knowledge of anything better for whitening
and softening the skin than glycerine diluted with a little

fresh lemon juice. Apply at night, and use tepid water
in the morning. loa wae

Anxious, Baltimore, Md.—ist. No recipe that we can
vouch for. 2d. We know of no specialist on the subject.
We cannot recommend any particular physician.

5t

3d.
4th. No India ink that will suit your purpose. Busi-
ness addresses are not given in this department.

B. L. G., Montpelier, Vt.—A. G. Menocal, of the United
States Navy, is the chief engineer of the Nicaragua Canal
Construction Company. It is understood that work on

the survey is to begin at once. A letter addressed to him
at Washington, D. C., will receive attention. : rs

M. M: M.—ist. The first Secretary of State in England
was Thomas Cromwell. The first in the United States
was Thomas Jefferson. 2d. The present Prime Minister
of England is the Marquis of Salisbury. He succeeded
Mr. Gladstone.

Bertha, Bristol, R. I.—Britannia ware should be first

rubbed with a woolen cloth and sweet oil, then washed in -

water and soap-suds, and rubbed with soft leather and

eneing: oe treated, it is said, it will retain its beauty
o the las

Ben Hill, Chicago.—Ellen Terry made her American
debut in the Star Theater, this city, October 31, 1883.
Henry Irving and a portion of his Lyceum Theater Com-
pany made their debut at the same theater, Oct. 27, 1883.

Charlie Jenkins, Knoxville, Tenn.—‘Dan, the Detec-
tive,’ by Horatio Alger, Jr., is in book-form, and will

cost $1.25. The papers containing ‘““Mad Jack,” by Ed-
ward Minturn, can be furnished for 48 cents.

New Subscriber, Ironton, Ohio.—When you wash your
windows use alcohol instead of water. Besides aiding
‘the purpose in view, it imparts a better polish, and does
the work of cleaning more expeditiously.

T. J. Me W., Baltimore.—The profession of elocution
would bring you into the prominence you aspire to. You
seem to possess the qualities of mind that would render
you successful as a reader. / :

A, A.A.—The Tombs in this city was erected about
1840. The name was given to it chiefly on account of its
peculiarly gloomy appearance. f

B. T. M., Syracuse, N. ¥.—Miss Emma Thursby is the
lady referred to. oak

Bessie, Lowell.—June 4, 1883, came on Tuesday.

To CONTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS. are respect- —
fully declined: “Turning the Tables ;” “Trust Him Not ;”
“His Ideal;” “In Summer ;” “The Visitant;” “No Pla-
giarist Was He.”

.

- -

- Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

‘Thare iz less malice in sum men’s abuse than in
their praizes. Res s

We are willing to be fools ourselfs, but we kant bear
to hav others so. P

The wize men oy the world hav allwuss been the
—— ov the most foolish blunders made in their

imes. ‘

All men carry their karakters in their faces, andnot
a few ov them their reputashuns in their pockets.

If yu quarrell with a loafer yu elevate him just in
proporshun az yu elevate yureself.

Add exercise to temperanse, subsiraki fret and -
worry from the amount, divide the sum bi reazon-
able fun on the haff shell, and the remainder iz just
what we are all looking after. : ; *

One ov the simplest ways I know ov to try most
men’s faith iz to ask them to subskribe to pay for fix-
ing up the meeting-hous.

Lhave known wimmin to spend their whole time,
and everybody-else’s they could plunder, in trieing
to convert the heathen; and in the meantime their
own boys grew upragged and vagrant, and the old
man had to jine a klub-hous. bt

It iz but a step from poverty to ritches, and but a
step bak agin, and menny a man takes them both.

It iz the wize only who proffit bi adversity.

The best proverbs are thoze which hay the least
words and the most truth in them. -

It iz too often the case that old age iz venerable
simply bekauze itiz old. Thare iz nothing truly ven-
erable but what iz truly virtewous.

Learning haz inkreased a bot deal in the last 5
thousand years, but I don’t think wisdum haz enny.

It iz hard work to be an old fellow and do the sub-
jekt justiss. If yu are very cheerfull the world will

tia

 

 

 

sent to any address for one year. =

eall call yu , and if yu are too sedate they will
call yu ill-n ; perhaps the best way iz to die off
in good season. > es = er :

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nek lesen sea aaban

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        
    
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 43—No. 10.

 

 

 

THE CHRISTMAS CHIMES.

BY MARKHAM HOWARD.

A Christmas peal, a joyous peal, a crashing peal!
Open the window wide, that 1t may reel

Into the hall, amid the festive throng ;
Laughing with merry voices there,

_Gladdening every sound of mirth and song,

Then rushing out upon the frosty air,

Repeating to the echoes far and wide

The message of good-will for Christmas-tide.

A distant peal, a softened peal, a chastened peal!
Open the window wide, that it may steal
To the sick chamber, with its hymn of glory; -
Breathing softly, in a wordless prayer,
Whispering wistfully the old, old story,
_ Then floating out upon the frosty air,
Answering to the echoes far and wide :
_ The Saviour’s message, peace for Christmas-tide !

A merry peal, a dancing peal, a clashing peal!
Open the window wide that we may feel
It fly from heaven to earth—from earth to heaven ;
Strengthening each feeble word of prayer
With its glad song—“To us a Son is given.”
Then, swelling out upon the frosty air,
Proclaim the glorious tidings far and wide,
Peace and good-will through every Christmas-tide.

A midnight peal, a hallowed peal, a dying peal!
Close down the window now, that we may kneel;
’Mid cheerful faces in the ruddy light,
Or in the chamber dark with want and care.
It leaves a blessing with us all to-night,
Then dies without upon the frosty air ;
The grand old message shedding far and wide
- A deathless glory on the Christmas-tide. *

lil ats
—— oo

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

The Gipsy’s. Daughter,

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of “Another Man’s Wife,” ‘‘A Fair Mystery,”
: “For Another’s Sin,” etc.

(“THE Gipsy’s DAUGHTER” was commenced in No. 51.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXXIV.
“THE CRY OF DOOM FELL ON HIS EAR.”

The loveliest of summer mornings dawned over
Moat Wealden after the ball. The family may have
slept a little later than usual. Even Sir Victor, who
after hours of fevered tossing, considering how he
should make that miserable confession, which would
wreck the faith and happiness of his mother and
friends, fell into the deep sleep of exhaustion. But
the birds were up betimes in a musical ecstasy, and

‘the flowers opened their petals and poured forth
their perfume, to the flush of the sunrise. ‘

A nature direct, simple, dogged, and devoted, like
that of Roger Driscoll, when given some master-
motive for a deceit, can outdo the shrewdest knave;
for the knave will reinforce himself with myriad de-
ceptions, while the natural honesty of a ntan such as

‘Roger will keep him in one narrow way, upon which

he can bend all his energies.

Sir Fowell Repton was lying awake, reviewing in
an agony the communications he had received from
Amos Warren, when a knock came to his door.

“Come!” he cried. ‘‘Why the duse are you so early,

Hoes ?” ‘ :
“Tt is not Hugh, Sir Fowell.” |
Sir Fowell turned his head on the pillow. |
“You, Roger! What is wrong with Sir Victor?”
“Nothing,” said Roger, bravely; “itis Mr. Amos
Warren.” gh : 4 se
“What about him ?” demanded Sir Fowell, sitting

up. :

“He’s gone crazy, Sir Fowell.”

/ Gens tease" Man, where is he? What do you
mean?” :

“No doubt he’sin his room,” said Roger. “But,
sir, ’ve watched him for these three days, and he’s
erazy. I think he should be looked to, sir; he'll do
some damage. He has notions. He rages, he mut-
ters, he ese things. Tome, sir, he has said
the very § ngest things.” ;

“And to me,” muttered Sir Fowell.

“Ym afraid he willdo Sir Victora harm. He has
some queer notions. I wish you’d see Mr. Warren,
sir; if you talk with him, and see he’s gone wrong,
we'd best send for the doctors, sir, and have him put
away. I’ve feared he’d do Lady Lenore some injury.
T’ve seen him watch her.” 2

“Give me my dressing-gown and slippers, Roger;
V’ll go to Warren’s room, to see what [I make out,”
said Sir Fowell, hailing the madness of the secretary
as a blessed alternative to the infamy of his godson.
_. “T’ll eome along, o epwers to keep harm away, if

he turns violent,” s oger.

“But Amos was not in hisroom. He had been in
bed, but the bed and room were now empty. Roger
proposed that he and Sir Fowell should search about
the grounds. After Sir Fowell dressed they did so.
- As Amos still was not found, they sent to Repton,
Todsbeck, and other places.

. Lady Lenore was always one of the first down;
Lady Clemence found her on the terrace that morn-
ing. She clasped her in her arms.

“Have you nothing to tell me, my sweet ?”

But Lady Lenore bravely hid her heart-pain.

“Yes. I will tell you that you had the loveliest ball
Lever saw. Every one said so. I enjoyed myself
wonderfully ; and, oh! when will you have another?”

Lady Clemence started, and looked into the girl’s
blue eyes, and read. there the secret anguish. But
Lady Lenore could be a heroine.

“Hark how the birds are singing! And Lucy says
they have even more at Monk’s Cross Rest. Do you
know. she has invited me for the most charming
visit, andI haye said I would go. Do let me pick
that rose |”. ; ;

What did this mean? Had not Victor spoken ?

Lady Clemence sighed. After breakfast she must
question Victor. 5 :

Sir Victor, standing in his window above her,
echoed her sigh. After breakfast he must confess to
her. But after breakfast Sir Fowell changed the
whole face of affairs. He came to the group on the
terrace, and said: Bee 5

“JT guspect that Amos Warren has gone insane.
Roger tells me that he has, and gives me singular
proof of it. Have any of you noticed anything?”
~ «“T felt sure there was something on his mind,” said
the baroness, a

“He was gloomy and distraught, and had strange
ways of looking and speaking,” said Lady Clemence.
“He had lately been crossed in love, poor man.”

“He said the strangest, most terrible things to me
one day,” cried Lenore. “I have been afraid
of him ever since; but I would not mention it.”

“He raved to me last night until I accused him

of lunacy,” said Sir Fowell. “Did you notice it, Vic-
. tor 99 .

. “He did come to me very wild and excited, poor
ellow.”

“My goodness, Sir Fowell, he must be got out of the
way; we shall all be murdered in our beds,” cried
Lady Anvers. vate
“He has gone!” exclaimed Sir Fowell.

“Gone?” echoed they all.

But Sir Victor's “gone” sounded as a knell. Where
had he et For what? i

“Sir Fowell, he should be looked for; the poor man
may come to harm,” said Lady Clemence.

“T shall see toitat once. His ravings gen A do no
end of evil,” said Sir Fowell, glancing at his god-

son.

“Tf he has gone, I must go and attend to my letters
and affairs. For three days they have not been
touched. Warren was ill yesterday, shut in his room
all day.”’

ated Sir Victor hurried to his library to consider
this new phase, for, with every one excited over
Amos, and Sir Fowell at the head of a posse in
search of him, there was no time for that terrible
confession. Once more Sir Victor put off the evil
day. . : >
The search for Amos Warren went on vigorously.

No one had seen him since, after leaving Sir Fowell,
he went up to his room.

As the mystery of his absence increased, efforts to
find him were renewed. He had taken no train with-
in six hours distance of Moat Wealdon. i

Sir Victor waited breathlessly for some thunder-
polt of Warren’s wrath to fall on him. How he
wished he had come out squarely to him with the
words, “Warren, I made her my wife, and as such I
shall acknowledge her, as soon asI find her.” But

_he had been silent in the vague thought that if Rose
never came back his folly might be unknown, And
now in his secret soul he believed that Warren,
driven out of his mind by woe, believing that Rose
had met her death in the Wicked River, had flung
himself in to share her death.and her unnamed rest-
ing-place. Whatthen? Had he two deaths upon his
heart? Had his youthful madness reaped a harvest
such asthis? — - i

He made a pretext of business, and shut himself

up. He hated the name of the election, but was
forced to simulate interest. His mother, Sir Fowell,
Dr. Forbes, and his other friends were as eager as
ever, and predicted his success. 3

None of them knew how the vanished Amos had
sown seeds of fire. The week set by Amos passed.
The blow Sir Victor now stoically awaited did
ae and now he was sure that Amos must be

ead.

“The best thing a madman can do with himself is
to kill himself,” said Roger, calmly. :

“But that is such a térrible end. And then his
friends.”

“Mr. Warren was alone in the world; he had
none.” ;

-“T was his friend,” said Sir Victor, frankly.*

And so indeed he was; he realized and did homage

to the honest, manly strength of Warren’s charac-

ae . :
During these days Lady Lenore grew pale; while
simulating cheery spirits, she was . She kept
aloof from Sir Victor, lest she should seem to seek
him, and she interposed Lady Lucy as her screen
when he came near her. There was some barrier
that he felt, and she knew not what it was; but she
realized that it made her case hopeless, and she
called up all her courage. to give no sign.

And sd, the day of election came.
up, crowds assembled. Todsbeck was thronged.
Bands played, favors were worn, speeches were
made. The Moat Wealden carriages were there, and
in one sat Lady Clemence, with Lady Lenore at her
side, wearing the colors of Sir Victor. They were
drawn up near the platform, where they could hear
the young candidate speak. ;

He came forward, handsome as a young god,
inspired by his audience. He began, in his full,
musical voice, to address the electors. Then the
seeds of fire burst into flame, and the roar of confla-
gration rose up to heaven. The lost Amos had writ-
— to the numerous former lovers and admirers of

ose. rt

These exclamations, from numerous voters, rose
on.all sides, and Sir Victor was petrified. ;

‘Where is Rose Reynolds?’ ‘‘Where is honest
Tom’s daughter?” “What have you done with the
Beauty of Todsbeck?”’ “Who robbed honest Tom,
and left him to die alone?’ “Away with you, we
want defenders, and not destroyers, of our homes!”
“Give us an honest man!” “Down with the young
lord! We have enough of such as he!” “These
’ristocrats think they can carry off our girls and we'll
never complain.” ‘‘Down! Down! Down!” ‘‘Hustle
him off, or we’ll kill him.” -

The die was cast. The election was lost. The mob
became a sea of fury. ;

For a moment, Sir Victor tried to make a stand.
He strove to speak. Then at last he was ready to
ery, “I made her my wife!” But the hour was too
late for confession. To saye him from the fury ofthe
mob, Sir Fowell, and others, rose up and fairly carried
Sir Victor from the platform, and took him home in
a closed carriage.

CHAPTER XXX‘.
“HUSH! HUSH! THIS GIRL IS MY WIFE.”

When once the passion of a mob breaks loose, it
grows by indulgence. When Sir Victor was hurried
into a coach, with Dr. Forbes and Sir Fowell, the
apothecary lover ef Rose, and one or two other
stalwart fellows, ran by the side of the vehicle, yel-
ling their hideous accusations, A lower class, who
had caught the well-spread tale, and the refrain, did
not scruple to run after the open barouche of Lady
Clemence, shouting to her that ‘“‘Rose Reynolds ought
be: sit by her side, that her son had been the ruin of

ose.” ; :

Sir Victor, overwhelmed by this culmination of the
tragedy of his life, merely bowed his face in his hands
and rode home in utter silence. In just such silence,
the white and humiliated Lady Clemence, and Lady
Lenore went home, with taunts and execrations
ringing in their innocent ears, and falling bitterly on
their gentle hearts. That way of sorrow ended at
last, at Moat Wealden. The coach with Sir Victor
just preceded the open barouche of his mother. As
soon as they all alighted, Sir Victor said, firmly :

“Mother, I wish to see you and Dr. Forbes and Sir
Fowell, in the library.” ;

“The four went in there, Lady Clemence erect,

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holding her son’s hand. The door was closed and
locked. Sir Victor placed his mother ina chair. He
turned his clear boyish eyes to the three, and said:

“T have been guilty of terrible folly, for which I
mist pay a life long penalty; but I am guilty of no
crime.”

They believed him. No one could look on his face,
or hear his voice, and doubt him. :

Suddenly he fell on his knees before his mother,

and folding his arms on her lap, cried:
_ “Mother, [have disobeyed and deceived you, but
I cast myself on the love that is like no other love!
Here, on my knees before you, I will tell all my story.
You remember how, it was, a year ago, about—about
Rose Reynolds ?”’ 2

“Victor, yes, I remember; you—fancied her.”

“Heaven pity me! mother, I married her!” -

The few words were as. a thunderbolt to the listen-
ing three. The heir of St. Maurice married !—secretly
married to this handsome Rose Reynolds, whose
name sat so easily on the common tongue! Married!
And Lady Lenore? All the fair fabric of Lady Clem-
ence’s hope fell shattered to atoms. Her boy, her
only son, had madly flung away all his chance of hap-
piness! She saw the anguish in his eyes; she saw
that already he was vainly repenting. How, in that
hour, did she rue the indulgent folly that had brought
up a man without that highest manliness of self-
restraint!

But he was suffering, and the mother-heart was
true as ever. She clasped her hands about his neck,
and said:

at ae us all, dear Victor. We will be true to you
still.

He told them all—his boyish passion, and wild
hope; his rash marriage at old St. Pancras;* his
dream of bringing back a matcbless woman to Moat
one the way that hope and dream had. per-

shed. ;

“Oh, mother, you told me truly, that love founded
only on a lovely face would die too soon, and despair
come in its stead; and I cast myself on your love
that never changes, for there is worse to tell !”

He told them all. He did not spare Rose, and he
did not spare himself. He told how he had left her,
in her strange physical beauty, lost in a stupor of
wine. He told how he had seen her again, bold, de-
fiant, revengeful, dressed in a young man’s dress,
and armed with a dagger. He cried:

“No doubt the fault is very greatly mine. I felt
irritated, and I chided for little errors as for great
faults. I was hasty, as she was hasty. We had
neither of us a true foundation for mutual love. I
did not understand her; I failed to watch over her;
I left her neglected and unprotected. I reap what I
have sown!’

“Sir Victor,” said Sir Fowel, his jovial voice grown
stern, ‘‘tell us every word and every incident of your
late meeting.”

Sir Victor could do that; it was burnt upon his
heart.

Lady Clemence gave a cry as she heard of that
dagger-stroke. Dr. Forbes and Sir Fowell grew
graver still. ;

“She is undoubtedly drowned,” said Dr. Forbes,
who knew the Wealden inch byinch. ‘She fell, or
threw herself over the bank, and what the river so
gets it never gives Back.” ‘

“And who knows of your meeting?’ asked Sir
Fowell.

“No one that I know of; and yet Amos Warren
must have known, for the next day he came and ac-
cused me of meeting her alone, and getting rid of
her.”

Lady Clemence gave a horrified cry. ar

“You know,” said Sir Victor, simply, ‘‘it is not true.
I would not hurt a hair of her, or any woman’s head.
What Amos said may have been the ravings of in-
sanity; but that about my meeting her was singu-
larly like sane knowledge.”

“And where is Amos ?” said Sir Fowell.

“Who can tell?’ sighed Sir Victor. “Are we not
looking for him everywhere? I have thought he
might be off searching for her. I have thought he
might, in his misery about her, have thrown himself
over where she did. Oh, mother, mother, have I the

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria.

 

 

 

Platforms were

 

 

blood of two upon my hands?—I, who would not

harm a single soul—TI, his friend, her husband !”

Believe in him? Yes, they did. They knew he had
told an ungarnished tale, but what would the world
think? When two had disappeared, would not search
be made, and would the tribunal of the public be-
lieve Sir Victor's story ?

Sir Fowell looked out upon the lawn, and saw five
or six men, headed by the apothecary-lover of Rose;
they were looking angrily toward the house, gesticu-
lating, He went out to them, and said, firmly:

“You have done Sir Victor a cruel wrong to-day.
On what you have founded accusation I do not know.
Understand, that he made Tom Reynold’s daughter
his wife in old St. Pancras’ Church, London, on the
third of last August. The marriage register is open to
your inspection. He took her to Italy to educate
her; left her there with a lady companion, a rector’s
widow, while he came home for the election, nean-
ing then to return and present her to the county. If
she has left Italy, or does not now appear with ‘him,
itis her own fault and at her ownrisk. But the riot
and abuse of this day will not make county life any
easier for Lady Rose St. Maurice,”

 

“LENORE!” CRIED SIR VICTOR, IN ANGUISH, “HUSH!
ROSE REYNOLDS—IS MY WIFE!” :

The men looked amazed; one or two of them drew
notes from their pockets. All were alike. —

“Ask Sir Victor at the hustings where is Rose Rey-
nolds? He took her off. He kept her from her
father’s death-bed; and she will never return. Where
is she? AMOS WARREN,”

“And where is Amos?’ demanded the apothecary.
“We are searching for him. You know he is insane.

Possibly loss of Miss Reynolds unsettled his mind. bu

Sir Victor did not know even that he loved her.
Your partis now to
story.” ; ai ti

The men slowly retreated before the authority of
Sir Fowell. But meanwhile they had performed
more than their part. ;

Immediately after the barouche of Lady Clemence
arrived, there came up the coach with the Baroness
Lady Anvers and Lady Lucy. To Ceonee them, Lady
Lenore slid into a little office room, and they passed
up stairs. But before the window of Lenore’s refuge
there were for a time six men, heaping abuse on Sir
Victor and charging him with the ruin and murder
of Rose Reynolds.

Lenore was one of the women who can love but
once, and love then wholly; she was one of those
who when once they trnst.can never be shaken in
that trust; of those whose love does not retreat and
hide when the beloved is in danger, adversity, or con-
demnation, but who draw closer in disaster, and rise
to the finest heights of self-sacrifice. Thus, all her
nature was up in armsin defense of Sir Victor; the
very enormity of the charges against him disproved
themselves; he became in her eyes a victim and a
martyr.

When Sir Fowell went to speak to the six men, Sir
Victor told Dr. Forbes that he had in the little office
desk the dagger and some papers. He went to

et them. As he opened the door, Lenore, erect,

ushed, eager, aS one inspired, stood there alone.
At sight of her, alook of white anguish filled his
face, and he held out his hand, in mute appeal, for
stay yg arr She sprang to him.

“Victor, J will never believe a word against you!
Do not think their slanders will turn my faith from
you. I know youare good. Oh, these cruel wretches!
How can they speak so to you? Do not think that
trouble will drive me from you. Trouble makes me
brave. I will defend you. I will stand by you. I
know I could not have learned to love aman who
could do as these men say to this woman.”

“Lenore! Lenore!’ cried Sir Victor, in anguish,
ek hush! This girl, Rose Reynolds, is my
wife!” :

go home until we unravel this

CHAPTER XXXVI.
“GOOD-BY, DEAR LOVE, GOOD-BY.”’

Dark shadows were brooding over Moat Wealden.
The ladies’ maids were busy packing trunks and bas-
kets, and revolving in their minds the few fragments
. aeet information that had crept to the servants’

all. :

Lady Anvers was dirritated over ascandal anda
change of plans; Le Lucy was crying because her
friends were unhappy ; Sir Victor was closeted with
Sir Fowell and Dr. Forbes; Lady.Lenore had locked
herself in her bedroom—there, unseen by human eye,
to battle with her torn, anguished heart, to. unre-
lentingly slay her love for another woman’s hus-
band, and to seek the only help that could avail her—
the help of Heaven; Lady Clemence was in her
dressing-room ; unutterable grief and yet more un-
utterable fears swept over her, and agonies of re-
morse were hers that she had not curbed, and con-

trolled, and taught strong self-government to this |

son. But though longing to be alone, she could not
deny herself to the Baroness Nevington. She cer-
tainly had aright to see her. Lady Clemence took
her hand.

“Yt feel humiliated before you. I have uncon-
sciously done you and yours aterrible wrong. Oh,
forgive me, and forgive—him !”

“T cannot feel angry at you, Clemence,” said the
baroness. ‘You have acted in good faith; you, too,
have been deceived, like the restof us. But I can-
not forgive him. He has outraged all truth and jus-
tice. He has been living among us as an unmarried,
free man when he had a wife. He has done me and
mine most cruel wrong. I will never forgive it.”

“Oh, my friend!” sobbed Lady Ciemence, ‘“‘blame
me, blame me! Blame me thatI did not keep my
vow to my dead husband and guard against this

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“BY TRUSTING THIS MAN TOO MUCH BECAUSE HE WAS
YOUR SON, I HAVE BROUGHT THIS UPON LENORE!”

reckless strain of St. Maurice blood from the very
first. Blame me that lignored the heat of young
blood, and the stress of temptation, and too readily
trusted, and did not guard. Blame me that when my
son’s burdened heart made me half-confidences I
was not wise enough to guess what lay behind, and
gain the rest. Blame me! He told me again and
again he could not and should not marry, and I at-
tributed it all to his youthful shyness and his sense
of Lenore’s perfections. Oh, blame me and forgive
him; he is so wretched !’”’

“He deserves to be wretched,” said the_bar-
oness, with indignation. ‘He has destroyed the
happiness of my precious Lenore. You and I,in
our folly, taking him at what he seemed, have
thrown her in his company, urged him upon her, en-
couraged her to look on him as her future husband,
and she is one of those women who love but once.
She will never receive another love; her name has
been associated with Sir Victor’s; she has been made
a part of this scandal; the sanctity and simplicity of
her life has been invaded; and 1, by trusting this
man too much because he was your son, have brought
all this upon her.” — 5

Lady Clemence was weeping bitterly. She knew
all this was most cruelly true.

“Her heart will break and she will die,” said the
baroness, with pathos. ‘*Lady Anvers has been good
enough to invite us to the retirement of her home at
Monk’s Cross_ Rest, and we will go there together to-
morrow. In‘Lucy’s society, and away from curious
eyes and rasping tongues, my poor darling may hide
her sorrows. She has been shielded like a tender
flower; her mother died young; and with this cruel
shock I fear Lenore will be prostrated.”

Then the two women cried together over the wreck
= their mutual hopes, and of their cherished chil-

ren.

Finally they parted for the night, and at last Moat
Wealden was dark and quiet. Across the lawns and
through the shadows of the park roqmed the big
black forms of half a dozen great bull-ddgs and mas-
tiffs, the mighty guards of the premises.

Whatever others did, Lady Lenore could not sleep,
and she rose, and looked from her window, to cool
her burning head in the dewy air, and to seek lulling
for her nerves in the soft sounds of the summer
night. Her window was shut off from the moonlight
by the broad shadow of Lady Violanti’s tower. She
saw a Pay of light gleaming across the farther end of
the strip of moat at the foot of the tower; the rest of
the water lay in its customary blackness, and she re-
membered how Sir Victor had dropped there the keys
of the fatal jewel case and escritoire.

Suddenly, out of one of the narrow, closed loop-
holes in the lower part of the tower shone a spark of
fire. Then it was gone. In a moment the fire-ray
shone again from the loop-hole level with the water.
Then it, too, was gone. -

Lady Lenore watched. What could itmean? Not
fire; there was nothing there to burn, only the damp
stone ways of the tower, below the hall of armor,
She had never been down. Sir Victor told her no one
had been down there for years.

But some one was there now. If Lady Lenore
could have looked through that stone wall she might
have been roused for the time from her heart-broken
reveries. As it was, she forgot the fire-sparks, and
recalled only those words, “She is my wife!’ follow-
ing her rash confession of her love. Oh, how heart-
sick, how humiliated, how hopeless she was! Her
tears fell like summer rain.

ut within the tower the spark of fire had come
from a light in Roger Driscoll’s hand, a basket and a
jug in the other. He went down the tower steps,
down below the water-line, down to a-small stone
room in the donjon keep..

There was a canvas cot-bed, with a blanket, a
cainp-stool, a burning lamp, and there, with folded
arms, and face as firm as ever, sat Amos Warren!
Not that Amos and Roger confronted each 6ther di-
rectly. The chancesin a match of strength might
have been equal. Roger’s prisoner was shut off from
Roger by an iron lattice that divided the donjon room
from the stair-way. :

Roger handed through the bars the fresh-filled
lamp, emptied the jug into a pitcher held by Amos,
gave him ample food, and a couple of books.

“Now, Mr. Warren,” he said, ‘are you ready to
swear never to accuse Sir Victor concerning that
girl, Rose Reynolds, if I let you out? He never
harmed a hair of her head, and I put you here to keep
you from bringing a false charge—a charge he
mightn’t be able to disprove. Will you take your
oath to let him alone ?”’

“No, I won’t,” said Amos. “His arranging with
you to shut me here, proves he is guilty, and, if I can
compass it, he shall die for his sins.”

“T’ve told you he knows nothing about it. I put
you here, and keep you here on my own responsibil-
ity. He is looking everywhere for you. So is Sir
Fewell.””

“7 shall never believe you are not under his orders;
and I shall stay here till I die before I promise to for-
sake the vengeance of the girl he did to death,” said
Warren. “If I die here, my blood will be on your

“Well, ’d rather answer for it, since you are so ob-
stinate,”’ said Roger, “then have you hound my
master for what he didn’t do. You'll relent some
day, and then I’ll let you out; now I’m doing my best
for you. I don’t want to be too hard, Mr. Warren.”

“How did the election go?” asked Amos. eagerly.

“Come out, and you'll know,” retorted Roger.

Then Roger shook the iron bars, asked politely if

i 1 u ] I

T 3

 

 

 

 

 

PEO Oh

 

 

 

ny ww\\\d

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“STR VICTOR IS GUILTY, AND, IF I CAN COMPASS IT,
HE SHALL DIE FOR HIS SIN!”

his prisoner wanted anything else, and went his up-
ward way with the empty basket and jug, and the
burnt-out lamp.

When Lady Lenore came down early next morning,
she walked leisurely round by the moat side, and
stood looking at the little boarded-up loop-hole and
the dark water. :

“Lady Lenore,” said a low voice behind her.

She turned. There was Sir Victor.

“Lady Lenore,” he said, “I have conte to speak
with you for the last time, and to ask your pardon.
In a boy’s mad passion I have thrown away my life
and my hope of happiness. You will hear me ac-
cused of the worst crimes, perhaps. I say to you,
solemnly, as I would say to God who sees all, that I
am only guilty of the one folly of a hasty, secret, ill-
advised, unhappy marriage. Thatis all the wrong I
have done. I swear to you, only that. That has
been my ruin. It has precluded all hope of happi-
ness. When I saw you, I saw the one woman who
could make me nobler and better, an entirely happy
man, could command and fill my whole life. By my
own act, my love would be only an insult to you;
but Ilay before you forever my worship, as the one
angel of my life, to stand beside my mother in my
grateful adoration. Forgive and forget me.”

Without a word, she gave him for one instant her
small soft hand.

A great sigh, like a sob, burst from them both, as
they turned from each other, and Lady Lenore
moaned in her heart:

“Good-by, dear love, good-by !”

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)
OO oO

FLOWERS FOR THE BABY.

°

It is interesting to observe how suddenly the pa-
thos of another’s sorrow will turn the cynical mood
into the “melting mood.” In our most impatient
moments we all have a “soft side” for the baby,
whether the little creature lies in the cradle or in the
coffin.

A little girl, who perhaps had starved and drudged
for a dozen years, went into the store of a florist one
morning, and the timid, pathetic eyes, which were
the sole beauty of her pinched, unhealthy face,
eagerly watched a clerk who was busily building a
huge basket of roses. :

The clerk, being busy, gave the girl a sharp look
and said, ‘‘Well?” 4 a:

“TI want some roses,” said the girl, shyly, and ina
low voice.

“How many?”

“Can I get two white ones and a yellow one and
some green leaves for that?’ and she held out a
dime. ‘

“Yes,” replied the clerk, shortly, and he picked up
three roses and proceeded to arrange them.

The little girl watched in silence until the little
bouquet was almost finished, and’ then said, in an
explanatory tone, ‘‘They’re for the baby.” y

“What does a baby want of flowers?’ exclaimed
the clerk.

“She don’t want them. She’s dead, you know.” «

Three more white roses went into the cluster, and
when they were given to the child she exclaimed,
“Oh, how much is it ?” :

“Nothing!” said the clerk; and he pushed the little
bit of silver back into the hand which offered it, and
plunged half his body into his desk in search of some-
thing he did not want.

oe or

NOTHING so soon {reconciles us to the thought of
our own death as the prospect of one friend after an-
other dropping around us.

CONSENT to common custom, but not to common
folly.

A GoopD conscience is the finest opiate.

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

 

CHRISTMAS WEATHER,
BY GEORGE WEATHERLY,

The sleet beats fast on the casement pane,
The icicles freeze together,

And sharp winds blow o’er the mounds of snow,
For ’tis right good Christmas weather !

The sleet beats fast, and the sharp wind blows,
Over the gorse and the heather,

But my Lady Bountiful, out she goes
In the right good Christmas weather.

What cares she for the sleet and the wind,
And the snow-flakes light as a feather?
In furs well clad, her heart is glad,
For ’tis right good Christmas weather!

Yet many must suffer, too well she knows,
When want and cold come together ;
Somy Lady Bountiful, out she goes
In the right good Christmas weather.

And wherever she steps a warm light glows
Over the gorse and the heather,

And hearts that were sad are hearts made glad
In the right good Christmas weather! :

—>

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

Captain's Orphan Daughter,

By HERO STRONG.

Author of ‘‘A Beautiful Woman’s Sin,” **Born to
Command,” ‘*The Lost Bride,” etc,

_ (“THE CAPTAIN’S ORPHAN DAUGHTER” was commenced
in No. 44. Back numbers Can be obtained of all News
Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXXVI.
AN APPEAL TO MARGARET.

The coachman pulled up his horses in sheer amaze-
ment.

“Well, ma’am,” said he, “if I don’t know where to
drive to, how am I to drive anywhere ?”’

Frances spoke to him quietly.

“My mother is not well, and she is hardly herself.
You may drive, if you please, to No. — Bainbridge
street,” giving at random the residence, or lodging-
house, of Mary Graves, the fellow-clerk who had al-
ways been so kind to her. %

“Bainbridge street!” said the coachmna, lifting his
eyebrows. “Begging pardon, ma’am, thatis not the
most desirable part of the city.”

“Perhaps not; bnt I have a friend there. Drive
on !” said Frances, a little haughtily, drawing up the
glass.

“Oh, Frances, don’t go anywhere where it isn't
respectable !” cried Mrs. Carleton.

“Mary Graves lives at the place I have told him to
find,” said Frances, ‘‘and T know she will take us in
for the night, and to-morrow we may be able to find

another place. It is too late to search to-night.”

In a short time they stopped before the door of a
lodging-house, with a little grocery store in front.
Frances alighted and entered the store.

Mrs. Marshall, the proprietess, was a stout, middle-
aged woman, and she sat knitting behind the counter,
with a large black cat asleep on her knee.

Frances addressed her, and asked for Mary Graves.

“Yes,” said the woman, putting the cat down care-
fully in a basket in a nest of shavings, “tyes, she be
at home, I think. She never goes out nights. Who
shall I tell her wants to see her ?’ :

‘“‘You.may tell her that Frances Carleton wishes to
speak with her at once.”

The woman waddled out of the store, and in a few
moments Mary Graves came in. She went up to
Frances and shook her cordially by the hand.

“T am so glad to see you !”’ she said, heartily; “and
I have missed youso much! What a shame it was
for them all to set against you only because you hap-
as to be so much better-looking than anybody
else!

“Then you do not believe me guilty ?”’

“T? Of course not. It is a plot. You refused
James Burnham some time ago, and I knew then that
he would never lose an opportunity of getting his re-
venge. I know him and his family, and the whole
brood might be Satan’s own and do no discredit to
their progenitor. And, of course, you know that Miss
Fielding hates you. But here I stand gossiping, and
you look ready to drop. Come to my room, and we
will talk at our leisure.”

‘My mother is in the carriage outside.
left Colonel Vandervoort’s, an
shelter——” ;
. “You shall have it,” said Mary Graves, wanmmly.
“Here, Mrs. Marshall, I have two friends who want
a@room.and supper. Let your mother come in at
once. Why did you not tell me at first, that she
might not have been kept waiting?”

Mrs. Marshall left the room, and the sounds of her
heavy footsteps were heard rattling the furniture in
the chamber overhead. The coachman brought in
the trunks, received his fee, and drove away, and
Mary Graves conducted the two ladies to the room
Mrs. Marshall had made ready.

“There,” said the landlady, with her fat arms on *
her redundant hips, surveying the room with an air
of satisfaction. ‘It hain’t so nice as the Continental
Hotel, and it hain’t so aristocratic here on Bain-
bridge street as ’tis in some other places, but I’ve kept
a boarding-house here for nigh onto twenty year, and
I’m thoroughly respectable. And Mary Graves’
friends is my friends.”

And she dropped a deep courtesy and waddled
away.

And into Mary Graves’ sympathetic ears Frances
poured the whole story of her troubles, and found
comfort in the honest woman’s words of cheer. .

“Tt will come out all right in time,” said Mary,
hopefully ; ‘“‘but I confess I don’t see why you do not
tell how you came by the money, and set it all right
at once. The Wanamakers are just and generous
men, and they never would proceed against you
when once they were assured of your innocence.
What I mean to say is that when they were con-
vinced that your five-hundred-dollar-bill was not
their five-hundred-dollar-bill, they would look else-
where for the thief, and you would be exonerated.”

“Yes, yes,” said Mrs. Carleton, eagerly, ‘that is
just my view of it, but Frances seems determined not
to speak.”

“Only because I cannot,” said Frances, sadly.

And, seeing that she was not to be moved, they
ceased to urge her.

But, at Mrs. Carleton’s suggestion, Mary Graves
told the story of the affair to Mrs. Marshall, and that
good woman assured her that it should make no dif-
ference with her—the ladies should remain so long as
they could pay their way.

‘-l’m an honest woman,” said Mrs. Marshall; ‘‘and
I’d like to see the party that would dare to say I
wasn’t; but I hain’t so skittish of my character that
I don’t dare to help a tellow-woman critter in trouble.
And as long as they pays they stays, and that’s a
rhyme, and I was always good at making ’em.”

A week passed, and Frances, though she had
sought daily for some kind of employment, had
sought in vain. There was work enough of the kind
she could do, but everybody wanted references
from her last employers, and when,these were
not forthcoming the girl was dismissed with scant
courtesy.

And by and by it seemed that wherever she went
the story of her misfortune had preceded her.

Her funds were getting low. Something must be
done to keep her mother and herself from public
charity.

Francis was too proud to accept the temporary

loan that Mary Graves offered. She was able to
support herself if she could only get the opportunity,
and she was young and hopeful, and she would not
give up.
3 ane os she lay night after night awake, long after
her mother had sunk into a troubled slumber, the
resolve formed slowly in her mind that she would
make an appeal to the mysterious Margaret, and see
if she could not be in some way released from her
promise of secrecy.

How it could be brought about Francis had no con-
ception, but something urged her on to seek the in-
terview with Margaret.

She remembered very well the items of informa-
tion which had been given her by her fellow-clerks
regarding this Mrs. Lamont Kirkland, of whom she
never thought except as Margaret, and she knew
that she lived in the vicinity of the river, in Man-
ayunk.

It was easy for her to go out without exciting her
mother’s curiosity, for she was out every day look-
ing for employment.

“It wasadark and foggy morning that she en-
tered the street-car which would take her into the
neighborhood of Mrs. Kirkland’s residence. Its ex-
act location she did know, but once in the vicinity
and it would not be difficult to ascertain.

She inquired at Shaw’s Lane station, for the house
of Mrs. Lamont Kirkland.

“It is a long walk,” said the policeman, who
directed her, ‘‘you had better take a cab.”

“T can walk very well, thank you,” said Frances,
and started off in the direction he had pointed out.

“It was along walk, and the girl was very tired

We have
we want a night’s

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

<<a THE NEW YOR

~

K WEEKLY.

VOL. 43—No. 10.

 

 

when she reached the great gate atthe beginning of; me. Such aid and comfort as I have received from { charge of the gravel walks and drives, was missing.

the long avenue of tress which led up to the house. |

Again, the dampness and chill of the place went
through her, just as she had felt it so long ago when
she had been brought thére, and from the great beds
of flowers on either side of the drive came the heavy,
sickening smell of heliotrope, and Frances grew
faint and dizzy at the memory of the scene which
this odor brought before her so vividly.

And as on that well remembered night, she heard
the hoarse baying of dogs, atthe rear of the house,
and the sound of some harsh voice commanding them
to silence.

A turn in the path brought her in full view of the
house. It wasan immense pile of dark stone; its
massive front broken only by the heavy arched
portico, around which some flowering vines cluster-
ed in wild luxuriance.

Frances’ heart sank as she ascended the marble
steps and pulled the fretted silver bell-knob. The
sound reverberated through the house, and it seemed
an age to Frances before her ring was answered.

But by and by a man servant opened the door, and
waited in silence while she told him her business.

“‘T wish to see Mrs. Lamont Kirkland.”

“What name?’

“Tell her that I am one of the saleswomen from
Wanamaker’s,” said Frances, thinking that perhaps
she would be more likely to gain an audience, if Mrs.
Kirkland thought she had come on business.

The man walked silently away, and returning
directly asked Frances to walk in.

She followed him through the hall, and past the
suit of armor, and past the skeleton in the niche in
the wall, into a small reception-room, on the left of
the entrance.

A moment only had she waited, when the curtains
were parted, and Margaret stood before her. Tall,
pale, haughty, and blonde; her fair hair shining—
no streak of gray—her handsome, well-cut- features
betraying no sign of surprise,

““Are you the—the person who wished to see me?’
she asked, and ice could have been no colder than
her tones.

“Tam the person. I am Frances Carleton.”

The lady showed no sign of recognition.

“Surely you remember ne? .You cannot. have for-
gotten the dreadful night when [ was last here ?”’

“TI do not remember you,” said Mrs. Kirkland, cold-
jy. ‘‘And you have never, to my knowledge, been
under my roof before.”

“You cannot have forgotten it!” eried Frances,
passionately ; ‘‘you must recall that terrible night,
when the old man died up there,’ pointing to the
rooms above, ‘“‘and I was brought here, and made to
go through with that mocking ceremony. Oh,
Heaven! I shall go mad at the thought of it.”

“‘T do not in the least understand what you are say-
ing,” said the lady, flicking a ‘bit of dust from her
azure silk dress. Iam afraid that you are not quite
right here,” touching her forehead.

“Indeed I am perfectly sane. And I have come to
“you to demand justice. I am accused of theft. And
‘the money which you gave me is the strong witness
sagaimst me. And I may not tell how I came by it. I
“ask you to release me from the promise I gave you

that dreadful night, when I was so terrified that I
knew not what I was promising.”

“<I am quite sure that you are an escaped lunatic!”
said Mrs. Kirkland. ‘You may leave the house
quietly, if fou will; butif not, [ shall ring the bell
for the servants to put you out.”

“T beg of you, madam, listen to me,” cried Frances,
clasping the folds of the lady’s dress, as she turned
to execute her threat. “I am perfectly sane,-as you
well know. I was brought here nearly four years
age, and married to a dying man in this house. And
‘you—you, yourself, madam—gave me a five-hundred-
dollar bill for the service I rendered you. I do not—
[ never have—understood the mystery of the thing,
but I ask you to promise me to come forth and tell
those who have arrested me for theft, that you gave
me the money. Give me the power to speak and
‘prove my innocence. You surely would not want to
be the means of ruining an ipnocent girl ?”’

“FT am not ruining any one that [am aware of,” re-
turned Mrs. Kirkland, ‘and Iam sorry for you. It
is unfortunate to have lost one’s reason. Youshonld
‘go to your friends and have them care for you.”

“And you absolutely refuse to help me ?”’

“T cannot help you. I know nothing about you
.and your improbable story. It is like a French novel.
‘Strange! What fancies :

“Don’t talk to me in that way,” said Frances, in-
dignantly. ‘Iam as sane as you are, and you know
it. And what will you doif I go to the police and
tell them the story of that night, and reveal to them
syour name, and the part you played in it?”

The lady regarded her with cold astonishment.

“Do? Ishould do nothing except simply to deny
the whole thing. Young woman, you are beside
zyourself, and if you have come here with this im-
probable story, expecting to obtaing money out of it,

. I,tell you now that Margaret Kirkland is not the
woman to be driven, or persuaded, by any living
veing. And, mind you, young woman, how you in-
curmy anger. For I-tell you now, that if you of-
fended me, I would set the dogs of the law on you to |
hunt you down to the prison, which, no doubt, you |
deservé, just as readily as [ would call my dogs to |
escort you from my premises.”

She opened the low window, and blew on a silver
whistle which hung at her belt.

tnstantly, a couple of savage-looking hounds leaped
mp beneath the window, and showed their white
teeth in response to the caress of their mistress.

“You can go,” Margaret said to Frances, ‘‘and if
you turn back, or if you ever step foot inside yonder
gates again, I will not be responsible for your safety.
My dogs are kept for watch-dogs. Go!” She stepped,
herself, te the outer door, and flung it open. “If you
go on they will not harm you. Go?’

Frances went hurriedly out, and, frantie with ter-
ror, ran down the length of the avenue, the dogs
keeping pace with her, )ut not offeringjto molest her.

Outside the gate, she sank down'on the grass, ut-
terly unable to proceed farther; and while she sat
there a footstep sounded on the gravel, and looking
up she saw the dark and eyil face of James Burn-
hain.

“Are you not some ways from home, Miss Fran-
ces?” he asked, as Frances, crimson with indigna-

* tion, sprang to her feet.

“You are no gentleman to follow me,” she cried,
angrily. ‘But itis like you.”

“F have been fishing in the Wissahickon,” said
Burnhain, coolly, “and [ came across lots. And Iam
glad that I did so, since it has given me an opportu-
nifty of meeting you.- Frances, listen to me just a mo-
ment. A year ago, you refused my love. [I know
that [have no fortune to offer you, but I have the
ability to earn one. I am on the way to it. I love
you. Don't getangry and put on that scornful look
of yours, for you need afriend just now. And such
a friend I could and would be to you. Promise that
you will be my wife, and I swear to you that in less
than twenty-four hours your innocence shall be
established, and every one who has been rude to you
Shall beg your pardon. —

Frances stood silent—her face only expressing her
indignation and eontempt.

“Answer me, Frances. Say, yes, and I will show
you that [can do what I promise. Think what it is
o live as you will have to live—always undera cloud
—always under the shadow of a disgraceful suspicion
—never to be able to hold up your head again among
honest women. Albert Herndon may be devoted
now, but I tell you that he will never marry a wo-
man whose name has been mixed upin such a dam-
aging transaction. He thinks that you will be
cleared; butit cannot be done without my assist-
ance, and that I will never give till [ have your
premise.”

“T would not marry you to save my neck from the
rope of the hangman,” cried Frances, looking him
full in the face, while her eyes flashed with scorn,
and the red flush of indignation burnt in her fair
cheeks.

Burnham’s face grew crimson.

“Go your ways,” he said, coarsely. “I shall ask
you no more. And the law shall take its course, and
lodge you in a felon’s cell.”

And turning on his heel, he strode rapidly away.

Frances took up her journey back wearily, and
with a heavy heart. Hope was dead. What was to
become of her mother and herself she dared not an-
ticipate, or speculate upon.

She was crossing the street to get under the shadow
of the trees, when she was nearly run down by a pair
ef blooded bays, driven by a woman.

“Hi, there!” shouted a policeman, and the reckless
driver pulled her beasts upsharp, and Frances darted
from beneath their hoofs.

Andas the open carriage dashed on, Frances saw
that the driver was Helena Fielding, and the gentle-
man who occupied the seat by her side was Albert
Herndon.

”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
“I CHARGE YOU WITH THE DEED!”

It had been all talked over at Palmwood, and it was
decided that Captain Carleton should leave for the
North on the following Mondny, and it was now
Saturday afternoon.

Carleton had almost entirely recovered from the
weakness and indisposition consequent upon the
operation to which he had been subjected, and his
mind and memory being fully vanineed: he was natur-
ally impatient to seek and take up again the lost
threads of his life.

Colonel Percy, with a noble generosity like himself,
had placed funds at his disposal, and given him every
fee at his command to render his quest success-

ul,

The family had been sitting around the table in
the library, discussing Carleton’'s projected tour, and
Madam Percy had said to him:

“T dread to have you go. Since you have been here
I have learned to regard you almost as tenderly as I
have my own son. ButI mustnot be selfish, and for
get how great may be the happiness in store for you.
And whether you find your wife and child, or not,
maeeanet that you have promised to return to Palm-
wood.’

Carleton bent over and kissed tenderly the still fair
on white hand which rested on the folds of her black

ress.

“J shall return, my dearest friend. Never doubt

you and from your family can never be forgotten.
wife and child you shall be informed.”

until we hear from you. Shall we not, Elizabeth ?’

heavens. She answered, quietly :
“Yes, we Shall be very anxious.”

could do would be to bear it in silence.
“Tt is a lovely sunset. ¢
fountain in the cotton-woods,” said Madam Percy.

me good.”

“Take a thick wrap, mother; the evenings are
damp,’ said her son. ‘You can have Carleton’s
cloak; he is done with it now. The role of invalid
would hardly suit a man with a chest like that,” and
as he spoke, he lifted the white fur cloak and placed
it over his mother’s shoulders.

ane smniled up into his face, and he kissed her fore-
head. y

‘*My own dearest mother!’ he cried, involuntarily ;
“what should I do without you?”

“You would be seeking the love of some younger,

the room, with a smile on her handsome face.

The air outside was soft and cool. The flowers
along the borders lifted up their bright heads, and
shed their perfume as the fair and gracious lady
passed along. She stopped and gathered a late moss
rose, and placed it in the bosom of her dress,

She went down the graveled path, and spoke to the
gardener, who was pottering among the Chrysan-
themums, and asked after his little girl, who was ill.

The man leaned on his spade, and looked after her
as she walked along, a satisfied smile on his dark
face.

“There never was a better lady, nor a kinder,’ he
said, loyally; ‘and it’s like her to ask after little
Mag. Most of ’em in her place wouldn’t care.”

Madam Percy passed down the graveled walk lead-
ing to the fountain in the cotton-woods, and turning
toward the glowing west, she stood a moment look-
ing at the fading hues of gold, and crimson, and
amber.

“Can the light of our eternal home in the heavens
be any fairer or brighter?” she said softly to herself.
“Can the smile of God there be any sweeter than it
is here ?”’

The bright hues began to grow dim, the night air
blew down damp and cold from the mountains, and
Madam Percy drew the cloak up over her shoulders,

She was a very tall woman, and she wore the royal
robe with a grace that the empress of that great and
powerful eountry from which these costly furs had
come might have envied.

She reached the cotton-woods and sat down on the
brink of the basin into which the water from the
fountain fell. ;

* * * *

The evening shades gathered over the great rooms
at Palmwood, and the candles were lighted in the sil-
ver sconces.

Elizabeth Angiers took up some light worsted
work, and employed her fingers, to make an excuse
for not looking up to show her companions how sad
and heavy her eyes were.

Conversation flagged. There was a nameless re-
straint over the party of three, though they were ex-
cellent friends. All felt the shadow of Captain
Carleton’s departure dropping down over them.

Carleton himself was in rather poor spirits. The
doubt and nncertainty which lay before him made
him full of vague terrors. What if he found Annie
married? Whatif he found her lying in some quiet
church-yard?) What if he did not find her at all?
There was a degree of uncertainty about the whole
thing which made him nervous and distrait.

Directly he took up his hat and left the house.

Colonel Percy was looking over a book of engravy-
ings, but suddenly he cast it aside and started up,
inquiring:

“Where is mother? Has she not yet come in?’

“T have not seen her,” replied Elizabeth; “though
she may have gone to her room by the way of the
back hall. I will ring and ascertain.”

The mulatto girl sent to Madam Percy’s room re-
turned in a moment to say that madam was not in.

“Perhaps she be gone to see: the gardener’s little
Mag, as is sick with a decline,” suggested the ser-
vant. “She often does go.”

“Tt is too damp for her to be out,” said the colonel.
“T will go and find her.” :

He went through the gardens, calling her name,
but receiving no response. He met the gardener go-
ing to his little cottage on the outskirts of the es-
tate, and inquired for her.

“T saw her half an hour and more ago,” said the
man; ‘she was going toward the fountain. She

_asked after my little Mag.”

“You do not think that she has gone to your
house ?”’

“She could not go that way.
the fountain.”

He went off whistling a snatch from “Robin Adair,”
and to his dying day Colonel Perey will never hear
that air without a shudder, so fraught was it with
the awful memory of that night.

Percy left the man behind him, and went on to the
fountain. He called “Mother! mother!’ but no one
replied. :

“It is very strange!” he said to himself, ‘very
strange where she ean be.”

There was a fence at the beginning of the cotton-
wood grove, and it was very unlikely that she could
have climbed it and gone on into the timber. She
must have gone back to the house by another path.
She was there now, perhaps, waiting for him to come
in.

He retraced his steps quickly, and reached the
house. Elizabeth, with a shawl: over her head,
stood on the veranda, evidently watching for him.

“You haye not found her ?” she said, and there was
a tremor of alarm in her voice,

“Has she not come in?”

“No; it is so strange.” :

“Great Heaven! you do not fancy that there is
anything wrong ?” ‘

Elizabeth drew her shaw] closer around her.

“T will go with you,” she said, quietly enough,
though there was a strange and inexplicable fear at
her heart; ‘‘we will seek her together.”

They went over the path Percy had just traveled ;
they called aloud at’ every turn, but there was no
reply.

Phey reached the fountain, and heard the water
tinkling softly as it fell from the dozen mouths of the
brazen lion into the great marble basin below.

The basin was in shadow, but as they stood there
the moon came up over the tops of the cotton-woods,
and dropped its ight on the water.

Elizabeth started violently, and clutched the arm
ot her companion.

“What is it? What did you see?” asked the colonel.

“T thought—I may be mistaken—I thought Isaw
something white at the other side of the basin ?”

Perey rushed forward, and leaned over at the spot
which her trembling finger had indicated.

The sight that he saw froze every drop of blood in
his body.

For lying on her back in the shallow waters of the
basin, with the crystal water falling over her and the
silvery beams of the moon lighting up her white face,
was Madam Percy, still. wrapped in the white fur
cloak, dead. ;

Percy, with a calmness more terrible to witness
than the most violent outbnrst of grief, lifted his
mother out of the water and laid her on the grass.

Elizabeth Angiers was already kneeling beside the
prostrate figure, her hand seeking the cold heart
which would never more beat in warmth and affec-
tion for those she loved.

“Oh, my God!” she eried, as she realized that
Madam Percy was, indeed, dedd—passed beyond re-
eall. “How did it happen? How could it have hap-
pened ?”

Colonel Perey had lifted the limp head and laid it
against his shoulder, and his hand, as he raised it to
his forehead, gleamed red in the moonlight. He
looked at it like one dazed.

“Tt is blood!” he said, slowly. ‘‘Her blood !’’

Elizabeth pushed back the soft gray hair from the
dead woman’s forehead, and there, dark and stained
with blood, was a ragged hole which showed the
mark of the deadly bullet which had penetrated her
brain.

She pointed it out to Colonel Percy.

“She was murdered!” Elizabeth cried, in horror
and amazement. ‘‘Who could have done the deed ?”

Colonel Percy did not speak. His emotion was too
deep for words. He took the dead form in his arms
and bore it tenderly into the house—into the warmth,
and light, and happiness, he had so lately left; but
the genial light from the shaded lamp had no power
to penetrate to the darkened brain of the cold mis-
tress of Palmwood; the ruddy flames leaping up the
chimney could never warm those chill and folded
hands into life again!

The servants gathered around with faces of blank
amazement, and their cries and wailings sounded
mournfully on the dreary silence.

She must be down at

seen at tirst. The poor lady had died from a pistol-
shot in the head, and had probably fallen back into
the basin when the bullet struck her.

discovering the murderer of his mother. :

“She had not an enemy in the world!” he said, to
Elizabeth, ‘“‘and that makes what has occurred seem
all the more strange. I must see all the servants
separately and question them.” ;

6 seemed to have put away his grief in his thirst
for revenge, and in the course of an hour he had sent
telegrams to two of the most noted detectives in
Raleigh, and had set to work all the constables in the
county.

All of the servants told the same story. They had
not seen Madam Percy after she left the house. Only
the gardener had spoken with her.

Colonel Percy’s qnick eye detected the absence of
one. man amoug the servants. Old Tom, who had

 

And the instant I learn anything in regard to my
“That is right, and we shall all feel very anxious
Elizabeth Angiers sat a little apart, looking out at

the glowing sunset hues which painted the western

Captain Carleton looked at her, and his dark eyes
grew sad, for well he knew that his happiness with
Annie must wreck the life of this woman; and all she
I think I will walk to the

“T have a bi® of a headache, and the cool air will do

fairer woman,” returned Madam Percy, as she left

A more prolonged examination of the body of the
dead woman revealed nothing more than had been

After the first few moments of terrible grief and
amazement, Colonel Percy recovered himself, and
then his whole thought was directed to the means of

Nobody could say where he was.

“Find him,” said the colonel, peremptorily, ‘‘and
bring him to me.”

“You cannot surely suspect old Tom ?” said Eliza-
beth, in surprise. :

“No, but he may know something. He is a night
bird, always prowling around after dark. And I
on not be satisfied until I have questioned them
all.” ;

They found old Tom hidden in a hay-stack, and
dragged him forth and brought him to his master.

The old man was pale, and trembled like one with
the ague, and when he attempted to speak, his tongue
seemed to refuse its office.

“Did you know that your mistress has been foully
murdered ?” demanded Colonel Percy.

“’Fore the Lord! how should I know it?” exclaim-
ed the old man, shaking still worse, and clasping and
unclasping his bony old hands in strange excitement.

“But you-did know it? Don’t you dare to lie to
me!’

“Yes, I did know it,” said old Tom, but speaking
with great reluctance. ”

“Now, then, how did you know it ?”

“T—I—master, I don’t remember——”

“Tell me the truth,” roared Percy, “or, by the Lord,
I will break every bone in your body, and feed you
to the dogs !”

The old man fell on his knees, and dropped his gray
head into his hands.

“T can do nothing but tell the truth,” he said, in a
pitiful voice, ‘‘and God knows I would rather die,
tor I am an old man and of no us¢ in the world.”

“Drop your sentiment! Good heavens! while you
are driveling here the murderer may have escaped!
Tell me what you know.”

The old man spoke in a slow, mechanical way, and
as if each word was an effort.

“T was down in the cotton-woods looking for a stray
goat that had been missing since yesterday, and I
saw Madam Perey come to the fountain. She wore
the white fur cloak that Captain Carleton has been
wearing lately.”

He paused and looked about him helplessly.

oe on!” cried the colonel’ ‘Why do you hesi-
tate ?

“She sat down on one of the chairs by the edge of
the basin, and drew the cloak up around her head, as
if she felt cold, I was coming toward the fountain,
and as I walked softly, so as not to disturb her, I
heard the footsteps of some one else coming in the
other direction. I stopped, and looked to see who it
was, As I stood there, the oleander bushes just back
of the fountain parted, and [ saw for one moment
the head of a man thrust out. It was quickly drawn
back, and then-I heard a pistol-shot close at hand,
and Madam Percy leaped to her feet with a smothered
ery, and fell backward into the basin.”

“But the man that you saw!” eried the colonel.
“What was he like? Did you recognize him? Which
way did he go?’ ;

“T only saw his head when the bushes parted, and
I did not see him afterward. I started to run to the
house, and as I got abreast of the fountain I fell
against some one who was going toward the cotton-
woods at a brisk pace.”

“Who was it?”

“It—it was Captain Carleton.”

“Captain Carleton!” cried the colonel.
he say? What was he doing ?””
le “He said nothing. He went strai

though he was running for his life.”

Colonel Percy pushed back the heayy hair from his
brows, and 8tood still in dire perplexity. He did not
doubt old Tom’s word; he was truthful as the sun-
light; but where was Captain Carleton going when
Tom nfet him? Where was he now?

An awful suspicion came over him which he tried
his best to smother.

Could it be possible that Carleton had gone sud-
denly mad, and killed Madam Perey in an insane
frenzy? His brain had been disordered; he had
hardly recovered from the effects of a critical
operation; could it be that hein a moment ‘of mad-
ness had done this thing?

His absence at this time was, to say the least, singu-
lar; since he was seldom out after dark, his habits
being very domestic.

As the colonel stood there trying to think it out,
the door opened, and Captain Carleton came‘in.

- He was pale and breathless, and the hair on his
forehead was wet with perspiration.

Colonel Perey turned upon him abruptly, and put a
single question.

“Who killed my mother ?”

Carleton stared at him, but made no reply.

“Ts it true what Tom says, that he saw you near
the fountain? that you were running? that you must
have been very near when the fatal shot was fired?”

“Yes, itis true!” returned Carleton, speaking like
one in a dream, and he held out his right hand to the
light, and looked curiously at it.

And all the others looked at it.

It was red with blood.

“Great God!’ cried the colonel, pointing to the

terrible stain, “how came it there ?”’ Bo Sa
“T do not know!” said Carleton, blankly.
“You lie!” cried Percy, furiously springing upon
him, and seizing him by the throat. “You killed my
mother! and before these witnesses I charge you
with the deed.” - : RAS

(TO BE CONTINUED.}

“What did

ght ahead, as

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

LLFUL WINNIE.

By HARRIET SHERBURNE,

Author of *‘A Tangled Case,” “Friends and Foes,”
' Rove and Honor,” etc.

[‘“*WILLFUL WINNIRK” was Commenced in No. 45. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

CHAPTER XLVIII.—(CONTINUED.)

The two officers who had obeyed Mr. Williams’ ges-
ture, and were standing at the door, saw the husband
and wife both bend over that motionless form and
weep bitterly. But at last Winnie looked up at him,
and said:

“Do not. grieve so much, my Laurie, for, at the
worst, they can but kill me for my schoolgirl folly.”

“Oh, Winnie, if I could only bear this for you,” he
incoherently gasped, “if I could only stand. between
you and this disgrace, I would give my life!”

not, weep for me, for death is a blessed relief to one

who has nothing to live for.”

“You are right,” he said, gloomily: “but if you die,
we will die together.”

“Tbeg your pardon, but the carriage has been
standing at the door for a quarter of an hour,” said
one of the men, who afterward told his companion
oo not bear the sight of such sorrow any

ger.

For a full minute Laurie and Winnie looked each
other gravely in the face, then, with her cheeks as
white as those of the corpse, she went out in the hall,
and taking her bonnet from Stena, placed it on her
head, and, turning to her faithful friend, said:

“Good-by, Stena, and may Heaven bless you!”

“Do you suppose lam going to leave you? No,
Winnie; I shall go, too,” said the young lady, who
they then saw was clothed in street attire.

The officers made no objection to her aecompany-
ing her friend, and, with quivering lips, Winnie
rested her hand-.on Stena’s faithful arm, and went
down to the carriage, unseen by her Aunt Eliza.

Unable to bear the sight of her going away in such
distress, Laurie flung himself down on the library
floor and gave way to an agonized burst of grief, be-
fore he mounted his horse to follow her.

As for Winnie, she sank back in the carriage, feel-
ing that hope was over.

She was doomed to undergo a publie trial for mur-
der, and on the next day her name would be pub-
lished broadcast as that of a disgraced woman.

She lay there thinking of the amazement of her ac-
quaintances when they learned she had never been
Laurie’s wife.

“How men will sneer at my poor father when it is
known that his only daughter wedded Leo Forester,
the burglar, and that he deserted her while she was
yet a schoolgirl !”

This was her thought, while bitter tears fell down
her cheeks, and her heart seemed bursting with its
burden of sorrow. 2

“Winnie, my darling, do not grieve so. for surely

God has not deserted you, and He will not let you
suffer much longer,” soothingly whispered Stena, as
she clasped her friend’s hand in hers, in a vain at-
tempt to comfort her.
. “Stena, nothing can save me,” replied the despair-
ing woman. “My own ee, is that I may die be-
fore I have disgraced all I leve. Oh, pray with me
that Heaven may grant my desire, if you truly wish
for my welfare!” ~

But Stena’s lips were mute, as the carriage bore
them through Locustmere's gates, on its route to the
county jail.

}and Rob Miller’s cheek grew white and

“But you cannot; and so,if the worst comes, do |

 

CHAPTER XLIX.
ROB’S RUSE TO OBTAIN A CONFESSION.
While Winnie was proses her miserable ride

to prison, a being, who had once been her greatest

enemy, was exercising his brain to devise a plan for

per escape from the dreadful fate which menaced
er.

In fact, all night Loyd Hawley had remained awake

planning a course of action for the morrow, and early
that mornin
fronted by

the front door.

he had stolen down stairs, to be con-
ob Miller and the village constable at

Rob briefly explained to him that he had been

troubled with insomnia, and had come down in the j

open air, to find the officer pacing the turf beneath
Winnie’s window. .

“He has told me all that transpired last night, and
has informed me he dares mistrust my hostess; but I
would stake my life on her innocence,” declared Rob.

“And you would not lose it. Why, itis sheer non-
sense; for Winnie is physically incapable of choking
a powerful woman like Mrs. Miller,” said Loyd.

“T dou’t know; women do strange things when they
are angry or jealous,” remarked the constable, sus-
piciously.

“You speak the truth; but why should you suspect
a woman, when a desperate, evil man had just as
much season for desiring the widow’s lips to be
silenced as young Mrs. Hawley had.”

“Who is this mysterious being?” sneered Mr. Lea-
mon.

Loyd paused one moment, and bit his lips, for he
felt almost as if he were a traitor to his cousin, as he
replied :

“The man she went to meet.”

The officer fell back against the side of the house,
his eyes

flashed, as he advanced with clenched fists, and
ejaculated : ; .

“If you breathe one word against Winnie’s honor
T’ll knock you down!”

“Softly, my friend,” said Loyd, with haughtiness.
“While I acknowledge that this man held a secret
which young Mrs, Hawley desired to keep hidden, I
do not insinuate that she is wrong in any way. In
tact, I kvow she is entitled to the respect of all men.
But for this fellow I fear——”

“How can I find him?” jerked out the officer, with
an air of chagrin. “Mr. Hawley, of course, you are
right, but how can I get on this fellow’s track ?”

“~T was about to seek you with the information
when I found. you here,” coolly answered Loyd, tak-
ing out some cigars and offering th to his two
companions “I will lead you to the man, but with a
proviso,” :

“‘Name it,” begged Mr. Leamon, ene

“T wish to interview him first alone, and to try and
wring a confession from him. You may remain in
the outer room, and arrest him the moment I give
you the signal that he has told me all.”

The man hesitated, and was about to make some
faint objection, when Loyd hastily added:

“Probably you would be able to do nothing with
the fellow if you met him alone, for you could not
accuse aman Without a shred of evidence against
him; but Iam a lawyer, and shall use all my powers
of cross examination to make him tell the truth.”

Still the constable looked uncomfortable, and with
a furtive glance at Winnie’s window, interrogated :

“How do I know that all this isnot a plan to get me
away from here, so she may have an opportunity to
escape ?”’ fi ond

“Have you no more faith in a gentleman's honor
than that?” questioned Rob, in disgust, while Loyd
turned on his heel and walked over the lawn with a
furious face. :

The constable looked from him to Winnie’s win-
dow, and then with a most unsettled air ran after
Rob, who had followed Loyd, and said:

“You must be right. I will go with you.”

Somewhat pacified by this concession, Loyd strode
rapidly on until he reached the stables, where a dog-
cart and a fast horse were ordered to be got in readi-
ness ab once. $

Here the detective also sent a groom to bring the
deputy sheriff who assisted in Winnie’s arrest.

One of the very sorrels Leon Forester had bought
was soon speeding over the road with Loyd, Rob, and
the officer behind him.

Fast as the horse trotted, Loyd constantly urged
him on until the hotel was reached, at which Laurie
had told him Leo Forester was sojourning, under the
alias of Jack Shepherd.

“Do not forget that you are to wait for me in the
corridor outside his door until I bid you enter,” whis-
pered Loyd, as he flung his reins to an hostler, and
passed in the hotel to boldly demand some one to
oe him the way to Mr. Jack Shepherd’s apart-
ment. ;

The waiter told him Mr. Shepherd had been con-
fined to his room for two days with rheumatism; but
Loyd said that would not make any difference about
his seeing him, and that he desired to be taken to him
immediately. ‘

So the three men went up a flight of steep stairs,.
and Loyd was pointed out a door on which he was to

“Then send for Winnie Hawley. Oh, tell her to
come, as she values her life. I must have her for-
giveness before I die. I cannot die withoutit. Go!
go!—somebody go!” i

“T will go if you will confess it was your hand that
choked Mrs. Pauline Miller,” said Loyd, eagerly...

CHAPTER L,
ALL MADE PLAIN,

It was an exciting moment, and the spectators al-
most held their breath as the man turned and glared
fiercely on Loyd. : :

“He hesitates,” thought Rob, with a little shiver of
nervousness, then he leaned near the man, and said:
“Why should you not speak the truth, when in but
an hour’s time you will be dead.”

“You are right,” said his victim, with a shiver of

‘dread. ‘Indeed, I feel me head swimming already,
so I may as well tell you the truth at onee. I did kill
that woman, who had just threatened to put me ont
of an easy way of gaining a handsome sum of money.
After Winnie left me alone in the summer-house I
.appealed to her to be silent, and—and she made me
furious by insulting me.”

He paused, looking so wildly-at the men, that Rob
feared he was about to break down, and placed some
brandy at his lips, saying:

“Be careful not to get too excited or you will not
hold out to the end.”. ; ;

Thus admonished, and fully convinced that he was
about to die, the man resumed his statement:

“She said she would see Winnie and me starving in
the gutter, and would urge Mr. Hawley to hate us.
As I heard these words T forgot she was a woman,
and caught her by the throat, meaning to frighten
her into keeping silent. As I live I did not intend to~
kill her; but she droppedin a minute, hitting her head
against a tree as she did so.” ’

“And then you went away ?” asked Loyd.

“Not before I knelt beside her to assure myself she
was dead, and then I saw she was holding Winnie's
necklace, which the young Tady had dropped when
she knelt at Mrs. Miller’s feet, and begged her to
keep silent. I was going to take it out of her hand
when I heard footsteps coming, and turned to flee,
but came face to face with Winnie ”

popid you speak:to her?” questioned Loyd, ex-.
citely. ; =

“Yes. I pointed to the dad woman, and said, ‘I
have saved you from betrayal. Remember what you
are to me, and eon the secret.” Then I ran on and
she advanced to the corpse, taking the head on her
dress, and thus staining it with the wounded temple.
I came here and hid myself in my room till Fshoul
be able to escape without arousing suspicion.”

“And Jeft her to bear the burden alone, you cur,”
ejaculated Loyd, angrily.

“T will atone. I have something to tell her which
will undo all. Oh, go bring her here that I may beg
her forgiveness and make her happy. Go, go! Do
not delay a moment, for Lam: getting very weak,”
cried the man, who believed what he said, as the
brandy was beginning to make him feel its influence.
_ “Go, get her here and let him speak to her while he
is an the mood, or he may refuse to do so,” whispered

on, : 3

Then he said aloud: | j

“T must stay by the man to keep him alive till you
return, Mr. Hawley; but I am sure you will grant
his dying prayers and bring, Mrs. Hawley here as
soon as possible.” ;

“I will go at once,” said Loyd, leaving the room.

Five minutes later he was dashing over the road
he had so recently traveled, and almost as soon as
Winnie had left Locustmere on her sorrowful jour-
ney, Mr. Loyd Hawley stood in the hall demanding
her presence, o
He was briefly informed that she had gone away
with Mr. Williams and another gentleman, and that
— husband and Miss Grantham had accompanied

er, a
As soon as he heard she was not. in the house Loyd
understood all about the arrest, and with a mental
anathemaon Miss Bunts, who had just left her apart-
ment, and was inquiring of everybody ‘‘what had
happened?” the young gentleman evaded her, and
once more sought the stables, and ordered a horse
saddled for him with all possible speed.

Having learned which road Winnie and her com-
aoe had taken, he presently galloped over it at a
break-neck pace.

 

 

tap.

havin g knocked twice he hastily entered the apart-
ment, leaving the constable and Rob outside.

It was a miserable place in which Loyd found him-
self, but he did not have an opportunity to notice it,
for a powerfully-built, scowling man stood in the
center of the room ; and his flashing black eyes met
Loyd’s, while a sullen glow of anger on up on his
cheek, seeing which Mr. Hawley clenched his fist.

“What do you mean by intruding here, sir?’ thun-
dered a resonant voice.

“Surely you know,” said Loyd, boldly. “TI am here
to tell you your little jig is up, Mr. Leo Forester, Jack
Shepherd, or whatever else you may choose to eall
yourself.” : ; ;

In spite of his natural effrentery the man appeared
alarmed, and his voice shook a little as he said: .

_ “You are evidently a lunatic or an idiot to talk in
this manner.”

“T am neither,” said Loyd. “T am a detective,
whose duty is to capture criminals like you.”

The fellow made a hard attempt to appear ealm, but
his hands shook as he said: 3

“Of what crime am J accused ?”

. as the willful murder of Pauline Miller,” replied
Loy ; *

The man took a step back, and gave a wild glance
about the room, but Loyd stood between him and the
door, so escape was impossible.

“You must be crazy,” he declared.
of the woman before.” :

“T suppose you never heard of Mrs. Winnie Bunts
Hawley, either?” sneered Loyd. ‘‘Come, my good fel-
low, I know everything. How you blackmailed that
poor lady into giving you her yearly income, and then,
when you thought your secret was about to be told
Ry Mrs. Miller to Mr. Hawley, how you silenced her

ps.2** : :

“It is all a lie—a base, foul lie!” growled the man.

“We will be able to prove it when we search you,
and find Mrs. Winnie Hawley’s bills in oA posses-
sion; and more, my friend, when I tell the judge and
jury, what no man but myself knows at present, that
IT passed you in the grounds that night when you
shrank from my sight like a whipped dog. Come,
my imocent; let us go to prison, and prove which
has uttered the falsehood—you or I?” ;

He advanced toward the man as if about to arrest
him, but the fellow sprang suddenly back, and
shouted : ae

“If you are the only man that knows it, you shall
be silenced!” and in a moment his hand seized a
peel from his breast, and pointed it full at Loyd’s

ead. :

The lawyer caught his arm, and an instant later a
flash of light, then a cloud of smoke, filled fhe air,
and Loyd and his opponent both fell to the floor. .

Hearing the report of the pistol, Rob Miller and
the constable, who had awaited a signal, dashed into
the room to Loyd’s rescue.

Through the cloud of smoke, as they opened the
door, they saw the two men struggling on the floor.

Loyd’s dextrous twist of his opponent's arm, just
as the latter’s finger pressed the trigger, had turned
the pistol aside, and the bullet struck Forrester above
the right temple, inflicting what seemed at first to
be a fatal wound; for, after a momentary struggie
with the vigorous Loyd, the wounded man’s grasp
relaxed, and he lay on the floor unconscious.

As the constable and Rob Miller advanced to give
assistance to Loyd, the latter leaped to his feet mn-
injured, and the three stared for an instant at the
prostrate man, over whose forehead and right cheek
the blood slowly trickled.

“Why did he shoot?’ asked the constable.

In a few brief words the lawyer told him all that
had passed, and ended by saying:

“Of course he is guilty, but how can I make him
a eee it, and save poor Winnie from sus-
picion ? <

No one spoke for a moment; then merry Rob Mil-
ler looked up and cried:

“Thaveit! Come close, you two, so there will be
no danger of our being overheard.” And as they
obeyed, he whispered: **When I was at school, the
boys and myself got a feHow to confess he did a
mean trick, of which we suspected him, by giving
him a certain drug in some cake and telling him he
was dying. Now this chap is really hurt, and we
-can readily carry him into another room, and we will
make him believe that he will die within the hour,
and he had better reveal the truth at once.”

“Rob, 28 a plotter you are a success,” exclaimed
Loyd, slapping him on the back.

oa you are going to do it, be quick,” remarked
| Ob. '

As several inmates of the house, including the
landlord, were on the spot now, no difficulty was
found in getting assistance to carry the unconscious
nan to the next room, when Rob announced himself
as a physician, ‘and commanded the others to leave
-him here alone with Loyd and the constable. ‘

Taking a brandy bottle the landlord had sent to
them, Rob poured out enough te make a man intox-
icated and forced it down his patient’s throat.

Loyd in the meanwhile had bandaged up Leo’s
head, and by the time Winnie’s tormentor opened his
eyes he seemed to realize that he had been serious]
wounded. Z

“What is the matter?” he asked, faintly.

“Your pistol ball has wounded you in the right
temple, and you are slowly bleeding to death, and
cannot live more than an hour. So if you have any-
thing you wish done in this world tell us without de-
lay,” said Rob Miller, gravely.

“Great Heaven! can this be true?’ groaned the
man, whose head was reeling under the influence of
the brandy he had taken. ~

“It is quite true, and as you value the welfare of
your soul make your peace with all men,” solemnly
murmured Rob.

“T have never wronged any one but one n.
Are you sure I must die?’ questioned the man, with

@ wild wail of entreaty in his voice. :
nab ou may live an hour, but not longer,” responded

“T never heard

 

“He, of course, could go so much faster than a
heavy carriage, that he goer overtook the unhappy |
train which had preceded him, and after a brief par-
ley with the detective, who feared that his assur-
ance that he had found the real criminal was merely
a ruse to enable Winnie to escape, Loyd indueed him
to take the whole party to the village hotel. ;
Before they arrived there he had told all ke had
learned to Laurie and the detective as well as tothe
hopeless Winnie. /
The unhappy lady only wept bitterly as she heard
the story. #
“Laurie, you now understand why, I could not
speak to clear myself of suspicion,” she sobbed. “It
would have been unnatural for a wife to deliver up
her hushand to_the scaffold, and he is my husband
you must remember.” Lae7h

With a groan poor Laurie exclaimed :
“Alas, I know !” : : : :
And Stena’s hand clasped over Wimnie’s in silent
Veuna as she saw the two agonized young faces.

Indeed it seemed to these wretched beings that
their misery was almost worse than they could bear,
for rare had impressed on Laurie that, though he
was dying, Leo was not seriously wounded.

‘He will live to claim’ me as his wife, to drag our
whole story before the world by being publicly tried

| as a murderer,” thought Winnie, with a sinking heart,

as the carriage drew fog before the hotel in which
her tormenter remained under Rob Miller’s care.
“You must go up to him at once and learn what he
has to tell you, before he discovers that his wound is
not fatal.” said Laurie, giving Winnie his arm, and
leading her in the low door-way. ng
* His wife turned onhim a silent look of agony as she
d into that room where at last she was to be
reed from the misery of her schoolgirl’s secret.

No knowledge of the story about to be told her
came to her; in truth, all her senses were deadened
by the dread of the future. wt 38

“Truly,” she murmured, “has my childhood’s sin
haunted me for so many years; and now all my life
I am to bear the brand of its disgrace; I am to
cause those I love to suffer for me.”

Thinking this no wonder the poor lady was white
with despair. : :
As she entered the darkened chamber, which was
eerie with the drugs Rob had given his victim, in
ordcr to keep him under the delusion that he was
very ill, Winnie felt as if she were, indeed, in the
presence of death. : :

She went forward to the bed, and met the wild eyes
of the being lying there, with an expression of horror
which made him believe he was really doomed, and
with a groan of fear he turned from her and hid his
face in the pillows. ,
Winnie waited a moment, then said, gently:

“You sent for me, Leo. What have you to tell me?”
“Make everybody go away,” he answered. e
The lady asked Rob and Mr, Leamon if they would
go to the farther end of the apartment, and the latter~
at once told her they would leave the room. Uy

When they had done so Winnie returned to the bed,
and said: . ; ; ;
“We are alone, Leo.” be x7 }

The man lifted his face from the pillows, and, look-
ing at her earnestly, said: c oF) ;

“May the Lord x you to forgive a dying man
when [ tell you what I have to say, Mrs. Hawley!”

“It is my duty to forgive you éverything,” she said,
bravely, though her hands were clenched till blood
stain her nails, as her heart revolted from the
ee which she put into words, ‘‘You are my hus-

and.” ‘ f :

For a moment the man before her hesitated, then
made a mighty effort, and, choking down something
which rose in his throat as if to forbid the words, he

said: 2 ,
Tam net Leo Forester, but his

“You are wrong.
twin brother, Jack.” ‘

For’a moment Winnie did not comprehend his
speech, then she swayed in her chair as if she were
about to fall to the floor in a faint.

But all the courage of her noble nature came to
— a and she fought off the awful dizziness,
and gas 5

“For Heaven's sake tell me how I can prove your
words true!” Fee: ‘

“By making inquiries concerning - t life,”
was hisreply. “If you had been any -but an
innocent woman you would long ago have discoy-
ered the truth. Leo died three years ago, in Boston,
of heart disease, brought on by the sudden shock of
seeing you beside him; for, rough fellow as he was,
he loved you so he would have utterly died for

rou. ’ ,

“Yet he deserted me at a time——”

“When he could not help it. Listen, and I will tell
you our story. Leo and I were reared in the streets
of New York, and very early determined we would
not work for our living as our parents did for theirs; _
yet Leo was always more respectable in his pursuits
than myself; and it was an awful blow to him when
he discovered I was one of a gang of swindlers.” ~

“Still he was a burglar?” interpolated Winnie.

“Not till years aftetfward, and when he found he
could not make money honestly, because people mis-
took him forme. I give you my word he was @ bet-
ter fellow than I was, and it nearly broke his heart
that a check he had ferged was the cause of his be-
ing sent to prison for two years. On the day he got
his sentence [ brought him your letter, bidding him
come ee and he was all broken up by it, and
confes the whole game to me.”

“Oh, I see it all now!” cried Winnie, with a sob.
“He could not come to me because he was in prison,
and he dared not tell me so.” ;

“Exactly; but he bade me go to you and tell you
all about his trouble, and to take you to my wife and
let her see after you, but I ins: . wrote you a letter
signing his name to it, and, in the rush of other
affairs, I forgot all about you, in fact, within six
months’ time there was a warrant out against me for
being, connected with a big swindle, and I was
ea to skip from the State and go in hiding down

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 48—No. 10.

 

NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

“And did you never see your brother again ?”’ asked
Winnie, over whom a peaceful feeling had stolen.
“Yes, we met once, and, in order to excuse myself,
I told him a. pack of lies about your father having
discovered the truth, and knowing he would kill him
-at sight; yet he said he should seek you, and he left
- metodoso. But care and the shame of imprison-
. ment had told on him, for you see Leo was not natur-
ally bad, and I was not at all surprised to hear he
had died suddenly.”

“Do you think he knew it was my room that he was
entering that night?” asked Winnie, tremulously.

“No, that was the shock to him. A chum had told
him that a very rich widow was to stop there that
night with world-renowned diamonds, and he wrote
me he would collar them, and express them to me in
the South, where I could easily get rid of them. You
see rough treatment in prison, and the thought of
your desertion, had made him very desperate.”

“IT see,’ dreamily answered Winnie. “I wonder
that you did not impersonate him at once to get me
to bribe you into silence.”

“T did think of it,” boldly declared the man, “and I
came on North as soon as I was able to do it, but.I
heard you were engaged to be married to a very rich
man and concluded to wait till the ceremony was
over, knowing I would then have a greater power
over you. I was about to go South again when I was
recognized by a detective, and imprisoned for a

“And then ?” questioned Winnie.

“Tt was last February, and as soon at I had seen to
my family (I have a wife and two children) I got
some decent clothes, and put myself in your way at
the opera. I saw at once you believed Iwas Leo,
and determined my fortune was made. I was
obliged to move cautiously, however, for I knew if

your father got hold of my story he would soon prove
lian was dead, and that Iwas an impostor. You,
however, were credulous, and had it not been for
that infernal woman all would have been well.”

“Yes, only my life would have been wretched be-
yond expression,” said Winnie.

“Yet.you will forgive me?’ he pleaded.

“T will forgive you, and for the sake of my dead
husband I will do allin my power to save you from
the gallows,” she replied.

“T—why I am dying,” gasped the man.

“T think not,” returned Winnie, ‘“‘and I shall beg
Mr. Loyd Hawley and my father. to take your case,
and to try and save you for my sake; if they cannot,
I promise you I will care for your wife and children
until they can maintain themselves.”

“You are more than good, and I regret I ever made
ye suffer,” said the man. ‘However, if I do not die

will never tell your secret to any one. I will swear
I wanted to obtain that Miller woman’s diamonds,
and that it was because she resisted me furiously I
choked her. But surely I must die ?”

Winnie looked at him with an expression of mad-
ness in her blue eyes.

Could it be possible she heard aright; was her se-
ceret to be kept from all the world?

At the thought the courage which had sustained
her till now gave way, and she ar — from
her chair and fell on the floor in a dead faint.

CHAPTER LI.
4 WILLFUL WINNIE.

The terrible ordeal was over, but Winnie’s life
nearly paid the penalty of her former folly.

- The swoon in which Laurie found her by Jack For-

ester’s bedside, was the preliminary of an attack of
brain fever, and for weeks young Mrs. Hawley raved
in the unconsciousness of delirium.

Laurie heard from Jack that the ca $4 woman
had been deceived by him, and with joy the gentle-
man understood she was his wife both in love and by
law, and that truth made him linger the more fear-
fully beside her while the terrible fever seemed eat-
ing. r life away. fant:

is loving care, perhaps the prayers he and Stena
uitered, brought her back from the brink of the
grave, however, and after weeks of doubt, in the
middle of August the physicians said the young wife
would live. . P

Her first words and thoughts, on returning to con-
sciousness, were for the man who had almost killed

her. .

“What have they done with Jack Forester?’ she
abruptly asked of Laurie one day, as he sat beside
r. ; ;

Those were the first lucid words she had spoken
since her illness, so Laurie only gazed at her in sur-
prise, till she re her question. —

He then explained briefly that Jack had been taken
to prison, and Loyd-had volunteered to conduct his
ease for him, if he would promise to tell the world
that Winnie was to meet him on the night of the
murder, to give him money for a_missionary society,
of which he had pretended to her to be the head.

The fellow agreed to do this, and money silenced
the detectives from contradicting the story.

“Loyd has worked Penk for the family honor,” said

- Laurie; “and when I told your father the secret-of
your life, he joined with Loyd in trying to save that
guilty wretch for your sake. By their united efforts
they have succeeded in delaying the trial until Feb-
ruary, when the horrors of the m r shall have
worn away alittle. Then Loyd is certain he can get
him off with a life sentence.” ‘ >

And we may as well say here that Mr. Bunts and
Loyd succeeded in having the trial postponed for ten
months, at the end of which time Jack Forester was
convicted, and sentenced to imprisonment for tweuty

years.

It is needless to state, as it was so obviously to his
interest to keep Winnie’s secret, that he never be-
trayed her trust in him; and when, at the end of five
years, he died in prison, the gentle lady restored his
bodyto his wife and family, and. had it interred, at
her expense. f

Having learned that her secret was never to be re-
vealed to the world, Winnie’s next thought was»of
her father. 5

“Does he hate me for my duplicity ?” she asked her
husband.

“He is here to answer for himself,” said Laurie,
motioning Mr. Bunts to come from his place at the
head of her bed. ;

“Father!” sobbed Winnie, putting her arms out
toward him; “I did it all to save you from the suffer-
ing that knowledge of my willful folly would have
caused. Can you forgive me?”

“My darling child, I only ig i that I did not help

you bear your grief,” replied her parent, as he loy-
gly kissed her brow.

“How you all are to me, and I have been so
willful and foolish I do not deserve it,” sighed Win-
nie, as the tears coursed over her wan cheeks.

“Your suffering has been punishment enough, and
we must teach you by our love to trust us fully in the
future,” said Laurie, wiping her tears away.

Then they told her she could not talk any more that
day, but her husband bent to whisper: :

“You must get strong soon, my darling, for I have
—_. ews for you when you are strong enough to

ear it. ‘ :

Perhaps it was curiosity to hear it, perhaps it was
the knowledge of his perfect love for her, that caused
Winnie to rapidly gain her health, for by the first of
September she was able to hear all that had hap-
pened in his family since her illness.

She noticed that Mrs. Grantham and Stena regard-
ed her wistfully at times, and that the older lady met
bog glanees with tears in her eyes, and one day said

o her, “

“Perhaps I have done that which will cause you to
hate me henceforth, Winnie.” :

“What did she mean?” Winnie asked her husband
an hour later, and he told her:

“Your Aunt Eliza became infuriated when she
heard your secret from Fannie, and insisted if your
father did not promise to close his doors on you that
she would leave his house. He refused to do so, and
she left him there alone; and—and man was not
made to live alone, Winnie. Can you not surmise
the rest of my story ?”

She shook her head, and he continued:

“Stena and Rob are to be married in September,
and must go. abroad at once to attend to her estate
in England. That left her mother here alone, and—
and she pitied your lonely father, and pity is akin to
love, you know, Winnie.” -

“Ts it possible noble Mrs. Grantham is to make my
father’s old age happy by becoming his wife? Oh, I
am so glad! She has been like a mother to me, and
T know she will atone for all the miserable years he
has spent alone. Will you not send her to me, that
I may tell her how lovingly I welcome her in our
family ?”’

“Indeed I will, for fear of your displeasure alone
has kept your father from being perfectly happy.”

“Tf a noble woman can make him so, he will be

happy hereafter,” said Winnie; and she proved a|

true prophetess.

As Laurie rose to leave her and seek Mrs. Gran-
tham, his wife asked : .

“You say Fannie told Aunt Eliza, who, of course,
will make a scene for a month and then forgive me;
but that girl—where is she? Will she not tell
others ?”’

“She did not know all, but doubtless she would
have circulated malicious stories about you had not
ae read her the code for criminal libel, and proved
to her she might spend many years in prison if she
sought to injure you. He succeeded in alarmin
her, and making her promise to hold her tongue, an
then she was sent away.”

And perhaps it will be as well to state here that
the malicious maid returned to her own family, and,
deprived of the luxuries to which she had so long
been accustomed, and rendered a prey to remorse,
she died within the year of hasty consumption, and
thus was unable to testify at Jack Forester’s trial.

adam Hawley and Winnie were called to her

death-bed, that she might beg their forgiveness for

all she had done against them, and they showed it

by contributing ‘a liberal sum of money to have the
1 decently buried. i

As for the old lady her loving daughter was the
only companion she needed for many years after-
ward, as her healthunderwent a marvelous improve-
ment which she said was due to Winnie’s loving

care. .
Regarding the two ladies, Loyd Hawley often
Bays:

and happy life fol

 

e '
“The sight of their love for each other almost takes

away the dread of matrimony from me.”

Still he never married; but as he acquired a for-
tune, and had his cousin Winnie to point out his good
traits of charagter, the world spoke better of him as
years rolled by. :

As for Miss Eliza Bunts, though she lived to a good
old age, she never quite recovered from her chagrin
when she heard that her brother had removed Win-
nie’s baby from its grave and had placed it in his
family vault, in accordance with the expressed wish
of the woman he was about to marry. :

It was to this crypt Winnie walked the day before
her father’s marriage, and Laurie found her there,
weeping as she gazed onthe name of Leon Stena,
carved on the stone tablet.

“No one not already in the secret would ever know
this was her child, and, perhaps, she felt it a great
punishment that she could not acknowledge herself a
bereaved mother.

“Darling,” said Laurie, putting his
her. “God knows best.”

“I feel it,” she answered, though her eyes were wet
with tears. “Yet, Laurie, my love for my little child
isso great that for its sake I shall maintain Jack
Forester’s wife and children until they are capable of
self support. ‘ ‘

And she kept her promise, and the murderer’s son
rewarded her noble efforts in his behalf by becomin
a world renowned clergyman. His sister marrie
and took the position of a happy wife and mother.

But no knowledge of their future state came to
Winnie and Laurie as they slowly wended their way
to Locustmere.

“Did you hear, Laurie, that Aunt: Eliza sent mea
long.and loving letter to-day, and told me to say to
~— she intended to keep from the world all sign of

er displeasure at his marriage by coming to the
church to-morrow.
mevitable.”

“Tam glad,” said Laurie, vere ae & For on the mor-
row Stena and Rob had deci to be married too,
and as soon as the ceremony binding them together
was over Mrs. ee: and Mr. Bunts were to be
united.

It was a very Si rea double wedding, but a long

owed it for all the actors. .

“But, as Winnie said :

“You must be happy, Stena, both you and your
mother, who is now mine, because you are so noble.”

“Thank you, my daughter,” said Mrs. Grantham
and Mr. Bunts together; and Rob Miller muttered :

“Winnie, you ought to be my sister, too, for I love
you better than any one in the world, excepting

arms appund

That is her reconciliation to the

Stena.”

_ “How could you help loving such a darling ?” ques-
tioned his bride, as she kissed her friend.
“T sometimes think she is almost an angel myself,”
murmured Laurie, clasping his wife’s hand.
“Ah, no,” she said, lifting her loving eyes to his,
“T am only Willful Winnie, who almost ruined your
life by A SCHOOL GIRL’s SECRET.”

(THE END.]

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

LITTLE BUCKSHOT;

The White Whirtwnd af the Praiie

By NED BUNTLINE,

Author of ‘*Texas Jack,” ‘“‘Buffalo Bill’s Last Vic-
tory,”’ ete.

(“LITTLE BUCKSHOT’ was commenced in No.6. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents].

CHAPTER - XXI.
A DIVERSION, a :

The uneven nature of the route, as the command
approached the region of the falls, made the progress
slow and difficult, but the lieutenant pressed for-
ward as rapidly as he could, taking the usiial means
to guard his front, flank, and rear, as he moved on.

He was, however, fearful that he would be obliged
to encamp before overtaking his commanding offi-
cer, for night was fast drawing on when the message
sent by the latter reached him with the informa-
tion that the party ahead had halted and waited for
him.

Almost at the same moment a man galloped in
front from the rear guard with the startling infor-
mation that a large body of mounted Indians were
rapidly following on their trail.

To face his command about, unlimber the field-

iece, and prepare for action was the work of but a

ew minutes, while, firing as they came on the ad-
vancing foe, the rear guard and the flanking party
on the right came in. Pa :

The scattering fire of the guards did not check the
Indians in the least, but, led in mass by a tall war-
rior, from whose shoulders streamed a_red robe or
blanket, they swept on with terrible yells, as if de-
termined, in one wild charge, to erush and over-
whelin the pale-faces.

The red men, firing as they came, shakin
and rattling shields, were now within two
yards, when the brave young lieutenant gave the
word to fire tbe howitzer, and to follow it up with
the carbines as rapidly as each man could fire at

will. se

The thunder of the howitzer, as it literally tore a
fearful lane through the Indian mass, seemed to
strike terror into their souls and mortal fear into
their bodies. They halted, reeled to and fro for an
instant, under the rallying voice of their undaunted
leader, but, as a second discharge from the howitzer
tore through thé huddled mass, the survivors in-
stantly scattered and took cover.

They did not retreat; they did not flee in confu-
sion; they simply took advantage of rocks, trees,
and ravines, and prepared to renew the fight, with
some chance of advantage for themselves.

Thus, though not an Indian except their dead
could now be seen, the troops found bullets and ar-
rows flying thicker than ever, and when the deepen-
ing shadows of night came on, two dead and a dozen
wounded white men proved that the Indians were
not harmless. Worst of all, they had almost entirely
surrounded the party, evidently under control of one
master spirit, whose voice rung low and clear from
point to point, as he gave his commands.

But all at once there came a diversion.

A rattling fire up the river, and the cheers of an-
other body of white men, told the command now en-
gaged that their captain was coming back with rein-
forcements. ;

He soon joined the main body, and now the fire on
both sides slackened, and then ceased entirely as the
night darkened.

But Captain Bates, consulting with his lieutenant
and Wood and Champlain, told them that he had no
doubt the enemy would renew the attack when the
moon rose, for if their force was as large as it was
supposed to be, their loss would not so dishearten
the rest as to make them give up their desire for re-
yenge and leave the battle-ground.

Additional pains were taken to secure the stock,
and as far as possible defenses were thrown up from
the loose rocks in the vicinity, so that when the moon
did rise the pet would be weil covered, and ready
to inflict still further punishment on the foe.

For some hours all was still. Yet it was the still-
ness which surely precedes a storm. Then the moon
slowly rose, and its light began to streak in among
the rocks and trees, leaving weird shadows, but ma-
ne visible the defenses of the troops.

The hooting of an owl at short intervals, coming
nearer and nearer, was a signal which Harvey Wood
recognized as coming from Big Beaver, the Dela-
ware, and the sentinels in his direction were warned
to be careful.

The result was the safe entrance of the Indian and
his three companions into the lines. Harvey Wood
eagerly asked what they had seen.

“Not see much; hear a heap. more than see,” said
the Delaware. “White folks all safe, me think, in
big cave in the hills. But Indians and half-breeds all
around ’em—aboyve and below. Me kill two half-
breed guards—but make too much noise and have to
come away.” ,

The Delaware lifted up two fresh scalps in proof
of his last statement, and then put them in his belt

again.

“They will hold out till we whip the hounds on this
side of the river, and then we will go over and re-
lieve them there,” said Captain Bates. ‘‘Ah! pretty
close that; look out, boys, and shoot when you see
something to shoot at.”

A ballthad flattened against a rock close by the cap-
tain, which caused his last remark. He moved toa
little better cover. The fire was now renewed again,
and at intervals the Indian yell could be heard when
one of the red fiends got hit or fancied he had hit an
enemy.

Not much damage was done during the night, but
every man was kept awake on the defense. When
“we! dawned the captain threw his men out more
boldly, clearing all snapeont thickets by discharges
from the howitzer, and in a little while the Indians,
fully disheartened, fled down the river, and were
seen or heard no more.

“Now,” said Captain Bates, ‘‘we are ready to goto
the relief of the party on the other side. The ques-
tion is how to cross. Call your Delaware to our
council, Mr. Wood.”

Big Beaver came, and his opinion in regard to
crossing was asked. :

“Must cross big gun and wagons?’ he asked.

“Yes; I have found the artillery tov useful to throw
it away now,” said the officer.

“Then best way go down where we had first fight.
Plenty dry timber there. Make a big raft—take rope

-

“spears
undred

 

and make a ferry—cross in the eddy, where water not! ‘Ho! Ho! What do ye here, devils—why are you

run fast. Not all go down there, but biggest heap of
the party. Rest swim over up here—so fight Indian
and half-breed down on that side with cannon—up
this side with rifle. Drive’em away from»cave; let
the pale-faces out, then whip all in the way, and go
on over the big hills.” :

“The plan is good, and we will adopt it,” said Cap-
tain Bates. “We can manage the crossing below,
and moye up the river on the other side as fast as
we can. You, Mr. Wood, will cross with your par-
ty under guidance of the. Delaware as. speedily as
you can, and, waiting until we attack below, act as
your best judgment dictates in forcing a junction
with your friends from above. You will know where
we are by the sound of our howitzer, and we will
know where you are by the crack of jyour rifles. We
have no further time for talk. The day is before us,
and we need every minute of its light for work.”

The regulars now moved rapidly down the river to-°
ward the crossing place, and Harvey Wood with his
party hurried up under the guidance of Big Beaver
wo. DO where they could get their horses over in
safety.

CHAPTER XXII.
“IT IS ALL MINE.”

After the horrible maniac white man had gorged
himself on meat in the jonee of John Reshau, he
threw himself on the ground and slept, the rattle-
snake, which seemed to be his constant companion,
coiling itself on his breast, as if to guard him in his
slumber.

Two or three hours after, when. John Reshau en-
tered the lodge, the snake rattled loudly and raised
its head flercely, as if to strike the first who ap-
proached.

The alarm of the rattle aroused the man, who rose
to a sitting posture and clutched his club, while the
snake, sliding to the ground, twined itself quickly
about his arm, as before seen.

““My brother has eaten and slept? Is he able to talk
now with one who would be his friend?”

“Friend! Ha! ha! The Wizard of the Hills has no
friends that can talk! The snakes that crawl, the
birds which fly, the beasts that run—they are his
triends!” ;

“They cannot feed my brother as I have done. Will
my brother talk to me?’

“Will he have some whisky? I have some that I
hide for my own use.” ‘

“No; I am half devil now! I need no whisky to
make me worse. What do you want?”

“Has my brother ever been in the great cave on the
hill-side by the big falls?” .

“Ho! It is my palace. My home. I ownitall. I
live there when the ground is white with winter
snows. I and my pets—my pets. The snakes, the
bats, the owls, and the bears.”

“How many doors has it? Is there any but that on
the hill-side?”

“Yes. One away back—back on the other side of
the hills.” :

“Ah! Can one enter through one and go out at the
other?’

“Yes. It is a great palace. . It is the home of the
Wizard of the Hills. Its walls are diamond—the
worth of a world is there. Ha! ha! It is all mine—
all mine!” ;

“Then you will not allow strangers to take it from

Tou 9?
F “No; let them dare—let them dare, and I will
erush them with big rocks. Iwill turn an army of
hissing fiery snakes in among them. They will not
dare.”

“They have dared; the cave is occupied.”

“Liar!” And the maniac bounded to his feet and
raised his club fiercely. ;

“T do not lie. My brother can see for himself. But
if he will show me where the other door is, then I
will take my braves and drive the enemies of my
brother out from the cave, and he shall see his pal-
ace free from them.”

“Ho! You speak likea man. What tribe is in the
cave? Are they the hated Comanche ?”

‘“Yes—I expect so. We will learn when we go to
destroy them. My men have fought them in front
and cannot get near them. Come and look.” >

The maniac strode out, and his eyes for a long time
rested on the hill-side, and seeming to see changes
there, and forms moving about, glared with fierce in-
tensity.

“Call your men,” he muttered, hoarsely. “Call
your men. We will go around and come on them at
their backs, and throw them off the cliffs.”

The half-breed instantly uttered a cry, which was
speedily answered by the gathering of his men. Call-
ing off a picked body by name, he bade them mount
and prepare to follow him. He also ordered his own
horse and another for the maniac. I

The latter laughed scornfully when the horse was
offered to his use. :

“Ho! ho!” hecried. ‘When he rides—the Wizard
of the Hills rides on the wind-borne cloud! He walks
the waters and he goes up in the smoke. Ho! Goon
—go on with your horses. The Wizard of the Hills
will be there before you now.” . .

And he strode oe at a pace which caused the
half-breed to put his horses to a rapid trot to keep
him in sight.

CHAPTER XXIII.
“GIVE THEM AND ME A SPEEDY DEATH.”

After the sare disappearance of John Reshau
with the wild-looking man and a large party of his
half-breeds, Little Buckshot watched in vain for any
further sign of attack in front. The Indians, how-
ever, did not show any sign that they intended to
leave, but rather to stay, as hunters were seen go-
ing and coming in with game, while others went to
the river-side for fuel to keep their camp-fires alive.

“The red cusses and half-breeds mean to starve us
out. If the troops don’t come mule steak will be
relished afore we get out o’ here,” said the scout, in
reply to a suggestive question from Captain Guy.

“But the half-breed leader has gone, you say.”

“Yes; and it bothers me worse than fog to know
where he has gone. I reckon he thinks we'll leave
the wagons and animals and try to foot it over the
hills, and he has gone to cut us off.”

“That may be so, but we are not yet so helpless,
and I hope will not be driven to a strait which will
cause us to leave our means of transportation for the
women and children,” said Captain Guy. “They will,
perhaps, renew their attack again to-night. I mean
on the wagons.”

“It may be, but if they do it will be to creep up be-
tween dark and moonrise to rob and burn them. As
we can guard our position here with three as well.as
with twenty men, I think you and a couple or three
men had better stay up here while I take the rest, as
soon as it is dark, down there to give the reds a heavy
lesson if they try the sneak again.”

“Do so if you think best,” said Captain Guy; ‘‘and
as night is close at hand, I will see that the men are
ready with extra ammunition.” :

“Thank you, cap; you're as regular in the work as
if you’d been brought up to it. Jumpin’ Jehosha-
phat, what’s that?”

“Thunder,” said Captain Guy.

“Thunder made of saltpeter, sulphur, and char-
coal,” cried Little Buckshot, literally dancing for
joy. “There it goes again—music, music to make the
red devils dance! Don’t you know what it is, cap?’

“Tt sounds like a cannon.”

“Yes, and it, isa cannon. Cap’n Bates is full of
sense. He has brought a howitzer along, for what it
don’t kill it’ll scare. He saw my signs and now he
isn’t far off.”

“The sound comes from beyond the river,” said the
captain,

“Yes; he has come straight up from the fort and
hasn’t crossed. I must get word to him some way of
our position. Heisinafight though. That is where
Red Cloud and his gang went. They found out_ by
the signals help was coming, so they have pitched
into him. They might as well try to burn quartz
bowlders as to rap him. He is wild-cat, panther,
wolf, and grizzly, all biled down, and they'll get all
they want, with a thankee to spare, before he is done
with them.” :

“How rapidly they fire. There must be more than
one cannon.”

“Not if you hear it every fifteén seconds. That
gives ’em all the loading time they want.’ Them reg-
ulars handle a field-piece just as you’d handle a
Spencer rifle. It is shoot, shoot, till the gun_ gets so
hot they don’t dare to shove a cartridge in. But now
is our time to look out below. Tl creep down, cap,
with my party, and if I see a chance to get over the
river to tell Cap’n Bates I shall do it.”

“All right, my brave friend—all right!’

The scout now called out the men, and Captain Guy
saw that all were well provided with ammunition
as they filed past him in the light of the cheerfui
camp-fire.

The captain posted his sentinels at the mouth of
the cave, with orders to call him if firing began be-
low, and then joined his little family by the fire,
where the girls had prepared seats from baggage
covered with blankets. :

It was, even with its unpleasantness, a picturesque
scene to look upon. The great cave glittering from
its lofty dome down to the base, stretching away
from prismatic: brightness into the densest dark-
ness, women and children grouped here and there,
some laughing and playing, others sleeping, others
chatting quietly in every position one could fancy.

“The brave scout has gone to try and communicate
with his friends,” said Captain Guy, as he sat down
between his daughters.

“Friends! What do you mean, father?” asked
Helen.

“Did you not hear a cannon?” he asked.

“We all heard thunder, and thought a storm was
coming,” said Carrie.

“The thunder of a storm of iron hail falling thick
and fast among our enemies is what you heard, we
hope, my child. It was the cannon of the regulars
who have engaged the enemy not far away, which
reached your ears.” "

“Thank Heaven, if that indeed be so, for now our
release from here will be sure.”

“And we will push on out of this region of danger
as well as beauty. Oh, merciful Eather! What is

 

that ?”

in my palace ?”’

The girls screamed wildly as they sprang to their
feet, and even brave Captain Guy started backaghast
from ‘the horrible creature who strode up within a
yard of him and his trembling children, with that
fierce snake coiled around one arm, and that great
knotted club uplifted.

Their eyes were on him alone, and they did not see
the flitting, half-naked forms of fifty half breeds
creeping along, not only to encircle them, but toreach
the mouth of the cave and overpower those who
guarded there.

“Devil or man! Who or what are you?” cried Cap-
tain Guy, as he drew a revolver from his belt. “Stand
back with your club, or 1’ll puta ball through you,
and another through that horrible fiend on your
arm.’

“Ho! Ho! I am the Wizard of the Hills, and you
are my slaves. You shall serve me on your creeping
knees—ha, ha !” :

“You'll creep first, fiendish creature,” cried the
captain. “Girls, get ropes; this demon must be se-
eured. Do not fear; if he moves, I will kill him on
the spot.”

“Not with lead,.pale-faced fool,” hissed a voice in
his ear, andat the same instant his arms were grasped
from behind, and he found himself in the grasp of
two stalwart half-breeds, while his weapons were
snatched from his hand and belt by the speaker.

The wild scream of terror, followed by a moaning
ery of agony,.‘‘the murderer of my father,” coming
from the lips of Frankita, told the captain that the
dreaded half-breed, John Reshau, was there, and,
glancing around, he saw that they were completely
surrounded, and in the power of a large body of his
savage followers. Terror stricken, the women and
children stood grouped up close to the fire, while,
like a huge fiend, the white maniac hooted and
howled and danced in the fire-light.

“T have found the Rose of the Prairie once more,”
said the half-breed, as he approached Frankita, but
the girl drew a blanket all over her form and face,
and shrunk shuddering from his gaze. .

“Never mind,” he laughed, scornfully. ‘‘I will teach
her how the half-breed woos, by and by. Hark!
there is the soundof cannon again. There are troops
near at hand. We must get our prisoners away—
speedily, too, and rejoin our brothers. With these in
our hands we can fight well. They will be shields
over our breasts, and a safety if the battle goes dark
for us.”

“Ho! they are my slaves. They shall stay here
and wait on me,” shouted the maniac.

Better that they should wait on you out where
bright waters run and flowers grow, my brother,”
said the wily half-breed. ‘These maidens will make
a crown for you from the buds af the Badana.”’

“Good! You havesense. You speak well. Bind
them and carry them to the Valley of. Flowers. If
one tries to escape, I will chase him with my ‘ser-
pent, and he shall die. Ho! Ho! I tread on the
clouds, and the waters obey my will. The mountains
open when I speak, and close when I bid them do it.
Ho, slaves, the Wizard ofthe Hills stands before you
in his palace. Look, slaves, and tremble.”

“Have you secured the guards in front?” asked the
half-breed of one of his men.

“Three. There was no more.
foot of the hill.”

“Let them stay there. Kill the three you have
taken, at their posts. Let your knives do the work,
so there may be no noise. Slay them, and bring me
their scalps.”
oa I will buy their lives!” cried Captain

tuy. :

“Fool of a pale-face, you cannot buy your own life.
Why havelI spared you? Notthat you may live, but
that you may die at the torture-post.”

‘Devil! [ defy you.
kill us, for we spit on you. Neither white nor red;
you area mongrel cur, only having the badness of
both races.” 3

“You can’t hurry your own fate, foolish pale-face,
by your talk. But your pretty children will suffer all
the more for it. Weshall not kill them. My menlike
white wives better than red ones, and itis a pity that
you haven’t more women. Then it would be one
warrior and one wife. Now it will be a dozen war-
riors to one wife. Ah! that makes you feel, old fool
—that makes you feel.”

“Monster! Give them and me a speedy death—we
ask no more.”

“That is too much,” sneered the fiend,

“The wagons below are full of goods. They will
make yourich. You shall have all if you only kill us
now.”

“We will have all, and will kill you when we get
ready and not before. By the Great Spirit have I
sworl vengeance on the friends of Buckshot, and I
will have it. He will try to save you, and I will get

The rest are at the

Kill me and my loved ones— |

him soon where I can roast him, and dance around

his torture-stake.” ’

The poor old man said no more, but shuddered as
he gazed onthe bleeding scalps just handed to the
ee leader, for he knew his guards had per-
ished.

His sufferings of mind no one could describe, when
he saw the rude wretches binding the hands of his
daughters and the other women, and tying even the
little children, which clung in frantic terror to their
helpless mothers. ‘

The maniac stood leaning on his great club while
this was going on, and did notspeak until John Reshau
touched his right hand and said:

“We are now ready to march to the Valley of
ot and Sweet Water. Will my brother lead the
way ??*— ;

“Ay. Iwill go before my slaves, lest they lose the
way, and go into the deep cave whichis full of voices.
There Satan chains the lawyers. I hear ’em ou
and shout when I go there. Oh, it is glorious to hear
the lawyers yell. Follow—slaves, follow.”

And the hideous monster hurried on into the dark-
ness along what seemed to bea smooth avenue, carry-
ing no light, but making his own course obvious by
his wild ravings as he kept on.

The half-breeds, leading their prisoners, followed,
and soon that great cave—at least that part lighted
by the camp-fires—had but one occupant left.

This was John Reshau, the half-breed, who only
staid to see that no skulkers remained; also to re-
plenish the camp-fire, so that it might burn on and
not, betray the absence of those who had built it.
Then he followed his party.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
a

THE CULPRIT’S ANSWER.

ll literal truth may be a virtual lie, and though
there exists great cleverness in the telling, it is of
that sort of speech which we should scarcely care to
imitate, though we may smile at it.

A party of boys were snow-halling one day in front
of the old academy, just as the professor was ap-
proaching its door. Whizz! and one icy ball striking
his shiny beaver, carried it neatly away from his
head.

Tt was an accident, but the professor was not a
man to make allowances, and as he turned and glared
at them, the boys trembled. One of them, however,
had the self-possession to pick up and straighten the
ill-used “tile,” and its owner, withut a word, march-
ed indoors and rang his bell.

The boys went in like mice.
seated,

“Young gentlemen,’ said the professor, ‘‘who
threw that ball?’

No one stirred, and not a glance was eXchange.
The question was repeated, and still the room was
silent.

“I will put one more question,” said the professor,
severely. ‘Does any one know who threw it?’

The guilty boy raised his hand, but as he was a
model of excellence, it did not occur to the teacher
that he could be the offender.

“You raised your hand, Reade,” he said; “then
you know who did it ?”’

“Yes, sir.”

“T should not, under ordinary circumstances, ask
one boy to tell the misdemeanor of another, but it is
evident that a coward is present and needs exposure.
Reade, who threw that ball?”

“T would rather nol tell, sir,’ said Reade, with a
mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Noble boy, I honor you!” said his teacher, with
enthusiasm. “If there is present one boy too cow-
ardly to confess, it is evident that there is another
who is too honorable to betray aschoolmate. for
Reade’s sake, the culprit shall be forgiven. Young
gentlemen, proceed with your work.”

It is only fair to add that Reade’s conscience after-
ward pricked him, in view of such undeserved praise,
and that he did manfully confess.

When they were

 

 

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LAD AGENTS WANTED for Ladies’ and Childrens

 

 

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Prepared by Dr. J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell, Mass.
Sold by all Druggists. Price $1; six bottles, $5.

 

 

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Do not let prejudice prevent you trying
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Price, 25 cents per: bottle.

HOW TO MAKE

 

It is im-
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inanadver-

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send Ge. in
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which can be reme- gent you sealed, by
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ADIPO-MALENE.

L.E.MARSH & CO,, Madison 8q., Phila., Pa.
IQUOR
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EVERY MONTH
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9 If you are not,

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100 Genuine Electric Belts, Brushes,

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FAT FOLKS using ‘Anti Corpulene

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Address H. M. POPE & CO., Montpelier, Vt.
Speakers, Dialogues, Gymnastics, Fortune Tellers,
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«<aisa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #=

 

FOR THE CHILDREN.

BY FANNY CROSBY.

Merry Christmas! happy children!
Every face the story tells,

How you long have watched and waited
For the chime of silver bells.

Listen! while you hear their music
Floating now amid the sky,

Ringing out the grand old chorus,
Glory be to God on high !

Just a moment, happy children !

I would call you from your play,
To a lowly manger cradle

In a country far away,

Where a holy babe was sleeping,
And the angels sang His birth,
For He came, that lovely stranger,
To redeem and bless the earth.

Merry Christmas! happy children!
There are gifts for you to-night

On the trees whose boughs are waving
In the soft and mellow light;

But remember, oh, remember,
Though from loving hands they fall,

Yet the Babe the shepherds worshiped,
Should be loved the best of all.

ROMANCES ON THE RAIL.

Tales Told by Commercial Travelers.

BY H. A. FREEMAN,

Mr. Goldberg, having finished his smoke, now drew
near to wish the party an early good-night.

“T stay always ferry early up, mornings,” he said,
with a pleasant smile, as he turned away.

“Just like Lused to be,” remarked Jim; “T used to
stay up early in the mornings, too, until I reformed
and settled down.”

“Well, I was different,” said Frank. ‘My mother
used to have to come up stairs and prod me out with
a pitchfork.”

“Prodded you out, did she ?” chimed in Jim. “Well,
you ain’t the first proddy gal’s son on record by con-
Siderable. I remember a story——’”

“Mr. Holt, Iam ashamed of you!” broke in Charley.
“At your time of life, too! Prodigal Son, indeed!
You'll be saying something next, I suppose, about
his ‘husky’ voice.” 4

“Come, Charles, you “really oughtn’t, you know;
you'll take cold,” remonstrated Frank. ‘That pun is
80 very immature and vealy as to betray at once the
‘fatted calf.’ Why don’t you stop him, Miss Clarke,

before he goes the length of his rope ?”’

“T am afraid [ have no ability as a herdsman,” said
Miss Lucia, smiling.

“Then don’t begin practicing on Charley’s efforts.
They are the worst I ever herd,” interposed Jim.

“Goldberg would have said the worst he heifer
herd,” suggested Frank, gloomily.

Mr. Clarke had sat perfectly quiet amid this storm
of volatility.

“Speak to these children, papa,” said Miss Lucia,
‘and make them behave.” :

“T beg you not to draw me into this conversation,
my dear,” he replied, solemnly. ‘It may be all right
for young folks, but it is certainly bad-in-age.”

“Oh, pa!” exclaimed Miss Lucia, in mock horror.

“Don’t mind the levity of these young persons,”
Miss Clarke, but give me your attention for a min-
ute, and I’ll tell you of an incident which will perhaps
excuse if not fully justify the desperate hilarity of
these traveling salesmen.”

“Why, Mr. Traverse! are you not also a traveling
saleman?” asked Miss Lucia, in surprise.

“He is, and he isn’t,” broke in Jim Holt, “Heisin
name, but notin fact. He travels with samples, but
—well, I’ll give you an instance. He walked into the
establishment of a dealerin the goods he tries to
represent, one day lately, and said he had a fine line
of novelties and new designs to show the merchant,
and hoped they would please him, &c., &c. Well, he
got the usual bluff. Man said he didn’t want any
goods, was overstocked, no business, and all that.
But Frank persisted, said he wouldn’t ask the dealer
to buy anything, but if he would only just permit
him to open up and—— No, the merchant wouldn’t
have it at all—wouldn’t see anything; told Frank not
to unbuckle a strap on his account, and flatly refused
to permit the samples to be unpacked. And Frank
finally broke forth in an agony of entreaty: ‘Please
let me open them, won’t you? I haven’t seen ’em
myself in three weeks.’ ”

Miss Lucia looked severe.

“Mr. Holt,” she said, ‘if I forgive you for telling
that wicked old story, itis only with the express un-
derstanding thatit doesn’t occur again. What about
that incident, Mr. Traverse—the one you spoke of,
you know?”

Frank stammered and seemed abashed. His reply
was:

“Well—a—er—well, in point of fact, I was going to
tell you the same story that Jim has just giver you,
only I was going to make him the hero of it just as
he did me.”

“T don’t believe such a thing ever happened to
either of you,” rejoined Miss Lucia, with an air of
wisdom.
length of time, even if you had to buy it of yourself
to make the sale.”

“You'd manage to sell something in that |

enough on her father’s farm, although it had never

 

“It wouldn’t be so very remarkable if they did,” |

interposed Charley Foster. ‘I once knew a man who
borrowed of himself to get rich sooner.”
“How could he ever do that?’ she asked. :
“T'll tell you,” replied Charley; and he told her the
story of

THE SHIP THAT CAME HOME AT LAST.

He was an every-day sort of man, not in the least |

distinguished, or any way remarkable. He was not
even handsome, and had none of the usual qualifica-
tions for a hero. He was only one of the book-
keepers in a large establishment that had a number
of such machines, which they wound up every Sat-
urday night with a key so very sparing in its wind-
ing that the poor human machines could hardly
manage to go the entire week with the limited
amount of keying up they got every seventh day.
Nevertheless they kept on working away as best they
could, for although the motive power was meager,
the weekly renewal was always sure.

This particular one was -known as “Kenyon” at
the office, and “Joe” outside of that dread precinct.
His home was a stuffy little flat, of which the hall-
ways always retained a reminiscence of yesterday’s
cabbage and the onions of all seasons.

It was a poor and mean little burlesque of gentil-
ity, this flat. Its diminutive parlor, with its coarse
frescoes on the ceiling and cheap paper on the walls,
tailed out into two hot and lifeless boxes of bed-
rooms, and a wonderful combination of dining-room,
kitchen, and cubby-hole that had all the modern con-
veniences of hot and cold water, gas (both kinds,
sewer and illuminating), croton bugs, and typhoid.

And here lived honest, loving, simple-hearted Joe
Kenyon and his two responsibilities, his sister Kath-
erine and her daughter Gracie; the one a widow,
whose heart pined for the breathing room amid the
balsam-scented woods of her girlhood’s home; and
the other, a baby girl, colorless and wan, preter-
naturally wise at four in the makeshifts and expe-
dients of city impecuniosity, where money represents
food, and sickness implies starvation.

Kitty Kenyon had been happy and light-hearted

VOL. 43—No, 10,

 

been a grand place. When the house burned down
one winter night, taking with it the well-filled barn
and the ricks and cribs that represented the coming
funds to pay off the mortgage, the place was hardly
worth the taking for the twelve hundred dollars that
Lawyer Markham had loaned on it. But he took it,
nevertheless, and then, taking his few remaining
hfindreds of dollars with him, Farmer Kenyon went
to the great city to win back his lost home. The
kindly, patient, hard-taxed old man won his home,
but it was that one to which he went alone, and the
cost of the journey left his weeping children almost
penniless.

Then came Phil Metcalf and offered pretty Kitty
Kenyon half of his modest income and al! of his big
heart, and he secured for her brother Joe the place
left vacant by Phil’s recent promotion in the house of
Keene & Son.

And there they both toiled together, and were
cheerful and full of hope, until one day Phil dropped
at his desk and was carried to his home, only to be
carried out again a little while later by six sorrow-
ing friends.

And then came the days of narrowing down. There
was little enough to narrow on, and there were no
petty extravagances to cut off; but even little Gracie
now knew what it was to pinch and contrive.

One day she said to Joe:

“Unky Joe, w’en do yau s’pose we'll have all de
apples and pears and fings dat ebber Dacie tan
eat?”

All the apples and pears and things! Joe thought
with a swelling heart of the cart-loads of fruit lying
rotten under the trees on Lawyer Markham’s farm.
He looked at his tired little sister, and saw the re-
sponsive tear in her eye. He glanced across the little
table, and noted the wistful look on the small face
that was his heart’s idol.

“T should fink you’d move away fum dis nasty hot
p’ace and doe where fings drows and don’t cost any-
fing to have dem,” continued the wise one. ‘TI fink
trees and drowing fings is dess lovely.”

And, in the light of his present, Joe thought so too.

He thought there was never anything lovelier than
the trees and growing things that were in the pic-
turesque old home, and when he remembered the
pretty little brook that sparkled and played right
through the middle of the pasture, he felt that it
would be a solace and a comfort if he could change
sexes with his sister and have a good cry.

But he managed to say in a fairly steady voice:

“We'll have all the apples and trees and growing
green things your heart can wish, Blossom, when
our ship comes home.”

“Why, Unky Joe! Has we dot a ship? Where is
it?”

“It’s a-sailing and a-sailing on the ocean of good
time a-coming, and it’ll be here some time soon, be-
fore you know it, Sugar Plum. And then we’ll all go
on board and sail away oft to where everybody is
rich and happy, and eats cake every day, and candy
three times a week.”

Baby Gracie clapped her little hands in glee.

“Oh, dat’ll be jus’ as dood as dood, Unky !”’ she ex-
claimed, And then she insisted on getting down out
of her high chair and giving him a good big hug.
This being done with much gravity and earnestness,
Joe sought the privacy of the ugly little parlor, and
fell to planning and dreaming.

For days and weeks and months Joe had been try-
ing to solve the problem of how to get rich on his
slender stock of unpromising opportunities. And
this evening his aching heart cried out to him that
he must, must, must do something to bring the com-
ing ship speedily into port.

His glance rested for a moment upon a bit of news-
paper that lay on the little center-table, and picking it

-up he read that a venturesome seeker after notoriety

had crossed Niagara Falls on a tight-rope, and that
his gains for the labor of an hour mounted up into
thousands of dollars. Like a flash it came over him
that this was something that he might himself ac-
complish. His boyhood had been dotted with feats
of balancing, and he thought of the numberless sec-
tions of rail-fence he had walked and never thought
of falling,

His resolve was immediate. He would walk across
the East River from Brooklyn to New York on a rope
stretched from shore to shore, and win back the old
farm and the green trees and the sparkling brook.
And his tired and fretted little sister should have
peace, and his darling Baby Grace should breathe
free air and eat apples until they would reappear on
her cheeks. The ship should come home!

That night a big slice of Joe’s very scanty savings
went toward the purchase of arope and fastenings,
and with a bit of scantling for a balancing-pole, Joe
commenced his practice in the long and dimly light-
ed cellar of the flats under the management and
parouare of the friendly janitor. Far into the night

1e tiptoed and balanced, and next morning before
daylight he was again at his work with untiring per-
sistence. :

For weeks Joe worked four hours every day to re-
gain the suppleness and confidence of his boyhood,
and this robbing by wholesale of his hours of rest he
called pd x beet from himself.

“T’ll pay it all back in time, Kittie,” he would say
to his anxious-faced sister, who could not help see-
ing the evident strain and tax he was imposing upon
himself. ‘Only wait for the ship to come in first.” -

One day he advanced himself in his school. He
fixed the rope across the back yard from house to
house at an altitude of fifteen feet, and that night
while the rest were asleep, he ran backward and for-
ward on the slender pathway over and over, until at
last he fell.

This cost him three days of pain. The time he
counted as “borrowed” from himself. The pain he
did not consider at all. sey ae

And day by day Gracie grew paler and thinner.

At last he considered himself letter perfect. The.
alarming certainty that his Gracie was slipping away
from him may have burried this conviction, but hear-
gued that if he fell, he would probably escape injury
in the water, and he had even practiced falling so as
to go down feet first. He was now ready to solicit
the aid of a backer.

The first man he presented his scheme to laughed
at him for his innocence.

“You can’t do it,” he said, ‘‘and if you could, you
can’t get afrope long enough.”

Joe felt confident he could make the trip safely,
and it never occurred to him that there would be any
trouble about getting a rope.

For a week he put in his spare half hours inter-
viewing the rope dealers, who were only two doors
away from Keene & Son’s, where Joe worked. And |
he found that while it was possible to stretch a

to realize from the undertaking. And so, dismayed }
but not despairing, he spent his midday half hours
in their fourth floor, talking over his project with
their eminently practical fureman. He could look
across the intervening space of twenty-five feet be-
tween the two tall buildings over the roof of the
little two-story warehouse which stood between, and
tell to a minute how long he dare remain away by
the big office clock. He knew that at 12:30 precisely
the bent little form of old Mr. Keene would be seen
at his desk, the signal for all in the office to resume
work.

And one day, just about a week before Chirstmas,
while he watched, he became conscious of a hazy
dullness in the well-lighted elevator shaft that
ran up and down near to the office-door of Keene
& Son, and, a moment later, he saw -a curl of
smoke and then a tongue of flame climb upits var-
nished walls. And next he saw those of his fellow
clerks whogwere in the office rush in hot haste to the
doors and stair-waysin a madrace forlife. Heknew
that with the stock of inflammable material in Keene
& Son’s store and warehouse, there was no possible
chance to save either goods or building, and he took
what comfort he could in the reflection that he had
his skill yet to fall back on now that his situation
was hopelessly lost to him. And presently the gran
deur of the magnificent conflagration, the throbbing
of the engines, the shouts of the firemen, the rolling
masses of thick black smoke, the whole excitement
of the awful scene, so near as to threaten soon to
drive him away from his point of observation,
worked him into a condition of exaltation that al-

| most tempted him to throw himself into the midst

of it across the insignificant looking intervening

| space.

Suddenly a shock came. A sensation of horror
swept over him. Directly before his eyes, only
twenty-five feet away, at the open window, appeared
the diminutive form of old Mr. Keene, the senior
—— of the house, shrieking supplications for
1elp.

There were brave and hardy firemen in the room
with Joe, but bravery and endurance could not bridge
the chasm of twenty-five feet; and they knew that
long before a ladder could be brought up that four
flights of stairs to lay across the space, it would be
too late to save anything of Mr. Keene but his life-
less body. And they gazed in silent horror at the
flames creeping surely and remorselessly toward the
doomed millionaire, who, in his great and urgent
noes was beseeching them to do something to help

im.

They had heard him offer five, ten, twenty thou-
sand dollars to whoever would save his life; and an
inspiration came to Joe as he heard the old man’s
anguished appeals.

Turning to a coil of heavy rope, his eye caught the
inquiring glance of the foreman of the rope-works.
A flash of quick intelligence told Joe that his pur-
pose was divined.

“Now’s your chance!” said his friend, the foreman,
in a low voice, as he helped Joe to unwind the flex-
ible coils.

\ |} met her at the door.
| cable across, it would cost more than he could hope |

up a shout of exultant approbation. But Joe heard
nothing, saw nothing, but the man he was to save,
and whatever reward he might thus earn. And when
he stepped into the hell of smoke and flame, the old
man lay senseless at his feet. .

Joe rushed to the stair-way. A pall of dense black
smoke and a fringe of curling flame barred his way.
The other stairs! <A furnace of flame!

There was but one escape. He must return as he
came, and carry the old man with him !

Joe looked across the narrow space. It seemed a
long distance to carry a senseless man; and yet it
was safer than if the man were conscious and ter-
rffied. It must be done, at any rate, and the stifling
smoke and deadly heat warned Joe that he had no
alternative, and no spare moment of time.

He raised the inanimate body of the old man in his
arms. It was not a heavy burden—little more than
a hundred pounds; and holding him before his breast
as a mother would her child, Joe stepped out on to
the swaying rope. —

A few thoughtless watchers set upa shoutas Joe
appeared at the window, but the vast multitude in
ee streets, now fully warned, were breathlessly si-

ent.

One, two, three, four steps he took rapidly, and he
swung and ‘swayed in mid-air on the narrow thread
of rope, safety and fortune a few paces before him, a
seething inferno behind him, a glowing furnace be-
neath him.

Will he ever make it? A step gained, another and
another! Hereels! he totters! Great Heaven, he
is falling!

Women shriek and men turn away or cover their
eyes with their hands to shut out the awful spectacle!
No! he recovers! he is again erect! A few steps
more! Merciful Heaven! the rope is on fire!

“Come on, Joe! Come, for your life!” shouts the
foreman.

A great roar from thousands of throats arises to the
clouds and challenges heaven’s thunders, as strong
hands reach out and clutch the ee failing man,
and drag him and the man whose life he has saved—
safe, safe through the open window, just as the burn-

the warehouse roof!

« * ~ « * *

It was a week before Joe was permitted to sit up
in bed and read what a hero the newspapers had.
proclaimed him tobe. And it was an exultant mo-
ment for him when, on the same day, which chanced
to be Christmas Eve, the Messrs. Keene, father and
son, called on him and formally thanked him for his
brave and timely deed. And when the old gentle-
man, going away, laid a bit of paper on the table,
Joe knew thatit was atleast afoundation on which
to construct broad hopes for better times for his
darlings. ?

Gracie picked up the check and brought it to the
bedside.

“Here, Unky Joe,” she said. ‘De nuther old dock-
eter bringed you dis more medecine.”

Joe folded the “prescription” that Mr. Keene had
left, and placed it in the small hand of the wise one.

“Tt is your medicine, my pet,’’ he replied.

And Kitty, taking it from the child, opened and
read the check. —

The old man was one whose business promises
were always redeemed. The check was for twenty thou-
sand dollars!

Ro = Christmas Eve, andthe ship had come home
at last.

TWO CHRISTMAS EVES,

BY HERO STRONG.

Agnes Leighton turned sadly away from the pala-
tial mansion where for four weeks she had been em-
ployed as seamstress, and wrapping her scanty shawl
more closely about her to keep out the piercing
north wind which was sweeping down from the hills,
started on her long walk toward home.

It was Christmas Eve, and Agnes had hoped that
Miss Maude La Roche, whose bridal trousseau she
had been engaged upon, would have felt it her duty
to pay her the money due, but when she had modest-
ly presented her small bill, with the remark that to-
morrow was Christmas, and that she wanted to buy
some little toy for Helen, the baby sister, who, two
years before, had been left to her care by a dying
mother, Miss La Roche had carelessly tossed the bill
into her work-basket, and replied:

~“Papa has been giving mea great deal of money
lately, and I have bought oceans of things. It costs
so much to get married! And I shall not dare to ask
him for anything more until next month. Toys are
of no account. It is a foolish way to spend your
mouey.”

“Perhaps so. But Helen is only five years old, and
she has so few pleasures. And one can be a child
but once.”

“I’m sureI don’t know who wants to be a child
twice,” said Miss La Roche, pettishly. ‘Thank good-
ness, I am not troubled with sentiment. You can
call next month, and [I will pay you.”

There was nothing for Agnes to do but go out into
oe cold with an empty pocket-book and an aching

eart. : :

Miss La Roche, with her fair blonde beauty and
her trailing silks, and her milk-white pearls, and her
handsome lover, never cast a thought after the sew-
ing girl and the paltry ten dollars she owed her.

Agnes, tired and discouraged, plodded along the
frozen streets, and resolutely turned from looking in
the shop windows where toys of alldescriptions were
so temptingly displayed. She knew just how the
tears would come into Baby Helen’s blue eyes, just
how the dear little thing would run hopefully to
meet her, and how disappoiuted she would be when
“the doll with curly hair, and eyes that would go to
sleep,” which had been so long promised her, was
not forthcoming. -

Perhaps it was a silly little thing to be sad over,
Agnes told herself; but she could have cried to think
how hard it was that Helen, who had so little to make
her happy, while other children had so much, should
be disappointed.

But when she reached the humble lodging-house
where she made her home, Mrs. Carter, the landlady,
Agnes looked behind the wo-
mnan’s portly form for the rosy, eager face of Helen,
but no hurried, pattering feet came over the dingy
oil-cloth. :

And Agnes read something in Mrs. Carter’s face
which struck terror to her heart.

“Helen! ” she gasped. f

“My dear, try and be composed, for she will need
all your strength. Helen is very, very ill, and we.)
are afraid it is diphtheria!” +

“Oh, my baby! let me goto her at once! And lI
could not bring her the doll she wanted so much, and
now she is dying!”

“T have sent for a doctor,” said Mrs. Carter, “and
vor he is now,” as a carriage stopped before the

oor.

“And I have no money to pay him,” said Agnes,
sorrowfully. ‘He will feel little interest in the case,
I am afraid, if he gets no remuneration.”

A tall, rather grave-faced young man camein and
addressed himself to Mrs. Carter.

“You have a child sick here? Fam Dr. Vernon.”

“It is this young lady’s sister,” said Mrs. Carter.
“Agnes, you had better go with him.”

Agnes mechanically showed him up to the little
room that she and Helen occupied together, and
where now the child, with flushed face and wild eyes,
lay tossing on the bed in the delirium of fever.
Helen’s quick ear recognized her sister’s step, and
she started up in bed and stretched out her hands.

“Oh, Aggie! Lis so glad you is come! My head is
so hot, and I is burning up! And I want my dolly
with the curly bair and the eyes that goto sleep! I
want her so much!” '

The tears rushed to Agnes’ eyes.

“My darling, I could not buy it for you. The lady
did not pay me, and I had no money.”

The suffering face of the child grew patient ina
moment; she put her poor little hot hands against’
her sister’s cheek. : :

“Nevermind. Don’t cry, Aggie. I’d rather have
you than all the dolls in the world! Hold me in your
arms, and sing me ‘When the little birds fly home.’”

Dr. Vernon lifted up the little sufferer’s head and
let it rest on his arm while he made his brief exami-
nation. He asked’a few questions, soothed the child
by his gentle touch, and laid her back on the bed.

“It is diphtheria, as I feared. There should be a
nurse. You are not strong enough to do this work.
It will be a hard pull, but L-hope we shall save her.
Have you any friend who can stay with you ?”’

“T have no friends in the city. And I would never
leave Helen to any one’s care. I can do more than
you think.”

She stood erect before him—tal!, slight, with dark
violet eyes, and soft brown hair rippling away from
her white temples; and Dr. Vernon thought that in
all his experience he had never seen a more lovely
and perfect type of womanhovd. And the doctor had
been courted and flattered by women all his life.
For he was the son of a millionaire, and he had
studied medicine purely from love of science, and he
practiced his profession because he found in it so
many opportunities of doing good to humanity.

“Very well. We will see what you cando. Mean-

 

A half-dozen men proffered useless assistance.

Joe took coil over coil on his arm, and with a}
Swing, he launched the rope like a yellow serpent |
across the space.

A dozen voices warned the old man to catch and
secure the rope before its weight would drag it from
the window. « ‘

With the energy of despair he seized it, and coiled
and lashed it around the heavy iron column that
supported the ceiling. And with a score of willing
hands to steady and keep it taut, and with a fireman’s
heavy hook for a balancing-pole, Joe ran across the
narrow space to the burning building.

A few enthusiastic souls below who, amid the dense

 

while, [shall send down a trained nurse from the
hospital to assist you.”

“But I have no money! And I cannot incur obli-
gations that may never be canceled.”

‘But some lady is owing you?) Did I not hear you
say so? Pardon my curiosity, but Ihave a reason for
asking who the lady is.”

“It is Miss Maude La Roche. But perhaps I ought
not to have told you. She is to be married soon.”

“And she refused to pay you ?” .
ener had paid out so much money for her wedding

ings——

“Ah! Well, we will not trouble about money mat-
ters at present. We will try to get Helen well again.

 

And I will call later in the evening.”

columns and billows of smoke, had seen the act, sent |

ing rope parts, and drops, and swings blazing over |

nized sister, had all they could do.
And the day that it was known that Helen would

it in her feeble little hands, and the child and the doll
fell asleep together.

‘And Agnes Leighton took the doctor’s hand and
slened it when she tried to thank him for her sister’s

e.

Dr, Vernon’s face flushed, and then grew pale; he
put a strong restraint upon himself, and remembered
ce he was the promised husband of Maude La
Roche. 7”

And after that Agnes found employment in a store
where some unknown friend had recommended her,
and she had fair wages, and she was paid for her
workevery Saturday night. «

And Miss La Roche evidently repented of her neg-
lect, for Agnes received the ten dollars due her, sev-
eral days before the time when Miss La Roche said
she might call for it.

But the fashionable world rang with the news that
the projeeted marriage between the wealthy and cel-
ebrated Dr. Arthur Vernon and the beautiful and
accomplished Miss Maude La Roche was broken off,
and that Miss La Roche had gone to Europe.

* *

* * * * * * *

Again it was Christmas Eve, and the snow had
come down and the streets were white, and the merry
sleighs flew past with their happy occupants, and the
frost sparkled over everything, and the full moon
shone, and the sleigh-bells jingled, and mingled with
the laughter of youth and happiness.

Helen Leighton’s small face was pressed against
the glass, watching the teams dash by.

never was in a sleigh in my life. It must be grand,
dashing along behind such beautiful horses, with the
cold wind in your face, and the fur robes all round
you! Oh, Aggie, why weren we born rich ?”

But Helen forgot all about an answer to her ques-
tion, for just then a sleigh with a pair of black horses
stopped at the door of Mrs. Carter’s Jittle house, and
Dr. Vernon came into the hall, bringing the fresh air
with him, and snatching up Helen, who ran to meet
him, he held her close to the fur coat he wore.

“Tt’s like being hugged by a bear!” cried the child,
gleefully. ‘Oh, Aggie! just you-come out and try it!”

“Yes,” said the doctor; ‘please to come. I join
Helen in the invitation. Agnes, I have waited till
Christmas Eve to speak to you. Last year, Christ-
mas Eve brought me to you; this year it brings me
again. AndI want the gift I am entitled to. My
little Helen, please to tell your sister that I want her
for my wife.”

“You shall have her!” cried the child, joyfully.
“And she will be real glad to let you have her; for I
saw her kiss the roses you gave me the other day,
and they were all dead as they could be then!”

The doctor placed his arm around Agnes, and his
face was so near hers that he could not see her
blushes. By and by they all three went sleigh-riding
| by the light of the moon, and four weeks later Agnes

Leighton became the mistress of Dr. Vernon’s hand-
| some establishment, and Helen’s life was made happy

by all the toys she could desire or ask for.
| And not until Agnes had been the doctor’s wife for
| nearly a year, did he tell her that the quarrel be-
| tween himself and Miss La Roche, which had result-
| ed in the breaking off of their engagement, had orig-

inatedin the attempt he had made to bring his fiancee
| to a sense of her injustice in refusing to pay the bill
| of her seamstress.
| ‘And so you see, my dear.” said the doctor, “that
ten dollars was the means of saving me from a life-
time of misery with a woman who lacked common
ay: and it gave me my priceless Christmas
gift.”

 

The Best Gift.

Surprise your friend by sending to him or her, at
the cost of three dollars, the NEw YORK WEEKLY for
one year. Thisisa gift that everybody will appre-
ciate.

THE STRANGE VISITOR.
A STORY OF CHRISTMAS IN GERMANY.

One December evening, a family were grouped
around their hearth-stone, in a little cottage on the
edge of a German forest. The storm-wind whistled
around and roared down the chimney. The rain and*
sleet beat upon its windows—all was dark and stormy
without. ;

Hans Van Kitter and his spouse were frugal, in-
dustrious, like most of the German peasantry ; but
having a large family were poor. Lina, a blue-
eyed, golden-haire@ maiden, was singing a national
air. ‘

Ella, a little girl of ten, was playing with her kit-
ten, As an unusual blast of sleet smote on the win-

dows, she said:

“Oh, papa, I hope it won’t storm like this on
Christmas Eve.” '

“And why, little one?’ said Hans; “there’s no
church near enough for us to go to.”

“Oh, because Santa Claus will not come if it storms

“Santa Claus does not often come to poor cottages
like ours, Ella; he passes by to the homes of the rich
and great.”

“Well, I will hang up my stocking, and see if he
comes; and I know what I want to have him bring.”

“Well, what do you expect to get?’

“Oh, I want to have him bring brother Randolph’s
commission, so that he can be an officer in the army,
instead of a soldier. And I want him to bring a call
for Mr. Jansen to preach, now he has got done with
the college, so he and Lina can get married.”

Lina blushed and sighed; for Jansen was her
lover—a student, who was just licensed to preach;
but had received no settlement as yet.

“And then, I want him to bring—oh, ever so much
money, so you can build us anew house.”

“But you are wishing for all the rest. What do
you want Santa Claus to bring for you?” :

“Oh, I know. I want a big dog—a black dog, with
long, curly hair, and good hatured, so that I can play
with him.”

“Oh, you must not wish for such strange things,’
said her mother; “if Santa Claus brings you some
candy, or a picture-book, you will be fortunate.”

At that moment they were interrupted by a knock-
ing at the door. At their summons a stranger enter-
ed—a tall, middle-aged man, of fair features—well
dressed in plain but substantial clothing.

“T have become lost in the forest, separated from a
se party, and shall be thankful for a night’s
lodging.”

“You are welcome to such entertainment as we
can afford.”

‘Many thanks.
possible.”

The stranger removed his wet garments, and passed
the eve in genial converse with the family. In the
morn the storm had abated, and the stranger bade
them adieu, and walked leisurely away.

I will make as little trouble as

* * x * . ¥ *

*

Christmas Eve. The ground was covered with
snow. Themoon shone bright and clear, and the
stars, in their bright twinkling, seemed bidding the
world a merry Christmas.

Tt had been a joyous eve at Hans Van Kitter’s; for
Randolph had unexpectedly receiyed a furlough,
and had that day arrived at home. Mr. Jansen had
also come to visit Lina.

All had retired for the night; from their little bed-
rooms they could look out into the kitchen, where
the mingled firelight and moonshine made it light,
almost as day. Little Ella, with child-like faith, had
hung her stocking on the mantle.

Occupied with various thoughts, aH were yet
awake, when they were surprised to hear the merry
jingle of bells and Sar of steeds which stopped at
their threshold. Then their door was boldly opened,
and a strange form, upon whom all peered forth,
strode in—portly and jolly; clad in rich furs and
robes like the common description of the Christmas
saint and dispenser of gifts; over his shoulder the
traditionary bag, well filled.

By achain he led a large black dog -with a silver
collar; fastening the chain to a leg of the table, he
patted the dog, and motioned to him to lie down;
then drawing forth a variety of articles, he placed
them in the ready stocking, and glancing a moment
around, strode away. Ere the family had fully con-
cluded whether they were awake or dreamiig, they
heard the merry bells of the departing visitor.

“Santa Claus brought them,” wassa very good ex-
planation to little children, when they found presents
on Christmas morn; but the presence and motives
of their visitor were an enigma to the older mem-
bers of the-family. They soonassembled, and looked
curiously askance at the dog, with which Ella-im-
mediately began acquaintance.

Hans proceeded to examine thestocking. The first
thing brought forth was a document that proved to
be a captain’s commission for Randolph Van Kitter.
Then he drew forth the papers of settlement for Rey.
Win. Jansen in a neighboring parish; then a beauti-
ful wedding-ring for Miss Lina, and a purse of gold
for Hans Van Kitter.

Exclamations of surprise and delight followed.

“There, now !” exclaimed little Ella; “didn’t I tell
you what I wanted Santa Clause to bring? Oh, isn’t
he good?” os

Various were the wonderings and little the sleep
in the cottage that Christmas Eve.

Next day a horseman called at the door, with a let-

 

ter for Hans, which read as follows:

s
“I wish somebody would come for us, Aggie. I

|

live, Dr. Vernon brought the famous doli with the | doubtless surprised.
curly hair and the eyes that went to sleep, and laid | and remember kindly, your emperor,

And Dr. Vernon had to call a great many timesat/ ‘DEAR SiR: Standing at your door one stormy
the humble lodging-house of Mrs. Carter, for poor | night a short time ago, | heard y
little Helen had a ten days’ struggle between life and | ing what Santa Claus would bring her; and pleased
death, and the trained nurse, and the brave but ago- |

your little child wish-

at the sensible wishes of the child, and wishing to
reward you for your kind entertainment, I sent your
strange visitor of Christmas Eve, by whom yes were

Please accept the small favors,

“MAXIMILIAN.”

“God bless the emperor!” murmured honest Hans,
and all but little Ella soon understood the mystery ;
but, she, in her innocent child’s faith, was permitte
to still thank the mystic saint of Christinas Eye.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood...

FASHION NOTES.

Fashionable wedding- gifts are of cut-glass. Zi

Gilt-edged ribbons are coming in favor. .

Shoulder capes of fur have taken the place of boas.

Some of the new polonaises are made with Japanese
sleeves. °

Men of taste and refinement wear inconspicuous jew-
elry.

Double sleeves are a feature of children’s outside gar-
ments. $

Sealskin jackets are seen with vest and cuffs of beaver.

Handsome reception dresses can be made of white vel-
vet trimmed with chinchilla. ° >i .

Fairy lamps, in delicate colors, are still fashionable on
dinner tables.

Gentlemen’s white lawn neckties, for evening dress,
are slightly wider, and are tied in a small, stiff bow.

Young girls are now wearing a small bunch of curls
loosely arranged at the back of the head, in place of the
Grecian knot. .

Party frocks for little girls are made of pale blue, deli-
cate pink, or cream surah, prettily trimmed with valen-
ciennes lace. ;

Half sleeves of silk or moire, pointed longest inside the
arm, are worn on evening and reception toilets, over long,
full sleeves of lace. ‘

Red and black is a favorite combination, and the reds
so employed are of the brighest.

Fur collarettes, which are also called scarfs, are cut
deep and round, and pointed in front, or finished with
Square ends. ; ;

Narrow bands of curled ostrich feathers are used to
trim the edge of dressy bonnets, producing avery soft
and pretty effect. . .

Handsome sash ribbons of moire antique, set at the
back of the basque and falling in long loops and ends, are
sometimes added to ball costumes of transparent fabrics.

Ivory, marigold, yellow, raspberry, seen delicate

reen, and azalea pink are the colors most favored for

ancing dresses, while blue is still worn by the se to whom
it is especially becoming. :

A handsome dress is made of terra cotta ladies’ cloth,
elaborately trimmed with real India gaHoon in gold, co
per, and other iridescent tones, with which terra cotta is

lended, and it is made up over a petticoat of terra cotta
velvet in two shades, mixed with gold.

With the gobelin-blue costumes, almost as fashionable
now as senor used to be, are worn gloves of the same
color, in dressed kid, and with broad stitching on the back
in a lighter shade. i

Bonnets are grantee smaller, and there will probably be
few of the high ones left by midwinter, while the new

of last winter.

Embroidered cloth is now sold by the yard, to be used
with plain colors, and two yards will transform a simple
gown into an elaborate one. Beige, cream and pray cloths
are worked in gothic designs, like the arch of an ornate
church window, showing every line of the tracery, and
the embroidery is carried out either in gold, silver, or
steel, mixed with cashmere colors, while another class of
oe has tufts of plush intermingled, resembling

ewels. :

“Rose Reynolds.’’—The best material for a walking cos-
tume at this season of the year is the cloth-finished flan-
nel, soft and light, which drapes so nicely in drooping
folds for tunics and overskirts. The most popular style
just at present is a combination of plaited skirt and
drapery, the back of the skirt being arranged in full
plaits, while the front is draped across and looped up over
the left hip, in folds, fastened with loops of ribbon or pas-
sementerie.
front, with a few plaits at the side, while she back, one
width is draped into a loose puff. A costume of this st
is of brown cloth-finished flannel, and plaid woolen
material, in shades of brown streaked with brigl
black, the skirt-front being of the plaid fa
pery at the back of the plain, while the bodice is of the

lain flannel, made LR. . With a postilion basque
at the back, lined with red silk, and coming down toa
peak infront. It is trimmed witha peaked plastron of
red silk, and finished at the top with a turned-up collar of
the same, while the sleeves are finely plaited in the upper
a and the fullness islet out with ree at the el-

w, and then plaited on to a deep facing of red silk.

“Masquerade,” ,Maysville, Ky.—ist. An inexpensive
dress to represent Snow can be madeof a few yards of
Nottingham lace, such as is used for curtains, and it may
be of the cheapest sort. <A straight, full skirt is gathered
into a belt, with a full baby waist, and very wide angel
sleeves. Spatter gum-arabic water over the entire dress,
and then sprinkle diamond dustover it, and it will stick to”
the drops of gum, which should remain undisturbed until
thoroughly dry. A snow wreath for the head, and also
bracelets for the arms, can be made by eaten | some of
the powder into thick gum and allowing it to dry in the
required shapes. 2d. We can furnish an illustrated book
of “Fancy Costumes” for fifty cents. 3d The price of
“Sharing Her Crime,” in book-form, is $1.50, while the_
papers containing the story Will cost $1.08. 4th. To cor-
rect offensive breath, dissolve a teaspoonful of powdered
charcoal in one-third of a cupful of water, and take it in:
the morning, before breakfast, once or twice a week.

“Mrs. G. M.”—Stylish walking-éoats for little girls of
from four to eight years of age are made of either ma-
hogany refor gobelin blue broadcloath, bordered with
black astrakhan, and adorned with black silk braid.

“Hattie H.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Favorite ear-rings arein
the form of gipsy hoops, set with three emeralds, rubies,
or turquoises of extra large size, each stone be sur-
rounded by tiny diamonds.

“Lizzie C.”—There is a book published containing direc-

tions for making masquerade costumes, and we will mail
it on receipt of fifty cents. 4 :

of Interest. —

Items

A long-handed sledge-hammer and a big saw are
securely fastened near the doors in some of the passerger

cars of an Eastern railroad. They are intended for use in
case of an accident, such as an overturned car, to permit
the passengers to make an aperture for escape. There is
one thiug the company has not yet provided—a crowbar,
to enable the passengers to pry off the hammer and the

that they cannot readily be removed.

A promising young man in Buffalo wrote to his
father, in a distant town: “Dear Father: During my six
years’ residence in this city I have contrived, by the ex-
ercise of prudence and economy, to deposit $1,500 in the
savings bank.” He neglected to mention to his delighted
father that the drafts he had made against the $1,500
footed up $1,475.50. .

Moonlight nights are very fruitful of deception.
When aman gets up under the impression that it is day-
break and finds that it is only 3:30, he may remember the
sad words of the astronomer that the “moon is a dead
world,” but he is too mad to wonder what it died of, and
he is in too much of a hurry to get back to bed again to
weep over its death. >

The latest snake story comes from a Michigan
lumber camp, where the saw cut in two a large moccasin
snake that was embedded in the heart of a tree. There
was bo opening at either end of the log, and the lumber-
men can account.for the Snake’s presence only upon the
hypothesis thatit was taken up in the sap when very
young.

Persons troubled with heart disease should avoid
rapidly moving elevators. An eminent physician declares
that he has had patients suffering from heart irregulari-
ties subjected to serious relapses by even occasionally
riding in swift-moving elevators. He says that there
should be some restriction put upon the speed of ele-
vators.

A shocking accident occurred at Corvallis, Oregon,
afew days ago. A buzz saw broke while revolving at a
high rate of speed, and a piece striking William Bu-
chanan in the arm just below the shoulder cut it off so
quickly that he didn’t know that he was hurt until he
saw his arm lying at his feet. s

The neat and nobby neckwear of the young men of
San Antonio, Texas, is a scarf made of rattlesnake skin,
with a pin composed of the snake’s rattles. The skins
are prepared by a Texan, who has a snake ranch near the
city.

A Brooklyn physician advertises himself by advis-
ing his convalescing patients to eat the left leg of a
chicken. Then they talk about him at every méal.

A bright letter-carrier in’ Bridgeport, Conb., car-
ries with him a small electric light to enable him to read

 

addresses in the dark. It is an electric searf-pin.

 

 

ones are round and low, being the exact opposites of those ~

In other models, the skirt is quite plain in
at the ;

saw from the places where they are so firmly fastened |

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