“LITTLE BUCKSHOT,” an Exciting

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1887. vy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D.C.

 

Story of Real Life on the Plains, by NED BUNTLINE, Nex

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

 

Vol. 48.

Office 31
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

Rose St.

New York, December 3, 1887.

 

 

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

A BY-GONE DAY.
BY PATTY CARYL.

This morning in my hands I chanced to hold
A well-worn book, and in its pages old
There lay three linden leaves with hue of gold.

Three perfect leaves! And, seeing them, I stood
Again beside my lover in a wood
Where shining linden leaves the ground bestrewed.

And searching there, my true love gathered three;
“For love,” he said, ‘‘for love, and thee and me,
To keep this golden day in memory.”

And as he searched the linden leaves among,
All tenderly he sang this olden song,
Whose words unto the melody belong:

“And the linden leans above me
Till I think some things there be
In this dreary world that love me,
Even me, even me.”
And as he sang, and looked for leaves the while,
His eyes sought mine with arch and tender smile.
What joy can e’er again my heart beguile—
Since death has done to me this cruel wrong!
Has hushed the beating of a heart so strong,
And silenced evermore the voice of song?
Oh, precious leaves!
Amid the pages old they still may be.
But, seeing them, again I seem to see
The loving face; the far-off day seems near;
The voice I loved in song again is clear,
And once again these old-time words I hear:
‘‘And the linden leans above me
Till I think some things there be
In this dreary world that love me.
Even me—even me.”
cos anal alli

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM ]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

CHAPTER III.—(CONTINUED.)

It is amonth later, and Clotilde has returned to her
own cottage in the valley of the Loire.

The summer is well over, and the lime-leaves are
growing yellow, and the vineyards hang laden with
purple clusters.

Clotilde is looking for her husband’s return.
has been abroad for over a year; but his last letter,
which reached her months ago, toid her to expect
him before winter setin. Accordingly, she has cut
short her visit to her sister, near St. Malo, and has
returned home to make ready

for her husband’s

coming.

She sits in the cottage porch this sunny afternoon, |
| mence.
|} he come back to stand between me and my good |
| luck ?’

She calls them both her own, and loves them al- |

watching her two children as they play beneath the
limes.

most with an equal fondness—her son Andre, and

the morning afer the wreck. They restored him to

ife 2 cP 2a nha v j » € o i | ‘
life, she and Rachel, and Clotilde has brought him | .utchea him, but he looked up with clear, brave
| eyes.

“The dear little fellow,” she thinks, watching the | ~

home with Andre to her own cottage.

two children as they follow their hoops. Oh, I do
hope that Andrew won’t mind my keeping him
when he comes. I should so hate to part with him!”

Even while these thoughts fill her mind the vine-
leaves rustle behind her. She looks up and utters a
ery of joy. Her husband stands beside her.

“Oh, Andrew, have you come at last ?”’

She flies to clasp his neck, but he puts forth his
hand and holds her off.

“Don’t be a fool, Clotilde,’ he says, coolly.
I’ve come, and I’m thoroughly used up.
glass of wine.”
~ As she looks at him her eyes dilate with a horrified
wonder.

“What ails you?” he demands, with a brutal oath.
‘What do you see that you stare at me so?”

She clasps her hands across her loudly throbbing
heart.

‘You have changed so,’ she whispers, awe and
terror in her voice. “Oh, Andrew, what has come
over you?’

A harsh laugh escapes him, a laugh by no means
pleasant to hear.

“Oh, a great deal—more than I can tell you now,”
he answers. ‘‘No wonder you find me changed. The
whole world has changed forme. You shall hear it
allin good time. But let me have the wine now.”

She turns from him like one in a dream.

‘“‘What is the cause of his strange demeanor?’ she
soliloquizes. ‘‘What has changed him so fearfully ?”’

At this moment the two.children came running up,
hand in hand, flushed and rosy from their play.

Andrew Bruce turned round to greet his own son,
and thus came face to face with the son of his dead
friend.

He whitened with craven terror, and his very knees
shook under him, as if a specter had confronted him.

“Papa, papa,’ cried Andre, running to his side,
and catching his hand.

But his father threw him off, without greeting or
caress, and,.stood staring at the other child with dis-
tended eyes and gasping lips.

“T saw him go down; I saw the waves sweep him
off; and here he is ;” he vacantly muttered.

Clotilde returned with the wine; he seized the glass
and swallowed the contents at a draught.

“That boy! how came he here ?” he demanded then,
pointing toward Richmond.

Poor Clotilde trembled. Her English husband had
never been over tender to her, and now there was
something in his face that filled her with terror.

“Andrew, pray, do not be angry,” she began, clasp-
ing his arm with two beseeching hands.

But he threw her from him with an oath.

“Answer me,” he cried, his surprise and terror
giving place to wrath; ‘‘where did you get that

oy

y. “Yes,
Bring me a

“There was a vessel lost off St. Malo a month ago,”
Clotilde faltered——

“And he was on her;” he interrupted, an awful ex-
en sweeping over hisface. ‘He drifted ashore.

might have known. And you saved him, and have
him here? Curse you, I’ll have your life for ft!”

 

“For love—and thee and me!”

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THE KNEELING WOMAN LOOKED TOWARD THE WINDOW.

 

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; . ‘ | the affrighted child.
the little storm-waif, the boy found on the coast on |

he asked, simply.
| care of me, and take me to England.”

He seized her by her abundant dark hair, and poor |
Clotilde, unable to comprehend the secret of his wild
rage, fancied that her husband had gone mad, and |
shrieked aloud for help. |

He clutched her throat until her face became pur- |

dle.
; “Andrew! Andrew! for Heaven’s sake do not mur-
der me!” she gasped. ‘I will send the boy away ¥

“No! no! no!” he interposed, with terrible vehe-
“T’ll murder him, ’ll havehis life! How dare |

He threw Clotilde from him with a force that
dashed her to the floor of the porch, and rushed upon

“Curse you!” he
‘You shall die !”’
The lad shivered with terror, as the man’s iron grip

hissed, between his set teeth. |

“Why do you want to murder me, Andrew Bruce ?”’
“You promised my father to take |

This simple question went to the guilty man’s heart
like a knife, and for one minute he felt a pang of
genuine remorse.

‘Yes, I promised him,” he gasped, in hoarse ac-
cents, ‘‘and called God as my witness.”

He staggered back a pace or two and sank into a
seat, covering his face with his hands.

“Tis not too late now,” he muttered.
it yet!”

Clotilde, who by this time had regained her feet,
approached him, and laid her hand on his arm.

“Come into the house, Andrew,” she entreated.
“You are not well; you’ll feel better when you have
rested.”

Her voice recalled him to his senses, and his mo-
mentary irresolution vanished. The evil within him
was growing so strong, the good so weak.

“T should have to give it all up,” he muttered. “Sir
Geoffrey Trevethon, baronet, with fifteen thousand a |
year! Think of thai! I won’t give it up.”

He leaped to his feet with a hoarse cry and rushed
at the boy again.

“He shall not live to thwart my plans,” he yelled.
‘He shall die!”

He struck the child a brutal blow full on theftem-
ple, causing an ugly wound, and felling him to the
floor, where he lay bleeding and insensible, while
Clotilde and Andre shrieked with terror.

But Bruce soon silenced both with threats and
oaths.

“Take him up and carry him into the kitchen,” he
commanded, “When it grows dark Ill throw him
into the Loire.”

Clotilde obeyed without a word, shivering in every
limb with mortal terror. She laid the child down on
the lounge, covered his ghastly blood-stained face,
and then crouched down herself, with her son at her
knees, watching her maniac husband, as she deemed
him, with affrighted eyes.

Bruce looked at her, and broke forth into amused
laughter.

“You think me mad?’ he asked, divining her
thoughts. ‘Well, I am mad—drunk with my own
good luck, Clotilde! There’s no need to tremble so;
the fit is off now; it was the sight of that boy there
that brought it on; but he lies quiet enough. He
won't arise between me and my good fortune again!
Sit still, Clotilde; I have my senses back now; I
won’t hurt you, my girl; I’m awfully glad to see you;
and I have a wondrous story to tell you. But get
Andre snug in bed, and fetch out some cold meat and
a bottle of wine before I begin; that’s a good lass!”

Clotilde arose to her feet, but her limbs refused to
support her.

“Run away to bed, Andre,” she whispered, cling-
ing to the window-sill for support. . ‘*Run away, like
mother’s good boy.”

Her son, still in terror of his father, crept out, cast-
ing a wistful glance at the couch where his uncon-
scious playfellow lay. Then the wife turned her
ghastly face upon her husband,

“T might do

 

| while the end justifies the deed.

| tune.
| late Sir Geoffrey’s only son and heir, and to-morrow |
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PITY ME! YES, I WILL SWEAR.”

 

“Andrew, for the love of Heaven, what is it? What
has come over you?” she faltered. ‘Are you mad?’

He laughed again, that ugly, murderous laugh.

“T think I am,” he answered, ‘‘and so will you be
when you hear what I have to tell. Fetch out the

| meat and wine, Clotilde; my good luck hasn’t im-

paired my appetite !”’

“But the child there?” she cried; ‘the poor little

lad , he’ll die if we do nothing for him.”

“Will he? So much the better.”

The look in her husband’s eyes turned her sick and
faint. He used to be a handsome man, tender and
gallant, when his hot temper was under control, and
she loved him to adoration; but now she recoiled

| from him in shuddering fear.

“So much the better,” he repeated. ‘As soon as it
grows a little darker I shall throw him into the
Loire.”

“But you will be a murderer,” she shrieked out, |

‘and they’ll hang you.”

“T sha’n’t give them a chance,” he answered, cool-
ly.
before the day breaks we shall be on our way to
England. Sit down, Clotilde, and hear my story;
there’s no time to lose.”

The woman dropped into a seat from sheer weak- |
ness.

“Tam not over fond of such jobs,” her husband
continued, as he uncorked his wine, “but once in a
You should not
have saved the boy from the wreck. Never meddle
with what does not concern you. Clotilde, how |
would you like to see your son a baronet—a baronet |
of England, with an income of fifteen thousand |
British pounds per annum ?”

“Andrew !”’

“Don’t call me Andrew, please,’ he continued,
eoolly. ‘I have changed my name as well as my for- |
Henceforth I am Geoffrey Trevethon, the

I go to England to claim my title and estates! Fact,
Clotilde, upon my soul—and that boy yonder, whose
life you have been so anxious to save, that boy would
come between me, and between Andre after me, and
all this good fortune. Just think of thai!”

She looked at him with wide, wild eyes.

“Andrew, Andrew, you are mad,” she gasped.
“How could all this be ?”’

“No matter; it will be, and that suffices.”

“Sir Geoffrey Trevethon! What right have you to
his title and estates? I have heard you say that he
never married your mother. You are only an mr

“Utter it at your peril,’ he cried, springing across
the room and seizing her by the throat. “If you ever
allude to that again you are a dead woman! Sir
Geoftrey Trevethon did not marry my mother. She
was a poor actress, and he an English lord. No mat-
ter; his title and his wealth shall be mine all the
same. Woman, beware how you

“Hist,” gasped Clotilde, seme one is coming !”’

He released her, and regained his seat just as a
peasant woman came in.

“Why, what ails thee, Clotilde ?”’ she cried, shrilly ;
‘wearing the face of a ghost, and thy good man but
just returned ?”’

“The poor girl is itl,” answered Andrew, quickly,
giving his wife a swift, warning glance. “I found
her in bed when I came home; and the lad there is
sick, too,” he continued, pointing to the lounge.

‘What, Andre sick ?” asked the woman.

“No, no; the other lad; he’s a weakly child, and
I’m sorry Clotilde picked him up; but she’s loth to
part with him; so we must take him with us on our
journey, I suppose.”

Clotilde glanced at her husband in amazed awe.
Not a muscle of his serene, smiling face moved.

“What journey? You are not leaving here?” ques-
tioned the neighbor.

“That's it,’ responded Andrew, pleasantly. “We
start for England in the morning. My business calls
me, and Clotilde is too delicate to be left behind.”

The night came on, and after some little chat, and
many regretful adieus, the woman took her de-
parture. Andrew accompanied her to the door,

“T’ll throw the boy into the Loire to-night, and |

| abroad.

| sooner take you along, and I’ll do well by you.

 

| locked it after her, and pocketed the key. He lifted
| the handkerchief from the child’s face as he crossed
! the room. It was ghastly white, and to all appear-
ances lifeless.

“He is all right this time,’”’ he muttered, with fiend-
ish content; then he turned to his wife.
| ‘Clotilde, get your crucifix,” he commanded.
Tremblingly she produced the crucifix, and while

> > £ is ar brow ~ ftarna P » swee . |
he held a pistol to her brow, he forced her to swear | wedded love; and no peril, no danger could cause

| that she would never betray him.
|

“Remember,” he added, “I am your husband no |

longer; neitheris Andre your son. I am Geoffrey
| Trevethon; my son is called Richmond, and you are

| his nurse and companion. Swear also to this!”

Ss > re i i Irejless face ri i = |
She looked up into his merciless face with implor- | from her mad husband.

ing eyes.

“Oh, Andrew, I cannot swear to this. Would you
cast me.off forever? Think of the past, and how we
have loved each other.”

“Old things have passed away, all things have be-
come hew. As to the love between us,
meddle with that; you can be my wife all the same,
only the world must not know. I am Sir Geoffrey
Trevethon’'s banished son and heir, and my wife died
Do you comprehend? Of course you do;
and if you are a good girl, Clotilde, and love me at all,
you'll be willing to help me to bring all this about.”

“But I am not willing,’ she replied. “It is all a
wicked lie. Your wife did not die abroad; and if Sir

Geoffrey Trevethon was your father, you are only |

an illegitimate son——”

Crack! went the revolver; the flash blinding her,
scorching her very face, the bullet whistling within
aninchof her head. The poor creature uttered a
wild shriek.

Her husband caught her by the shoulder, and shook
her till she was breathless.

“Silence!” he thundered. “I missed you this time,
but my aim will be sure next. Woman, make your
choice at once, and abide by it. Will you do my bid-
ding, and go with meand your child to-morrow, or
will you die like a dog, here at my feet? As sure as
there is a heaven above us, I mean to kill you, unless
you swearto aid me in the work I have in hand.
Come, now, you can have your choice! I would
What
do you say? Takethe oath, or in one minute your
doom is sealed !”

The kneeling woman, with the crucifix against her
quivering heart, glanced toward the window. The
night had fallen dark and rainy, there was no help
within hearing of the lonely cottage. She looked up
at her husband’s face, which mocked her with fiend
ish cruelty.

“One! two—”

“Oh, Heaven pity me! Yes, I will swear.”

The pistol was lowered from her head.

“That’s a sensible girl now,’ commented her
husband. ‘I’ll take you along, and you shall share
my good fortune; and you’ll lead a jolly life, Clotilde.
Even if I marry again, as no doubt, [ shall, when I
come into possession of my title and estates, I will
provide for you handsomely; and I’ll not forsake
you either, for in spite of all this, I’m fond of you,
Clotilde. And you will have the satisfaction, too, of
seeing your son the heir to a peerage; for I shall
make the lad my heir and successor.

She leaned her head upon her clasped hands, and
made no movement or answer.

“Well, now,” he went on. “One thing more, and
we are done. You’ must swear never to leave me.
You are to stick to me and my fortunes. Come—
Swear.”

The cold steel touched her throbbing head ‘again.
It was a hard oath to take—to stick to this man and
his fortunes, to aid and abet him in his crime, and
yet not even be his wife. But she did not hesitate;
after that other oath, by which she surrendered both
wifehood and motherhood, nothing could move her.

“Yes, I swear,” she answered, quietly.

He returned the pistol to his breast, and buttoned
up his coat. Clotilde looked at him, as she still knelt,
wondering vaguely if he could be the man who wooed
and won her girlish love? He had changed terribly

 

 

no need to |

 

in the brief time since he had surrendered his soul to
Re power of sin. But his voice brought her to her
eet.

“Come, come—look alive. There is no time to lose.
You must pack up our best things, and have the boy
all ready, and I will call upon Larcom, and instruct
him as to what disposition to make of what we leave
behind us. But this job must be done first.’

He turned to the lounge and looked at the face of
the child.

Clotilde crept a step nearer and leoked down upon
the pretty face; it was cold and still; but a faint
color presently came to the cheeks, and she could see
the eyelids quiver. The mother’s heart stirred
with an infinite pity and tenderness.

“Oh, Andrew,” she cried, clasping her husband’s
arm, ‘‘he is alive. For the sake of our own boy,
spare him. I will do all you ask, only spare the boy,
and let him go back to my sister.”

“That he may appear by and by, like the hero of a
novel, and wrest my title and my wealth from me?”
he answered, with a horse laugh. ‘No, I’m not such
a fool as that. Ill make everything secure as I go.”

“But, Andrew, no one knows. Oh, for Heaven’s
sake! do not stain your soul with murder,” implored
poor Clotilde, in agony.

His face whitened and his lips twitched. He was
not wholly cruel; but he steeled his soul against the
pleadings of his better nature, and turned upon her
with the face of a fiend.

“Silence! Woman, remember your oath!” he thun-
dered. ‘The dead tell no tales. He shall die!”

She cowered away from him, and he took up the
body of the child, rolled itin a blanket, and left the
room, with the bundle in*his arms.

Clotilde stood white and breathless for an instant,
then she clutched at her shawl, wound it about her
Be and followed him out into the dark rainy
night.

She reached the banks of the Loire even before he
did, so swift she flew, and crouching beneath the
low-drooping branches, waited and watched.

He came on, his step crunching upon the sands. He
approached the shore, half a dozen yards from her
hiding-place, lowered his burden, and looked cauti-
ously around. The dreary sands were silent and dark,
but from below came the mufiled beat of oars. There
was no time to lose.

He raised the light bundle and hurled it far out in-
to the dark stream.

As the body struck the water, the guilty man turn-
ed and fied like one escaping with his life.

Clotilde arose like a specter, straining her eyes
over the black rippling tide.

“T must save him,’ she murmured.
do thou help me!”

Then she plunged in; she was a fisherman’s daugh-
ter, and in her girlhood could swim like a fish. She
had not forgotten the art now. She struck out for
the place where the body went down, her eyes watch-
ing every ripple with agonizing eagerness.

Presently she uttered a tremulous cry, for some-
thing arose to the surface just beyond her.

‘Holy Mother, help me?” she breathed again, as
she darted toward it.

A few more strokes and she grasped the rising ob-
ject, and, panting, she made her way to the shore and
was soon safe upon the sands.

Uttering prayers with every breath, she tore away
the blanket and lifted the child’s head to her bosom.

“He breathes! he lives!” she exclaimed. “The
water has restored him to consciousness !”

She rained tears and kisses on his little white
face.

“My darling! Oh, thank Heaven, I have saved my
husband’s soul from the sin of murder!”

The dip of oars was now heard. She wrapped the
child in the dripping blanket, clasped him close to
her panting bosom, and then laid him softly down
upon the moist, warm sands.

“Help! help!” she cried.

Then, as a boat’s keel grated on the shore be-
yond, and the sound of voices came to her ears, she
bounded up and darted through the rainy darkness
like a lapwing.

And the little lad, the waif of the wreck, all stun-
ned and wounded, and half drowned, yet still alive,
lay abandoned by the brink of the swift flowing
river.

Clotilde

‘Holy Mother,

sped on over the sodden fields with a

| strength and endurance almost superhuman.

Her cottage was closed and silent when she reach-

| ed it, yet she quivered with terror as she crept to
the door, lest her husband should have returned.
Despite her terror, however, she entered, for within,

in his little cot-bed, lies her son, the one child of her

her to forsake him.

She crept in and found that her husband was still
absent. Looking down upon the sleeping boy a swift
thought came to her. She would take her child and
run away, no matter whither, so she could escape

Swift as lightning she tore off her wet garments
and put on her best apparel; then she took the
sleeping boy in her arms and darted toward the door.

She was out, and the summer rain was falling on
her throbbing head before she remembered her oath,
never, under any circumstances, to desert her hus-
band.

A piteous cry came from her ashen lips, and she
reeled like one in a faint.

“T swore by the crucifix,” she moaned; ‘I dare not
break my oath.”

Her husband’s laugh of exultation answered her.

‘“‘No, you dare not break it,’ he repeated. “You
are a dead woman if youeverdo. Take the lad into
the house, and bestir yourself; we have no time to
lose.”’

She obeyed him without a word; and before break
of day they were on their journey.

CHAPTER IV.
THE MYSTERY OF BLACK HOLLOW GRANGE.

“Lenore, my dear, I have good news for you this
morning.”

Miss Trevethon arose lazily from her favorite sofa
in the recess of the bay-window and closed her book.

The very handsomest young lady in all London,
the belle of the gay season that was only just over,
and an heiress in her own right, this was Miss Lenore
Trevethon, Sir Geoffrey Trevethon’s ward and kins-
woman.

The baronet bowed gallantly as he drew forward a
chair.

“Good news, my dear,” he repeated, rubbing his
shapely white hands together; “excellent news!
Come, now, can you guess what it is?”

The young lady’s wonderful blue eyes darkened,
and she brought down her dainty foot a trifle impa-
tiently.

“No; I shall not try. Iam not good at guessing,
Sir Geoffrey. If you have anything to tell that is
worth hearing, pray speak out at once. My book is
so entertaining, and it is very provoking to be inter-
rupted.”

Sir Geoffrey smiled graciously on his imperious
young ward. Of all guardians that ever existed he
was the kindest and most forbearing. From her
childhood pretty Miss Trevethon had reigned and
ruled like a queen.

“True enough, my dear. But when one has good
news, you know. So you won’t guess? Well, well, I
must tell you! Richmond is coming home.”

Miss Trevethon threw back her graceful head, and
laughed until the room rang with silver echoes,

“Well now, Sir Geoffrey, that is too good a joke.
Richmond coming home! Why, he has been doing
the self-same thing for the last twelve months or
more.”

‘‘So he has, Lenore. He*is a sorry dog, as I told him
in my last letter. I don’t wonder that you are indig-
nant. Indeed, the wonder lies in your extreme for-
bearance.”

“My forbearance, Sir Geoffrey? Bless you, sir,
there is no need of forbearance! Richmond could
not please me better than by staying away. I only
hope he’ll make a trip tothe antipodes before he
tounches England.”’

The baronet laughed with genial good humor. A

 

 

 

t Week,

 

 
 

 

 

 

exis THE NEW YORK WEE

 

pleasant, handsome, good-humored gentleman is Sir
Geoffrey, thirteenth baronet of his line, albeit his
brow is furrowed and his hair growing gray—a favor-
ite with all who know him, especially with the ladies,

A dozen times he might have chosen a wife from
the fairest and best born women in the land since bis
accession to the baronetcy; but for some cause he
had seen fit toremain a widower. Some say that
a youthful folly, which caused so much trouble be-
tween him and his dead father, cured him forever of
all thoughts of love; others hint that he lives loyal
and true to the one woman for whose sake he re-
sined his noble birthright; that his heart is buried in
his wife’s far-away grave.

At all events the baronet has not married, though
his chances have been tempting. For something over
half a score of years he has worn the honors of his
noble race, and led a genial. hospitable life at the an-
cestral mansion, Lyndith Hall, an upright, honor-
able gentleman, a Christian and a philanthropist; a
man widely beloved and universally trusted.

But for some reason his fair ward and kinswoman
has never thoroughly liked her guardian, though she
has lived under his roof so many years. She obeys
him ; or, to tell the truth, he obeys her, for the pretty,
spirited young creature has a will of her own, and
Sir Geoffrey suffers her to have her way, and indulges
all her Caprices. He only controls her immense for-
tune. Of that Lenore is utterly ignorantand equally in-
different. She only knows that she will forfeit it—all
the fine old estates and the immense Trevethon wealth
—if she fails to marry Sir Geoffrey’s son betore she
attains her twenty-first year, and being passionately
fond of elegance, and ease, and luxury, Miss Treve-
thon has no dream of forfeiting her right to her
queenly heritage.

She’ well knows the conditions of her poor father’s
will, has known them since her childhood. She
knows, too, that years ago, when she was scarcely
more than a baby, she was most solemnly betrothed
—indeed wedded—to her cousin Richmond. From
the neat gold chain that glitters on her white bosom
the tiny symbol of that childish marriage still hangs.

In his last will, her father implored his only and
dearly beloved daughter not for any cause #0 set
aside that childish marriage, but in obedience to his
life-long wish, to become her Cousin Richmond’s
wife. Failing to obey his wishes, Miss Trevethon
forfeits her right as heiress, and the Trevethon for-
tune goes to a remote scion of the family, and she
and her cousin are both left penniless.

But Miss Trevethon has no thought of disobeying
herdead father’s last wish and will. She holds that
marriage of her childhood sacred and binding; the
tiny betrothal ring glitters on her bosom, and when
Richmond comes home she will marry hin.

Her guardian knows this well, and, trusting to her
integrity, allows her unbounded freedom. Since her
return from the French convent, where the better
part of her youth had been passed, her life has been
a series of successes. Her first season was a tri-
umph, and she has received some of the very best
offers that Belgravia, can afford. An earldom with
with its tempting coronet has been laid at her feet,
and she has rejected it, as she rejected all the others.

When Richmond comes home she will become his
wife, and make him master of her splendid heritage,
the heritage so rightfully his own.

Richmond lingers abroad, has lingered for years,
with the fairest and richest bride in wide England,
awaiting his coming. But Lenore is by no means im-
patient; she rather dreads his return than other-
wise, she loves her girlish freedom so well. She
knows little of the man who was her boy-bridegroom,
and is to be her future husband, for they have seen
each other only at long intervals, and for very brief
periods. What he is oris not she has had little op-
portunities for learning, yet, despite her repugnance,
her utter indifference, when he comes, she will obey
her dead father’s command, and become his wife.

The baronet knits his brows a trifle darkly at her
laughing response, but his answer is entirely pleas-
ant.

“Well, well, he is certainly on his way to England
this time. We may look to see him any day now ina
week’s time, and once here,’ he adds, with pointed
gallantry, ‘the will never care to leave again.”

To which flattering assertion the young lady makes
no response whatever; but her chaperon, and the
baronet’s bosom friend, Lady Halstead, rising from
corre sofa, taps her jeweled snuff-box, as she re-
marks:

“It is most devoutly hoped he will not, for the good
of all concerned, myself especially. The sooner he
gets here, and the sooner the legal wedding is well
over, the better I shall be pleased.”

“May I ask why?” questioned the young lady, se-
renely.

The dowager shuts her snuff-box with a sharp
snap.

“You ask why, as if you didn’t know. Why, I shall
be as gray as a rat in another month or two if I don’t
get you well off my hands. Catch mein such a fix
again! There’s not a day in the week, Sir Geoffrey,
but she throws me into a fever with her follies. She
is the very maddest madeap outside of Bedlam.”

Miss Trevethon shrugs her white shoulders in im-
perial scorn, and the baronet only smiles.

The dowager toys with her snuff-box and con-
* tinues:

“And now, in view of Richmond’s return and the
approaching wedding, I want to know, in the name
of common sense, if you do not intend to abandon
that absurd trip to the Highlands 2?”

Sir Geoffrey, for answer, merely bows toward his
er She lifts her radiant glance from her open

OOK.

“Our Highland trip cannot be abandoned,” she re-

lies. | “We shall leave Lyndith Hall within an

our.

“As the queen wills,” responds_the baronet, with a
second bow.

Itis part and parcel of his policy to indulge his
fair ward in all her whims, and this trip to the High-
lands is one of them. “As the queen wills,” is his
gallant answer to all her requests; he only asks to
mmanage her vast fortune according to his own will.

Lady Halstead tosses her pet poodle, Bijou, from
her lap in pure vexation, and the little animal flies
whimpering to the shelter of Lenore’s arms.

“As the queen wills! Well, Heaven be praised, the
queen’s reign will soon end, unless Richmond Treve-
thon is as great an idiot as his father. Ill make it
my business to give the young mana hint or two
when he arrives.” And she nods severely toward
Lenore, her black eyes twinkling with a grim humor
that softens the asperity of her speech. ‘‘I’ll go to
my room and make ready for the journey. We will
go, and grill, and starve, and sleep on the ground
like cattle, and mix with barbarians, because the
queen wills, and before a week ends the queen will
come home, heartily sick of her folly, and with her
complexion finely tanned for her wedding-day.”

“My wedding-day !” repeats Lenore, tossing aside
her book and stroking Bijou’s silken ears. ‘I’m sick
of the sound of it already. Dear, dear, I do wonder
where the barbarous custom of marrying and being
given in marriage ever originated ?”’

“Why, inthe Garden of Eden, to be sure,’ laughs
Sir Geoffrey.

“T only wish it had ended there,” retorts his ward.
“Pray, Sir Geoffrey, ring the hell, and T’ll have
Clotilde come and dress me.”

Sir Geoffrey rings and bows low to his ward, as if
she were indeed a queen and himself her most de-
voted subject.

And within an houralarge party leaves Lyndith
Hall for the Scottish hills.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

The Gipsy's Daughter,

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of “‘Another Man’s Wite,” “‘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.]

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

CHAPTER XIX.
“YT WILL TRACK HIM TILL I KNOW ALL.”

After her son had left her Lady Clemence had re-
sumed her quiet life at Moat Wealden, a life spent in
reading, music, drawing, doing good to the poor, and
entertaining a limited number of congenial friends.
Her heart sighed for heridolized son. His letters,
coming regularly, reassured her somewhat, but
then they were not the letters of a happy man. She
read, between the lines, that undertone of the sad-:
ness of her child’s heart. And then, though she often
hinted at going to him, he never asked her to join
him. She fancied sometimes that it would be well to
risk going to Italy to surprise him. But she knew
his hot temper and his self-will, and refrained. If

- -
friend, the Baroness Newington. After a residence |

of eight years in a North German court, the baroness
was coming home, and wished to come immediately
to Moat Wealden to see her most intimate friend,
Moreover, the baroness was bringing with her her
niece and adopted danghter and heiress, the Lady
Lenore Mordaunt; and Lady Lenore was the one
whom Lady Clemence’s heart had long ago chosen
as her future daughter-in law, the wife of her son!
This plan had been formed when the baroness and
Lenore had made a month’s visit at Moat Wealden,
when Lenore was twelve. At that time Victor was
off on a Scotch trip with Sir Fowell. The girl had
been a divine creature, and Lady Clemence adored
her. Since then she had had pictures and letters,
and had cherished her plan in her heart, fearing that
a word would defeat it, and knowing that Victor
must love Lenore if once his eyes met hers. How
could he helpit? The girl was perfection. Various
fatalities had hindered this meeting, but now, if it
could be brought about, all would be well.

But where was that dangerous Rose Reynolds, the
Gipsy’s Daughter ?

Lady Clemence ordered her carriage, and with a
friend who was visiting her drove over to Repton.
She knew that Sir Fowell was in France investigat-
ing some statistics, but the housekeeper of Repton
Lady Clemence had known for years. Arrived there,
and requesting that her friend might be shown cer-
tain ‘‘Vandykes,” and Sir Joshuas,” and ‘“‘Rosa_ Bon-
heurs,’’ Lady Clemence said that she was tired, and
asked for a cup of tea. To take this tea she went to
the housekeeper’s pretty room and sat down by the
open fire.

“And how does the estate get on, with Sir Fowell
away so long, Mrs. Loomis ?”’ she asked.

“Oh, ma’am, the estate will never come to harm,
with honest old Tom Reynolds in charge.”

“Tom Reynolds, the steward? Yes, the one who
married the heautiful gipsy girl, and mourned her
death so bitterly ?”

“Mourns it yet, you may say, my lady, for he has
heart for nobody from that out, not even his child.”

“T hope he does not neglect his child?”

“Oh, no, ma’am. He is over-indulgent and lavish,
but he never notices her much,”

“And what is she like?”

“Like her mother. An amazing beauty, self-willed,
vain, a fierce temper, old Betty says. I wonder she
keeps a place, now she has it.”

“Keeps a place? How is that?’

“She was home a year, then she wearied of the
country, and one of her schoolmates got her a place
in London as nursery governess. She went last sum-
mer. Tom Reynolds says she writes every little
while, and is well satisfied, and seems doing well.
She don’t ask money, and Tom likes that. He gives
if he must; but he likes to hoard.”

“And she has not been home since ?’

“No, ma’am. I think she’ll not come. Such a
beauty is likely to get a lover and marry fairly in
London. She'll have as much as two or three thou-
sand pounds from her father, and her Aunt Doll.”

“T hope she’ll do well, I’m sure,” said Lady Clem-
ence.

Then she drove home, with her mind finally re-
lieved, and wrote that letter, bidding her son come
and enter political life. But she said not a word
ene of Lady Lenore Mordaunt or of Rose, Rey-
nolds.

And Sir Victer, with an intense despair and bitter-
ness in his heart, went toward Paris. He felt en-
tirely discouraged, and never wanted to see his wife
again. The thought of her beauty mocked him. If
to all her shortcomings she added a positive vice,
and if she was as incorrigible in this vice as she was
in minor faults, was not her case entirely hopeless ?
How could he tell his mother or introduce her to his
friends? Was there any asylum where he could shut
her up and bury her out of sight forever? He feared
not. How would she behave while he was gone?
He feared the worst. Ought he to leave her alone?
And yet what guardianship would she respect ?

Out of this miserable meditation, in which he had
lost himself to all surroundings, he was aroused as
the train climbed out of the Mont Cenis tunnel upon
the higher levels of Switzerland by a jovial shout:

“Victor, my dear boy, is that really yourself,
rolled up in a cloak, with your hat over your eyes?
. have been studying youthis last quarter of an
nour.

It was his former guardian, Sir Fowell Repton.

Sir Victor started up and hurried to shake hands
with Sir Fowell, who sat in the other corner of the
compartment.

“Yes. I never noticed who was tin here. This
am wrapped up. [’m going home to stand for Weal-
den Regis.”

‘ “sat what have you been up to all winter, my
boy ?”

“Doing Italy,” said Sir Victor.

“Tt has made you ten years older, or five, at least.
You have altered, Victor.” ;

“Oh, no,” said Sir Victor‘ “it is only the dust of
travel and the nip of the air from these snow hills.
is that you, Mr. Warren? I’m glad to see you. Been
hard at work with Sir Fowell on statistics ?”’

And he held out his hand to the secretary, Amos
Warren, who sat opposite Sir Fowell, reading dili-

which he hung in his button-hole.

Glad of any distraction, Sir Victor sat down by Sir
Fowell, and they were soon deep in a conversation
about canvassing Wealdon Regis. ;

Sir Fowell thought himself an authority on such
matters, and was deeply interested in his former
ward’s plans. ButSir Fowell was prolix, and drifted
into long disquisitions, in the midst of which Sir
Victor found himself studying the strong face of
Amos Warren,

He once had been furiously jealous of Amos! Rose

conquests, and had passionately pleaded with her
for her love.

Sir Victor wondered if this grave, steady, self-made
man could have managed Rose. How he wished
Amos had secured her before he ever saw her fatal
face. He scanned Amos’ strong features, square
shoulders, nervous, sinewy hands, holding the paper,
and, oddly enough, trembling a little; he marked his
long, firm, upper lip, his square chin, thestraight-cut
brown hair, the prominent brows, and a strange feel-
ing stole over him that the lines of his and Amos
Warren’s lives had met, never to separate.

A half fear, half fascination, took possession of
him as Sir Fowell waxed warm in his monologue,

Maurice.

Amos Warren read on and on tirelessly.
a paper so much in it?

At last, in the current of this speech and the in-
tentness of this watching, Sir Victor, really exhaust-
ed, fell sound asleep, with his head in the corner,
under full light. Sir Fowell also: died away into in-
articulate murmurs and then into dreams,

Then Amos Warren lifted his keen gray eyes and
scanned Sir Victor.

“The boy has something on his mind that has writ-
ten itself on his face. He has been abroad since
August. Ill wager he has not been alone! Heis
the kind that must have an occupation or a passion!
She has been gone from home since August! Have
they been together? Whereisshe? Has he destroy-
ed and abandoned her? If he has, he shall pay
dearly for it. I will track him till I know all, and I
will avenge her!”

CHAPTER XX.
‘7 HAVE FOUND YOU THE WOMAN YOU WILL LOVE!”

Over the road, which a few months before he had
traveled with Rose, went Sir Victor St. Maurice.
Then he had been ardent and hopeful, now he was
disenchanted and heart-sick. He tarried, a day or
.so, in that Paris where his disenchantment had be-
gun, and he bought Rose the various gifts he had
promised as a bribe for remaining in the villa at Fos-
sano, leaving him free to go home.

Then he went over that road between Paris and
London, which he had taken with Rose, in all the in-
fatuation and madness of the first hours after his
marriage.

He was now an altered man. For far sooner than
she had expectea his mother’s prophecy had been
fulfilled, and what he had called love had perished
on the tomb of its object’s unworthiness; while the
indissoluble tie that he had made barred him from
all hope of home-life, or domestic joys, or parental
pride. If he had been less headstrong and rebellious
to advice, he would have been able to find marriage
honorable and happy. Oh, how good it seemed to be
getting home! Home to a good, tender, unselfish
woman—home to a house presided over by a gra-
cious, self-forgetful lady !

That was a glad hour for Lady Clemence when she
folded her son once more in her arms. Then she
held him back from her and looked at him.

“Victor, have you been ill?’

“No, dear mother. Tam only tired of my journey.”

“But you have changed, my dearest! You have
grown older.”

“That is a good thing, is it not? The electors will
be less likely to reject me on account of youth.”

“But, dear boy, there is something—something in
your eyes—in the lines ef your face. I do not know
what, but it seems the trace of bitter experiences!
Are you happy, dear ?’

“Very, very happy to be in my own home, and with
you once more, dearest,” said Sir Victor, earnestly.

His mother kissed him again.

“Did you stop in London, Victor?’

“No; I came straight on. I was in such haste to
see you.”

 

she had gone, what would have been the change in {
his life-story ? :

Lady Clemence was thus pining for her son, when}
two events made a change in all her plans. Dr.
Forbes came one morning to tell her that Sir James
Welby, the member for their borough, had suddenly
died, and to urge her to bring Sir Victor home to}
stand for the borough. Dr. Forbes knew nothing of
the affair of Rose Reynolds. Lady Clemence had
concealed it from every one, The reverend doctor
might have known men well enough to be nore sus-
picious than Lady Clemence!

The doctor had not been gone an hour, when Lady
Clemence received a letter from her life-long, dearest

“What a dear, good son you are! And you are not
angry with me, nor laying up hard thingst against
me, for—opposing you lastsummer? You donotnow
think I was wrong?”

“Wrong! No, mother. You were right, right,
right! Ten thousand times right, and I was the one
who was wrong!”

Here was the very instant for Sir Victor to tell the
whole truth. How easy, comparatively, for him to
go straight on with his story, put his head on his
mother’s shoulder, and say :

“And how wrong I was, yot do not know. Listen
to me whiie I tell you all, and help me with the love
that is like no other love.” |

mountain air is colder than the Italian plains; so I |

gently by the light of a strong, curious little lantern |

had not failed to tell how Amos had heen among her |

until he vowed he was ready to spend five thousand |
pounds to carry the election for Sir Victor St. |

Had ever |

 

But Sir Victor was too self-willed. to be ready to
unfold such a story of his own woe and shame; he
was too self-indulgent to mar what joy there was in
his return, by confessing a folly; aud while he hesi-
tated, and it was open to his mother to say, ‘Victor,
do I know all that story? Tell me all!” she, in her
trusting love, too good and simple-minded to de-
ceive or suspect, took the very turn of speech that
fatally sealed his lips.

“My dear son,’ she said, “I cannot let this glad

 

’

with your conduct, and how proud Iam of you, and
how your manly course has relieved my mind. Dcar
Victor, there was an hour when I feared my great
indulgence toward you, my yielding to all your
wishes, and neglecting all control, would be likely to
result in your great injury. But your own natural
nobleness and manly strength, your tender love for
ine, have saved you. HowTI thank you. and admire
you, for listening to me last summer, for being so
dutiful and obedient! You deserve arich reward,
and you will receive it. Few young men would have
stood such an ordeal so splendidly.” -

Every word of this gentle mother’s praise withered
his heart like the hot blast from some furnace. Now
he could not tell her. He could not quench the glad
light in her eyes, nor hush the happy ripple in her
voice by crying, ‘‘My mother, lama wretch! Ihave
deceived you cruelly !
a very much worse woman than you supposed!”
No, no! He could not. He had not been trained
enough in vigerous self-conquest to do that. But he
grew pale as death, and a shiver went through him.

His mother started.

‘“‘My dear, you are ill?’

“No, mother, only tired.”

“It was wrong to remind you, my dear. Forgive
me! It shall never be spoken of again. But I felt
that I must tell you how proud I am of you, my Vic-
for. and how proud your father would be, if he were
alive !””

Roger Driscoll, Sir Victor’s faithful man, now came
to wait on his master, and with another kiss, Lady
Clemence said ‘‘Good-night.”’

Sir Victor was young and buoyant. Rose had touch-
ed only the surface of his nature. Its depths were
all unstirred; and when he woke next morning in
the beauty and security of his old home, where all
loved and none thwarted or opposed him, the past
few months fell like a bad dream from his spirit. At
least, for a time, he should be free, and. Sir Victor
had been reared to live in a perpetual now, not to
look ahead and consider consequences. The first
thing would be to write Rose a letter. She must be
kept quiet byinformation and promises, or she would
rush upon him and bring him to misery and confu-
sion. He hoped the amusement of living and doing
as she pleased would occupy her foratime. He was
too much of a boy, too inexperienced to realize in
what deadly danger he placed that beautiful young
creature by leaving her to her own devices unguard-
ed. His mother would have told him better, but his
mother did not know.

He rose, slipped on a dressing-gown, and wrote the
letter. Roger camein as his master was finishing,
and he observed a certain secrecy about Sir Victor’s
movements, and the fact that he sent for the mail-
bag, and locked the letter up in it himself.

Roger was devoted to his young master. It had
been a case of love at first sight between them from
the hour when Roger, a ten year old lad, a head-
keeper’s son, had seen the heir of St. Maurice crow-
ing and jumping in his nurse’s arms, and the master-
ful infant had held out his hands, and insisted on go-
ing to the ruddy-faced lad in a green cloth jacket.
Roger had been his attendant and loyal slave from
that hour. Not “age 4
his master; but, though a most honest fellow, he
unhappily would have committed crime for his mas-
ter’s sake. Roger was shrewd and observing. He
had been at Repton with Sir Victor, and known his
comings and goings better than Sir Victor guessed.
Roger had some dark suspicions which he dared not
face. He rejoiced to see his master looking happy
| that gay April morning, and he told himself that if

Lady Clemence would get her son the right kind of a
| wife all would go well with him.
| Lady Clemence believed that too. She was out on
| the terrace when Sir Victor came down from his
| room, and she leaned on his arm as they made a
| few turns, looking at the freshly worked earth, all
| teeming with a brilliant wealth of crocus, and tulips,
| and jonquil, and daffodil.
| ‘How lovely itis here !” cried Sir Victor. ‘I smell
| = primroses; the dells must be all in bloom with
| them.”
“Yes. I sent one of the gardener’s boys to bring a
| basket of primroses and hyacinths. I remembered
| vex fond you are of them. This is better than
| Italy ?”’
| “Oh, mother! incomparebly better.
| beautiful as an English home!”
| ‘And I hope it will be atrue home for you, Victor
| —your wedded home—that I shall see your children
| playing about these walks. Dear Victor, always
| since you were a yeung ney you have said you meant
to marry some one just like me. Ihave found you
| the one, Victor. I shall not tell you when or where,
|
| recognize your fate in the woman just like me.”
| Alas for Sir Victor if he ever should!

 

What is so

| CHAPTER XXI.
| “I AM GOING TO LONDON, TO GET ROSE REYNOLDS.”

| One day, and another, and another, lulled Sir Vic-
| tor into security. His mother gave dinners and
| breakfasts, and he went out with her, or with Dr.
| Forbes, or some of his old friends, visiting, and call-

ing, and making himself popular, in preparation for

the coming election; and he was very earnest in
| preparing his address to the electors. These things
distracted his mind from his matrimonial miseries,
| and seemed to give him a new aim in life. He wrote
| Rose every second or third day, and he always urged
| her to be good, and improve herself, and promised
| that very soon he would come for her, and make
their marriage known. He fully meant to do so, as

soon as the election was over. He never considered
|; how dangerous his own present position was, nor
| how fearfully perilous was the position of Rose—
| twenty years old, a matchless beauty, unprotected
| in a foreign land, and fond of wine! His mother had
| lived alone, since she was twenty, and it never oc-
curred to him that the case of Rose was so very dif-
| ferent. Lady Clemence had had the safeguards of
culture, piety, widowhood, a real love, a little child,
and a host of friends. Rose had none of these.

While Sir Victor was making his first venture in
| politics, and in studying the art of popularity,
Amos Warren crossed the channel and arrived at
| Repton.

The garrulous housekeeper welcomed him, and
was nothing loth to sit and answer questions, while
he ate the dinner she had provided. Afforded a hint,
here and there, she would ramble on indefinitely
about people and affairs.

“And oh, Mr. Warren, Tom Reynolds brought back
the dog you gave Rose. He could not get on with it
after Rose went away. Betty hates dogs.”

“Miss Reynolds is still away?” said Amos, lifting
his tea-cup, to hide the tremor on his lips.

“Oh, yes. She got tired of this dullness. And,
may be there’s no attraction around here, while you
are away, Mr. Warren.”

“T shall be very busy for Sir Fowell,’” said Amos,
rising. ‘‘Could I have my breakfasts rather early ?”’

“Oh, whenever you like, Mr. Warren. It seems so
good to have any one back here. The house-servants
are fairly rusting for something to do.”

Honest Tom Reynolds was sitting on his porch, en-
joying his evening pipe, very much as he had been
that day when his daughter unexpectedly returned
from school, when the gate opened, and Amos War-
ren came up the walk.

There was some talk about Sir Fowell, and consid-
erable about the estate. The dusk was falling, and
old Tom was beginning to get sleepy. He kept early
hours. This favoring dusk hid the flush and change
in Amos Warren’s strong face.

“Mr. Reynolds, where is your daughter, Miss
Rose ?”’

“In London,” said old Tom, with a yawn.

‘And what is she doing there?’

“Nursery governess,” said old Tom.

He was interested in crops, and new breeds of
stock, but his daughter was not a pleasing theme
to him. His daughter! Why had she come to take
away her mother? Why had he the girl, and not the
beloved of his youth ?

“Has she been home lately ?’ asked Amos.

“Not since she went, first of August,”

“And you have her address?”

“Yes, surely. We write. She writes rather long
letters—a whole page! I can’t do more than a few
lines, except on business. I don’t understand girls.
Here is her last letter now, if you’d like to see it.”

He took an envelope from his coat-pocket, and
never noticed how it rattled in Warren’s shaking
fingers.

“She is a very beautiful girl, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Rose? Yes, yes, no doubt. Like her mother,”
and old Tom gave a sigh to the one love of his life.

«And no doubt she has lovers ?”

“Well, mayhap. I did use to see young men hang-
ing about the gate, and Betty babbled about some.
For that matter, you used to come here yourself, Mr.
Warren.”’

“So I did,” said Aimos, firmly, ‘‘and with very hon-
orable intentions. I think Rose is the most beautiful
girl Lever saw. [love her, Mr. Reynolds.”

“Whew! Why didn’t you say so before, then?”

“What, is it too late? Is she promised ?”

“No, not that I know. But you’ve kept it rather
uiet, this love, itseemsto me. I was made of dif-
erent stuff. I loved, and I spoke out.”’

“So should I, but Rose and I quarreled a little.
Now she has had time to think it over. I used to
think she cared for me, Mr. Reynolds.”

“She’d be a fool if she didn’t, Mr. Warren.
a good match for the girl.” ;

“Then I may have her, if she agrees,’ cried War-
ren.

“Yes, youmay. I won’t deny that I don’t know
how to look after the girl, and my sister Doll den’t.
I hope you will, and she’s no poor match, either, my
Rose; she is a handsome girl, and her aunt Doil
taught her housework, and she had two years’ good
expensive schooling, and Doll will leave her eight

You’re

 

hour go by without telling you how pleased I am |

That woman is my wife, and |

would he have gallantly died for |

but she is found, and you will see her some day, and |

'
! hundred pounds in the funds, and I can give her five
| hundred pounds when she marries, and leave her fif-
teen hundred more when I die. Rose is well dow-
ered, you see.” >
“T never thought of dower,” said Amos, simply. ‘I
love her for herself, and as she is. I don’tknow what
she may say to me, but whatever she does, I am not
ashamed to say that I wanted her last summer as
much as man ever wanted a woman for a wife, and if
'T ain to set my heart at rest, by going to tind her, I
must go as aman, with your consent, to marry her
it she is willing, and has not entangled ‘herself since
en.

“She hasn’t,” said old Tom. “If she’d thought of
marrying any onein London she’d have written to
me fast enough about her providing. Rose knows I
never deny her anything; it is not my way.”

“Then, said Amos, feeling reassured, **Ican tell her
I have your consent ?”’

“Of course you can,” said old Tom, knocking out
the ashes of his pipe. ‘Old Betty told me last sum-
mer that shesaw Sir Victor St. Maurice near here a
| few times. If he’d come after Rose I'd have said ‘no’
in a hurry.” HA .

“And why ?” faltered Amos Warren.

“Because I don’t believe in unequal matches like
that, and it would drive the girl to fury to get into a
family and be looked down on. Sir Fowell wouldn’t
have liked it, and Lady Clemence would not, and his
young lordship would have grown tired and re-
eee: No, no, Mr. Warren, folks shouldn’t found

ove merely on beauty nor money, I know. That isn’t
the love that lasts. Sir Victor is a very gallant young
fellow, but he is spoiled and indulged; and so is my
Rose. If they came together it would be tire and tow
—blaze and blaze out. I’d have stopped that. But
you're different.”

Tom Reynolds and Amos Warren shook hands and
parted. Amos hurried home to read that letter.
There was nothing particular in it. Tom called it
“long;” it was a few lines over a page, fairly well
written. She was well; people were kind to her; she
hoped her father was well, and did not miss her;
“but then you never did, so why should you now ?”

“Poor child !” said Amos Warren.

The letter made him feel that she must be in Lon-
don, supporting herself, as he had heard, and next
morning he prepared to go to London. Just as he
had left the gate, a boy put a telegram in his hand,
and the 8t. Maurice barouche rolled up with Sir Vic-
tor and his mother in it.

“How is Sir Fowell?” asked Lady Clemence, as the
carriage stopped.

For answer, Warren handed her the telegram.

Sir Fowell was more than ever interested in Sir
Victor’s election. He wanted Sir Victor to take Amos
for his secretary during the canvass. No man knew
the county in all its ins and outs as Amos did. No
man could so effectively help Sir Victor.

“By all means!” cried Lady Clemence. .

“T shall be glad of your help, Warren,” said Sir
Victor. “Then I am at your service,” said Amos.

“Will you come over to Moat Weaidon to-day ?’
asked Victor.

“Not to-day,” said Amos. Somehow the sight of
Victor St. Maurice had aroused in full force all his
blackened suspicions. He looked him full in the
face, the blue eyes and gray eyes met and crossed
glances like sharp swords. ‘Not to-day,” said Amos.
“JT will be frank with you. To-day I am going to
London to find Miss Rose Reynolds and ask her to be
my wife!”

“T wish you all success!” cried Lady Clemence, de-
lighted.

Sir Victor was rock. The St. Maurice pride of will
upheld him. He heard, and did not flinch.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
i
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. }

WILLFUL WINNIE,

By HARRIET SHERBURNE,

Author of ‘‘A Tangled Case,” “‘Friends and Foes,”
**‘Love and Honor,” etc.

(‘““WILLFUL WINNIE” was commenced in No. 45. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXXVI.
LAURIE’S WARNING.
; nevil eyes aglow with mischief,
:Fannie heard Stena’s soft voice

Jew her malicious face and

“Still I shall not do so,” said

: ‘ a man’s voice, which Fannie
recognized as belonging to the individual who had
given her the letter that morning. ‘I will talk about

this matter with Winnie alone.”

“T tell you she is not fit to come here, that she is
ill, overcome by nervousness, and if you have one
atom of pity in your nature, you will go away with-
out obtruding your presence on her again. Tell me
what will you ask to depart and keep silent about
this wretched affair forever?”

“Well, I like this,” said the man, coolly. ‘‘You ask
me what I will take, and know that I have aright to
claim everything she has in the world.”

“T acknowledge nothing of the kind, and you know
if the truth came out that herfather would not
allow you todo so. I will offer you ten thousand
dollars, however, to let the matter be kept quiet.”

“Fannie heard the man give a sneering laugh, as
he said:

“Your offer is munificent, considering the family’s
wealth. My dear young lady, I am sorry to be
obliged to decline your eee with thanks. and
again I must assure you that I intend to conduct this
affair with Winnie alone.”

“Have I not already told you she cannot see you ?”
said Stena, in an impatient tone. ‘‘She wished me to
come to you, and—and to beg you to name a sum you
will take to leave this place in silence.”

“Go back to her with the reply that I command
her not to send an agent to me again, and that if she
is not here within half an hour that I shall meet her
in her husband’s presence in the parlor yonder,”
burst out the man, in a threatening voice.

“What will it reward you to tell Mr. Hawley your
story ?”’ asked Stena, ina piteous voice. ‘You will
only break his heart and ruin your own life, for
while Winnie would be willing to pay you liberally
to be silent, her father would only give you a horse-
whipping.”

Again a mocking laugh floated out to Fannie, as
the man said:

“T am capable of caring for myself, thank you. Afi
I desire of you is to charge your memory_with my
message to Winnie.”

“Suppose I refuse to take it,” muttered Stena.

“Then I shall simply walk up to the house and ask
for her. You seem to forget, miss, that I have no
reason to keep my identity a secret. I only wish to
hide till Winnie can arrange some way of avoiding a
scene with Mr. Hawley when he learns the truth.”

“But why can you not tell me what you propose
doing?’ questioned Stena. }

‘‘Because—I- hope you will pardon me for speaking
the truth—I desire to converse only with Winnie
upon this affair. Will you please tell her so without
further delay, as the hour is growing late, and it
will soon be dangerous for her to be seen in the
grounds alone?”

‘Will nothing move your determination ?” inquired
Stena, in a disappointed tone.

“Nothing,” was the decided reply.

“Then I will go to Winnie at once,” said Stena,
abruptly moving from him, and hastening over the
lawn toward the house.

Fannie quietly followed her at a safe distance.
She waited out under the trees till she had seen
Stena enter the drawing-room ; then thought:

“J will stay here till I see if the mistress is going
to that man, and if she does I will enter the house
and induce Master Laurie to follow her.” :

She crouched under the trees, keeping her eyes
fixed on the mansion, over which hung such a heavy
cloud of sorrow.

Suddenly she held her breath with excitement, for
a dark draped figure stole forth from a side-door, and
the silvery moonbeams revealed Winnie’s; pale, but
beautiful, visage.

Utterly unwarned of the frightful result of this
meeting; without a suspicion that the agony of her
heart was to be doubled, and that murder, crimes of
the cruelest description, was to bow this household
with disgrace, she glided over the velvety turf.

Fate never wound her intricate meshes around a
fairer victim than this sweet lady, and yet Fannie
Sones her with malignant triumph as she mut-
tered:

“Go on, madam; meet your lover, but restfassured
your husband shall witness the interview! Ah, all
your beauty and charming baby ways will not deceive
him after this.”

Wickedly gloating over the suffering of the man
who had scorned her love; feeling no ‘pity for the
misery expressed on the white countenance of the
lady who hastened by her in happy unconsciousness
of the terrible hours in store for her; the maid ran
into the house and proceeded at once to the library,
where Laurie usually was to be found between nine
and ten o’clock.

He had not yet arrived there, when she entered,
but as Fannie was about to leave the apartment, she
saw her master’s tall form coming down the hall.

With the quick instinct of her class, she perceived
he was looking ill and unhappy, and she knew her
seeds of suspicion would fall on good ground.

 

 

VOL. 43—No. 5.

She let him come into the room without seeing her;
| then she hastily shut the door behind him, and facing
him, said in an earnest voice: "s
“Master Laurie, I have a strange sight for you if
you will follow me out to your little lodge. Quick!
| Will you come or not? You must decide speedily or
you will be too late.”

_ ‘Fannie, have you gone suddenly mad?” he’ques-

tioned, regarding her suspiciously.

“No, sir; but I wish to rouse you from lunacy!”
| was her rompt reply. ‘Mark you, Master Laurie, T
ask you to believe nothing but the evidence of your
| own eyes and your own ears, and I tell you nothing;
| but if you will follow me you will learn a secret that
| will affect all your life. Will you come?”
| He hesitated a moment, then regarding her fixedly,
| in a sort of desperation, said:

“Yes, I will go. I cannot be more wretched than I
am, let me learn what I will.”

“Come, then,” said the maid, leading the way
through the French window out on the veranda, and
across that into the dusky night air,

Wondering what was to follow, Laurie walked over
the path Winnie had so lately traveled.

Poor lady, she had gone on till the little lodge was
reached, and there a man’s figure had hastened to-
ward her.

“My darling wife!’ he cried, “why did you not
come at once?”

He put out his hands as he spoke, but she resolu-
tely turned aside and clasped hers together..

' “Why did you insist on secing me?” she demanded,
angrily, “Why could you not be contented with my
emissary ?”

“That a charming woman can ask such a question
surprises me,” he affirmed, with a mocking attempt
at gallantry.

“My dear, how could you think I would be mad
enough not to seek you again when I have told you
how well [ love you.”

“Silence,” she cried, with some passion.
shall not insult me and 3g yourself by pretend-
ing you are here for any love of me. You know, and
I know, that you have another motive. What is it?”

“My dear, why will you not believe that my motive
is the possession of my fair young wife, Winnie? I
intend to claim you before all the world.”

“You never shall,” ejaculated Winnie,” flashing
her lovely eyes on him. ‘Can you be so mad as to
suppose I would ever dwell near you again? After
years of neglect, after your outrageous desertion of
me, can you think I would be so weak as to place
myself in your power now? I warn you, frankly, you
had better drop this pretended loyer’s role, or I shall
be tempted to tell my father all, and he will give you
the punishment you deserve.”

“It would not be wise for you to do it,” he mutter-
ed in a sullen voice.

“Nor is it wise for you to goad me too far. Now
listen to me well. I intend to grant you a large sum
of money in order to keep you silent; will you accept
it and promise never to put yourself in‘my pathway
again? I warn you if you give me further trouble I
shall go to my father and let him take the matter in
hand,.and you will probably get nothing but trouble
for you pains.” 5

~“‘It seems to me
claimed.

“Because you have rendered me desperate. Now
choose. Will you take five thousand dollars a year
and let me go free, or will you send me to my father
with my story?’

The man regarded her with a sullen expression as
he said;

“T suppose your yearly income is more than twice
that amount.”

“You have nothing to do with that. Will you take
that sum ?”’

“No,” said Leo, stoutly. “If you
me off, pay me ten thousand a year.’

“My whole income is but little over that, so I can-
not impoverish myself entirely,” was Winnie’s reply.

‘When you need money, get it from the man you
have put in my place,” said the fellow, in a brutal
way.

For a moment Winnie looked at him as if she would
kill. him, and he shrank from the gleam in her eyes;
but she eontrolled herself after a little, and said:

“It shall be as you say. I will give you the ten
thousand a year as long as you keep the secret.”

“How about the terms of payment?’ the man eager-
ly asked.

With a bitter smile Winnie replied:

“My money is paid me in quarterly installments;
the next will fall due the twentieth of June. I will
let you know by letter where we can meet.”

“Here is my card,” he said, handing her a white
bit of paper on which an address was written. r

As she took it from him he tried to grasp her hand
and said:

“Winnie, this is a terrible ending of what a mar-
riage should be. My wife, love of you even now
makes me almost resolve not to accept your terms.
Winnie, for the sake of our past happiness, give me
one kiss before I go.”

‘‘Never, monster, let me go,” she eried, struggling
with him. . oy
But he flung his muscular arms around her slim
form, and would have pressed his lips to hers, in spite

of her resistance, had she not shrieked:

“Let me go, let me go! Oh, my God, it is too late!
Here is my husband!”

And she was right.

“You

you are very bold to-night,” he ex-

insist on buying
’

Laurie was close beside her.

.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
“THE TIME FOR AN EXPLANATION HAS PASSED.”

Laurie saw his young wife standing in this lonely
place, talking to a man, to meet whom, without
doubt, she had come here, and he crashed through
the shrubbery bordering the path, with murder in
his eyes. .

All his passionate jealousy was aroused, and it
would have required a very reasonable explanation
- have accounted to him for Winnie’s presence
nere. :

One glance in his set white face, and Leo knew to
encounter this man would be to run arisk for which
he had not planned.

«What can I do,” he mentally questioned, and for
an instant stood irresolute:

As for Winnie, horror had given her an almost
preternatural calmness. Like a carven image she
leaned against the lodge as if regardless of her fate.

Laurie had become entangled ina mass of rhodo-
dendrons, and while he struggled to release himself,
Leo suddenly made a bold dash, and bounding be-
tween the stone gate-ways, disappeared.

With an angry cry Laurie looked up as he disen-
gaged his foot from the boughs which had held it,
and perceiving his wife stood by the lodge alone, he
ran up to her, exclaiming :

“Where has that man gone? Who was he?”

But terror, and relief that Leo had fled, had so over-
come Winnie, that she was incapable of speech, and
closing her eyes, she rested her head on the boards,
and gasped for breath.

Laurie ran out in the road, and glared about him,
but Leo had already climbed a fence, and was safe
in S cen which completely shrouded him from
sight.

Grinding his teeth in his rage, Laurie returned to
Winnie, and demanded:

“Where did your companion go, madam? I com-
mand an answer !”

“He went out in the road,” she replied, in a faint
voice.

“Who was he?’ questioned Laurie, fiercely ; know-
ing it was useless for him to seek the man by going
out in the highway, as he had already seen he was
not there. ’

For a moment Winnie felt she would tell him the
truth; that she would free herself from the awful
shadow of her secret, but fearing the pain Laurie
would feel at the exposure, she did not do it.

“Winnie,” he continued, in a tone of anguish, as
she remained silent, ‘‘is it possible the woman I
have loved so truly has another image enshrined in
her heart? Winnie, it would have been kinder to kill
me, than to break my heart by acting in this
manner.”

The look on his face, the quiver in his voice, roused
all her womanly sympathy and love.

“T must spare him from knowledge of the truth, no
matter what I suffer, she thought.

But how could she do it? Her soul shrank in
loathing as she knew falsehood alone could account
for her presence here.

“And I have always prided myself on my truthful-
ness and honor,” she reflected, with a little sob, as
with downcast head, and shamed eyes, she said:

“T was sitting here enjoying the moonlight, when
aman entered the gate, and—and asked for work. I
told him I thought you had all the laborers you
desired, and he was just going away when you came
erashing through the shrubbery——”

“Enough !” he exclaimed, and she noticed that his
voice had a harsh metallic ring. “I have asked you
for an explanation, and you have given me a fabri-
eation inreply. Now, will you tell me how it was
that I saw that man’s arms around you, and his face
bent above yours as if he were about to kiss you?”

There was not the slightest quiver of her form, nor
anything but sorrow in her eyes as she raised them
to his face, for it was for his sake that she uttered
the untruth, as she said:

“Laurie, you must have been dreaming. Or per-
haps the light was deceptive. The man was near me,
for—for I was giving him money, his arm may have
been outstretched, but—why, Laurie, who could
there be to put in his arm around me?”

Her loving face, full of persuasion, was lifted to
him, and for a moment he was staggered by her
words.

“True,” he argued with himself, “I came here ex-
pect to find Winnie in some mischief, and seeing

er talking with this man it may be possible I mis-
took their attitudes.”

“You believe me, Laurie,’ she whispered, as she
drew near him. Oh, surely, you must know I have
never loved, never can love, any one as I love you!”

“Swear it,” he said. “Swear to me, Winnie, that
no other man, that Leo Forester never was as dear
to you as Tam!” \

Her compassion and love for him cansed her to lift
her beautiful face so the moonlight shone full upon
her solemn lips, as she murmured :

“T swear, with my Maker for my witness, that. I
have never loved Leo Forester, or another man, with

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 43—No. 5,

 

wees THE NEW Y

 

K WEEKLY. #382

 

 

the great affection I give you, Laurie.
that tospare you pain I would die, or, harder yet, |
live and suffer anguish worse than death.” |

As he gazed on her fair, pure face, while she ant

tered these solemn words, love of her overcame all |
doubt. and he drew nearer her and whispered : |

“My wife, that oath strikes down the barrier which |
has so long been raised to part us. Here let me take |
another vow that my love for you, henceforth, shall
overcome all doubt, that as I am faithful to my mar-
riage vow so I will believe you.”

“Hush,” she interrupted, in a distressed voice.
“Laurie, [cannot let you promise to believe in me
always, for—for there will be much to arouse your
suspicions, and—oh, Laurie,do not look at me like
that or I shall die. Henceforth, and forever, we are
to live beneath the same roof, but—— Whatam I
saying ?” she broke out, wildly. ‘Iam going mad, I
believe.”

“My darling, I know I have treated you shame-
fully in the past months, but, Winnie, surely, if your
oath be true, and you really love me, you can jor-
give me.” .

“Tean never forgive you; we must be strangers
hereafter,’, she declared, sobbing piteously.

“My dear, what do you mean? Iam certain you
must acknowledge that I had cause to mistrust you ?”

“he murmured, surprised by her conduct. ‘That let-

ter of Stena’s was strangely worded, and you would
Seale nothing, but that you had done wrong,
an i ep

He paused and frowned as he saw her shrink from
him. But all that was bestin his nature had been
roused by her declaration tnat she loved him, and he
determined, if it were possible, that he would arrive
at an understanding with his wife to-night.

He put out his hand to take hers, but she clasped
her fingers together and moved from him.

“Winnie,” he said, repyvessing the pain his action
had caused him. ‘I beg of you to hide nothing from
me. Dear, to-night-I am in the mood to listen to the
truth ; will you not confide all your troubles to me?”

His gentle voice, the kindly light in his eyes, and
his unusual tenderness made refusal very hard to the
woman who loved him. ’

But with anguish, Winnie felt she could never re-
veal to this honorable being the fact that she had
wedded him when her life had been blighted by a
villain, that she had deceived him, and that he was
not in reality her husband, as another man had a
right to that title.

“T must be silent at any cost,” she resolved, and
said aloud: ‘Laurie, the time for an explanation
has past. I have now nothing to say, but that as
we have been for the last few months so I wish to be
always.”

“Winnie,” he cried, starting away from her, his face
full of angry suspicions. ‘‘I——”

His speech was drowned by the clinking of silver
chains, and the tramping of horses’ feet, as a span of
magnificent horses entered the gate-way.

With a sense of relief that her tete-a-lete with her
husband was over, Winnie moved to the edge of the
carriage drive, and beheld her father, Miss Bunts,
and Pauline seated in a wagonette.

The coachman, without waiting for orders, drew in
his horses at the sight of his former mistress, and
Mr. Bunts sprang out to assist his daughter in the
carriage.

“Come, Laurie,” he said, to his moody son-in-law,
“Eliza has something of importance to tell you, so
we will drive you home.”

Not having any excuse ready, Laurie reluctantly
mounted the wagonette steps, and seated himself by
Pauline, feeling that contact with Winnie, just then,
would be loathsome.

As the vehicle moved off Fannie came from her
hiding-place behind the shrubbery, and shook her
fist after it, muttering:

“She escaped this time, but she never shall again.”

In the meantime’ Miss Bunts made known her im-
portant news by saying:

“Laurie, do you knowin two weeks time Winnie
will be twenty-one? Have you remembered it?”

“No,” was Laurie’s abrupt reply.

“We hardly supposed you would, but as it is the
truth, Ephraim and I thought we would celebrate
the event by an entertainment, unless you had
alraidy prepared to do so.” ;

“We have not, but I will do whatever you or Win-
nie desire,” answered the young husband, rather
wearily. ‘I believe the proper thing of this season
of the year is a garden party, and we might have
fireworks, and the grounds decorated with Chinese
lanterns, and all the rest of it.”

“But the suggestion should not come from our side
of the house, unless we give the entertainment,”
hastily asserted Miss Bunts, who was never so hap-
py as when she was superintending the arrange-
ments of a party.

‘‘Most certainly a man has a right to celebrate his
wife’s birthday,” softly murmured Pauline.

“And I should do it,’ Laurie recklessly declared.
“TI am just in the humor for a party, and will let it be
a splendid affair. I'll have a band down from New-
port, and will put up a dancing pavilion, and do the
thing grandly. Aunt Eliza, I will leave the refresh-
ment department to your management, but I'll over-
see the decorations myself.’

“But I would far rather not have a display made.
I want rest and quietude,” said Winnie.

“We have been having too much of it,” ejaculated
Laurie. ‘I confess I eee the pomps and vanities
of the wicked world. When is the party to come off,
Aunt Eliza?’

“A week from next Wednesday,” was the lady’s
somewhat surprised reply, for Laurie’s manner occa-
sioned her a little wonderment.

‘He acts like a person who is suffering from nerv-
ous agitation,’ she murmured, but later, under the
excitement of planning a grand fete, she forgot his
strange speeches, and never noticed Winnie’s hag-
gard countenance. .

The morning after Winnie’s meeting with Leo,
Stena was handed a letter, which ran thus:

“Tell your friend I shall waitto hear from her
where I am to meet her and receive the money. I

shall remain in Newport, under the name of Harry |

Shepherd, until I obtain the call.
there.”

Address me

Though no name was signed, both Stena and Win-
nie knew who it was from, and, after a little consul-
tation, they decided that Winnie should meet him on
the night of her birthday fete.

“For the grounds will be full of couples, and
Laurie would not think anything of it if he should
see you walking about that evening with a man,”
said Stena.”

Winnie agreed with her, and a brief note was dis-
patched to ‘“‘Harry Shepherd,” saying he was to be by
@ summer-house near a brook which ended the lawn
at Locustmere, one week from the coming Wednes-
day, by eleven o’clock.”

And so an awful tragedy was planned.

During the next two weeks Winnie saw little or
nothing of Laurie, who had determined she should
be the one to make apologies to him hereafter, and
who pretended to be busied with plans for the birth-
day fete.

The night before the eventful day, Stena was some-
what surprised to be greetcd, on her appearanee at
the dinner-table, by Loyd Hawley.

He surveyed her with a mocking look as he shook
her hand, and once or twice during dinner she no-
ticed his eyes had a malicious gleam as they rested
on her face.

She was glad when the moment came for the ladies
to seek the drawing-room, but her surprise gave
way to wonderment when she heard Loyd decline
any wine. He left the apartment with his hostess,
but -after they were in the parlor he came up to
Stena and said:

“T have something of importance to say to you at
once. Please.come outside.”

Inyoluntarily she obeyed.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
LOYD MAKES A THREAT.

“What can his solemn manner portend?” wondered
Stena, as she followed her rejected suitor from the
veranda down a graveled path which led to the ocean.

At last they reached the water’s edge, and paused
to see the waves glittering in the moonlight.

rae faced Stena, and, staring at her gravely,
said :

“T have brought you here, Miss Grantham, be-

- cause, for your sake, I wished to be quite alone when
I told you that I have discovered the secret of Win-
nie’s life.”

“What have you learned ?” she queried, anxiously.

He gave a mocking laugh as he saw how white her
noble face had grown, and muttered :

“You had evidently forgotton my threat to ferret
out your antecedents, for this seems a surprise to

ou.”

“T confess that of late I have felt quite secure from
all evil,” she stated. “I could not sce howit would

rofit you to pry into the secrets of the past, and even

fyou have succeeded in doing so, what will your
knowledge ayail you?”

“That { will presently show you,” he declared.
“At present I only wish to impress upon you that I
know all. Would you like to hear how I. gained my
information ?”

ae, was the one word Stena allowed herself to
speak.

“First let me beg of you to seat yourself on this
rock, for it is likely our conversation may prove
lengthy,” he said, leading the way to a mass of gran-
ite which was thrown up on the yellow sand.

Stena sat down, and he threw himself at her feet,
and quietly resumed his speech.

“Last Wednesday my partner came to me, and in-
quired if I could go up to New Haven and search the
registers of different churches for proofs of a mar-

June. A divorce suit was in progress, and the exact
date of the ceremony was necessary for technical
reasons which I need not relate. It will suffice for
you to know that I went.”

“Well?” Stena questioned, as he paused.

“You know pertectly well what Iam about to tell
you, but you choose to pretend you do not,” he said,
somewhat angrily. ‘However, I will put the truth
in plain words. [ found in the registry a record of

'

And I swear |

riage which had taken place there five years ago this pera ae

 

the marriage of Winnifred Bunts to Leo Forester.”

“Oh, no, no!” ejaculated Stena, shrinking from him
as if he had struck her; but he went on with merci-
less calmness :

“As soon as the knowledge was obtained, I had the
nucleus of the whole affair. Winnie married that
man when she was a mere child, while she was a
schoolgirl, in fact, and after the ceremony she re-
turned to her seminary, and kept her secret. J
went to Stamford and learned thus much; also
that the young lady visited you the next spring, and
that a severe attack of brain fever kept her from re-
turning to her school again, and she left your house
to seek her father’s, a wreck of herself.”

“Then she is really his wife !” she cried.

“You do not deny it?” he ejaculated. ;

“It is useless to deny your assertions, for, without
doubt, you have proofs of what you say,” said Stena,
in @ Weary voice.

“Yes, Lwas carefulthat my information should be
well authenticated before I left Stamford, and I was
even so particular that I visited the asylum,in which
T had seen a child named Leon Stena placed, to learn
the date of the infant’s entrance there. It corre
sponded with the time Winnie was absent from the
school.”

“T cannot see what good the accumulation of
these facts will do you,” declared Stena. *‘Winnie is
Laurie’s wife now, and the past cannot make her
other than that.” ;

He bent down his head, and, with his face hidden,
murmured:

‘“‘Are you sure of that? Stena, what if Leo Forester
were alive ?”

‘Oh, Heaven!” shecried out in alarm, as she sprang
to her feet in terror.

He rose slowly, and advancing put his hand on her
arm, and, looking at her with a peculiar gleam in
his eyes, said:

“Stena, did you dream that this was so? Did you
know that Winnie has no right to Laurie’s name, his
protection, or his wealth, because her first husband
is alive ?”’

“Oh! how did you discover him?” she cried, with-
outan attempt at denial, which she felt would be
useless with this man, who had gathered his proofs
as deliberately as the spider spins his web.

“We met at an elevated railroad station two days
ago, and as my mind was full of him I recognized
him in a moment. I spoke, and inquired if his name
was not Leo Forester, and after a short hesitation he
informed me it was. I asked him what he had done
with himself all these years, and he replied grufily
that he had been in South America. Just then the
train came up, and he cut further information short
by waiting till he saw me board a car, and then go-
ing back in the waiting-room, when it was too late
for me to follow.”

Stena regarded him witha great fear in her eyes
as she asked

or use do you intend to make of your knowl-
edge?’

“Tt depends on you,” returned Loyd, coolly. “TI
bave nothing against my fair cousin (supposed so at
least), but it really is my duty to inform Laurie of
the true state of affairs.”

“Oh, say you will not do it,” excitedly begged Ste-
na, clasping her hands on his arm and raising her
beautiful face up to him in agonized entreaty.
“Loyd, you would break Winnie’s. heart if you told
Laurie her story; and surely my poor darling has
suffered enough without having a public scandal to
shame her now.”

“She deserves to suffer,” said Loyd, coldly. ‘Any
woman who deserts her child or leaves it to the mer-
cy of a public institution is unworthy of pity.”

“But Winnie did not desert her baby. We, mother
and I, fearing she had been deceived by a mock mar-
riage, to save her shame, put the child in that asy-
lum, and told Winnie it had passed away. She be-
lieved it dead, but would have died rather than have
separated from it if she had known it lived. And oh,
my own heart has ached for that little one deprived
so early of its mother’s care. I intend to adopt it the
day after my marriage.”

“Ts it possible you do not know the infant’s fate?’
asked Loyd,in surprise. ‘‘Why, Stena, it has been
dead two years.”

“Dead!” ejaculated Stena, sinking back on the
rock like one overcome by bad tidings. ‘‘Oh, Loyd,
how can I ever look Winnie in the face again if her
child has died from ill treatment?”

Her distressed tone and pallid face roused his pity,
and he said, hastily:

“All a mother’s tenderest care and all the riches in
the world could not have saved it, Stena. I have
seen the physician’s certificate that there was some
malformation of the child’s throat, and that the
greatest surgical skill was required to keep it alive
even for the short time it lived.”

“But Winnie must never know about it. Promise
me you will not tell her,” begged Stena, somewhat
comforted by his speech.

“IT have told you before that everything depends
on you,” he said. ‘‘Stena, if you would keep Win-
nie’s past a secret from Laurie, if you would not
have him know Leo lives, you inust bribe me into se-
erecy by promising to become my wife.”

“It is impossible,” cried Stena. ‘Do you not know
I am already betrothed to Mr. Miller?” .

*Betrothed, but not married,” put in Loyd, grimly.
“My dear, you can break that engagement and give
yourself to me.,

“But would you have me when my whole heart is
his, when I love him better than my own life?” in-
terrogated Stena, hoping to disgust him.

“My love,” he replhed, “I would marry you know-
ing that you hated me. Stena, I will tell you frankly
when I first wooed you it was with the wish to ob-
tain your fortune, but after I knew your noble na-
nature I grew to love you with a passion I have ney-
er given any other woman. I[ at last understand why
men wish to marry, and I will go any length to win
you, my queen.”

“But the idea is monstrous, cruel, that you would
wreck Laurie’s and my Winnie’s life, if [ will notcon-
sent to sacrifice mine,” exclaimed Stena, excitedly.
“Loyd, surely you will not be as cruel as you say,
for I cannot marry you.”

“Then Laurie shall hear the truth without delay,
regardless of consequences. Stena, I would be
wicked enough to keep silent, in the hope of win-
ning you, but, otherwise, I feel it is my duty toreveal
this thing.”

“It will be terrible to do’so. Think of my poor
darling’s anguish, of the scandal, of Laurie, and—
Loyd, say you will not do this?’ incoherently ex-
claimed Stena.

“Rather say you will notforce me to do it. for on
your answer depends my silence,” he responded.

She rocked herself to and fro, and sobbed pit-
ecously: —

“T cannot, I cannot.”

But the more she thought of Winnie’s suffering, if
the truth came out, the greater became her con-
viction that it was her duty to sacrifice herself for
her unhappy friend.

Loyd noticed her struggling with herself for a few
minutes, without speaking, and he was not at all
surprised, when she at last said:

“JT cannot think clearly, atpresent; let me go up
to the house, and give me till to-morrow night to de-
cide what I shall do,

When she reached the building she parted with
him, and hastened to her own apartment, feeling she
could not see Rob Miller to-night.

She was just asking herself what she could do to
save Winnie, and yet not utterly ruin her own life,
when her boudoir door opened and her hostess en-
tered, saying: 5

“What are you doing here alone, Stena? Rob, and
all of us, have been wondering where you had dis-
appeared.”

“Winnie,” abruptly said her friend, advancing and
taking her hands, “I have been asking myself if you
would suffer very much should Laurie learn that
Leo is alive. Winnie, don’t youthink strength would
be given you to bear itif the miserable story were
revealed?”

“T should die,” was Winnie’s firm reply. ‘Stena,
the look Laurie would give me would kill me. )
have you learned anything new, that you stare at me
in that manner ?”’

“No!” was Stena’s sad response, “I have nothing
new to tell you. Only I was wondering if you could
not bear it ?”’

“How could I when every hope of happiness would
be destroyed for me forever,” moaned Winnie, sud-
denly bursting into tears. “The future is dark
enough now, but that would mean utter blackness.”

“You are right,” said Stena, kissing her as she lay
sobbing in her arms, ‘‘and the sorrow would not fall
on you alone. Winnie, I must strive to spare you
from a revelation of the truth.”

“What do you mean, dear? why Stena your face is
as white and cold as marble! Whatis the matter?’

“Nothing, but that I am tired, Winnie. Ifyou will
leave me I will try to sleep.” ;

She knew it would be a ¢rial, and it was; for long
after Winnie had left her, this wretched girl tossed
on her pillows sleepless; as with feverish lips, and
an aching heart, she thus communed with herself:

“Tf I consent to Loyd’s proposal, I will spare many
others, and will only suffer myself. Yes, I must
strive to root out Rob’s love, by making him disgust-
ed with me, for Winnie’s sake. I will teach him to
hate me; but, oh, evenfor her, how can I marry a
man I hate?”

A thought of Winnie’s sad face caused this noble
friend to resolve:

“To save her from ruin J must.”

And so thinking, she sawfthe light of dawn on this
fatal day.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
me Oe
CONSUMPTION CURED.

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

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

ALADDIN.
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

When I was a beggarly boy,
And lived in a cellar damp,
I had not a friend or a toy,
But I had Aladdin’s lamp ;
When I could not sleep for cold,
I had fire enough in my brain,
And builded, with roofs of gold,
My beautiful castles im Spain.

Since then I have toiled day and night,
I have money and power good store,
But I’d give allmy lamps of silver bright
For the one that is mine no more;
Take, Fortune, whatever you choose,
You gave, and may snatch again ;
I have nothing ’twould pain me to lose,
For I own no more castles in Spain!

al al

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

TEXAS JACK.

By NED BUNTLINE,

Author of ‘‘ Buffalo Bill’s Last Victory,” ‘‘ Rover
Wild, the Jolly Reefer,” *‘Red Dick,”
**WMountain Tom,” etc.

(‘TEXAS JACK” was commenced in No. 48. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents].

CHAPTER XXXVI.
TEXAS JACK FINDS A SLIPPER,

Texas Jack, with his portion of the Sioux braves, took up
the stream in search of the trail, and discarding the idea of
carrying torches, as the party who went below did, merely
halted where the bank looked hard, to see if any tracks had
left it there, for he knew that he was tracking an old hand,
and judged what he would do to conceal his traces.

ae es of the fires beyond the river made all the light he
needed.
It was rather a slow march, for the stops were frequent
and the horses very ti from their long racein the after-
noon, and when they reached the place where a small stream
came tumbling in from the north-west, the morning staf was
rising. 1
We will halt and feed our horses here, for I want to look
around by daylight,” said Texas Jack to the Sioux in their
own tongue.
The latter: who had3been ordered by Wide Mouth to obey
him, were only too glad to stop, for they were tired and hun-
sry. While the horses went into the tender grass with
earty appetites, as it grew rich and'rank near the mouth of
the brook, the braves took from their wallets some of the
dried buffalo meat which they always carry on a march, if
they have it to carry, and munched away with great satisfac-

ion.

Texas Jack, full only of one thought—how to find the trail
that he was after, waited impatiently for a little more light.
He knew that no better place to leave the main river, and
still conceal the route, could be found than this, and here he
wished to make a careful examination.

Day-dawn found him looking along the stream, to see if
some stone newly upturned, some careless crumbling of the
bank, would not reveal the signs he wished to see.

For these he looked in vain, but suddenly an object met
ae eye which caused every vein in his body to thrill with
g ess.

It was a slipper, a small embroidered slipper, and on it five
letters in scarlet silk. They were the letters of her abbrevi-
ated name—‘‘ADDIE.”

“She has been here, and pu!
where it would ‘lodge
tone. ‘Now, Mr. Jack
spite of your cunning!”

Texas Jack, with more romance than he ever felt before,
actually kissed the slipper which had peered her foot, and
acu praeeet it inside his buckskin hunting-shirt next to his

eart.

He went a little way further up the stream and soon found
the mate to the first, which was as_reverentially treated as
that had been. He also found tracks in a still, wide spot in
the brook, where the current had not been strong enough to
wash them away. __

Satisfied now which way the hapless women had been
taken, the brave scout hurried back to where the horses had
been feeding and resting. On his way heshot an antelope
that bounded across his path, using Only & revolver trom his
belt, for he wished Indians and horses to be strong
for a rapid ride when he mounted,

The Sioux soon had a a of the animal cooking over a
fire made from small dry sticks, and the scout as well as
hey made a hearty meal. 3
e had already told them that the trail was discovered,
and they were glad that they were the first to discover it.

So full of his thoughts about Addie was our hero that not
until they were ready to start did he think about making the
smoke-signal agreed upon with Wide Mouth to tell of the dis-
covered trail. =

Then he sent a warrior for some dam grass, and while he
heaped the dry fuel high until it blazed hot and fiercely an
armful of the grass was thrown jupon it. Instantly, in fthe
still, breezeless air, the smoke rose in a white column till it
seemed to reach higher than the few lazy clouds away up in
the zenith. f ‘

Texas Jack did not stay to await the junction of the other
party, but rode on at once at a gallop, for his horses were
well fed and rested.

Glancing back when well u
own smoke yet rose, and that
in sight at_different points. |

“Rather too much signal,” he muttered; “but { don’t care
if these Sioux will stay when a fight is on hand. I don’t
know them as well as I do my brave Pawnees; but stay or no
stay, Ill save my cousin or go under! Jericho! how my
heart thumps when I think of her!”

Riding in two lines, so as to be sure to take the trail when
it left the brook, Texas Jack and his Sioux comrades sped
forward toward a hilly country, growing rougher and more
cut up_as they advanced.

Suddenly, where the little stream bent to the left in a
small valley, Texas Jack discovered faint marks on a rocky
ridge that bore off at a right angle toward a steep mountain.

Examining it a few seconds, he felt satisfied that all the
party had left the stream here and were leading into the
mountains.

Taking the lead, and calling all the Indians to follow, he
darted away along this ridge, keeping his eye on the signs,
faint as they were, as oy, a scout can.

“Jack Lasalle is a devil!” he muttered, as the route grew
more difficult, winding along the edge of a fearful ravine.
“He has passed here before day broke, for his horses have
stumbled where, when it was light, there would have seen sure
footing. He has risked his lite and theirs rather than stop
and wait for day to dawn. I believe the cuss:knows that I’m
on his trail. If he does he'll do all he can to git while he
can, and when he can’t he’ll make one of the cussedest tight
fights that ever was fought.”

More and more difficult was the route as they now went on
leading along the ae cliffs, down into dark ravines, and
up steep ascents; but the trail was plain—that was the best
of it.

ly has she cast that slipper
ainst the bank,” he said; in a gleeful
asalle, we have found your trailin

the stream he saw that his
ere were three other columns

“We are gaining on them!” said Texas Jack to his red _fol-
lowers, when, about midday, he hal at a stream which
came tumbling through a valley. “The mud hasn’t settled
where they stirred it up in crossing here,”

Ascending a steep hill, he thought that surely from _its
erest he would come in sight of those whom he followed so
untiringly, and to remain unseen as long as een he
moved with exceeding care, dismounting and leading his
horse, an See followed by the Indians.

When he halted in the timber that crowned the hill he
caught a glimpse, far ahead, of the other party, and it seem-
ed as if they were almost in rifle-range.

Going on a little ways, he saw that they were ascending
another steep by aravine so narrow and difficult that one
man could defend it against many, and he dared not show
himself or party till he thought the others were out of the
pass and on the next ridge. ‘i

Impatiently he waited until he believed the others were
gone, and then he spurred swiftly forward to ascend the ra-
vine himself.

He was fairly entered in it and was pressing on with all the
speed the difficulties would allow, when he heard a mocking
yell above him. | i 7

Looking up, hideous in paint as well as hateful ugliness, he
saw Jack Lasalle.

“Trapped, my would-be Marquis de Omohundreau !” yelled
the wretch. “J, J a Lasalle, chief of the Red Brother-
hood, have your pretty cousin in my care, and mighty good
care i'll take of her! Let that be your coasolation as you
sing your dcath-song.” * :

Texas Jack did not speak, but quick as thought he raised
his rifle to his shoulder. :

But quicker yet the head of Lasalle disappeared behind a
huge rock, and the next second Texas Jack saw, to his hor-
ror, that the great rock itself was moving, threatening to
et crashing down the ravine, bearing destruction to all
in its way.

The Indians, terror-stricken, turned to fly, rushing back
down the narrow ravine, but Texas Jack seeing but one
chance, sprung to avail himself of it. ' :

A long trailing vine, one of those creewers peculiar to rocky
lands, ascended the perpendicular cliff to his left. Dropping
his rifle he grasped this, and hand over aand, like a sailor
ascending arope, he clambered up the cl ff, while the huge
rock, followed by an avalanche of stones, came thundering,
crashing, smoking down beneath him, covering in an instant
the entire party of Sioux, and raising suchacloud of dust
that Jack under its cover reached a safe piace far up the
cliff, unseen by the wretch who had planned his destruction.

So near, too, that from his perch amons some sheltering
bushes, the hero scout heard the taunting ery of Lasalle:

“That ends the hopes of Texas Jack and stops pursuit. We
can take the journey easy now.”

Texas Jack could see beyond the rnffian and his mate, Mor-
mon Ben, two women standing, white with woe, horror, and
despair. And though now once more without arms, other
than the hide lasso ever carried at his belt, he vowed that he
would rescue them from their wretched captivity, and keep
so close upon their trail that no violence should reach them
which his strong arm could stay.

He knew that now it would be impolite to reveal his exist-
tence to Lasalle, for the latter watched the ravine until the
dust settled, and seeing it filled up and no sign of a living
man or horse, all having been indeed crushed or buried but
axe sae himself, believed the work of destruction to be
complete.

Rejoining the two terrified women, Lasalle and Mormon

nm again moved forward, ues over the supposed

completeness of their late work, and adding to the misery of

+ paca helpless captives by the relation of how the work was
one.

Their course now lay alongs narrow ridge, separated on
either hand from other similar ridges by valleys or gorges so
deep meet sunshine could reach them only in the hours near
noonday.

Like a leveled road, the extreme back of this ridge was tree-
less and bare, being a smooth, dark rock, showing no sign as
they passed over it.

“Cap'n, how long will we have to stretch over this sort 0°
ground, It will be dry campin’ and poor feed for the ani-
miles, I’m afraid.”

“We'll strike better ground afore three hours are gone by,”
said Lasalle. “I’ve gone the route afore. There’s a natural
bridge to cross, some caves to enter and pass through, then
another gully to go down instead of up, and we'll reach a
little bit o’ Paradise, where runnin’ water, green grass, and a
shelter, not made by human hands, will “1old as good and
snug just aslong as we want to stay. Then we'll have time

 

to do a little love-making on our own accouat. Ireckon Basil

La Mort has been overhauled by the cavairy that scattered

us, and if he has, he has danced his last dance by this time,
with air for a foothold, and a free bit of a rope to swing by.
Idon't care. He was nothing to me but a tool to use in get-
ting a sweet revenge!” :

**He didn’t know any more than the law allowed,” said Ben,
between a gruntand achuckle. ‘But I say, cap, do you be-
lieve any of our boys are left now ?” :

“Yes. There weren’t much more than half in the squad
that had the Indians and them scouts after’em. When I get
to my best hiding-place I'll send up eee that'll bring all
there isleftin. Seeit Idon’t. Hallo—look over there to the
south'ard !”

“Thunder! There’s a red there alone, well armed and
mounted. He sees us too,” cried Ben.

“Little good would it do him, even if he had a score more at
his back. He can’t scale this ridge anywhere inside of six or
eight miles, to my knowledge, either way, and before he can
make that distance we will be gone, leaving no trace behind
us. They may talk and write all they will about the wonders
of the far West, I know more than the best of them.”

“Then that cussed red, if he has more to his back, can’t
bother us.” ¥
“No. It will be dark in an hour ora little more. Then he
nor no one else could find a place to rise this ridge. The
cuss looks bothered, you see, for he don’t know which way to
turn or what to make of us anyway. I reckon he is a Snake
or a Blackfoot wandered out of his latitude.”

Mormon Ben did not venture an opinion, but he moved on
to take his place on one side of the captives to keep an eye on
them, while Lasalle spurred forward to take the lead, as he
had done, until he discovered that he was followed.

CHAPTER XXXVII
THE SCOUT FINDS AN. ALLY.

Keeping under cover of every rock and bush, after he reach-
ed the crest of the ridge, Texas Jack pushed close after La-
salle, Mormon Ben, and the helpless women, as fast as he
could go and not expose himself. i

Thus speeding on, he was so near that had he been able to
keep his repeating-rifle when he escaped his last peril, he
would have had the two wretches in his power: for his aim,
so uee, was deadly at six hundred yards, and he was surely
as close as that when the two villains discovered the Indian,
and halted for amoment to look at him.

But they did not know, as Texas Jack did, who that Indian

was.

The brave scout, as keen of eye as an eagle, had recognized
the heroic Pawnee, Big Elk, even so far off ; and now his first
desire was to communicate with him—for he was armed—
get his aid, follow up the ruffians; slay them, and rescue his
consin and her friend.

To doitin sight of Lasalle wasa terrible hazard, for the
former, with Mormon Ben, carried rifle and revolver, and
would not hesitate to destroy him if once their eyes fell upon

im. .

So, almost in agony, he waited till they moved on, fearing
that'the Pawnee would move out of sight before he could
make a signal to attract his attention.

Then, creeping quickly to the very edge of the cliff, the
scout threw out the whole strength of his voice in a scream
like that of an eagle angered at the miss of a victim in his
SWOOD.

So loud and shrill was his scream that it reached the quick
ears of Lasalle, then fell eighty rods away, and he turned in
his saddle and looked back.

“Heaven favors me!” murmured Texas Jack, as a real
eagle scared from its nest, rose high in the air almost over
his head ; for, Lasalle seeing it, seemed satisfied and rode
on, while Big Elk, who had heard a cry like that before
when there was no eagle in sight, stood still, and looked and

waited.

Texas Jack waited, too, till Lasalle and his’ party were out
of sight, and then again he gave.the whole force of his strong
lungs in a wild, air-piercing scream.

The eagle had soared into aspeck almost out of sight, and
Big Elk now knew that the sound camefrom a different
source.

Closely he scanned the cliff, and when, for an instant only,
Texas Jack rose to his full height, and then sunk down again,
he seemed intuitively to understand that a friend sought to

communicate with him.

Dismounting—for he could not reach the foot of the cliff
with his horse, owing to the fearful nature of the ravine be-
low—he moved down the hill, and springing from rock to
rock, here creeping along sharp ledges, and there descending
terrible steeps, and again climbing others, he gradually ap-
proached the place where Texas Jack, using a handkerchief

or a signal, lay at the edge of the cliff waiting his approach.

It was almost night when Big’ Elk got a postion, directly
under where Texas Jack was, and before this time he had
recognized his old leader, and by signs known to both, made
his recognition known.

Now, fully five hundred feet apart, an almost perpendicular
cliff marking the distance, though they could talk, the study
was how Big Elk could get up, and with Texas Jack follow
the trail of Posaile ;

Jack soon commenced to solve the difficulty,

He unloosed the long hide lasso from his belt, but it would
not reach at its uttermost length more than one-fifth of the

way.

Ginnéiie down, hesaw that there were several niches where
strong-rooted cedars were srowing, and it would be possible,
if he fad more line, to lower his lasso end steady Big Elk in
an ascent from point to point. ,

In. an instant his strong hunting-shirt of buckskin was
— off, and_with his keen knife he began to cut it into

ongs.

ving these together, and adding his scarf and waist-belt,
he lowered them to a point which the brave chief was already
trying to reach. :

t was a fearful ascent, one which none but the most dar-
ing would attempt; but Big Elk, strong and fearless, made it
when Texas Jack trembled for his fate, and at last reached
the end of the buckskin thongs. ’

To these he tied his own buckskin hunting-shirt, his belts,
and the lariat brought from his own saddle, and let Texas
Jack draw them up so as to strengthen and perfect the line
which must support his whole weight in that part of the cliff
where no foothold could be found.

Texas Jack quickly drew it up,and with ready hand cut
up the additional thongs, and with the lariat_and lasso made
a rope surely strong enough to bear the weight of the brave
Pawnee, knotting itevery few feet so that his hands would
not slip in the ascent.

Then securing one end of a cedar tree near the very verge
of the cliff, placing his hat between it and the rock to save
itfrom fraying, he lowered it to the heroic chiet.

In an instant he felt the strain, the swaying to and fro
which told him that Big Elk was risking all to reach him.

Oh, how long each second seemed now. Never was our
heroin such an agony of mind before. Slower and slower
seemed the vibrations of the rope, for night had now set in,
and he had to judge by feeling rather than sight how Big

k was succeeding, and at times it ceased to move, and
onaey an Jack felt sure the Pawnee was giving out, and
mus i

Anan it shook, and then Jack breathed a word to encourage
the Pawnee. :

At last, bending over the cliff, as mueh as he dared. he
heard the hard breathing which told that he was almost up.

Grasping the tree with his left arm, while he lay prone on
the cliff, even clinging with his foot back of a root, Jack
reached down with his right hand until he felt the form of
ry Panne, or rather the plaited scalp-lock which crowned

is head.

“Lift—lift—I am heap weak—most gone!” gasped the chief.

Jack grasped the lock with his strong right hand, and

ulled as if he was trying to tear the hair from the head of a

iving foe rather than trying thus tohelp a living friend.

Help it was, though rough and harsh, and by it the Pawnee
an instant later was at the crest of the cliff where Texas Jack
could grasp his arms and draw him into eet.

Once there, breathless, exhausted, the chief lay for almost
half an hour utterly wormout and helpless, while Texas Jack,
almost as badly off from the strain on his mind, as well as
his long, exhausting march, was not much better off.

Night, now ery set in, made it next to impossible for
them to go forward, and they well knew they could see no
trail if they did. :

So, after resting until both were calm and composed, the
scont and the Indian crépt up to a snug resting-place under
some cedar bushes, and there lay down side by side, as close
as they could to impart warmth one to the other, to wait for
the dawn of another day.

Tired, they knew that sleep would rest and strengthen
them, and they did not seek to evade its approaches. hey
wasted no time in talk; they understood what was to be
done on the morrow without that, and soon they were sound-
ly sleeping.

CHAPTER XXXYVIII.

MORMON BEN’S TRICK.—AN IMPERILLED GIRL'S DESPERATE
DEED.

Hurrying on after a brief halt, Jacques Lasalle seemed
more than anxious to escape to aplace of safety with the
girls Addie and Lucille. With Texas Jack, as he believed, out
of the way. his chief dread now came from the almost cer-
tain pursuit of Buffalo Bill. :

At the edge of a steep cliff he cruelly slew his horses, and
then, with the aid of Mormon Ben, whirled them over the
cliff. Then he dropped a lariat over the same spot, just
fastening it above to a large rock, to give the impression that
they had thus descended to the canon below. | :

Addie and Lucille watched these proceedings with curi-
osity and alarm. What they meant was not apparent to
them, who knew so little of the stratagems of border warfare.

The intention of the chief of the renegades, however, was
evident half an hour later, when, at another part of the cliff,
fully a mile south, another lariat was fastened above, and the
other end carefully dropped to a ledge about twenty feet
above the bottom of the ravine.

Hand under hand Lasalle descended until he stood on the
ledge. To Mormon Ben he then said : ; 5
“Quick, Ben, let the girls come down, one at a time; Pll
catch them.” if

“You will, eh ? Not much /” gleefully shouted Mormon Ben,
as he hurriedly pulled up the rope. “I’m a Danite, and these
women are mine /” :

The shouts and curses of the tricked Lasalle made the

irls’ flesh creep with horror. But they were not allowed to
ong listen to them, for Mormon Ben forced them to follow

im.

It would be painful to portray the feelings of the poor girls
for the next few hours as aber arduously struggled on in
obedience to the commands of their Mormon captor.

It was some hours after noon when they halted for much
needed rest on a narrow plateau beside a sheer precipice.
Before them was the dangerous declivity, leading to a rocky
canon fully three hundred feet below; in their rear was a
shallow lake of ice-cold water. ;

After a scanty repast of dried venison, Mormon Ben threw
himself down on. the soft grass for'rest, and told the girls
that they might do the same. In twenty minutes he was in a
slumber, but evidently disturbed with exciting dreams,
during which he was heard to exclaim : : :

*‘No screams, gal—no struggles! You are mine /”

His words made the girls shudder with terrible forebod-
ings. But as they watched him, they saw that he rolled
dangerously near the edge of the preci ice. “a

His words had doomed him. Even his dreams indicated
what he meant to do when awake.

Acting upon a momentary impulse, Addie rushed forward,
and with a strength that to her seemed superhuman, she
rolled the sleeping man to the crumbling edge of the cliff.

As he disappeared, a terrible shriek of fear and agony
pecaped her, and she fell back fainting into the arms of

ucille.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE FATE OF MORMON BEN.

The treacherous trick played upon him by Mormon Ben
made Lasalle fairly demoniac with rage, His blood was boil-
ang for revenge.

With eager haste he hurried on toward a spot where he
knew he could ascend to the brow of the hill, and there hoped
to be able to find the trail of the man who had outwitted him,
and once more secure possession of Addie and Lucille.

But he was doomed to further mortification. Texas Jack
and Big Elk luckily crossed his trail, followed him cau-
ously, and, coming on him unawares, forced him to give up

is arms.

They then bade him walk in advance and lead the way ozt
of the ravine.

 

Close followed by Texas Jack and Big Elk, Jacques Lasalle
hurried along the base of the cliff.
He was studying all the time how he might escape from
them and overtaking Mormon Ben, punish him alone for his
erfidy, while he recovered the captive women, but he knew
| that his chances for this were slim, very slim indeed, with
| two dead shots behind him—men that had no reason to
| spare him and much to hate him for.
ey were hurrying on, when suddenly from far up the
| cliff ahead of them came a wild, unearthly scream, and_halt-
jing, as if by an uncontrollable impulse, they looked for-
ward and up, just in time to see a human

y come tumbl-
ing over and over down the terrible steep.

 

_ Half way down it struck a projecting rock. and there,
faintly struggling for an instant, its course was stopped.

While the three men halted, horrified at the sight, the forms
* two women ee seen.

urrying away from a poin
They seemed to be all alone.
bine hoa to one it is Mormon Ben, and they’ve pushed

im off !

Jacques’ Lasalle muttered this to himself, but he spoke
loud enough for Texas Jack to hear him, and the latter, in a
second, took in the idea.

“Yes,” he exclaimed. ‘““The heroic girl who bared her feet
to leave me asign to follow, has taken him off his guard and
hurried him off the cliff. Isee it all. She is worthy of the
blood that runsin her veins. She has the spirit of an Omohun-
dreau, and I glory in the thought! She must know that
we are near—that friends are almost within reach!”

Then he exerted all his power, and sent forth a loud shout.
Hurrying forward, he repeated the cry, while he with the
other two looked up, hoping to see the women return and
look over, for they had eee een es F

They did not see them, but the horribly mangled body on
the rocks above had enough life left in it to struggle over so
the face looked down. F

“It is Mormon Ben!” said Lasalle, shuddering, for he could
see the white agony, which no tongue could describe, in the
distorted features of the dying wretch. Paria

The blood trickling down dened the cliff to its base when
the three came beneath the victim. He was now motionless
and dead.

“The women have not seen us. We must hasten to a spot
where we can climb the cliff to join them !” said Texas Jack.
_So he hurried forward, driving Lasalle up with a threat that
if he hung back he should feel cold steel.

They kept close under the base of the cliff, so as to see the
first Pe where ascent was possible, and this, doubtless,
added to the improbabilities of their being seen from above.

Thus they kept on until almost night, and it seemed as if
the cliff grew higher and more inaccessible the further they
went. When questioned, Lasalle pretended that he was mis-
taken in the distance to cross the ledge which intersected
this—that he hoped to find it before, etc. etc.

“T think you’re foolin’, Jack Lasalle!” said Texas Jack,
quietly. “And if I keep thinking so tillsun set, Big Elk here
will wear oo scalp at his belt before the evening star rises.”

“Tt is all very well for you to threaten!” said Lasalle, sul-
lenly. “You carry the arms!” ;

“Ay, and the will too. You deserve as little mercy as Mor-
mon Ben—less, indeed, for he had one good trait. He re-
membered a kindness. Now that he has gone under, I’ll tell
you how Buffalo Bill and I, and the French artist, escaped
from you in that night march. Mormon Ben had been
saved from hanging once by Buffalo Bill. To pay him for
that favor, Ben cut him and us loose that night. When you
sent Basil La Mort back we dropped him in his tracks and
then we got away. You followed us back, I reckon, and
that’s why your band and you have got parted and broken

up.”

‘asalle uttered afearful oath. Till now he had not thought
for an instant of any treason in his own Party Had Mor-
mon Ben been living then, and in reach of his hand, Lasalle
sein have gone at him with the ferocity of an angered

iger.

For an instant only, too angry to speak, he ground his
teeth. Then he hissed out: ‘

“T thought that some one beside the devil had a hand in
your getting off. But you needn’t exult so much. If you’d
got off by your own courage or cunning, ’twould be some-
thing to brag of. Oh! what’s that?” |

A wild hallo coming from far in their rear had reached the
Derr ear of Lasalle, and he spoke, just as Big Elk and Texas
ack caught its repetition. ‘ ‘

“Some one is following us. We willrest a minute or two
and see who itis,” said Texas Jack.

“It is Long Rifle. I know him by his walk and his big
white hat,” said Big Elk.

“Yes, it 7s Bill, coming like a steamboat under full steam,”
said Texas Jack.

Buffalo Bill, evident]
seeing them ata halt,
when they first saw him. ‘ P

“Hurry up, Buffalo Bill, hurry up ; it’s almost dark,” cried
Texas Jack, as Cody drew near.

CHAPTER XL.
. (AN ALARM.

Left alone by the few members of the Red Brotherhood
who came back because he would have been a burden in their
ride to answer the signal of recall which they saw rising,
Basil La Mort thought that nothing short of a wretched and
a lingering death awaited him. Too cowardly at heart to
end his own misery, though he had weapons with which to
do it, just fiend enough to dread the judgment after death,
his agony was complete. |

His wounds, coupled with a fever that set in, made him
wild, and this alone saved his worthless life. For a maniac
or an idiot, if able to travel, might wander through the most
hostile and savage tribes of Indians in the West unharmed.

The Indians, uncivilized though they are, seem to feel
that he is sacred whose brain has been touched by the finger
of the Great Spirit. :

Therefore, when mad, so mad that raving he tore his hair
by handfuls from face and head. a band of wandering Utes
came along, they took pity on the hapless pale-face, dressed
his wounds, and then put him on a horse, to which they had
to tie him, for he was too weak to hold on.

Such treatment eee restored the reason of the wretch
when his fever was abated, for hearing the chief speak to him
unbroken English at a camp near a water course where they
stopped, he answered him. f

“Who is pale-face? Where is he going to ?”

That was the oe which first brought any sign of
reason from La Mort.

Raving wildly before, he now stopped and looked intently
eae. red face which bent over him as he lay on a buffalo
robe.

“Where am I ?” he asked.

“In the lodge of the Wolf Slayer,” said the Indian. ‘You
a heap sick. Had you been well your scalp would hang

ere.

The chief pointed to a long string of those ornaments
stretching from side to side on the back part of his lodge.

“Sick—yes, Dve been sick. I was alone,, dying on the
prairie. I called for help, but no one came.” ‘

‘The pale-face talks crooked. The Utescame. They would
have killed the pale-face, but the Wolf Slayer said no. The
Great Spirit has touched him here.”

e chief raised his hand to his head.

“Yes. Ihavebeen crazed. Iknowit!’ saidLa Mort. “But
I am better now.”

“Ugh! It may not be well for the pale-face. What has he
to give for his hfe? The Utes are poor!” :

“You have taken my gun—I see itin yourhands. My pistols
are belted to your side.” : le

“Yes. Pale-face no need them’when he is sick. The Wolf
Slayer will keep them. Has the pale-face any friends where
the iron road runs ?” ee Yes

“Yes; rich friends, if I can find them, who’will give the red
man guns and horses for my life, if he takes good care of

e,

“Ugh! How will Wolf-Slayer know where to find them ?”

“Does he know where the great village is, called Omaha ?”

“Yes. The Wolf-Slayer went there once on the iron road.
He drank fire-water too much, and the pale-faces put him in
the calaboose Nextsun an old man told him to go back to
his people, and let fire-water alone !”

“Then if I can write a letter to a banker there, I can get
horses aud guns for the Wolf-Slayer, if he treats me well !”

“The pale-face means the speaking-bark ?”

The chief imitated the act.of writing, to show what he

meant.

“Yes,” said La Mort. : :

“We are long ways from the great village,” said the Ute.
“The Sioux and the Pawnees hunt over the land. If they see
us they will fight. The Wolf-Slayer will wait. He will keep
the pale-face in his lodge, and feed him till he can senda
brave to the iron road. Then,if the pale-face has spoken
straight words, he willlive. If he has told a crooked story,
we will burn him to ashes, and scatter them to the winds.”

“I must be content. This is better than death,” said La
Mort; and he looked up at the scalps, at the painted skins
which covered the lodge, and tried to think how he could
haye come there, been spared by the real savages, ;

While he looked he heard a strange commotion outside.
The Indians, yelling with excitement, seemed to be running
to and fro, and the chief himself rushed into the lodge, tore
down his spear, seized a round shield of hard hide, and hur-
ried forth fullof excitement. :

The wounded and exhausted man rose to his feet, staggered
to the opening in front of the wigwam, looked out a single
second, and sank with a despairing cry to the ground.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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y for an instant, apparently
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y prerey well tired, still came on, but
id notcome at arun, as he was doing
a

 

 

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The stories named below have already been issued, and
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No. 1.—THE SENATOR’S BRIDE. |
By MRS. MCVEIGH MILLER, author of “Sworn to
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That. Lived.

By T. W. HANSHEW, a of “Young Mrs. Charn-
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No. 3.—VELLA VERNELL; or, An Amazing
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By MRS, SUMNER HAYDEN, author of “Little
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No. 4.—BONNIE JEAN and A SEVERE
THREAT,

By MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS, author of “Married for
Gold,” “The Creole’s Crime,” ‘‘Val’s Love,” ete.
No. 5.—BRUNETTE AND BLONDE; or, The
Struggle for a Ring.

By MRS. ALEX. MCVEIGH MILLER, author of “The

Senator’sBride,” ‘A Dreadful Temptation,’ ‘The
Bride of the Tomb,” etc.

No. 6.—A STOKMY WEDDING.
By MRS. MARY E. BRYAN, author of “Manch,” ‘Ruth,
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Another Rousing Story of the Plains,

BY NED BUNTLINE.

REAL LIFE IN THE FAR-WEST!
LIVING CHARACTERS!
ACTUAL EVENTS!

The perils and exciting experiences of LIFE ON THE
PLAINs, remote from the settlements of civilization,
are pictured with vivacity and fidelity, by a master-
hand, in the stirring narrative entitled

LITTLE BUCKSHOT;

OR,

The White Whirlwind of the Prairie,

By NED BUNTLINE,

Author of ‘*Texas Jack,” ‘“‘Buffalo Bill’s Last Vic-
tory,’ etc.

There is no doubt about the reality of the scenes
and incidents so graphically pictured in this ani-
mated story of the

EXPLOITS OF CONRAD WENTWORTH,
THE WELL KNOWN
LITTLE SCOUTOF THESECOND CAVALRY.

His prowess and ability have been tested in many
flerce conflicts; his coolness and fortitude, under
circumstances that would have daunted a heart less
brave, have often been displayed before the admiring
eyes of the veteran plainsmen, his comrades of the
Old Second.

From the opening scenes the excitement and in-
terest are sustained throughout the entire story,
while the events are so vivid that the reader loses
consciousness of his surroundings, and for the time
imagines himself a spectator of the

VARIED PHASES OF LIFE ON THE PLAINS.

“LITTLE BUCKSHOT” will be begun in the next issue
of the NEW YORK WEEKLY. News Agents, be pre-
pared to meet a brisk demand for NED BUNTLINE’s
realistic story of the Far West.

THE HEADACHE,

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

I occasionally meet a person who “never had a
headache.” Strange mortal!

I wonder if such professions are true. A certain
degree of incredulity always confronts the assertion
from the lips of finite man, “I never had it. I don't
know what you mean.” I always feel like retorting,
“T don’t believe you!”

For headache seems a human mark. Man is a
headaching animal, might well serve for a definition
in comparative anatomy, though possibly other ani-
mals have the same, while none of them has a word
for the ugly malady, none a distinctive sign. Head-
ache, that word eloquent with meaning, is different
from all other sounds of speech. The very brainthat
indites the word is speaking for itself, not for the
foot nor the hand, not for any other part of the
anatomy whose woes it has so often to voice. ‘“My
head aches” is the brain’s own groan—poor, silent
servant of the body! It is the brain’s sign that it
exists. Itis equivalent to ‘‘Here am I. Pay atten-
tion!” Itis the man himself, in the citadel of his
being, crying out under the pressure of life’s struggle.
A brain that never aches—how does one know he has
brains, if they never announce themselves with
finite pain ?

The brain rarely complains. It is probably true
that few headaches originate with the head it-
self. Itis the stomach which insults the brain and
begins the quarrel. Orit is the foot that you wet;
the back that set itself up in a draught; the laggard
liver, the overstrained nervous system that jangles
the brain’s sweet bells out of tune. The brain itself
takes the best care of itself, and complains the least
of work of any of our organs. Forthis reason it de-
serves profound courtesy when it does ache. A wise
man will rebuke his appetite, change his diet, havea

» eare over his other belongings that they do not
aggravate the affliction that they have themselves
caused the finest texture of our material frame.

For myself, I will insist on being considerate of m
head when it aches. I will rest it if that be its need.
I will take exercise to relieve its overcharged blood-
vessels which my all-day’s sedentary habit has con-

ested to bursting. I will not eat that which my
ead complains of—no, not to gratify the palate, for
I think my head is the nobler part. I wili sleep, if
that is its cure; for, of all the medicines that my oft-
sick flesh craves, the aching head’s medicine is
cleanest and sweetest—sleep. I see men pour out
odoriferous ointments on aching feet and joints; but
they will not take sleep to medicate the noble brain.

Ah, sleep! It is itself a mysterious thing, a thing
cousin to immortal states; most befitting the brain,
that mysterious handmaid of the immortal soul.
Alas for him who cannot sleep! What agony must
be his whose head aches with thinking, yet cannot
drop upon an unconscious pillow. Sleep has cured
my headaches ever since IT wasaboy. They tell me
it will not always be so; that in age I shall lie and
-toss in wakeful, unwilling consciousness of every
pang; that the clock will mock me and the daybreak
seem a terror. But not so yet, please God. When
the head is aching I lay it down. It presses the pil-
low like a ton; it throbs till I verily fear the house is

quaking with the lumpyroll of bowlders of pain from
side to side of my brows. It bounds, it whirls, poor
head, it swims! It is light as a feather, it has wings
of torture, this head aching so! To move is to feel
that ice is being rubbed down my spine, great pounds
of cold blue ice, and the ice is pain frozen. To speak
is to moan. To be spoken to is agony. Then the
pressure on the top of the head. Atlas lifted the
world on his shoulders, but I am lifting it on my
head, after the fashion of the Swiss peasantry.

But it is not long. Sleep creeps on, and at last the
drowsy senses are benumbed. I dream now that my
headaches. But a dream is only a dream. SoonlI
cease even to dream; I amasleep. Does my head go

on aching? I cannot say.
But if it does I do not care, for I know it not.
Whither goes the headache? I know not; I do not
care. It has flown out of the window. I awake! Lo,
the god of day is riding high, his strong beams ajoy,
when a night before a sickly gas-light drove me mad.
I stir, [rise up, Irub my brows, I smile. T am not
conscious that I have a brain. I have all the con-
sciousness of animmortal. I thank God that I lux-
uriate in the re-possession of myself.

Ah, you people who never had a headache, you do
not know what the joy of morning is. Morning with-
out pain! It reminds me of the visions of seers who
have looked into the land where no night is, ‘‘neither
shall there be any more pain.”

I will always minister to others the consideration
that I claim. I will oblige a friend whose head aches.
I willindulge a servant, I will await the recovery of
my lawyer when his head aches. I will never laugh
at a*theadache. Cholera has its ministering angels,
but too often a headache is the subject of derisive
contempt. Notso with me. Did you ever think that
those whom we love the best are its most frequent
victims? My dear mother, the mention of headache
makes me think of thee’ Isit not so, reader? The
favorite invalid child, brightest mind of all our
group, precious head that often nestles in our bosom
with its pain; and, sweet child, we fear that always
through thy brilliant life this head will haveits pain,
such as dullards neverknow. The friend, the school-
mate of the most exquisite sensibilities and tender-
est, quickest sympathies, was the fond head that
most frequently ached. Itis the head that is fullest
of cares for others, machine of a generous heart, that
aches ; head of the care-taker, the sorrow-bearer, the
braveand the true. The head that devises great plans,
the far-visioned philanthropists. In history how
often do we read. of great deeds done for man by men
sick in the head? Heads of soldiers, smitten with
the sun in long marches, heads of heroes who face
fire or flood. Indeed, it is a most respectable malady,
except when it sits atop the glutton, the drunkard, or
the libertine, and curses him with just penalty.

THANKSGIVING.

BY KATE THORN.

It seems to be generally believed that the annual
holiday known throughout New England as Thanks-
giving is a season for the returning of special
thanks for bountiful crops, health, freedom from
plagues, and sicknesses, and fires, and floods, and
casualties in general; but our experience of it shows
us that the most of the returning thanks is done in
the pulpits; and if, as it often chances, the min-
ister’s salary has not been paid, the thanks aforesaid
are liable to be somewhat lukewarm. For the man
who can devoutly return thanks for what he has not
got, and never expects to get, must have more than
the average amount of grace, and faith in things un-
seen.

At Thanksgiving’ time, it seems as if every one lays

himself out to eat all that he possibly can. The
universal New Englander braces himself up, draws a
long breath to give his stomach time to expand, and
tells himself that Thanksgiving comes but once a
year, and one wants to have a good time.
It is strange how much eating has to. do with hay-
ing a good time, if we may judge by the fuss there is
made to have avariety of things to eat. It would
seem, sometimes, that the sole end and aim of man
was to eat. :

Thanksgiving is the time when the culinary forces
of every household are in full sway. Cook books are
the literature mostly studied. Fancy work and
crazy quilts, and painting on plates, and coal hods,
and antiquated bean pots, and jugs of obsolete pat-
terns, are all laid aside, and the female members of
the household: bend every energy to stirring butter,
and sugar, and eggs, and raisins, and spices, into
compounds that would cause the gizzard of an
ostrich to collapse.

From the poultry yard of the farmer come the om-
inous wails of the turkey gobbler and the fat rooster,
as they are borne off to the destination of all worthy
gobblers and roosters, the chopping block, from
whence they are taken in due time, and with great
triumph, to the china platters which make the center
pieces on the dinner tables of the bloated bondholder
and the railway king. :
Thanksgiving Day is the one cheerful thing we get
in November. All the rest of the month is filled up
with fog, storms, mud, dead leaves, forsaken looking
crows, bad colds, rheumatism, poor relations, setting
up stoves, cries of hard times, and other signals of
approaching cold weather. :

We all look forward to Thanksgiving.

Tom is coming home from the city, where he has
made his fortune and married a fine lady for a wife;
and she is coming with him, and the old farm-house
among the hills must be furbished up to appear well
in the cultivated eyes of Mrs. Tom. Sister Sally and
her children will be here, seven of ’em, and it is
strange that poor folks will have so many children!
And Gust Ben is coming to stay a few days, and
Uncle Ben is worth cultivating, when one takes into
consideration the fact that he has got half a million,
and nota chick nor a child to leave it to. Oh, yes,
there is no danger but what Uncle Ben willbe made
welcome, anywhere. And he will reward the kind-
ness of his relations, by and by, by leaving his money
to found an asylum for homeless dogs, and all his
friends will try to prove that there is insanity in the
family, and that Uncle Ben was a victim to it.
Thanksgiving Day ought to be clear and cold, and
to enjoy it in-perfection, one ought to be young and
good-looking, with a digestion equal to cast iron
hammer heads and board nails, and then he can sail
in, and take the consequences.

satiate
—_>~°o->

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

I hav known men to pass thru life eazily by simply
bowing to every one they met.

Yu kant allwuss tell bi the surface what’s under-
neath; the most placid pools often hav the muddyest
bottoms.

A yung phool may outgro his foolishness, but an
old one grows more silly.

Mankind hav allwuss been looking into futurity,
and not enny one ov them haz ever seen enny thing
yet.

The very thing we ought to kno the most about we
kno the least ov, and that iz ourselfs.

Religion that don’t inkrease a man’s humility iz a
doubtful investment.

True merit seldum fails to git its just reward.

Thare are a grate menny things that resemble it,
but thare is but very little genuine friendship in this
world.

Sum ov the excentricitys we meet with are amus-
ing, sum are disgusting, hardly enny are natral, and
all are silly.

Hunting after kontentment iz like hunting after
fleas; when yu git whare they are, yu tind they hav

just left.

Thoze persons who are afrade to trust enny boddy
else, owe their caushun Ene? to a thorough ac-
quaintance with themselfs.

A very delikate dash ov impudence in a man’s
karakter iz no worse than so mutch romance.

Hope iz too often a cruel jade; but, after all, she is
one ov the best friends we hav.

It iz the very uncertainty ov life, and all things in
it, that make it so attractive.

Good natur iz not only skarse, but so skarse that it
iz sumtimes suspishus.
2 et 0

DON’T RUN FOR THE TRAIN.

The margin of reserve strength at call for emer-
gences is seldom a large one, and those persons are
ill advised who make a great demand too suddenly.
It matters little what the demand may be, or on what
part it is made. The policy of putting forth any
great unaccustomed effort, whether of mind or body
{to use a popular form of expression), after maturi-
‘ty, is unsound. Whether the fact that we generally
begin to go down the hill of life soon after we reach
its summit, instead of lingering on the higher plain,
is accounted for by our habits of modern convention-
al life may be doubtful, but the fact. admits of no
question. ‘Practically the total length of life depends

peed on the management of the middle age.
he secret of longevity is, probably, skill in so econ-
omizing the reserve of vital energy as to make it last
out an unusual period. Most of the aged folk we
know have lived pretty equably—which is a different
thing from tranquillity—after the attainment of years
of maturity. They may have worried and worked
hard before, but they steadily maintained the habit
—whatever that might be—which was formed at the
turning point of middle age, between the ages of 40
and 60. This done, the prolongation of life was chief-

 

ly due to an avoidance of special eftorts. Occasion-
ally the whole life consists in a series of efforts, and
yet lasts long; but then the “organized habit’ of nu-
trition has been that necessary for a wide range of
special calls on the reserves. If a man has-been
catching trains all his life in youth and adolescence,
he may continue to do so with impunity; but to be-
gin this feat in mature age is suicidal, because the
margin of strength held in reserve does not justify
the special demand or response to the call.

Itis a curious question.

HOW TO PICK A HUSBAND.

XVII.—BEWARE OF GENIUSES.

My DEAR GALS: I wonder if you all remember a
young man that I saw at the house of one of you—I
disremember which—last winter? He played the
pianner like a regular music-teacher, he drawed pic-
tures, as quick as a wink, of lots of folks who
skeercely knowed he was lookin’ at them, an’ he
made it as clear as water to ev’rybody what the
gov’ment ort to do with England about the fishin’
banks squabble. Some of you ort to remember him,
even if you haven’t seen him sence, for after he went
out one of you said:

‘“‘He’s a perfect genius !”’

An’ two or three others put in an’ said:

“Indeed he is.” ;

“T s’pose you was right, ev’ry one of you; so I hope
none of you hain’t met him sence an’ fell in love with
him; for of all the men that’s calkilated to make
women’s life a burden, geniuses is most generally the
wust. I know it sounds real ugly to say it, but facts
is facts. I know it’s splendid to jest set an’ hear a
genius go on, whether he’s makin’ a speech, or
playin’ a tune, or readin’ a poem, or talkin’ about an
invention, or boomin’ real estate, or preachin’ a ser-

mon. He does Sresor so much more of a man than
any of the humdrum, ev’ry-day kind o’ folks about
him, an’ he does so kind o’ lift one up above the com-
mon crowd, for the time bein’.

He’s all right in his place, too, as often as not; but
oh, my dear gals, don’t ever for a minute suppose
that his place is that of a husband for any one of
you.

You may be tempted to do so, for the genius don’t
live who hasn’t got a quick eye for all the p’ints of a
splendid gal—an’ all my gran’darters are splendid.
Like ev'rybody else with a good deal of snap an’ go,
he feels the need of woman’s sympathy, an’ he’ll
work for it for all he’s wuth ; an’ when a man of that
kind has got his heart set on a gal, his tongue, an’
eyes, an’ face is full of powerful pleadin’.

But don’t you givein toit. He don’t intend to be
mean, but all the same his powerful pleadin’ is all for
himself. A man that’s made that way ain’t the man
that’s goin’ to make any woman a good husband. A
married genius don’t need to be a brute or a rascal,
but any neglect from aman of his kind cuts an’
hurts a good deal wuss than if it come from a com-
moner kind of a feller.

I don’t know what meanin’ your family dictionary
may give to the word “genius,” an’ I don’t care. I’ve
knowed lots of geniuses, an’ I’ve always found out
that what was at the bottom of them was the faculty
of givin’ their whole minds to whatever they war
doin’. It’s a grand quality; it’s what’s made all the
great men of ev’ry kind that the world’s ever had.
lt’s as necessary to the world as a hot oven to a pan
of tea-biscuit; but when you're pickin’ out a hus-
band, it ain’t your business to think about the world
—you’ve got to think about yourselves an’ the fam’-
lies that you’re likely to have.

Geniuses don’t make good husbands, as a rule.
When you see a woman wearin’ her last year’s bon-
net you’re just as likely to find out that her husband’s
a genius as that he’s a drunkard

Perhaps he’s got some scheme on his mind
that one of these days’ll make the world ring; but
that’s no consolation to his wife if her boys have to
go to school with their jackets out at elbows, an’ his
gals catch cold in wet weather because they hain’t
got any overshoes or waterproofs.

Geniuses sometimes makes big hits an’ piles of
money ; but it’s astonishin’ how often geniuses have
to nove because they’re behind hand with their rent.
Some geniuses write perfectly lovely poetry about
women; but the women that inspire ’em ain’t always
sure to be their own wives.

Geniuses can live as long on hope as frauds can on
credit, an’ mebbe it’s good for them, for it spurs them
ee But hope can’t fill the bread-baskets of hungry
children—they can’t digest it at all. Neither can it
help a wife to feel happy when she goes to church in
@ snabby dress.

A genius’s wife allus has to play second fiddle to
his work. I know of one genius who was so wrapt
up in decoratin’ the inside of a church with colors
an’ carvin’s, an’ stained glass, an’ fancy woodwork,
that he never went near his wife while she was al-
most a-dyin’, with a sick baby beside her. I don’t
purtend to know what the Lord thought about it, it
bein’ His house the man was at work on; but I do
know what his wife thought, an’ I fully agree with
the neighbors who said that the man committed a
deadly sin when he stopped bein’ a bachelor.

There is women that would be pleased to be mar-
ried to a man who could do the wonderful work that
feller did. Well, let such women marry the geniuses,
but first let ’em make sure they’ve got enough prop-
erty in their own right to keep the pot a-bilin’, an’
enough heart to console themselves when they’re
alone an’ forgotten for the time bein’. But to my
nieces, with my blood in ’em, that sort of marriage
wouldn’t seem to be much more than a chance ac-
quaintanceship.

I’spose some of you think it would be splendid to
have such a husband to show off, an’ hear him talked
about, an’ see his name in the newspapers. Well, so
*twould, bvt the biggest blunder a gal ever makes is
in sizin’ up married life with the eyes she’s got be-
fore she’s married. Things don’t look the same from
your own house, where you’ve got all the responsi-
bility, as they do from your father’s house, where
you can’t look ahead at anythin’ without mixin’ alot
of dreams with your thoughts. 4

Now, don’t go to thinkin’ your grandma is down on
geniuses. I say again, an’ I'll say it allus, that the
world needs ’em, an’ has got to have’em. They’re
all rightin their pe, All [’m tryin’ to get into

our blessed minds is that their place is not that of

usband—not as a rule.

An’ yet, once in a while, there’s a genius, a man
who can pull himself altogether for whatever life-
work he sets his heart on, who devotes himself to
bein’ stiddily, persistently affectionate to his wife,
so he hasn’t any eyes for anythin’ else that comes
along, not even if the somethin’ else is a woman
that’s pootier an’ smarter than the one he’s tied to.
‘That kind o’ genius often runs in families, an’ if ever
it comes your way, don’t you turn up your nose at it.
It may not set *he world afire, but if there’s flame
enough about it to keep your heart warm all the
time, that ort te be enough to satisfy you. Noman
can be everythin’. Your ;

GRANDMA PERKINS.

— oo or

DEATH BY THE GUILLOTINE.

When the final day arrives the convict is awakened
by the warden about half an hour before the time is
set for the execution. The strait-jacket is removed,
and his ordinary clothes given him. Then he is
bound, hand and foot, by two of the headsman’s aids.
and afterward left alone with the priest for a few
moments, unless the services of this ecclesiastic are
declined. From the cell he is taken toadimly lighted
room, called the toilet chamber; here, seated on a
stool, he listens to the prayers recited aloud by the
priest, while one of the aids cuts the hair from the
back of the neck and the collar from the shirt. He is
ready! Supported by two aids, and accompanied by
the executioner, the priest, and the other officials,
the condemned marches out, the two huge outside
doors fly onen. and the guillotine, surrounded by;the
military and the police, greets his eye.

Arrived on the platform, the executioner and his
aids push him against the swinging plank; he falls
so that his neck fits into the lower half of the moon-
shaped socket, the upper half of which is immediate-
ly lowered; the executioner touches a spring, the
knife falls with a sharp sound, the head drops into
the tub, a little stream of blood gushes out from the
trunk, and justice is satisfied! The whole operation
takes less than half a minute.

The headless body is slid into the willow basket,
the head is placed between the legs, and the basket

 

 

is put into a wagon that has heen waiting two hours
for its burden. Escorted by a squad of gendarmes,
and followed by a priest in a modest cab, the train
gallops off to the Ivy Cemetery, three or four miles
away, where a part ofthe inclosure, called the turnip
field, is reserved for the burial of executed criminals.
When the body is not claimed it is immediately ex-
humed and given to the medical school. Meanwhile,
the aids dismantle the guillotine, wash away the
blood stains, and return the ‘“‘widow” (the criminal’s
name for the guillotine) to her quarters, in the Rue
de la Folie Regnault. An hour later if you should
pass along the Rue de la Roquette, you would never
suspect that you were crossing a spot where so short
a while before this sinister machine had sent a soul
into eternity. You would see the poor children of
the neighborhood playing about the square, chasing
each other in merry sport over the flagstones scarce-
ly dry from the executioner’s sponge, the soldiers of
the guard loating lazily about the prison door, while
the birds, flitting among the trees, send forth their
joyous morning carols. In the country the execu-
tions are notso rapidly performed. Oftentimes the
place of punishment is situated many miles from the
yrison, and the moral torture of the criminal is pro-
onged for hours by the long journey from one point
to the other.

Humor and Philosophy.

BY GEORGE RUSSELL JACKSON.

Trifles Light as Air.
PERSEVERANCE REWARDED.
I told her that I loved her well,
Andas with downcast eyes she listened,
Her corsage gently rose and fell
And tear-drops on her lashes glistened.
The maid in silence heard me through—
I don’t remember all I told her;
But when I closed, a sigh she drew
And laid her head upon my shoulder.

The action, full of eloquence,

Denoted that my ardent suing
Had won her love and confidence—

It was an answer to my wooing.
Emboldened by success, I tried

To kiss her lips—the kiss was wasted,
For like a skittish colt she shied,

And right upon her ear I placed it.

As soon as I my breathregained, |

I braced myself once more to try it:
The blissful goal must be attained—

I’d reach it this time, or come nigh it.
The maid drew back her head—I missed,

Yes, missed 4 aim aan by thunder!
It was her dainty nose I kissed

And not the red lips smiling under.

Although resolved the goal to win,
I found the task was far from simple:
Next time I kissed her on the chin
Where smiled a pretty, roguish dimple.
At length she, pitying my distress,
Though in apparent perturbation,
Her lips’ twin rosebuds let me press
In young love’s primal osculation.

Is there a joy which mortals taste
That in the mem’ry longer lingers
Than this: an arm-encircled waist,
The pressure soft of trembling fingers
And love’s first kiss, the thrill of bliss,
Ere lips from lips reluctant sever?
No! life holds naught so sweet as this,
And those who’ve loved forget it never!

SHE'LL MAKE THINGS HUM.
Whene’er to woman, bless her heart,
The right to vote the law accords,
In politics she’ll take her part,
The equal of creation’s lords ;
And, doubtless, lively times we'll see,
As soon as she a vote controls,
For every where there’s sure to be
A deal of bustle at the polls.

ABOUT RIGHT.
A physiognomist supposes
Man’s nose, man’s character discloses ;
And he is not far wrong, we guess;
His character shows through its cloaking
Who owns a nose that’s always poking
Into a neighbor’s business.

THE FLOWER OF EDEN.
In Eden, in those peaceful years,
When it was all abloom with flowers
And love, unvexed by jealous fears,
Dwelt in its fragrant bowers;
The morning broke serene and bright,
From dawn to dusk the day was fair,
And sweetly beautiful the night
Fell on thé primal pair.

And Adam, creature of the clay,

In that sweet time before the fall,
Marked each division of the day,

And found a joy in all.
Nighy with her stars and silver moon—

ild night, the time of balmy rest—

The rosy morn, the golden noon,

But Eve he loved the best.

The Anglomaniac Again.
DE BECKBEY (of Boston).—‘*Do you—aw—dine with
the Grigginses this evening?’
DE AVENOO (of New York).—‘*Yaas. Do you?”
DE B.—*“‘I do.” .
Dr A.—“‘There is to be a membah of the English
nobility pwesent, I have been infawmed.”
DE B.—*‘8o I have heard.” :
DE A.—‘Well, then, old chappie, I would advise
you to be a little maw caawful than you were when I
introduced you to Lawd Noodlepet.” .
DE B.—‘‘How more careful?”
DE A.—“‘Why, goodness gwacious, you addwessed
him as ‘my lord’ and ‘your lordship.’ ”
‘e Dre B.—“‘And how—aw—should I have addressed
im?’
DE A.—‘“‘I wondah at your asking. Why, as ‘me
lud’ and ‘yaw ludship.’ You should be caawful, vewy
caawful, my fwiend, or people will take you to be an
Amewican.”

The Society Girl to Her Maid.
My low-crowned bonnet put away,
Yithin the bandbox let it lie;
To-night I’m going to the play ;
Bring out my hat, six stories high.

Leading Man.
MANAGER.—“‘What business do you play?”
AcTorR.—“Leadizg man. At least, ’ve been play-
ae man lately.”

.—In what piece ?”’
A.—“The Pedestrians.”
M.—“The Pedestrians? Never heard of it?’
A.—“I don’t suppose you have. You see, it was in
this way: The star combination of which I was a
member busted up some fifty miles from New York,
and we had to foot it to the city. Being the best
walker, I led the company all the way home over the
ties. That’s how I came to play the leading role.”
M.—*You are quite a walker, then ?”’
A.—“I flatter myself that I am.”
M.—“‘Then let me see you walk.”
And he walked.

“‘There’s Nothing Half so Sweet on Earth.”
The life we are living no pleasure doth hold—
A fact that e’en cynics allow—
Like that we enjoy when love’s story is told
And the time comes for “sealing the vow.”

A Long Wait.

CALLER (Sunday morning).—‘‘Is Mr. Jones at
home ?”’ :
Mrs. JoNES.—“‘He has just gone up stairs to read
the Sunday papers, and he gave strict orders that he
was not to be disturbed. Can’t you call back after
he, gets through?” j

C.—‘After he gets through reading the Sunday
papers ?”’

Mrs. J.—‘*Yes.”

C.—“All right. Ili call back in a month or twe.”

The Reason of It.
Our plans in life go oft askew,
And plain’s the reason why :
We bite off more than we can chew
And fly our kites too high.

Plenty of Holidays Now.
The man who struck for more holidays has now
the entire 365 and 6 hours in which to enjoy himself.
Who says nothing is achieved by strikes?

He is a Bore.
Who lives that doesn’t know him well,
The man to whom you cannot tell
A single thing he doesn’t know,
Who to your story, joke, or pun
Gives patient ear, and when you’ve done
Remarks, “I heard that long ago?”

Something in It.

Mesmerists claim that they can cure disease wf
stroking with the hand the part of the body affected.
There seems to be some ground for the claim, for it
is a fact, attested by experience, that bad boys have
frequently been cured by the laying on of hands.

Ineligible.

YoutrH—“I have come to ask you for the hand of
your daughter.” :

GIRL’s FATHER—“‘What are your habits?’

Y.—“I am a prohibitionist.”

G. F.—“A prohibitionist! How, then, can you sup
porter?”

On His Best Behavior.

A young man always shows at his best during
courtship, and this in spite of the fact that during
that period he is usually miss managed.

Just as Often.

As often as men rush to cheer
And aid a suffering brother,
As often on this earth we hear
One woman praise another.

Extenuating Circumstances.
HUSBAND (gravely)—‘‘There you are again, Jennie,
snapping me up for the least little thing. I do wish
ou would be a.little more amiable. It doesn’t make
ome an attractive place, let me tell you, to have you

 

one-half of the time in the sulks and the other half
wees to pick a quarrel.”
/IFE (humbly)—“I know it, John, and am always
deeply repentant after my exhibitions of temper. I
am ae to ae t . failing. It wasn’t born
in me, but was acquired when I grew up. I
belong tu a church choir.” ; . " wenn

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

a

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.

X. X. X., Leroy.—In answer to your query we have to
say that itisonly a superstition which associates with
each month in the year its characteristic gem. It is
thought to this day among Eastern nations—and the
same belief prevailed among the ancient Romans—that
the fortunes of a human being are influenced by the stone
which belongs to his birth-month. The fiery garnet is
the stone of January, and it insures “constancy and fidel-
ity in every sort of engagement.” To February
the amethyst, and he who is born in that dapat Fg i ‘a
wear the purple stone as a “preservative against violent

)assions and drunkenness,” to which fate will tempt him
Stormy March has, and needs, the bloodstone, which

ives “courage and wisdom in perilous undertakings and

rmness in a ection.” To fickle April, “all smiles and
tears,” belongs the deep blue Sapphire, which “frees from
enchantment, and denotes repentance and kindness of
disposition.” The emerald belongs to May, and its bril
liant green suits the spring verdure. “It discovers false
witnesses and insures apomose in love, and domestic fe-
licity. The agate, which belongs to the flower month
of June, ‘‘causes its wearer to be invincible in ail feats of
strength, and insures jens te, health, and prosperity.”
To burning J ~e the glow Mg ruby belongs, and it isa he.
neficent stone, for it both “discovers poison, and cures all
evils springing from the unkindness of friends. The
sardonyx, to h m who is born in August, “insures conju-

al felicity. The chrysolite “preserves from Seguate

im who 18 born in September. To October belongs the
pale opal, ‘‘with the glint of fire at its heart;” the stone
of “misfortune,” but also of “hope.” The pearl, meaning

tears and pity,” is assigned to vovember, and the tur-
quois, “prosperity in love,” to December.

Horseman, Vandalia, 0l.—John §. Rarey, the celebrated
horse-tamer, died at Cleveland, Ohio, Oct. 4, 1866, aged 38.
He met with great success, both in this country and in
England, which latter country he visited about 1861, in
taming the most vicious beasts. T itic
of his skill were largely atemded. Tee ee on
ployed by the United States Government toi
report on the horses of the Potomac army.

a knack of managing horses at an early age, and in a
8. mn time built up the great reputation he had acquired
of the horse, Wich he teh ay ng every Decullarity
, ou co j
made tractable by kindness than by a ere

Hamilton, Louisville.—ist. No recipe for the cosmetic
named, buta very fine cream is thus made: Melt to-
gether spermaceti, six ounces, and white wax, one ounce,

in one pound of sweet almond oil. Then remove from the
fire, and stir in the

Only ex oelegeeh oenaee oa
do properly the work you propose tO perfom ve
Burke Edwards, Lee, Mass-—Moderate exercise after
eating will do no harm, but any violent play among chil-
dren after a hearty meal, such as running, leaping, or
skipping the rope, should be refrained from for at least half
an hour, Intense study immediate]

injurious, as any brain work causes the blood wee
ward the head, leaving the stomach without heat enough
to digest the food rightly. Violations of the ordinary

rules of health may not seem hurtf
penalty will have to be paid SOUBOE ox incene oe

A. M, B., Burlington, N.J.—Hor, in Biblical

J 3 . geo hy,
isa mountain near the Southern boundary of Fosters
Palestine, upon which Aaron, the brother of Moses, died
It is now generally identified with the Je Tarun
(mountain of the Prophet Aaron), the one ens et
conspicuous of the range of the sandstone mountains of

Edom, on the east side of the
Its height is 4,800 feet above t} o Mediteseen eamaeviag

Rambler, Norwich, Conn.—Bats fly very easily, but
their movements on the ground are labored and clumsy.
When they walk, they reach forward, catch hold of some-
thing with one thumb, and draw their ¢
they then do the same with the other meme, es
making a zig-z movement. Bats in the air ,
active, and catch insects while on the wing
small eyes and large ears and mouths. ‘

George S. S., Columbia, S. C.—1st. The engines of the
Great Eastern were designed to develop 10,000 horse-
power. 2d. As originally built, there were
and four screw engines. The paddle-wheels wa Bere
in diameter, the screw 24 feet. 3d. The first screw vessel
pase for the British navy was the Archimedes. Date
Willful Winnie, Erie, Pa.—ist. If engaged, no. 2d. A
weak solution of borax and water will prove beneficial to
the skin, if there be added to the solution
Ecorines The following recipe for a pivcentie ieee
ighly recommended: Borax, half a dram; glycerine, half
@ tuid ounce ; rose water, seven and a half fidia ounces.
M. F. C., Schuyler, Neb.—ist. The population of Lafay-
ette, Indiana, in 1880, the date of the last U.S. census
was 14,860; that of Terre Haute, 26,042. 2a. i
Wm. F. Switzler, Chief of Bureau of Statistics, (hier

Department, Washingto WO. i i
relative to'yONr tree “gg D. C., for official information

are very
They have

Jim, Beaver Co., Pa.—ist. It is probablv a Kossuth’
ae which was put in circulatien- when the distin-
guished Hungarian was in this country. 2d. Your

manship 1s fair, and woul : Pod.
= BS d answer for office work. 3d.
D. A. C., Leadville, Colo.—It takes a long time—some-
times years—to become a skillful performer upon the
violin, even with the best of instruction. Much depends
upon the patiencé, industry, perseverance, and aptitude

of the pupil.
A .N. D.—Gen. James McLeer, a native of Brooklyn, is
General of the Second Brigade of the National Guard ;
Louis Fitzgerald is General of the First Brigade, Tt
latter was formerly Lieutenant-Colonel of the Seventh
Regiment.

M. A.J., Eagleville, Ohio.—Canada turpentine, called

also Canada balsam, is obtained from the balm of Gilead,
a kind of fir-tree. Venice turpentine is the sap of the
larch tree, and Strasburg turpentine the sap of the silver

fir tree.
Artist, Port Jervis, N. Y.—“The Curse of Everleigh,”’
by Helen Corwin Pierce, is in book-form. Price $1.50.

If you wish it, write direct to the NEW YORK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency. The other story named is out of

print.

Lady Adelaide, Jersey City Heights.—Lawn Tennis
was invented by Major Walter Wingfield, of the British
Army. He brought out the game under anoth

in 1834, and the first public aie e was played in 1875. oe
Joseph H., South Boston.—If you cannot obtain it at

the office of any news company in your vicinity, write to
on. F. Derham, Postmaster-General, Melbourne,
Australia, stating your wishes.

Pansy, Ottawa, Ill., and M. A. J., Napoleonville, La.,—
We can furnish you with a coin book containing the ad-
dresses of coin dealers, etc., for 50 cents.

Mrs. T. D. T., Columbus, Ohio.—Some State society
might purchase it as a curiosity. Write to the Secretar
of the Shio Historical Soolety. Ginvinnnes z

J. B. J., Brooklyn.—Hannibal Hamlinjwas elected Vice-

President of the United States in 1860. A transposition
of the figures caused the error referred to.

Boy in Rlue, Camden, N. J.—The newly elected Com-
ate of the Grand Army of the Republic is J.

Lawrence, Boston, Mass.—The opera of ‘Semiramis’
re ey Adalbert Gyrowetz, who died in Vienna

Jeremiah Creedon, Lawrence, Mass.—We know of no
official proclamation on the subject.

E. S., Boulder, Col—The word gold first appears in
Genesis, chapter II, verse 11.

Y. S.—The value of a ton of pure gold is $602,799.21; that
of a ton of silver, $37,704.84. . oat

A Constant Reader.—No test that we know of.
0. and A., Lake View.—We think not.

To CONTRIBUTORS.—The following MSS. are respect-
fully declined: “The Specter Owl,” “A Drunkard’s
Death,” “A Song,” “Can 1?’ “Dreams ot Home,” “A Cat
Puzzle,” “After Death.”

ONE KITCHEN FOR A CROWD.

In a short time we shall discover at home what we
have long ago found out in the factory and the ware-
house. The absurd waste of a hundred fires to cook

a hundred joints, with a hundred servants to watch
the cooking, will become self-evident. One large fire
or a patent gas stove, and one or two cooks would
suffice for all the hundred joints. The same may be
said of many other forms of domestic work. A row
of houses or of flats could, in their collective capacity,
well afford to organize a model kitchen, with the most
improved modern mechanical appliances. For such
a kitchen the meat, &c., could be bought wholesale,
and an immense economy realized allround. On the

 

other hand the cooks and servants could be paid the
highest wages the best skill demanded and obtained.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
    
     
       
       
    
     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    
 
   
 
 

      
   
   
 
 
 
  

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. than that endured by the criminal, who knows hé de-

     
        
    
 

     
    

  

 

 

 

 

 

  

VOL. 43—No. 5 .

eomese THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ==

   

 

IS IT FAR?

 

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

 

Is it far to the river?
Oh, traveler, say !

For my feet they are weary,
And dark is the way.

The clouds they have hidden
Each radiant star ;

Oh! tell me, I pray,
Is it far?

Is it far to the shore

Where the river I ford?
May I journey by faith?

May I trust in His word?
Shall I soon see the place

Where the sanctified are—
The fair Eden land—

Is it far?

Is it far to the city
Whose streets are of gold?
Whose treasures are boundless,
Whose joys are untold?
Where the beautiful gates
Of the saints are ajar,
Where my soul may have rest—
Is it far?

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

THO “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 XXV.
A PERILOUS RESOLVE.

In prison!

What an amount of varied thought is conveyed in
those two words!

Yes, Reginald Clyde, as honest and noble a young
man as ever walked through the streets of St. Louis,
was now an inmate of the dark, gloomy prison. When
the bolt was shot into its socket and he, for the first
time, realized that he was deprived of his freedom,
his heart sank within him.:

It is easy to say that an innocent man feels not his
imprisonment, but laughs at the locks and bolts, the
chains and bars.

Itis not so!

The conscience may be easy, strong in its knowl-
edge of innocence, but the torture is even greater

serves punishment.

Imprisonment is a terrible thing at any time. The
soul chafes and frets at the confinement, and the first
night within the walls of a jail is one of the most
horrible experiences @ man can endure. So thought

Reginald, but his torture was increased by the fact
that the boldness of the accusation made by his
cousin would naturally impress some with a belief in
his guilt.

In his mind the facts shaped themselves very
plausibly, for would not the world ask, ‘Is it likely
the man's own cousin, a resident under the same
roof, would bring such a scandal on the family name
without cause?”

Again, would it not be a subject for wonder why
Van Doorst should declare with semi-publicity that
he had witnesses who saw the deed committed. if
such was not the fact. Poor Reginald knew that his
quarrel with his father would tell greatly against
him. Could he provean alibi? No. He dare not at-
tempt it for fear of failure, for was he not in St.
Louis at the very time that he was supposed by his
friends to be on the way to New York ?

If he proved his whereabouts it would necessitate
the appearance in court of Annie Lefferts and Mrs.
Gleason, and even then——

No, he could not see a chance to escape that way.
er name must never be mixed up in such an

air.

Reginald paced the cell until his mind got excited
and his imagination heated. He saw what a net-
work of suspicion and circumstantial evidence could
be woven around him, and he cried aloud in the an-
guish of his soul for Heaven’s interference.

He received but scant comfort from Lawyer Met-
ealfe, for that worthy delared that it was prepos-
terous to refuse to say how his time had been occu-
pied or whether he could not remember the sleeping-
car porter on the train, or some one who was a
fellow-passenger.

“But, Metcalfe,” said Regiuald, ‘‘my difficulty is
this. I did not go to New York that day.”

“What?” exclaimed the lawyer, with such em-
phasis that the sound echoed through the corridor,
was taken up by each cell, until on every hand there
was a distinct re-echo of the lawyer’s astonished

jail.

leave?’

 

feelings. i

“T merely say that I spent that day and part of the
nightin St. Louis.” :

“Great Heaven, man alive! what do you mean?’
“Calm yourself, sir. I was seen to enter the train;

you were with me at the depot; but for purposes of
my own ! left the train and drove across country to
this city.”

“Whom did you visit ?”’

“That I decline to answer.”

‘“‘Whom did you see or converse with ?”

“That also I shall not divulge.”

“You are a fool!”

“Very likely, but just now I am a prisoner.”

“And will remain so unless you answer my ques-
tions. What time did you finally leave St. Louis ?”

“About midnight.”

“Good! You took a sleeper?”

“T did.’

“And gave your name to the porter ?”’

“A false one.”

The lawyer’s face grew purple with excitement. If
his client had started to weave a rope wherewith to
ad himself, he could not have done it more effec-

ually.”

“What about your baggage?’

“That went on by the first train.”

“Great Scott! Reginald, you will hang.”

“But I am innocent.”

“What does that matter? Guiltless men have been
hanged ere now, and there is a chain of evidence
about you which looks like guilt.”

“Do you doubt me ?”’

“No. But see what a web is woven about you.
You + po with your father and he threatens to dis-
inherit you and make a new will to accomplish that
object. You start for the metropolis, leave the train,
slink into St. Louis, hide yourself, and can give no
or of how you occupy your time or when you

eave; telegrams to your hotel do not find you for
two or three days. Now what think you?’

For a moment Reginald laughed, but then the hor-
ror of his position burst upon him and bis face paled,
his eyes seemed to lose their luster, and it was in a
husky voice that he said:
saat 3 judged from your statement I should say

uilty

“So would any one. See here, my boy, your friends,
whoever they may be, must come forward and save

ou.”

“Find them then.”

“How?”

“That is your business. I tell you I would rather
die than say where I was on that particular night.”

“Then you will hang!” exclaimed the lawyer,
angrily, as he rose from the hard-seated chair in the
counsel-room of the prison.

“My dear sir,’ caid Reginald, rising also, “do not
get angry with me. I feel the gravity of my posi-
tion and know that all seems to be against me, but I
am innocent, and some way will be found for proving
it, without my betreyal of the confidence of the
friends I was with on that fatal night.”

“Be reasonable, Reginald. I know you are guilt-
less; but even my firm belief in you will not acquit
you; you must have evidence—legal evidence, mark
you—or your case is adesperate one. I see the depth
of the plot; for should you be removed out of the
wa an Doorst would inherit the most of your
father’s property.” :

“Yes, but can it be he would lend himself to per-
ury to get rid of me?” asked Reginald, while over
is face a look of great astonishment passed.

“It is searcely credible, yet it must be so.”

Reginald remained firm. No persuasion of the
lawyer could induce him to involve Mrs. Gleason or
Annie Lefferts in his troubles. He was resolved that
they should never have to read their names in the
columns of a newspaper as witnesses in a criminal
trial, through any act of his.

Mr. Metcalfe was puzzled. That there was some
mystery he was assured, but he was also firmly con-
vinced that all could be explained, and his young

client’s innocence proved, if Reginald would but
speak about his clandestine return to St. Louis.

The lawyer had not left many minutes before the
aged mother was ushered into the gloomy abode of
her son. :

It was heart-rending to witness that scene, but on
the other hand so firmly did Mrs. Clyde declare that
her son was innocent, that her visit strengthened
him and made Reginald feel that while his mother
stood by him, he could resist all the onslaughts of
the enemy and false friends.

Night came, and the very air seemed to stifle him.
The solemn stillness of the prison was oppressive,
the tramp of the watch making his regular rounds
all made him sad.

A man will sleep in solitude, will prefer its silence,
when free, but once compel him to sleep in a cell,
nine feet by six feet, lock hin within its solid walls,
let him know that no exertion of his, no entreaty, no
money can secure his liberation, and sleep will not
visit his weary eyes for hours; silence is hateful and
solitude oppressive.

Yet how many are there, as innocent as Reginald
Clyde, who occupy our prison cells, some even after
a trial in which the innocent have been adjudged
guilty. Alas, itis sad to contemplate!

While Reginald was walking uneasily to and fro in
his prison cell, his traducer, John Van Doorst, slept
ealmly and with all the appearance of an easy con-
science, at the Lindell Hotel, to which he had re-
moved, feeling that his presence at the house of the
Clydes must be obnoxious.

It was almost a matter of wonder that he showed
so much consideration for the family, the head of
which he had cast into a dungeon cell.

 

CHAPTER XXVI.
INSANITY OR PASSION ?

Nearly a week had elapsed since Reginald Clyde
had for the first time in his life been locked up in a

To the astonishment of most of the citizens of St.
Louis, the Grand Jury had found a true bill of indict-
ment against him. ;

What evidence had been submitted to that wise
body, remained a strict secret. It was known that
Van Doorst had been before the jury for two hours,
and almost immediately after he had taken his de-
parture, it oozed out that Reginald had been indicted.

Annie Lefferts, when she first heard of her lover’s
imprisonment, was almost beside herself with grief.

She never doubted his innocence, but to her un-
sophisticated mind, being arrested and locked up
was almost equivalent to being declared guilty.

What could she do?

The most natural thing was to go and see Mrs.
Gleason, and that lady promised she would find out
oes lawyer and do all she could for the poor

ellow.

Annie, she felt assured, would be a useful witness,
and her testimony would be enough to cause the ac-
quittal of her lover.

When the ‘‘Famous” girl left the house of her
friend she felt better. Some of the sanguine hopes
and assurances of the jolly little woman had caused
Annie to believe that the imprisonment, however
dreadful, might after all be but a blessing in dis-
guise.

The next day she was attending to her duties in the
Famous store, when she heard some one asking for
her. Annie stepped forward and found that the in-
quirer was a lady dressed in deep black.

“Are you Annie Lefferts ?” asked the stranger.

“Yes, ma’am. Can I show you anything?’

“No!” answered the stranger, abruptly. “I want
a ,private conversation with you. Can you come
now ?”

“No, ma’am; but after business——”

“T had forgotten; it is so seldom I have private
dealings with shop-girls,” she remarked, with a
sneer, and in a voice showing contempt for the sup-
posed inferior position of Annie Lefferts.

After a pause, she asked: “What time could you

“T could get away at half-past five.”
PA well. Now where can you meet me ?”’
“T live——’

“TI don’t care where you live. No one must know

 

“GREAT SCOTT! REGINALD, YOU WILL HANG!”

that you have seen me, and you must never tell any
one your conversation. Do you comprehend ?’
yeu

“Then meet me by Mozart’s statue in Tower Grove
= as near six o'clock as possible. Will you?”

“ es.”’

Annie was so confused that she could not utter
anything but the simple monosyllable.

The lady left the store and the “Famous” girl felt
very uncomfortable. She longed for the hour ap-
pointed, and yet dreaded its coming.

What could be the special business, and why such
secrecy ?

That was what she did not like. If all was right
surely the lady would not object to meeting Annie in
her mother’s house. :

But she had given her word. and with hesitating
steps and fast-beating heart, she reached the rendez-_
vous.

“You are » ee: said the stranger.

Annie made no response, but waited.

“Come this way. We shall be able to talk as confi-
dentially as we please.” P

She led the way to a secluded part of the park and
then suddenly turned and looking at Annie with a
searching glance, asked :

“You knew Reginald Clyde?”

Poor Annie’s heart beat faster than ever, and in a
be 7 which was as soft as a whisper, said:

“ee es. ’

“T knew it; and you loved him?”

“Excuse me, ma’am. If I decline to answer such a
question ?”

“Oh, don’t be so much on your dignity. I only
thought you might be ready to help him in his
trouble.”

“T would die if that would save him.”’

“a peogeny so. Then you love him?”

‘ oO.”

“Ah! and it was for your sake he killed his
father——”’

“Reginald never killed any one. He is innocent.”

“Is he? Thatis for the jury to say. Now, Annie
Lefferts, Reginald is a bold, bad man.”

“Did you bring me here to insult one so noble as
my—as Mr. Clyde, who cannot defend himself ?”’

“T do not say anything which Icannot prove. I sup-
pose he met you and asked you to flee with him, to
brave his father's anger, and when away he would
marry you?’ she asked.
ti ae remained silent, and the stranger con-

inued : i

“He told me he did, and laughed at the way he was
fooling a little shop-girl——”

“T won't believe it.”

“No, of course not. But did he ever tell you he was
“engaged to marry me ?”

“No. Are you his cousin ?”
“Oh, he did mention a cousin, did he? So he did
tome. It was his father’s wish he should marry the

him ?”

“T did, and do.”

“Poor girl! He will hang, most ean

“Why do you torment me? Who are you?”

“T am Reginald Clyde’s affianced,” was the cold,
calm answer.

“What do you want with me?”

“T want to clear Reginald’s name.”

“Oh, so do I!”

“Yes, but what for? If he were free you would try
to coax him to marry you.”

“He would marry me,” answered Annie, proudly.

“Then I would rather he should die.”

“Tt cannot be that any one would be so wicked.”

“Tlove him, Annie Lefferts, and would rather see
him dead than married to another. He is innocent.
I can prove it!”

“You can 9?

“T can and will, but only on one condition——”

“And that ?”’

“You must renounce all claim to Reginald.”

“T cannot.”

“You must write to him and release him from any
promises, and must tell him most emphatically that
you believe him guilty.”

“T cannot, and will not. I do not know who you

cousin, and all that sort of thing. Did you believe

 

ae but Reginald is not guilty, and I will never say

e is——”

cara that would form a good excuse for releasing
m.

“T will not release him, as you callit. If you love,

as you say you do, you would never ask me to do it,

for you know Mr. Clyde’s nobility of character and

goodness of soul——”

_ You are eloquent,” interrupted the stranger, “but

it will not avail anything. Remember this—the evi-

dence against the prisoner is very strong. I can

easily upset it all. If you resign Reginald I will

prove his innocence. If not, then the evidence must

go in, and his fate will depend on the way the jury

look at it.”

“You are cruel. Would you injure an innocent

man, and one you say you love ?’

“It is because I love him.”

“Say not so. Oh, you don’t know what love is, for

oe will make any sacrifices to see the loved one
appy.”

“Just so. But though you could save his life by

sacrificing your feelings, you won’t do so.”

“How do I know it would save him ?’

|

 

 

 

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“NO ONE MUST, KNOW THAT YOU HAVE SEEN ME.”

“That you will only have my word for. If I succeed
and save him, he will be mine; if I fail and he is
hanged, we shall be no worse off.” ‘
“Oh, have merey! Are you a woman? Is it pos-
sible that you even know Mr. Clyde and can talk so
ealmly about his being hanged ?” asked Annie, hys-
terically.
The stranger was tremulous with excitement, but
possessed wonderful power of control over her feel-
ings.
In cold, ealm tones she said:
“Annie Lefferts, I love Reginald Clyde with that
strange passion which overcomes me. Listen to me.
I am not mad; I do not rave; yet I tell you I could
go to the bedside of Reginald and plunge a dagger to
his heart and allow his life blood to spurt up into my
face without a shudder, rather than he should marry
any one else. Had he been free, I would have tried
to win him away from you, and if I failed I would
have gone to the altar and shot him, and you, too.”
Annie was too disturbed with her anxiety to notice
the contradiction in the last speech of her coim-
panion, for had she not previously declared she was
really affianced to Reginald? But Annie did not per-
ceive the discrepancy. She was sobbing with the
very vehemence of despair. The strain on her nerves
had been too great and her physical powers could
not endure more.
“What shall I do?’ she exclaimed, between her
sobs. ‘I will do anything to save Reginald.”
“Hush! You will attract attention. Swear that
you will never again see Mr. Clyde; swear that if he
should regain his liberty you will not try either to
see or communicate with him.”

“Oh, I cannot! I cannot!’ And poor Annie sobbed
violently. :
“Then I will not save him. He is infatuated with
his low-born love and——”
‘“‘Why should I be compelled to destroy all my hap-
piness ?”’
“You are inmy way, Annie Lefferts. For your sake
he left his home; it was for your baby face that his
father cursed him; had it not been for you I should
have been his wife; and I hate you. If I save him,
he will turn to me; but that I cannot do unless you
love him enough to give him up.”
The conversation at this point was stopped, for, to
the surprise and disgust of the lady, John Van
Doorst appeared on the scene. :
“Adelia!” he exclaimed. ‘‘What_ brings you here,
and with her?” pointing to the frightened, hysterical

rl.

eGo. I will see you again,” said Adelia to Annie
Lefferts, who was glad to be able to escape from her
tormentor, if only for a time. :

“She is my milliner,” explained Adelia. j
“Indeed! But it is not often fair ladies meet their
milliners under the shade of the park trees.”

“T met her by accident,” said Adelia, blushing.

“Just so; and she had to swear the bonnet would
be too lovely for anything, eh ?”

As Van Hoorst placed such emphasis on the word
“swear” poor Adelia felt he must have heard the con-
br moregee gins and that was far from pleasant knowl-
edge.

The two walked away, and their conversation,
though evidently strained, was yet interesting, inas-
much as each tried to get from the other all known
about the murder of their uncle.

As Annie Lefferts walked home her heart was
heavy and sad. She would give her life to save her
lover, but she had sufficient presence of mind to
wonder how her renunciation of Tis love could
by any possibility save him. The sudden interrup-
tion gave her time to reflect, and before she reached
home she had become more composed, and felt confi-
dence that Mrs. Gleason would be able to help her
out of the difficult position in which she was placed.

 

CHAPTER XXVII.
“COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE.”

Maggie Coyle was happy. She had a comfortable,
even luxurious home; but. what rendered her so
much more joyous than of old, was that her mother
had found so good a friend and so easy and excellent
a position in the household of Douglas Fitzgerald.

All tried to induce her to leave the ‘“‘Famous.”

‘What need is there, my dear, for your staying ?”
asked her mother many a time.

“Why, mother dear, I like to be independent; be-
sides——”’

“What, Maggie?’

   

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«SF, me

“J WOULD HAVE GONE TO THE ALTAR AND SHOT
HIM, AND YOU TOO!”

“T could not live here idle, and Patrice will not
allow me to work as a help.”

“No, dear; but she wants you as her own com-
panion.”

Patrice pleaded, but with no better result.

Maggie liked the busy life of the store, and its
kaleidoscopic changes were pleasing to her.

If anything happened to her mother she would be
better fitted for the struggle with life’s difficulties by
being conversant with commercial life.

There was but one darkening cloud in her life. And
yet was that a dark cloud? Was it not rather a silver
ining to the mass of clouds which floated above her?

She was troubled at the wayin which Douglas
Fitzgerald watched her. Could it be that he loved
her? She asked herself a hundred times, but always
answered in the negative.

Was he not devoted to Patrice? And being so de-
voted could he spare a thought for one so lowly born
as she was? :

Maggie was very humble in her estimation of her
own worth.

In the parlor, of an evening, Douglas would watch

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Gastoria,

 

her every movement, would play accompaniments to
some of her songs—for she was an excellent singer
but far from a good pianist.

here was a softness of voice whenever he ad-
dressed her, which was not noticeable when he spoke
to Patrice.

Though Maggie tried to believe this attention was
a drawback, was she sorry?

No, for her heart beat quicker, her pulse was more
vehement, her bosom heaved with a happier emo
tion than ever before. She felt that she could love
Douglas if—

If !—there was the great stumbling-block again—if
she were not an assistant in a store, or if he were not
a rich man.

Maggie did not believe very strongly in the strength
of love to break down the barrier between the
wealthy and the poor.

In her own mind she had resolved that Douglas
would marry Patrice.

“That is how it should be,” she thought. ‘‘And
then, I shall be only her maid, or may be her com-
panion. I must notlove him. And yet how easy and
how pleasant it would be.”

These thoughts were being formulated in her mind

as she walked one evening from the Famous Store.

It was pleasant, the evening being not too warm, and,

as she wished to call at a place on her way home, she

resolved to walk.

She had accomplished the purpose of her call, and

started up Franklin avenue on her way home.

As Maggie passed the corner of Ewing avenue, she

met Harry Carondelet.

She quickened her pace, hoping that he would not

recognize her, but unfortunately he did.

He courteously raised his hat, but she did not res-

pond. Seeing she was walking briskly, he turned,

and for a moment walked by her side.

*“Miss Coyle!” he said, very courteously. ‘Pardon

me, but I have long wanted an opportunity to thank

you for the way in which you put a stop to that un-

fortunate duel.”

“Please do not mention it,” she said,as she again

quickened her pace.

Carondelet, however, kept up with her.

‘Miss Coyle, will you not grant me a few moments’

interview. I have something of importance to com-

municate.”

“T cannot conceive what you could say that would

interest me.”

“May I speak, may I crave the great indulgence,

the ineffable pleasure of a few moments’ conversa-

tion? Oh, say, Miss Coyle, that you do not refuse to

forgive me for the great insult I was guilty of in the
ast.

During this conversation, or rather speech, Harry

had kept up with her and gesticulated so earnestly

ee the attention of the possers-by was attracted to

em.

This is what he had determined to achieve.

“See!” he continued. ‘Every one is looking at us.

Grant me the small boon I ask.”

‘What you have to say, can be said now,” she re-

pies. coldly, at the same time slackening her pace a

ittle.

“Then, Miss Coyle, from the first moment I saw

heh in the Famous Store, my heart has been yours.”

“Sir!

“T repeat, my adored one, I have loved you witha

devotion that man but seldom feels for woman. I

have watched you ata distance, and longed for an

opportunity to say to you that I love you.”

“Your language may be intended to be flattering;

I consider it an insult.’

“Oh, why, dearest Maggie—I mean Miss Coyle.

Surley you will not deal orp ag ere me? I admit I

wronged you, butit was but the fault arising from

too warm a nature. I love you. If you will but say

the word, we will go from St. Louis, and, in a town

eae we are not known, live as happy as cooing
Oves.’ ‘

Maggie listened to this speech with disgust. She

could searcely restrain her temper, but, clenching

her hands nervously, she asked : ;

“Have you finished ?”’ .

“Not quite, I am aware that this is abrupt, that it

is unconventional, but you have shunned me so, that

I have had no opportunity. If you would meet me,

say at a theater to-night——”

“Sir!

\}

 

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Xe
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i :

    

#

 

 

“MISS COYLE, FROM THE FIRST MOMENT I SAW YOU,
MY HEART HAS BEEN YOURS.”

“Or take a walk in Lafayette Park, or anywhere
else you please, I could better convince you how
much I love you. My despair of ever having a better
opportunity overcame me, and [ felt impelled to
offer you myself. I am wealthy. You shall have
every luxury. You never need work in a store again,
but——”

“Say no more, sir. I will ask my dear friend, Miss
Blanche Pierce, what she would advise me to do, or
you can renew your offer at her house now if you will
accompany me.”

“The duse!” he hissed between his teeth.

Maggie had struck home. He had said many things
which if Blanche heard would cause her to give him
the *mitten.’”’ How he cursed his folly.

For the time he had forgotten that Maggie was ac-
uainted with Blanche. ow could he get out of his
ilemma ?

He affected to laugh it off as a joke, and assured
Maggie that he was only doing it, only talking to her
to see if she would believe him. He admitted he was
to marry Blanche, and made a most abject apology
to Maggie.

That young lady, however, did not stop to hear it,
for she started to run, and did not slacken her speed
until she reached home. :

: oo eat on the other hand, was calm and col-
ected.

He saw the difficulty he was in, and knew that if
Blanche heard all that Maggie could tell he would
have no chance to draw upon her fortune for his fu-
ture extravagances.

Prompt and effectual means must be used.

“T will marry Blanche,” he said; ‘‘and Maggie
Coyle will also be mine.”
nae with this resolve he wended his way to his

ome.

When Maggie entered the house, her mother saw
that she was unduly excited and pressed her as to the
cause,

For some reason Maggie feared to tell her mother,
and accounted for her excitement by her quick walk-
ing, being anxious to get home.

What misery might have been spared had she told
all to the loving mother, but her silence was due to
consideration for that parent whose love was so

reat.

. All that evening Maggie was fidgety and restless.
rte endeavored to find out the cause, but she
failed.

Douglas was more than attentive, no lover could
have been more solicitous or exacting, and his honey-
ed pleasantries, added to the kind treatment, lived
long in her memory.

She was happy that evening, deliriously so; she
had no fear of Carondelet, for in the innocence of her
mind she thought the threat of telling all to Blanche
Pierce would prevent him from ever insulting her
again. ‘

The ean of evenings must end, and midnight
came earlier than usual, so thought at least one of
that happy household.

But when all had retired to rest, there were two at
least who could not sion

Douglas felt uneasy. e trembled at the thought
of the future. The two girls made his home so very
pleasant, that he dreaded losing either of them.

He would not acknowledge that he loved Patrice,
yet her nferry laugh and her happy joyousness were
contagious, and he felt younger when by her side.

But as for Maggie—what were his feelings for her.
He could not define them. Wherever he went, her
face seemed ever present with him. He seemed to
think that life without her would be far from pleas-
ant.

The morning’s sun was high in the heavens, before
sleep came to his troubled brain.

The other sufferer from insomnia was the fair
Maggie.

The events of the day, the insulting conduct of
Carondelet, the many pleasing speeches of Douglas,
the earnest flashing of his eyes, all sent sleep far

away from her, and she was not looking fit for a
fatiguing day behind the counter, when she partook
of her early breakfas*.

All that day Mrs. Coyle felt uncomfortable. There

 

a to be a dread of something hanging over
er.

She moved about the house uneasily, and at last
had to confess to Patrice that she was nervous and
melancholy.

Why is it that “coming events often cast their
shadows before ?”’

Why is it that premonitions are so vague? If they
were but clear and well defined, how many evils
might be averted.

Evening came at last, and the time for Maggie’s
return had come and gone.

Dinner was over, but still no Maggie; the lamps
had been lighted for some time, the clock struck nine,
and all became uneasy.

Maggie had‘ never been so late before, without
giving some good reason for her probable lateness.
Douglas was cross and fretful, and Patrice de-
clared she was sure that something awful had hap-
pened. Annie Lefferts was seen, and she had parted
with Maggie at the store earlier than usual.

Douglas called on Mrs. Gleason, but she had not
seen the ‘“‘Famous” girl.

What had become of her?

When Fitzgerald arrived home the clock on the hall
struck the hour of eleven, and Mrs. Coyle was well-
nigh distracted at the absence of her daughter.
Midnight came, but no news of Maggie.

The minutes swelled into the hours, and all was
still and silent in the city.

Morning came. Not one in the Fitzgerald house
had attempted to go to bed, for Maggie had not re-
turned.

Mrs. Coyle was frantic with fear and grief. Patrice
was exhausted with her long vigil and had become
hysterical, while Douglas looked care-worn and
haggard.

Where was Maggie? What had become of her ?
These questions were asked of each other ascore of
times, but no satisfaction could be obtained. The
one truth stared them in the face. Maggie had last
been seen by her friend Annie a little before six
o’clock, and fourteen hours had passed without her
returning home. Maggie—the loving home bird—the
one who would never spend an hour away from her
mother willingly was missing. ;

Her absence could only be accounted for by acci-
dent, death, or foul play.

Which was the solution?

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

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

 

Captain’s Orphan Daughter

FALSE TO HIS TRUST.

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 XXV.
CAMILLE, THE SINGER.

For weeks the city of New York—that is, the
opera-loving portion of the city—had been stirred
and excited by the report that a wonderful young
girl, with a voice the like of which had never been
heard, was to make her debut early in the season.
Such marvelous stories had been told of her
voice, and of her rare beauty, that all the seats were
sold long before the night set for her first appear-
ance, and hundreds went away from the box-office
disappointed.

Professor Hanson, an old man who had all his life-
long been celebrated in musical circles, had dis-

covered Mademoiselle Camille Blane in some un-
heard-of corner of the earth, and recognizing her
wonderful capabilities, had placed her under the
most competent instructors to be found, and the re-
sult had exceeded his wildest expectations.

Only a favored few had been admitted to the re-
hearsals, and these were charmed as much by the
strange grace and beauty of Mademoiselle Camille,
as they were enchanted by her ravishing voice, and
her reception by the public promised to be the most
flattering that ever greeted a debutante in that great
city.

The night before that on which she was advertised
to appear in a favorite opera—then extremely popu-
lar with the music-loving public—Mademoiselle
Camille sat alone in her chamber in the modest house
of Professor Hanson, where for some time she had
been domiciled. i,

She had come, alone and a stranger, to New York
about a year previous, and had sought out Professor
Hanson and had a long interview with him, the pur-
port of which was known to no one besides them-

| selves, and which resulted in her being received into

the professor’s family, where she had every facility
for perfecting herself in the art she had chosen.

The most intimate friends of the Hansons knew
nothing of her antecedents—from whence she had
come, or if she had relatives or not—and there was a
great deal of curiosity felt regarding her. It is a
noticeable fact that whatever one had just as soon
make public as not, nobody feels any interest in, but
let there be so much as the suspicion of a mystery,
and all creation is dying to find out the whole story.

Mademoiselle Camille sat alone by the west win-
dow, with the last rays of a red sunset falling around
her. She was holding in her hand a bunch of faded
flowers—mere wild flowers they were—and whatever
beauty and sweetness they once had had long ago
withered out of them. The stems were tied with
a bit of pink ribbon, the ends of which Camille
twisted idly around her white fingers. ‘

Itis seldom that, in the world of fair women, one
would see a face and form so near perfection as that
of the girl who sat there with the sunlight falling on
her. For once, rumor had not lied when it had
hinted that Mademoiselle Camille’s beauty alone
would set the world crazy.

She was tall and well-developed; her arms and
shoulders gleamed white and smooth through the
lace of her dress; her bright hair crowned her fair
brow like an aureole, and the soft rose-leaf color on
her round cheeks came and went with every passing
thought. Just now her eyes, those great dark, lu-
minous eyes, were sad, and there was a suspicion of
tears in their depths as she lifted the faded flowers
for a moment to her lips.

“T am afool!’ she cried, passionately, flinging the
flowers into a drawer, which she locked, and then
the key into a work-basket, ‘‘why should I sit here
and dream likea sentimental schoolgirl over a bunch
of wild roses, as dead as the love I once thought he
bore me? I will have no more of it. To-mor-
row I begin a new life. I am no longer myself, I
a Mademoiselle Camille, the distinguished prima

lonna !”

She laughed mockingly as she spoke, and struck
an attitude before the tall mirror which stood be-
tween the two windows.

A rap sounded on the door.

She turned to answer it, and admitted Professor
Hanson. He was a tall, stoop-shouldered man, with
sharp features, and a keen black eye. He took in the
scene ata glance.

“So you were practicing posing were you? Well, if
I do not mistake, you will be called before the curtain
more than once to-morrow night. It is well to make
yourself perfectin the art of bowing your graceful
acknowledgments, as the reporters will phrase it.’’

Camille sank hack into her chair, and the color left
her face. She looked up at the professor with wist-
ful sadness.

“T am almost afraid,” she said, as might a child,
seeking comfort from its elders; “it will be so new
hr strange, and if I should fail it would be dread-

ul.’

“But you will not fail,” said the professor. ‘TI
know your courage and temper too well to dread
anything of that sort. You will succeed, and you
will drink your fill of the cup which intoxicates like
wine—the cup of public admiration. And I shall be
proud of you.”

“T hope I shall not disappoint you. You have been
so kind to me. What should I have done without
your aid ?”’

“Pshaw! do not talk to me of kindness, I have
been kind to myself as well, for shall I not shine in
the light of your triumph? My dear, I expect to be
almost as distinguised an individual as yourself.”

The girl put out her white hand and laid it caress-
ingly on the old man’s arm.

“For whatever I may do, for whatever I may be, I
have you to thank—all other friends have failed me.
And here to-night behind me I put love, and the
eare and affection which other women covet, and live
only for my art. AndI feel that I shall do my mas-
ter credit.”

“T know that you will; but you will not live for art
alone. By and by when you cease to remember what
has been, you will love and marry like other women.
Artis beautiful, and it is glorious, but it never satis-
fies a woman’s nature.”

“You are mistaken,” she said, quickly, “it will—it
shall satisfy me.”

And then they fell into a long discussion of details
with which we have nothing to do, since they per-
tained entirely to the opera to be performed on.the
following night.

And when the professor left his pupil he felt no
doubt that she would justify all his anticipations.

x * * * * *

 

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

The Academy of Music was one blaze of light from

 

 

 

   
 
 

   

 
  
  
  
  
 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

—_—

 

VOL. 43—No, 5,

 

<<oes¢ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

stage to gallery. The flickering and brilliant gas jets
in the great chandeliers gleamed over a critical and
cultured audience.

Fair women, with the flash of diamonds on their
uncovered heads, and on their white necks and arms,
and brave and gallant men, who waited with ill-
concealed impatience for the rising of the curtain.

The overture was done, the musicians laid down
their instruments, and there was a stir among the
audience.

The curtain went up, and the first scene of the bril-
liant opera was before the people.

Mademoiselle Camille did nat appear.

The second scene revealed her standing alone on
the stage, and yet her weird and glorious beauty
seemed to fill the whole place, and no one noticed
the absence of any other performer.

She stood there, tall and statuesque, clad in shim-
mering white silk, with white roses on her bosom,
and diamonds glittering amid the folds of her bright
hair.

The audience sat spell-bound as she bowed before
them, and then a round of wild applause rent the
air.

The peerless beauty had taken them by storm.

When she opened her mouth and her matchless
voice rang out clear and sweet, every one in that
vast audience sat motionless until she ceased, and
then the applause was deafening. Such an ovation
to a debutante had never been witnessed in the city!

Camille stood blushing and smiling beneath the
shower of bouquets which fell at her feet, and Pro-
fessor Hanson, almost too happy to live, led her for-
ward, and bowed his acknowledgments with the
grace of a dancing-master.

During the succeeding acts the fair debutante in-
creased the favorable impression, and when the cur-
tain went down on the last act, the audience spoke
together in animated whispers, and Mademoiselle
Camille’s success was an assured fact.

Sitting in one of the private boxes with a gentle-
man friend was an old acquaintance, Mr. Charles
Rodney.

He had, before this, discovered that his journey to
New York in pursuit of Rose Carr and her dashing
jover had been nothing but a wild-goose chase, and
his will was good enough to have shaken the breath
out of the little flirt if only the opportunity had
offered.

When he received from Mrs. Carr a telegram tell-
ing him thatthe runaways had gone West instead of
East, as he had supposed, he ground his white teeth
together, and gave utterance to some words too
forcible to be written down here.

And he said to himself that he would bide his time.
His revenge would keep. He knew himself well
enough to feel sure that he should hate Rose and her
husband just as bitterly in one year from now, or ten

years from now, as he did at the very present mo- |

ment, and he should enjoy his revenge, when it
came, just as thoroughly.

Meanwhile, he had broken away from business
cares; he was in New York, and he would stay
awhile and have a good time out of it. And so he
had. It was now nearly a year since he left Wolfs-
burg, and his business there had been run by a trusty
agent, and Mr. Rodney had spent the past winter in
Florida, and solaced himself in his disappointment
with the smiles of the dark-eyed daughters of that
sunny land.

Through the summer he had idled away his time at
the fashionable watering-places along the coast, and
taken a weekly run into New York to attend to a
Wall street scheme which promised to land him
among the millionaires, and it was during one of
these business visits to the city that he had heard of
the coming singer.

Mr, Rodney was a judge of music—he was, infact,
a critic—and his friends had induced him to remain
and be present at Mademoiselle Camille’s debut.

Rodney had assented carelessly enough. He took
little stock, so to speak, in the glowing accounts of
the new singer, he had in his time seen so many won-
derful prima donnas go up like rockets and come
down like sticks.

But he liked fresh faces, and he had some curiosity
to see this face which was pronounced perfection by
those who had seen it; soit happened that he was
present when Camille made her first appearance.

As she came forward into the full glare of the foot-
lights, Mr. Rodney ceased talking with his friend
and leaned forward for a better view.
ert ak Camille lifted her eyes, and they met

is.
Was it fancy, or did a slight tremor lift the costly
lace on her bosom as his. eager, questioning, and
startled glance met hers?

He could not determine; but, as he sat breathless
and gazed upon her like one spell-bound, the color
forsook his face, his hands grew cold as ice, the
great theater, with its sea of upturned faces, swam
before him, and his friend, in alarm, siezed him by
the arm and cried:

“Good Heaven, Rodney! Are you ill?’

The words, the tone recalled him to himself. He
ey aneercie himself back and shook off Browning’s
hand.

“TI think the deafening applause made me dizzy,”
he said, coldly. ‘It is sickening to make such an
uproar before she has let us know whether she can
Sing or not.”

“No applause could be too great for beauty like
hers,” said Browning, warmly, as he leveled his
opera-glass at the stage. ‘By Jove, she is perfect!
Hark! she is singing!”

And then the wave of melody surged up to where
the two gentlemen sat, and Rodney felt himself
lifted up, and carried away, and lost, and stranded
on the shore of a boundless sea of doubts and specu-
lations; and the more he tried to free himself from
the low-hanging mists the more he struggled help-
Hoa and unable to solve the doubts which assailed

im.

The cold perspiration started out on his forehead
and stood there in great drops as the voice of the
singer thrilled him, and he sat like a statue while
other men applauded, and the house fairly shook
with their enthusiastic demonstrations.

It was over at last, and the curtain went down on
the final scene, and still Charles Rodney sat there
staring blankly at the gaudy drop-scene and the
darkened footlights, and Browning roused him with
an effort.

“Why, man alive!” he cried, “what has come
over you? You look as if you had seen a ghost!”

“And so I have?” cried Rodney, ‘tor else my brain
is turned. Don’t mind me.. Lam alittle under the
weather to-night.”

CHAPTER XXVI.
“MY DAUGHTER IS NOT A THIEF!”

Miss Fielding and Miss Macy were at home once
more.

Frances, looking at Helena the next morning after
their arrival, thought she had never seen any one so
beautiful and stately, and yet Isabel was far lovelier
in her own sweet and gentle way.

But Helena Fielding was fit for a queen. Her
haughty grace of manner, and her lofty dignity of
carriage, Sat easily upon her, and everywhere she
moved society acknowledged her a power.

A week went by.

All the Rittenhouse square set had called at the
great house, and congratulated the young ladies on
their safe arrival home. They were assured over and
over again that society had been broken-hearted over
their absence, and that now they were at home once
more, creation generally would brighten up and feel
that life was worth living.

Everybody who has been from home a year hears
from his friends the same story on his return. It is
quite the thing to say, and it is pleasant to hear, and
as it deceives nobody, of course it is notalie; and
as asin parties enjoy it, why, let it continue to be
said.

John Eastley was among the very constant visitors
at Rittenhouse square, and it was generally under-
stood that the wealthy and rising younglawyer was
a suitor for one of the young ladies, though the pub-
lic had not yet decided which.

It had happened that on more than one occasion
Frances had bcen reading in the library when Mr.
Eastley had been shown into the room, which was
the favorite reception-room of the young ladies, be-
cause there was so much there to interest visitors
and suggest conversation, and Mr. Eastley had dis-
played much more admiration toward the young girl
than was pleasing to Miss Fielding.

One morning, when Eastley called to bring tickets
for a concert, he found Frances alone, and included
her in his invitation to the opera-house.

She blushed, thanked him, and hesitated before she
gave him back the offered ticket.

“TI do not think it would be proper for me to accept
your kind invitation, Mr. Eastley. You forget that I
am only a dependent in this house, and a clerk in a
store. And the young ladies would not countenance
my company——”

“But you are a lady; and there is not a young
girl inthe city your equal in grace and beauty !” cried
Eastley, warmly, taking the hand which hung by her
side. ‘I, for one, am independent enough to ignore
these silly laws of caste which make slaves of other-
wise sensible people.” ;

You can afford to ignore them, perhaps,” said
Frances, her cheek flushing; ‘‘but Miss Fielding
would not agree with you, I fear. She was born to
the purple, and I—I am only a poor soldier’s daugh-
ter, without name or fortune. And yet I would
rather be the daughter of a brave and loyal man
than to be the daughter of a king.”

“Tcan quite agree with you,” cried Eastley, with
enthusiasm ; ‘and to-day my most poignant regret
dies in the fact that when the war raged over our fair
jand I was not old enough to take partin it and win
a name.”

“Butif you had been old enough for that, think
how old you would be now! The best of your life
would lie behind you.”

“But [should have the memory of its gallant and
stirring events to live upon as I went down the de-
cline of life,” said Eastley, thoughtfully, ‘‘and it is
something to feel that one has not lived in vain.”

“No one lives in vain,” said Frances, a little sadly;
“we are all needed to carry out the plan of creation;
but sometimes everything is so involved in doubt,

'

 

 

added to her other talents the genius for metaphys-
ical speculation,” said the soft, clear voice of
Helena Fielding, as she parted the silken hangings
between the reception-room and the library, and
stood there, smiling, and scornful, and beautiful, in
her trailing dress of black and gold, with a cluster of
vivid nasturtiums 1n the lace across her bosom. ‘Do
they teach that sort of thing at Wanamaker’s?”’

“Not to my knowledge, madam,” replied Frances,
calmly, and with a slight bow to Mr. Eastley, she
quietly left the room.

“Really, she is quite a well-developed tragedy
queen,” said Miss Fielding, mockingly. ‘‘Mr. East-
ley, I quite tremble for the integrity of society when
I notice that shop-girls and saleswomen are often
tolerated in good circles. We must draw a line
somewhere, or we shall soon be compelled to be
hand in glove with our washerwomen and our boot-
blacks!”

“You wrong Miss Carleton by such an insinua-
tion,” said Eastley, with more warmth than this
slow-going, dignified young man was accustomed to
speak; ‘‘she is as true a lady as can be found in the
city. As her mother is before her. And her father
was a soldier.”

“So was the father of my washerwoman!”

“Come, now, Miss Fielding, you are too bad,” said
Eastley. ‘‘There is a difference, you must admit.
And Miss Carleton is one of the most attractive
young ladies I have ever met. I-——”

“Why not try your luck at making her Mrs. John
Eastley, and placing her at the head of that grand
old establishment of yours on the Delaware, and by
and by hang her portrait alongside of those blue-
blooded ancestors of yours who traced their lineage
back to the time of the Conqueror ?”

“Helena—Miss Fielding, you know whose portrait
I would place in the company of those respected an-
cestors—if you would only permit me——”

“Let us not talk nonsense,” said the lady, care-
lessly tearing to pieces a white rose which she drew
from:a vase on the table, and scattering the per-
fumed leaves on the carpet. “Did you bring the
concert tickets?”

And then they launched forth on an animated dis-
cussion regarding musical matters, and the subject
of Frances Carleton was ignored.

But later on in the day, when the young girl had
gone to the store, and Colonel Vandervoort having
had his letters read and answered, was sitting in the
Bae with his niece and his ward, Miss Fielding
said:

“Uncle Dave, how long is Miss Frances Carleton
to remain in this house ?”

“How long? Why, my dear, how should I know?
I suppose she will stay till she gets married, or until
her mother goes away,” returned the colonel, with
an air of perplexity.

“T must confess that I fail to see any cause for her
being here at all,” said Miss Fielding, decidedly.
“People in our station are not in the habit of board-
ing the relatives of their servants, so far as I have
observed. I do not think it well for us to establish a
precedent.”’

“Helena,” said the colonel, severely, “I am ashamed
of you!: What possibld harm can this young girl do
you in a house as large as this? And it is such a
privilege for her to be with her mother. And Mrs.
Carleton makes herself very useful to me. She is
worth any ten dozen of the sticks I have had hitherto
for companions.”

“T do not anticipate any harm to myself from Miss
Carleton’s presence in the house,” said Helena, with
the cold dignity,which never forsook her; ‘but she is
personally disagreeable to me. And she and her
mother have the best rooms in the house. Why were
they changed from those in the north wing ?”’

Colonel Vandervoort’s face grew pale and set, and
his emotion did not escape the watchful eyes of
Helena,

“Their rooms were changed because I chose to
change them,” he replied, with decision.

“Ah! But you had a reason for it?’

“T did. Hélena,I must remind you that though I
am happy to have you here, and that all just rights
and privileges shall always be yours while you re-
main under my roof,this house is mine,and I am mas-
ter of it.”

“A fact of which itis unnecessary to speak,” said
Helena; ‘‘but-.I hope that if you persist in making
companions of persons in this girl’s station, you will
be kind enough to excuse me from imitating your
example.”

“Nobody asked you to make a companion of Miss
Frances Carleton,” said the colonel, impatiently.

Helena Fielding went slowly to her room, a sense
of bitter defeat in her heart. She had hoped that
the Vandervoort pride would have been roused in the
colonel, and would consent to give Miss Frances an
intimation that she had best find another home. But
the colonel was fixed as the hills, and Helena knew
him well enough not to attempt to urge him. She
would accomplish her endin some other way.

She sat down and bent her head in deep thought.
One thing was certain—Frances Carleton should be
got out of the house! Her mind was made up on
that. If not by fair means, then by foul—but go she
should! She had marked the look of admiration on
Joann Eastley’s face more than once when Frances was
present, and she had heard—no matter hew—that
Albert Herndon whose admiration she coveted, had
walked from the store with Frances more than once.

Helena Fielding had never yet confessed to herself
that she would so far forget the high-toned society in
which she moved, as to marry Mr. Herndon, but she
longed to win his admiration; she longed to see his
handsome face flush at her coming, and to hear his
voice tremble when he spoke to her.

A beautiful woman like her had, of course, no
lack of admirers—she had always a half dozen men
at her feet, but still she sighed for more worlds to
conquer, and she hated Frances Carleton because she
saw that the fresh, sweet loveliness of the girl
charmedwhere her own magnificent beauty failed to
interest.

Helena sat long in silent thought, and her face was
a study. » She rose at last, and looked at her watch.

“‘Half-past five, she said to herself; ‘‘she will not
be home for an hour yet,and the interesting mother
has gone to hunt up a poor family in Germantown—
one of Uncle Dave’s latest crazes. I willlook the
land over, and see if it suggests anything.”

She went up the corridor softly, and paused before
the door of Mrs. Carleton’s room. Then she tried the
knob, which turned beneath her hand, and the door
swung open. Mrs. Carleton was not of a suspicious
nature, and never locked her door except at night.

Helena looked around the pretty room, which
bore so strongly the individuality of its occupants.

Everything was fresh and neat, and the little bou-
quet of carnations on the table filled the room with a
subtle sweetness.

Miss Fielding stepped into the inner room, the bed-
chamber, and glanced around. She opened afew of
the drawers and closed them with ill-concealed dis-
gust. She could not have told what she was looking
tor, and yet she was disgusted that she had not dis-
covered something which would suggest some idea
to her scheming brain.

She peeped into the closet where Frances’ few in-
expensive dresses hung beside the plain black gar-
ments which Mrs. Carleton always wore in memory
of her husband, and felt contemptuously the folds of
a cheap cashmere.

“Tt must be dreadful to be obliged to wear stuff
like that,’ said Helena to herself, glancing down-
ward at the fall of her costly silken garments; ‘‘but
I suppose one gets used to it. Ah, here is atrunk! I
wonder, now, what it contains?’

The trunk was locked, as Helena at once found.
She drew out a bunch of keys from her pocket, and
put one after another of them into the lock. At last
one fitted, and she raised the lid and looked inside.

Nothing of any special interest rewarded her. A
few books, gifts of friends, some plain linen un-
derwear, a pink ribbon or two, some letters, a box of
handkerchiefs, and then Helena saw that there was
a tray at the very bottom of thetrunk. She raised
this, and saw beneath ita single buff envelope—its
surface blank. She was about leaving it where it
was, when she saw that it was not, as she had at first
supposed it to be, empty.

She put her finger inside, for it was not sealed, and
to her unbounded surprise she drew forth a five-hun-
dred-dollar note!

She stood amazed, with the thin, crisp paper in her
fingers, and surmises ran rapidly through her mind.
Surmises many and varied. How did it happen that
a personin Frances Carleton’s position should have
five hundred dollars hidden away in the bottom of
her trunk? ‘Where had she obtained the money ?
Why was she hiding it ?

She looked carefully at the bill, and was convinced
that it was genuine. It was issued from a well-
known Philadelphia bank, and bore a date of two
years ago, and it had, evidently, not been in circula-
tion to any extent, for its surface was still fresh and
unsoiled.

Helena returned the note carefully to the envelope,
and placed it beneath the tray at the bottom of the
trunk where she had found it.. She closed and locked
the trunk, and went slowly from the chamber.

A_ week later the startling announcement was
made in the store where Frances was employed that
the cash account was five hundred dollars short!

A five-hundred-dollar note had been stolen!

Owing to the nature of the circumstances, here un-
necessary to explain minutely, it was out of the
question for any one to be guilty except a-limited
few, who had opportunities for such action.

And Frances Carleton was among the unfortunate
half dozen saleswomen with one of whom it was be-
lieved the crime rested.

A clerk in the store named James Burnham had
been very active in attempting to trace the robbery,
and the proprietors of the store were very unwilling
to call in the aid of the police, preferring to make a
discovery of the thief themselves, if possible.

Mr. Burnham bestirred himself with zeal, and soon
had the suspected parties under surveillance. They
were detained after closing hours, and questioned.

But all of the girls bore on their faces such un-
mistakable evidences of innocense that the owners
of the establishment could not believe in their guilt,
and concluded to give the affair into the hands of a
detective.

Mr. Burnham begged to be allowed to make a sug-
gestion. He would have the girls and their effects
thoroughly searched, and if nothing was discovered,

. . F ’
then it would be well to look elsewhere, and all of

the girls elamored eagerly for this course.

All exeept Frances Carleton.

It was noticed from the first that she grew. pale as
death when the proposal to search their effects was
made, and that her lip quivered, and her hands
shook when she was asked for the keys of her boxes,

“Of course,” said the manager for the Messrs.
Wanamaker, ‘‘this is merely for our own satisfaction,
and for the sake of vindicating your integrity. Asa
firm we have had very few dishonest employees, and
we would not wish to wrong any one by unmerited
suspicions. Least of all, you Miss Carleton,”

Albert Herndon had remained to assist in the mat-
ter, and he came and stood by Frances’ side.

“Do not be disturbed, my dear Miss Carleton,’ he
said, cheerfully. “Of course you have nothing to
fear. I know itis unpleasant to be treated like a
criminal, but search will vindicate you.”

She turned upon him aface so sad, and wild, and
frightened, that he never forgot its expression for
many days afterward.

“What,” she asked, ‘‘would they do if they found it
in the possession of any of us?’

“Why, I suppose,” he said, slowly, “they would re-
gard it as evidence of guilt.’’

“And then ?” her hand tightly clinging to his arm,
and her great affrighted eyes looking into his.

“Oh, Ido not know. There would be a trial, I sup-
pose, and a verdict rendered.”’

“And if the accused were found guilty ?”’

“Good Heaven! Miss Carleton, how seriously you
take it!” cried Herndon. ‘“‘Why, I suppose impris-
onment would follow.”

“Imprisonment !’”’ she said, slowly. ‘It would be
worse than death! What would life be worth to the
woman whohad been in prison for theft?’

“Tt would be hard, I own; but we will not think
aboutit. And guilt like that should be punished.
Do you not think so?”

“Yes, guilt should be punished,” she repeated after
him, ‘‘and yet how often it happens that the innocent
suffer for the guilt of others.”’

The girls gave their keys into the hands of James
Burnham, and begged him to search at once. Hern-
don declined assisting in the projected investiga-
tion.

“T should feel like a criminal myself,’ he said, in
answer to the manager’s solicitation. “But I am
going home with Miss Carleton, and Mr. Burnham
san come along with us if he likes.”

Their journey to the mansion in Rittenhouse square
was a silent one. Frances sat pale and quiet in a
corner of the car, answering in monosyllables all the
remarks the young men made, and Burnham had
about him a half-conecealed air of triumph, which
Herndon was totally unable to account for.

Did he imagine it, or was it true, that when the
trio entered the house and were met in the hall by
Helena Fielding that Herndon saw a look of intelli-
gence pass between the lady and James Burnham ?

Of course, Mr, Herndon said a moment later to
himself, it must have been his excited faney, for he
was perfectly well aware that Burnham and Miss
Fielding were total strangers to each other.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

[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 DETECTIVE” was commenced in
No. 46. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents. ]}

CHAPTER XXXITIL
GIRL VS. BOY.

ROLY and Little Nan had with-
drawn to a room opening from
the hall-way, leaving the door
slightly ajar. When they had
done so Mrs. Hazard opened
the outer door, and they heard
the soft, low tones of Jed
Brickett ask:
“Is that lady I brought the
note for yesterday still in ?”’
“She is,” Mrs. Hazard an-
swered, a trifle crustily, for she did not relish the de-
ception which the soft-voiced youth had practiced
upon her the evening before, i
Croly was alarmed lest she should betray her feel-
ings too prominently, and thus put the shrewd youth

on his guard.

“T have another letter which you will please hand
to her, ma’am,” said the boy.

“Ts it from Mr. Croly?’

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And he employed you to deliver it ?”

“Certainly, ma'am.”

It was doubtless very hard for the indignant
woman to preteud to believe the lad’s brazen false-
hoods. He was a consummate actor, and few per-
sons would have suspected him, with his mild tones
and innocent, effeminate face, of being capable of
such bold deception.

“T will give her the letter, boy,” said Mrs. Hazard,
but mind this: “if I should find out you were lying
about it——”

“Oh, I wouldn’t lie. ma’am. Ask Mr. Croly about
me, and he will tell you.”

‘Very well.”

She turned to carry the letter up stairs, but the
boy said:

“T will wait here, if you please, ma’am.
the lady will send a reply.”

“You may wait.”

That Croly was a
well be imagined.

“T think I shall know, in due time, the contents of
this letter which Denton is sending to the lady,’ was
his mental comment.

“Where do you s’pose Mr. Denton is now?’ Nan
asked in a whisper.

She expected that she was to have some part to
Nay in the events to follow, and she was eager to
earn what it would be.

Mrs. Hazard did not return for several minutes.
When she did so it was with the same letter, as it ap-
peared. She gave it to the boy, saying:

“Ts this all you wish ?”

“T will look at the letter, if you please, as Mr. Croly
told me what to do according to the lady’s reply to
his note,’ said Brickett.

He withdrew from the door, and hastily opened the
ete atee The instant his eyes scanned the lines he
said:

“Allright, ma’am. Iam to come with a hack and
take the lady to Mr. Croly’s own house. So.you will
please help the lady to get ready in half an hour.
Good-morning, ma’am !”

The lad raised his cap with easy courtesy and ran
down the steps.

“Now, Nan, comes our part in the pienic,” said
Croly. ‘‘We must catch that boy and take from
him the letter. You go ahead, and he may not try to
run away from you. Detain him until I overtake
you. If he runs from you follow at your best speed.
Don’t lose sight of him. I could outrun him, but he
is shrewd epough to make for places where I am too
large or heavy to follow. You areas nimble as he is.
and perhaps as strong. Here we go!”

Nan darted out into the hall, past Mrs. Hazard, and
ina moment had reached the sidewalk. Croly did not
follow, but waitedto see if she succeeded incoming up
with and detaining the youngster. If she did, then
he was ready to spring to her assistance.

Jed Brickett did not notice the girl until the latter
was nearly up with him, and walking rapidly in his
rear. Then turning, he exclaimed:

“Hallo, Nan!”

“How are yer, Jed,” she returned, as complacently
as though her intentions were of the most common-
place sort.

But the boy quickened his steps, at the same time
demanding:

“What do you want, Nan?’

“T want’s ter tell yer somep’n.”

“What about?” ;

“You seta fire other night in the basement with
yer lantern.”

“T seta fire! I guess it was you, Nan.”

“T knows yer did it.”

“Well, we'll talk about it some other time. But I’m
in a hurry now.”

And the boy stated to run.

“Hold on! cried Nan, running after him.

“Not this time. I guessyou are trying to humbug
me,” Jed shouted back, increasing his pace.

Croly saw that Nan had failed in her attempt to
detain the boy, and it was now time for him to try
and overtake him.

The detective bounded down the steps and along
the sidewalk.

It speedily appeared that he could easily outrun the
youngster. Even Nan was rather more than a
match for him.

Jed cast a glance backward and saw that there
was no hope of escaping by a straight flight. But
what he lacked in physical qualities he made up in
readiness of wit and natural slyness.

He darted swiftly across the street toward a nar-
row passage-way betwixt two buildings. Entering
this just as Croly’s hand was almost in the act of

| seizing his shoulder, he speedily proved the value of
a slender body in a chase of that kind. While the

Perhaps

deeply interested listener may

 

detective would have been able barely to squeeze
through the passage-way edgewise, Brickett was not
| compelled even to slacken his pace.

But Croly did not attempt to pursue him there.
He knew it would result in failure, and here was just
the occasion when Nan could be useful,

“After him, Nan,” he said, as the panting girl
came up. ‘Don’t lose sight of him, and if you can
eatch him, hold on like death until I come to help
you!” "248 é

There was little need of urging the girl to do her
utmost. She was eager to prove herself equal in
nimbleness and courage to the Pinkerton detective’s
assistant.

The fact that she was a girl did not deter her from
attempting any feat,that a boy dared.

A child who has roughed it in the streets of a great
city learns one thing that a life-time spent in any
other way cannot teach; that is self-reliance. If
you ask one of these urchins who dart hither and
thither amid the throngs of pedestrians, if he can
perform a certain task, he will tell you at once
whether he can or not. He does not say: ‘I guess I
can do it.” But, instead, he answers ous doubting
query with: “Bet yer life I can!” And ten to one he
succeeds.

The reader is not to understand this as an argu-
ment in favor of a street education, however. We
would not imperil a child by exposing him to the
temptations of a great city, simply to teach him one
lesson, however valuable it might prove.

Little Nan dashed in pursuit of the boy along the
ae a passage-way, While Croly followed more
slowly.

Jed Brickett perceived that the detective had left
it for the street arab to overtake him, and simulta-
neously realized that the girl could run faster than
himself.

Still he did not lose his presence of mind. Indeed,
the more imminent his peril became, the keener his
senses, the more active his brain.

The buildings between which he was running con-
tained tenement flats, and consequently were pro-
vided with fire-escape ladders. And upon these the
escapes were located in the alley, instead of the nar-
row court in the rear.

Looking backward he saw that Nan would surely
eatch him, and that probably oe would come up
before he could escape from her. There seemed to be
only one thing to be done. He could climb the lad-
ders, and trust to natural female timidity to keep
Nan from following.

Inthe meantime, while Croly was edging his way
into the narrow passage, he became conscious of
some one else hastily approaching, and in another
moment Denton arrived upon the scene, his face red
with unusual exertion and excitement.

“Whatis going on here?’ he demanded, glaring
upou Croly, and then looking beyond at the boy, who
was in the act of ascending the fire-escape.

“A foot-race—that is all,” Croly answered.

‘Pretty business, for a man of your cloth to be
chasing a slender boy !”’ Denton exclaimed.

“Smart boy to run away from a girl like
who is pursuing him,” was Croly’s retort.

Denton paid no attention to the remark.
Jed Brickett running nimbly up theladder. Hesaw,
too, that Little Nan was following just as nimbly.
He could see that the shrewd lad was far from being
sure of making his escape.

“This work must be stopped,” he said, in a peremp-
tory manner. He raised his voice and shouted: —

‘Halt, both of you, or I’ll shoot you as I would a
couple of cats !”’

The threat was emphasized by a gleaming weapon,
which the Pinkerton detective aimed ot the girl.

Brickett and Nan both heard the command, and
both heeded it.

“Drop from that ladder, girl, or T fire!” added Den-
ton, sosternly that Nan begantemblingly to descend.
But a slight gesture from Croly caused her to pause
and await orders from him.

“Down, girl!” reiterated the Pinkerton detective in
a gruff voice. But Croly spoke immediately after his
rival, and in a voice that was no less imperative.

“Up the ladder with you, Nan, and catch that boy.
This man has no more right to shoot you than he has
to kill the President. Don’t be bluffed. Remember
that Iam back of you!”

Me dog Nan, reassured, did not hesitate another in-
stant.

But Jed Brickett. with his eyes fixed upon Denton,
did not stir hand or foot.

It was evident that he was accustomed to obey
the Pinkerton detective to the letter; in truth, it
seemed as though he dare not disobey.

“Go on, you little idiot,’ Denton sharply ordered.
“Tf you let that girl catch you, Jed Brickett, ’l1make
you wish you had never been born.”

The boy now seemed to be spurred on by mortal
dread. Up.the ladder he flew, and just beneath him
little Nan clambered in dauntless pursuit.

the one

He saw

CHAPTER XXXIV.
UNDER ONE ROOF.

The hour was so late when Corinna was admitted
to the Hastings farm-house that she had but a few
moments in which to make the acquaintance of the
gruft-voiced farmer and his more aimiable-appearing
wife.

She was shown to a comfortable chamber, and di-
rected to make herself as much at home as though
she had lived there all herlife. Itseemed to her now
that she had indeed found a haven of safety. And
for an hour she lay awake reviewing in her mind the
exciting events of the past few hours.

Not feeling as though she could sleep Corinna did
not undress. She lay for some time watching the
moonlight and shadows that crept so noiselessly
across the room. Then her senses were overcome
with slumber, and she knew nothing more until
aroused by a loud, thumping noise and the sound of
voices below. :

She sprang quickly from the bed, and ran to the
window. Everything was revealed with the weird
distincthess moonlight lends; and at the door she
saw two horsemen, one dismounted and standing on
the step.

Down stairs, some one was tramping about with
‘heavy boots. Then a door opened and closed, and
the gruff voice of Hastings, the farmer, called out:

“Hey, there! What’s wanted now 2?”

“Come out here, and we’ll tell you,” returned one
of the men at the door.

-Corinna’s heart stood still, as it seemed, ,with
terror.

She believed that Denton had followed her to her
hiding-place, in spite of Croly’s precautions, and
that he had now come armed with proper authority
to arrest her. :

Half a dozen wild, impracticable schemes for
escape were flashing through her brain all at the
same time, when her attention was recalled to the
events passing below.

Hastings had opened the door, and his burly form
stood upon the threshold. Leaning over the open
window, Corinna could obtain a glimpse of him, and
plainly see the stranger as he attempted to enter the
house, pushing his way past the farmer.

But Hastings thrust him back, saying:

“Don’t come in till you’re invited, mister. And tell
us what you want afore ye try any gum-games.”

“I'm after a man who is hiding on your premises,”
said the man on the step.

“What, s’posin’ there ain’t any man hidin’ here,
hey ?” demanded the farmer.

“We will suppose nothing of the kind, since we
know what we're talking about. A young fellow, a
fugitive from justice—the accomplice of a very
clever gang of burglars, in fact—has taken refuge in
your house or barn. So own up if you know any-
thing about, it, and let us make a clean search, if
you don’t.”

“There ain’t no young feller hidin’ here,’ was
Hastings’ emphatic response.

“E tell you, my friend, that we know better.”

“How d’ye know ?”

“Because we have tracked him.”

“Tracked him?’ 3

“Exactly—with the help of our dog.”

“Where is yer dog?”

“Gone to his happy hunting-grounds, if there is
such a place for dead canines. Shot by this same
desperate young chap we are looking for.”

“And the dog tracked the feller here after he was
dead, did he ?”’

“After the man had shot him, though he was not
dead. The animal lays out yonder. He kept on the
trail as long as he could run, and then dropped down
and quit living, Thatis the whole story. And we
found the tracks the dog followed and traced them
here. So own up.”

At first, when Corinna realized that the officers
were notin search of her, she experienced a keen
sense of relief.

But a moment later she was tortured by a new sus
picion. ‘

Perhaps it was Austin Wendell of whom they
oe in quest—the runaway cushier of the Gilsey

ank.

The more she thought of it the more positive she
became that her conjecture was correct. And the
girl’s heart beat fast with an anxiety for the young
man keener than it had for her own safety.

“Can it be that he has sought refuge here, too?”
she asked herself. “

Possibly the eccentric farmer had concealed Wen-
dell in the house. It would be like him to do so, and
if he had, then he would make a sharp fight rather
than allow the young man to fall into the hands of
the officers.

But the next utterance of Hastings, made so posi-
tively, convinced Corinna that he did not know Wen-
dell was hiding upon the premises.

“There ain’t no young man here,” said the farmer,
emphatically,

“Not so fast, my man, unless you wish us to think
you are concealing him purposely,” warned the
officer.

“Think I lie square out?’ demanded Hastings, his
gruff voice rising to a dull roar as his anger began to
have play

‘Perhaps you know nothing about it, of course.”

‘Better say that, onless yer want me to lay yer out
straighter’n a string.” ;

‘Don’t bluster, man. If you know nothing about
the fugitive, you will not object to our making a
search of your house.” :

“S’arch my house at this time o’ night?”

“Certainly.”

 

 

“Not if I tink myself.”

 

“But we really must, sir.’

“Yerreally can’t. Not by ajugful.”

“Why not, if you are hiding no one?”

“Cause ye'll disturb my family for one thing, and
’cause I won't let ye for another. If ye want any
more reasons, call for ‘em.”

The two officers consulted in tones inaudibie to
Corinna. Then the spokesman asked:

s Have you any objections to our searching your
arn?’

“Yes, I have.”

“Then we shall have to overrule them. We cannot
afford to give up the pursuit just because an obsti-
nate old man is inclined to make a row. Do you hear
that, friend?’

Hastings made no reply. He had turned meny and
now slammed the door violently in the face of the of-
ficer. Corinna heard a bolt slide into the socket, and
knew her host was resolved that she should not be
intruded upon. ‘

She felt grateful to him for his faithfulness. At
the same time she was tortured with anxiety for
Austin Wendell, and a moment later she had glided
down the stairs, and stood beside the sturdy farmer,
placing one hand softly on his arm. :

“Go back, gal! They’ll see ye!” he exclaimed, in
a loud whisper. ;

“Tt is not for me they are looking, but a friend of
mine,” she returned, and a faint flush tinged the pal-
lor of her cheeks.

“A friend of your’n!” Hastings echoed, glaring
down at her.

“Yes, a young man.” .

“So they say. But I don’t swaller everything that
don’t happen to be a whale. I bet you they said that
jest for a blind, and it’s you they’re lookin’ fer. All
they want is to git into the house, and then they’d
nab you quicker’n I could say ‘Jack Robinson.’”

“No, no, you are mistaken, [ am sure. There is
really a young. man who is running away from the
police of New York, and I have reason to fear that
they have traced him hither.” And she briefly de-
scribed the character aud. danger of Austin Wendell.

‘“Mebbe you’re right,” admitted Hastings. ‘

“And if he is really hiding here I hope you will not
allow them to take him.”

“If their claims are all straight,and they have a
s’arch-warrant and them dockyments, I’ll have to
give in, miss. But otherwise ’m boss of my own
premises, and all the police in New York city couldn’t
scare me to givin’ in,”

“They have gone to the barn to search for him.” ”

“Yes. And I’m goin’, too.”

“Tf he is there——”

“T’ll do what I can, and that’s all anybody can do.
So don’t get in a fret.” :

The man went to a closet and took outa heavy
shot-gun of an old-fashioned pattern, and grimly ex-
amined it. Then he went to the outer door. With
his hand on the latch he looked backward at the
white, lovely face of Corinna, and said:

“T guess you’re in love with that chap, or you
wouldn’t act this way! Hey?’ ;

Then he went out, while the warm color relieved
her pallor, and she clasped her hands in an impulsive,
eager way.

She ran to a window and saw the stern-willed far-
mer trudging toward the barn, a door of which had
been left open by the officers.

She saw him goin, and then waited and listened,
her breathing half repressed, every sense keenly on
the alert. 3 ;

As she stood thus she heard the latch of the out-
side door softly raised, followed by a stealthy squeak-
ing of the hinges.

She thought at first thatit was Hastings, whom she >
had failed to see returning.

But as she glanced backward and saw the straight,
athletic figure which had just entered, a low, amazed
ery rose to her lips.

‘‘Austin Wendell!” she gasped.

He advanced and took her hands.

“Yes,” he said, in his manly tones. ‘‘And it seems
that Lam fated to complicate my perils with yours.
T had just crept around to this side of the house when
Hastings went out. I heard you imploring him to
defend me. How can I thank you, Corinna? There
is not ‘another soulin the world who would careif I
were cast into the prison to-night!”

For a minute they stood thus, their mutual danger
and sympathy weaving for them a bond which
neither time nor fortune could rend.

Then there came a shout from the barn, rudely
awakening them to present peril.

“They are coming to search the house!” Corinna
exclaimed. ‘‘Hide, Mr. Wendell—quick, or it will be
too late!”

She led the way to the stairs. At the same time
the outer door was flung open and Hastings plunged
in. } :

“They say they’re going to s’arch my house whether
TV’ll let ’em or not,” he growled, as he closed and
bolted the door.

There was a rush of feet outside, and then a de-
mand for admittance. But the farmer coolly cocked
his shot-gun and continued:

“But there’ll be the biggest kind of a rumpus
afore they do it!”

CHAPTER XXXV.
NAN’S COURAGE,

Jed Brickett was sly and shrewd, but, as we have
before hinted, he was far from being as robust in
physique as most boys of his age. He wasa peculiar
lad, with strangely contradictory qualities, and
oe had not yet made up his mind what to make of

im.

Here, however, was a chance to test his pluckiness.

Denton had told him that if he allowed Little Nan
to overtake him, he would make the boy wish he had
never been born.

Andon the other hand, Croly was convinced, al-
most as soon as the pursuit began, the girl Arab
would catch the boy, and that in a tussle she would
be fully a match for the eccentric youngster.
ae the ladder sped Brickett, and after him flew
Nan.

Both were straining every nerve. But it was a
question how the boy intended to dispose of himself
after reaching the topmost window of the building.

Another moment would tell. The window was
closed. As Brickett reached it he paused a single:
instant to peerin. Croly thought he would then try
to enter. :

But, instead, he resumed his ascent of the ladder,
which extended to the top of the building.

The latter had a flat roof, as did all the buildings
inits immediate vicinity. And it at once occurred
to Croly that the boy intended to continue his flight
upon the roofs until some place of concealment was
discovered, or means of giving his pursuer the slip,
suggested itself.

Brickett reached the roof about a dozenrungs of
the ladder in advance of Nan. The latter redoubled
her efforts for fear that he would find a hiding-place
while he was out of sight, for of course she would not
see him while he was upon the roof and she on the
ladder. ;

She reached the top but a moment behind the boy,
and here Croly and Denton, who had been watching
the race with speechless interest, now lost sight of
the participants.

When Nan clambered uponthe roof she was intime .
to see the boy spring across a narrow space separat-
ing that from the next house,

Nan followed, reached the chasm, and, without a
thought of the risk, followed the example of the
plucky fugitive.

She knew that she was gaining upon him. His
rapid fight up the ladder caused him to gasp with ex-
haustion. The girl, too, was breathing hard, but the
rapidity of her pace was not diminished. She was
strong and resolute. She took pride in her boyish
powers of endurance and accomplishments.

Jed reached the end of another row of houses. Here
was another space to leap across, and what was
worse the next building was a couple of feet higher
than the roof upon which he stood.

Had he been fresh he would not have hesitated to
risk the leap.

But now his legs trembled with exhaustion, while
his heart throbbed clamorously.

For a single moment he hesitated. Then, with a
desperate flash of his dark eyes he turned at bay, for
Nan was close behind.

Looking about him hastily for some means of de-
fense he perceived a fragment of brick which had
fallen from a chimney near at hand. In a momentit
was in his hand, and he held it aloft menacingly.

“Keep back!’ he breathlessly cried.

Nan halted within eight feet of him. Her eyes
flashed determinedly, and at the same time she
noticed a small piece of board almost at her feet—
something which had been left there when repairs
were made on the roof.

She seized it, and held it up so asto partially shield
her face. Then she eried:

“Drop that brick, Jed Brickett.”

“Not unless you promise to let me alone, was the
low reply. .

‘You got to giveme somethin’ you’ye got ’fore Pll
leave yer,’ said Nan. 5

“T have nothing that belongs to you.”

“You’ve something of Mr. Croly’s.”

“What is it?”

“A letter that the woman give you.”

“What woman ?’

“Mrs. Hazard, where you jist come from.”

“Well, if the woman gave me a letter what has that
to do with Mr. Croly.?”

“You got it by spyin’ ’round where yer no business

“Why didn’t Mr. Croly stop me, then? ”

a “Cause he wanted to see what you was goin’ to

0.

Brickett was beginning to regain his breath. But
he was still greatly exhausted by the prolonged and
unusual effort he had made.

It suddenly occurred to Nan that the boy was
“making-talk” simply to gain time, so that he could
regain his breath and strength for another flight.
For what he lacked in endurance he made up in de-
termination,

If the chase was prolonged, Nan reflected, some-
thing might occur to give Jed the advantage, and she
would thus lose the fruit of her labors.

* Therefore she resolved to make the most of the ad-
vantage she now possessed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

x

Oa catia THE N EW YORK WEEKLY. 833s29=+

 

She took another step toward the lad; and again

cried :

“Drop the brick !”

The boy poised the missle, and retorted :

“ll knock you down with it, Nan, if you come any
nearer.”

“You darsen’t do it!’ ©

“Try me, and see!”

Nan accepted the challenge more promptly than
the boy anticipated.

Holding the piece of board up as a shield, she made
a swift plunge toward the boy.

The latter hastily cast the missile, but being on the
lookout for it, coupled with the fact that it was
aimed a trifle too high, Nan ducked her head in time
to avoid it.

Simultaneously she threw the piece of board di-
rectly at her foe.

Jed Brickett, disarmed and assailed so boldly by
the resolute girl, for an instant lost his presence of
mind. He was standing upon the very edge of the
roof, and as the missile thrown by Nan,and Nan her-
self, came toward him, he thoughtlessly took a step
backward.

Thus one foot was planted upon the very brink.
Another inch would have thrown him down to the
flag-stones far below. As it was, he tottered, swung
his arms wildly in a frantic attempt to regain his
equilibrium.

Nan saw his peril, and the fact that she was rush-
ing toward him atsuch headlong speed, caused an
involuntary shrinking on his part that greatly in-
creased his danger.

For a single brief moment he tottered thus, then he
lost his balance entirely. A wild, ear-splitting shriek
rang from his lips as he found himself falling back-

hands seized
strength and

ward.

But at that instant two small, strong
his jacket, and Little Nan, with all her
weight, exerted herself to save him.

For a moment it seemed that both must go over
the brink, for,in his desperation, the lad clung to
her arms, and she could not then have released him
had she wished to do so.

But Jed was slender and light. Nan was agile,
and, what was better, did not lose her presence of
mind. And, after a brief period of dreadful suspense
to both. Brickett was able to regain his feet and
throw himself upon his face on the roof, while Nan
erouched, white and panting, by his side.

For a full minute neither stirred nor spoke. Then
Jed rose to a sitting posture. At the same time
the girl’s hand, still resting on his arm, tightened its

asp. c

“Oh, I sha‘n’t try to get away from you now,” said
the boy, in a calmer voice than he had used before.

“T guess I’ll keep a hand on yer, all the same,” said
the plucky girl. And she added, with a sharp glance
into his face: ‘Why wouldn't yer try to git away ?”’

“Because you saved zuy life?’

And there was a suspicious tremor in the boy’s
voice.

“Yer wouldn’t a got in dangerif I hadn’t chased
yer.”

Perhaps not. But that makes no difference. You
risked your life in trying to save me. A little more,
and I should have dragged you over with me.”

“T know it.”

“And you did a mighty brave thing.”

“That’s nothin’. ’Tain’t likely I’d seen yer go over
*thout tryin’ to do somep'’n. [ain’t that kind ofa
chap,” said Nan.

“Some would have let me fall. I have played the
sneak in pretending to that woman that Mr. Croly
sent me there. It was a mean thing to do, for Croly
did a good thing by me once. He saved me from an
awful flogging. But I—I have to do what Denton
tells me.”

Nan looked at the strange lad wonderingly.

“That Pinkerton detective makes yer do as he says,
does he?’ she asked. :

The boy evaded the question.

“T work for him, and, of course, I do what he says,
same as you do for Mr. Croly.” he said.

“T ain’t forced to work for Croly,” said Nan.

“Of course not.”

Jed Brickett cast an apprehensive glance toward
the other end of the building. Then he hastily
added :

“What did you want of me, Nan?’

“The letter you got at Mrs. Hazard’s.”

“What will you do with it?’

“Give it to Mr. Croly.”

“It isn’t worth the chase you have had.”

“Then w’at made yer hang on to it?”

“Denton told me not to giveitup. So, if I refuse
to let you have it now, what will you do?”

“T’ll take it from yer.”

“Perhaps you cannot do it ?”’

“Say I can’t, and see what I'll do.”

Jed slyly drew the letter from his pocket, and

said:

“T shall give it up to pay you for saving my life.”

‘ ao he placed the missive in her outstretched
and.

Even as he did so there was a shout from the fur-
ther row of buildings, along the roofs of which they
had recently fled.

Glancing in that direction they saw Denton, the
Pinkerton detective, bounding toward them.

*,Oh, give it back—the letter!” cried Jed Brickett,
in imploring tones.

“Not if I knows myself,” said Nan.

“He will kill meif you don’t! You might as well
and save me, for he’ll get it from you any way,” im-
plored the boy.

But Nan thrust the missive in among the ragged
folds of her dress, and said: .

“He’ll have to catch me first.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

ee

(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. 48.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XXXIIL.
AFTER EIGHT YEARS.

Eight years have passed since Lady Linton, with
her son and daughter, her cousin William Heath, and
his family, visited America; since she so nearly fell
a victim to that railway disaster and was rescued by
the woman whom she had hated, whom she now
hated a hundred-fold. c

It is a beautiful winter’s morning, and in the sunny,
elegantly appointed dining-room at Heathdale an in-
teresting group of five persons is gathered around
the bountifully spread breakfast-table.

At one end sits Sir William Heath, a handsome,
dignified gentleman a little above forty, yet hardly
looking that, for the fleeting years have touched
him but lightly, in spite of the great sorrow which
has lain so heavily upon his heart and robbed his life
and his home of its chief joys—the love and presence
of a fond, true wife, the patter of little feet, and the
happy laughter and merry chatter of childish voices.

Opposite him, and engaged in serving coffee, is his
sister, Lady Linton, who has changed greatly during
the last eight years. She has grown old and wrinkled,
and her face has hardened, if that could be possible.
There is a cynical expression about her thin mouth,
and her eyes are cold and critical in their expres-
sion, excepting when they rest upon her children,
who now sit beside her, one at her right, the other at
her left hand. 4 3

Percy Linton has done credit to the promise of his
youth, and is a fine young man of twenty one, hon-
est, noble, and thoughtful beyond his years. He is
lately home from Oxford, where he achieved great
honors, and is now planning to return to the neg-
lected and impoverished estate, wbich his father’s
prodigality nearly ruined, with the intention of re-
claiming it and restoring it to something of the thrift
and prosperity for which it was noted under the care
of his grandfather, for whom he is named, and whose
mantle seems to‘have fallen upon him.

His mother is not at all in sympathy with these
plans. She wishes her son to adopt a public career.
She still has strong nee that he will fall heir to
her brother’s title and property, in which case
there would be no need of his spending the best
years of his life in striving to redeem a heavily mort-
gaged estate. ;

Sir William, however, heartily approves of his
noble resolve, and promises to assist him in every

possible way, and, with this encouragement, he has
ecided to devote himself to Linton Grange.

Lillian Linton isa brilliant and beautiful girl of
nineteen. She is a clear brunette, with a lovely
bloom on her cheeks, vividly red lips, dark eyes and
hair. Her features are delicate and regular, she is
tall and finely formed, attractive in manner, but in
disposition and temperament she is much like her
mother.

The remaining individual of the group was Rupert
Hamilton, Sir William Heath's ward, and the child of
his dear friend, Major Hamilton, who died several
years ago. He is now a young man of twenty, tall
and stalwart in form, with a well-shaped head set

roudly upon a pair of square, broad shoulders. He

as a handsome and intelligent face, with a pair of
full wine-brown eyes, which always meet yours with
a clear, steady gaze, that proclaims a noble char-
acter and a clear conscience.

His nose is something after the Roman type, his
mouth tirm and strong, yet when he smiles, as sweet

 

 

 

 

and expressive as a woman’s. One would know ata
sienes that he was true and generous, kind and
genial.

One could perceive also that Sir William loved him
like a son by the affectionate glances which he bent
upon him, by his answering smile whenever their eyes
met, and the confidential tone which he used when
addressing him. :

The young heir to half a million of pounds thought
his guardian the noblest man in the wonld, and he
would have deemed no service too difficult or dis-
agreeable to perform for him.

He knew something of the trouble of his early life,

thathe had been married and parted from his wife, al-

though he had never heard her name spoken, or asked
a single question upon the subject, and he had always
felt a peculiar tenderness and sympathy for him on
this account.

The tact of Sir William’s marriage was no longer a
secret, although Lady Linton had tried every way to
conceal it. It was not very generally known, how-
ever, even now; but in his own household and among
his intimate friends it was understood that he had
married a beautiful woman while on his first visit to
America, and that some cruel misunderstanding had
resulted in aseparation. He had insisted upon this
explanation, for hope was not yet quite dead in his
heart that some time he might find Virgie, effect a re-
conciliation, and bring her home to Heathdale.

Those who knew that he was free to marry again,
if he chose, sometimes urged him to do so and not al-
low his name to become extinct.

But he always replied, with a heavy sigh :

“T have a wite already, and some tiie, please
Heaven, I shall find her. No other shall ever be mis-
tress of Heathdale while I live.”

This reply never failed to arouse the fiercest anger
in Lady Linton, who grew more bitter with every
year toward the woman whom she had wronged, and
who had repaid her injuries with such kindness and
Christian charity to her everlasting shame and humil-
iation.

‘* ‘Wife,’ indeed!” she once retorted. ‘‘A woman
who divoreed herself from you in the way she did,
coolly severing the bonds, which you seem still to
hold in such reverence, is not worthy the name.”

“But Lloved her, Miriam—lI love her still; I shall
be true to her till I die,’ her brother answered.
“Our separation has been the strangest things in the
world—it is wholly incomprehensible to me; but il I

ever find that we have been the victims of treachery,

let the enemy who has meddled beware !”

Twice during these last eight years he had crossed
the Atlantic and renewed his search for Virgie, but
without obtaining the least clew to her whereabouts,
and so he returned again to his home.

He never intruded his sorrow upon any one; in-
deed his life flowed along so calmly and smoothly
that a stranger might have supposed that he had re-
mained single from choice, although there was a
wistful sadness in his eyes that impressed every one.

Of late he had interested himself considerably in
politics and been in Parliament,having been returned
tor his borough several times.

But to return to the breakfast-table, from which
we have roved, and where an animated discussion
was in progress, together with the disposition of the
many tempting viands.

“T am sure I do not know what I am going to do
without you during the next six months, Rupert;”
Sir William Yemarked. ‘Here I was anticipating
having you all to myself for awhile, after you got
through school, and now you want to go roving the
first thing.”

“Yes, Ido want to see a little of the world I live in,
I confess, before I choose my profession; and you
have told me so many interesting things about Amer-
ica, and American people, that I have a curiosity to
see the country and mingle with the people myself.
Why can't you come with me, Uncle Will? then we
need not be separated,” concluded the young man,
wishfully. ‘

“T should be glad to, my boy, but my time and at
tention will have to be given to the interests of the
borough for this year,’’ responded his guardian.
“The troubles in Ireland, too, bid fair to be pretty se-
rious, and every true-hearted Englishman ought to
give careful thought to the questions that are arising
in connection with them.”

“T hope that Iam a true-hearted Englishman, but
since I cannot cast my vote until next year, I pre-
sume you will not consider me disloyal for running
away for a little while,” Rupert said, earnestly.

“No, indeed, I want you to go, since you desire it
so much, and, considering all things; this is the best
time for you to go. Let me see; it isa Raymond ex-
cursion to California that you have decided to join
after reaching New York, [ believe.”

“Yes, the circular which Raymond has issued is so
attractive I could not resistit. I feel sure that by
joining this party I shall see more of the country, in
less time and to better advantage, than I could to
travel by myself and lay out my own route.”

“Will you be with a large party, Rupert?’ Lillian
asked, her color deepening and a rather anxious ex-
pression in her eyes.

Lillian Linton had learned to love Rupert Hamilton
with a strong and passionate affection, and this at-
tachment had been most unwisely fostered by her
mother, who was still determined that her idolized
daughter should marry her brother's wealthy young
ward, and the heir to still greater prosperity and
honor. if it was possible to accomplish it.

*T do not know how large the party will be, Lil-
lian; probably there will be quite a number in it,” he
answered. : '

‘All gentlemen?"

“Oh, no, [judge not from some hints that are given
regarding the equipments necessary for the journey ;
for articles which only ladies require are mentioned
in them.” :

Lillian lost some of her brilliant color, and her eyes
drooped at this reply.

“But do you like the idea of mingling so freely with
strange people?” she asked, with a slight curl of her
red lips. Americans, too,” she added, slightingly.

“Why, Lillian, are you so prejudiced against our

neighbors over the sea 2?” exclaimed the young man,

in surprise.

The girl shrugged her graceful shoulders and arched
her pretty brows, butdeigned no reply. The act, how-
ever, expressed far better than words could have
done her contempt for the people of which they had
been speaking.

Percy glanced up at her with a roguish twinkle in
his eyes. ,

“Rupert will doubtless meet some fair damsel
among his party whose bright eyes and charming
siniles will prove too much for his susceptible na-
ture, and, before we know it, our loyal Euglishman
will have forsworn his colors and joined the great re-
pubhe,” he said, to tantalize his sister.

“Oh, Percy, how little faith you have in me,”
laughed Rupert. ‘Of course I expect there will be
some fair damsels in my party, but doubtless they
will be soclosely guarded by jealous parents and vig-
ilant chaperons that no young man of my age will
have an opportunity to play the agreeable to them.”

Neither of the young men observed the spasm of
pain that contracted Sir William’s brow at these re-
marks, nor the hardening of Lady Linton’s face, as
they thoughtof that episode in the life of the former,
some eighteen years previous, while he was travel-
ing in America.

“T trust that Rupert will not be beguiled into any
indiscretions, no matter how attractive the ladies of
his party may be; he owes it to his self-respect to
choose his wife from his own countrywomen,” re-
marked her ladyship, with a swift glance at her
daughter, whose eyes were fixed upon her plate, as if
she had no interest in anything but the morsel that
eee diligently reducing to mince-meat with her

nife.

‘Are the ladies of America more artfulin that re-
spect than those of any other nationality, Lady Lin-
ton ?” asked the young man, innocently, but with a
quizzical smile.

“T am happy to say that I know. but. very little
about them, but what Ido know has not served to

repossess me in their favor,” was the sharp retort of

1er ladyship.

‘Miriam, I will trouble you for another cup of
coffee,” said Sir William, quietly, butin a tone which
warned his sister that she had better not pursue the
conversation further on that line.

Then he turned to his nephew, with a genial
smile, saying:

“T only wish Perey had not been in quite sucha
hurry to settle at the Grange; I would really like to
have you run over to the United States with Rupert
for a little holiday before you begin work.”

“Thank you, Uncle Will; but, truly, I feel that it
would not be right to tak@either the time or the
money for such a journey. My duty plainly points
to the earliest possible restoration of my fallen
house,” the young man answered, gravely.

“T wish that every young man possessed as consci-
entious aregard for duty as youdo, Perey. I confess
I honor you for your desire to clearthe Grange of all
incumbrance, though I would gladly be your banker
if you would consent to accompany Rupert.”

“You have already been my banker to such an ex-
tent that I do not feel willing to draw upon you any
more. I am very grateful for all your kindness,
Uncle Will, but indeed my self-respect demands that
I should begin to depend upon my own exertions ; so
I shall wed myself to the home of my ancestors until
every debt is paid and the glory of the days of my
grandfather is restored,” Percy concluded, smnilingly,
but with a firmness which plainly told that his mind
was made up regarding the course he was to pursue.

“T consider it a senseless, quixiotic notion; I think
you had much better sell the place and realize what
you can from it, rather than spend the best of your
life in trying to pay debts that other people have
contracted,” said his mother, resentfully.

“Sell Linton Grange ’” exclaimed the young man,
aghast. ‘Why, mother, where is your loyalty to the
home of more than a dozen generations ?”

“T have suffered too much at Linton Grange to feel
very much loyalty for bundles of mortgages, prom-
issory notes, etc.,” retorted Lady Linton, a deep flush
suffusing her facc. :

“Percy is right, Miriam, so do not try to discourage
him. It would, indeed, be a pity to sacrifice such a
grand old place, while there was the least hope of re-
claiming it. It will, no doubt, be up-hill work for
the first few years, but, with the spirit which ani-
mates him, I am sure he will succeed, and his reward

 

will be sweet,” Sir William said, heartily, as he arose
from the table. Then turning to his nephew, he
continued: ‘I will ride over to the Grange with you
ina couple of hours, and we Will consider further
the measures you proposed to me yesterday.”

CHAPTER XXXIV.
A GLIMPSE AT LILLIAN LINTON’S HEART.

“Rupert, have you seen my orchids since they
bloomed 2” Lillian asked of her uncle’s ward as the
family were leaving the dining-room. ;

“No. Are you indulging in orchids, Lillian ?”’

“Yes; I am wild overthem. Uncle Will gave me
several varieties on my last birthday, and they are
just doing their best forme now. Come into the con-
servatory and let me show them to you.”

“Allright. I havea fancy for the pretty things
too,” replied the young man, as he followed the fair
girl toward the hot-house, and thinking, as he did so,
how lovely and graceful the girl was in her perfectly
fitting morning robe of garnet cashinere, trimmed
with swan’s-down, and which harmonized delight-
fully with her brilliant complexion.

She took him to a sunny corner oféthe conservatory
which Sir William had set apart, and had fitted up
expressly to gratify this extravagant whim of his
pretty niece, and where the young lady had really
displayed much taste and appreciation of the rare
things in which she was interested, both as to choice
and arrangement.

They spent half an_hour or more in examining the
beautifnl things, and Rupert became almost as en-
thusiastie as Lillian herself over them.

But she had no notion of allowing even her favor-
ite flowers to monopolize all his attention.. She had
had a far more important object in view in bringing
him there with her.

“So you are really determined upon taking this
American trip, Rupert?’ she remarked, as they
paused before a lovely arethusa in full bloom, from
which she broke its fairest blossom, and, bending
forward, fastened it to the lapel of his coat.

“Oh, Lillian, what a pity to break the pretty
thing !” he said, regretfully.

“Not for you?” she answered, looking up at him
with a smile, and flushing as she met those frank
brown eyes that were regarding her with unmistak-
able admiration. ‘*You would be welcome to more if
you wished.

“You are very generous,” he returned, regarding
the flower thoughtfully, and wondering what made
her blush so when with him. “But about my trip.
Yes, I have decided that I will go.”

“When ?””

“T sail just a week from to-day.
to engagemy passage.” f

“So soon!” Lillian cried, catching her breath and
losing all her brilliant color.

“Yes; if I am to join that excursion to the Pacific
coast on the 12th of next month, I must be off.”

“The house will seem like a convent when you are
gone—you are the life and soul of everything here,”
said the girl, tears starting to her eyes.

“Thank you; I had no idea that I was of so much
importance,” he returned, lightly.

“Didn't you?” she asked, sweeping him a coy look
from beneath her long, dark lashes; ‘you have
something to learn yet then. But how long will you
be away ?—surely not six months, as Uncle Will said
this morning.”

“Yes, I think so. I do not wish to hurry, and I
mean to get a pretty thorough idea of what the
United States are like. I think I shall be away until
July or August.”

“Oh, Rupert! don’t!—it will be too lonely and
wretched for anything without you,” Lillian burst
forth, impetuously and in an agitated voice.

“Why Lillian!” he exclaimed, astonished, and be-
stowing a puzzled look upon her downceast, agitated
countenance, ‘will you miss me like that?”

“Did you expect you could go away for so long
and not he missed?” she asked, tremulously.

“T confess I had not thought much about it,” he
replied, gravely, ‘‘but I suppose, as we have all been
brought up together, and had so much in common,
that-no one of us could go away without being
missed. However, you will have Percy.” ‘

“But Percy is soon to go the Grange, and will be
so taken up with his interests there that we shall see
but very little of him. Oh, Rupert! I wish there
was nosuch place as America,” Lillian concluded,
with quivering lips.

“Bless you, little sister! I never thought that my
going away would upset you like this!” Rupert said,
laying his hand lightly on her shoulder, and really
moved to see how she was taking it to heart.

“Little sister!” she repeated, flushing crimson, and
drawing her figure to its full height.

She was very handsome at that moment, and Ru-
pert wondered that he had not noticed of late how
exceedingly lovely she had grown, while there was a
nameless something in her expressive face, and even
even in her attitude, that thrilled him strangely.

“Does that offend your young ladyship?” he ques-
tioned, laughing; ‘‘you are not so little, after all,
and I was unfortunate in my choice of an adjective;
but you were such a tiny midget when I came here,
eight year ago, that Ihave always regarded you as
very petite.”

“But I am not—your sisler ; we are not related at
all,” she murmured.

He started, and bent a puzzled look upon her. She
was standing before him, with half-averted face, her
darkly fringed lids almost touching her cheeks, her
bosom heaving with the heavy pulsations of her
heart.

“True,” he returned, in a constrained tone, ‘and
you must pardon me if I have presumed too far; but
you must understand, Lillian, that it has become a
natural consequence for me to regard you almost in
that light, since one cannot live so many years in a
family without becoming strongly attached to its
members. I had flattered myself, too, that I had
won at least a little corner in the hearts of my
friends here.”

“You have! you have! Oh, Rupert, I did not mean
anything like that,” Lillian cried, in a distressed tone
and with visible agitation.

“Then what did you mean? I do not understand
you,” the young man asked, and leaning forward to
look into her downcast face.

Lillian liftei her great dark eyes to his for an in-
stant, and his heart gave a startled bound at what
he read in their dusky depths. Then the rich blood
rushed in a crimson fiood to her very brow, dying
even her white neck with its rosy hue.

At that moment a door of the conservatory opened
and shut, and the girl started guiltily from his side.

“There comes the gardener,” she said, with evident
confusion, ‘‘and I must speak to him.”

She darted away, speeding swiftly down the walk,
leaving the young man speechless and amazed at the
discovery that he had made; for he had read in the
girl’s beautiful face and speaking glance the confes-
sion of her love for him.

“Whew !” he ejaculated, recovering himself after a
moment, ‘I never dreamed of anything like that!
What in the world have I been thinking of not to re-
alize before that she had grown a young lady, and a
very beautiful one, too? I wonder if I could—can it
be possible that I have—bah! I never have meant to
do any mischief in that way. Perhaps ’l—no. Ill
wait until I get back from my trip; it is very awk-
ward. I wishit had not happened just now,” he so-
liloquized, brokenly.

He stood gazing out of the conservatory in an ab-
sent way for several minutes. his face very grave,
an anxious look in his fine eyes; but, as he heard
Lillian and the gardener approaching, he passed
around to another path and so out of the hot-house,
and thus avoided meeting them; he did not feel that
he could encounter the young girl again just then.
He wished to get away by himself and think over the
revelation he had just received.

The thought of love in connection with Lillian Lin-
ton had never entered his mind until now.

She had simply been a genial playmate during the
earlier years of his life, sharing many of his own and
Perey’s sports, and a pleasant companion when, of
late, he had returned to Heathdale from college to
spend his vacations.

He had searcely realized—as his own words be-
traved—that she had reached woman’s estate. He
knew she was very pretty, very bright and spark-
ling; he knew that Heathdale would not seem like
home to him without her, and he enjoyed her society
as he would that of a dear sister; but as for anything
nearer, as a wife, he had never thought of her.

More and more he regretted that little episode in
the conservatory. The memory of it embarrassed
him, try hard as he would to overcome it, and he
found himself avoiding the possibility of a tete-a-tete
with Lillian again, while he began to grow anxious
for the day of his departure, that he might escape
the unnatural constraint that seemed to have fallen
upon him. :

Sir William wondered what had come over him
during the next few days, but attributed his unusual
gravity to his regret at the approaching separation.

Lady Linton knewfrom Lillian’s manner that some-
thing had gone wrong; but although she questioned
her, she could learn nothing satisfactory, and she be-
camemore and more unreconciled over Rupert’s pro-
jected tour.

If she could only have sueceeded in arranging an
engagement between him and Lillian hefore he left,
she would have felt quite safe in letting him go; he
would have stood committed then, and it would have
been a safeguard during his absence.

She did everything in her power to make it pleasant
for him during the little time that remained to him
at home; she meant that he should at least take
away agreeable memories with him, and he assured
her again and again that he should never forget her
kindness to him for all that she was doing for him.

‘““You have been like a mother to me, Lady Linton,
ever since I came to Heathdale,” he said, gratefully,
to her one day when she was arranging something
for his comfort during the voyage.

“And you have been like a son to me, my dear
boy,” she returned, with a fond glance. “I shall al-
ways regard you as such. I am sure I do not know
what we are going to do without you.”

“Six months will soon pass,’”’ Rupert said, trying to
speak lightly.

“They may to you, who will be traveling constant-
ly, but they will be long to us who wait at home.
Poor Lillian! I set her to marking some handkKer-

I wrote yesterday

 

 

Sp a ————__—— — —— —
chiefs for you this morning, but she broke down and |

cried so over her work that she had to give it up.” |

“T am afraid Iam an unworthy subject forso much |
regret,”’ Rupert said, with a sigh. |

Lillian’s regard for him; her pale, sad face and hol- |
low eyes were a greateburden on his heart.

The day of his departure arrived and he took an
affectionate leave of his friends.

Lady Linton embraced him as fervently as if he |
had indeed been her son, bade him take care of him- |
self and come safely back to them, for it would break |
their hearts to lose him entirely. Percy wished him
every possible pleasure, and promised to write him |
every week. Lillian gave him an icy-cold hand at |
parting, there were tears on her dark lashes, and her
lips quivered painfully over her farewell; but she |
would not allow him to kiss her in the old friendly
fashion as he used to do when he and Percy went
back to school at the end of their holidays. She had
vowed that their lips should never meet again until |
he had given her a lover’s kiss.

Ruvert looked troubled at being thus repulsed. He |
understood the reason for it, however, and. it was
with a feeling of relief that he realized he was to |
have six months in which to make up his mind as to |
what his duty was toward his guardian’s niece.

Sir William accompanied him to London, thence to |
Liverpool. where he saw him safely on board the |
stanch Cunarder that was to bear him across the At- |
lantic, after which he returned to Heathdale, feeling
as if half the sunshine had suddenly been blotted |
from his life. The boy was inexpressibly dear to him,
and he would have been bereaved, indeed, if any-
thing happened to him.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Quaint Quirks.

A Boonville school-teacher had a great deal of |
trouble making a boy understand his lessons. }
Finally, however, he succeeded, and drawing a long |
breath, remarked, “If it wasn’t for me you would |
he the biggest Gonkey in Boonville.’’— Lovisville

umes,

They raise vegetable tallow in Australia. There’s !
the place to laugh and grow fat.—Texas Sij/tings.

“Tkey,” said Oliver Sweatt to his only son, at din- |
ner the other day, “what have you in the shape of
pie?” ‘Pie plates,” promptly responded Ikey.—
Stoughton Sentinel.

Hotel clerk to Missouri colonel—‘What was that
noise in your room?” “Oh! Thad to break the neck
off a bottle I found there, as I couldn’t draw the cork.”
“Why, the only bottle there was a hand grenade.”
“Ts that so? I thought the liquor was very mild.”
Chicago Times.

The baroninvites the doctor to go driving. The
horse runs away, and the doctoris badly hurt. “Why
didn’t you tell me your horse was so skittish? Had
I known there was danger, I would not have come.”
The baron—“I never took out that horse without
some accident happening; that is the reason why I}
always take a doctor along.”—Paris Gaulois.

Grocer—“I find your son bright and energetic }
enough, but I’m afraid that he is hardly adapted to
the grocery business.” Father of the boy—‘*What
seems to be the trouble?” Grocer—‘Why, the first
thing he did was to begin picking the dead flies out
of the dried currants.”

“If high living causes gout,” he said, “it is very |
strange that I have never had it.” ‘Are you a high
liver?” he was asked. ‘Very; I live on the seventh
floor of a Harlem flat.”—N. Y. Sun.

Policeman (in citizen’s dress to brother officer in |
saloon Sunday morning)—‘‘It’s whisky, Denis, and
we've got the waiterdead to rights. Shall Larrest him
now ?” Denis—‘‘No; let’s have a few more drinks
first.”’—Eachange.

The young man whosat the entire evening through,
with his arm tightly clasped about the waist of his
dear charmer, said that he was only illustrating the
power of the press.—Boston Post.

“Why don’t you come to Sunday-school?” said a
superintendent to a boy. ‘Cause pa owes my teach- |
er for a pair of boots, and the teacher got to sending |
notes home by me, and pa said I needn't go any more |
till he paid for the boots, and I don’t think [ll go)
any more.’’—JN. Y. Star.

ma 0

A WONDERFUL MAGNIFYING GLASS.

Perhaps the most wonderful thing that has been |
discovered of late is the new magnifying glass which |
has just been made in Sweden, differing from ordi- |
nary glass in its extraordinary power. Our common |
glass only contains six substances, while the Swedish '
glass consists of fourteen, the most important ele-
ment beiug phosphorous and boron, which are not |

found in any other glass.. The revolution which this |
new glass is destined to make is a most inconceivable }
one, if itis true, as is positively alleged, that, while
the highest power of an old-fashioned microscopic
lens reveals only the one four hundred thousandth
(1-400,000th) part of an inch, this new glass will en-
able us to distinguish one-two hundred and four mil- |
lion seven hundred thousandth (1-204,700,000th) part
of an inch. It makes one’s hand ache to write these
figures; and who can tell what worlds within worlds
may not be discovered with such an instrument as
this?) Magnified after this fashion, the smallest ani-
maleule will be converted into a giant, and if the
same power ean be applied to the telescope we shall
have the moon brought to our very doors.

allies ini

THE SAMOAN ISLANDS,

The color of the natives of the Samoan Islands is,
as a rule, dark olive. The better class, however, are
much lighter. The men are tall and well formed.
The women are generally slight, but quite sym-
metrical, easy, and graceful, and the most laughing,
good-humored creatures imaginable. Some of the
chiefs have two are more wives, but polygamy is
rather the exception than the rule, and even when
there is more than one wife separate establishments
are provided for each.

The great evenness of climate makes two crops
per year a possibility, and should some enterprising
parties undertake practical farming in Samoa, there
are immense returns to be had. But in a climate
where the temperature is always between 70° and
90° energy seems to be the lacking element toward
the carrying out of extensive agricultural schemes,
and now the principal exports are ‘‘coppra,” or the
dried meat of the cocoanut from which oil is made,
and a small quantity of cotton. Nearly all the trade
is controlled by some Hamburg houses, and the Ger-
mans are by far the most numerous of the foreigners.

THE SECRET SERVICE SERIES.

By “OLD SLEUTH” and others.

ISSUED MONTHLY.

 

 

The above-named series is issued in clean, large type,
uniform in size with ‘Street & Smith’s Select Series,”
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Detectives.

By “OLD SLEUTH,” Author of “Old Sleuth, the Detec-
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No. 2.—BRUCE ANGELO, the City Detec-
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By “OLD SLEUTH,” Author of “‘Brant Adams,” ‘“The
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No. 5.—VAN, the Government Detective.
By the author of “Old Sleuth’s Triumphs,” “Bruce An-
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TWENTY-FIVE CENTS EACH.

For sale by all Booksellers and News Agents, or will be
sent, postage free, to any address in the United States or
Canada, on receipt of price, by the publishers,

STREET & SMITH,

P, 0. Box 2734. 31 Rose St., New York.
FOR ALL. $30 a week and expenses
WOR aid. Valuable outfit and particulars free.
.O. VICKERY, Augusta, Maine.
A MONTH. Agents Wanted. 90 best sell-
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Address Jay Bronson, Detroit, Mich.
KS
AND IBOOK 'S ; 48PAGECATALOGUE FREE
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to $8 a day. Samples worth $1.50, FREE. Lines
not under the horses’ feet. Write BREWSTER’s
SAFETY REIN HOLDER Co., Holly, Mich.

 

 

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Ayer’s Sarsaparilla,

Prepared by Dr. J.C. Ayer & Co., Lowell. Mass.
Bold by alle-Druggists. Price $1; six bottles, $5.

GOLD WATCHES ¢
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The publishers of Housewife, the
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FIVE BOOKS FREE!

We willsend The PEOPLE’S HOME JOURNAL, our
large 16-page, 64-column illustrated Literary and Family paper,
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onders of the Sea. A description of the many wonder-
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Address F. M. LUPTON, 68 Murray Sti, New Yeork..

 

 

THE WASHBURN AMERICAN

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AND MANDOLINES ==

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<atsa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

VOL. 43—No. 5,

 

 

GOD’S APPOINTMENTS.
BY EMMA C. DOWD.

Two men went forth, one summer hour,
And both were young and brave and true;

Two loyal hearts, two brains of power,
Eager to dare and do.

Each followed right, each turned from wrong,
And strove his errors to outlive ;

Each sought with hope and courage strong
The best life has to give.

For one love’s fountain yielded up
Its sweetest—royally he quaffed ;

The other drank a brimming cup,
A bitter, bitter draught.

One touched but stones, they changed to gold,
Wealth came and staid at his command ;
The other’s silver turned to mold
And dust within his hand.

The world crowned one with leaves of bay,
He ate with kings, their honors shared ;
The other trod a barren way,
And few men knew or cared.

And this is life: two sow, one reaps;
Two run abreast, one gains the goal;
One laughs aloud, the other weeps
In anguish of his soul.

One seems of fate the helpless toy,
Unbroken one’s triumphant chain;

God hath appointed one to joy,
Appointed one to pain.

The wisdom that doth rule the world
Is wisdom far beyond our ken ;

But when all seems to ruin hurled.
God’s hand is mighty then.

In God’s appointments I believe,
Trusting His love, believe in this:

That though from day to day men grieve,
And life’s sweet fruitage miss,

In some glad future they shall know

Why one through striving may not win;
The Book of Life will surely show

Why all these things have been.

ROMANCES ON THE RAIL.

Tales Told by Commercial Travelers.

No. 5.

BY H. A. FREEMAN.

i

have shocked you! Then take a lesson. Ask no
young-looking womam her age. She may tell you the
truth, as haveI, and alarm you. When did I begin
taming lions? It was when I was fifteen years old.

My father had captured the terrible Moor Agib, and
had broken up his party. His was the lastof the
organizations of pirates to be scattered, and my
father’s ship having been sunk in that last encounter
he gave up the sea forever. We removed to a Moris-
can settlement in the Atlas mountains, whence my
father supplied lion cubs to such as chose to buy.

It was his custom to go out with a party of the vil-
lagers, and in perhaps one or two weeks he would re-
turn with three or fourlive cubs, and the skins, claws,
and teeth of as many old lions. Sometimes he would
bring back one or two less men than he took out, but
their widows were easily consoled. A handful of
coins would silence their noisy grief, and two hand-
fuls wonld bring back contentment to their faces.
And what mattered a Moriscan more or less!

One day my father started on an exhibition, which
he intended should be his last. My mother was dead,
and I, at tifteen, felt more willing to venture with
him than to remain at home in the dreary company
of the Moriscan women. He intended now to return
to France and give me whatever advantages of edu-
cation the schools afforded. I had no desire for the
schools, but I wanted to be away from the monotony
of dusky faces. I went with him on this last adven-
ture in a wagon fitted up for my convenience. After
traveling two days we made a camp, intending to
establish there our headquarters.

There were satisfactory signs of lions in the vicin-
ity, and my father left me the first evening Epopertns
supper against his return. They usually endeavore
to capture the cubs from the dens while the parent
animals were at the river slaking their thirst. I had
a guard of two Moorish muleteers who had been
many years in my father’s service, and who were of
undoubted courage. But what mattered their bravery?
Better for me if they had been cowards.

We had a blazing camp-fire to keep off leopards and
jackals, and time passed slowly while I awaited my
father’sreturn. The muleteers beguiled these hours
with stories of their‘exploits with sword and gun.

And while they boasted and vapored, a lion came
and dragged off one of our mules.

Then they determined to kill the lion, fearing my
father’s displeasure more than the lion’s jaws.

They started in chase, leaving me alone; and with
what result? The mate of the lion they huntedcame
to the camp and hunted me.

Ihadarms. Yes, my rifle was in the wagon, and I
had my dagger; but its slender blade was as useless
as a needle.

The lion came charging down upon the camp, with
a roar that set the remaining mules to plunging and
struggling in their frenzied efforts to escape.

But he cared nothing for them. He wanted only
me. You say he displayed good taste? Bah! How
can you tell? You may have eaten mule flesh, but I
doubt that you ever ate a French girl. It is a weak
compliment to say he preferred me to a pack mule.
You are maladroit, my friend.

T wasin an agony of terror! It was my first en-
counter with a full-grown lion. I shrieked and
screamed.

He stopped and regarded me for a moment, and
then came bounding toward me. I gave myself up
for lost, but on impulse I turned and ran. There was
a beaten,track leading from our camp to a pool near
by, and I flew down this pathway at my utmost
speed. Fear winged my flight, and [ could hear the
terrible monster in pursuit. And I knew that the
chase would be a short one. I heard him crashing
behind me, and as I bent forward in a last stagger-
ing effort, I saw in the moonlit path before me, erect
and horrible, an enormous serpent! A cobra!

_ The venomous monster. struck at me within an
inch of my face. I recoiled in horror and fell back-
ward to the earth. At this moment, the pursuing

 

MOL, \ F

Ca

 

 

lion made his spring. His huge form passed over
me so closely as to touch me.

I closed my eyes and awaited death.
turn, and I heard his angry roar. Perhaps I might
yet escupe! Life is sweet to a young girl, my friend.
I opened my eyes. I looked!

The lion had reached the earth directly in front of
the terrible reptile which had buried its poisonous
fangs in the great brute’s lip. When I saw him
shaking his head in his vain effort to free himself
from the writhing cobra, I was near to dying of horror
at the sight. a

But I regained my feet and sped for the camp.
Reaching the covered wagon in which I traveled, I
grasped my rifle and waited.

He did not

sum, the betting closed, and the hands were shown.
The first sharper had four jacks, the second four
queens, the third four kings, and the magician four
aces. By explaining who he was Mr. Hertz was al-
lowed to leave the table alive.

At a private entertainment in Berlin the magician
secretly extracted a pocket-book from the clothes of
@ man who was reputed to be ‘‘very close to himself,”
and who was unable to prince any show of wealth
when the guests were asked to put their wallets on
their plates that a coin might be made to pass from
one to the other. The presumptive loss of his money
—about $4—made him wild, and he insisted that no-
body should leave the room until he had been search-
ed. A policeman was brought in, and after a vain
search of the whole company, was about to resume
his beat, when Mr, Hertz asked: ‘“‘Why not search
the police now?” The “cop,” in conscious rectitude,
submitted to be searched, and to his grief the miss-
ing treasure was extracted from one of his pockets.

A THANKSGIVING STORY.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

It was Thanksgiving Eve, with the clear concave
of heaven thickly sown with glittering stars, and the
leafless woods tossing their crests in the keen wind
on every hill and slope. The drifts of brown and
gold leaves from the giant maples in the door-yard
had been duly swept away from Isaac Woodbury’s
box-edged path, and the bright fire that roared on
the red brick hearth within threw a stream of radi-
ance through the uncurtained casement upon the
frozen road, as cheerful as Isaac’s own face.

There was only one person in that cozy little sit-
ting-room, however, where the tall old clock ticked
emphatically, and the cricket chirped under the bricks,
and the huge hickory logs crackled and snapped like
live things. Frank Woodbury was sitting there, his
book lying unheeded on his knee, and his eyes fixed
dreamily on the red blaze, evidently absorbed in some
very unpleasing reflections.

“What is the matter with you, Isaac? You are as
restless as a child,’ said Mrs. Ruth Woodbury, who

was standing before the snow-white kitchen table, her
sleeves rolled up above a very pretty pair of dimpled
elbows, busily engaged in stirring up a monster pud-
ding. ‘‘Here—if you haven’t anything else to do—just
chopaway at these apples.”

Isaac, who was a very accommodating sort of giant
(only six feet three, and completely under the thumb
of his plump, tiny wife), obeyed, and sat down beside
pee, chopping-bowl on his knees, and knife in

and.

“The fact is, Ruth,” he said, in an undertone, glanc-
ing toward the dining-room door, ‘I can’t help feel-
ing sorry for Frank. If all had gone right, you know
he was to be married to-morrow. What on earth did
Rose Leland mean by flirting with young Stephens,
and breaking off the match, when matters were all
arranged, and she really liked Frank ?”

“That's a puzzling question, Isaac,” said Ruth,
shrugging her shoulder. ‘‘What do all women mean
by playing the coquette when they know perfectly
well it can only do mischief? But I saw Mary this
afternoon, and she was coming over this evening to
see how affairs stood.”

“She’s a nice gal, Mary, if she is my sister,” said
Isaae. ‘And she’s a sensible gal, too. She’ll find the
way out of this tangle, ifthere’s a way to be found;
but I’m very much afraid there is no/.”

Fifteen minutes subsequently Frank Woodbury’s
reveries were disturbed by the entrance of his sister,

hazel eyes sparkling like the stars themselves.

‘All alone, Frank, are you 2?” she exclaimed, throw-
ing off her furred hood, and sitting down so close be-
side him that her pink cheek rested against his arm.
“T am glad of that, for I wanted to ask your opinion
about soinething !”

“What is it?” he asked, thoughtfully, twisting one
of her curls round and round his finger.

“Mind, it is a very, very great secret!”

“Well?”

“The truth is,” she whispered, looking very hard at

 

Presently he came tearing through the brush and
made for my retreat. I knew that the frail structure |
that protected me from sun and rain would not with- |
stand one stroke ot his tremendous. paw. As he|
came within the glare of the camp-fire he halted and |
avoided the light. I could see that he had torn the |
serpent from his lip and that he feared the fire. |
Presently he began to circle about the wagons, and
when he again came into view I fired. My aim was |
true, for he uttered a cry of pain and the blood |
streamed from his shoulder.

Still, on he came, and springing at the wagon he |
struck the covered top, which yielded to his weight,
and turned the wagon over on its: side, pitching the
lion headlong among the hot embers of the camp-
tire. In an instant his immense and bushy mane was
in flames. He rolled over and over on the ground in
a futile effort to extinguish the blazing mass. The
earth trembled with his roars of rage and pain.

I had serambled to my feet from the wreck of the
wagon-top, and now regarded him in safety from the
opposite side of the fire. He did not rise and I held
my rifle in readiness, but did not use it. His strug-
gles grew less furious. His cries became less fre-
quent.

Suddenly he gave one prodigious leap into the air
and fell back dead.

Ah, my friend, that was years ago, and I have nev
er seen a moment of contentment since. No, not
because of the horror of that hour. But because I
never knew whether it was the poison of the cobra,
the ball from my rifle, or the fire that killed that
lion. And I shall never know.

And she sat with clasped hands gazing into the un-
fathomable future with an expression of pathetic
sorrow on her beautiful features.

Ed gasped.

This singular young woman, who said she was
thirty-two years of age, and whose greatest grief
was that she could never know which of three horri-
ble means of destruction had prevailed against the
life of a monster that was bent on eating her, was
too much for his self-possession.

He excused himself, and faintly said he guessed he
would go and take a smoke.

Passing into the compartment dedicated to that |
solacing custom, he exclaimed :to his companions, |
who sat puffing their cigars in silence :

“Boys—somebody give me a light.
you think that girl is ?”

“Well,” remarked Jim, “after you have talked to
her an hour, I should say she would feel at least a
hundred.”

“Well, boys, she’s thirty-two years old, and she
killed a lion three ways at once when she was only
fifteen. She killed him with a snake, and with a
rifle, and then burned him to death.”

“Do you mean the young lady in gray, with whom
you have been conversing ?” inquired a quiet-looking
old gentleman, who sat opposite.

Ed said that he did.

“Well, sir, you must make allowance: for the ex-
uberance of youthful spirits. She is my daughter,
and is just nineteen.”

“What! Isn’t she a lion-tamer?” exclaimed Ed,
in astonishment; ‘‘and wasn’t she born in Mog-
adore ?”

“She was born in Cincinnati, and is on her way
home from school. I am afraid she has been joking
a little with you, sir. You must excuse her. Girls
are playful after being cooped up in school.”

A prolonged blast from the whistle drowned the
eet hilarity which followed this explana-

ion.

Ed commenced to gather his small articles of bag-
gage together.

“Gentlemen,” he remarked, “I have to stop off
here. I’ll meet you in St. Louis; and as the train
slowed up, he jumped off, sacrificing his sleeping-car
ticket, and letting the train go on with his trunks,
and ‘without that discomfited individual—himself

How old do

 

 

AUDIENCES DRENCHED.

According to the new arrangements which prevail
in theaters, playgoers, while running less risk than
heretofore from fire, are in considerable peril from
water. A short time ago the performance in a Par-
isian theater was interrupted by the bursting of a
water-pipe, which caused an inundation in the par-
quette and in the stalls. Something of the same kind
occurred at Grenoble during the performance of “La
Mascotte” some days later. About the close of the

 

LEX XN
-SSemy }
OSES PN \3 fr
Iw ee ‘ Y fe

The train, which for some unexplained reason had
deuse forest. As it was long past sundown and the
surroundings were of the lonesomest, the unusual
tion as to the cause, and a number of passengers
crowded to the doors to alight for the purpose of in-
who pointed out that to step off the platform was to
invite almost certain death. The train had stopped
now filled with a seething torrent, which fretted and
lashed itself into a fury against the upright timbers

There had been tremendous rains the day before,
and the stream had swollen into a mad river, now
ing it inits wild frenzy until it reeled and tottered..
The engineer had not dared to risk the safety of his
ture until he had fully tested its integrity. He had
stopped his train, and climbing around his engine,
ceeded alone over the narrow thread of safety which
spanned the angry flood. Returning, he uncoupled
bridge to be still firm he returned for the train.

There was much nervous clenching of seat-arms
gether, as the train crawled like a wounded snake
along that dangerous pathway, and when safely
ing of relief set all tongues torunning. There were
experienced travelers on the train, who had seen
those to whom this incident marked an era from
which to date events for narration for the balance
idly refused to be excited or even interested through-
outit all. Among these was the young lady with
one of the most self-possessed of them all, and Ed
was amazed at the utter lack of emotion she dis-
finally asked this impassive young person if she
never was afraid.
been afraid, but I dare not let it be observed.”

“Why not, may I ask?” inquired Ed, in still

“Because it would be almost certain death, if I
did.”
curious. ‘ ,

“Because I am a lion-tamer by profession. I can
THE STORY OF THE CHARMING LION
QUEEN.
admit that I speak English well enough to pass for
an American. I was born in Mogadore, on the west
father was a lion-hunter by profession, having in his
earlier days been a hunter of men, and having, as he
profitable fields of labor. You smile! yet I tell you
that lion and tiger hunting are as child’s play com-
and Portuguese descent who had for years made
their headquarters on the small islands which are

Had you ever seen Agib el Moro, as he was called
in the jargon of that cosmopolitan seaport, you
delays as were caused by this overflow of a small
stream. He was a more terrific sight when leading
den full of lions; and I have seen him thus, and I
have been alone in the den of lions. I have scars to
from the cimeter of Agib el Moro, after it had shorn
off the sword-arm of the man who stood in defense
right angles is from the tusk of a lion. Which

affrighted me the most ?

jeweled pirate leader. I switched the lion across the

face with my small whip and made him lie down.

: fo
2 = AN Cee =) |
S RS aS Sa I
siowed up, now came to a dead stop in the midst of a
circumstance excited much curiosity and specula-
vestigating. They were stopped by the brakeman,
on a high trestle-bridge spanning an ugly hollow,
of the trembling structure.
raging through the slender trestle-work and shak-
charge of human lives farther upon this frail struc-
with the foaming river darkening at his feet, he pro-
the engine and ran it slowly across, and finding the
and involuntary setting of teeth more tightly to-
over, and again rattling away at full speed, the feel-
startling things of similar character, and there were
of their lives; and there were those, also, who stol-
whom Ed had struck up an acquaintance. She was
played. Not being burdened with diffidence, he
“Afraid?” she rejoined. “Oh, yes! I have often
greater perplexity.
“How can that be?” asked Ed, now thoroughly
give you an instance,” and she proceeded to detail
Tam not of this country, although I think you will
coast of Africa, and my parents were French. My
advanced in years, found less dangerous and more
pared with the out-rooting of the pirates of Moorish
dotted about the harbor of Mogadore.
would also, like me, accept impassively such slight
a boarding sortie of throat-cutting pirates than a
show. See, my friend! This cut on my wrist was
before me. And this smaller mark crossing it at
I swooned with. terror before the ringed and be-
But I was a child of ten when I saw Agib el Moro,

and I was almost a woman grown when I got this

wound from the lion.

And my age now? Ah, my brave young friend, you

You have the courage

You ask a woman her age. You

deserve to be well frightened, and so shall ot
,

should also be a lion-tamer.
of the profession.

Then prepare! I am thirty-two years old.

second act of that popular operetta a perfect deluge
of water fell on the people in the orchestra stalls.
There was a slight panic and a swift stampede, which
emptied the greater part of the house in two minutes.
* After a little while order was restored, the spectators
being told that the sudden shower bath was due to
the bursting of a pipe, which caused the reservoir to
overflow. Music was accordingly resumed, and all
returned to their places, except the ill-starred recip-
ients of the unlooked-for douche.

——-
A MAGICIAN’S SPORT.

While Hertz, the magician, was crossing the At-

all ocean steamers, and was asked by the captain to
play a trick on them. He joined in a poker game

at a small limit, and when his turn came to deal he
noticed a flicker of satisfaction on the faces of the
sharpers, who immediately raised the ante. When

lantic during the past summer, he encountered three
of those professional gamblers who travel on almost

a particular button on Frank’s coat, “I have had a— |
a little difficulty with Charley Stone!”

“Weare all quarreling, it seems,” said Frank, with
rather a melancholy smile. “And what is it about?
Do you want me, as your champion, to call him to
an account ?”’

“Oh, no, no! Zam the only one to blame; he be-
haved in a perfectly right and manly way. The real |
fact is—I felt a little mischievous, and wanted |
to tease him, and—and I flirted with Jonathan Grey,
and I was very naughty, and he is angry, and a

“A very nice little quarrel. Do you want my ver-
dict ?”

“ Yes.”

‘You are clearly in the wrong!’

“T know it, Frank; but what am I to do?
go and tell Charley how silly I have been!”

“Why not? I should think that the most sensible
thing you could do.”

“Wouldn’tit be unwomanly—as if I sought him too
eagerly ?”’

“Not a bit of it. He won't be likely to misconstrue
it, you may depend.”

“Do you really think it would be best ?”’

“There can’t be a doubt about the matter. Go, and
go at once. Ah, Mary, you cannot learn too soon that
thejeasiest way to avoid lovers’ quarrels is to be per-
fectly frank and open.”

He bent down to kiss her forehead, and she tripped
away, her cherry lips all wreathed in the sunniest of
smiles again.

* * * * * * * *

I can’t

Thanksgiving Day! with the merry bells of the vil-
lage church pealing over the sun-gilded hills, and the
hoar frost glistening like diamond powder upon the
brown meadows. Upin the forests the dry leaves
danced around in bright eddies at every gust of the
inconstant wind, and the branchescreaked and groan-
ed as if they too knew that it was a special occasion,
patronized by the governor himself.

Ruth Woodbury’s house was in apple-pie order; the

her jetty curls all disordered by the wind, and her |

| than a barn.

 

pies ; alas for poor Ruth’s presentiment; alas for the

portly old justice of the peace over at Hornville, who

had just composed himself for a snug nap, with his

red handkerchief over his head, when his man an-

nounced ‘‘a young couple to be married!” Alas for
all impediments that lie in the path of true love!
* * * * pe * cS *

“My goodness gracious!” ejaculated Ruth, as she
surveyed the wide-open door, and the drifts of maple
leaves which had fluttered in all over the carpet, and
the neglected contents of the oven. ‘“Zhis comes of
leaving a man to keep house!”

But when Mrs. Frank Woodbury came blushing in,
under her husband’s escort, with honest Isaac fol-
lowing, showing all his teeth, Ruth forgot everything
else in a burst of happy tears.

“Oh, Rosie, Rosie, I am so glad!”

“And you won’t scold me for my trick,” said Mary,
in Frank’s ear. ‘I assure you she never would have
mustered courage to come here and tell you how
naughty she had been, if I had not had your own au-
thority that it was perfectly proper and womanly!’

“Rest satistied that you are forgiven, you scheming
damsel,” said the young husband, gayly.

Elder Jenkins never clearly understood why Mrs.
Woodbury’s Thanksgiving dinner was so late, but he
did full justice to it when it did arrive.

And so Frank Woodbury was married on Thanks-
giving Day, after all.

Paragraphic Pleasantries.

BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

A Knowing Liveryman.

YounG MAn.—“I want a horse and buggy for five
hours.”

LIVERYMAN.—“‘Anybody going with you?”

YounG Man.—“ Yes; a young lady.”

LIVERYMAN.—‘‘Ah, I see; you want a quiet, gentle
horse, that can be driven with one hand, and will
not run when, in a lonely place, you drop the lines ?”’

Youne Man.—“‘The young lady is my sister.”

LIVERYMAN.—“‘Ah, that makes a difference. You
wanta spirited animal, full of go—one that pulls
hard on the lines, and occupies both hands and all
your time in driving ?”’

Art in the Country.

ARTIST (to Farmer.)—‘‘I’d like to paint your old
barn over there near the spring-house.

FARMER.—*’Tain’t worth paintin’, mister. An’
we're goin’ ter tear it down next week and builda
new one.”

ARTIST.—*You don’t understand me.
sketch it?”

FARMER.—“Ketch it? Why, mister, it ain’t goin’
terrun away. It has been standin’ there in that one
spot nigh onto forty-two year.”

ARTIST.—“But I’m an artist, and I should like to
draw it.’’

FARMER.—‘‘Draw it? Where in the dickens d’ye
want to draw itto? Ef you come around next week,
you can help to pullit down and draw some 0’ the
jist—”

But the artist had gone.

And Yet She Was Not Happy.

“How I should like to see myself m print,” said
Mrs. Gush to her husband, calling his attention to a
magazine article written by one of her friends.

In the evening when her husband returned home,
he handed her ten yards of five-cent calico with the |
remark:

‘‘Here—when you get this made up into a dress you
can see yourself in print.”

A Hint to Youth.

My son, if you wish to make your mark in the world
early in life, apprentice yourself to a miller. A mil-
ler’s apprentice generally makes his mark on the

Can’t I just

| willing to exchange his teeth for an equal number of
| those of the last—no matter if the latter were war-
ranted to be the best.

Not Built That Way.
“Boys, love your sisters!” exclaims a juvenile pa-
er. In order to have this injunction fulfilled to the
etter, it should be amended so as to read: ‘Boys,
love some other fellow’s sisters !’* Cometo think about
it, however, the advice is not necessary. They do.

A Five-Year-Old’s Remark,
Five-year-old Clara, after a severe maternal repri-
mand, whimpered: ‘Mamma’s a bad mamma,;” and
then, after a brief pause, added: ‘“‘But she’s the best
mamma I’ve got.”

.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

“Mrs. H. F. M.,” Baltimore, Md.—To make stars in
crochet, proceed as follows:

Each star is begun in the center by a chain of 8 stitches.
In the ist stitch work one treble*, 4 chain, 1 treble in this
same ist stitch, repeat from * 3 times more, 4 chain, 1 slip
.stitch in the 4th of the 8 chain. You have thus formed 8
rays, joined to the Ist stitch. Now work (without cutting
the cotton) the branches which are begun from the
center.

ist. Branch—1st round : 18 chain, 1 treble, in the 13th, so

as to form a purl with the last5, 2 chain, 3 treble with 2
chain between, missing 2 stitches under the two chain,
2 chain, 1 slip stitch in the last of the 18 chain. F

2d round: 2 double over the ist 2 chain, 2 double with 1
purl between over the next 2 chain, two double over the
next 2 chain, 1 purl, 7 double over the next 5 chain; then,
on the other side of the branch, 1 purl, 2 double, 1 purl,
2 double, 2 double with 1 purl between, 2 double on the
last 2 chain of the branch, 1 slip stitch, in the stitch from
which the leaf was begun, 5 double over the 4 chain
of the circle. Here begin the second branch,

ist round of 2d leaf—22 chain double in the last, so as
to form a circle.

2d round: 1 double in each of the 101st chain, in the
next stitch work 1 double, 1 chain, 1 double to form the
point, 1 double in each of the 10 remaining stitches, 1 slip
stitch in the 1st stitch of the 1st round.

3d round: 3double, 1 purl, repeat from * twice more,
thfen work in double crochet as faras the point, work 2
double with 1 chain between, then work the 2nd half of
the branch the same as the first. Before beginning the
next leaf, work 5 double on the chain stitches of the
circle; work 6 branches, repeating alternately the2 above
explained; cut the cotton and fasten it on again to the
point of one of the branches, in order to join them to-
gether by the two following rounds.

1st round—i double in the point of one of the leaves, *
4 chain, 1 purl under the chain; thus make 5 chain, turn
the chain with the crochet to the right, insert the needle
downward in the first chain, and make a slip stitch, 4
chain, 1 purl under, 4 chain,1 purl under, 4 chain, 1 slip
stitch in the point of the next leaf; repeat from * five
times more.

2d round—* 4 double over the nearest 4 chain; 1 purl as
usual—that is, above the chain—4 double over the next 4
chain. Now work 1 trefoil (thus: 1 chain, 1 purl, 1 chain,
1 purl, 1 chain, 1 double in the 1 double coming just before
the 3 purl), 1 double on each of the next 4 chain of the last
round, 1 purl, 5 double, 1 trefoil ; repeat 5 times from *.
Join the stars by a few stitches.
2d. To shape your toboggan hood, make a chain of the
length required, work round and round until you have the
wished for depth. Then work three stitches, skip one,
until you have worked all round twice. Then work two
and skip one, until you have nearly closed the top of the
cap, then work every alternate stitch, and with a cord of
worsted draw the top down to the side, where you place
the pompons.

“O, Enone C.,” Vicksburg, Miss.—ist. A pretty design for
a navy-blue flannel has the skirt round and perfectly plain,
with the exception of five narrow tucks above the wide
hem, while the waist is plaited, with a belt and yoke, and

 

good clothes of all with whom he comes in contact,
and he is so highly respected that even judges and
Congressmen give him the biggest half of the side-
walk when he goes by.
A Great Invention.

“One of the greatest of American inventions,” read |
Johnny, ‘‘is the cotton gin, and its—”

“What's that?” interrupted his warm-nosed father. |
“The cotton gin one of the greatest of American in-
ventions? Not much. Guess the man who put that
in the paper had a very limited knowledge of gins.
There’s a gin made, Johnny, that makes a man feel
as if he owned the earth and a slice of the contigu-
ous territory. There’s an invention for you !”

Alas! Too True.
The lane leading to the barn may be correctly

called the bridle-path, but matrimony is a bridal-
path that frequently leads to a less inviting structure

Prohibition Run Mad.

A Maine judge has placed Jamaica ginger in the
same category with intoxicating liquors. This is
going a little too far. Pretty soon it will be so that
when a man in Maine gets doubled up like a croquet
wicket by looking in the insidious cucumber when it
is not red, he will smash the liquor-lawif he seeks re-
lief in anything stronger than a glass of ice-water.

A Smart Boy.
The circus was coming in three weeks, and the
“devil” in the office of the Blisterville Banner was a
financial wreck. He, therefore, resorted to strategy
to “raise the wind.” On the sly he set up a little ad-
vertisement, reading: ‘“‘The editor of this paper will
pay one dollar a line for all the poetry received with-
in the mext two weeks.” Then he unlocked one of
the forms which were ready for press and inserted
his advertisement in an obscure corner ‘where it
wouldn’t be seen,” according to the notion of some
advertisers. Six days later he sold the contents of
the waste-basket, comprising two hundred pounds of
rejected poems, thereby realizing enough cash to pay
his way into the circus, take in all the side shows,
and make himself sick on pink lemonade and pea-
nuts.
Something New in Gastronomy.

“Now,” said Mrs. Oilcash, looking over her list, “as
we are going to have the Snobbses and the Shod-
deighs and other fashionable people to-dine with us
next Thursday, we must have some menu cards for

 

white curtained windows shone like crystal; the
floors were swept until a magnifying glass couldn’t
have discovered a speck of dust, and the great brown
turkey was duly deposited in the oven amid an as-
semblage of pies, and puddings, and pastries, which
would have made any one feel sympathetic tightness
in apron strings and waistcoat buttons just to look
at. For Mrs. Ruth was a crack housekeeper, and
were not the minister and his wife, and half a dozen

| dinner.”

a
“Menu what?’ exclaimed her husband, who was
absorbed in the stock quotations in the evening
papers. “Better see if our new girl can cook ’em be-
fore you buy them new-fangled things for dinner.”
An Awful Penalty.

Tn Iceland the man who kisses an unmarried woman
under legal guardianship, without her consent, is

 

others coming home to eat their Thanksgiving dinner
with her?

“Now, Frank, will you be sure to take that smallest |
chicken-pie out at half-past eleven, pre-cisely ? and |
don’t forget to turn the turkey round at eleven, and
put the potatoes in when you take the pie out? Now,
can I depend upon you?”

“Of course you can!” said Frank, laughing with
that reckless audacity with which man will often-
times undertake the most weighty and overwhelm-
ing responsibilities in this world.

“Pve a great mind to take off my bonnet.and stay
at home myself to see to things,” said Ruth, sol-
emnly. ‘I feel a presentiment that something is go-
ing to happen to that turkey.”

“You're not going to do any such thing,” said
Frank, cavalierly. “Do go off peaceably to church,
and leave me to keep house. I'll reflect credit on the
family, see if I don’t.”

Ruth doubted still, but Isaac called from the gate,

“Come, wife !” and she ran out, lest the blessed man
should forget to tie on his comforter over his coat
collar, and so pave the way for toothache and rheu-
matism.
“Well,” thought Frank, as he stood musingly be-
fore the fire, with only the companionship of the
ericket and the clock, ‘‘matters haven’t turned out ex-
actly as I supposed they were going to do six months
ago. Instead of being married this bright Thanks-
giving morning, as I fully expected I should be, here
I am keeping bachelor’s hall in solitary state, and
roasting Ruth’s Thanksgiving turkey for her.”

Frank Woodbury laughed, but the next minute he
drew a very deep sigh.

“IT suppose it has to be endured,” he thought. “TI
wish I could know what Rosie is thinking of.”

As he stood in a brown study before the quaint,
old-fashioned fire-place. pondering with dim eyes
and a lip that would quiver a little in spite of his firm
resolve ‘not to make a fool of himself,’ upon what
might have been that glorious day, there was a soft
rustle across the door-path, a click of the latch, and
alight touch on his arm. He turned round with a
start.

There she was, the little pink bonnet thrown back
from her braids of shining brown hair, and her pret-
ty mouth trembling like a scarlet cherry stirred by
the wind—rosy, and tearful, and frightened, and
altogether most bewitchingly lovely, that unaccount-
able little Rosie Leland. And even then she would
most undoubtedly have lost courage and run away
again, if Frank Woodbury had not extended both his
arms and caught her in the very act of retreat. How
she sobbed on his shoulder—the very damsel who ten
weeks ago had solemnly declared “she would never
speak to him again!’

“Forgive me, Frank; I have been very, very
naughty, but I am so sorry for having caused you one
moment’s grief. Will you forget it, dearest? Will
you take me back to your heart again ?”’

Would he? That was rather an unnecessary ques-
tion, under the circumstances, and he proved it to
her in a most satisfactory manner.

It was surprising how brief a time it took to dry
the tears, and re-arrange the drooping hair, and bring
back the vanished smiles to Rosie’s face. And when
she was calm again Frank said, hesitatingly :

“Rosie !”’

“Well!”

“You know this was to be our wedding-day.”

Rosie blushed charmingly, but Frank persisted.

“Ts it too late yet?”

liable to “a fine of 140 ells of wadmal.” Why don’t
they kill him at once, and put him out of his misery ?
One hundred and forty ells of wadmal! It is terrible!
And just for kissing a woman without her consent,
too.

(P. S.—Since writing the foregoing we have seen
the picture of an Iceland woman, and have suddenly
experienced a change of opinion. The man who ex-
hibits such shocking bad taste as to kiss a female na-’
tive of Iceland, should be fined 140,000,000 ells of wad-
mal and be imprisoned for life.)

A Typographical Error.

 

“Water Flirtation,” she read, glancing at the title
of a newspaper article. ‘Ah, yes, I’ve seen lots of it
on yachts and in the ocean at the sea-side resorts.”
And after reading the article she was sorely per-
plexed, and said the writer ‘must be crazy. But the
writer was sane enough. The intelligent compositor
had converted ‘‘Water Filtration” into ‘‘Water Flirta-
tion.” That was all.

His Explanation Was Satisfactory.

A man in Morgantown, who left home at noon with
a fine crop of hair, returned in the evening almost as
bald as a prize pumpkin. He explained that he
awarded the prize to the handsomest baby at the
county fair, and the mothers of a score of other
babies on exhibition protested against his decision.

Do We Want More Holidays?

A Labor Party orator says “Americans do not have
enough holidays.” This may be true; but the
trouble is they haven’t got money enough to celebrate
those they already have. We have more holidays
now than some of us can find time to observe. Give us
more vacations and money enough to see us through
’em, and we don’t care if we never have a holiday.

Ss. S. C.

Somebody suggests a Society for the Suppression
of Cranks. But why not go a step farther and smash
the hand-organs? We might succeed in st a ggcome:
the cranks, but the Italian counts in disguise woul
find some other means to let the music escape from
their organs, and it might sound much more har-
rowing than if it were ground out with a crank.

Fine Pictures at Auction.

‘Why, Jobbins,” said the plain-spoken editor,
‘where in the world did you come across that daub?
Lthought you had some. judgment about art. I
wouldn’t hang such a pot-boilerin my horse stable.
Where did you get it, anyway?’

“Well, ’ll tell you,” said Jobbins. “I saw in your
paper the other day a local notice, no doubt written
by yourself, calling attention to a number of fine
paintings to be sold at auction—genuine works of
art—good enough to adorn the walls of any parlor in
the city. That’s what your paper said; and _ so, on
your recommendation, as it were, I attended the
auction and secured the gem of the collection.”

Then the editor began to talk about something else.

Old and New.

“Are the teeth of the present century worse than
those of the last?” asks a medical journal. Well,
bring on your teeth of the last century so that we
may compare them. The teeth of the present century
may be worse and ache more, at times ; but it must
be remembered that they are doing agreat deal more
work than those of the last century. It would be

 

 

 

the money on the table had reached a very large

 

 

 

Alas for the burning turkey ; alas for the charring

pretty hard to find a man of the present century

there is a belt of mbbon and a-sash of surah folded from a

single breadth and tied in a large bow at the back, the
sleeves being puffed at the shoulder and plain below. 2d.
A black cashmere has the skirt of long, straight breadth,
with a deep plain hem at the bottom, while the drapery,
plainly hemmed and of straight breadths, is left open on
one side, each edge being hemmed, this open space com-
ing just to the left of the front. The right side is drawn
up nearly to the waist, and is laid in plaits and fastened
by a silk ornament; the waist is plaited back and front,
and there is a plaited belt and a wide sash bow of surah
at the back, the collar and cuffs being plain; while the
sleeves fit closely, save a puff at the shoulder. 3d. A
French peasant costume is pretty, and is as follows: Skirt
and bunched-up tunic of pale blue sateen, trimmed with
rows of black velvet; corselet bodice of black velvet,
laced over a fichu of white muslin; and an apron and cap
of white muslin, trimmed with lace and bows of blue rib-
bon. We can send you a book of ““Masquerade Costumes”
for fifty cents. 4th. Your handwriting is quite neat, and
very good.

“Daisy H.”—There are at present two popular styles of
arranging the hair, one being the smooth, conipact little
braided knot, and the neat Russian bang, and the other

consisting of two large, soft loops, folded half way over
éach other, on top of the head. When the hair is worn
high, a few very short little curls are pinned into the
smooth sweep of hair behind, while women who have
soft, curling hair are wearing it in a clytie knot, through
which is thrust a big tortoise shell pin, which is greatly
varied in design, appearing as a dagger, sword, with a big
ball head, and sometimes of a pretty design in open fret-
work. i

“Nellie H.,”’ Brooklyn.—A few wraps are shown trimmed
with bands of ostrich feathers, but furs of various kinds,
including black bear, black raccoon, black fox, and long

fleecy furs, are generally preferred. To increase the re-
semblance of the wrap to a street gown, the fur trimming
is sometimes put on in the form of a long boa, with hang-
ing ends, or in the shape of afur stole. Jackets braided
in elaborate patterns are worn in a variety of shapes, and
are always short, as there are no medium length garments
seen, they being so extremely ungraceful.

“Alice M.’’—For theater wear, there are many small bon-
nets without strings, some of the newest being made en-
tirely of flowers, such as violets or dark pansies, or of
wax currants. The prettiest are made of plaited gauze
or tulle, held in place by and trimmed with many little
loops of narrow moire ribbon. These are worn in black
and red, and for bride-maids are shown in white.

“Fanchon,” McDonellsville, Ohio.—Ist. A gentleman’s
gold ring, set with a black onyx, on which is an incrusted
initial ‘‘S,’”’ containing six chip diamonds, will cost from
thirteen to twenty dollars, according to the size of the
gems. 2d. Your handwriting is fair.

“Nettie S.,” Rahway, N.J.—The prevailing styles in
fancy feathers are bristling quills, quite anumber of small
ones being set together, and the tips forming asort of fan-
shape, while the lower ends are set close together in a
mass of fine feathers.

“Millie S.”—The variety of wraps this season is greater

than ever before, and there is no stated length, every
style being in vogue, from the long French pelisse to the
jaunty hunting jacket.

“Lillie L.’—In place of the silver chatelaine girdles, so
popular during the summer, girdles of fur; with gilt or
silver attachments, are Low worn.

i or

Items of Interest.

The advantage of knowing how to read was made
apparent, recently, in the case of two men in Augusta,
Me. They were not particularly well posted on the “ay
of the land,” and thought best to consult a guide-board as
to the most direct route to Mount Vernon village. The
shades of night had fallen and the guide-board post was
tall; yet to climb and by the aid of a lucifer get the de-
sired information seemed to one an easy matter. Six
times he climbed, and six times he “‘lost his grip” and
match. He scratched his seventh and last, to find that
“all signs fail in dry weather”’—the board was bare.

Aroostook, Me., has three vigorous and accom-
plished girls. One morning, recently, they walked from
Ashland to Portage Lake, rowed across the lake, ate their
dinner, and returned to Ashland in the afternoon, having
walked eighteen miles. The same girls can travel on
snow-shoes, ride horses, milk, teach school, and play the
piano.

The compositors on a Boston daily received an
order that Christian names, in all cases, were to be indi-
cated by initials. The next issue contained mention of G.
Cleveland, G. Washington, and so on. The order was re-
voked when the editor found Don Quixote’s squire figur-
ing on a proof sheet as “S. Panza.”

An intelligent little pig is owned by Charles Bur-
dick of Brookfield, Conn. She follows him like a dog,
goes after the cows and brings them to the barnyard,
knows her name and answers to it, and does many tricks.

The richest pensioner in the United States is
Colonel A. Andrews, of San Francisco, a wealthy jeweler.
The pension he draws as a veteran of the Mexican war he
turns over to a needy man who gets no pension.

An Iowa girl who was voted the handsomest lady
in the county fainted away three times in succession
when the joyful news was brought to her. A different
man caught her each time.

Miss Laura Winkler, one of the most effective tem.
perance workers in Iowa, is totally blind. Her field of
usefulness is the workshop, where she makes personal
appeals to the workmen.

Los Angeles, California, was in need of houses, and
an enterprising Chicago gentleman sent on, by rail, a
consignment of ready-made, portable cottages, that can
be readily erected.

Twenty miles of buildings, costing $12,000,000, were

 

erected during the past year, in St, Paul, Minn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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