2

 

 

EMMA GARRISON JONES’ NEW STORY, “A GR

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1887. Jy Streer & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. 0.

WRONG,” WILL BE COMMENCED NEXT WEEK.

7

 

Vol. 43. ee

31 Rose St.

 

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

New York, November ‘19, 1887.

Three Dollars

Two Copies Five Dollars.

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

Per Year,

No. 3.

 

THE SIGNAL.

BY EMILY J. BUGBEE.
Fluttering there,

In the stilly gray of the morning air,
A streaming signal of black and white ;
Somebody’s darling died last night,

While you and I were asleep,

There, in the hushed and lonely room,
In the solemn midnight gloom.

Died, did I say?
Why, only the angels came that way,
And called for a little child to go
To the bosom of Him who loved them so,
Where the many mansions be,
And speeding up with the ransomed boy,
The heavens were filled with a song of joy.

, But over there,
Waking never to pain or care,
Lieth the little form to rest,
The white hands crossed on the quiet breast,
Soft eyes sealed with an angel kiss,
The smile of heaven on lip and brow ;
Say, would you waken the sleeper now?

But the busy day
Is rushing in with its work and play,
And soon the patter of little feet
Will pass the house on the village street,
And seeing the signal fiutter there,
The children will pause and whisper low,
But the little eeper will never know.

On, to your play,

You will gather the stains of earth to-day,
And the thorns of sin shall wound your feet,
In your careless patter upon the street,

But little Charlie is safe.

Sorrow or taint cannot reach him there,
White are the robes that the ransomed wear.

{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.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

Gantain’s Orhan 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 XXI.
A RIVEN OAK.

Dr. Schubert was a philosopher in his way, and he
confined his talents to no one school of practice.
Whatever he believed good he adopted, all else he
rejected.

Consequently his success has been very great, and
at the time he visited Palmwood, in the interests of
John Gilbert, his name was famous all over the
world.

He spoke to Gilbert without any formal introduc-
tion, conversed with him as any visitor might have
conversed with the gardener of his host, and by and
by he led the talk back to the events of the past.

Elizabeth Angiers sat silently on the garden bench
and listened with quiet attention. She felt a strong
and absorbing interestin the strange case of John
Gilbert, how deep was to a great degree unknown to
herself, though after circumstances made her well
aware of it.

Dr. Schubert threw himself on the grass at the foot
of one of the terraces where Gilbert was training the
rose-bushes, and lighted a cigar. He offered one to
Gilbert.

“T am sure the lady will excuse us,” he said, with a
glance in Elizabeth’s direction. ‘‘One can talk bet-
ter under the soothing influence of the weed, and this
is just the dreamy sort of a day for retrospection.
See how still the white clouds hang in the blue, too
lazy to move, and there is not a breath of wind to
stir the leaves of the cotton-wood. I am northern
born, and this luxuriant vegetation, and these soft
skies, have a peculiar charm for me, stronger per-
haps than they have for you, who have been accus-
tomed to that sort of thing all your life.” r

He regarded Gilbert closely as he spoke, and noted
the look of perplexity and doubt which stole over his
face.

“JT hardly know whether I have been accustomed
to them, or not,” said Gilbert. “I have avery poor
memory.”

“Ah! that is unfortunate. A good memory is a
very pleasant and profitable thing to have. One can
entertain one’s self inhours of solitude by thinking
over what has been. Do you not think so.”

“Yes. That is, I suppose so,” returned Gilbert,
doubtfully.

“Of course. To my mind there is nothing pleas-
anter than to sit down by my lonely hearth-stone
when the day is over—I am a bachelor—and live over
the early days of my life inimagination. I think of
the quaint old German town where my boyhood was
passed. I think of my dear old mother who
smoothed the way for me with. my stern disciplina-
rian of a father, of the fair-haired sister with whom
I wandered amid the mystical mountains of the
fatherland. Ah! it is all very delightful; but, of
course, you know howit is? You, too, go back to
your childhood and youth?’

An expression of pain passed over the face of John
Gilbert. His brows contracted, the dark eyes grew
sad and mistful, he looked uncertainly from the
doctor to Elizabeth, and then back again to the wo-
man, whose eyes were moist with sympathy.

“No, I do not thus goback. It may seem strange to
you, but I seem never to have known any child-
hood,” he said, sadly.

“Ah, so? Well, thatis singular.

 

But later on we

 

will talk aboutit. I see a scar on your forehead. Been
in the war at some time, perhaps ?”’

“T—I think so.”

“You think so?
know ?”

“T have been severly wounded.
but it hurts me still.”

“It was a bad affair, I should say, judging from the
sear. And you do not remember how it happened ?”

“T do not.” ;

‘‘Nor whether it was properly attended to ?”’

“T do not think there was any surgeon to attend to
it all.”

“Humph! And it hurts you still, you say. How
does it affect you? Take time; there is plenty of it
here in this sleepy, delightful old State of Carolina.”

And the doctor put his hands under his head, tilted
his hat down over his eyes, and leaned back against
a bank of flowering myrtle, as if he had made up his
mind to take things easy. But his keen dark eyes,
from beneath his shaggy brows, were carefully re-
garding the man before him, in whom he had begun
to feela sharp and absorbing interest—an interest
friendly as well as professional.

Gilbert removed his hat, and passed his hand over
his head, as if trying to recall some wandering
thought. The look of perplexity on his face deepen-
ed ;‘his dark eyes were troubled; he regarded the doc-
tor earnestly, but seemed ata loss what answer to
make.

“Tt is sometimes difficult to see how anything of the
kind does affect one,” said the doctor, puffing leisure-
ly at his cigar. ‘‘Now, I should suppose that a wound
of that kind, if not properly attended to, would cause
a sensation of weight and oppression here,” touching
his forehead, ‘‘and that there might be oceasional
shooting pains through to the base of the brain, ex-
tending perhaps down into the shoulders. When you
try to think there is a sense of weariness, the mind
labors to go back, but beyond a certain point it does
not extend. It meets, so to speak, a dead wall.”

“Why, you must have been hurt in like manner
yourself,” cried Gilbert.

“Not at all. But Ihave looked into things of this
sort somewhat. Had anatural turn that way. Do
you ever have dreams?”

Gilbert’s face brightened.
smile passed over his lips.

“Yes, I dream sometimes, and am sorry when I
awake.”

“Would you mind telling me what is the nature of
your dreams ?”’

John Gilbert’s bronzed cheek grew red—he hesitated,
and looked at Elizabeth. Her soft eyes met his and
he saw that there were tears in them.

‘You will laugh at me, sir, but I dream of a woman,
young, beautiful, blue-eyed, fair-haired, with a babe
in her arms. She is sad, yet hopeful, and I am going
away from her—from them—and there is always a
terrible shadow that comes between us, a gray, cold,
dreadful shadow, that shuts them away from me, and
then I wake with the clammy sweat on my forehead,
and my heart beating so wildly it seems as if it must
burst from my bosom.

Why, man alive! do you not

It was years ago,

A half sad, half tender

 

 

 

“Always the same woman?” queried the doctor.

“Always the same.”

“With the child in her arms ?”

§* Yes.”

“You are sure you have never seen this woman—
only in your dreams ?”’

“Quite sure.”

“The doctor looked at Elizabeth.

Her beautiful face had grown strangely pale, her
slim white hands had closed tightly around the
cluster of yellow roses she held, and were crushing
out all their sweet and perfumed beauty.

Frederick Percy joined the group, and Dr. Schubert
rose from his reclining posture, stretched his long
limbs, and began remarking upon the beauty of the
evening.

And Perey, all impatience to hear the doctor’s
opinion of his protege, led him away to the further
end of the gardens to see the stately palm tress which
gave Palmwood its ancient name.

“Well?” he said, inquiringly, when they were out
of hearing.

“You are greatly interested in this amateur garden-
er of yours,” said the doctor, ‘‘and I confess to feel-
ing very much that way myself. As aman, heis in-
teresting; as a ‘case,’ he is decidedly a bonanza!’’

“But is he curable? That is what interests me
most.”

“That depends. No man can tell whether any
malady is curable until remedies have been tried.”

“But you have an opinion ?””

“Doubtless. I always have an opinion about every
case which comes under my notice.”

“And this one ?”

“My dear colonel, you should have been a Yankee
lawyer instead of a Southern aristocrat. Your
talents would have developed splendidly in some of
those ‘trunk mystery’ cases which are so common.
You would have come out on the cross-questioning
business with a hundred horse-power.

“Look here, Schubert, please do not beat about the
bush. Do you think there is any prospect that John
Gilbert may be restored to his normal state of mind ?”

“We cannot be sure. [havestrong hopes though,
I do not mind telling you. Thereis pressure on the
brain, caused probably by fracture of some of the
bones of the skull, and it will be a difficult and dan-
gerous operation to take up these fractures, now that
so long a period of time has elapsed since nature
healed the breach. I may as well tell you that it will
endanger his life to attempt it, and that the most un-
remitting care will be nescssary for months after the
operation, if he does not die from its results. It is a
matter which cannot be undertaken without his full
consent, and the consent and indorsement of his
friends, if he has any.”

“He has none—so far as we know.”

“True, I had forgotten. But now comes the ques-
tion for consideration. Will it be wise to take the
risk of restoring, or trying to restore, this man to
mind and memory? At first thought there would
seem to be no doubt aboutit. There would seem to
be but one answer to the question. It would appear
an act of positive cruelty to, withhold the power

 

which might give him back the past. But let us go
further. ‘Let us look into the thing in all its various
intricacies.”

“But surely you cannot believe that there is any-
thing more to be desired than that this man shall be
so restored that he may be able to know his own
name—to——”

“Of course it is all very well to know one’s own
name,” said the doctor, imperturbably, ‘“‘but there are
other things equally important. If George Washing-
ton had been named John Smith, he would have been a
hero in spite of his name, and every city in the country
would have rejoiced in a Smith street. But I look
beyond the name. A good many years have elapsed
since John Gilbert’s memory went from him. In
these years many changes have been wrought. We
will say that, perhaps, before he entered the army—
for itis very evident to me that he was a soldier in
the late rebellion—we will say that he left a wife and
child at home in some pretty, white-walled cottage
in Yankee land.”

“Why do you suppose that he was from the North?”

‘“*‘His nationality sticks out all over him. The most
casual observer would know at once that he was a
Yankee. You know it yourself.”

“Yes, I confess that I have always thought so.”

“Of course. Well, then, suppose that he left this
wife and child at the North and entered the war?
The great battle of Gettysburg, or Antietam, was
fought, the wife looked anxiously for news of him
she loved, and the long, slow-going days wore away,
and the dreary nights passed, and she lay awake and
wept, and she watched the mail for months and
months for the letter whichnever came, and she read
eagerly and fearfully the long, blinding columns of
‘Latest from the Seat of War’ in the newspapers, and
by and by she saw his name in the list, and after it
the fateful word MISSING! Well, what then? We all
of us who lived through these stirring times know
what that word generally meant. It meant that
tears, nor prayers, nor anguished grief, could not call
back these missing ones from the dark realm of
death—it meant crape on the bonnet of the lonely wo-
man who waited at home beside her desolate hearth-
stone—it meant a simple headstone with his name

engraved on it, erected in the family lot in the vil-

lage cemetery—it meant years of desolation and lone-
liness! But time changes everything and heals every
wound. No matter how deeply the human heart
may mourn its dead, there comes a period when the
sadness is forgotten, when the sharp point of the
grief is dulled—when other loves and other hopes
spring up—and the outside observer says that the
dead is forgotten !”

“Well, what then?” asked Percy, for the doctor had
paused, and was absently tearing to pieces a brand
of fragrant clematis he had taken from a trellis.

“Do you not see what then? New ties are formed;
new conditions are entered into; the sad-eyed widow
blushes again into a bride; other children are born,
and play with those whose father was long ago re-
ported missing; and it would be exceedingly incon-
venient to all parties if the supposed dead man
should turn up alive.”

“But we are by no means certain that in this case
| the man had a wife.”

“And we are by no means certain that he had not
|}a wife. Think for a moment; put yourself in his
| place, and imagine, if you can, what it would be to
have his memory restored, and go back to seek his
wife only to find her married to another man, and
himself forgotten. And then, he also may haye
formed new ties; it is not impossible that he may
have learned to love some woman, and that she may
love him.”

“Oh, doctor, you are romancing altogether too
much. That is quite out of the question.”

“Oh, is it?’ said the doctor, a half-smile curving
his shrewd mouth. ‘Well, of course you ought to
know, but I thought it might perhaps be otherwise.”

“In my own case,” said Perey, “I should be willing
to risk it, and take the suffering which might follow.
And it is by no means certain that sorrow would be
the outcome. There may have been a wife—I do
not think there was—and if so, she may have been
true. Think of her joy at having the lover of her
youth restored to her from the grave.”

“There is but one way,” said the doctor, with de-
cision. ‘If, when I have studied the case a little
more, and have made an examination of the skull, as
a medical man, and I find that its condition upholds
the theory I have formed, we must submit the case
to your John Gilbert, and allow him to decide. He
must be told the extent of the risk, and the proba-
bilities of relief, and then he must be given time in
which to think it out.”

“Very well. Then the operation is as good as de-
| cided on. Ido not feel the slightest doubt that he
| will take the chances.”
| The two men turned about and walked toward the
| house.

By the little lake where the swans were sailing
| along in graceful state stood Elizabeth Angiers and
| John Gilbert. The man’s head was bowed; the wo-
|man was speaking in a low, earnest voice, and he
| was listening.

| Dr. Schubert glanced sharply at them as he
| passed.

| “This lady is a member of your household?’ he
| asked.

| “She is my cousin, Miss Elizabeth Angiers, from
|

|

}

 

| Boston.”
*‘Miss ?
“<NG.””

| “Thatis singular. A woman with sucha face as

| that should not lack for suitors.”

“Bess has never known want in that respect,” said

| Percy, smiling. ‘‘She has refused some of the most

| eligible partis in the country.”

“T can well believe it. But here we are at the house.
And thatis your lady mother waiting to welcome
us.” «

And as Madam Percy, tall and erect, with her silvery
white hair, and her robes of heavy silk trailing be-
hind her, advanced toward them, she presented a
perfect picture of what a model chatelaine should be,
gracious, yet stately, dignified, yet not wanting in
the softer feminine graces which adorn and make a
woman lovable.

x * * * * * *

Then she is not married ?’

Elizabeth Angiers and Jobn Gilbert stood together
by the little lake, and watched the white-breasted
water-fowl float on the glassy surface of the water.

“Who was that man, and why did he ask meso
many curious questions?’ asked Gilbert, studying
the beautiful face of the woman by his side.

“He is cousin Frederick’s friend. That is all I can
tell.”

“But you know more than you will tell? Is not that
what I may infer?’

“You may infer nothing,” she said, smiling.
ferences are always liable to mislead one.”

‘Perhaps. And yet to-day the very air seems full
of mystery. It has penetrated even my dull brain. I
am full of a suppressed excitement, as sometimes the
atmosphere is of electricity. Iam expecting some-
thing to happen. What is it?’

“You are nervous, Mr. Gilbert. Itis the weather,
perhaps.” She pointed to the long line of dark clouds
stretching across the western horizon. ‘‘We are on
the eve of atempest. Do you not hear the ominous
roar of the wind in the tree tops—and see, the water
begings to ripple on the lake, and the swans are seek-
ing the cover of the willows. You have lived in these
mountain regions long enough to know how suddenly
the storm comes up.”

“Yes. And you had best go tothe house, Miss An-
giers. The storm is close upon us, and it is along
way up the avenue. Quick! or you may get caught!’

A sharp rattle of thunder boomed along the sky,
and the wind rising in fury tore up the dust of the
avenue, and filled the air with a blinding cloud.

The gigantic cotton-woods swayed like reeds before
the terrible power of the tempest, the stately palms
which were the pride and glory of Palmwood, bowed
down before it, afew drops of rain cut the sultry
air with refreshing coolness, and the vivid lightning
played incessantly across the dark bosom of the scur-
rying clouds.

Gilbert flnng his arm around Elizabeth, and drew
her on toward the house. Her hat had been torn
from her head, her dark hair was tossed about her
face in wild confusion, and she clung to her compan-
ion in terror.

“Courage!’’ said the deep voice of Gilbert in her
ear. ‘We are almost at the terraces! Another mo-
ment, and we shall be safe!”

He caught the half-fainting woman in his arms and
hurried on through the blinding rain and the wind,
which beat him back and suffocated him.

“Put me down!” she said, faintly. ‘I am ashamed
of myself to give way like this! Let us run to-
gether.”

She clasped his hand as she slid from his arms, and
for a few steps kept pace with him.

But there came an awfulrush of wind—the inky
sky seemed to settle down over them like a pall, there
was a blinding flash which seemed to illuminate the
‘scene for miles around, and then the great oak which
stood at the foot of the terraces crashed apart and
fell with an awful roar to the earth!

“Good God!” cried Gilbert, as his quick eye com-

“Tn-

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

«i THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

prehended the danger, and, seizing Elizabeth, he

thrust her backward, but the huge branches of the
tree swept everything within a radius of twenty
yards, and both the man and the woman went down
in the terrible crash!

CHAPTER XXII.
MYSTERIOUS MARGARET.

Mrs. Carleton was so overcome with terror on that
night when the mysterious visitor entered the cham-
ber occupied by herself and daughter, that for hours
afterward she was very conscious of what was pass-
ing aronnd her.

Frances had retained her composure, and when
Colonel Vanderyoort asked to speak with her in the
library, she sent word that he must come to the north
wing, for she could not leave her mother.

The answer he returned was, to say the least, a
very singular one. Dawkins brought a slip of paper
on which these words were written :

“T never enter the north wing. Dawkins will re-
main with your mother. Come to me as I request.”

And Frances, taking with her the red rose which
she had found on the floor—the rose that the strange
visitor had held in her hand, went down to the
library.

The colonel was pacing the floor rapidly, evidently
under the influence of some strong agitation, but he
paused instantly at sight of Frances, and placed a
chair for her.

Then leaning against the high, carved mantel-piece,
with the clear light of morning falling over his face,
the girl saw with pain the terrible change that his
handsome features had undergone. His forehead was
deeply lined, his mouth beneath its heavy grizzled
mustache was drawn and firmly set, and there were
dark circles beneath his eyes which nothing could
have placed there except some great and terrible
suffering.

“T have sent for you, Frances,” he said, éalmly, ‘to
have a little conversation with you about what oc-
curred last night. The servants tell me that you had
a visitor.”

“We did. A most dreadful visitor. My poor
mother is yet very much prostrated from the fright
she received.”

“Naturally. Your motheris not a very robust wo-
man. How did this matter happen?’

‘“‘You should be able to explain that better than I.”

“Ah! So you think [ know something about it, do
you?’ with a keen pair of eyes on her face.

“T believe that you do, sir.”

“Very well. I like your frankness.
do. What then?’

“Nothing. Only that you should be able to protect
us against a recurrence of the fright, and the dan-
ger. See here!’ She turned back the lace handker-
chief around her neck, and showed her fair, white

Suppose that I

throat with the livid marks of three brutal fingers |

showing distinctly against its fairness.

“Good heavens!’ cried the colonel, “was it as bad
as that? Sheis up to her old tricks again. I hoped
she had forgotten by this time. Your doors were not
locked.”

“T thought they were, but I know now that I neg-
lected to close the bolts of the door leading into the
east corridor. I frequently neglectit, as the doors
from the other side of the passage are all fast, and
have never to my. knowledge been opened since I
came to this house. And Ihave felt no apprehension
from anything in that direction, for I supposed the
rooms beyond were unoccupied.”

“Yes, yes!” said the colonel, hurriedly, ‘‘unoceupied !
All of them! Given over to the bats and spiders. for
more than twenty years. And you believe that your
visitor came from that direction ?’

“What other direction could she have come from ?
Our doors, with the single exception I have men-
tioned, were all bolted, and when the servants came
who dragged that terrible creature away, they broke
in the door.”

“Yes, yes! Of course, of course

“The strange woman had this in her hand as she
came to our bedside,” said Frances, holding out the
red rose, now wilted and drooping. “I was awake,
and there was light enough in the room to show it to
me—blood-red ‘ef

The colonel caught the rose from her hand and
ground it to powder beneath his heel.

“T can explain nothing to you,” he said. ‘Thereis
a mystery and a secret in my family of which I ean-
not speak. Around it the misery of my life has been
gathered, and nothing short of death can remove the
trouble. Rest satistied with knowing nothing. This
thing will never occur again, but to guard against
the results of association, [ have ordered the two
chambers in this part of the house which are near
my own rooms, to be made ready for you and Mrs.
Carleton, and to-night your effects will be removed
thither. The rooms in the north wing were assigned
you without my sanction, but I did not anticipate
anything of this kind, or you never would have been
suffered to occupy them. Iregret the affair very
much, and trustthat your mother has not been fright-
ened into anything serious by it.’’

Franées rose, and was leaving the room, when she
stopped and spoke about the matter which had been
troubling her:

“Your niece and ward are about returning home,
Thear. Is it likely that they will be willing for me
still to remain with my mother?”

“T ktiow of noreason why you cannot remain as
long as you choose,” said the coionel. ‘The house is
large enough for them, and all the gay butterflies
they gather round them, without your giving up the
little space you occupy. And I like to have young
faces about me. It keeps me from getting out of
sorts with life.”

So Frances went back to her mother very well satis-
fied. And Mrs. Carleton, who had been overcome
with nervous terror at the thought of remaining in
those terrible rooms another night, brightened up,
and was herself again when her daughter told her
that they were to move into the chambers over the
library before another night.

“These rooms, of course, are elegant and spacious,”
she said, with a furtive, half frightened look about
the shadowy chamber; ‘‘but there is something un-
canny about them. Do you know, Frances, that when
[have beensitting here alone, [have hadastrangesort
of feeling that I am not alone, and more than once I
have found myself looking over my shoulder to see
if an unseen presence was hoveriug near. And now
IT understand why the colonel asked me if I was afraid
of ghosts.”

“Why, mother dear,’ cried Frances, “until now I
never thought you had any particle of superstition
about you. This strange affair has completely un-
hinged you.”

“And is it not enough to upset any one? You are
white as a sheet yourself, and Dawkins’ teeth fairly
chattered while she was sitting here with me. Did
Colonel Vandervoort explain anything?”

“No,mamma. He said there was a mystery in his
family, and that he could not speak of it. But he
said that anything like last night’s affair could never
oceur again.”

“JT should hope not indeed,” said Mr. Carleton, with
emphasis. “If I thought it might I would quit the
house, which I should be very sorry to do, as itis
not often one can find a situation where, all things
considered, the work is as easy and as pleasant.”

“The colonel has been very kind to us,” said
Frances, ‘‘and I have greatly feared that the coming
of Miss Fielding might be the means of separating
me from you, mother. But I have spoken to the
colonel about it, and he assures me that my appre-
hensions are groundless.”

“T am glad to hear it,’ said Mrs. Carleton, with a
sigh of relief; ‘‘for I, too, have had my doubts.”

That afternoon the personal effects of the mother
and daughter were removed to the rooms above the
library ; pleasant, sunny, modern apartments, about
which a mystery could find no place to linger. and
Mrs. Carleton was too happy in the change to give
any more thought to the secrets of the house of Van-
dervoort.

The colonel’s family mysteries were his own prop-
erty, she told Frances, and they would not strive to
penetrate them.

Frances went to the store the next day, and Mrs.

Carleton, fully recovered from her fright, went about
her usual duties, and no word of that strange mid-
night occurrence passed between her and her em-
ployer.
; Rufus Droune called at the store, and under pre-
tense of making some trifling purchase, he spoke to
Frances about the night he had offered her his escort
home.

“T most heartily beg your pardon for my conduct,”
he said, with his bold, black eyes drinking in the sweet
loveliness of the girl’s face; “but I had been off out
of town with the boys of the day. And possibly we
had drank too much champagne. Ido not say but
that we had. And you know how much I admire you,
Miss Carleton, Indeed; how could any one see you,
and not admire yout"

‘*Spare me yow Compliments, Mr. Droune,”’ said
Frances, coldly; ‘‘they are not to my taste.’

“You are the iciest and the luckiest girl in the
store!” said young Droune, with effusion; ‘and, by
Jove, I’d marry you to-morrow, if the governor would
consent.”

“T do not think you would,” returned Frances,
scornfully.

“Oh! you mean to say that you would prefer that
beggarly Herndon, who came from nobody knows
where. Curse him! he and [I shall have a score to
settle when I meet him alone,” he added, savagely.

“T have no doubt but you wiil will find him capable
of settling it,” said Frances.

“So you think him a hero, eh? Well, we shall see.
Miss Carleton, I admire you greatly, and we could
well enjoy these fine days behind my pair of grays, if
you were not so infernally cool. I could easily get you
a leave of absence now and then. There is not an-
other girl in the store who would refuse.”

Frances gave him no reply, but turned away to
wait on a customer, and the young man, after a few
words ‘with Tilly Oaks, left the store.

That afternoon, as Frances was putting away the
laces which a more than ordinarily particular pa-
tron of the establishment had tossed over and com-
pared with samples, and spent half the afternoon in

”

store.

There was a glitter of magnificent diamonds at her
throat, and on her white, superbly rounded wrists,
and in her small, pink ears, diamonds that were
worth a fortune, and such diamonds as were seldom
seen even in Wanamaker’s, where the most splen-
didly dressed women of the goodly city of Brotherly
Love daily congregate.

Frances was absorbed in watching the grace of the
stranger’s movements, and, dazzled by the glitter of
her jewels, she did not at once raise her eyes to the
face of the lady who seemed to be taking her fellow-
clerks by storm.

But when at last she did so, every drop of blood in
her body seemed to run to, ice; she staggered back
against Mary Blaine, one of the girls, and uttered a
faint cry.

Mary caught her quickly by the arm, and noting
her extreme pallor, and her wild, frightened eyes,
she exclaimed:

sey, Miss Carleton, you look as if you had seen a

host!’
® “Who—who is that woman ?’ cried Frances.

“Which one? The one with the diamonds? My!
isn’t she stunning! I don’t know her name—I am new
here—but I have seen her here before; and she buys
things like a princess of the blood. Look alive, girl!
she is coming down to your counter.”

She gave Frances a gentle shake to bring back her
scattered senses, and then turned to her own part of
the cases.

The lady paused a moment before her, asked an in-
different question about some of the wares displayed,
and passed on to Frances.

The young girl, pale as death, stood awaiting her
coming, the impulse to fly strong upon her, but held,
in spite of herself, by a fascination too powerful for
her to break away from.

For there was no doubt—there could be no doubt—
there was not in the world of women another woman
like this one! There could be but one of those cold,
faultless, marble-pale and clearly cut faces in the
world. There could be no such deep, dark, mysteri-
ous gray eyes, such beautiful hair, such white and
shapely hands; and, above all, there could be but
one woman who bore about with her the mystery, the
shadow, the possibility of something more terrible
than death, which this woman bore stamped indel-
libly on her white and perfect forehead.

Margaret!

Frances held her breath as she looked on this face;
so unmistakably the face of the terrible woman who
had been the moving actor in that  death-bed
marriage, the woman whose money she had taken,
and which now lay at home in the bottom of her
oe hidden from human view, the awful price of—
what?

Frances had never dared to guess what might be
the outcome of it all. She only hoped that she might
never meet any of the participants in that strange
scene, and that by and by she might, to some extent
at least, forget it.

Thelady looked down upon the frightened, trem-
bling girl, with no sign of recognition in her cold
eyes.

She would look at laces; and Frances, with hands
which shook so she could hardly lift the boxes,
spread out the costly fabrics before her customer.

The lady turned them over carefully, made a
selection of the most expensive piece in the lot, with-
out inquiring the price, ordered ten yards, and laid
down a hundred dollar bill in payment.

Frances tore a leaf from her book, and tried t6
figure up the amount of the bill, but the paper and
pencil swam before her eyes, and she could make no
headway.

“Exeuse me,” said the lady, coldly; ‘‘you_are
reckoning incorrectly. I see you have set the lace
down at seven dollars a yard. Itis very easy getting
at the sum total. Seventy dollars, and you have
reckoned it at fifty! You should be more accurate.”

Accurate! Frances wondered how this woman,
with the knowledge she possessed, with the memory
of the last time they two had stood face to face—
could expect that she would have wit enough about
her to put two and two together.

Her pride made her rally, however, and, with a
steady hand, she dashed off the bill and sent it, with
the money, to the cashier’s desk.

“Shall I send the parcel?” she asked, coldly, when
the change was returned.

The lady replied by taking it herself.

“T will not trouble you,” she said, and gathering
up her gloves and sunshade she went leisurely out.

A handsome carriage drawn by a pair of cream-
colored horses, and a colored driver and footman,
awaited her.

Frances drew in her breath, and listened to ‘the
comments of the girls, as they discussed the late
customer’s diamonds, and her Paris bonnet.

“Well,” said one of the saleswomen, ‘‘I have been
here more than six years, and in that time we have
sold her thousands of dollars’ worth of laces! it’s a
mystery to me what she does with them.

“What is the lady’s name?’ Frances ventured to
inquire, as the girl seemed to be so well informed.

“Name? Oh, I thought every body knew Mrs.
Kirkland. She is the wite of Mr. Lamont Kirkland,
a wealthy and eccentric old man; and she, herself,
was one of the richest heiresses in Camden. Every-
body wondered at her marrying him, because she had
been a great belle and beauty, and might have had
her pick of scores of men.”

“Ts—is he dead ?”? asked Frances, with faint voice.

“Dead? Oh, no, far from it. He is likely to liveas
long as she will care to have him, I dare say. He is
in Europe now. A great traveler, and brimful of
crotchets. They say that when he is home my lady
leads a dog’s life of it, so to speak.”

“Where do they live?” asked Frances.

“Really, I cannot tell you. Somewhere well out
toward Manayunk, and quite near the Schuylkill
River, [have been told. A very fine old ancestral
place, inherited from some dead relative; but I have
neyer seen it. I have heafd that there is nothing
like it in the whole city. You seem a good deal
interested in your customer, Miss Frances.”

“Yes—that is, I—I thought TI had seen her before.”

“‘Perhaps so. She drives out a great deal. The Kirk-
lands have some of the tinest turn-outs in the city.
And they seem very proud of their name, for the
letter K, in gold, is emblazoned upon everything.”

Yes, Frances well remembered that golden
letter K.

She had hardly recovered from the shock of seeing
Margaret by the time she was ready to go home.

Her mind was racked by doubts and perplexities
innumerable. Could it be possible that Margaret
had failed to recognize her ?

Had she come there and made that purchase for
any ulterior object? Was it in the power of this wo-
man to harm her? And if so, what possible motive
could there be for her taking advantage of that
power?

Frances felt sick and faint over the thronging ques-
tious which rushed headlong through her brain, and
the girls noticed her extreme pallor, and offered to
attend her counter if she felt ill. But she assured
them she had nothing more than a severe headache,
and a headache is always a good excuse for one wo-
man to offer another. ;

When the store closed, Frances stepped out into
the cool evening air with a sense of relief. Away
from the noise and excitement of the vast establish-
ment where she worked, she should be able to think,

Albert Herndon joined her in front of the store.

“Tf you like to walk,” he said, ‘‘I shall be happy to
accompany you. The evening is too fine to idle
away in a boarding-house.”

She felt such an unmeasurable sense of relief at the
sound of his voice, it gave her courage and heart,
and for the moment the wild impulse seized her to
make a confidant of this young man and tell him
everything connected with that strange night in her
life when she had met Margaret.

But instantly the fdea died out, and she grew crim-
son with shame as she thought of it.

What would he think of her if she should confess
that she had yielded to threats and wedded a stranger
—become a dead man’s bride ? ;

What possible interest could he feel in her—a poor,
friendless, unknown soldier’s orphan ? What possible
interest, when there were half a dozen beautiful, ac-
complished, and wealthy women ready to accept
thankfully his slightest attentions ?

Frances took his arm, and in the soft moonlight of
the early autumn, they walked to Rittenhouse square.

But the girl ‘was very silent, and the young man
fell. into her thoughtful mood, and so it happened
that when he left her at the door of Mr. Vandervoort’s
house, hardly a dozen sentences had been exchanged
between them.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

_ oe
IMAGINARY ILLNESS.

Among the papers left behind him by a German

 

 

|

physician, who died a few weeks ago, is one contain-
ing notes of certain conclusions he had arrived at
during a professional experience of more than forty
years. In one of these notes he expresses an opinion
that at least a third of the illness of the patients who
sought his advice was purely imaginary, He found
it not only against his own interests, but also against
that of the self-supposed sufferers, to destroy the
illusion by informing them that there really was no
cause of anxiety. Il-health was to them a matter of
almost vital importance; to destroy the pleasing be-
lief that they possessed this blessing was an abso-
lute cruelty. In afew instances in which he broke

to them the terrible truth that they were quite well, |

he found that the result was genuine illness. For the
patients all interest in life departed with their favor-
ite occupation of nursing themselves, and their
health became seriously affected by nervous depres-
sion. He also found that, as a rule, weakly persons
live longer than strong ones. Without going so far as
to say that the best lives are thos rejected by the in-
surance officers, he thought, nevertheless, that per-

buying fifty cents’ worth of cheap goods, she noticed | sons with some chronic malady more often attain

a movement and a whispering among the clerks, and

longevity than those in whom no trace of disease can

glancing up, she saw a tall, stately woman, clad in | be detected.

black velvet, coming down toward her part of the

 

 

THE REASON WHY.

BY JAMES H. HARTMAN.

Along the meadows to the wood
Come wander, love, with me,

For there is something I must tell
Beneath the greenwood tree.

I’ll carve our names upon its bark
Whilst wave the boughs on high,
And we are lingering there a while—

You know the reason why!

What silent spell upon me now
I wonder can there be,

That tied should be my bashful tongue,
So often bold and free?

There is a question I would ask
And wait a soft reply,

But speech seeme from me to have iown—
I know the reason why!

The flowers brighter bloom to-day,
The birds sing out aloud,

In all the sapphire of the sky,
Shows not one single cloud.

Dear, there are blushes on your cheek,
A tear stands in your eye;

With hope and love my heart is filled—
We know the reason why !

oe °
[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 XVII.—(CONTINUED.)

ALE as ashes was Reginald’s
face as he read the letter, and

“Well, sir!” asked the old gen-

“It is false, father! It is a
lie !’” :
“Tam glad to hear you say
F /it; but as another nameis men-
a tioned, I must look farther into
the matter. John, come here.”

John Van Doorst crossed to his uncle.

“Read that!’ ;

The young men stood close together, and the differ.
ence between them, both physicially and mentally,
stood out in bold prominence.

As Van Doort read the letter his face never quiver.
ed, every muscle was rigid, but when he had finished
it he handed it back to his uncle,

“Well, sir?’ F

“Excuse me, uncle,” he began, in a nervous, un-
pleasant, and yet hesitating manner.

“Answer me, is that true ?”’

“My dear uncle, you will excuse, but my cousin is
able to take care of himself, and I—~”

“Answer me—yes orno! Is that part which refers
to you, true?’

“Yes 17? ; :

There was silence in the room, for none could
imagine whathad so upsetthe twoyoung men as well
as their uncle.

“Read that letter aloud,” commanded the 6ld gen-
tleman, as be handed the document to his son.’

“Father, it is anonymous. Surely you would not
believe a slander against your own son, uttered by
one who had not the courage to sign his name?’

“But your cousin corroborates it.”

“Let me speak,”’ said Van Doorst. “The matter is
: painful one, and it would be far better to let it

rop.” ‘

“No, John. Your sentiment is a credit to you, but
T insist, and I now ask you to read that letter aloud.”

Van Doorst hesitated, and for some time a whis-
pered conversation took place.

“Tf you will marry your Cousin Adelia, or enter in-
to an engagement to do so, the matter shall drop,”
said old Mr. Clyde. ;

“That I cannot do,” answered Reginald, firmly.

“Read that letter, John.”

Yan Doorst, in a low but clear yoice, read:

“Mr. CLYDE:—I am a stranger to you, but as you
once did me a good service I feel it my duty to write
this to you. I have good reason for knowing that
your son Reginald has become entangled with a de-
signing female, and has been married to her. He
conceals this from you because heis deeply in debt.
T hold some of his dishonored paper, and before he is
a year older, his name will only live in the criminal
history of the State. A word to the wise is enough.
As to the woman, you can ask Mr. Van Doorst
whether he did not see your son and the woman in
Lafayette Park early this evening, and whether he
did not hear him call her ‘wife,’ and say that he
would get the money, no matter what means he had
to use.

There was no name to the letter, which was writ-
ten in an evidently disguised hand.

Not a word was spoken by any one after the letter
was read.

To think that a Clyde should even contemplate a
mesalliance was bad enough; but that he should be a
gambler and not able to pay his debts was horrible!
Even crime was hinted at. Could it be possible that
Reginatil, who had always been considered the very
strictest of youths, should descend to crime ?

Reginald was the first to break the silence, and he
did so in a hesitating voice. He several times had to
swallow a great lump which seemed to rise in his
throat and nearly choke him.

“Father and mother and relatives,’ he said, ‘I
little thought I should have to answer such charges,
especially when they are brought by some venomous
slanderer whose name is not even known. It is true
that Imet and talked with a young lady to-night,
but it is not true I am married to her. I should have
been had she given her consent.”

Here Mr. Clyde rose from the chair, and shook his
stick threateningly at his son, who continued:

“That she is designing, I deny. Sheis the sweetest,
purest, and best of girls, and before Heaven I shall
yet marry her, if she will condescend to enter a fam-
ily that credits every anonymous slander. I never
gambled, neither does any man hold any I. O. U’s of
mine. And as for debts, honorable or dishonorable,
I am free from them.” :

‘What is the girl’s name?’ asked his mother.

“Excuse me, mother dear. I will never mention
ced name to allow it to be coupled with vile slan-

er.

Then turning to his father, he said:

“Father Iam sorry to grieve you, but I would
never marry without love; and if ITloved I would
marry any one whose character was pure, and wouid
never ask whether she was descended from the Pil-
grims or whether her father swept the streets as a
scavenger. Forgive meif Ihave offended you, my
father.”

Mr. Clyde turned about uneasily on his chair. He
loved his son, but he loved the pride of race even
more. To him the admixture of what he termed
plebeian blood with that of the Clydes was an unpar-
donable sin. Even gambling he could, forgive,
debts he would pay, but this was too much.

“Where does this girl live?” he asked.

“That, father, I must decline to answer.”

“What is her father?’

“He is dead.”

“Tg she rich?”

“Rich in grace and honor and virtue, yes, but in
money, no. She works for her living.”

“Decide, sir. You must either give up this silly in.
fatuation or leave this house.”

“Father, I—’”

“Answer me! If you elect to remain my son, you
must swear to-night that you will never see, speak
to, or write to this girl again. Will you swear it?”

“No, father, I will not give her up.”

“Then you are no longer son of mine.”

“Rather.”

“Go ied

“Mother, speak for me. You married father be-
cause you loved him. Surely you will not condemn
me ets Llove a woman who is all purity and
truth.

Mrs. Clyde was a Van Doorst whose family came
over in 1690, and she could not pardon such a terrible
sin against society. Her mother’s heart pleaded to
be heard, but pride crushed down the sentiment. She
reasoned that absence from home for a month or so
would bring Reginald to reason, and that he would
return penitent, seeing the error of his ways. She
therefore made no answer to her son’s appeal.

“Mother! Father! I am your child. our. only
gon ! we swear, before Heaven, the charges are

se!

°

your place shall be taken by John Van Doorst who
will maintain the honor of the family. I will make
my will to-morrow, and you shall have enough to
prevent you starving, but not a dollar moge. Now
xO 1?

“Father!” and Reginald flung himselfon his knees,
“T want not your money, but oh, let me have your
love!”

“Go, [say! or IT will order the servants to turn you
from the house, To-morrow you will have a ticket
for New York, and will be assured of an.annuity,
which will stop if ever you enter St. Louis again.
Go, and I will forget you were ever a Clyde.”

Reginald left the room, his heart heavy and sad.

One look he gave to the assembled relatives, but
saw not one glance of pity.

He reached the door, when Adelia, with tears in
her eyes, stood near him as he passed, and whispered:

“Go, Reginald, my dear cousin; 1 will stand up for
you. All will yet be right.”

“Thanks, dearest cousin.”

He was gone. He had looked upon his father’s liv-
ing face for the last time. Little did he think that
when next he saw it, there would be no sign of
pleasure or pain there.

Reginald left in disgrace, but, alas, a still deeper
ries rested upon him when next he entered that

oor.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE HAND OF FATE.

Patrice Fitzgerald had been in St. Louis a whole
month. It had seemed to her that her life had been
spent there, for every one was so kind.

Mrs. Norton treated her as if she had been her own
daughter, while the elder Norton just watched her
about as though he would like to have eaten her.
As for Tom, itis hard to define his feelings, for he
was always talking about her when she was not in
the room, but whenever the couple met they teased
each other in such,a way that it almost made one be-
lieve they had a thorough dislike of each other’s
company.

Several times Douglas had hinted that it was about
time that the visit of Patrice should terminate, for it
looked like trespassing on the hospitality of the Nor-~
tons; but whenever he broached the subject, Mrs.
Norton would declare she felt offended, and should
leave the room if the conversation did not turn in an-
other direction. ;

A great change had come over Douglas. He was
quite a reformed character. The companions of the
past were no longer associates, but his pleasantest
evenings were spent in the company of the lovely,
charming Patrice.

She had come into his life like a fairy, and with
her wand turned all his hopes, ambitions, and aspi-
rations into other directions. Feeling bitterly at first
about his guardianship, and the loss of half his in-
come, he had now not only become.reconciled, but in
his heart he felt that he would rather lose all his for-
tune than the company of Patrice.

Did he love her? Not once did such a thought
enter his head. He looked upon her as a sister, as a
very dear companion, anda child. That is what he
told himself, but the temptation was great.

‘Patrice, lam going to take you away from here,”
he said, one morning, after she had been a month
with the Nortons. hi

“Away!” she exclaimed; and as the word left her
lips the corners of the pretty mouth quivered, and
there was a visible moisture about the eyes.

“Yes, dear, but not from St. Louis.”

“Oh p? .

“But you don’t seem pleased.”

“No, Douglas. Why should I? These dear, good
Eons have been so kind that I never want to leave
them.” :

“They have been more than kind. But, Patrice,
my dear, you cannot be on a visitforever, Besides,
I want you to have a home of your own.”

A slight tinge of color mounted from the lower part
of her face and spread right up to the eyes.

“Why should she blush?’ wondered Fitzgerald.
“Surely she is not in love with any one, If so, who
cau it be?”

His reflections were cut short by the entrance of
Mrs. Norton.

faa Mr. Fitzgerald, you are quite a stranger,” she
said. : ;

“A stranger! I was here on Monday.”

“And now itis Thursday. Oh, fie!”

“Mrs. Norton, I want your help.”

“And you shall have it.”

“Don’t promise too soon.
when you know what it is.”

“No, nothing would tempt me, if I can serve my
darling here.” And she put her hand on the head of
the charming Irish lassie.

“Then prepare to be astonished. I haye——”

“Got married ?’’ asked the lady.

“No, neither shall I ever do so,” and he laughed.
“But I have taken a house.” é

“Taken a house?” sae

“Yes. Is there anything wonderful in that?’

“T am surprised.” .

“Very likely, but there are the keys,” and Douglas
placed a bunch of keys on the table. ‘‘And now I
will tell you what I want you to do. The house is
empty; you must fillit. Take Patrice with you, and
purchase for me all the furniture necessary. Spare
no expense, but fit it up as you would do it for your-
self. Am I asking too much?” ,

“No, only I am surprised.”

“There is another thing I want you to do. Can you
find me some good, motherly, lady-like person to act
as housekeeper? Mind, I don’t want her as a ser-
vant. I want some one who can preside at the table,
and act as chaperon for Patrice.”

“T will try.”

“Now one word more, and we will leave business.
I will give you blank checks, and you can fill them
out for any amount you need. Lam going away for
ten days or so, because I don’t want to -be consulted
atall. Itis my desire that Patrice should be pleased
The house is No. — Washington avenue,”

The conversation had been as much a business one
as if it had taken place in a lawyer’s office, and Doug-
las left almost immediately afterward, promising,
however, to dine with the Nortons that evening.

“What do youthink, my dear?” asked Mrs. Norton,
when she was alone with Patrice.

“T shall be sorry to leave you.”

“Not so sorry as we shall be to part with you, but I
think Mr. Fitzgerald is acting wisely. After lunch,
my dear, we will drive over and see Mrs. Gleason;
she is sure to know some nice lady who will accept
the position offered by your guardian.”

The two ladies were all excitement.

There is a fascination about house furnishing which
for the time is almost enchanting. All other things
are forgotten, and the talk was devoted to curtains
and upholstery, furniture and bric-a-brac, colors of
carpets, and shades of silks, and everything pertain-
ing to the fitting up in the most alaborate style of a
nineteenth century house. Two hours later the ladies
were being driven through the streets in a comfort-
able carriage to the house of Mrs. Gleason.

‘‘Patrice, my dear, I am pleased to see you. I have
just been thinking of you. Do you know I have just
bought the most lovely piano—upright, my dear—
and I want you to try it.”

And, then, once started, Mrs. Gleason’s tongue,
which seemed to have discovered perpetual motion,
rattled along scarcely giving her visitors an oppor-
tunity to getina word. When they did explain their
object, Mrs. Gleason was as pleased as a young
schoolgirl.

“Know such alady? Why, my dear Mrs. Norton, I
happen to have a friend—a perfect lady—as good as
gold and as reliable as Pierce’s Bank, and oh, such a
charming daughter—just the thing—a companion for
Patrice. Shall I engage her, or will you drive round
with me?’

Patrice could not refrain from smiling at the volu-
bility of Mrs. Norton’s friend. Everything was taken
for granted with Mrs. Gleason ; her judgment was al-
ways right, and—but then it is hardly fair to quote
her husband’s opinion, but he declares thatit would be
easier to stop the flow of the Mississippi than to pre-
vent his wife from carrying out anything upon which
she had set her mind. ‘

“You say this lady has a daughter. I don’t know
whether Mr. Fitzgerald would like to have——”

“Another young person in the house? Of course
he would. And then, you see, it would be such com-
fortfor Patrice, and Maggie—that’s my young friend's
name—is the sweetest, dearest little thing in all
the city. Have you room for me, or shall I order out
my Village cart ?”

“There is room.”

“Good; I won’t keep youthree minutes. You see
Iam always ready for an emergency, so never keep
my friends waiting.”

It seemed that Mrs. Gleason had scarcely time to
get up stairs before she wasdown again, and all ready
tor the trip.

The carriage was driven to the residence of Mrs.
Coyle, and when the object was explained, the widow
seemed to think that Providence was good to her,
and that Mrs. Gleason was like one of the fairies of
old.

“But what about Maggie ?’’ asked Mrs. Coyle.

“Why, she will continue at the ‘Famous,’ of course,
and her evenings will help her to make the time pass
pleasantly for Miss Patrice.”

“T must consult her.”

“Of course,” assented Mrs. Gleason.

And then, promising to call next day for an answer,
she took her leave.

“Patrice, my dear, we will go to the ‘Famous Store’
—ah, that is one of the wonders of St. Louis—and see

You may draw back

“Go! Never more darken my doors. Henceforth

VOL. 43—No. 3 '

 

In the evening Patrice put her arm round the neck
of her guardian and said:

“Guardy, dear, I have seen such a nicelady fora —
housekeeper ; and she has, oh! such asplendid daugh-
ter!—just my age; and I feel I already love her!”

“Then engage mother and daughter, by all means,
but don’t let the terms be so binding that we can-
not get rid of themif we want to leave the city or de-
sire to change.” :

“Why, Douglas, how business-like you talk. Once
you have seen Maggie you will want no change.”

The words were said lightly and without special
meaning. They were just the gushing of a loving,
warin-hearted girl.

She little knew how true a prophetess she was, for
the face of Maggie Coyle was the dearest memory of
Douglas Fitzgerald.

Since the duel he had sought for her everywhere.

Dr. McPherson would not furnish the slightest clew
to her name or her whereabouts, and Norton could
not give him any information regarding her.

It was a strange and almost unaccountable coinci-
dence that the very face which had haunted him day
and night should be destined to be the first to wel-
peep him when he entered into possession of his new

ouse.

Fitzgerald had such confidence in Mrs. Norton that
he neyer troubled himself to inquire into the antece-
dents or present position of the Coyles, but left
everything in the hands of his friend.

The next day Mrs. Coyle and Maggie were engaged
to take charge of the household of Douglas Fitz-
gerald, and the lady at once entered on her duties.

Mrs. Gleason was delighted, and as she called at
the house on Washington avenue, and found Mrs.
Coyle and two servants hard at work arranging fur-
niture and getting everything ‘“‘ship-shape,” as she
expressed it, she metaphorically patted herself on
the back, and soncratalaeas her clearness of intel-
lect in at once thinking of Maggie’s mother.

As she was leaving she called Mrs.-Coyle on one
side, and, slipping a hundred-dollar bill into the
widow’s hand, haid:

“That is a loan for three years. Get what dresses
you want for yourself and Maggie.”

Before Mrs. Coyle could express her thanks for the
thoughtful act, the dashing little warm-hearted wo-
man was in her carriage and being driven away.

CHAPTER XIX.
“MY OWN, AND YET NOT MY OWN.”

“Blanche, dearest, why delay?’ pleaded Harry
Carondelet.

“T am young, and there is plenty of time.”

“But life without youis misery. Oh, say that you
will not keep my loving heartin such suspense!”

“Why, Harry, how impatient you are. Don’t you
know that when you have a wife all your freedom
will be gone? Then why in such haste?”

And she laughed lightly as she asked the question.

“Because I love you, and until I can put the little
gold cirelet on your finger, I shall not feel secure.”

“Indeed! Well, my dear boy, your love must not,
be so impatient, for I will not resign my freedom for
a year or so.”

‘Blanche, you are eruel.”’

“Only to be kind.”

*“T donot understand you.”

“Harry, I love you, f am not ashamed to say it;
but do youlove me? Will your affection last? Oh,
suppose we married and then found we had made a
mistake. To you it would be easier than for me, for

““*Man’s love is of man’s life a thing apart;
*Tis woman’s whole existence.’ ”

“Do you doubt me ?”

“No, Harry, or I should never have given my con-
sent. But don’t urge me farther. I will be your
wife, but not now. We ought to know each other
better, for marriage is for life.”

“You do not love me,” said Harry, almost angrily.
“How can you say so?’

“If you loved me, as I love you, your consent
would be given to an early marriage,

“Not so! Harry, it may seem very unmaidenly,
but I am free to say I love you, and that I am just as
desirous to be your wife, your companion through
life, as you are to have me; but I will wait until we
both have been tried and can each say that the other
is the only loved one.”

“Some one has been poisoning your mind against
me.

“Indeed that is not true.”

“But you are changed since last week.”

“Only, Harry, because I have thought so much of
the seriousness of marriage, and I dare not go to the
altar until I know tkat I love and am loved with a
purity of love and affection which is beyond all
shadow of doubt.”

‘‘And I love you so, life will be a torture. every day
will feel like eternity, and night, with its darkness,
will be an Inferno, until I can clasp you in my arms
and call you my own.”

It was sweet to Blanche to hear such words, and
her heart bade her give consent to an early mar-
riage. ?

Carondelet saw his advantage, and he gently drew
the loving girl to him, and, putting his arm round
her waist, said:

“If you did but know how much depends on your
answer, if you could but see what a wreck my life
will be without you, there would be no hesitation.
Consent to be mine next week, and we will go to Eu-
rope; will explore the grand old ruins of Rome, see
the art treasures of Munich—of which you have so
often spoken and desired to see—and end our honey-
moon in dear old Paris. Dearest Blanche, you doubt
me because others have painted mein black colors.
I have not been a saint, but I never wronged any
one. I have a clear conscience amid all the slanders
about me, and the woman does not live who can say
I ever insulted her or——”

Carondelet was protesting too much. He had over-
stated his case, and Blanche had gradually moved
away from him, for her reason told her he was plead-
ing toomuch. His defense was stopped by the en-
trance of a servant, who announced that Miss Mag-
gie Coyle was in the parlor to see Blanche. ’

“Maggie Coyle!” exclaimed Harry. **‘Who, Blanche
dear, is that?’

“She is that dear girl who was so kind to me when
I was injured in front of the ‘Famous,’ where she is
employed.” _

“Curse her!” Harry muttered between his teeth.

“What did you say?” asked Blanche, who, howev-
er, had heard the expression.

“T was only wondering if she came for money,”
answered Carondelet, but as he spoke his’ face be-
came white.

“No,” replied Blanche; “Maggie is my friend, and
I trust she will always remain so.”

‘Blanche, I ask you as a favor to discontinue your
friendship with that shop-girl.”

“Why ?’

“She is a very wicked, unprincipled girl.”

“Repeat that, Harry Carondelet, and I will never
again speak to you. The words you have uttered are
a Slander against one of the purest of girls, and if you
really object to your affianced entertaining a friend-
ship for Maggie Coyle, you can take back that.”
And Blanche withdrew the handsome diamond ring
which was the pledge of her engagement, and held
it out for Carondelet to take.

“Blanche, dearest, forgive me; it was only my jeal-
ousy that prompted my speech. I don’t like you to
divide your affection with any one.”

“But that is different,’’ answered Blanche, mollified
by the evident Eas of her lover.

A few minutes later he took his leave, and Blanche
joined her young friend, the ‘‘Famous” shop-girl.

A true friendship had grown up between the two
girls, and whenever Maggie had an opportunity she
never failed to spend an hour with the banker’s
daughter.

She had never encountered Carondelet at the house
since the time she had seen him walking away on the
day of the accident, and as Maggie did not know the
name of her assailant and insulter, Blanche had not
heard from her lips a good reason why Harry should
be shunned. As Carondelet walked away from the
banker’s house, he cursed his folly in exciting his
fiancee’s curiosity about the young saleslady, for
would it not lead her to make inquiries, and then he
felt that he would get the ‘‘mitten” very quickly.

“By Jove!” he muttered, ‘but Blanche can be firm!
I wonder how I can soften her, for she must be mine
at once ?

CHAPTER XX.
“HER SPECTER IS BY YOUR SIDE!”

Carondelet had not walked more than a couple of
i before he saw Dr. McPherson coming toward
lim.

Having no desire to see the talkative physician,
he crossed the street, but to his annoyance saw the
doctor follow his example.

“Carondelet!” he shouted.

McPherson was never ashamed or afraid of hear-
ing his own voice, and when he had occasion to
call any one, there could be no excuse for not hearing.

Harry paused, and waited for the doctor.

There was no attempt at hand-shaking, the men
were not friendly enough for that, and neither was
hypocrite enough to express a friendship they did
not feel.

‘“‘Whatis your news, Doctor McPherson ?”

“T wanted to see you.”

“You know my residence ?”’

“T do.”

“Then why not call on me there, instead of shout-
ing after me in the street.”

 

Maggie. Now tell me honestly what you think of her,
for if you don’t like her we will make other arrange-
ments.”

The store was reached, and in a few moments
Patrice was wild with enthusisatic delight as she
watched the pretty clerk attend to the customers.

“Oh, Mrs. Gleason, isn’t she pretty ?”’

Mrs. Norton hesitated, for she did not half like the
idea of bringing such a really pretty girl under the
especial notice of Douglas Fitzgerald.

Maggie and Patrice seemed to get on well together,
and when they parted, and Patrice stepped into the
Norton carriage, she clapped her tiny hands with 1°%;

“Oh, Mrs. Gleason! I feel I shall love her! o

 

hope her mother will accept.”

“For two reasons, Carondelet: one is that you are
so seldom at home, and the other that I haven’t time
to waste. Now I have a few minutes I can spare,
and by good luck I have caught you.”

“Tamin a great hurry,” said Carondelet, desirous
of getting away from McPherson.

“T am glad to hearit; soamtI. Therefore, we can
go straight to the point and not waste time.”

“Well, what is it?’

sa will walk with you and we can talk as we move
along.

Seeing that the doctor was not to be shaken off,
Harry suggested that they should enter a well-known
saloon, where they could have a room and so be

 

screened from observation. When they had called

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
   

es
4
cane SaF

 

SE Ny al i

 

 

 
   
       
  
 

    
 
 

   
  
  
  
  
   
   
 
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
  
 
 
   
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
 
 
 
  
 
   
   
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
    
  
 
  
  
    
  
  
   
  
  
  
  
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
   
  
 
  
   
 
   
  
  
  
        
       
  
 
  
   
  

 

 

  
      
     
    
 
  
  
  
      
  
   
 
      
     
        
  
 
 
 
  
  
    
 
     
   

 

 

 

    
   
 

“ie te Mee tbe

    
 

    
 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

VOL. 43—No. 3 ’

waza THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #30>

 

for refreshment, the doctor hit straight out at once,
by asking: ‘

“You remember Margaret Fisher ?”

Carondelet had just raised his glass to his lips, but
when the name was uttered by the doctor, the glass
dropped from his hand to the floor and was broken
in a score of pieces; at the same time Carondelet’s
face became as pallid as that of a corpse.

“My dear sir, you require a course of tonics,” said
the doctor, at the same time making a mental note of
the distress occasioned by the mention of the name.

“Tam far from well, and quite subject to these
nervous attacks,” was Harry’s rejoinder.

“T should say youare. But to resume, as we are
both pressed for time. You remember the woman I
speak of ?”

“T cannot say that I do.”

“Indeed! ry and recall the facts. You were
much younger then, and fond of a pretty face. Mar-
garet Fisher came from New York and met you.”

“Doctor, you must exeuse me; I have a most im-
portant poe a5 vanes na Call at my house, and we will
talk ee his—what’s-her-name ?—or anybody else
you like,”

Carondelet rose from the chair, and was about
leaving, when the doctor put his back against the
door, and said, sharply and sternly: \

“No, you don’t. Notuntil you tell me what you
know of Margaret Fisher.”

“T really cannot recall her, I have known so many;
and to my sorrow, I must confess, that I used to be
rather wild.”

“Tam glad you are repentant. Now, let me help
your memory. Margaret was several years older
than you, but she looked young. She quite capti-
vated you, and you told ber you loved her, just as
you have been telling the banker’s daughter.”

“Sir!” }

“Oh, don’t get so indignant! Weare manandman,
and understand each other, or shall, presently. As I
Was saying, you made love to her, and promised to
marry her. Well, itis the same old story—you left
her to bear her shame, and she could not endure it.
Do you remember her now? Oh, Isee you do begin
to catch a glimpse of the face which was so imprint-
ed on your memory once. But let me recall still
more. Have you forgotten one night when this
same Margaret Fisher came to you and appealed,
not for herself, but for the babe, her second self that
would be, and you cast her from you, telling her that
she had no claim on you, but that she could call at
your lawyer’s the next day, and get whatever papers
belonged to her.”

Carondelet sat down, and buried his face in his
hands, while his whole body was shaken with deep
emotion.

Doctor McPherson continued very calmly:

“She went on her knees to you; but the woman
you had said you loved, the woman who had believed
you, and according to law was ycur wife——”

“What? exclaimed Carondelet.

“Tf you desire a repetition, I will say that according
to. rs law of Missouri, Margaret Fisher was your
wife.”

“Itis false? maliciously, damnably false!’

“Don’t get so excited. You know it is true. And
have you not often started up in the night and seen
her specter by your side, and as your body has been
bathed in perspiration, and your brain almost
delirious, you have sworn to make atonement. But
the morning’s light has sent your good resolves into
oblivion. Now—keep calm—you had some papers
deposited with you which you promised to return to
their owner, but you failed to doso. And when your
wife—don’t wince so—flung herself into the river,
and you saw her pale dead face, and yourown became
as white almost as hers, you turned away, and tried
forthwith to forget the dead, and atonement has
never been made.”’

“You will drive me mad.”

“No, [am only telling you that the time has come
for that atonement. You realized great wealth
through those papers, and you will have to make res-
titution.”

“But the owner is dead.”

“Who told youso?”

“My agent, who was sent to trace her.”

“She is living, and is in St. Louis, and [am her rep-
resentative.”

“Merciful heavens! What shall I do?’

“Do right, for once.”

For a few moments Carondelet was silent, and evi-
dently a struggle was going on in his mind as to what
he should do.

With a shake, as though by that means he could
get rid of the horrible feeling and torture he was en-
during, he stood erect.

His strong will had conquered, and every tremor
left his body. His eyes were blood-shot and dim, and
black lines had already appeared beneath them, but
they were the only signs of the emotion he felt.

Facing Doctor McPherson, he said, calmly:

“For once you have mistaken your man. Your dra-
matic power and clever acting have been exerted in
vain, for ET admit nothing, and shall demand that you
produce proofs—legal proofs, mind you—of what you
say, or | will appeal to the courts to protect me against
so foul a slanderer.”

“Do so, Harry Carondelet. I am not going to show
my hand or tell you what proofsI possess. But I
tell you that you shall never know peace or quiet
on your bed until justice has been done; for Marga-
ret Fisher’s specter will be ever at your side. [have
done. I will give you reasonable time to make res-
titution, and until that has expired I shall leave you
alone with your own conscience, and her spirit.”

The doctor, hot and excited, puffing like a small
steam engine, left the room. x

He was pleased with himself.

“T’ll make him disgorge even yet. He cannot trans-
fer the shares of stock left with him by Margaret
Fisher, for I’ve given notice at the office. My proofs
may not be very strong, but they will win the day,
and Annie Lefferts, my young friend, shall be rich
even yet.

Carondelet left and walked in a different direction.
He was a wreck.

When he was out of sight of the doctor his bravado
an down, and he looked like one suffering with the
palsy.

“Curse him for a meddling busybody. Curse him!
but [I will be even with him yet. He cannot prove
anything, and—but he will never get achance. Take
care how you wander aboutamong your poor patients,
Doctor McPherson. You may accidentally fall down
some rete stairs some day, and the insurance
societies will be the losers. Ha, ha, ha!”

 

CHAPTER XXI.
WHO HATH DONE IT?

“Some crime so dark, so cruel, and-so base,
That it must take from Heaven the right of mercy.”

When Reginald Clyde had left his father’s house,
and gone from the presence of the proud old folks, a
reaction set in, and all that day both father and
mother felt that they would forgive all if he would
but return.

Even the marriage with one so far beneath him,
for was he not their own son, and did he not com--
pare with any Missourian, and to his credit? So
talked the father when in the solitude of his room,
with none but the partner of his life to hear.

His lawyer had been sent for, and John Van Doorst
rubbed his fragile, soft hands with glee, for he knew
that Lawyer Metealfe was there to draw a new will—
one which should forever destroy the heir and his
prospects, and constitute him, the cousin, as sole
inheritor of the Clyde and Van Doorst wealth.

He had no feeling of sorrow for the banished son;
in fact, he was rejoiced thereat. If the truth must
be confessed, John Van Doorst knew more about the
anonymous letter than he would wish to acknowl-

edge.

Lawyer Metcalfe was with old Mr. Clyde for over
an hour, and when he left he stopped to speak to
Van Doorst.

“So it seems you are pronounced the heir,” he said.

“Yes, so my uncle said last night when my cousin
offended him.”

“But does it not seem harsh that you should take
the son's place, and he go forth to fight his way un-
aided ?”’

“No. Reginald is not a Glyde nora Van Doorst.
He would even work for his living, and think it no
dishonor.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the lawyer, as he looked at
the Oscar Wildish form of the descendant of the
Van Doorsts.

“And you would never work?” he asked.

“Tf I had to so degrade myseif,” he drawled out,
“T would change my name so that my family might
not share in the disgrace.”

“Indeed! Then take care, for your uncle may
change his mind; he is not at all satisfied that he is
right.” ;
ane with that parting shot the lawyer left the

ouse.

Van Doorst felt uneasy. He knew how much his
uncle loved Reginald, and he began to be afraid.
Perhaps paternal love would prove stronger than
caste and family pride. If so, Reginald would again
be the heir. The lawyer was right. Mr. Clyde might
make still another will or destroy the latest.

But perhaps the lawyer had taken it with him!

“If uncle died to-night,’ he thought, ‘‘I should be
the possessor of more than a million. If he had died
a oa days ago I might have got perhaps ten thou-
sand.”

Van Doorst walked up and down uneasily.

Like the constant ringing of bells, the words kept
sounding in his ears:

“Tf he should die to-night!’

The repetiton was horrible. He began to almost
wish that some shock would prostrate his uncle.
Then his excited imagination fancied the shock
would result in death.

Van Doorst went out into the street and wandered
aimlessly about. Nothing seemed to rivet his atten-
tion; the attractions of the stores were unheeded.
He did stand looking in at the windows of the ‘‘Fa-
mous” foramoment. His throat was parched and
his tongue seemed swollen.

He saw the celebrated Centennial Arctic Fountain,
and its marble looked so cool and nice that he enter-
ed the store and drank a glass of soda.
> is he turned away he saw the face of Annie Lef-

erts.

 

The mystery was solved. He bad found where the
girl worked, who was loved so ardently by his cousin,
that he preferred banishment and poverty to a re-
nunciation of his love.

He would soon find means to ruin her as well as
Reginald, and he left the store highly pleased with
himself.

Another surprise was in store for him, for as he
walked about uneasily, not knowing how to pass his
time or ne that part of his anatomy supposed to
be his mind, he looked at a bay-window, a parrot’s
noise being the attracting cause, and there he saw or
fancied he saw his cousin, Reginald Clyde.

“Tinpossible!’ he muttered. ‘For Reginald was
seen to leave the city.” | :

Ié made him still more unsettled, and a deeper
hatred of the one whose wealth he was maneuvering
to secure took possession of him.

“Tf uncle died to-night Reginald would be an out-
east, while I should be a wealthy man.”

He tried to banish the thought, but, like the
prompting of a fiend, it kept ringing in his ear. ‘

He was passing a saloon, on his way home, when a
man, dirty looking and repulsive, stepped out and
placed himself in front of Van Doorst.

“What do you want now ?”

“Money !”’ answered the man.

“T haven’t any.”

“Yes, you have, and I must have some.”

“How much do you want?”

“Fifty will do.”

“T have only about five with me,’ answered Van
Doorst, who seemed nervous and confused.

“Hand it over.”

Like an obedient child or a slave, Van Doorst took
out his pocket-book and gave its entire contents to
the man.

The two stood in conversation for a few minutes,
presenting a strange contrast—the one dressed in the
very height of fashion, with light kid gloves on his
hands and a gold-headed cane under his arm, the
other in dirty and ragged clothes, and with a chin
which had not felt a razor for many days.

They separated, and Van Doorst returned to his
uncle’s house, where he was staying for a few weeks.
Night came, and all retired to rest.

he last words spoken by Mr. Clyde were addressed
to Adelia.

“Poor Reginald!” he said. ‘‘I am afraid [have been
harsh with him.”

“Oh, uncle!’ replied Adelia.
him to come back.”

“T will, my dear, to-morrow.”

To-morrow! Itisbuta little word, but oftentimes
the fate of nations has been turned by the putting
off until to-morrow of some deed of statecraft.

To-morrow! Who -can tell what to-morrow will
bring forth ?

The house was still and silent. The eyes of all
were closed in slumber, and sweet peace reigned
within the rich man’s halls as well as the poor man’s
habitation.

The clocks struck the hour of two in the morning.

Scarcely had the sound died away in its echoing
through the corridors and the halls, than a piercing
shriek rang out sharp and shrill, rousing every one
from sleep, and causing every knee to tremble and
every heart to palpitate.

Again it was heard, and now the terrible word
sounded with a frenzy of fear.

“Murder!”

What an opening of doors, what a rushing to and
fro for a Jew moments!

_And then what horror was felt by all, for, by the
side of his wife, old Mr. eee had been foully mur-
dered! A crushing blow had been dealt with some
heavy instrument, and shocking evidences of the
cruel deed were spattered over the pillows, and the
hot blood had trickled down until it had roused the
partner of the murdered man’s life.

She lighted the lamp, and saw her husband's body,
lifeless and disfigured.

It was a sickening sight.

“Who had done it?

_ The house was instantly searched, Van Doorst be-
ing frantic with terror at the sight, but not a trace of
any murderer could be found.

Who was guilty?

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

“Send, and request

 

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

Detective Against Detective:

R,

SULVING A STREET-CAR PUZZLE.

By DONALD ]. 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 XXVII.
WENDELL FINDS SYMPATHY.

ENDELL instantly recognized
the streeet waif as the same

      
    
    

‘curiously upon the morning of
-. the burglary. She had seen
|== him often, and knew him as the
v EE cashier of the Gilsey Bank. She

  

= was suspected of complicity in
of7__= the crime.

"i i How came the child in this
distant part of the city ? he asked himself. And why
was she running toward him? Was she, too, a spy,
on the watch to intercept him? He knew that de-
tectives employed street urchins to watch suspected
persons. Perhaps this saucy little arab was a de-
tective’s assistant.

But it seemed cowardly to flee from a child, and
Wendell banished the weak impulse and paused for
her to come up with him.

She halted directly in his path, and looked keenly
into his face.

‘“Halloa!” she exclaimed, by way of salutation.

“Well, sis, what will you have?’ he retorted.

“Seems to me you’re a good ways from the bank,
mister. Are you hidin’ from the cops?”

He fiushed under her direct question.

“T have no time to listen to your impudence,” he
returned. “If you have anything to say, out with
ra
“In a big hurry, ain’t yer?” with a saucy glance.

“Getout of my way!”

He tried to thrust her aside.
arm and clung to it tenaciously.

“You’ve got to tell me somep’n ’fore I[’ll let go of
yer,” she declared, in a resolute tone.

“What must I eat a

“That Mr. Ripley didn’t have nothin’ to do with the
You knows be didn’t, and you’ve got to say

But she caught his

robbery.
80.” b
“T know nothing about the robbery, child.”
“Then what yer hidin’ from the cops fer? Tell me

“T haven’t said I was hiding from them.”

“T knows yer be jest the same.”

“It is not because I helped to rob the bank, if I
am.” ;

“Course you say that. You're hight-toned, and of
course it won't do to say you didit! But what yer
hidin’ fer?’

‘‘Because I am suspected.”’

“And you ran away and let ’em lay it to the jani-
tor and Corinna, and ail them that’sinnocent. That’s
the style of your tall-hat fellows. You are a sneak,
that’s what you are!”

Wendell’s cheeks grew pale with conflicting emo-
tions. >

“Corinna!” he repeated, and Nan went on: f

“You knows who Corinna is. She’s Ripley’s girl,
and the cops think she and her father knows ’bout
the robbery. But you could tell ’em better, And
they’re chasin’ her, andif they ketch her they’ll make
her go to prison. Why don’t you go and tell ’em all
you knows about it, and then they’d stop ’specting
her ?”?

Wendell drew the girl toward him, and looked
seachingly into her face.

“What is this you are telling me? They’re not per-
secuting that innocent girl about this affair, are
they ?” he demanded.

“Course they are.”

“Why is this ?”’

“Cause her father turned up missin’ that mornin’,
and they think she knows where he is.”

Wendell compressed his lips. He had seen Corinna
Ripley many times, and been impressed by her sweet,
innocent loveliness. Had he not, in his ambition, set
his heart on marrying the elegant Isabel Blanchard,
he would doubtless have fallen in love with Corinna.
wae his folly he had been dazzled by a greater
ight.

eThat girlis innocent as an angel!” he exclaimed,
as he met the indignant gaze of Little Nan.

“Then why don’t yer go and tell ’em?”’ she de-
manded.

“They would not believe me if I did.”

“They would if you owned up.”

“Owned up what ?”’ e

 

“That you knows why her father was toted off.

'

 

Ard that you knows, too, who cleaned out the bank.”

“Tf know nothing about the robbery, Nan.”

The girl puckered her lips with an incredulous ex-
pression, which, somehow, Wendell found it difficult
to resent.

pone oughter have wings, mister,” she7said.

ow hy ¢??

“Cause you’d be an angelthen; you’reso awful
innocent!”

Wendell could think then only of Corinna Ripley,
who, it seemed, was an innocent sufferer for the
crime for which he was under suspicion.

‘Where is Corinna ?’”* he demanded.

‘“Wouldn’t you like to know,” retorted the street
arab.

“She is not hiding from the police, I hope?”

“Of course she is.”

“And she thinks Iam in the conspiracy by which
she is a sufferer ?” ;

Course she does.”

“It is notso, Nan. I had nothing to do with it—I
would cut off my right hand rather than have her suf-
fer. Ihave done wrong, I know that, but I would not
causejthe innocent to suffer for any guilt of mine.”

Nan watched him closely. His earnestness im-
pressed her. She was about to speak again, when a
glenpse of a mounted policeman on an adjacent
ae recalled him to his danger, and he hastily
said:

“There is an ofticer—I must conceal myself. Do
not betray me, Nan; for, as Heaven is my witness, I
am not guilty of the crime with which I am charged.”

Without waiting for her to rope: he darted toward
the rude, newly built hut standing against the face
of a rock.

He did not notice that she ran swiftly after him.
He reached the door and darted in. But he was
brought abruptly to a halt by a terrified scream, and
the sight of some one in the semi-gloom _of the
dwelling.

As his eyes became accustomed to the partial
gloom, he saw the face of the es y. Atthe
same time Nan ran in, and breathlessly exclaimed :

“There ain’t no help for it, Corinna! The chap run
in here ’fore I could stop him. But the cops ’re after
him same’s they be us, and I guess he won’t give us
away,” Y

Rapid explanations were exchanged. And as Cor-
inna Ripley, cheered by the sympathetic interest of
Wendell, told the story of her flight, of the attempt
of Denton to arrest her, and her subsequent adven-
tures, he nearly forgot his own peril in his anxiety
for her... :

“T inust not remain here in your hiding-place,” he
said, when she had finished.

“Why not? I believe you are as innocent as I.”

“But the evidence is stronger against me. And
they are in hot pursuit. If they find us together you
will be implicated all the more deeply. And _ they
have real cause for pursuing me, although I know
nothing about the crime—at least do not know who
committed it, yet I am not guiltless.”

‘He paused, his gaze meeting that of Corinna. A
sudden impulse to tell her how weak and culpable he
had been seized him. She knew as much against
him as did Isabel Blanchard, and yet the latter had
condemned him without a hearing.

He would have confessed to Mr. Blanchard, or to
Isabel, upon that day after the robbery, had they
given him opportunity to do so.

Corinna Ripley was the first to look kindly upon
him. Many atime he had passed her on the street
without looking at her when the proud Isabel was
with him. In his false ambition he would gladly
have held himself aloof from a working girl like her.
Now how he was humbled. But he resisted the im-
pulse to make her his confidante then. It might cost
him the respect which he hoped she had for him if
he should show her how ignoble he had been.

Corinna and Nan had found the newly built shanty
to be vacant, and had sought refuge in it soon after
reaching that part of the city, several hours before.

The trio spent an hour discussing the situation.
At the end of that period Wendell left them to seek
other concealment farther away from the scene of
his recent encounter with the mounted policeman.
Before his departure Nan went out to reconnoiter,
leaving him alone with Corinna.

“You believe me innocent of this crime ?”’ he eagerly
questioned, taking her hand and looking down into
her face.

“Why should I think you guilty, sir?’”’ she returned.

“Others do—those who, above any one else, should
trust me.”

‘“‘Does——” she hesitated as she saw the suppressed
anguish in his face.

“Yes, Isabel Blanchard—her father—all,’”’ he an-
swered.

An indignant flash mantled her pale cheeks.

“T could never distrust the man I professed to
love !”’ she exclaimed.

Just then Nan came running up.

“The coast is clear,” she said. ;

“Then I willgo. But let me say , Corinna, that the
assurance that I have one friend will lend me new
strength andhope. Perhaps it may stimulate me yet
to be a man—to retrieve my name, and begin anew
with a purer, higher ambition than the one that had
brought this trouble upon me. Good-by; we shall
meet again. ,

: As he strode away, Nan ran after him and hurried-
said :

Y cpa are cops over on that street; they are look-
in’ for ye, I expect, and if yer staid here it would be
sure to fetch Corinna into trouble, so I thought ye’d
better go. I didn’t say nothin’ *bout’em before her,
’cause she wouldn’t want yer to take the risk till they
was out of the way. But I’m bound to look aftér Co-
rinna, and I guess you wouldn't want to have the
cops take her.”

“That is right, Nan. You area brave, sensible girl,
and you are so shrewd and alert that you make an
efficient protector to her. Do all you can for Corinna,
Nan won't you?”

“Bet yer life !’’ was the characteristic response.

She stood and watched him as he strode across the
open lots toward a new street.

‘‘He’s quite a nice fellow, come to git the plug hat
off of him!” she said to herself.

She turned to re-enter the hut. As she did so, she
heard a shout from the policemen, followed by the
baying of a dog.

Glancing toward them, she saw them _ hurrying
along the street, with a monstrous hound trotting
along ahead of them, and occasionally pausing to
sniff at the ground.

“They’re on his track!” cried Nan, clasping her
small hands in dismay.

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE JANITOR’S STORY.

Croly, the detective, gazing into the blackened face
of the bank janitor, saw a bewildered, half-horritied
expression overspread it, as he gave utterance to the
exclamation which closed chapter twenty-six.

“What is it, sir?” the detective questioned, in his
gentlest tones.

The face of the other suddenly assumed an expres-
sion of terror. He glanced toward the door of the
hut, trembling like an aspen leaf, his eyes distended,
s sickly pallor showing even through the stain upon
his cheeks.

Croly laid a hand reassuringly on the man’s shoul-
der. That Ripley was laboring under a hallucina-
tion, the result of the deadly drug under whose influ-
ence he had been kept so long, was unmistakable.
Croly only hoped that the paroxysm would pass so
that the janitor could relate the circumstances of his
capture.

“See them!” exclaimed Ripley, pointing with shak-
ing finger toward the dark wall of the hut.

“Never mind ; I will protect you,” replied Croly.

“But there are so many ofthem. Andsee! they all
have long, murderous knives. Can’t you drive them
back? They have been pursuing me in my dreams,
and now that I am awake, they come again. See
how they grin and gloat over my capture ?”’

“Hush, man! I willdrive them away. Don’t be a

coward; rouse yourself!” said Croly, in a tone of.

command. ‘

He sprang to his feet, and walked calmly around
the small room, and returning to the side of Ripley
continued ;

“They are gone now, and they dare not return. I
do not fear them. You are weak and ill, but I can
combat a host of foes. Throw off your silly fears!’

Croly’s voice and manner, and the magnetism of
his presence, calmed the janitor as by magic.

“T think I can trust you, sir,” he said, in a trem-
bling voice.

“To be sure you can.”

“And you will take me home again—home to my
Corinna ?”’

Vio.”

“Then I am content.”

“But first I wish you to tell me how you were
captured. Do you not remember? I wish to have
your enemies punished.” '

Ripley passed one hand across his brow, as if to re-
call events which had slipped from his memory.

“T—I think I have forgotten,” he said, at last.

“Nonsense. You remember getting on the street-
car to go down to the bank?”

“Oh, yes. And I kissed Corinna before I went.”

“Yes. And after you got on the car, you rode
straight to the bank, did you not?”

“Let me see. I gotintothecar. Iremember that.
There was a new driver on. And inside was—let me
think.”

Ripley bent his head in thought. It seemed as
though the events that followed were so mixed with
later hallucinations, that he could not separate the
one from the ‘other. At last he shook his head
dubiously, saying:

“T don’t know. I think I struck my head: against
somebody as I entered the car, and then lay down
and feil asleep.”

“Possibly you did. But you remember the person
in the car?”

“No, I do not.” :

“Did he strike you with a club or anything?”

“Perhaps. But I have forgotten.”

“Did you see his face ?”

“Yes. But I never saw him before.”

“Well, when you awoke, what did you see first?”

“T saw her bending over me.” ;

“Whom? You know she is a stranger to me!”

Croly asked this with unfeigned eagerness. Per-

haps, from the janitor’s incoherencies, the clear-

headed detective would be able to evolve some sub-
stantial facts. A strong chain may befashioned from
disconnected links. The strongest ropes are made of
fibers. All thingsin their crude state are incoherent and
useless, until man, with the Divine spark within him,
takes them and becomes acreator of great things. A
detective, perhaps, has the flimiest material of which
to erect his nonuments of genius. That is why a suc-

cessful detective, with the true instinct and skill of |

his profession, commands such universal admiration.
We cannot understand how be does these things,
therefore we wonder atand admire him for his works.

Ripley, the janitor, would not have been ableina
court of justice to give a single point of evidence, in
his present condition, that would be entertained for
an instant by an intelligent judge and jury.

But to Croly he might furnish material of which
facts could be woven.

Doubtless time and the attention of a physician
would fully restore reason and memory to the un-
tortunate man.

But Croly could not wait for that. He had a rival
in the field almost, if not quite, as skillful as himself,
and to supersede him he must not wait for the facul-
ties of a witness to be restored.

Looking directly into the man’s eyes, Croly con-
tinued:

“After you were captured, and fell asleep, and
then awoke, you first saw a lady bending over you ?”

“Yes. And it was Corinna—my Corinna—who de
serted me!”

Was the man delirious now? Had Corinna, his
daughter, indeed, been to see him, and was she, after
all, in the secret of his capture ?

This was an important question, and Croly resoly-
ed to obtain an answer. A single clew here might be
of incalculable value to him.

- But he must feel his way carefully now, or he
might set Ripley off into a train of vagaries of which
nothing could be made.

“Corinna deserted you, then?” he cautiously ques-
tioned, keeping a firm hand on the janitor’s arm.
eee And I loved her’ so, and she was so beauti

A gleam of the truth shot to Croly’s brain like an
electric spark.

“You are speaking of Corinna, your wife, Mr. Rip-
ley ?”’ he questioned, in a low tone, carefully conceal-
ing his eagerness for the reply.

The janitor shuddered and covered his face with
his hands. Croly fairly held his breath in the in-
teusity of his interest.

“My wife! my wife!’’ repeated the man, in a moan-
ing voice.

“Your wife, Corinna, was bending over you when
you first awoke ?”’ the detective calmly persisted.

Ripley looked into the other's face.

“Yes!” he exclaimed. “She bent over
whispered something in my ear.”

“Will you tell me what it was ?”

“You are my friend, are you not?’

; “Yes, and I am working to save you from your
oes.”’

“Then I will tell you what she said.”

“What was it?’

. “That she had it in her power to save my life, and
that she would do so, for the sake of: our old love for
each other.’

“She whispered this to you?’ .

**Yes.”’

“Then what followed ?”

“Some men came in and she went out with them.”

“Do you remember anything later?”

“T fell asleep soon after, and have been dreaming
horribly ever since.”

“Did you see the faces of the men who came in, and
with whom your wife went out?”

“T saw them, but they alli looked alike to me.”

* “And did you hear their names spoken ?”

Ripley reflected a moment, and then said:

“They called one of them ‘Daniel.’ ”

“Daniels, of course!’ Croly exclaimed. And, he
added, speaking aloud:

“And the beautiful lady whom Daniels called his
sister, and whom I now have in safe-keeping is the
one whom this man calls his wife. That accounts for
her resemblance to Corinna, his daughter.”

He turned again to the janitor, and said, kindly:

“T will bring you out of your troubles, ny poor man.
Do you not believe me to be your friend ?”’

“Yes, I think you are.”

‘““Will you tell me then, about your wife, Corinna?’

“It is a long story, sir.”

“You need not tell it all now. But you say she de-
serted you. When did that event occur?”

‘Many years ago.”

ao after your daughter was born?”

ae res.’’

“Why did she desert you?”

“Because she became tired of me, I suppose. She
was an actress—some would say an adventuress. But
T trusted her, and loved her. So we were married.
But she could not settle down to the tame life she
would have to Jead as the wife of aman who worked
for a living, lik yself.”

“And she deserted you ?”

“She went away witha man whom I have never
seen. And now she is among those who have been
persecuting me. Ah! hark!’ And the janitor raised
a warning finger.

There was nothing realto alarm him. Croly saw
that he was likely to glide into his delirious condi-
tion again, and that, probably, nothing more of im-
portance could be gained from him then.

But enough had been discovered already to furnish
the detective with one of the most important clews
yet obtained.

The wife of the janitor, an adventuress, was among
those who had plottedto get him into their power,
and thus take him away from the bank atthe hour
when the robbery was to be accomplished. ‘‘Daniels”
had been one of Ripley’s captors. The faithless wife
had doubtless repented of her part in the affair, and
tried to save her husband, and thus an attempt to
silence her was made—the attempt which Croly had
balked.

She was now in the detective’s keeping, and avail-
able as a witness as soon as her condition would
permit.

Croly took Ripley from the shanty, and within an
hour he was safely quartered at the same house
where his wife had been left. Both were placed un-
der the care of a physician. And thus clews to the
great mysteries began to come into the possession of
our hero.

And now he found time to look for Nan, the street
arab whom he had engaged as an assistant.

He soon got track of her, and found that Corinna
and the girl had fled to that part of the city above
Harlem River.

He followed without delay. He did not wish Co-
rinna to fall into the hands of Denton, who believed
her to be in the conspiracy to rob the Gilsey Savings
Bank,

me and

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
CORINNA’S FRIEND.

Upon the day following their meeting with Austin
Wendell, little Nan returned to the lower part of the
city to fulfill her promise to Croly, leaving Corinna
alone in the untenanted shanty in which they had
sought concealment.

Corinna would not have dared stay there alone had
there been only the interior of the hut itself for a
hiding-place. But the rude structure was built
against the face of a rock which had been split in
“twain by a blast. Underneath this rock, well out of
sight, was a small cavity in which two or three per-
sons might have found concealment with small
chance of being discovered.

Thus, in case any prowler should chance to enter
the hut, Corinna could retreat to the small cavern
beyond, and be almost secure from observation.

Nan promised to return as soon as she had commu-
nicated with Croly ; and Corinna, resolute in her de-
sire to keep clear of the Pinkerton detective and the
city police, prepared to pass a lonely vigil until the
street arab should return.

Toward evening Corinna was startled at seeing
a man crossing the open lot and coming directly
toward the shanty. She did not pause to see who the
comer was; she thought only of escaping observa-
tion. She saw in any stranger a foe. and dared trust
no one for liberty.

Without a second glance at the one approaching,
she ran to the opening of the little cavern and hastily
concealed herself.

She had barely done so, when she heard the man
approaching; heard him pause at the entrance to the
hut, and then enter and hastily survey the interior.

“Here, Corinna, do not stop now to hide from me.
There isn’t a moment to be lost. Denton, the Pinker-
ton detective, and several of his men are at hand.
They know where you are hiding. Come, and I will
save you from their clutches.”

Corinna, in her concealment, was indescribably
thrilled by the words and tones of the speaker. It
was Croly, the detective, who had invaded her hiding-

lace.

e She hesitated only a moment. She felt that he
would surely find her; and that she would infinitely
prefer falling into the hands of Croly, rather than be
caught by Denton.

In a moment she emerged from her hiding-place,
and with pallid face and trembling limbs confronted
the detective.

“Why should you distrust me, after [ defended you
so stoutly at the bank?’ Croly demanded.

“T dared trust no one,” she answered.

“And so ran away from the only one who had the
will or power to defend you. But we have no time
to talk about it now. If you would escape falling
into the hands of the Pinkerton men, come with me
and lose not a moment of time. Come?”

She was ready in a moment. Without a word she
allowed him to lead her trom the hut, and out toward
the unfinished street. Before they had reached the
latter, they heard the clatter of approaching horse-
men upon another street.

“Tt will be a close shave if we get away from them.”
said Croly, with a backward glance. ‘I have a horse
and buggy yonder, and with them we must outstrip
pursuers in the saddle. See! there they come. I
got here just in time. Hasten!”

He thrust her toward the vehicle the instant they
had reached the street, and lifted her to the seat as

 

though she were a child.

 

 

7: pe moment he was at her side, whip and reins in
and.

The horse was a large, powerful animal, but with
a docile, sleepy look, which promised no speed.
Still, when Croly utterd a low, quick command, and
his whip hissed through the air, the animal pricked
up its ears and started off at a gait that proved how
deceptive appearances could be.

As they sped along the quiet street, Corinna did
not utter a word. Her brain was in a tumult of mis-
givings. Before she had found herself in the pres-
ence of the detective, there was no one whom she
would have dreaded more to meet. She had con-
vinced herself, from various circumstances, that it
was his intention to retain her in custody, believ-
ing her to know where her father was, and to be con-
nected with the conspiracy to rob the bank.

But the moment he had entered the hut and spoken
to her in the low, half-stern tones which he used, all
her suspicions were dispelled. And nowshe felt that
she deserved rebuke for having distrusted him at all.

At a steady, rapid trot the horse was taking them
out upon the quiet street, which was soon to merge
itself into a country road.

As yet there were no signs of pursuit. Corinna
would have had hopes that there was to be none, had
she not noted the frequent, uneasy backward glances
of her companion. It was eyident that he knew the
sort of men they had to deal with, and enjoyed no
false sense of security.

“‘Miss Ripley,’’ Croly said, at length, ‘‘I wish you to
be frank with me. You were suspected by many of
having knowledge of the robbery of the Gilsey Bank,
and had I not defended you from the mob of angry
depositors, at great personal risk, you would have
been now held for trial, and possibly suffered vio-
lence. Is not that true?’

“Yes, sir,” she answered, in a faltering voice.

a why did you run away as soon as I had left
you?’

“Because I was told that you, too, intended to have
me arrested.”

“Who told you that ?”

‘Miller, the furnace tender.”

“Ts he a friend of yours?”

“T supposed him to be.
fidence in him.”

“And so you thought to take your defense into
your own hands. Or did this kind-hearted fireman
offer to protect you ?”

“No, sir, he did not.”

“He merely told you that I was a fraud, and left
you to look out for yourself?”

Yes, sir."

“A remarkably kind friend, wasn’t he? Did you
really expect you could hide from me successfully
unaided?”

“T thought I could.”

“Which shows how slight an idea you have of a de-
tective’s resources. Why,I could have found you
within two hours if I had really tried to do so.”

Corinna’s cheeks flushed, but she looked frankly
into the stern face of her companion.

“T meant to do right,” she tremulously exclaimed.

“Probably you did. But you committed a blunder
which may yet cost you your liberty. It would sure-
ly have done so had not Denton, like myself, been
too busy to hunt for you. He could have found you
if he had tried. He has traced you as it is, and now
your escape depends upon me andgthe horse I have
secured. And as soon as I place you in safe hands I
suppose you will treacherously run away again after
[Tam gone.”

“No, no! Forgive me, Mr. Croly. I can never dis-
trust you again—I should not have done so then had
I not been half-crazed by the peril and perplexity of
my situation. I know you have the reputation of
being kind and good. But I am learning to distrust
every one.”

The detective placed one hand kindly on the girl’s
arm. He had no longer the shadow of a doubt of her
sincerity.

“Never mind,” he said, gently. ‘But I shall claim
your fullest confidence in future. Nan has been with
you since your flight, has she not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where is she now?”

“She returned to see you.”

“Well, if she waits she will not fail of her purpose.
I wish you now to tell me something about your
mother. She is living, I believe ?”’

The girl’s face darkened.

“Yes, she is living,” was the answer.

“She deserted your father ?”’

“Yes, sir. She was an adventuress, and unwerthy
of such a husband as hers.”

“You have seen her ?”

“Oh, yes, many times.”

“When was the last time?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Where was that?’

“Atour home. She said she was in trouble, and
wished to come there to live. She said she was tired
of her unsettled life, and wanted me to plead with
father to take her back and give her a chance to live
respectably.

“What was your answer to her plea?’

“T could not trust her. Father has taken her back
many times, but she has always disgraced him in some
manner. Itis hard to feel so toward one’s mother,
sir, but you don’t know how heartless she is.”

“So you turned her away ?”

“Oh, no. I would never do that. But I would not
promise to influence father,and she became angry
and went away.” :

‘“‘Have you heard from her since ?”

Corinna hesitated. Croly glanced at her furtively,
and saw that her brows were contracted and her face
unusually pale.

“T have not spoken with her since she came to see
us,” she evasively answered. :

“T did not ask if you had spoken with her. Have
you seen or heard aught of her since the occasion you
have mentioned ?”

“Yes, once.”

“Then why didn’t you say so?) What are you keep-
ing back ?”

Corinna raised her eyes to the face of the detective.

“T can tell you nothing that may reflect doubt of
my father,” she declared.

“You will tell me the truth. Your father did not
rob the bank, nor abet the deed. I am sure of this,
and tell you so that you may not fear telling me all
you know about this matter.”’ :

oes hesitated a moment, and then impulsively
cried:

“I will keep nothing back. My mother called at the
bank to see father the night before the burglary. It
was early in the evening, before the night-watchman
came to take charge of the building. I went to meet
him, and saw,them come out of the bank together.
They were talking earnestly. I ran back home, and
did not let him know I had seen them. And it is this
that has troubled me since the burglary was dis-
covered !”

Corinna related the circumstance rapidly, and in
low, thrilling tones.

“Now I have the truth,” Croly responded. ‘And
you shall not suffer by it either. This ie

“Ah! here are our pursuers. And now comes the
tug of war!”

A backward glance showed them four horsemen in
swift pursuit, Denton at their head.

Croly cooly seized his whip, saying:

“If they catch us it won’t be my fault, that is all!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
a

HAPPINESS AFTER MARRIAGE.

My father had great con-

 

 

Without perfect confidence marriage happiness can-
not be permanent. Itis not, as Shakespeare says,
“a sweet marriage.” There can be no true union
where, either through pride or fear, or the conscious.
ness of mistakes or errors, one attempts to deceive
the other, or holds back from any motive that which
each has a mutual right toknow. Want of confidence
on the part of the husband, after the novelty of mar-
ried life and having a home of his own has worn off,
is frequently practiced from the foolish fear that by
confiding truly in his wife she may exact it asa
right; and his pride takes alarm lest, trusting to his
other and often far better half, he may risk the loss
of some of his boasted independence. The wife is
sometimes tempted to concealment, and sometimes
to deceit and falsehood, through fear of her hus-
band’s anger or dread of his ridicule. The only per,
fect remedy for all this is perfect confidence, and-
above all, avoiding all confidants of either sex.

 

A THREE-LEGGED BANK.

 

The family of Benjamin Denny found in a three-
legged stool at his house, in Ogdensburg, N. Y., $670
in gold. It was supposed that about that much in
gold had been left by him, but where it was secreted

no one could tell. Mother Barnes, the seeress of
Plumb Hollow, back of Brockville, was consulted,
and she told the inquirers that it was buried in the
garden. They dug up the premises, and tore up the
floor in the house, but all to no purpose. By acci-
dent the stool was tipped over, when a hole in the
bottom filled with plaster of Paris was discovered,
and upon investigation, the gold was found secreted
in the bottom of the stool. Mr. Denny lived alone.
He lost $200 by the failure of the Judson Bank ten
years ago, and since that time had been making his
deposits in the three-legged stool,

> 0

CONSUMPTION CURED.
An old a retired from practice, having had
placed in his hands 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
ey, addressing, with stamp, naming this paper,
. A. NOYES, 149 Powers’ Block, Rochester, N. x;

 

 

 

 

 

 
  

 
 

 

   
     

 
  
  
  
  
  
 

 
  
  
  
   

    
   
  
 
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
   

   
   
  
  
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
   
   
  
   
  
    
  
 
  
  
  
  
   
  
   
 
 
 
  
 
  

  
  
     
  
 
  
      
   
   
  
   
  
  
 
 
 
  
  
   
            
        
         
     
     
       
     
 
       
          
          
 
       
       
     
      
      
       
     
   

 
 

 

  

 

 

 

s

 

aa aaaamamamaeamamaOEmEmamaE aaEaOEa_Oa_Oea_COa_Oe_C_e_E eee

NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 19, 1887.

aero’ PLL LIP IIOIOIOIOIIOOwYw

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Emma Garrison Jones New Story

NEXT WEEK,

 

 

 

We take pleasure in announcing a vigorous dra-
matic story, written expressly for the NEw YORK
WEEKLY, under the title of

A GREAT WRONG;

Mystery of Black Hollow Grange.

BY EMMA GARRISON JONES,

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

Whoever reads tlie opening installment of this vivid
and exciting story will find it impossible to resist the
desire to peruse it to the end. It is strong in the de-
lineation of character, unique in plot, novel in inci-
dent, picturesque in description, and brisk in action.

After a brief outline of an extremely interesting
ceremony,

A STRANGE MARRIAGE,

between the children of long separated cousins, the
early chapters picture the

BANISHED HEIR
accompanied by his little son, on his way to his an-
cestral home. With artistic skill the author intro-
duces

THE TREACHEROUS FRIEND

who, prompted by the desire of wealth and power,
avails himself of the opportunity to betray the man
who trusted him, by perpetrating

A GREAT WRONG.

The far-reaching consequences of this cruel deed
are pictured with such power, earnestness, and spirit,
that the entire story is a series of admirably drawn
dramatic pictures.

EMMA GARRISON JONES’ best story will be begun
next week.

THE OTHER FELLOW.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

 

There are two men at a bench; they both do the
same task. Much of the annoyance of their life comes
from the desire of each to shirk some of his work and
force it upon the other.

Am TInotright? Nota day passes that they do not
have a dispute over it.

“That is your business.
part ?”

“You are a shirk. It is not mine to attend to at
all.”

So the story of slivers and nettles runs from day to
day and year to year. They like each other; neither
of them means to shirk; each is anxious to be faith-
ful, and get the work done. At any rate, they are
not enemies at first, though it is lucky if they do not
become in time veritable cut-throats to each other.
But at first they only squabble along, with many a
snap and snarl, each fearful of being imposed upon by
the other and doing more than his share of the work.
IT refer to accountants at the same desk, to partners in
a vast business, to nurse-girls who are attending the
same children, to Senators from the same State, to

salesmen at the same counter. I repeat that, if this
mean little roughening could be smoothed out of your
lot in life, more than half the unhappiness of life
would disappear. :

How? In the first place, come to a distinct under-
standing just what each is to do, so far as possible.
Working together at the same thing is impossible
peaceably in any other way. System is happiness.
What is everybody’s business is the business of
the most willing worker, and the lazy man’ sexcuse.
This makes the trouble. Consult aptitudes and tastes
and prearrange what eachis todo. Then stick to it.
The hazy mistiness of per ay with which two
persons often toil at the same pile of correspondence
or office or bench work is sure to make enemies. Two
men cannot do the same thing; two men cannot
have the same duty. Duty is a jealous goddess; she
will have her own devotee.

Then be generous about your work as with your
money. Lend a hand, only have it understood that
you are lending, and let it not be claimed as a right.
Be careful how you offer to lend a hand; there isa
contemptible manner in which to offer to loan a dol-
lar; it is equally true of a hand at a task. Lend
chivalrously, munificently, high-mindedly. Lend a
hand to help on the business, and because you are
interested in seeing it go. Lend because your part-
ner is sick to-day and only half fit to be at his desk
at all. Lend because your share is lighter than usual
to-day. Lend because you wish todo agood deed.
Never lend a hand with a taunt, a flout, or a sneer.

Then seek to growin capacity for work. Be anx-
ious to become capable of doing more than what
your share was originally decided to be; in other
words, not how little you can do and earn your
wages, but how much you can do. The advantage of

‘this course is in its self-discipline, its self-cultiva-
tion, its growth in abilities. The reverse method is
dwarfing, is sure to cramp and_belittle you, trans-
forms your task into asimple tale of bricks instead
of an ever-widening career that leads on to fortune.

Why don’t you do your

The better way is the ambitious way; it is the strong |.

man’s way; it is the way of the better heart and the
larger hope. It is the way that recommends one to
his employer, and_be sure it does not go unnoted.
It is the way of industry and high-gauged thrift, and
makes the office enterprising, bright, and cheerful.
It is the way, too, by which to stimulate the other
fellow, if he has any mettle that can feel the prick,
to do his best; it shames a laggard and shirk; it
ought always to be employed where one is younger
than the other fellow—the elder acting like a school-
master to teach him close and fast application.

Then, futhermore, itis well, often, to forgetthe other
fellow. What is it to you how he fares? He is making
his own mark and traveling his own road, and it has
its ownend. You have to look out for yourself. A

eat many worse things might happen to you than

oing more than your part. For instance, doing
Jess than your part. You keep your self-respect
if you do more than your part; but you could not
if you did less. Going right on, without growl-
ing, without watching the other fellow, you have less
irritation in fact. Nothing is more troublesome than
to have to watch the other fellow’s fingers and your
own also. One pair of hands, if busy, are all [like to
look after. I hate to be an overseer. I could never
bring myself to be a ee I think I would

serving the other fellow slight his work and shove it
over on you is SRnaper atts in the extreme. If my
fellow-workman is disposed to do that, I would far
rather not watch him at it. Especially on a hot day
I would rather do his work than to eye his contempt-
able lazy meanness every few moments. Then, too,
if that is his plan, the more devotedly I work the
sooner we shall get things out of the way and part
company for the day. Such tricks cannot last long;
the end is swift and sure. ;

In the career of life each man has his own way to
hew. There is no real partnership, except of husband
and wife, on earth. It is only a seeming in other
cases. That being so, the best way is to accept the
situation and buckle down to the task. To be in-
different to another man’s welfare is wicked and
selfish. But to be indifferent as to how another man |
toils, is often the highest wisdom. Watching other
men is a business in itself, and of course all right if
that is one’s sole business. But to make the most of
self, it is necessary to watch and drive self all alone.
See one thing—the duty of self. Snap one whip—
that over selt’s ears.

You may set this down as true—you never saw a
very successful man who grumbled much over what
other men did or failed to do; he is always grinding
at his own mill or measuring up his own grist.

Ah, the strange solitude of life! Each is born, each
must work, each will die alone. Itis only God’s com-
panionship which is intimate. Anditis really only
His eye that we ought to fear, if true men. '

A FAIR DECEIVER.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

 

 

 

“She is certainly a very pretty girl,’ said Henry
Aspen, decidedly.

“Yes,” assented his friend, Mr. Rockfield; “but it
styikes me that, fora young lady brought up in the
splendors which, according to her own account, sur-
round her, she is rather lacking in refinement and
elegance of manner,” an
“Do you think so?” said Aspen, somewhat un-
easily. ‘Well, perhaps her manners are a little
original; but she is sprightly and graceful, and, upon
the whole, Frank, I have about made up my mind to
ask her to marry me.”

“Oh, you have, eh? Then there is no use in discuss-
ing the matter any further. Love is blind, they say,
and I certainly shall not attempt to remove the band-
age from his eyes. Yes, Miss Clarence is pretty, and
winning; but have you ever reflected, Harry, how

your mother, whose manners would grace a court,
and your sister, who leads society in New York, would
welcome such an alliance ?”’

“From all that I hear, Clarence Grange and its sur-
roundings must be more than equal to the Aspen
estates,” laughed Henry ; ‘‘and——”

But here their conversation was interrupted by
the entrance of a third person, and the subject was,
perforce, abandoned.

“Yes,” said Cecil Clarence, indifferently, “I sup-
pose it’s all very fine at Aspen, but our establish-
ment at the Grange is on such a large scale, mamma
couldn't exist without a French maid, and the cook
would think herself abused if she didn’t have at least
two assistants.”

Ellen Rockfield opened wide her blue eyes.
Lovee like to see the Grange,” she said, inno-
cently.

“Yes, to be sure,” said Cecil, rather hurriedly.
“And then the picture-gallery, and the billiard-room,
and the bowling-alley—I assure you it’ is on the old
castle style !”

“But don’t you think the little cottage we called at
yesterday very picturesque ?”’

“Oh, picturesque? Yes, I suppose so; but you see
I’m accustomed to things so entirely different.”
“How glad you must be to get home.”

“Ah!” sighed Cecil, pausing as she packed her
trunk, ‘“‘there are so few places like my home!”
“Well, puss,” said Frank Rockfield to his sister that
night, ‘‘so your grand friend, Miss Clarence, has re-
turned to her ancestral halls!” ;

“She has gone home—yes,” said Ellen, arching her
eyebrows.

“Do you miss her much ?”’

“Well, no. I don’t think I do, Frank. The truth is,
I had become rather sick of her boasting. She never
saw Re handsome, without declaring that at
home she had things fully twice as elegant, and one
gets a little wearied of that style of conversation,
oo know. Is Harry Aspen really smitten with
er 39 ‘
“T am afraid he is.”

Ellen burstinto a merry laugh. °

“Poor Harry! Well, she is pretty, but, oh, so
conceited.”

“Tam going out to Mordaunt County with Harry
next week, to visit Clarence Grange, and play the
part of faithful friend, while he proposes the event-
ful question.”

“Are you? Oh, Frank, then you can tell me all
about the glories of the Grange. To judge from what
I have heard, it is second only to Windsor Castle; I
only wish I were going with you.”

The sunset was flooding all the west with orange
Serene: about a week subsequently, as Mr. Aspen
and his friend, Frank Rockfield, drove up to a lonely
little mountain inn which nestled close to the toll
gate, as if for companionship.

“Can you tell me, my friend,” he said, hailing a
little old man, who sat on the piazza steps, half
asleep, “‘if we are far from Clarence Grange?” j
“Clarence Grange! Clarence Grange!’ repeated
the old man, ina puzzled voice, ‘I don’t know as
ever I heern tell on sich a place hereabouts.”

“That is strange,” said Harry, turning to Rock-
field. “I supposed it must have been the show place
of the country.”

“But I ean tell you where Widow Clarerce lives!”
interposed the old man, with a sudden accession of
intelligence.

“Mrs. Burgh Clarence?’

“Yes—it’s jest down a piece beyond the swamp—a
yaller house with a barn opposite, two miles beyond
the plank road !”’

“Thank you,” said Frank, touching up his horse.
“A yellow house with a barn opposite—what a curi-
ous idea these country aborigines must have of archi-
tecture !”

The two miles were soon passed, the swamp fol-
lowed in due succession, and then a tumble-down,
one-story house, painted a dingy cream-color, with
the window stuffed with old hats, and a pig promen-
ading the front yard, in a wilderness of plantain
and nettles, made its appearance. Just across the
road an unpainted barn was falling to slow decay.
“Hold on—what are you driving past for?’ ex.
claimed Rockfield, laying his hand on the reins.

“This cannot be the place!”

“Why not? Isn’t it a yellow house with a barn
opposite?”

“A shanty, with a ruin opposite!” exclaimed
Harry, scornfully.

“Still it may be just as well to inquire.”

As the carriage paused a slovenly looking girl of
cle years old peered round the corner of the

ouse.

“Does Mrs. Burgh Clarence reside here ?”’

“Yes, but she isn’t home.”

“Where is she ?”’

“Up to Squire Kent’s washin’. She washes there
Tuesdays and Saturdays always; and Wednesdays
she goes to Mr. Peel’s.”

Harry Aspen sat aghast; Rockfield pursued the
question.

“Ts Miss Clarence at home?”

“Cecil? No, she’s hired up to Widow Smith’s doin’
housework. Be you Cecil’s beau from York ?’
Neither of the gentlemen thought proper to hear
the embarrassing question. Harry Aspen only guided
his horse around to retrace their homeward path,
and Rockfield sat silently beside him until they had
driven about a mile. é

“So that is Clarence Grange,” he said, at last. ‘‘Har-
ry, what a lucky thing it was that you did not pro-
pose in New York.”

“She has deceived us from beginning to end,” said
Aspen,in a husky voice. “I would not marry her
now were she an heiress to all Golconda’s mines.”

Ellen Rockfield was highly amused by the circum-
stantial account given her by her brother of Clarence
Grange upon his return.

“There was always too much pretense about the
young lady,” she said; ‘but, oh, Frank, how glad I
ate that Harry discovered the truth before it was too

ate !’

nian a ia
—>-—

GOOD LISTENERS.

 

There was an old French marquis, an excellent
judge of women, and he always gave this advice to
men who were matrimonially inclined: “Marry a
handsome woman if you will, a rich one if you can,”
he used to say, ‘‘but in any case marry a woman who

listens.”’? And this he considered the only true meth-
od of classifying the sex. Others might view them
as good and bad, clever or stupid, pretty or plain.
He asserted a a that there are women who listen,
and women who do not. He added that the latter
were in the majority.

We trust that no one will hastily infer that we are
so far behind the age as to consider that listening is
the exclusive province of women. That they can
talk, and talk to some purpose, has been so clearly
demonstrated that there are few who would now be
bold enough to deny it. At the same time, we are
sure that good listeners are more often found among
women than amongmen. The quickness of a wo-
man’s perceptions, the warmth of her sympathies, her
capacities of endurance—these are the very qualities
essential to real proficiency in the art. Is there any
picture more lovely, in the whole gallery of Shakes-
peare’s women, than the portrait of the beautiful Ve-

 

rathér dig than do that. The] mental friction of ob-

netian winning Othello’s heart by the perfection of

|

her listening? Some of the most
have neither beauty, rank, nor wealt
them; we have known such owe their
hearts of their friends chiefly to the
were the most charming of listeners.

HOW TO PICK A HUSBAND.

XV.—SNUB THE EARNEST TRIFLER.

opular women
to recommend

osition in the
act that they

 

  

 
 
  
 
     
  

NY
HAY,
WN y)

a
cil} NS

<
- Ay

My DEAR GALS:—Some men in this world are un-
desirable because they’ve got big vices and others
because, although they ain’t a bit vicious, their vir-
tues ain’t got their full growth yet, an’ don’t promise
to. I’ve been tryin’ all my life to find out which of
the two kinds is the wust, an’ I ain’t yet made up my
mind, so I s’pose it’s safe to say that one’s just about
as bad as the other.

Among them whose virtues are about the size of
small potatoes, the wust nuisance is a chap that re-
minds me of the name of a novel I saw on the table
in the house of some one of you when I was down to
York, “The Earnest Trifier.””. The reason he is such
a nuisance that he’s got a way of kind o’ fastinin’
himself on a young gal’s time as to make her an’
other folks think that he’s inclined to matrimony ; so
other young men stay away from the house, one after
another, and the gal herself begins to be kind o’ in-
terested in him, as it’s natural enough for a gal to do
in the case of any man who seems specially interest-
ed in her, an’ who ain’t got nothin’ to make him re-
pulsive. :

. There ain’t no end to the interest that one of the
fellers of this kind can show in a gal, an’ it ain’t in
human nature not to be just a leetle affected by it, if
not more. What makes it wus is that they’re gene-
rally proper enough fellers in other ways; most of
’em was never seek near arum-shop in all his born
days, an’ he wouldn’t drive a fast hoss on Sunday on
no account whatever, onless he was goin’ to a fu-
neral.

But they’re nuisances all the same, for they never
propose. I don’t want you to s’pose I thinka gal
ortn’t tosee any young men except them that she
thinks may be lookin’ for wives; but I do say that a
man who don’t ever mean to be anythin’ more than
an acquaintance ain’t got no business to be all the
time actin’ asif he was gettin’ ready to make love.
It’s downright triflin’; an’ any man who’ll trifle with

any gal’s feelin’s is as mean as any scamp in State

prison. He’s tryin’ to get somethin’ for nothin’,
which is at the bottom of all the rascality in the
world. I s’pose he’d defend himself by sayin’ he
only wanted the young lady’s kindly in’trest; but
ev’ry man with a heart of the right size an’ a con-
science in good workin’ condition ort to know that
the kindly int’rest of a young woman is worth more
than all the money of all the Rothschilds or Astors,
an’ ain’t to be fished for just to be fooled with.

T’ve heerd folks explain that these earnest triflers
never meantnoharm. Well, s’pose they don’t; that’s
no reason why galsshouldendure’em. Well, Is’pose
a puppy dog don’t mean no harm when he tears a
book all to pieces jest to see whatit’s made of; but
that’s no reason why books should be left around for
him to interest himself in.

But they ain’t all of them merely curious about
gals. The earnest trifler is wsually one great lump
of selfishness ; that’s what’s the matter with him. If
he had lots of brains he’d put his selfish feelings to
work at gettin’ property; if he was lazy an’ lawless
he Wout take to stealin’; but bein’ ruther weak-
minded an’ cowardly—as the earnest trifler most al-
ways is—he runs to gals. Whatever sweetness
they’ve got to distribute among humanity in general,
he wants to get all for himself. There’s nobody alive,
good or bad, but feels the better an’ happier for a
smile or pleasant nod from a sweet gal, an’ the more
smiles an’ pleasantwords the better; it’s on this prin-
Seed that a good many earnest triflers put in their
work.

But some of ’em don’t want to stop at this. What

they’re after is to be thought in love, an’ to be treated

with the consideration due a lover, an’ yet not come

to the point of proposin’. To make a gal fallin love

with them, an’ treat her accordin’, an’ yet not make

an honest proposal, trustin’ to alover’s quarrel to

part ’em in the course of time—about the time a new

gal seems willin’ to accept the feller’s attentions—

that’s the style of a good many of—the earnest

triflers.

There’s others that’s meaner yet. You’ll always

find one of ’em danglin’ about the ans of the family

that seems to think the only ro to the heart an’

head is through the mouth. The earnest trifler who

is most attentive at houses where they make the best

cake an’ preserves an’ serve ’em oftenest to company

is one of the meanest of the lot. An’ yet he’s most
generally the surest to get lots of attention. He’s

most always rather delicate in health, an’ used to

bein’ coddled at home; when you see that kind ofa
feller, just be sure that he can an’ will eat so long as

there’s anybody to set anythin’ before him. If feed-
in’ pigs is all a gal is good for—an’ I’m free to own up
that ther’s some gals that don’t seem to aim at noth-
in’ higher—why, let’em feed the earnest triflers to
their heart’s content.

Of course some of these earnest triflers are really
on the lookout for gals that'll make good wives; but,
all the same, they’re the fellers to let alone an’ keep
at a distance. It’s ev’rybody’s right to want to marry
well; but the earnest trifler wants to get so much
more than he gives that he ain’t no more deservin’ of
respect than a thief. He goes around observin’ wo-
men a good deal, like a farmer in a hoss market
lookin’ for a work animal; the farmer never thinks,
of course, of anythin’ he owes the beast he’s goin’ to
get, an’ the earnest trifler looks at matrimony in the
Same one-sided way.

Don’t you have anythin’ to do with any man who’s
marryin’ only for his own sake, my dear gals; for the
match will turn out exactly the same as if it was made
in a slave-market in Turkey, or an emigrant train in
Utah. An’, besides, sayin’ nothin’ of the insult an’
degradation’it is to you to have such a feller hangin’
about, he needs a good snubbin’ for his own sake.
Some fathers an’ mothers get mad at the earnest
trifler an’ make him come to the p’int—so do some
gals—but that’s bein’ as foolish as the old woman
who married a man so as to get rid of him. You don’t
want an earnest trifler tocome to the p’int—you want
him out of sight an’ out of mind; an’ the only way to
do it is to snub him as soon as you find out his style.
Men ain’t so sca’ce that such fellers need be put up
with at all. Your GRANDMA PERKINS.

THE GOOD HUSBAND.

BY KATE THORN,

 

 

Ideas differ as to what constitutes a good husband.

“Has she a good husband ?”’ is a question we hear
asked whenever a young woman marries.

We have heard the virtues and graces of good hus-
bands talked over a great deal, and from these conver-
sations we have gathered a stock of knowledge bear-
ing upon the question of what a good husband should
be.

In the first place he must have money. A good
deal of it. The more of it the better. He must have
good health, so that he can get his life insured for a
round sum. Nosensible woman would want to marry
a man who couldn% get his life insured, because
when he died it would be a dead loss to her, and no
prudent woman would do business on any such
basis. :

A good husband must be nice-looking. His teeth

should be good. Itis an intolerable nuisance to be
kept awake by the toothache in the molars of the
partner of your bosom. He should be free from
rheumatism and corns. He ought not to have any
coughs or ecatarrhs. They are very annoying to a
sensitive woman. : :

 

He must be willing to go to church. He must not

not be interested in base-ball. He must be ready to
stay at home and supply the baby with trotting and
soothing sirup, while his wife goes out of an evening,
and talks over the newest and sweetest things in bon-
nets with her dearest friend and conjidante.

He ought to be able to keep a “hired girl” for his
wife; but if he is not he must be happy to turn the
clothes-wringer Monday morning by the dim religious
light of dawn, and hang out the clothes before that
“odious Mrs. Smith” across the way gets hers out. -

When his wife asks for money, he must place his
pocket-book at her disposal, and refrain from indulg-
ing in any disgusting talk about bills to meet and
interest to pay. 5

He 1nust love his wife’s mother, and ignore his own
relatives as much as possible.

He must wind the clock,

He must see to the fires. He mustn’t leave his old
boots in the sitting-room. He must hang up his
towels. ‘

He must not get bald.

ae never should say that any other woman is
pretty.

He should not be talking about other women, any
way.

He must be meek and gentle as a dove.

He must be courageous, and ready to chase burglars,
ng tomcats, and neighbors’ hens, at a minute’s
notice.

When his wife asks him to “fix that curtain so it
will rollup,” or ‘fasten the leg in that chair,’ he
must attend to it without saying, “When I get time.”

The good husband never gets angry. Heneverfrets
when dinner isn’t ready. He never hurries his wife.
He never scolds. He never slams a door. He never
says that he wishes he had remained a bachelor.

He is simply perfection, and his wife ought to be

proud of him.

But where is he? Ifhe exists, let him come for-

one sed show himself. We should all be delighted
o see him.

——__<—-

Humor and Philosophy.

 

BY GEORGE RUSSELL JACKSON.

 

Quatrains.
TORPID LIVER.
When we should smile, how often we are sad,
When we should sing, how often we are dumb—
Not for the ills we have, or those we’ve had,
But dreading, fearing those that never come.

“MAN NEVER IS, BUT ALWAYS TO BE BLEST.”
We joy not for the joys that we have known,
Nor for the joys to-day within our grasp;
The past is past, the present almost flown ;

We joy for pleasure we have yet to clasp.

LOOK DOWN OCCASIONALLY.
“‘ Keep looking up !” the admonition’s good,
But to look down sometimes, ’tis also meet,
Lest in our journeying, with footsteps rude,
Wecruash the flowers that bloom around our feet.

DIES AT SUNDOWN.
The friendship that is ours when skies are bright,
And which we lose as soon as storms arise,
Is like the insect that, born with the light,
Lives for a day, and with the darkness dies.

This and That.

It is the man who is elected to the chief magistracy
of a municipality who finds a mayor’s nest.

A girl who was passionately fond of the sea, and mar-
ried a rich sea-captain, said she was bound to have a
tar if for revenue only.

Among the “Books for Girls”, in the Boston public
library, is ‘‘The Boys of ’76.”"_ Girls don’t want any-
thing to do with boys of 76. Boys of from 22 to 25
suit them better.

It is commonly said, a young men can’t tell what a
girl is until he marries her; but neither can she tell
what he is until she marries him. Itis as much a lot-
tery for one as for the other.

Unfeeling Man.
HUSBAND (gleefully)—‘‘I found a doliar in the street
to-day.”
WIFE (enviously)—“I never find anything.”
H.—‘‘No; you’re always losing something.”
W.—*Me! What?’
H. (edging to the door)—‘‘Your temper.” :
Thus it is that the feelings of tender, trustful, con-
fiding woman are often lacerated.

The Stars Are Always Blamed.

He used to say that he was born ’neath an unlucky star;
The trouble was he used to crook his elbow at the bar.

Unhappy Man.
Sad’s the condition of the wight,
When through the air the snow-flakes float,
Whose Hebrew uncle still holds tight
On to his only overcoat!

Uncultured St. Louis.

St. Louis society has a new craze, viz. ¢ Wheelbar-
10W parties.— Daily Paper.
Wheeelbarrow parties! Vulgar phrase!
When they get East as far as
The “Hub,” they’ll shine in culture’s blaze ~
As “‘unicycle soirees.”

A Curious Fact.

A sentimental writer says: ‘‘A sister’s love is to be
prized. There is nothing more beautiful, nothing
more pure. It refines the masculine nature, quickens
ood resolutions, and makes sunshine wherever it is
ound.” And yet, ee to say, when a young wo-
man tells a young man that she will always be a sis-
ter to him, he goes off in a huff. There’s something
wrong somewhere.

A Pretty Broad Hint.

The maid was Aoune, the maid was fair ;
A very bashful youth was he;

He sat upon a rocking-chair,
And with clasped hands he nursed his knee.

Sometimes he twirled his Derby hat,
Not knowing just what else to do;

The maiden on a sofa sat,
Where there was room enough for two.

He talked about the latest dance ; .
The toilets of the ladies praised ;

Sometimes he eyed the maid askance,
Sometimes he at the ceiling gazed.

If love within his bosom glowed
For her, a tongue it could not find,

Though something in his conduct showed .
He had a weight upon his mind. :

Sometimes he’d rise half from his chair,
As if to cross to where she sat,

Then backward sink with sheepish air,
To nurse his knee and twirl his hat.

At length he rose up to depart,
And while his face a deep flush wore,
He asked the maid, with beating heart,
If she would see him to the door.

“ Why, certainly,” was her reply,
Breathed forth in accents soft and low,>

“ Tf you are sure you will not try

'o steal a kiss before you go!”

Never Use It.

One popular phrase as you travel through life
Never use, or it’s use you will rue;

*T will bring you misfortune and trouble and strife—
It is this: “I don’t care if I do.”

The Rage for Statistics.

smoke, or chew, or belong toa club. He had better

| Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

t 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.

 

C. R., Plainfield, N. J.—ist. Map'varnish is prepared by
pulverizing one ounce of sandarach, a quarter of an ounce
of mastich, and a quarter of an ounce of elemi, dissolving
them in half an ounce of Venice turpentine, and adding
to it a solution of four ounces of shellac, and three ounces

of lavender, in twelve ounces of alcohol. 2d. White
varnish (80 called because used for toys) is made as fo -
lows: Tender copal, seven and a half ounces; camphor,
one ounce; alcohol of 95 per cent., one quart; dissolve,
then add mastich, two ounces; Venice turpentine, one
ounce; dissolve and strain. This varnish is very white
and drying, and capable of pete polished when hard.
Another white varnish is made of sandarach, eight
ounces ; mastich, two ounces: Canada
ences; alcohol, one quart.
inen.

balsam, four
Used on paper, wood, or

M. C. N., Albany, N. Y.—Frances (D’ Arusmont) Wright
(commonly called Fanny), the Scottish reformer, died in
Cincinnati, Ohio, Dec. 14, 1852. She married in France,
about 1838, M. D’Arusmont, but soon separated from him.
Her lectures upon certain social institutions in 1833-6
led to the establishment of the “ Fanny Wri nt" so-
cieties to which you allude. The result of her first visit
to the United States in 1818-20 was the publication of her
“Views on Society and Manners in America.” It wasin
1825 that she made her second visit to this country.

Subscriber, Albany, N. Y.—ist. The City Hall, this city,
is 216 feet long, 105 wide, and 65 high. The front and ends
of the building are of white marble, the rear of brown
free-stone. Its style isa combination of three different
orders of architecture—the Ionic, Corinthian, and com-
pose The building is crowned with a cupola, near the

p of which is a four-dial clock, which is illuminated at
night. 2d. The corner-stone of the Cit
September 26, 1803, It was complete
pense of $538,734.

Bicyclist, Baltimore.—ist. It is not necessary to en-
counter any “hostile Indians” on your trip. Familiarize
yourself with a map of the United States before starting.
2d. The spring would be the best season, so as to avoid
the heavy falls of snow that would make your journey
one of toil instead of pleasure. 3d. Much depends upon
your powers of endurance, and the state of the roads,
etc. Make a trial trip, and see how many miles you can
make with ordinary effort.

Bascom R., Louisville, Ky. —1st. Plattsburgh, N. Y.,
during the war of 1812, was the headquarters of the United
States forces on the northern frontier. Cumberland Bay,
a part of Lake Champlain, on which itis situated, was the
scene of the engagement between the American and Brit-
ish flotillas, Sept. 11, 1814. 2d. San Francisco lias the only
large, deep, and secure harbor on the Pacifie coast be-
tween Victoria and Mazatlan, a distance of 2,000 miles,
except that of San Diego.

Hall was laid on
in 1812 at an ex-

N. M. C., Irvington.—To clear a wall from paper pre-
vious to painting or whitewashing it, wet the old paper
thoroughly with a long-handled brush dipped ina bucket

of warm water. Let it rest until the water has penetrated
it, and the paper blisters and loosens, so that you can peel
it off with your hands. Do not wet too much ata time.
If any small bits are found still adhering, wet them afresh,
and scrape them off with a strong knife. /

Mrs. M., Jersey City Heights.—The shaddock is a fruit
of the same family with the orange and the lemon. It
derives it name from Capt. Shaddock, an Englishman,

who first brought it from Asia to the West Indies. It
grows wild in China and the East Indies. Though now
cultured in the West Indies, it is worth little or nothing
foreating. Itis principally purchased for making pre-
serves.

E. C. L., Chicago, Il.—At a quiet morning wedding, the
groom wears a frock coat of dark cloth, light trousers, and
a light necktie. The gloves should be of some light shade.

You will find ‘‘The Usages of the Best Society” a very
useful book on the subjects of which it treats, and con-
cerning which you wish to be informed. Price 50 cents.
If you desire it, write direct to the NEW YORK WEEKLY
Purchasing Agency. 7

W. W.C., Philadelphia.—ist. The Indian Territory is
an unorganized tract of land within the limits of the

United States, and set apart by the general government
as an abode for tribal Indians. It is bounded north by
Colorado and Kansas, east by Missouri and Arkansas,
south by Texas, and west by Texas and New Mexico. 2d.
Most of the Indians speak in their old languages.

Bruce, Richmond, Me.—The pecan nut is olive-shaped,
from an inch to an inch and a half long, with four slight
angles, yellowish brown, often with blackish lines; the
shell very thin, containing an oil seed which is sweet and
edible, and by many Roe preferred to any other nut.
Texas—exports ve rge {agama of these nuts, and
the home traffic in them is very extensive.

L. Jenks, New Orleans.—Henry Winter Davis, who died
in Baltimore, Dec. 30, 1865, was elected to Congress as a
Democrat in 1855, but voted in 1859 for Mr. Pennington, of
New Jersey, for Speaker of the U.S. House of Representa-
tives. He opposed secession, and in 1863 was re-elected
vee Congress. A volume of his speeches was published in

de

M. C: M.—The “Encyclopedia Britannica” made its
first appearance in Edinburgh in 1771, in three volumes.

The second edition, extended to ten volumes, appeared in
1776—83; the third (eighteen volumes) in 1786—97; the
fourth (twenty volumes) in 1810. Subsequent editions
pa issued, and the twenty-first volume appeared in

Backward In Fractions, New Orleans.—Wentworth’s
“Arithmetical Problems” will be of great aid to you. It
is designed to be used with, and supplementary to, an
arithmetic in use. Prict 50 cents. Teachers’ edition, wit
answers, also 50 cents. If you desire them, write direct
to the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency.

Violet M., Paterson, N. J.—ist. The word gold is first
found in Genesis, chapter II, verse 11. 2d. Glycerine di-
luted with a little fresh lemon juice will help to remove
freckles, and keep the skin softand white. 3d. Your hand-
writing is quite good, but it does not denote any particu-
lar individuality.

Lawrence, Massachusetts.—The survivors of the Light
Brigade charge at Balaklava, during the Crimean war,
did not exceed 150. Of the six hundred who made the
charge, the first who fell was Capt. Nolan, the officer who
delivered the order. .

Sufferer, Allandale, Ga.—Cundurango is the wood and
park of a vine which grows in Ecuador, South America.
It was used in 1871 as a cure for cancer, but as a remedy
for that or any other chronic disease it is now said to be
entirely inert. :

M. A., Harlem.—To stain horn in imitation of tortoise-
shell, mix an equal quaintity of quicklime and red lead

with strong soap lees, and lay it on the horn with a small
ae When dry, repeat the application two or three
mes.

C. M. A., New London, Conn.—Naples kas seven thea-

ters, of which that of San Carlo is said to be the largest in
existence, though its claims are disputed by that of
Milan, called Della Scala, accommodating 4,000 spectators.

Victorine.—ist. We can send you the works of the

 

 

 

We live in a statistical age. No theory is now en-
tertained that is not backed by statistics, and we
have consequently become a nation of statistic-gath-
erers. A New York man afflicted with the craze sent
a circular to one hundred married men, containing
the following question: “When your wife brushes
your Sunday clothes on a Monday before putting
them away, does she leave the change in the pock-
ets?” From ninety-nine he received the reply, ‘‘“My
wife never brushes my clothes,” and from the hun-
dredth, “She doesn’t.”

‘ois True, tis Pity, and Pity ’tis ’tis True.’
Dear woman’s charms have oft been sung;
She is man’s guiding star;
Her smile is sunshine, but her tongue
Is sometimes vin-e-gar.

Sure Pay.
The world each man a living owes
While there is soil to till,
And if he digs and rakes and hoes,
*T will gladly pay the bill.
_A Pertinent Query.
An American ’longshoreman and a swarthy son of
- sunny Italy were engaged in an altercation on one of
the wharves, when the American, thinking to close
the argument with a clincher, exclaimed :

“Git out, you foreigner!”

“Whata say? You calla mea foreigner? Me from
Genoa, and Christafaro Columbo discover America?
Who the foreigner?”

, In Luck.

The Maine editor who recently married a medium
is in luck. By throwing herself into a trance, she
can tell him where to look for his collar-button in the
morning.

An Easy Way.

One of the unsolved problems of modern civiliza-
tion, gravely remarks an exchange, is how to get rid
of the tramp. Why not ask him to saw wood or carry
in coal %

The Indian is not a Humorist.

The Indian, it is said, by those who have studied
him, is entirely destitute of humor. He cannot make
a ee neither can he see the point of one when it is
told him. Therefore it would appear that while there
is much humor in the country that is original, there
is none that is aboriginal. z

The Suspicious Man.

He looks not on mankind as brothers,
His moral vision’s very dim,

Who’s always aiming to do others,
Believing others would do him.

 

authors named, including their biography, for $1 and up-
ward, according to the style and illustrations of the
books. 2d. Your suggestion will be borne in mind.

Recorder, Newark, N. J.—Robert Baird, D. D., who be-
came agent of the eatery Rociety of New Jersey in
1828, died at Yonkers, N. Y., Nov. 15, 1863. He was born
of Scotch parentage in Pennsylvania in 1798. :

L. M. B., Jersey City.—Thomas A. Hendricks, Vice-
President of the United States, died in Indianapolis on
Wednesday, Nov. 25, 1885. His wife survives him.

Ketla, Providence—The engagement-ring, in this
country, is generally worn on the forefinger of the left
hand; in England on the third finger.

A Constant Reader, New Orleans.—A letter addressed
to any theatrical manager in your city will probably elicit
the desired information.

Mabel S., Baltimore, Md.—The population of Santa Bar-
bara, Cal. in 1880 (last U. S. census) was 3,460. Itis much
larger now.

Putnam, Connecticut.—The shortest verse in the Bible
2 ae thirty-fifth verse of the eleventh chapter of St.

onn. \

H.C. T., Wilmington, Del.—We can send you a coin
book, containing the addresses of coin dealers, for 50
cents.

B., Brooklyn, N. Y.—In thirteen States the Governor
on a house free of rent, in addition to the salary of the
office. -

Roosevelt.—At the last election for Mayor of New York
Hewitt had 90,552 votes; George, 68,110; Roosevelt, 60,435.

Band S., Boston, Mass.—A letter addressed to the post-
master at the place named will reach its destination.

Clem. M. W., Utica, N. ¥.—Carl Schurz was Secretary
of the Interior during Hayes’ administration.

B. W. J., Springfield, Mass.—The Palace Hotel in san\
Francisco, Cal., cost $1,750,000.

P. M, M., Easton, Pa.—Not in want of manuscripts of
any description at present.

John B., Kansas City.—Business addresses are not
given in this department.

Thomas H. D., Newark, N. J.—No formula for the pur-
pose stated.
woe M., Fernandina, Fla.—No personal knowledge of
it.

The chief amusement of King Otto, of Bavaria, is in

 

peeling potatoes, and throwing the skins at his courtiers.

 

 

 

 

     

  
  
   
  
   
    
  
   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   
    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    
      

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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VOL. 48—No, 3,

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

 

SUSPECTED.

 

BY HENRIETTA DAVIDSON.

 

We dwell together, you and I,
The same in outward seeming,
As when we first in years gone by

Saw Hymen’s torches gleaming.
No open jar, no passing strife
Disturbs our level courses ;
But yet we feel the springs of life
Are poisoned at their sources.

The courteous smile, the pleasant speech,
When others gather near us,

The lengthening silence, each with each,
When none are by to hear us.

The furtive watch, the covert sneer,
Sharp jests—in earnest spoken—

All these have meaning full and clear,
Though peace may seem unbroken.

Our idols lie amid the dust
In thousand fragments shattered,

And faith and quiet, truth and trust,
For evermore are scattered.

So day by day, unheard, unseen,
Still grows the barrier stronger,

A somber shadow sweeps between,
And love is ours no longer.

“ The little rift within the lute”
Will mar the song’s completeness ;
“ The little speck within the fruit”
Will kill its bloom and sweetness.
In skies that seem to others bright
We hear the muttering thunder,
The hidden doubt shall leap to light
And part our lives asunder.
or

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

WILLFUL WINNIE:

A Schoo-Gi's Secret

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 XXX.
A MODEL HUSBAND.

It was an innocent looking instrument of torture,
for the robin’s-egg-blue envelope and Pauline’s pret-
ty angular handwriting were all that fashion de-
mands, and so little did Laurie imagine what was to
follow, that he opened the seal With a smile on his
lips.

But the smile died as he saw Stena’s letter to Win-
nie, and realized that Pauline had tampered with his
wife’s correspondence.

A furious flush of anger overspread his face, and
he muttered:

‘How dare she think I would be such a cur as to
read this, even if it were sent to me? I must see her
explanation.”

He had caught sight of the sheet on which Pauline
had written, at this moment, and, frowning, he lifted
it to read her warning words.

She had written:

i
“Winnie is unfit to be ~~ wife, and, knowing you
will not believe my word unsubstantiated, I forward
you this letter, which was sent me to _ to you. If
you value your future, read it, and demand an ex-

lanation from Winnie before the marriage ceremony
finda you to a life-long disgrace.”

There was more in this epistle, vague hints at her
love and pity for him, but he only remembered these

words as he threw the missive down, and, with an
angry scowl, asked himself:

‘Does Pauline think I could be affected by a jeal-
ous woman’s innuendoes? Fool, that she was, to at-
tempt such a shallow trick as this to turn my heart
from its love. She must have been mad to believe
she could make me doubt my Winnie.”

Then it flashed across him that he would like to
know what was in that letter, which could give her
rival cause to intimate that Winnie was unfit to be
his wife.

A chill ran over him as he remembered that this
woman had not accused his wife without real, or
pretended proofs, to show why she had done so.

. Then all his pride rose up, and refuted even the
idea that a shadow could rest on his darling’s fair
fame.

“She is all that is good and noble,” he said; “but
some innocent sentence in that letter has been ar
verted by Pauline into an accusation of guilt. And
her malicious tongue will spread the false report
abroad if [I do not take steps to stopit. But how can
I refute that of which I know nothing? Like a law-
yer, or a physician, I must understand the case be-
fore I can attempt to prescribe for my patient.”

So he argued, and soon firmly convinced himself,
that, as Winnie’s protector, it was his duty to read
this letter, and by explaining any doubtful sentence
in it silence Pauline’s evil slander. .

“There is no need to trouble Winnie about it,” he
thought. “She is so innocently happy. I must pre-
serve her from even this trifle, or her sunny heart
might be shadowed by the thought of Pauline’s
wretched conduct. No, I will not tell her, but will
read this epistle and then seek Pauline, and have it
out with her.”

He had seen the fair widow here to-night, smiling
and brilliant as if she had not wrecked another’s life;
he had noticed how she had scanned Winnie’s face,
with a gleam of disappointment in her eyes, as if she
Seas for some sign of sorrow, which she did not

nd.

“Before she leaves this house, I will show her she
is never to find it,” he thought, and lifted up Stena’s
letter, with a scornful smile of triumph; for he be-
lieved he was about to make battle against Winnie’s
enemies. :

But the flush died from his cheeks and the smile
from his lips ere he had read the first page.

A ghastly pallor and a strange trembling marked
his perusal of the last word.

He sat for a time like one stricken dumb as the
contents of that letter surged through his brain—
surged with the rapid motion of the dance music
which stole out to him from the ball-room.

He was dimly conscious of the sounds of gayety;
of the heavy perfume of rare exotics breathing their
life out around him; of a sense of the unfitness of
the hour for making a frightful discovery.

Indeed, so unnatural did his emotion seem to be,
when compared to the scene and place, that he
struck his hand violently on the bench to ascertain
by physical pain if his emotions were not the delu-
sions of a dream.

And yet he knew he was awake—awake and keenly
alive to all the horrible doubts of the being who has
been deceived. é

He felt like one who has been cherishin

bble for years, and finds the diamond
it was has never existed.

His angel was blackened; his faith in her truly
shocked.

After a time he took up the letter and read it care-
fully again. He weighed each word; he explained
oes sentence, and then put it down, gravely mut-
tering:

“phe has either sinned herself or has countenanced
Stenainso doing. Which of them is the being who
is to be cast outside the pale of good society ?”’

He remembered his first meeting with Winnie at
the Boston Hotel, when be had heard her agonized
scream, and had rushed into herapartment to find Leo
Forester standing by the kneeling woman, with a
knife pointed against her heart.

“He may have been there by appointment, if this
letter be true! Perhaps he was not a burglar, at all,
but her lover, and that his knife was drawn against
her because they had eens 9”

The suggestion was full of horror to him; he could
remain seated no longer, but rose and faced the
marble walls. A perfect torrent of doubts and fears
swept over him.

“Oh, my God! my God!” he cried, “what am I to
believe about the woman I love ?”

Stena had said in her letter that Loyd had insisted
a child was named Leon Stena, for herself and Leo
ee and now the question rose up in Laurie’s
mind:

“Whose child was it?”

While the doubt was confusing him, he heard
voices at the other end of the conservatory.

Like a madman he sprang and gathered up the
sheets he had scattered over the bench, and thrust
them in his coat, as if their mere sight would blazon
to the world the tale of his disgrace.

Then he hastened from the place, out in the serv-
ants’ hall, and by empty corridors to the dressing-
room.

a common
e believed

 

He had known he would meet a crowd here, and
had prepared himself for it, and though his face was
very pale, he appeared quite calm as his friends mer-
rily addressed him.

He found it was possible for him to speak, but his
voice sounded hoarse and unnatural to his alarmed
ears; to explain its harshness, he invented the little
excuse of an imaginary cold.

He was conscious of a vague feeling that he was
miles from them as they gathered about him and
chatted about frivolous matters, while all his soul was
harrowed by the thoughts:

“Tf this story of Winnie’s infidelity be true, how
am Itolive? Whatis my future to be?’

It rose up in a vista before him so barren of joy, so
loveless and cold, that he could scarcely restrain the
tears which sprang to his eyes, and he abruptly tore
enn from his companions and quitted the apart-
ment.

Outside, by the door of the ladies’ dressing-room,
he saw a female attendant, and hurriedly told her to
tell Mrs. Hawley, when she had an opportunity, that
he had returned home on business, and that she was
to follow at her leisure.

He wondered at his own calmness and thoughtful-
ness when he got outside and felt himself alone; for
with the power to give vent to bis feelings all self-
control vanished, and he felt asif any one spoke to
him he would burst into tears.

The shock to him was terrible because his trust in
Winnie had been so perfect, his love for her so
strong.

“Td rather have had her die than to have lost faith
in her honor,” he groaned, more than once, on that
homeward walk. For he walked; any one who has
ever had a great nervous shock will understand he
could not have borne the motion of a carriage or the
stares of ee in street-cars.

Yet the walk was along one, and by the time he
reached his home he was physically exhausted,
though he did not know it.

Mechanically he let himself in the dark hall way,
and, with a lump rising in his throat, remembered
how happy he had been when he had departed with
his beloved wife.

He went forward softly, lest a heavy footstep
should arouse his mother; and with the memory of
that delicate lady a thrill of anguish keener than any
before stirred his soul.

Ah, why is it we shrink from those who love us
best when our hearts are bleeding? He felt he would
rather die than tell his mother his happiness in life
was over.

“And yet it must be done,” he told himself when
he had reached his library and had fallen in a chair.
“Of course, if this thing be true, Winnie and I part
to-night, and, henceforth, will be as if we were dead
to each other. She is my wife, but she will find she
bears but ap empty title if she has deceived me.”

“Tf she had deceived him; if this thing proved
true!” These words in his speech show he had be-
gun to doubt a little; and, in truth, he had decided
that Winnie’s own words should judge her.

“T will hand her the letter and ask her to explain
it,’ he decided. “I will give her every opportunity
to refute this base supposition, but if she cannot—”

He did not finish the sentence, but shut his teeth
hard as he thought:

“T will leave her to end her false existence as best
she may. I will part from her forever.”

But as he sat there with the light of a solitary
lamp falling around him, the horror of a life without
her, of a future more hopeless than the darkest hours
of the past, stole the strength from his heart, and
with a furious feeling of anger against the fair trait-
ress who had wrecked his life, he exclaimed:

“Better that I should strangle her and shoot my-
self before the world suffers any more from her fatal
beauty.”

The idea.was that of a madman, but Laurie was
scarcely sane to-night, and his face grew hard and
cruel as the hours wore away and he sat there brood-
nt over his wrongs. :

t last, unable to stand the torture of doubts and
recollections of happy love-scenes, he did anunusual
thing for him, and going in the dining-room came
back with a decanter of brandy, some of which he
proceeded to drink. ;

LEE

 

   

 

 

 

HER HUSBAND HAD NO NEED TO REPEAT HIS QUES-
TION—THE TERROR IN HER EYES SPOKE THE TRUTH.

Several times his glass had been filled and emptied,
when the sounds of a carriage stopping outside the
house announced Winnie’s return.

He was half crazed with liquor, but he was deter-
mined to see her, and he hastened in the hall to tell
her he would like to speak with her in the library.

Winnie, who had been much astonished and some-
what alarmed by his abrupt disappearance from the
reception, was delighted to hear his voiceas he called
her, and she ran over the dark hall to the dimly
lighted library.

“Why did you go? What was the matter, darling ?”’
she asked, as she came up to him, and lifted her face
toward him, expecting him to kiss her.

With something like a groan he moved from her,
and turned the gas up to its full height, then walked
back to her, with Stena’s letter in his hand. As he
did so his eyes rested on her beautiful face, framed
by its crown of golden hair, and lighted by her large,
innocent, blue eyes, as if he were surveying the dead
for the last time.

No wonder his face was agonized, for in her costly
satin raiment, with the milky pearls gleaming like
dew-drops on her white arms and neck, she had never
been fairer than she was to-night.

He approached her asif fascinated, and placed the
letter in her hand, saying simply:

‘Winnie, did you ever see this before ?”’

Wondering a little at his solemnity, she opened the
folded sheets with a careless good-humor ; but as she
read the first few words, as she reccgnized her long-
lost letter from Stena, which had been given her by
her husband, perhaps had been read by him, he had
no need to repeat his question, for the ghastly pallor
of her face, the terror in hereyes spoke the truth.

“Have you read it?’ she cried, and the note of de
spair in her voice would have made him pity her at
any other moment. ©

Now with a grim kind of satisfaction he said: .

“tT have studied every line of it. What does it mean,
Winnie ?”’

“Mean ?” she looked at him with wide-open, horri-
tied eves as she repeated the question, and tried to
realize its purport.

Woman-like she did the worst thing she could
under the circumstances, by bursting into a passion
of tears, and moaning:

“T cannot tell you, Laurie.”

“But you must tell me,” he said,in a hardened
voice. “Winnie, I command you to tell me whose
child that Stena Leo, or Leo Stena was. Speak.”

“Oh, Laurie, dear Laurie, be patient, and I will try
to tell you all,” she sobbed.

i ee was half mad with jealousy and liquor, and

e said:

“T will not wait one instant. You shall tell me the
truth. Was that child Stena’s, or was aa. right in
believing she was suffering herself to hide her friend’s
shame? If so it will not be difficult to name that
friend.”

As she listened to him a wild hope sprang up in
Winnie’s heart.

“Tell me,” she cried, “would you forgive Stena if
she had been vilely wronged, and——”

He raised his hand and stopped her. ;

“T would neither forgive her nor Si he vowed.
“A disgraced woman requires no pity. Whichever
of you is guilty must be exposed to save the other
from suspicion. Is it Stena or you?’

For one moment Winnie hesitated, and the silence
in the room was appalling to him.

 

CHAPTER XXXI.
HE CAN GAIN FREEDOM.

“Winnie,” cried her husband, breaking the silence
in an agonized tone, ‘‘for the sake of my love do not

tell me 1 have been deceived by you! Do not say
you are other than the sweet, true girl I have given
my heart, or—or I would better be dead !”

Poor Winnie regarded him with tearful eyes, and
her face was blanched with woe, as she said:

“Tf you would know my story, Laurie, you must be
patient, for I cannot tell it quickly.”

“But I do not want to ow any story,” he de-
elared. ‘You can quiet my impatience by a word. I
wish to know if it is Stena or you who sinned in the

 

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

past. Winnie, look at me, and tell me you are wor-
thy to bear my name.”

But she did not look at him; she hung her head,
and shuddered as she wondered how he would re-
ceive the news that she had been a wife and mother
long before she had met him.

“Tf he were only cooler, and less impatient, I could
appeal to his sympathy by a recital of my suffering,”
she thought; “but while he is so fierce and wild, I
feel afraid to speak.”

“You are silent,” he burst out. ‘Winnie, do you
know you are forcing me to believe you have done
wrong?”

His look at her was so awful she nerved herself to
the task of speaking, but her voice was not louder
than a whisper as she said:

“Laurie, I have done wrong. I have sinned against
you grievously by not telling you my secret before I
became your wife. I-——”

“Then there is a secret!” he interrupted, in a frozen
tone. “You need say no more, Winnie; I am an-
swered!”’

He moved toward the door as he spoke, but she
threw herself before him, and said: ;

“1 CANNOT VERY WELL AVOID LISTENING,” LAURIE
ANSWERED, RISING FROM THE TABLE.

“Still you must hear my excuse. Do not leave me,
Laurie, until I have told you all. Oh, don’t look at
me like that, for you will break my heart if you do
not forgive me.”

“Forgive you!” he repeated, in a low, even voice.
“Do you think I can ever forgive the woman who has
disgraced my name? who has been a living lie from
the first hour we met? who has stolen from me all
that makes life worth living—honor, truth, love?
who has made me her dupe, and jest, and plaything ?
the woman who has basely——_ Take your hands off,
woman, lest in my anger at the memory of my
wrongs I forget what is due your sex!”

“Laurie, hear me!” she moaned, terrified by his
tan and manner. “Do not judge me till you know
all!”

“And do you even Siew think anything your false
lips could utter would prejudice me in your favor?’
he angrily questioned. ‘‘No, woman, keep your lies
for your next victim, and rest assured that I shall
never listen to any explanation that you can make.
Take your hands off my arm.”

“One moment, Laurie, only one!” she pleaded. ‘I
was very young, and——”

“And you loved him!” he almost shouted, as he
threw off her clasped hands with such violence that
she staggered from him in alarm. “Oh, silence, si-
lence, silence, or IT shall kill you!”

He rushed from the room as he spoke; and when
she had recovered from her terror enough to know
anything, she heard the hall door clang to after him,
and understood she was left in her sorrow alone—
most terribly alone, for she feared her husband’s love
was dead..

We will not attempt to describe her anguish during
the night, nor Stena’s and her mother’s consternation
when Winnie went to them with her grief the next
morning.

The two kindly women comforted her, as best they
could, and advised her to keep her estrangement
from Laurie a secret from the world as long as
possibie, trusting to his generosity to forgive her
after a time. ;

They, also, begged Winnie to continue to mingle
with society, and thus find relief from her painful
thoughts. ;

Feeling there might yet be some hope for her, Win-
nie returned home, determined to explain every-
thing to Laurie that night; but when the clock
pointed toward midnight and he had not arrived, she
retired wondering where he could be?

If she had seen him when he came in an hour later
she would have known he had had a wretched day.
Early that morning he had sought Mr. Bunts to
upbraid him for having allowed him to marry his
daughter; but he had speedily learned that the old
gentleman knew nothing against Winnie, and Laurie
was too kind to make the unsuspicious father un-
happy by telling him his doubts; so he had left him,
ana had spent the afternoon at Mount St. Vincent
with a party of gay friends, andin the evening had
accompanied them to a reception given by ‘The
Elks;” thus it was that he did not return home till
late that night.

The next morning, as he sat in the breakfast-room,
still undecided as to what course he should pursue
with his wife, she entered the door-way. ;

Fixing his proud eyes sternly on her, Laurie saw
she looked pale and frightened, and very like a
guilty person; then a slow fury crept up in his heart
against her.

“John,” she said, to the waiter, “you may leave the
room.” ~

“One moment, John, I have not yet finished my
breakfast,” said Laurie, in a loud voice.

“Laurie, I want to speak to you alone; please let
the man go,” she said,in a whisper.

“T have nothing to say to you which John may
not hear; so if you will pardon me, I insist that he
remains.”

“Oh, Laurie, won’t you listen to me?” she asked,
with a sob. ‘ By

“T cannot very well avoid it.” he replied, rising
from the table witha frown. ‘‘Good-morning, madam.
John, come in the hall and help me on with my coat.
Y’ll show her whether she will talk to me,” he added
as he strode from the room leaving her alone.

Ah, could he but have seen her, as she stood there
pressing her hands to her heart to stillits wild beat-
ing, surely he would have relented, and have tried to
comfort her; but as it was he was blind to her
suffering.

 

“OF COURSE YOU HAVE SUFFICIENT GROUND FOR A
DIVORCE, AS SHE IS UTTERLY UNWORTHY.”

If Winnie had not been oppressed by a sense of the
wrong she had done Laurie by wedding him without
telling him her story; if she had been her own will-
ful, defiant self, and had not showed by her humility,
that she felt he had cause to censure her conduct, her
husband’s doubts would have soon been overcome.

“But she so plainly reveals her guilt, that I hate
her,” he told himself, as he let the hall-door close
after him with a bang.

During the last few hours his great love for his
beautiful young wife, had risen above these horrible
doubts which had gathered around her, and he had
come down to the breakfast-table, half prepared to
listen to her story; but the firstsight of her drawn,
haggard face, had caused his heart to harden against

er.

‘Her looks prove she fears me,” he thought, ‘so
she must be guilty, and if so, I do not wish to hear
the facts.”

He felt he could not learn from her lips that she
had loved another man; and such a man as Leo
Forester.

It was, however, some relief to remember that this
handsome ne’er-do-well was dead.

 

 

 

 

staring at the pavement, he suddenly wondered
where Pauline had obtained the letter which had
caused all this trouble.

With a bitter feeling of anger against this woman,
and a strong desire to quarrel with somebody, he de-
termined to visit and put the question to Pauline.

“Pll make her ashamed of it if she stole the letter,”
= resolved, turning his footsteps toward her resi-

ence.

And his face did not soften as he stood in the lady’s
luxurious drawing-room awaiting her appearance,
when the servant had brought the message that she
would be down presently.

Pauline happened to be sitting in her window as he
came, up the street, so she had seen his face, and had
read in the hard, white countenance that he had re-
ceived Stena’s letter, and that it had had the effect of
rendering him miserable.

“He. is wildly jealous of his wife,” she muttered,
drawing behind her curtains so he would not see her.
“And he 1s coming here to ask me where I got that
letter, and what I know about the affair. Ah, Master
Laurie, all your insults to me will now be avenged!”

With this thought the vindictive woman went to
meet her visitor, and without the least surprise heard
him question her about the way Stena’s letter had
fallen in her hands.

She told him the truth, and offered to show him the
envelope and note which had accompanied that fatal
epistle, but he declined to look at them (which was a
pity, as he would have recognized Fannie’s writing,
and the maid would have been dismissed before she
had done his wife more mischief).

It was with great surprise that Pauline learned he
had only read the letter on the night of Aunt Eliza’s
reception, and the traitress expressed a keen regret
that she had given it to him on his wedding-day.

“T suppose it has estranged you from Winnie,” she
said, regretfully; ‘‘and, Laurie, I hope you will be-

+ lieve l am very sorry for you both. Your separation

from her will be a terrible thing so soon after your
marriage.”

Laurie started, and looked at her fair face, which
seemed truly mournful. For the second he was fool-
ish enough to believe the disappointed woman was
sorry for him.

As he regarded her in silence she resumed :

“Of course you have sufficient ground for a divorce,
Laurie, as she is utterly unworthy.”

The moment she said that all that was noble and
best in Laurie’s nature rose up to defend Winnie from
herrrival.

“And do you suppose I would so disgrace my
name,” he cried. ‘‘No, I shall bear the cross I have
taken up. I will remain under the same roof with
Winnie until I can go to Europe without causing
scandal; then we can keep the ocean between us un-
til death frees one or the other.”

“You may have to wait a long time,’’? murmured
Pauline, with a shudder. ‘And, perhaps, before you
go Winnie will still further disgrace the name of
which you are so proud.”’

“That, of course, will alter my plan,” he said,
stifiy. “But I do not apprehend any such con-
tingency.”

There wasa moment’s silence between them, and

yet neither heard a carriage pause before the door,
so intent were they on their own thoughts. _Present-
ly Pauline moved toward him, and putting her soft
white hand on his, looked him full in the eyes, and
murmured :
“Laurie, I cannot but pity you, though your sor-
row has been brought on by yourself. Oh, Laurie,
we both must bear the penalty of your folly in not
believing in my truth and affection, and in flinging
ee as away by marrying that silly, wicked girl,
w o——"?

Pauline’s abrupt pause was caused by the sudden
parting of the curtains leading from the hall and
the sight of Winnie standing between them, while a
servant behind her said:

“I think madam is in, andif you will enter I will
see.’

There was an awkward silence after this, for the
bride was amazed to see her husband sitting beside
her former rival with her hand apparently clasped
in his, and both Laurie and Pauline felt rather guilty

 

LAURIE AND PAULINE FELT GUILTY AT THE SIGHT OF
WINNIE STANDING BETWEEN THE CURTAINS.

as they saw her form drawn haughtily erect, while
her blue eyés flashed as:‘she mentally questioned:

“Can it be he is so contemptible as to come here to
seek comfort because he believes I have been false?’

“She looks furious enough to kill Pauline,” thought
Laurie, as with some defiance he wondered what
would come of this meeting.

As for Pauline she stood there flushing red and
then turning white like a person laboring under a
great embarrassment.

“Tt is a most unfortunate thing that she should
have come here as she did,” she thought. ‘“‘How can
TI explain our situation?”

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
A CHANCE MEETING.

As the pause grew lengthy and neither Winnie nor
her husband made a move to break.it, Pauline felt
she must exert herself to smooth over matters, and
quickly decided to act as if charmed to see her guest.

Gliding gracefully forward, she announced:

“Speak of an angel you'll see its wings. Your hus-
band and myself were just talking of you, Mrs. Haw-
18 dd

Winnie heard her and felt her doubts confirmed.
Her husband had come here to pour his tale of grief
in this woman’s sympathetic ear.

“Alas,” she muttered, “I have followed Stena’s
advice, and sought society to gain relief, but instead
I have only added to my sorrow.”

Still she made no sign of her agony; she was cold-
ly, gravely polite to her hostess during her short
call, and did nothing to embarrass her husband; but
once when Laurie addressed her and she was obliged
to raise her eyes to his as she answered, he saw they
were proudly contemptuous.

“This meeting here is most unfortunate,” he
thought, ‘‘but she has no right to regard me in that
manner”

And some fiend seemed to urge him on to show his
wife how little he cared for her opinion now by be-
ing excessively polite to Mrs. Miller.

By the time of Winnie’s departure he had fully
marked out a line of conduct for himself, and part of
it was that he should remain here till she was out of
sight, though he left Pauline a moment afterward.

As for Winnie, she was in a great state of agitation
when, at last, she reached her home, for jealous
and wounded pride were holding fierce battle wit
her love for her husband. .

Weeping she went up to her boudoir, and won-
dered how she could bring Laurie’s heart back to
her.

Nervous excitement and fears for the future so
overcame her that afternoon she was too ill to sit up,
and she did not appear at dinner, but a short time
aiterward a note was brought her from Laurie.

Wondering if her sickness had had any effect to-
ward softening his anger, she hastily opened it, to
read:

“MADAM: I have taken advice from my friends,
and, to avoid a public scandal, have concluded to
remain under the same roof with you FOR THE PRES-
ENT. Later we will decide on some satisfactory
form of separation.

“T trust. in spite of your shameless past, that you
will make no effort to force your story on me, now
that it is too late for me to protect myself from you.
I do not wish to know more of your sin than I have
learned, and I beg that you will understand it will be
annoying to me to have youspeak to me save in the
presence of others. : :

“T trust you will see what Iam doing is for your
sake, and so will avoid exposing your loathsome se-
eret to the world by any conduct but such as I pre-
scribe. Your father and my mother had better be
left in ignorance of the truth, at present. I am quite
willing to keep your folly a secret from the world if
you still have decency enough not to do anything to
provoke further scandal. Yours very truly,

“LAURIE.”

To attempt to depict Winnie’s emotions would be
impossible. She was so pained at first she felt al-
most dazed, then burning anger against Laurie rose
up in her heart.

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

As Laurie was walking over the street, moodily

_“Why should he call my past shameless?’ she ques-
tioned. ‘How dare he judge me in this evil manner?
He thinks my secret loathsome, and questions my
decency about conducting myself soas to silence
further scandal. He does not wish to learn the truth,
and yet acts toward me asif I had confessed myselt
ali that is vile.” i

She rose up and paced the floor, then clinching her
hands, muttered :

“Tt shall be as he desires. I will make no effort to
tell him the truth. Let him torture himself with
doubts. I will no longer seek to show him Ihave only
sinned to spare him pain.”

And when morning dawned Winnie’s resolutions
had gained strength.

With the sense of Laurie’s injustice goading her on
almost to hatred, she met him with a hauteur equal
to his own, and a coldness which caused him to re-
gard her with some awe.

. From that night, when he sent her the letter, show-
ing he had judged her without learning her offense,
Laurie was amazed to find he had married a very
proud woman.

Indeed, it was Winnie who showed him there was
to be no confidence between them during the weary
months that follewed, for Laurie soon felt he had
wronged his young wife by his suspicions, and would
have willingly listened to any explanation she could
zive of Stena’s letter, but he did not dare ask her for
he revelation now.

Further and further they had drifted apart during
the gay winter months, and Pauline, with joy, saw a
eos must come before many more weeks had
past.

Both Winnie and Laurie felt they were living on
the brink of a volcano, but itburst forth much sooner
than they expected, and in a way neither of them had
anticipated.

Perhaps Winnie could not have believed such bit-
ter suffering was to result from what she had
always termed a schoolgirl’s secret’ For she had
often told herself:

_ “Though I did wrong to marry Laurie without tell-
ing him the truth, surely it will all come right soon.
He will forgive me in time, and we will once more be
very happy together.”

She quite intended now, when he had asked her
forgiveness for his suspicions, to allow him to be her
king again; but after the following scene at the
opera, it will be understood why her plans charged,

Early in the morning on this day when Winnie’s
hope was to die within. her, Miss Bunts astonished
her niece by appearing in the breakfast-room while
Laurie and herself were still at the table.

It was an amazing thing, for the fashionable lady
seldom arose before twelve or one o’clock during
“the season.”

She still more surprised Winnie by asking her to
dismiss her waiter, and when the three were quite
re Aunt Eliza explained herself in the following
words:

“My dear Laurie, I have a favor to ask of you. I
wish you to take Winnie to the opera to-night. Ihave
made up a little party, and I especially desire your
presence.”

“T am sorry, but I shall be forced to decline, under
the pressure of a prior engagement,” hastily mur-
mured Laurie, who had not been out with Winnie
since their estrangement. :

Aunt Eliza looked disappointed, and rather grim,
as she remarked :

“T did not wish to tell you the truth, Laurie, but,
as it is necessary, I will. Last night I was at the
Bryces’ ball, and while there I heard it remarked
that—that you and Winnie were unhappy; that you
never appeared out together, and that Pauline Miller
was the cause of your misunderstanding. I wished
to show our world how erroneously it was surmising,
by taking you, Winnie, and Pauline to the opera this
evening; and if you have any regard for your—your
old triend, you will give up any engagement you
have made and accompauy us.”

Laurie flushed, and bit his lips, as he glanced un-

“4 easily at Winnie.

“JT will be guided by Mrs. Hawley’s decision. What
do you think we had better do?” he asked.

For a moment Winnie struggled against a memory
of the time she had seen Pauline standing with her
hand clasped in Laurie’s, and while she sat in silence,
Miss Bunts said, as if to induce her niece to consent:
“Tf you like, my dear, you can invite that school-
mate of yours, Stena, and let her enjoy a treat.”
Knowing Stena’s passion for music, Winnie’s heart
gave a bound, and she said:

“Thank you, Aunt Eliza. I shall be pleased to ac-
cept for both myself and friend.”

“And husband,” put in Laurie, with a kindly lookin
his eyes, as they rested on the sweet face opposite

im.

“After all, she is good and noble,’ he thought.
“Not many women would have tried to shield Pau-
line from scandal after they had seen her as Winnie
has. And how eagerly she grasped at the idea of
giving Stena happiness. No one can ever say my
Winnie has not a kind heart.”

He was recalled from his fancies by seeing Miss
Bunts arise and remark:

“Then I will at once invite Pauline and her brother-
in-law to be ready at nine. I do not like to go early,
and, of course, everybody has seen Patti in Faust so
many times, it is scarcely a treat. Look your best,
Winnie, and, Laurie, prepare to be attentive.”

Laurie bowed, feeling, in his present mood toward
Winnie, it would not be very hard for him to obey.
He would have spoken gently to his wife that
morning, but she followed her aunt from the room,
and did not retnrn again, so he was unable to act on
the impulse.

Winnie, in fact, was already preparing herself for
a visit to Stena, although she had no hope of finding
her schoolmate at home before the seminary in which
she taught closed for noontime.

“T will stop somewhere and buy the dear girl some
useful little gifts,” the noble-hearted friend thought,
and that there might be no trouble about having her
presents sent, she ordered her carriage, so she could
take with her whatever she bought.

It was with the first happy feeling she had had for
weeks that Winnie, about twelve o’clock, mounted
the stairs leading to Stena’s flat, with her footman
coming behind her, carrying two or three parcels
which contained the purchases intended as presents
for Stena.

As she tapped on Stena’s door she heard a sound
of loud talking behind it, and presently it opened,
and aman brushed by her, and them, with a ery of
joy, Stena clasped her arms around her friend, and
burst into a flood of tears, sobbing:

“Oh, Winnie, such news, such news as I have to
talk on.”

“Why, my dear child, what has happened ?” queried
Winnie, seeing Mrs. Grantham looked like one bewil-
dered but very happy.

As nobody replied, and Winnie saw her lackey star-
ing at her, she ordered him to put his bundle down
and depart. Then, when she was alone with her
friends, she asked:

“Now, Stena, whatis this? Do you need money ?
If so I have plenty, and you must not worry, as it
will be a pleasure for me to give it to you.”

“Dear Winnie,” cried Stena, all in a breath, ‘think
ofit. ILamrich. I—I am the heiress of one hundred
thousand pounds, or five hundred thousand dollars.”’.

“How? When?” gasped Winnie; and then they all
talked together, but the guest managed to learn that
Mr. Grantham’s vindictive brother had died some
years previous, and had bequeathed this sum to his
niece, Stena Grantham, to be paid to her six months
after her father’s decease, until which period she
was to be left in ignorance of its existence.

“The six months are up to-day, and the lawyer just
leftus as you entered. Oh, Winnie, Loyd’s desire to
marry me is explained now,” laughed Stena. ‘He
was the lawyer the English ones sent to find us out.”

“What a good thing it was that you did not promise
to marry him,’ cried Winnie, so fervently they all
burst. out laughing; but they were sober enough
when she added: ‘‘Stena, just think how happy Rob
Miller will be to-night.”

And then she briefly explained that she had come
here to invite Stena to accompany her to the opera,
and that Rob was to be of the party.

It is needless to say that Stena accepted the invita-
tion, as that she that evening found some way of ac-
quainting Rob with the news of her newly acquired
wealth before they reached the place of amusement.

He understood from her whispered words all ob-
stacles to their marriage had been swept away, and
his happy face and hers caused a strange thrill of
pain to shoot through Winnie’s heart as she watched
them sitting side by side inethe opera-house.

“Their future is all bright with love and hope,
while mine is black with despair,” she thought, and
sighed heavily as she leaned her arm against the
velvet cushion on the balustrade of the box.

Suddenly she felt a warm breath fan her cheek as
Laurie’s soft voice whispered :

“Why should we envy any one, Winnie, when we
have each other ?”’

For a moment she thought he was mocking her; or,
at the best, but playing the part Aunt Eliza had
marked outfor him. His eyes, full of the tenderness
and sympathy of love, roused by the sight of her sad
face, told her, however, that he was in earnest.

With the sight of her sadness all his old love had
rushed up in his heart, prepared already by her kind-
ly conduct toward her former rival that morning.

Impusively he had spoken, and now as her soul met
hisina yearning gaze, he had no need to bend his
his head and whisper:

“Later I will listen to your story, Winnie, but now
believe I trust you.”

It seemed to her the music had raised in a mighty
tone as a surge of happiness swept over her, for she
felt something had paved the way for her to gain his
forgiveness. :

‘Was it the foreshadow of the grief about to fall
on her life ?”’ she wondered afterward.

In order to hide the crimson stain that had stolen
over her face Winnie raised her opera-glasses and let
her gaze wander over the house.

Suddenly she started, her figure became rigid, her
glasses remained fixed on one spot for a long time.

Stena’s low voice calling her name caused a shud-
der to run over her, and then with a quick movement
she turned her back on the audience, and her party
saw her face was ghastly and that her eyes were
staring like those of a madwoman.

“Winnie, what is it?” cried Laurie, quickly.

 

 

 

—— =
ae

 

   
 

 

 

 
  
  
 

 

   
 

 
 
 
 
  
  
 
 

 
 

  
 
   
  
   

    
   
 
  
 
  
  
   
   
  

  
   
 
    
 
 
 
  
 

  
 
 
  
  

 
     

 

 

 

 

 

“Nothing,” she murmured in a hoarse voice. ‘Aunt
Eliza, let me sit there in the back of the box, please?”

“Why, my child, you had better go home; you look
extremely ill,” exclaimed Miss Bunts, staring at her.

“Oh, no, no; I do not wish to attract attention,”
declared the pallid lips.

“T don’t understand why not,” said Laurie.

“Don’t question her; just let her rest,’ interpola-
ted Stena, seeing Winnie’s eyelids were beginning to
wink in a dangerous manner. ‘My dear, what is it?’
she whispered, when the others had moved to the
front of the box.

Never was Stena to forget the look of anguish
which Winnie gave her as she replied:

“Take my glasses and look at that side of the
house, and in the second gallery, near the stage, you
will see Leo Forester.”

“Timpossible!’’ ejaculated Stena.

Nevertheless her hand shook a few moments after-
ward as she quietly took the glass and arranged it to
suit her eyes.

A moment after and Winnie saw her drop it and re-
turn to her side with a look of consternation.

“Well,” she gasped, but Stena only surveyed her
with a pale, horrified face as she_asked:

“What are you going to do?”
“Hide,” whispered Winnie.
ever.’’ ‘

Stena shook her head in doubt and fear, but obey-

“Hide from him for-

ing Winnie’s gesture returned to her former seat in

the front of the box.

She alone understood why Winnie would not move
to go out till the house was half emptied, and she
alone comprehended the cause of the bride’s starts
and furtive glances around her when they at last
stood in the lobby and were waiting for their car-
riages.

Suddenly she felt her arm pressed as in a vise,
while Winnie’s voice hissed in her ears:

“Oh, my God, Stena, he has recognized me and is
coming here.”

Looking up, Stena saw a tall form pushing toward
them, saw that Winnie was right, but that Laurie
stood beside her in utter unconsciousness of the
truth.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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

Virgie’s Inheritance,

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

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

 

 

 

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

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
VIRGIE SHALL YET HAVE HER INHERITANCE.

Could it be possible that the man who had been her
husband had come again to this country, accompa-
nied by the woman who had supplanted her?

Thcy had a child, too, it seemed, a young heir, and
they were all underneath the same roof with her.

For a moment she was dazed with the knowledge ;
then she was tempted to dash the pen through her
own name and fly to some other place.

But she did not like to make herself conspicuous ;
even now the clerk had noticed her emotion, and was
asking her if she was faint and would like a glass. of
water. So she braced herself to face whatever
might come, though she felt as if it would kill her to
meet the man who had once called her wife.

She resolved to go to her rooms and remain in
them, at least for a day or two, then she would
quietly leave the hotel and go to some other.

She found her apartments very pleasant, overlook-
ing the river and the rapids, while in the distance
she could hear the never ceasing roar of the falls.
But there were no attractions in the place now for
her, all interest had been swallowed up in the in-
tense excitement that had taken possession of her.

She slept but little that night, and during all the
next day she was wretched and almost ill. All her
wrongs seemed to rise up afresh before her, and she
wondered that Sir William had dared to cross the
ocean, lest her vengeance should overtake him. He
was traveling, too, the same as he used to—as_ plain
Mr. Heath—oh! how supremely happy she had been
in those lovely rooms in New York, when she had be-
lieved herself to be his honored wife, and was look-
ing forward to a bright future as the mistress of
Heathdale. anh

But now she believed another was reigning there.
She wondered if she was fair and lovely; if she had
ever suspected the wrong that her husband had
done his first wife. She wondered, too, if Sir William
had ever legalized that mock marriage after re-
ceiving the notice of his divorce from her. | $

All day she lay there, too miserable to rise, listen-
ing to every footfall that passed her door; she be-
lieved that she should recognize his step, even
though a decade of years had passed since she had
heard it. ;

When night came again she was nearly worn out,
and with little Virgie clasped close to her heart she
slept the sleep of exhaustion, and awoke the next
morning feeling stronger and much refreshed,

 

though still very unhappy.

She would not go down to breakfast, however, but |
had it served in her room, She had not courage to |
come face to face with the man who, she believed, |
had so wronged her; she shrank from him, but even |
more from the woman who, she supposed, occupied |
the position that belonged to her. |

After breakfast she dressed her little daughter in |
the daintiest manner, and sent her out for a walk |
with her maid, telling the latter that she might keep |
Virgie out as long as desired as she was not feeling |
well and wished to be quiet. |

When they were gone she lay down again, and |
tried to think »what was best for her todo. Should |
she go away immediately, and avoid alldanger of be- |
ing seen and recognized? Should she fly from the
temptation that was fast laying hold of her to look |
oe ee upon the old-time lover—the father of her |
ehild ?

She feared that it was not wise for her to linger |
there; indeed she knew thatit would be far better |
for her peace of mind to turn resolutely away from
all that pertained to the past, go elsewhere, and try
to forget—it that were possible—that such a person
as Sir William Heath had ever existed.

She fell asleep while musing thus, and was con-
scious of nothing more until some one knocked upon
her door, and a childish voice called out:

‘Mamma, mamma, oh! please let me in.
tell you something.” |

Virgie aroused herself, and going to the.door un- |
locked and opened it, and was confronted by her |
little daughter, her face flushed and eager, her hat
hanging from her neck by its blue ribbons, her gold-
en curls floating in charming disarray about her
shoulders, while she held by the hand a bright,
dark-eyed little boy, perhaps a year younger than
herself.

Oh, mamma!” cried little Virgie, all excitement, ‘I
have had such a lovely time down stairs on the ve-
randa. There was the nicest lady and gentleman there
and this is their little boy. We played along time
with some beautiful white stones, and we had some
caramels and taffy, the lady told us some pretty
stories, and Willie’s papa sang us such a funny song;
then they went away for a walk, and told Willie that
he might come and play with me for alittle while.”

Something made Virgie grow very pale and still
while her child was talking; something in those dark
eyes of the little stranger, lifted in wonder and in-
quiry to her beautiful, white face, made her shrink
and tremble, a terrible suspicion in her heart.

She stooped quickly and looked closer into the
small upturned face.

“Your name is Willie,” she said, ina low, repressed
tone—Willie what?’

“Willie Heath,’ he answered, regarding her ear-
nestly.

“Yes, mamma, and helives away over the sea in
England—away over that water where poor papa
went and ‘

“Yes, dear,’ said Virgie, interrupting her, and
though she had known well enough, the moment she
saw him, who the child was, the sound of those two
names smote her with such startling foree that she
reeled dizzily and was obliged to lay hold of the door
for support.

“Poor mamma! your head is bad again, isn’t it?”
said her little girl, taking her hand and lifting it
tenderly to her lips, while she looked pitifully into
her white face.

“Yes, darling, and I shall have to lie down again;
but you and your little friend may come inif you
like,’ she forced herself to say, as she feebly made
her way to a lounge and almost fell upon it, a deadly
faintness nearly overpowering her.

“No, mamma, we will go out into the hall and
play,’ Virgie replied, while the young stranger re-
garded the stricked woman with wide, grave eyes.
“T am going to get that box of toys that you bought
me yesterday, then Willie and I will go away and we
will not make any noise,so you can sleep. Does
your mamma ever have such dreadful headaches?”
she asked of the boy.

“No, but papa does somtimes, then he has to stay
in a dark room, and everybody has to keep as still as
mice,” he answered.

It seemed to the suffering woman as if she could
not suppress a moan of agony to hear the child eall
that man “papa,” and she wondered if he ever
knew what it was to have such a heart-ache as she
was at that moment suffering.

I want to |

 

then the two children fiptoed out of the room, softly

shutting the door after them, while Virgie lay
another hour trying to compose herself and rally her
shattered nerves.

She arose at last with the fixed determination to
have one look at the man and woman whom she _ be-
lieved had ruined her life—just one glance to see how
life had dealt with them,and then she would fly
from all danger and temptation.

She arrayed herself in a lovely dress of black lace
made over rich lavender silk, and looped here and
there with glistening ribbons of the same color. She
had coiled her abundant hairin a coronet about her
shaply head and pinned it with a golden arrow in
which there gleamed a single diamond. Her orna-
ments were of dead rough gold, fashioned in some
quaint design, and she fastened in her belt a cluster
of white acacia blossoms, which made a loyely con-
trast against the black and lavender of her dress.

She was exquisitely beautiful, and she realized the
fact as she finished her toilet, and she could not help
wondering what she—that other woman was like—
the woman who had won her husband from her.

She could hear ths merry voices of the children,
who were still at their play in the hall, and a bitter
smile curled her lips as she thought how unconscious
they were of each other’s identity, or of the torture
she was suffering to have them thus together, two
rivals, she believed, for the same name and inherit-
ance.

After a little she went to her door and looked out
at them. The children were both seated upon the
ffoor, with Virgie’s toys between them, and were
chatting gayly with all the unconscious freedom of
childhood.

“Oh, mamma, you are better!’ cried Virgie, catch-
ing sight of her mother, her face lighting with pleas-
ure, ‘‘and how nice you look! Willie,” turning with
an impressive air to her companion, “do you know
I think my mamma is the prettiest mamma there is
in the world; yours is very nice and grand, but I
dow’t think she is quite as lovely as mine.”

The boy fixed his eyes on Virgie and looked gravely
thoughtful for a moment, as if debating the point in
his mind, and she was amused, in spite of her pain,
by his evident desire to be guilty of no disloyalty,
and yet not wound his new friend by contradicting
her assertion, as he replied :

“Well, perhaps; but my papa is very handsome.
Where is your papa?”

“Sh!” Virgie whispered, as her mother turned
quickly away at the question and walked to the end
of the corridor where there was an alcove inclosed
by rich draperies, ‘it makes mamma very sad to say
anything about my papa. We lost him when I was a
little baby.” ;

“Lost him !’’

“Yes; he went away over the same sea that you
had to cross and never came back ?”

“Oh! he was drownded!” whispered the little fel-
low, in an awe-stricken voice, and looking exceed-
ingly shocked.

“What is your mamma’s name?” he asked, after a
pause. ;

“Virginia—the same as mine. What is yours?”

“Margaret, and it means ‘a pearl.’ Papa some-
times calls her his ‘“‘pearl of great price.’ ”

“Oh!” moaned Virgie from behind the draperies,
as she caught these words, ‘‘a pearl of great price,
indeed.”

Just then a door midway of the corridor opened
and another lady came slowly down the lofty hall.

She was tall and commanding in figure; not so
slight or graceful as Virgie, but possessing a sweet
and gracious dignity that was exceedingly pleasing.

She was a perfect blonde, and her beautiful golden
hair was gathered into a massive and graceful knot
at the back of her head. Her eyes were blue, her
cheeks delicately tinted with pink, and a rare, win-
ning smile, played about her sweet mouth.

She was dressed allin white. A robe of some soft
clinging material was made en traine, very artistic-
ally draped and elaborately trimmed with a profu-
sion of white satin ribbons. She wore an elegant set

of opals surrounded with diamonds, and was truly a
beautiful and distinguished looking woman.

Her face gleamed with infinite tenderness as she
drew near the children.

‘*Why, are you still playing together?” she asked
as she stopped beside them; ‘‘you seem inclined to
be very friendly.”

“Yes, Virgie is a very nice girl to play with,” re-
turned Master Heath, with the air of one paying 2
great compliment; ‘‘and see what she has given me,
mamma,” he added, holding up a handful of toys.

“Do not let the little girl rob herself,’ said his
mother, in a voice of tender caution.

“No; she made me take them; and—oh, mamma, I
have seen her mamma; she was here just now—such
a lovely lady! And Virgie says she lost her papa
when she was a little baby—he was drownded.”

“Drowned, you mean, Willie,” corrected the lady;
“how sad! but perhaps you ought not to talk about
it, dear,” she added tenderly, as she bent forward
and softly stroked Virgie’s glossy hair with her jew-
eled hand.

There were tears in her eyes as she said it, and
though Virgie, in her hiding-place behind the draper-
ies, could not see these, she could hear the slight
tremulousness in her tones, and she knew that she
was a tender-hearted, sympathetic woman.

She then began to talk about something else and
thus led their minds away from the sad topic until
in a few moments they were laughing in the merriest
manner—the childish voices ringing out fresh and
clear, that of the beautiful woman like a silver bell.

Virgie saw and heard all with the keenest pain in
her heart, and though a torturing jealousy filled her
soul—a sense of wrong and humiliation—from the
belief that another had supplanted her in the heart
and home of the man she loved, yet she could but
own the worth, the beauty, and the fascination of
that sweet, womanly woman who seemed so uncon-
scious of wrong, whose heart was so full of tender-
ness and sympathy for the sorrows of others.

Oh, if, as she stood behind those curtains peering
out upon that merry, attractive group, she could
have known how very near she was just then to hap-
piness and an explanation of all the dark past, she
never would have concealed herself as she did. She

| would .have made herself known; she would have

sought rather than shunned that beautiful woman
in white, and learned the mistake that had so embit-
tered the last ten years of her life.

But she could more resolutely have faced a wild
beast than those pure, innocent eyes and that happy
smile. At first she had thought that she would go
down to dinner; she would assert herself and make
her presence a living reproach to the guilty pair.

But now she knew she could not; her strength
would fail her, and she only longed for an opportu-

| nity to steal away unobserved to her room and hide

her wretchedness once more from every human eye.

She turned away from that pretty tableau where
her darling was so happy and gazed out upon the
street beneath her; but she saw nothing, heard
nothing, for the tumult within her heart and brain.

She was conscious of nothing else till a movement
almost beside her caused her to turn suddenly, and
she found herself face to face with William Heath’s
wife.

“IT beg your pardon,” said the latter, flushing slight-
ly as she met the startled, surprised look that shot
into Virgie’s eyes; I did not know that any one was
Pe I came to find a book that I left here yester-
A ay.”

Virgie bowed, and moved aside to see if she was
hiding it; but her heart beat almost suffocatingly,
ea she was as white as that cluster of acacias in her

elt. ‘

Yes, there was a volume lying on a chair beside
her, which Mrs. Heath recognized, remarking, as she
took possession of it: e

“Ah, yes, this is it. Thank you; I am sorry to
have intruded upon you.” Then, with an upward,
admiring glance into the beautiful face, she added:
“Pray, excuse me, but are not you the mother of the
little girl who is playing with my son in the corridor?
The resemblance between you is \ ery striking.”

“Yes, Virgie is my daughter,” Virgie answered, lay-
ing an unconscious stress upon the pronoun.

“She is a dear little thing—so merry, yet so gentle
and affectionate,” remarked Mrs. Heath, with a ten-
der inflection which somehow softened her listener,’”
and I believe she is the loveliest child I ever saw.
How old is she ?’

“She was nine in June.”

“And my boy is eight,’ smiled the fond mother,
with a proud, backward glance; ‘‘and he seems to
have become really attached to Virgie during the
little time they have played together. Have you
been in Niagara long, Mrs. Alexander?” -

Virgie started at being thus addressed by the wo-
man who bore the name which had once been rightly
her Own.

“We arrived the day before yesterday,” she said,
briefly.

“Ah! So recently?” replied her companion, won-
dering why the beautiful woman should be so re-
served. ‘Then you have had no opportunity to see
the attractions of the place, and it is wonderful here.
I have never seen anything so on in all Europe as
these mighty falls and the rapids.”

She was so sweet and acious, and evidently so
desirous of pleasing, that Virgie was seized with an
impulse to show her the better side of her own char-
acter. She felt sure that they would meet again
some day when, perhaps, their relative positions
night be reversed, and something like a feeling of
pity for the lovely woman prompted her to put aside
her pain, her jealousy and bitterness, and exert her-
self to be agreeable.

She responded cordially to the remarks she had
just made relative to the scenery of that locality, and
thus, once launched, she talked as she had never
talked before—of nature, of art, of literature, of men,
and things generally; and when, half an hour later,
the two women separated, Mrs. Heath was fascina-
ted, almost enraptured.

“T have never met any one so brilliant or beautiful
before,” she murmured to herself, as she went to call
her boy from his play, remarking that he must bid
| his little friend ‘‘good-by, since papa had decided
that they were to leave directly after dinner.”

Several hours later, as the twilight. had begun to
deepen, Virgie, weak and pale from the excitement
of the day, sat upon the balcony opening from her
room, eagerly watching a little scene below.

 

Little Virgie secured her box of playthings, and

A carriage had just been driven to the door. Two

large trunks were brought out from the hotel and/ are now awaiting me in Chicago. Now go—go and | “A maid?’ laughed Victor. ‘What do you want of
strapped upon it, then a gentleman and lady witha save me if you can.”

 

little boy and maid followed.

Virgie crouched down behind the railing and
strained her eyes for a look at that tall, manly figure,
firmly believing it to be Sir William Heath—her rec-
reant husband.

He stood hy the carriage door and assisted his wife
to enter with affectionate care, seeing that she was
perfectly comfortable before he attended to anything
else; then he caught his boy in his arms, and with
some playful remark, which the eager ear above
could not catch, tossed him lightly in beside his
mother. Then the maid was kindly assisted, after
which he entered himself, and the travelers were
driven away.

But Virgie, with all her anxiety to do so, had not
been able to catch even one glimpse of that face.
There was something familiar about the form, al-
though it was somewhat stouter than Sir William
had been ten years ago, while he had spoken so low
that she could not tell whether it was the old loved
voice or not; but as the carriage was whirled away
in the growing dusk she felt a hundred fold more
desolate than ever before. :

They were so happy, she so miserable! Why, oh,
why must such things be ? :

Then a differentt mood took possession of her, and
she grew hard and stern.

“It is coming—a day of retribution will surely
come,” she said. ‘There may be a son to inherit the
title, but, if he told me the truth, the eldest born in-
herits the bulk of the property, and Virgie shall yet
have her inheritance.”

 

CHAPTER XXX.
ASHOCKING FATALITY AND A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

It was a great relief to Virgie to know that the
Heaths were gone, for now she would be. perfectly
free from all restraint and could go about as much
nea she desired without the fear of encountering
them.

She remained a fortnight at the falls, visiting every
place of interest in the vicinity; and making many
beautiful sketches. Then she turned her face west-
ward and northward, following the great lakes, in-
tending to see much of the scenery of Michigan and
Wisconsin before her season of travel should end.

She traveled very leisurely, never hurrying from
place to place, for she strove to get all the enjoyment
possible out of her tours, both for herself and her
little girl, who was never happier than when jour-
neying in this easy way. .

But once they were obliged to ride all night. It
was not often that Virgie would allow herself to do
this, for they could not rest well upon the cars, but
in this instance it seemed to be necessary in order
to make connections.

She retired early for the sake of little Virgie, who
was nervous at being on the train at night, they
taking the lower berth of their section, while the
maid occupied the upper one.

Virgie was very weary and soon dropped asleep
without a thought of danger or of the terrible tragedy
that was so soon to send a score of those thoughtless
travelers into eternity, maim as many more for life,
and stamp every memory with a never-to-he-forgot-
ten horror.

Virgie did not know how long she had slept, when
she became conscious of several heavy thuds against
the bottom of the car she was in, accompanied by

to side; then it seemed as ?f they were being thrown
into space; there was one awful moment of horror
and suspense, then a terrible crash, mingled with
shrieks, and groans, and prayers; after that darkness
and oblivion.

When she came to herself again it was to find her

little daughter clinging to her in an agony of terror,
calling peony to her to ‘‘wake up and take her out
of that dreadful place.”
She tried to sit upbut found that she could not, there
was barely space between her own and the upper
berth to admit of her moving atall. To make the
situation even more appalling it was as dark as Ere-
bus, while the cries for help and the shrieks of pain
all around her filled her with a sickening horror, and
she knew there had been a fearful disaster.

“Are you hurt, darling?’ she asked, an agony of
dread at her heart, and her relief was almost as in-
tense when the reply came:

“No, mamma, only so frightened by the dreadful
noises.”

Virgie had not removed her clothing, simply loos-
ened it, and now it was the work of but a moment or
two to gather her wraps about her, fold a shawl
around Virgie and help her from the berth, though
she found great difficulty in standing erect, for the
car had been thrown partly upon its side.

She called to her maid; but there was no reply,
and, fearing the worst for the poor girl, Virgie re-
solved to get her darling out of danger and then re-
turn to see what she could do for her unconscious
servant.

They worked their way out of the car with diffi-
culty, realizing as they did so that the portion where
they had been was the least shattered of any—that
they had been wonderfully preserved.

Virgie emerged from the debris as well as she
could and found herself inaswamp. She could now
account for that sensation of being thrown into
space, and the awful moment of suspense following
before that terrible crash had come; the train ha
been pitched from its road-bed, she did not know
how many feet above, and now lay a mass of ruins
in a bog or meadow.

She bore Virgie to more solid ground, set her down
by some bushes, and then, throwing her own mantle
over her, bade her not move from that spot until she
came back to her again.

“Oh! don’t go back again; mamma,” cried the
child, clinging to her in terror.

“T must, darling, Virgie answered, firmly. ‘I can-
not leave Mina to die there. Bea brave little girl
oe do not detain me. I will come back as soon as

can.

“But I am afraid, mamma.”

“Nothing can harm you now, dear; we are both
safe, thank God! while no one can tell how many
have met their doom and are dead or dying.”

She bent down and kissed the child tenderly, thank-
fully, and then sped back to the car, determined to
know the fate of her maid.

All about her the direst confusion prevailed. Men
were hurrying hither and thither. Women were
weeping and moaning and wandering about calling
piteously for lost ones, while children were scream-
ing with fright and pain.

It was lighter now, for two of the cars were burn-
ing. having taken fire from overturned lamps, and
Virgie made her way more easily back into the
sleeper she had left.

“Mina! Mina!” she called, springing toward the
berth she occupied, and to herintense relief a muffled
sound came back in reply and she knew that she was
not dead.

She found that the top of the car had been smashed
in, and the girl, thus pinioned to her berth, was half
suffocated by the pressure from above.

Virgie never could tell afterward how she managed
to release her, but by dint of encouragement and
commands she succeeded in making the girl exert
herself, and, using all her own strength, she by de-
ae got her to the edge of the berth and finally out
of it.

“Are you badly hurt, Mina?’ she asked, as she sup-
ported the half fainting girl, and wrapped a blanket
around her trembling form.

“Yes, marm, my left arm is dreadful,” the girl
moaned, and Virgie could feel that ithung limp and
helpless by her side, and she knew it was broken.

“Well, we must hurry out of the car, for it is filling
with smoke, and I fear has taken fire somewhere,”
she said. —

They were just turning to leave the place when,
from the very midst of the smoke there pealed forth
a heart-rending shriek :

“Help! help! Willno one save me?’

ae felt every nervein her body creep atthe
sound.

“Oh, some poor creature is there, and will be burned
to death if help does not come. Whatshall we do?”
she cried.

Clearly Mina could do nothing with her broken arm,
for she was moaning with every breath, and there
was no one else at hand; every one who was able had
deserted the car long since,and was either looking
out for number one or assisting others elsewhere;
but Virgie felt that she could not leave the sufferer,
whoever it might be, to the terrible fate of being
burned to death.

She helped Mina from the car, told her where she
would find little Virgie, and then she flew back to
find the origin of that pitiful cry for help.

“Where are you?” she called, as she groped her
wok toward the spot: whence it had seemed to pro-
ceed.

‘Here! Oh! come quickly! Iam almost suffocated!
I shall be burned alive!’ was the agonized response,
accompanied by groans of pain.

It was a woman, Virgié knew by the tones, and all
her sympathies were instantly aroused.

She found her at last, and her heart sank within
her as she saw her condition, for the poor creature
was wedged between a demolished berth and the side
of the car in such a way that it seemed impossible to
rescue her.

It was a sickening sight, for, already, Virgie could
see little tongues of flame leaping up all about her
and shooting outtoward her asif eager for their prey,
while the smoke was rapidly growing denser.

The woman saw it too, and her face was almost
convulsed with agony and fear.

“Oh, do help me,” she prayed. ‘I shall be burned.
I cannot die such a horrible death.”

Virgie felt that she was powerless—she knew that
she could not so much as stir that mass of debris.

“T will go and call some one,” she said.

“No, no! You shall not leave me,” screamed the
woman, frantic with terror.

“Madam,” Virgie returned, calmly but firmly, ‘‘it
is impossible for me to do anything for you unaided.
The best I can do will be to go for help; but first tell
me who you are in case anything should happen to
you before I can return.” ‘

“Tam Lady Linton. I live in Hampshire County,
England, and am just on a visit to this country with

 

 

my son and daughter and some other friends who

violent jerks and wrenches, and a swaying from side |

«oie THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. $=

VOL, 43—No. 3.

 

It would be difficult to portray with what stunning
foree these sentences fell upon the ears of Virginia
Alexander.

Her heart almost ceased beating, while a thousand
thoughts went flashing with lightning-like rapidity
through her brain.

She had but recently avoided a meeting, as she
supposed, with Sir William Heath, and now had en-
countered in this marvelous way his sister—the wo-
man who had written those cruel letters to Mrs. Far-
num so many years ago, but which were still stamp-
ed upon her brain so indelibly that she could repeat
them word for word. This was the woman who had
scorned her claims upon her brother—who had heart-
lessly advised her to ‘‘settle in some place where she
was not known and try to bring up her child in a re-
spectable way;” who had insulted her by sending
her a hundred pounds to soothe her disappointment
for the loss of her husband and because she could
not be recognized as the mistress of Heathdale; and
now she lay crushed beneath a mass of ruins, doomed
to a*dreadful death unless the very woman whom
she had so wronged and mocked should strain every
effort tosave her. It was truly a strange fate that
placed her thus in the power of Virgie.

For an instant an evil spirit took possession of her
heart and whispered:

“She helped to ruin my life; she mocked and scoffed
at my misery, and she ought to suffer.”

But the next moment she called ont in clear, reso-
lute tones:

“IT wild save you! have courage—do not fear,” and
she almost flew over the debris, through the gather-
ing smoke and out of the car, where she seized a man
by the arm and cried:

“Come with me; a woman is helplessly
down inside this car; it is on fire, an
be burneg to death.”

She dragged him almost by main force into the
burning wreck and made her way back to the spot
where she had left her suffering foe. ;

“T never can get her out of there—ten men couldn’t
do it before we should all perish,” said her compan-
ion when he saw her situation.

“You must! I tell you she shall be saved!” Virgie
cried almost savagely, and, seizing hold of one of the
fallen timbers in her excitement, she gave it a wrench
which told and showed that it was not so impossible
as it had at first appeared to rescue the unhappy
victim. -

Thus inspired and encouraged, the man braced
himself and pulled with all his might at the berth in
which the woman lay. It yielded; they knew they
would save her.

A fearful shriek rent the air, then all was still.

“Oh! pull her out. I can brace this beam for a
moment,” Virgie cried, and calling all her strength
and will to her aid, she did actually brace herself
against one of those heavy timbers, holding it back,
until the man dragged the unfortunate woman from
her perilous situation, and then gathering her, all
unconscious, in his arms, he staggered out of the now
rapidly burning car, closely followed by Virgie who
had barely strength enough left to reach the open
air.

“Lend a hand here, somebody,” cried her com-
panion, and three or four helpers sprang forward to
relieve him of his burden, when he turned and caught
the brave woman, who had risked her own life to
save that of an enemy, just as her strength failed her
and she would have fallen senseless, back into the
burning wreck.

The account of her heroism flew from lip to lip, and
many willing hands were stretched forth to minister
to her. Restoratives were brought, a physician was
called to attend her, and it was not many minutes
before she rallied, although she was as weak as a
little child from the terrible strain during those last
few moments in the burning car.

But she refused all attention now. ‘

“T do not suffer—I am uninjured; I am only tem-
porarily exhausted. Goto those who need you,” she
said, and creeping to the spot where she had left her
child, she gathered her close in her arms and burst
into a passion of thankful tears—thankful, not only
because they had been spared unharmed to eac
other, but because she had been enabled to obey the
divine mandate “Do good unto them which hate you,”
and though Lady Linton might never know who had
saved her—might never experience an atom of
gratitude to her whom she had wronged, yet she
would always have the blessed consciousness of evil
resisted and a noble action performed.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

pinned
she will soon

 

=>

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

The Gipsy’ Daughter.

By BERTHA-M. CLAY,

Author of “‘Another Man’s Wife,” ‘‘A Fair Mystery,”
“For Another’s Sin,” etc.

 

 

(“THE GIPSY’S DAUGHTER” was commenced in No. 51.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]}

 

.

CHAPTER XIII.
“MILADI!”

Sir Vittor and’ the new Lady St. Maurice were in
Paris, and apparently, also, in raptures with each
other. They were ata charming little hotel. where
Rose was called miladi, and obsequidus servants
waited behind her chair. She was a little gourmand,
and delighted in all the elegant French dishes. The
glitter and rainbow splendor of these waves of life,
that flowed by her and about her in this great city
enchanted her.

“Oh, Victor, are we to live here for a whole year ?
And how delicious !’”’ she exclaimed.

“Live here, my sweet! Indeed we are not. Why,
Paris is full of English people. I should be met and
recognized at once. I should be expected to live
among the rest, visit and be visited, and then——”

“Of eourse not. But you yourself planned for a
year of retirement and privacy, when you could
learn all those hundred little things in word, and
manner, and style that belong to the circle you must
now live in.” ;

‘‘Wouldn’t I learn these things best by being among
people—among those I must live with ?”

“Now, see here, child,” said Sir Vistor, taking her
on his knee and patting heron the cheek, as he as-
sumed wise airs. ‘‘The instant you are seen here, as
my wife, the whole affair of a secret marriage, and
that you are not quite of their set, will come to these
high and noble matrons here, and, at once, they will
be filled with horror, and refuse to accept you, and
your cause will be socially ruined. Besides, it would
not be a fortnight before my mother would know all
about it.”

“But it is done, and she can’t undo it!’ cried Rose,
triumphantly. ‘‘We have been married four days.”

“Certainly. But, you understand, I want to manage
my mother. Ithink everything of her. I want her
to love you and stand by you; and the plan—your
plan—was, Rose, to spend this year in working hard
to be just what will please her; and then, after a lit-
tle brief vexation, she will be pleased.” ;

Rose laid her head on his shoulder.

“Well,” she sighed, ‘‘just as you say.
in Rome, then?’ ‘

“Rome would be just as bad as Paris. So would
Nice. No, no, Rose. That will never do. If weare
to have time for all this learning, we must live very
privately. I shall search the advertisements and ad-
vertise myself for some pretty Italian villa, let
furnished, and with servants, which we can take for
a year.”

“A villa!’ said Rose, with a shake of her handsome
shoulders. “That means country, doesn’tit? I hate
the country! I am only happy in the city.”

“‘l’m sorry to hear that, for I hate the city, and am
only happy in the country. Moat Wealdon is in the
country, and I propose to live there most of my life.
You said you would be happy anywhere with me.”

“So I can,” said Rose, promptly. ‘‘Of course Moat
Wealdon was not what Imeant. Choose your own
place, Victor; whatever you say is best.”

“That is a good girl,’ said the gratified young auto-
erat. ‘‘We will leave Paris next Wednesday.”

“But, Victor,” said Rose, pulling his watch chain,
“did you know that—that I have only one dress.
This silk, and my cashmere breakfast robe.”

“Why, you always look so lovely I had not thought
anything about it. You shall have all you wish.
Just now Paris is so hot we are safe to see few of our
people if we stroll out. We willgo and buy all that
you want, Rose. I shal be delighted.”

That pleased Rose, and for the next two days she
lavished pounds like water. She wanted everything
that she saw, and her needs multiplied every hour.

Sir Victor had ten thousand a year, and at his ma-
jority had come into a great surplus, garnered by
his mother. He made no objection to Rose’s ex-
travagance; her pleasure amused and charmed him.
What an innocent, easily pleased, sweet thing she
was! ‘ ;

As for Rose, she wasin elysium. She rolled about
in a satin-lined carriage, ate bon-bons and ices, drank
champagne for the first time in her life, and was
taken to the opera and the theater every evening,
and realized that her beauty created a sensation as
she took her seat in her box. The one drop of gall
in her cup of life was that she must go where shops,
operas, and theaters were not.

‘Victor dearest,” said Rose,on Sunday morning,
when she had decided that she was ‘‘too tired to go

Shall we live

 

 

to church,” “don’t you mean to hire a maid here
in Paris?’ 5;

- =

 

ataid? I’ve no man, for convenience sake; and you
never kept a maid.”

“So I didn’t,” said Rose, complacently. She was
lying on a sofa, in the pink cashmere gown, waving
a white down fan. ‘‘Then I was Rose Reynolds;
now I am Lady St. Maurice. All ladies keep a maid.”

“A maid would be so fearfully in our way, child.”

“But I must have amaid! Why, Victor, you want
me to improve, and there’ll be nothing like a maid
for that. Consider how much a maid will learn me!”

Poor Sir Victor! his blood ran cold in his veins at
this reckless use of the verb ‘‘/o learn,” and at the
suggestion that Lady St. Maurice should be the pupil
of her maid! He frowned.

“T think you said you wished me for your only
teacher, Rose.”

“Now don’t be angry with me, Victor, or I shall
cry at once! You are to be my teacher, Am I not
improved? And am I not far nicer, and don’t I know
far more than you thought? I don’t think I need to
learn.such alot! ButI want to please you, Victor.
Yet you complain, whenever I am dressed, that
something is wrong; that [ don’t look right; that I
don’t look like your mother. I should hope I didn’t
look forty years old! Now, if I had a maid, she
would keep my hair and dress all right. And then,
what will your mother think, if I go to her in a year’s
time and don’t know how to behave with a maid? I
must have one to learn how.”

Sir Victor took up his newspaper, but between all
the lines he read this argument of Rose. Well,
yes; probably she was right, and must have the
appurtenances of her position. He threw down the
paper.

“Yes, I suppose you should have a maid. As soon
as we get away from here, I will find youone. We
shall go to Lyons on Wednesday, and there we can
get a maid who will speak English and French. But
I don’t want to hear you talking about learning from
your servant. And, Rose, we never say people will
‘learn’ us things: ‘teach’ is the word.”

‘What difference does it make?’ cried Rose. “I
can’t see.”

“There is a great difference, always, between right
and wrong, and it is being right in little things that
distinguishes a lady.” -

“Tam afraid you don’t love me, dearest Victor, if
you find so much fault!” cried Rose, and burst into a
flood of tears.

“Now, Rose, what do you mean? You admit, your-
self, that you need instruction.”

Sir Victor was angry.

Rose sprang up from the lounge and flew to throw
herself in his arms. She vowed she loved and adored
him, and his least frown broke her heart. Then she
entreated him. to forgive her, and cajoling him with
kisses and flattery, told him that ‘One thing of all
others she did wish: to learn, strictly for his sake:
She wanted to learn to dance divinely—to dance
better than any one. As soon as they were settled in
that dear little villa, would he get her a dancing-
master, who would come every day and teach her how
to dance beautifully?” .

Sir Victor agreed. His vexation fled. Was there
ever such a fond, impulsive creature, as this beauti-
ful Rose? He began to plan. He told her what a
dream, what a pastoral, what a summer idyl, their
life would be under the blue skies of Italy.

“T have thought of getting a villa near Fossano,
where the famous Countess Violante came from.
And you, dearest Rose, must get up all your energ
and industry for this one year, and work hard.
We will divide up our day for different things. You
shall learn all the right notions and talk about music
and pictures. We must give two hours a day to
reading all the standard English authors. You must
read aloud tome. That will improve your pronun-
ciation, and I will tell you about these literary things
that every one knows. Then, too, we must speak
French constantly.”

“Yes,” said Rose. -‘‘Yes; but don’t make me work
too hard, or I shall get yellow and thin, and you will
hate me! Oh, Victor, how handsome you are! Let
me kiss you this minute!”

 

CHAPTER XIV.

“YOU SHALL UNDERSTAND ONE THING!” CRIED SIR
VICTOR. a

Even in these few days of rapture since his mar-
riage. Sir Victor St. Maurice had been forced to rea-
lize that a year was all too short a time to propose in
which to render his wife fit for a place in his own
social circle. The most zealous labor could not in a
ee conquer all her glaring errors, and make up for

er evident deficiencies. And, unfortunately, he saw
no token of zealous industry, little evidence of a de-
sire to improve. Zeal in self-indulgence, including
indulgence in indolence, was all the zeal discernible
in his Rose. But Sir Victor was in earnest; his self-
justification before his mother and friends was at
stake ; and love of Rose and pride in himself enlist-
ed him in making Rose’s manners bear some ratio to
her beauty. He could not, in her, hope for the safety
of silence—that by being dumb and looking tran-
scendently lovely, she could hide defects. Rose was
incurably loquacious, -

What a curse is this loquacity, when one has noth-
ing to say, and does not know how to sayit! There
are some whose sweetness of voice and correct
beauty of speech will make platitudes sound like
wisdom. Rose was not of these.

“Rose,” said Sir Victor, ‘‘we have but three days
more for Paris. You have had shopping enough
Every one sees the museums and galleries. You
must go, and I will tell you about them all. You will
hear them referred to, and must know what to say.”

“Well,” said Rose, ‘‘only I like shopping so much!”

“You will like the galleries when you see them,”
said the masterful Victor.

They went to the Louvre. The wonderfnl Venus
was the first thing to see.

‘*What’s become of her other arm ? It looks broken
off,”’ cried Rose.

“So it was. It was not found with the rest.”

“Well, why didn’t they make a new one ?”

“What, add modern work to that antique.”

“Well, why didn’t they make a whole new figger,
then ?”’ :

“Rose, what are you talking about? Who could
match that unequaled beauty ?”

“T don’t think she’s one bit handsomer than I am,
nor so handsome,’ said Rose, with conviction, care-
fully surveying the marble perfection.

‘“‘Rose, don’t ever say such a thing.”

 

 

“And then—are you ashamed of me?” sighed Rose. ‘

“Tf I’m not to say whatI think, what shall I say?’

They went up into the museum. Rose said, look-
ing at the Palissy ware, that she had “seen loads of
gilt edge dishes handsomer and more genteel than
these things.”

Victor, to interest her, and cultivate a proper taste
for Palissy, told her the potter’s history. d

Rose thought he was ‘‘a great fool to burn up his
furniture, and if she had been his wife he should not
have done it.”

The pictures interested her a little more, only she
loudly and boldly inquired, if they painted the nude
figures from real folks, and spent some minutes in
discussing whether the Queen Regent, Marie de Med-
icis’ style of beauty were more attractive than ber
own. Indeed in all the pictures her first thought
seemed to be, whether she or the picture would
be deemed more beautiful. Her summing up of the
gallery was “that it was worth while to be a queen,”
and she was discontented all the way to the Pere La
Chaise, because she had not been born or lifted to
that exalted condition. She disliked the famous
cemetery very much. Had no idea about Abelard
and other historic personages there memorialized,
and besought Victor to go to a restaurant to dinner,
instead of returning to the hotel.

“Tused to love to goto restaurants in London,”
she said, ‘‘ and I did, whenever I could slip away
from Aunt Doll and Miss Blake.”

“You don’t mean to say you went alone?” said Vic-
tor.

“Of course I did, why not?” said Rose.

“The idea,” said the scandalized Sir Victor, “of a
young lady going alone to a restaurant, a hair-
speenenes a hotel, a post-office, a dentist, a photog-
rapher’s.”’

“For goodness sake! Why not? Couldn’t I take
er of myself, I’d like to know?’ demanded his
wife.

Sir Victor could not tell why it was that all this
girl’s defects stood outin such strong relief now,
when they seemed to have beep all hidden away in
that romantic, idylic life in Repton woods.

He did not understand that there are classes of de-
fects that lie undeveloped, and are not to be recog-
nized in the simplicity and sweetness of natural and
rural life, but which come into glaring prominence
in the social and fashionable life of cities. The ab-
solutely new surroundings of Rose provoked the ex-
hibition and growth of the worst side of her nature.
Liberty to indulge her whims and tastes stimulated
these tastes in all their crudeness, while the thought
that she had gained all this luxury by her beauty,
fostered her overweening vanity. She had once been

ateful to Victor for his love, and the offer of his
Ronde title, and fortune ; now she felt that these must
all be the natural tribute and revenue of her beauty,
and that Victor should be glad to get her—‘beauty
was worth anything.’?’ Wherever she went glances
ot ardent admiration turned to her marvelous face
and glorious form, set off now by the elegancies of
fashionable toilets.

She made the glances prolonged stares by coolly
returning them, and triumphantly rejoicing in them.

*“‘Look, Victor, look!” she said in a loud whisper,

Opera, ‘See that man over in thatbox, with ribbons
and medals on his coat. I’m sure he is a general, or
_a duke, or a prinee, or something, and he has been
gazing at. me through his opera glasses, everso long,”
and she openly pointed her finger to indicate. the in-
dividual, honoring her with his notice.

“For goodness’ sake, Rose,” cried Sir Victor, pulling
down her arm, and turning searlet. ‘‘Don’t point!
how dare you? Don’t look that way. Sit back in
the box!” .

“Why!” eried Rose, with her clear, long, loud
laugh, ‘‘are you jealous of me, Victor?”

Victor closed his hand on her arm in a grip that
hurt her.

‘Hush! Don't laugh that way! You have made
all the house look at us! You will give occasion to

 

 

 

 

 
 

   
     
    
     
    
  
  
   
   
    

 

 

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the worst suspicions. No one will believe you
wife, if you act so rudely.”

“Well, but I am——”

“And you must behave in harmony with

my

ed the first thing you know; and then I am bound to
take notice of it. and all our story would be out, and
a@ scandal would’ be roused that would kill you
socially. Cannot you understand that?’

“No,” said Rose, “I can’t. The papers say that
people who make—well, scenes—are lionized in
society.”

‘Understand, that however it may be with men,
women are never forgiven a scandal, in our set——”

“JT don’t understand,” began Rose, looking again
toward the order-decked gentleman.

“You'll understand one thing,’ said Victor, furious-
ly, “that you are to behave as I wish, and that I will
not take you to a public place again, untilyou know
how to behave reasonably.” And with an angry
hand, he dropped the velvet draperies of the box, to
screen them, and fastening her white satin cloakover
her beautiful and contumacious shoulders, resolutely
conducted her home.

Rose stormed, and Rose cried, but her offended lord
read his paper, and was obdurate. Then she took a
new method. She laid her head on hisarm, bewailed
her ignorance, wished she had not ruined him by
marrying him; implored him not to kill her with his
frowns, and so slid into his arms, and while he was
striving to deliver a lecture on the proprieties, she
was stroking his mustache, pulling his ears, running
her fingers through his wealth of tawny hair, and
burst into his grandest period with :

“Victor! How handsome you are. I adore you!
T am sure, any one of the royal princesses would have
been ready to run away with you. Make your eyes
laugh. Stop scolding me. Kiss me this minute, or I
snall die of a heart-break.”

“Tam only anxious that you should be perfection
in manners as you are in looks, Rose,” said the
mollified Victor. , :

“But why don’t you teach me then, dearest Victor.”

“T am trying to, and you will not learn.”

“Indeed, indeed I wiil. Oh, look kind at me!”

“To-morrow is our last day here. We will go after
the books we want, and our lessons will begin; we
will stay at our villa until you are accustomed to—
to the ways of society.”

“T’ll never learn them, shut up in a villa, dearest!

“You said you could learn anything from me.”

“Victor, do you mean to buy me books on ‘Eti-
quette’ and ‘Complete Letter Writers ? ”

CHAPTER XV.
“YOU SHALL NOT DIE IN PEACE, MILADI!”

Having been indulged and given everything he
wanted, as soon as he wanted it, Victor St. Maurice,
at twenty-two, was in great need of a new sensation
and a new flavor to his existence. He found it in the
idea of playing tutor to his lovely Rose. To her he
was embodied wisdom and a final court of appeal.
What could be more delightful than to mold this fas-
cinating creature according to his will? Thereafter,
when any one admired her mind or her manners, he
would be able to feel that these were of his own crea-
tion. Full of enthusiasm for his self-set task, he
went out with Rose that last day of their stay in
Paris to purchase books.

“Now, Rose, what would. you like best ?’’ he asked,
when they were seated before a counter in the largest
bookstore of the city.

“An album!” said Rose, promptly.

Sir Victor bit his lip.

“Yes? I thought you had an album.
Well, what else ?”
ine of pictures to put in it, you know,” said

ose.

Evidently he would get no help from her. He pro-
ceeded with his purchases, while Rose turned over
books of engravings and hazarded guesses, and in-
dulged in remarks which made Sir Victor bless for-
tune that the clerks were French, while miladi was
English, and anything is permitted as a pleasing ec-
centricity to an ee person.

“Oh, Victor!” said Rose, in sudden dismay, when
Shakespeare and Burns, Cowper, Scott, Wordsworth,
Dickens, Tennyson, Longfellow, Guizot, and works
on travels and geography, and atlasses Celestial and
terrestrial, were making a portentous pile. “Are you
getting all those dreadful books? I never saw so
many except in stores!”

“My dear, you saw the library at Moat Wealden!”

“The library! So I did! Dreadful place; it gave
me the most horrid nightmare! I never mean to go
into it. Victor, dear, why do you get so many books ?
You'll keep buried in them, and you'll kill me dead
with them, and you could get the sweetest bracelets
with that much money. I saw at the Palais Royale
a pair of snake bracelets, with diamond eyes and
rubies for mouths, and emeralds and turquois and
garnets for scales. You see, Victor, I can learn jew-
els withoul those hateful books.”

“You shall have all the bracelets you want, pet,”
said Sir Victor, in a whisper, ‘when you read these
books all through.” '

“Read all those hideous books! I’d never do it in
the world! I’d rather die and have done with it!”

“But, child, you agreed to study.”

“Oh, I meant you to tell me what was in things!”
said Rose, pettishly, as she walked off up the store,
her rich olive-green silk trailing behind her, her wide

een velvet hat with its wreathing ostrich plumes,

er long tan gloves—‘‘a thing of beauty, but, alas!
not a joy forever.” Every one in the store looked
after her, as, with a bored air, she roughly turned
the leaves of priceless treasures of binding and letter-
press. Sir Victor looked, too. half proud of her, half
ashamed of her. There was something undeniably
wrong with her neck dressing and the crude magenta
ribbons in her fichu. Then, though Sir Victor rejoiced
in the country and the sports of the field, and was an
athlete of the first degree, he loved books. He came
of a bookish race. Unrestrained as he had been, by
some fortunate instinct toward scholarship he had
not neglected his studies at home or at college. He
was well informed; his mother had read to him for.
hours, and from childhood these books that formed
an unknown “dark continent” to Rose had been a
home-land to him. Her scorn of them hurt and
angered him. ‘

“Seems to me you are always getting displeased
with me, Victor,” said Rose, piaintively, in the car-
riage. .

“Seems to me you don’t try to please me!’ said Vic-

Of course.

or.

They had been married a week and three days!

Tf Sir Victor St. Maurice had been accustomed to
yield to, or consider others, if he had not been landed
monarch of all he surveyed from infancy, he might,
for a little time, have submitted to the caprices of
Rose, and found delight even in her self-assertion,
vanity, and ili-temper. But as the Sybarite com-
plains even of his crumpled flower petals, so Sir Vic
tor was quick to notice all that did not drift with the
eurrent of his own ideas, and prove subservient to
his heart’s wish. During his short courtship Rose
had been all humility, worship, complacence; but
Rose was as spoiled as he was, and this role of sub-
mission was soon worn out, and cast aside. He be-
gan to see that Rose was likely to put him wrong in
the great venture, the unalterable step of his life.

If she should persist in proving entirely unfit for
her position, what then ?

Fortune had favored him in meeting, while out
with Rose, no old friends ; fortune favored him again
in giving him a charming villa near Fossano, a de-
lightful little home-nest, set in gardens like a para-
dise, and furnished with every luxury, enough
trained servants, and a first-class cook.

At Lyons Sir Victor, with some difficulty, secured
for Rose a lady’s maid who could speak both French
and English, but who never intended to live in Eng-
land again, as she could not endure the climate. He
wanted in future no maid confiding to some other
mistress the blunders and training of Lady Rose St.
Maurice. :

For a few days Rose was entirely happy in lookin
at her new home, living where a ‘‘real live count had
lived,” and turning over her purchases. She reveled
in fresh toilets, and after an hour before her glass,
under the hands ef her skilled maid, she would burst
forth on Victor, in her incomparable loveliness.

“What do you think of me now ?”

“You are radiant, beautiful as an angel.”

“Ah, I wish your mother could see me now!
see who had been wrong!”

“My pet, remember, not the dress makes the lady.”

“Well, if the dress don’t, what does, I’d like to
know ?”

“Manners, sweet nature, information.
study, Rose.”

“To learn how to dress is the first thing, Victor!
Oh, how I wish we could have some company. What
is the good of these elegant things if they are not
seen?”

“T see them. Am I not enough?”

“Oh, you—yes, of course, dearest Victor. I wish
Aunt Doll could see me! Wouldn’t she stare! And
that hateful Miss Blake! And all the girls at Blake’s!
Wovldn’t they die of envy ?”

““My dear Rose, you really must not lay particular
stress on your words in that way. Itis vulgar?”

“What difference can it make, Victor? And you
are horrid to call me vulgar.”

Rose had said that she could learn anything from
Victor, if he spoke once, or even just looked.”

He spoke scores of times, and looked unutterable
agonies at Rose without curing her of her ill man-
ners at the table. He thanked fate for a foreign
waiter. :

“Rose, my love, please do not cut bread with your
knife in that way.’

“Why, you don’t want me to bite out of the slice?
Blake said thal wasn’t genteel.”

“Please, my love, hold your fork'the other way.”

- “Aunt Doll never found fault with my holding it
‘this way, and she knew what was genteel. She had
lived in good families.”

Oh, unspeakable horror, to have Aunt Doll thus
cast in his teeth? Sir Victor was enraged.

“Never name your aunt to me again! Do you un-
derstand ?”’

“Well, I don’t mind. What do I care for Aunt Doll?
I’m far above her now.” .

But it was second nature to refer to Aunt Doll, who
had eight hundred pounds in the funds, and was a
family magnate.

She’d

We must

our state. |
If you act in this rude way, you will be rudely treat- |

 

 

{
|
| tor? Isn’t this train genteel ?”’

“You look like a queen!” said Victor, admiringly ;
“but, pray, do not use that word genteel. It is vul-
gar.
| “Eh? Why, I thought it was a very genteel word.”
| “Rose !”
| “Oh, ’llremember. Don’t eat me. SoTI look like
)@ queen? I wonder if I could have married a privece if
I had not married you, Victor?”

Sometimes Rose resented his strictures and sulked
for hours. She had a temper, as Lady Clemence had
divined. Sometimes she blazed out in fury.

One morning Sir Victor went to her dressing-room
to insist on her coming to lessons. He knocked, but
received no answer, and he heard his wife’s voice
high in altercation and invective with her maid. He
flung the door open. Justtoolate. He saw the hand
of Rose raised furiously, as she gave Hortense a re-
sounding slap on her cheek.

“T'll pay you for that, miladi!” shrieked Hortense.
“Mind you, you shall not die in peace. I will dog
you:

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

eee eee ee ee eT
{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,”
**Mountain Tom,” etc.

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

CHAPTER XXTIX.
‘*‘] AM GOING MAD!’’

Unarmed, it need not be a matter of wonder to say
that Edouart de Carle felt more than uneasy when he
saw an indian warrier, fully armed with rifle, pistols,
and knife, riding down swiftly toward him on a fieet
and powerful horse, and when, as the plumed and
painted rider came near, he heard a hoarse, sarcastic
laugh, while a voice, too quickly recognized, ad-
dressed him, he felt that he was doomed.

The voice was that of Jacque Lasalle, and he cried
out: :

“So, ho, my young artist, we are met again! Met,
as lovers like to say, to part no more.”

“Fiend! I am tnarmed and helpless, therefore your
taunts must be endured.” :

“Thanks for the information. But where are your
two bold and adroit friends—the would-be Marquis
of Omohundreau and the renowned Buffalo Bill ?”’

“That is for you to learn—but not from me!”

“Oh, ho! You are insolent. I hardly know whether
to put you out as Iwould a candle now, or to let you
burn a little longer formy amusement. Ah, here are

other tracks than. yours, and they have taken to the
water. Quite a party, too. You await here their re-
turn ?”’

The artist made no reply.

~The captain of the Red Brotherhood was puzzled.
There had been but three who escaped from him, but
here was the sign of many horsemen. fs

“You might as well explain, young man,” he said,
atlast: ‘‘A clean breast may save your life, perhaps
give you liberty, though the last I will not promise.
Either speak or prepare for fate which will wring
words of life out of you, for I can be as savage as the
worst Indian that ever tortured a hated enemy.”

Edouart de Carle tried to think what he had best
do. Lasalle seemed to be alone, yet. undoubtedly,
his band must be near. So thought the artist.
Would any statement that he made compromise the
safety of his friends, the scouts, or render less peril-
ous the situation of Adeline or Lucille? If so, he
would die—no matter how, before his lips would
open.

Lasalle kept eying the tracks, and all at once he
saw a mark which was so peculiar that he dismounted
to examine it.

“So!” he said, after a long and close inspection.
“White. women, with high-heeled shoes, have been
here! Now Ibegin to see into matters. I can read
signs about as well as I could your words were the
truth to come from your lips. The two women—
Mademoiselle Adeline and Lucille—escaped from my
band only to fall into the hands of Indians. You and
your friends have come upon the trail and followed
it up till the real reds took to the water to hide their
course. Your two friends have each separated here,
one going up and the other down stream to find the
trail where it leaves the water. You are left here to
wait their return and report.”

The artist was astonished, too much so to uttera
word of denial.

The pale face and downecast eyes of his listener as-
sured Lasalle that he had hit the truth.

“Well, we will leave a watcher here, rather like yon,
but yet not you,” said Lasalle, coolly. ‘‘Take off your
outer garments, take them off quickly, or I’ll leave
your corpse here with the clothes on instead of your
clothes only.”

The artist could not comprehend what Lasalle
meant to do, but when he saw him place his hand
on a revolver, he knew that he must obey or die.

“Be quick! There is a blanket to take the place of
the clothes you take off,” said Lasalle, tossing down
a woolen robe.

The artist obeyed. Hetook off his hat, his coat,
and his pantaloons, and stood in his underclothes.

“Now, sir, you see that bush? Place your hat and
clothes on it, as you would on a model when you are
in your studio. Beina hurry, and do it artistically,
or I will help you.
shoulders.”’

The artist knew well that he must obey or die.

save him, for he had faith in them.

In a few minutes—for he delayed all that he dared—
a very respectable figure loomed up from the vush,
made from his clothes stretched on the limbs and
surmounted by his hat.

“That will do.

blanket over your shoulders, and follow me.”

Mechanically, but, ah, how unwillingly, the artist
obeyed.

Lasalle, watching the steps of the artist, rode slow-
ly back into the woods which crowned the hills in
their rear. His hand, ever on his pistol, was ready
to check any attempt at flight, to punish any dis-
obedience to his order.

Arriving at a small knoll, which commanded a
view of the grassy plains below, and of the river up
and down, while those upon it were nearly hidden
in the leafy screen, Lasalle dismounted and fastened
his horse.

Then gathering a bundle of dry sticks, he set them
on fire, and when they were all ablaze, he threw an
armful of moss, torn from the roots of trees near by,
upon it. i

The blaze in an instant died down, while a dense
column of white smoke rose from the smoldering fire
in the moss.

With a look of satisfaction, the hunter watched
the piliar of smoke as it went higher and higher in
the sky, and then he fed the flames from time to time
with dry sticks, and threw on more moss so as to
keep the signalup. |

Edouart de Carle, not knowing what it was for, felt
rather pleased, than otherwise, at this bold revelation
of the whereabouts of himself and his captor, for he
thought it would aid Texas Jack and Buftalo Bill to
find him, and his escape would thereby be facilitated.

So he stood quietly by and saw Lasalle feed the
fire, keeping an intent watch up and down the river,
on his own account, hoping each moment to see one
or both of the scouts come in sight.

The hunter seemed not to think of them, for his
attention, when not on the fire and smoke, seemed to
bend the other way. If he expected any one, he
looked for them to come from the forest or over the
hills; for he kept his eyes turned in that direction
more than any other, seeming also to listen for
sounds from that course.

“This is not France for one like you, young man!
Aren’t you sorry that you ever came over here?”

This question, stern and abrupt, came from La-
salle.

“No, sir,” replied the artist. “Were it not for the
dangers to which others than myself are exposed, I
would rejoice. I have seen enough to think of and
to paint froin all my life.”

“To paint trom!’ sneered the hunter. ‘That seems
to be all you artists think of!”

“True sir. It is our whole life.”

“You can’t eal your canvas. Oil and paint would
thin you down, I’m thinking. Ha! there is one of
your friends. He rides fast, as if he had news.”

The last exclamation left the lips of Lasalle as both
he and Edouart saw Texas Jack come down the op-
posite bank of the stream in the valley at a swift
gallop.

“When he finds a dummy in the bush in place of a
live Frenchman he'll follow our trail, and then—why,
the prospects that he will ever see Castle Omohun-
dreau will grow exceedingly slim. With a rest over
this rock I can command eight hundred yards of
clear ground on our trail, and if he can dodge seven-
teen balls from as good a Henry rifle as ever touched
a shoulder, ne ought to live.”

The villain, while he spoke, carefully examined his
rifle to see that it was ready for use and worked well
in lock and supply chamber.

Edouart de Carle longed ineffably to bound out
from the covert to warn his friend of his peril, for he

 

 

Then put the blanket over your | :
| the place where the butt of his rifle rested on the
His |
only hope was that the scouts would return, and yet |

 

Believing you to be here waiting ;
the scouts will not detect the cheat till close at hand. |
By that time I will be ready for them. Now, put the |

 

knew that he would surely follow his trail when he

saw the deceit in the bush—or at least he thought
that he would.

“So ho! You are getting uneasy, young man!”
ree Lasalle. “I think I will have to put you at
rest.”

Taking a lariat from his saddle-bow, the hunter in
asecond threw its noose over the arms and body of
the artist, and with a few rapid turns secured him
firmly to a tree near his fire. Then he took a strap,
and witha stout stick made and fastened a gag in
the mouth of his hapless prisoner.

There, young man, there! You can look all you
want to, but motion and yoice are not in your line
just now. I have no need to caution you to keep
quiet, for the game of silence is a sure pop on your
part. Now I'll slip down to a better position where
I can make a sure thing of it when the would-be
marquis tries our trail.”

Lasalle crept off down the hill as he spoke, and
Edouart de Carle, in an agony of mind as well as
body, bound so tightly that it seemed as if his veins
would burst, saw him creep nearer and nearer to the
scout, who had just reached the bank opposite to the
bush on which the clothes were stretched.

The scout halted there, evidently thinking that
there was something wrong, and Edouart, thinking
not of his own peril, hoped that the brave Omohun-
dreau would not cross the stream.

The latter halted a moment only, then, turning his
horse into the water, he crossed swiftly to the place
where the cheat was erected.

The artist, startled by a crackling sound near his
feet, saw now, to his terror, something which drew
his eyes and thoughts away from Texas Jack, Lasalle,
and everything but a new and fearful peril.

The fire left by Lasalle had caught among some
dry leaves and sticks near by, and was spreading
with a rapidity fearful and strange to one not used to
burning woods and prairies. , a

The poor artist saw thatif it was not at once put
out, the whole forest, and then the prairie beyond
would be ablaze in a very few minutes. The fire
each second spread wider and wider, and burned
more and wore fiercely, and he unable to give the
alarm to Lasalle, who was far down the hill, felt that
a terrible doom indeed awaited him—that now he
ae aeor, suffocate orburn with no hope or chauce

or relief.

The red flames ran serpent-like from point to point, |

the fire a great leaps as if it was a living thing,
and now the heat began to be intolerable.

The poor artist glanced down the hill, and his men-
tal agony increased, for he saw that Lasalle, evi-
dently unaware of the spreading fire, was intently
watching Texas Jack, who had come upon, and was
examining their trail.

The smoke rose, and the flame rushed through a
glade of high, dry grass between him and them, and
he could see them no more.

With a prayer on his lips he closed his eyes, bracing
every nerve for the horrible death that seemed so
surely to await him. He had worked and struggled
to loosen the strong hide rope that bound him, but
all his efforts were useless.

“T must die!” he moaned.
my poor Adeline!’

At the very instant when hope was more than mad-
ness, for the flames were at his feet, were creeping
up the tree to which he was bound, when he breathed
only choking smoke and blasting fire, he felt the
ropes yielding.

One wild, frantic effort,and he was loose, but it
seemed as if he was no better off, for fire—jire on
every hand, encircled him.

Wildly he rushed through it, on what course he did
not know, the crackling flames eating into his face
and limbs, and setting the blanket on fire, which he
still kept wrapped about him. On, on, while wild
beasts howling in terror rushed past him, while hiss-
ing serpents writhed in his path, and screaming birds
flew over his head—on, madly, he rushed, only won-
dering why he had yet strength to keep on.

Suddenly, when his breath began to fail and his
limbs to give way, he heard the sound of falling
water even amid the crash and crackle of the terrible
fire. On, on, guided by the sound, he tottered, until,
when nature, utterly exhausted, seemed to fail, he
staggered or fell into and under a small cascade.

‘“‘Heaven is merciful!’ he moaned, as he felt the
cool dash of falling waters upon his blistered, shriv-
eled skin.

But now—horror on horror—as he raised up, he felt
sure that the waters and the rocks about him were
alive with serpents, and that wild beasts of every
kind had rushed, like him, here for safety. He had
escaped one death only to die from the poisoned
fangs of horrible snakes, or to be torn in pieces by
oe tierce cougar, or the wild wolf, or the hideous

ear.

Groaning, he stood directly in the strength of the
waterfall, with only his face kept where air could be
breathed, expecting each instant to receive his death
from some of the venomous reptiles, or some mad-
dened beast.

An icy shudder runs through the frame of him who
pens this cold description—yes, reader, through your
veins as well; then what must he have felt?

“Tam going mad! Iam going mad! T cannoteven die
with the light of reason on my soul!” he exclaimed,
as his brain whirled, and all reason seemed to drift
away from him in that dreadful scene of turmoil and
horror. “Ah! do I see a human face?”

“Great Heaven, guard

CHAPTER XXX.
THE GRASS ON FIRE.

“By all that’s lovely, this beats me!” muttered
Texas Jack, as he rode up to the bush where the gar-
ments of Edouart de Carle had been so placed as to
look like him in person when seen at a distance.
“This looks odd. Here are the clothes of the artist,
made up so as to look like him, while there are no
signs of any struggle about as if there had been a
fight. Those, too, are his own tracks, where the sand
is clean, close to the busb. He must have put the
clothes there himself, Can he have gone crazy? It
must be. Ill have to hunt his trail; but I’d like to
seé Buffalo Bill, and tell him that I’ve found where
the trail left the water, and seen the smoke of the
camp-fire. Ah! there’s another smoke up yonder. It
has been made by the artist, or else there has been
some foul play going on.”

The scout stopped suddenly, for he saw new tracks
where a horse had stood, its rider dismounted, and

ground.

“There’s been a stranger here,” he muttered. “An
enemy, no doubt—well armed. The artist had no
arms. NowTl seeitall. This enemy has made him
strip, put his clothes up as a blind, and _ then forced
him off. Well, the poor boy will soon find that he has
one true friend left. I’ll take that trail, and it'll have
to be a better man than me to heave me off from it.
I wish Buffalo Bill was here. I want that trail watch-
ed while I follow this. Ha! the woods are on fire.
There'll be fun now among snakes and wildcats.
Whew! how the blaze runs! It will take the grass,
and then good-by to trails in that direction. Ill have
to cross the drink to-get away from it. Ah! there’s
amanup inthe edge of the woods—not the artist,
either. He ison the skulk, but the fire will warm
him out. He sees me—that’s a sure pop. It is an
Indian, or else one of Lasalle’s band. How things
are mixed. Ah, here comes Buffalo Bill. Now for a
council of war.”

Buffalo Bill was seen coming up the stream from
below, and Jack waited impatiently for his arrival.

“Tt seems tome you have made a thundering big
fire for a recall signal,” said Buffalo Bill, as he rode
up. ‘Oris it the doings of the little Frenchman—the
artist.”

“Look there.
Texas Jack.

He pointed to the clothes on the bush.

‘‘Moses and maple sugar! What does that mean?
Has he shed his skin and gone up 2?”

‘No; he has been made to strip by some mean cuss,
leave his clothes there, and been carried off. There’s
an Indian or some one of Lasalle’s band up there in
the edge of the wood; but he’ll have to leave there
soon. Heavens, how the fire runs! Bill, ’ve found
the trail I was after, but if this firespreads, asit looks
like to do, them that made it will be burned out if
they don’t reach water.”

“Look! There goes a horse—yes, two of them,
without riders; and a man, or Indian, afoot, is dodg-
ing off among the trees. Le’ts run him down,” cried
Buffalo Bill.

“The fire would do that before we could get there.
See; itis in the grass. Let’s take them clothes, for
we may yet run afoui of the artist, and get across the
river before the fire gets here.”

“Acreed, mate. But thisis too bad. You’ve found
the trail that the women and Indians left water on?”

“Yes; aboutsix orjsevenmilef up. But they’rein the
very hills where the fire sweeps. They’ll get scorched
out sure.”

“Maybe they’ll see it in time to take water.”

“That will be their only chance; and then
Look, Bill, look! the fire is in the grass! We've got
to leave.”

“Yes,” said Buffalo Bill, and, dashing up to the
bush, he took the clothes of Edouart de Carle, rolled
them in a bundle, and lashed them in front of his
saddle.

A moment after, while the wave of flame rolled
down toward them through the long, dry grass, they
entered the wide but shallow stream, and crossed.

Then, halting, they looked over on the hills, but
looked in vain, for a sight of the artist or the Indian
they had seen.

Animals of all kinds, howling in terror, were seen
rushing down to the river, and the sight beyond was
grand even in its awful sublimity.

The sea of fire rolling over the plain was nothing
compared to the conflagration in the hills. There,
lurid pillars of flame rose high above the murky
clouds of smoke where tall trees, blazing to their
peaks, rose high on the steeps. There the fire seem-
ed to leap, and toy, and whirl in great sheets, while
the smoke made it all the more vivid as it rose before
the dark background.

“Tf the artist was here, he’d think of nothing but
painting a picture of that,” said Buffalo Bill. ‘What
are you thinking of, Jack?’

“Them poor women and their danger. Bill, we’ve
got nothing to do here. Let’s ride up stream to where

That is all Lean find of him,” said

 

 

I found the trail. We may find something to do

there.” !
The two men turned the heads of their horses up
stream and went on at a gallop.

CHAPTER XXXII.
TEXAS JACK MAKES AN OFFER.

The Indian chief, Wide Mouth, seeming to feel
satisfied that his enemies had lost his trail, and hav,
ing @ poor hunting-ground where he last camped-
made up his mind to break camp and shape his
course for his village. The sooner he turned his
white captives over to his sons the better it would
be, for now he was in constant fear of their recapture
or escape, for with the scouts in search for them, as
he had no doubt they were, it would be hard to hide
long from their keen eyes.

So at the very time when Texas Jack and Buffalo
Bill were riding so fast up the stream, he was emerg-
ing from the forest with his train, hastened by the
approaching fire, for the smoke cloud and the noise
of the fire fiend roaring along on in its march of
destruction had already reached his eyes and ears.

They had just .crossed the river, and were rising a
bluff on the safe side, when the two scouts broke in
sight not a quarter of a mile below.

There was an instant halt on both sides, to prepare
for defense and to reconnoiter.

Wide Mouth and his small band of warriors, were
well armed, and as braves brought up on the war-path
should not have hesitated an instant to attack two
men, but believing those two men to be “big medi-
cine,” or, in his idea, invulnerable, the old chief did
hesitate.

Had he known that their weapons consisted of but
one rifle. and avery scanty supply of ammunition
for that, and oue knife, it is not likely that he would
have held back. To killor capture two such men as
they, would have been immortality in his tribe.

He halted on the crest of a ridge, while theystopped
on another, not over a quarter of a mile, or along
rifle range from him.

The scouts saw, before he could conceal them, the
white women, easily known by their dresses, and
Wide Mouth knew that there would be no use to deny
having them, if this affair resulted in a talk instead
of a fight.

That the scouts should desire the former, prudence
alone would dictate, not account of difference in
force, but from the fact of being almost unarmed.

Had Texas Jack and Buffalo Bill been full armed
with rifles and revolvers, they would no more have
hesitated to charge down on that Indian band than
they would to have dashed into a herd of buffalo.

In truth Wide Mouth, who knew the men so well,
wondered why they halted. Also he wondered where
the third man was, for he had seen three at the time
the bear was taken with the lasso.

But he had scant time to wonder in.

Hoisting a white kandkerchief on the barrel of his
rifle, Buffalo Bill signified a desire to talk.

“Wide Mouth had rather talk than fight with them !”
muttered the chief. Then turning to one of his trust-
iest then, he bade him watch the captives closely
while he rode down on the plain between the hills to
meet the scout. :

Then, hoisting a white piece of buckskin on his
lance as ananswering signal of peace, the old chief
rode slowly to a line where Texas Jack—half way be-
tween the hills—weited for him.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

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{GOLD WATCH, DIAMOND
PRESENTS: BEING, and other Jewelry

TO INTRODUCE OUR BUSINESS.

i E

OUR PLAN Our principals in Switzerland, France
* and England, havesent over quantities
of Music Boxes of the most exquisite workmanship,
correctness of tone and time, First class Diamond
Rings, Watches and other Jewelry at marvelous
prices when compared with American charges. Wepro_
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THE FIRST In order to be thoroughly impar-
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us the shortest verse in the Bible, giving the chapter
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inches long, 1Sinches wide and is a rare gem.
THE SECOND Present will go to the fifth person
auswering correctly, an elegant S}
first water Diamond ring (18k gold) worth $50. 7.
THE THIRD a fine gold watch, full movement, Stem
Winder and Stem Setter, $75. dadies
or gents), to the tenth person answering correctly.
337 OTHER To the 2nd, Srd, 4th, 6th, 7th, 8th,
s 9th, llth and all up to the 50th,
(should there be so many) a gentleman’s scarf pin or
ladies’ ornamented hair pin or dagger, (according to
sex) worth $2. each, while the next 290 (should there
beso many) will receive a beautiful gilt floral hair pin.
THE LAST TEN who answer correctly will each
receive o fine Swiss Music Box,
(which will play 2 popular tunes), polished and orna-
mented inlaid case, worth $6. each at retail.
You MUST in every case enclose with your answer
82 cents, in silver, stamps or postal
note, and we will send a package of choice, English,
illuminated Christmas and New Years Cards and
499 beautiful, new style German scrap pictures,
(assorted sizes) with sheet of sentimental verses for
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All our goods are new, just over from the factories.
Catalogue will be sent with each package and samples
of novelties as fast asimported, for the next two years.
The Mozart Importing and Publishing Co.,
Drawer 51, New Haven, Conn.

 

THE NEW DEPARTURE DRUMS

, are made with patent double acting rods and
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LYON & HEALYs Chicago, Ill.

 

Your Name on this Pencil Stamp, 250.

halman Mfc. Co., Baltimore, Md.,U.S. A.
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«~<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

 

VOL. 43—No. Se

 

 

ILLOGICAL.

BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX.

She stood beside me while I gave an order for a bonnet ;
She shuddered when I said, ‘‘And put a bright bird’s
wing upon it.”

A member of the Audubon society was she,
And cutting were her comments upon worldly folks like
me.

She spoke about the helpless birds we wickedly were
harming,

She quoted the statistics, and they really were alarming.

She said God meant his little birds to sing in trees and
skies,

And there was pathos in her speaking, and tears were in
her eyes. ;

“Oh, surely in this beauteous world, you can find lovely
things '

Enough to trim your hats,” she said, ‘ without the dear
birds’ wings.”’

I sat beside her that same day in her own home at din-
ner—

Angelic being that she was, to entertain a sinner!

Her well-appointed table groaned beneath the ample
spread,

Course followed appetizing course, and hunger almost
fled.

And then my charming hostess cried, “Do have a reed-

* bird, dear ;

For they’re so delicate and sweet at.this time of the

year !”

ROMANCES ON THE RAIL.

Tales Told by Commercial Travelers.

No. 3.

. A. FREEMAN,

AA

NG

TAS

= i) 6S

Charley had barely finished the ‘‘Story of a Sunday”
when Ed, who had been showing some indications of
impatience, said:

“Frank, how was it about my father being saved
from bankruptcy by a Jew? I never heard of it.”

“Likely enough. You were at school in Germany
at the time, and the old gentleman wasn’t likely to
detail itto you. It happened in this way:

“Your father was then, 3; you know, extensively
engaged in the coffee business. There had been a
sharp decline in prices, and he bought very heavily
in anticipation of an advance that would net him
eneugh money to enable him to retire from business.
He made the one great plunge of his life, and risked
all his capital, and all he could raise at the banks on
this venture, buying all he could secure either for
future or immediate delivery.

“But the rise he had anticipated was slow to come.
Instead of shooting up like a rocket, the price of
coffee kept slowly going lower and lower, and your

father saw the day approaching when the short rates
he had given would fall due, and he knewthat he
must sell at a serious loss or let his notes go to pro-
test and his credit be impaired.

“Day after day went by, and he borrowed heavily
from private friends to keep up his margins on the
coffee he had bought for future delivery; and still
the prices sank, until at last he found that if he
should sell out complete and entire his losses would
equal his entire fortune. He sought new friends
from whom to borrow to tide him over, but without
avail. At last he thought of one, a wealthy Jew,
who had known him but a few years, but who had
successfully applied to him on more than one occa-
sion for subscriptions to various expensive charities.
To him he went, detailed the story of his great peril,
and begged him to lend him a few thousand dollars
to tide him over until] the inevitable advance should
come.

“The old Jew (whom, for convenience sake, I shall
eall Simon) listened attentively and courteously, and
then, after a few minutes of thoughtand calculation,
Saiu:

“*T can say nodding now. Come, if you please, to-
morrow morning at ten o’clock.. Den I will dell you
if I do someding.’ .

“With this grain of comfort your father went back
to his store, and found coffee another point lower.

“Next day he presented himself at old Simon’s
office, and, after asking your father a few questions
as to the extent of the business, capital invested,
etc., Simon said:

“Now I tell you what Ido. I will go into partner-
ship with you. You must inventory your stock at
present value, und I go in equal partner.’

“<But, my dear Mr. Simon,’ protested your father,
‘I don’t don’t want a partner. That won’t help me.
I could sellout half my business for cash at present
prices any minute, but it would only leave me that
much worse off.’

“*You mistake me, my tear frent. I ton’t vant to
buy halluf your pizniss. Chust you dake stock, und
see how much you have got mitout de agounts, und I
vill put in cash money up to de same amount. You
ean look after de debts, und I vill handle de pizniss,
und de partnership shall exist vun year.’

“Tt was neck or nothing, with the old gentleman,
and as old Simon was risking a good deal of money,
it was in point of fact a very good offer. So your
father, like a wise man, accepted. Old Simon sold
off thirty or forty thousand dollars’ worth of stocks
and bonds, and put his money down like a little hero.

This made your father solid with the banks, and
the new firm actually bought a hundred thousand
dollars’ worth more of coffee, at bottom figures.

“Tt wasn’t more than a week until prices went up
with a rush, and when the partnership expired, by
limitation, the two old gentlemen had a very satis-
factory settlement. Your father was able to buy
back his partner’s share of the increased business,
and had a snug balance besides, and old Simon clear-
ed up something over twenty-five thousand dollars.”’

“Of course!” growled Ed. ‘It goes without saying
that he made more out of it than my old man did.”

“Where would you have been to-day, my lad, if he
hadn’t risked his good money in your father’s sinking
ship?’ retorted Frank, a little annoyed at Ed’s ugly
persistence.

“Well, how did you come to know somuch about it,
anyway ?’ asked Ed.

“T was private book-keeper for old Simon at the
time. Wasn’t I, Mr. Goldberg?’ said Frank, address-
ing the elderly Jew, who had apparently been asleep
during the telling of the mcident.

“Yes, I tink so, if you say so, Frank; vot is it?”
queried the old gentleman.

‘“‘Wasn’t I your book-keeper in 1864, when you went
into the coffee trade ?”

“Yes, beleefso. You vant a recommentation? I
gif you a good vun!” said Mr. Goldberg, smilingly.

At this moment, a sharp little crash and jingle of
glass was heard at the window by Ed’s head, and a
small round hole appeared in the pane.
fellfrom the seat opposite, and a bullet dropped,
flattened, on to the floor, after a fruitless effort to
bore a hole throtigh an iron bolt-head, in the further
side of the car. It seemed evident that some reck-
less and malicious scoundrel had, out of pure vicious-
ness, fired at the passing train, without regarding
the great risk of injuring or killing some passenger.

There was some excitement, when it was discover-
ed that a shot had been fired through the car, and
some impulsive passengers advocated stopping the

A splinter |

train, and going back in search of the wretch who
had committed the dastardly act. This was ofcourse
impracticable, but the conductor promised to tele-
graph the matter back from the next stopping-place,
for the action of the authorities.

Frank picked up the bullet, and noticed that it had
been fired from a rifle. Ed, who had been consider-
ably perturbed by the narrowness of his escape from
death or disfigurement, asked for it as a keepsake.

Frank handed over the ugly bullet, and Ed made a
sudden discovery.

“Boys,” he exclaimed, “that ballisfroman Entield

rifle! See, here are the marks cutinto it by the three

spiral grooves of the barrel, andhere is the conical
depression in its base. If there’s another such rifle
in this section I'll eat it. They are used only in
England, and this bullet is a sure clew to the owner
of the gun that it came from.’

A gentlemanly, well dressed young man, who look-
ed like a student or eee: man, and who had
drawn near during the discussion of the recent inci-
dent, now spoke to Ed:

‘*Will you let me see that ball ?”’ he asked.

Ed handed it to him, and the young man produced
a card which he proffered in exchange. Itread:

JOHN HARDESTY,
ANDERSON’S DETECTIVE AGENCY,
New York.

“If you will let me have this truth-teller,” he said,
“T will go back from the next stop, and try to nip the
man that sent it in here.”

Ed agreed, and the young man seemed inclined to
chat while the train dashed along. :

“Thad a closer callthan that of yours once,” he said
to Ed. “A bullet about the size of this clipped this
lock of hair off my top-knot.”

He had taken out his pocket-book as he spoke, and
produced a small oilskin envelope from which he
took a lockof hair, to which stilladhered a thinribbon
of the scalp.

Bending forward he parted the hair across the top
of his head, revealing a long and somewhat deep fur-
row entirely devoid of hair, and covered with a thin,
shining skin resembling a bit of shriveled pink silk.

Piha do you think of that fora near thing?” he
asked.

“Tell you better when I hear the particulars,” said
Ed, in interested expectation. :

“Well, it’s soontold. I guess I’ll have time before
the next stop.”

And the young detective told them the story of —

THE DETECTIVE AND THE KEG OF
SILVERED COIN.

Thadoccasion, two years ago, to take aprofessional
trip through Southern Texas in a quiet way, insearch
of a young amateur who had shown too decided a
talent for signing other people’s names. He had been
trying his skill on a matter-of-fact business man, and
he, failing to ee cae such expensive genius, sent
me to huntup the young forger, who had gone in
pursuit of the good, the true, the beautiful, in the
general direction of the Star of Empire.

I traced him from Galveston to Indianola, and
thence to Victoria. The scent was getting fresh,
when one hot evening I took the all-night stage to
Gonzales, where I felt sure I should overtake him
the next day.

As the stage rolled out of the quiet little village it
was hailed by aman who stood in the door ofa hut
by the road-side.

‘*Hold on, Bill,” he called out to our driver. ‘‘There’s
a kipple o’ passengers here for ye.”

“Bill” pulled up, and two people emerged from the
door of the hut, carrying between them a five-gallon
keg that was so heavy as to require their combined
strength to lift it into the vehicle. They were follow-
ed by the two passengers, one of whom superintend-
ed the satisfactory stowing away of the heavy keg.
These two then climbed in, and the stage proceeded
on its way.

We three were the only passengers, and for a while
neither spoke. The elder of the two new arrivals
Was a sun-browned man, who, in fringed leather leg-
gins and broad sombrero, heavy with silver bullion,
looked the ideal cowboy or ranchman.

His companion was one.of those rare sights, a
handsome native Mexican girl. She was perhaps
twenty years of age, and of exquisite form, which is
more frequent among Mexican women than beauty of
feature. Of course she was dark, and her hair was
| far from silken, but it was an intense glistening black
| —So black that it made her look fair by contrast—
|; and her eyes were like jetty diamonds. When her
| brilliant smile parted her red lips, showing a line of
small white teeth like kernels of young corn, it was
positively dazzling. I could not help observing these
people as closely as I dared without exciting their
notice. They filled me with interest, and I took as
much note of them as I could without staring.
Finally the man addressed me. I was a little startled
by his first remark. It was:

“Mister, are you armed ?”

Of course I was armed. I would have been a pret-
ty sort of a fool to go in search of an outlaw other-
wise. But I only replied by producing a small 22-cal-
iber revolver, which I carried for effect.

-The man smiled when he saw it.

“T see I can trust you,” he said. ‘‘You are certainly
no Texan. If yor. were to be caught in San Antonio
with that toy, they’d buy you.a doll and a pound of
candy, and send you home to your ma.”

He then produced a navy revolver and asked me if
I thought I could shoot it off in case of emergency.
Well, I don’t let many of the boys beat me with a
navy, but I wasn’t showing off just at that moment.
I didn’t know what he might be leading up to; so I
told him that I thought I knew enough not to point
it in the wrong direction.

Then he explained. He said that he was a cattle
buyer, living in San Antonio, whither he was going
to make a purchase. The keg, he said, was full of
silver dollars, which were the principal medium in
that section of the country; and he apprehended an
attack by one of the numerous bands of outlaws who
infested the locality, and who, he had reason to fear,
me of his being on his journey with the specie that
night.

He said, further, that the girl by his side was
the daughter of his partner in San Antonio, and that
he was as responsible for her safety as for that of the
money.

This indirect appeal to my gallantry stimulated me
to reply that in the event of an attack he would find
me ready to do my part.

He thanked me, and proceeded to tell me a number
of interesting and startling narrations of the exploits
of the banditti which infested that road. One gang
in particular, and the one he most dreaded, worked
in parties of four or five, and went uniformed as
United States soldiers, for better security against
suspicion. They could thus more easily approach
travelers, and very often they succeeded in making
important captures of booty without firing a shot.

It was not very long before I got quite confiden-
tial with the man, who seemed a straightforward and
pleasant fellow; and the girl, who understood
English, and spoke it with a pretty brokenness,
joined in the conversation, and we had a merry time
for a while.

Toward midnight conversation flagged, and the girl
dropped off to sleep with her head on her compan-
ion’s shoulder.

I had forgotten about the silver, and the navy re-
volver, which I had placed on the seat beside me, and
was in that drowsy condition between sleeping and
waking, when the coach stopped, the doors were
flung open, and a man in full U. S. uniform stood on
either side and demanded a surrender.

The cattle buyer’s voice rang in my ears. He cried:

“Shoot! partner, shoot!” and he sprang from the
farther side of the coach, following the girl, who
dropped herself right into the arms of our captors.

Half awake, I made a dive for the pistol, but be-
fore I could reach it I was dragged to the ground and
pinioned.

By the pale light of the moon I saw that our cap-
tors were only four in number. They had secured
the girl and myself, but the cattle-man had escaped.
He had taken advantage of the confusion caused by
the girl’s leap among the men, and aided by the
darkness, had gained the thicket of mezquite bushes,
where pursuit was as useless as it was dangerous.

They tied us up like two packages of merchandise,
and hoisting us into the stage, bade the driver push
on. I thought this a strange method of action, but
concluded that the driver might be in league with
the robbers, and that at some convenient point we
should be disembarked. I felt no great alarm, as I
had done nothing to court their animosity or awaken
resentment, and I had nothing about my person to
indicate my profession, all my papers having been
left in Galveston until needed.

The coach rolled on for an hour or more, my cap-
tors riding alongside. The first pink streaks of day-
light were beginning to show, when at the entrance
to a bit of thick woods the driver turned off from the
road and presently drove up to a small house stand-
ing ina clearing and surrounded by a high fence or
stockade.

A challenge was given and answered, the gates
swung open, and we drove into a sort of military
camp. The Mexican girl and myself were permitted
to alight, and we were immediately surrounded by a
party of men, all wearing government uniforms like
our captors. One, who wore a lieutenant’s straps,
questioned us, myself in English and the girl in
Spanish. She refused to be communicative, and I,
by profession, am not very much given to unbosom-
ing myself. I told him that I was traveling on a
prospecting tour, and met my companions, as t have
detailed to you, and that further than this I knew
nothing. > :

“Sergeant, is this man one of the gang?’ he then
asked one of my captors.

“Sure, leftenant. The one that got away’s the big-
gest toad in the puddle. Joe’n we knows him from
*’way back. The greasers call him ‘El Coyote,’ be-
cause he’s such a cunning article. We heard him eall
on this chap—‘Shoot, partner,’ when we took ’em,
and if this woman hadn’t throw’d herself all over us,
we’d a had him, too. Here’s his gun,” and he pro-
duced the navy that my fellow-passenger had forced
upon me.

“Did you capture any of the stuff?’

“Sure—a kag full of it.”

And now the truth flashed through my mind. My

 

 

 

 

traveling companions were the outlaws, and my captors
were really United States soldiers.

“Colonel,” I asked, ‘‘will you tell me the contents
of that keg ?”

“Well, yes. To make your mind easy, so that you
may have a comfortable visit with us, l’l] inform you
that it’s the same lot of counterfeit money that it was
when you helped your captain to ship it.” i

Counterfeit money! Here was a delightful situa-
tion. I saw now that I must tell the whole truth,
and at once. I begged the officer for a private inter-
view, which he sarcastically declined. j

“Let’s all have the benefit of your conversation,”
he said. ‘Your lady friend may enjoy it also, and
may probably be able to furnish you an occasional
hint if you make any errors in your statement,”

So I then told him my real business, and offered to
fully establish the facts as soon as my baggage could
be forwarded, and certain responsible persons com-
municated with.

He listened attentively.

‘Tt’s no good, my friend. You have altogether too
many lines of business for a good citizen. These men
you naine are just as likely to be in with you as not.
We'll give you a fair trial and full examination.”

In yain I pleaded. Iwas told that atrain load of
prepared evidence, such as Iprobably could produce,
would be of no avail.

At sunrise I was tried. The court consisted of the
lieutenant and two sergeants, one of whom was also
the principal witness against me. I protested that
they had no right to sit in judgment upon me, and de-
manded that I be turned over to the civil authorities
for a legal examination.

The lieutenant laughed.

“My friend,’ he said, ‘‘my orders are positive and
plain, Iam here to break up, if I can, all the gangs
pag infest this locality, and there is only one way to

oO it.

“If Idepend upon the courts, I know that many
prosecutors are either in league with the outlaws or
are held by them in terrorem. I propose to adopt
the heroic treatment, and I may as well tell you that
you’d better arrange your affairs as quickly as pos-
sible, for at eight o’clock, precisely, you will be shot.
I will take the Spe Santee if lam wrong, but I am
quite sure I have made no mistake.”

At this, the pretty little Mexican burst into tears;
and the lieutenant accepting this as a further proof
of my being associated with her, smiled grimly, and
left us. 5

It was no use repining. Ifelt that my time was
short, and growing shorter with most uncomfortable
celerity. I asked for writing materials, which the
the sergeant furnished me, and I wrote several let-
ters hometomy parents and sisters, to my ou are’
to my clients, and others. I also wrote a short de-
tail of the circumstances to the proprietor of the
Menger Housein San Antonio, to whom I had pri-
vate letters of recommendation. He was a wealthy
brewer, and a man of influence. Handing these, un-
sealed, to the lieutenant, I asked him to read and for-
ward them. He politely declined to meddle with my
private affairs, but sealed them unread, and gave
them to a soldier, with instructions to see them for-
warded. .

“T confess that I am sorry for you, young man,” he
said to me, “but sympathy is not compatible with
my duty. You have-only yourself to blame. You may
have been all right up to the time you struck this
State, but you can’t explain away all these circum-
stances; there is too much evidence against you.” _

The horror of the next hours I cannot describe. It
was a 1AReNs bright summer morning. We were in-
closed in a large square, which the diligent labor of
the soldiers, who had much available time for such
work, made brilliant and beautiful with a wealth of
the semi-tropical plants that throvein extravagant
profusion. An endless variety of bright plumaged
birds darted in and out among the flowers and trees,
and every breathing thing seemed to exult and rejoice
in living and being free. The sun seemed to shine
brighter, and the air seemed freer and more health-
inspiring than usual; and here was I, young, strong,
full of life and health, condenmed to be shot down
like a dog within an hour, and thena shallow hole
in the earth, a senseless corpse tumbled into it, a
hurried shoveling back of the loose earth, and—ob-
livion. It was too terrible.

I buried my face in my hands and burst into tears.
My thoughts were of my gentle, patient mother and
my sisters. It would break their hearts. In fanay, I
could see them sink under the crushing grief of this
appalling and monstrous crime that was to rob them
of their boy. The Mexican girl, who was guarded
near me, seeing my grief, which I could’ no longer
control, spoke:

“No weep, senor,” she said. ‘I tell something to
the commandante. He will not let you killed when
I say him what I can.”

I knew that the lieutenant had satisfied himself
that the girl was really the daughter of a wealthy
Mexican resident of San Antonio, and that, although
he believed her to be in league with the counterfeit-
ers, he intended to release her after my execution.
He did not care about their women, he said.

But the lieutenant, not wishing to see me die, had
given orders to the sergeant to proceed with the ex-
ecution without him at eight o’clock, and at the
same hour to release the girl. The sergeant had pro-
tested against my having a military execution, and
so the orders had been changed. IJ was to be hanged!

IT need not detail the next half hour’s experiences,
The horror of the thing will never leave me. I was
taken to a tree near by, my eyes were bandaged with
my own handkerchief, my hands tied to my sides,
and my feet weighted with alight ball and chain,
such as are worn as punishment for minor offenses,
A lariat was adjusted about my neck and the end
thrown over alower limb of the tree, and a file of
men stood ready to hoist away at the word.

I was to be slowly strangled to death!

At last the word was given. I felt myself jerked
from my feet, and a million lights danced before my
eyes. I felt no pain, but a torturing sense of suffo-
cation. My consciousness was going fast, and I
thought “how long, oh, how long, will jI suffer this ?’’
when I heard a shot, and I fell senseless to the
ground.

With returning animation I became aware that I
was again on my feet, supported by two men, who
were affixing anewrope. Then I heard a scream,
and the bandage over my eyes fell off.

I saw, through the myriads of red, green, and pur-
ple discs and fancy patterns that danced before my
eyes, the figure of the Mexican girl brandishing a re-
volver and at bay. It was she who had fired the shot
which had cut the rope and given me a temporary
respite. Then I saw the lieutenant come into the
stockade-gate and the girl fly toward him. A dozen
hastily spoken words in Spanish passed between
them, and he raised a warning hand in time to save
me from a second hoisting.

“Cast him loose,” he said to the sergeant, and I
was taken to the house.

“You have had a narrow escape, my lad,” he said
tome. “Let this be a warning to you. Halloa! you
are wounded.”

A stream of blood had run down my neck and satu-
rated my clothes, but I had not known it—and small
wonder. 2

The girl gave a scream and bounded toward me.

“Oh, madre de Dios!” she cried. ‘Havel kill you
myself?”

But she hadn’t, although it was a close shave.
They had hauled me up to within a few inches of the
limb, and she, standing at one side, had fired the
shot that saved me within ten seconds afterward,
although I seemed in that brief space to have suf-
ered an age of suffocation. Her aim was true, but
a.trifle low. Had it been a shade lower there would
have been another case of ““Love’s Labor Lost.”

She cried over my hurt like a real little woman,
and shed big tears that all the dangers she had un-

/dergone could not have forced from her.

It seemed that she had not suspected her associate
of being a counterfeiter, and knew him only as her
father’s partner. But when it was revealed to her
that I was to die for their misdoings, she determined
to offer such information regarding their places of
meeting as she could give, stipulating that I should
have time to establish my innocence and that her
father should not be molested. She kept her word,
and within a week the whole establishment was
seized and I was free.

* * * * * * * *

The train was now slowing up for a stop, and the
young detective prepared to leave.

a will [ meet you again, gentlemen?” he in-
quired.

“We're all going to St. Louis—be there couple of
weeks—Planter’s House. What became of the pretty
Mexican?’ said Jim hurriedly, all in one breath.

“Tll be in St. Louis within a week,” replied the
young man, smilingly.

“Will hunt you up sure,” he said, accepting a
handful of cards from them.

“But, say! Tell us about the Mexican girl before
you go,” persisted Jim.

“See you in St. Louis,” and the young man sprang
lightly from the train as it moved away.

“T wonder if he caught the forger,” said Ed.

—_><°o-

HOW TO KEEP CIDER SWEET.

A Jersey innkeeper, who is noted for keeping his
cider sweet a long time, was asked how he did it-
This was his response :

“T put into a barrel full of sweet cider a quart of
milk, about half a pint of mustard seed—the black
seed—and six eggs. Mix them all up together and
pour them in the barrel. Cider will keep sweet that
way for half a dozen years. Ithink it gets better
and sweeter the longer you keep it..”

bottle which bore such marks of age as would have
made the mouth of an epicurean wine-bibber water
with anticipated delight. The cork came out with a
mighty pop, and a fine spray filled the air with mist
and the aromatic fragrance of champagne.

“Try a glass of that,’ said the innkeeper, as he
filled two glasses with the sparkling fluid. The
visitor needed no urging.

 

“Why, that doesn’t taste like cider, neither is it

“_— agne, exactly. What do you call it?’
“ce er.”’

“How did you make it?”

“T bottled it three daysago. It was fresh, sweet,
strained cider then. I put in each bottle a couple of
raisins and a small lump of reck candy, and if you
can find any champagne that costs less than ten
cents a bottle, that will beat that, I will buy a
thousand cases of it.”

“T should think it could be sold in some country
places for champagne ?”’ :

“T’ve sold a good many hundred bottles of it.”

“In what country town?”

“In New York city.”

Paragraphic Pleasantries.
BY J. H. WILLIAMS.

A Waste of Words.

At a Woman’s Dress Reform Convention recently a
male physician, in endeavoring to redress the abuses
of dress, in an address to the dress reformers, said :
“A large waist in woman is beautiful and healthy.”
Many a man who has an extravagant wife will not
agree with the doctor. The husband will tell him
that a large waste in woman is quite the reverse of
beautiful, and as for being healthy—well, his emaci-
ated pocket-book proves the contrary. Of corset
(chestnut!) makes a difference if it is spelled differ-
ently; but even with an “i” for an “e” it should not
be too large.

On Time.

He had been married only three months, and the
course of matrimony still flowed smoothly. Since
the day he became a Benedict he had not been ab-
sent from his wife later than 9 P. M. The other
night he was induced by a friend to visit the theater.
The stage setting was very realistic. In the second
act an old-fashioned upright clock marked the hour
of midnight.

“It is twelve o’clock !” exclaimed the bride of a
day,in a tone of alarm, and Reginald has not yet
come.”

“Great Scott!” exclaimed the young married man,
jumping from his seat asif forced upward by a vio-
lent seismic convulsion. “Twelve o’clock, and I
promised my wife to be home before ten!”

And he rushed home with his heart throbbing
wildly, and when he entered the house he was greet-
ed by his wife with:

“Why, William, you are home earlier than you
promised. Didn’t you like the play?’

Then he looked at the clock and saw that it would
strike nine in ten minutes.

For Ladies Only.

Ladies’ magazines impart a wonderful amount of
valuable information. Here is one that says ‘‘a wo-
man’s hair should be bathed so as to look wavy and
fleecy like a mermaid’s tresses.” Next time a young
lady encounters a mermaid, let her carefully ex-
amine the water nymph’s tresses, and then she will
rived how her hair should look. Beware of counter-

eits. ‘
‘““Water, Water Everywhere.”

An optimistic person predicts that the beverage of
the future will be water. When that day comes, in
this life, the temperance orator willhave considerable
difficulty to find a “frightful example” to accompany
him on his tours. A man can’t become a “frightful
example”—a dilapidated, health-shattered sot—on
water.

A Misunderstanding.

“T’ve come to clean out your saloon, boss,” said a
colored man to Hans Speigel.

“Vot’s dot? You glean owit dese saloon, eh? Vell,
I guess you don’d could glean owit dese establish-
ments .ofer you don’d could glean me owit purty
qyick, Dere vos more as a hallaf a dozen or six row-

ies tried to glean owit mein saloon von time a couple
or two nighds ago, und dey go home mit some kroken
neate Dot’s der kind ov a man’s vot lam to glean
owit.’

“But you don’t understand me, boss. Your brother
hired me to come down and wash out rt

“Ish dot so? Vell, goright in un glean him owit.
I vos make von shackass of mineselluf.”

Boys, Obey Your Parents.

“Train up a child in the way he should go, and
when he is aman he will get there,” said Alpha to
Omega, misquoting a well-known authority. “Now, I
knew a boy who neglected his books, played truant
two or three days a week, annexed damaged tinware
to the caudal appendages of strange canines, went
fishing on the Sabbath, crawled under circus tents,
and gave his parents no end of trouble and anxiety,
and what do you suppose was the fate of that boy ?”

“Drowned while boating on Sunday, or is serving a
term in the penitentiary,” ventured Omega.

“Naw ; nothing of the kind,” said Alpha. “He is a
member of the State Legislature, and last week he
lost a cool $50,000 in a wheat deal. Boys who are in-
clined to be wicked should be warned by his fate.”

A Gifted Woman.

_ “A woman in Indianapolis has a voice that can be
heard for a mile.” Despite its vociferousness, it is
safe to wager that she will have to add several oc-
taves to it before it can be heard when she calls her
ten-year old son who is playing with some boys in
the next block. If aspider was to get on the Indian-
apolis woman’s neck, her voice would be increased
in volume to such an extent that it could be heard in
the next township, ten miles distant.

Woman’s Ingenuity.

Over 5,000 patents a month are applied for, and yet
nothing has been invented, up to the hour of going to
press, that will serve a woman so well as a pair of
shears when she takes anotion to mow the grass in
the back yard.

Happy, though Wealthy.

A writer says: “Rich men are not so happy as
poor men, because they are constantly menaced by
the fear of becoming poor.” Yes; and another
thing: Poor men are not constantly menaced by the
fear of becoming rich. They would be happier if
they were. And there are none of us who wouldn’t
prefer to be rich and take the chances of being
menaced.

German vs American Sweets.

A New York firm has received a quantity of
saccharine, the invention of a German, that is 280
times sweeter than sugar. Ifthe inventor wishes to
see something 280 times sweeter than his saccharine,
let him come to this country and gaze upon a young
man’s first love. Pretty often a young man’s first
love is a cigarette or base ball, but we refer to the
eighteen-year-old girl who has robbed him of his
appetite, and caused him to scribble her front name
on the margins of newspapers and on all the scraps
of white paper he finds lying around loose. There
are thousands of such chunks of sweetness on this
side of the Atlantic Ocean.

Discouraging Kissing.

Under the old Roman law the man who kissed a
girl was obliged tomarry her, or forfeit half his wealth.
The old Romans, it is inferred—or rather the young
Romans in old Rome—knew nothing of the osculatory
delights of the picnic game called “copenhagen.”
If he did, he was obliged to marry about one hun-
dred girls after returning from the picnic, or forfeit
half his wealth one hundred times. A similar law

enforced in this country would not be very hard on

some of our fashionable young men. If they object-
ed to marrying the girl they could forfeit half their
wealth without being any more than twenty-five
cents out of pocket.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.
FASHION NOTES.

Lace jerseys are worn with evening dresses.

Stiff English felt hats, in sailor shape, are popular for
misses.

The fashion of wearing lace high about the throat, with
dressy toilet, bids fair to become very stylish.

Broad-brimmed felt hats, with pinked edges, and some-
times faced with felt of a different color, are worn by lit-
tle girls.

Wraps of brocaded velvet are still fashionable, and pass-
ementeries, beaded fringes, fur, and various rich and
elegant trimmings are used for garnitures.

Two-toned velvets are stylish, and are combined with
plain velvet of the darker shade.

Handsome costumes are made of plain, soft-finished
faille throughout, and trimmed with beaded passemen-
terie of the same color.

Passementeries are shown in all colors tomatch the’

fashionable shades in woolen fabrics.

Little English toques, covered entirely with the loose-
ly wrapped folds of dark-red silk, and with no other
vit are worn with tailor gowns of gray, blue, or

rown.

Vests of green, gold, or old-rose brocade, with black
velvet revers set beside them, are used upon fine black
woolen dresses.

Red hosiery is #gain in vogue in Paris, as is also the
fancy checked stockings, such as black cross-barred with

. old, blue with red, or suede with blue or plum color.
The innkeeper fished out from a closet, a quart | ° .

Henrietta cloth is the leading material for fine black
wool costumes, and are handsomely finished, drape per-
fectly, come in fast colors, and are very durable.

Though black stockings are still fashionable for general
wear, there is a general tendency for brown hose, from
e? pale suede tints to golden brown, drab, and dark seal-

Town,

The fancy for black lace dresses still continues, ed
new designs being shown, and they will, without doubt,
remain a standard evening toilet throughout the winter.

, cane.

Striped velvets are in high favor, and these stripes are
not only plain, but plaided, barred, broken, spotted, an¢
figured, in wondrous combinations of colors, fale o1
plain velvet, in one of the prevailing colors, being select-
ed for a combination.

By merely turning up the back of the brim, sailors’
hats will be worn all winter, and they come in all shades
of felt, have the brim lined with velvet, a broad band of
ribbon around the crown, while a little to the left side of
the back the brim is Renght up with anumber of stiff,
upright bows and two or three little curled cock’s plumes,

Knitted shirts come in all colors for winter underwear,
and are very long, coming far below the hips, while the
necks are so made that they can be drawn up around the
throat, and when necessary, to lower them for a square-
necked or decollete dress, be loosened and the shirt
drawn down below the line of the bodice.

Collars and cuffs will be worn during the winter, the
former being quite high, and turned over in front in two
tiny points, and fastened with a small dull-gold stud, set
with a tiny diamond, while cuffs are rounded at the cor-
ners, and the buttons are either of plain dull-gold or
white enamel studded -with little gold stars. With tailor
suits there is sometimes worn a fold of white corduroy at
the neck and sleeves, set in a band of white ribbon, and
basted in at the throat and wrists.

In place of the tan mousquetaire glove, which has so
long been fashionable, the gants de suede have come into
favor, and they are shown in hues of dark red, Gobelin
blue, Lincoln green, gray, heliotrope, and many shades of
brown. They are used for both street and carriage wear,
while for evening the same care must be exercised to
have them match the toilet in color, and, therefore, the
shop-windows display the curious sight of pink, pale lilac
oad blue, Nile and apple-green, and all shades of yellow
gloves. 4

“Miss Edie.”—Carriage and sleighing wraps will be much
the same as those worn last winter, long loose cloaks
that cover the figure. A beautiful one is of warm but
light-weight bison cloth, in dark-brown color, being leng,
rather full, and trimmed with simple broad bands of
beaver fur passing down the front and up the open back.
Other long wraps, in fancy plushes, take the form of an
undraped polonaise, and admit as much bead embroidery
as the shorter garments, while there is a tendency among
women who can afford it to have a plush wrap to match in
hue every costume.

“Undine,” St. Louis, Mo.—A pretty evening dress for a
young girl is of cream chaille, figured with red, made in
heavy side plaits from the waist down, the plaits being
caught up in a careless loop just over the left knee with a
bunch of ribbons, while there are two or three slight
loops over the rather small tournure. The bodice has the
vest laid in narrow plaits and broad white-watered rib-
bon down either edge, while the full sleeve reaches onl
to the elbow, where it is held in by broad ribbon bands
and bows, and a ribbon about the neck is tied in long
loops on one side.

“F, E. H.,” Milwaukee.—The amount of material requir-
ed to knit a medium-sized ladies’ stocking, is six half-ounce

balls of knitting silk and a set of needles No. 20. We can
send a book containing full instructions on “Knitting
and Crochet” for fifty cents.

“Masquerade.”—We can furnish a book containing his-
torical, national, and fancy costumes, with descriptions
for making them, on receipt of fifty cents.

“Miss M. 8.”’—The price of a “Book of Tableaux” is fifty
cents, for which amount we will mail one.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

The eazyest things to do are too often the last things
attempted.

It iz man’s natur to fall, and we should not be sur-
prized when we see him do it.

I hay drank whiskee ; but i kant help but blame the
man who made it, reprove the man who sells it, and
despize the man who drinks it.

I konsider all profeshuns that are honest honor-
able enuff, but i have thought that a traveling korn
dokter waz the last oneishould adopt ior the sake
ov glory.

If a man exceeds me in politeness, he iz a better
man thani am for the time being.

Yu mite az well undertake to outtalk an echo az to
outtalk a woman.

It aint religion that the world lacks, it iz charity.

: The man who reads everything will git full ov noth-
ng.

Lhav known gamblers and drunkards “to reform,
buti never knu a liar to.

Mice very seldum kum out ov a hole that iz clussly
watched.

The more a man kan play the fiddle, the less he kan
play ennything else.

Inever knu a strong thinker yet who could plaa
tune even on a juice-harp, or sing “Home, Sweet
Home?” korrektly.

Thare iz one thing abouta mule that ilike; yu kant
flatter him without gitting kikt.

Luy iz the strongest pashun ov a woman’s harte.
She haz got to luv sumthing, either a baby, alap-dog,
a nu bonnet, or the heathen.

I sincerely luy little children, but they fret me az
mutch az muskeeters do.

He who elevates hiz profeshun iz the best mechan-
ick, whether he preaches the gospel, pleads law, or
skins eels for a living.

Hash iz the fust law ov natur, but the grate mis-
take mankind make iz, they are too apt to konsider
it the only one.

Items of Interest.

An elephant in Rugby, England, attached to a
traveling circus, did considerable in the way of “painting
the town red.” At night he escaped from the stables,
and then determined to have a jolly time. He burst open
the door of asmall cottage, squeezed in, unfastened the
cupboard, and dined on a dozen pots of jam, a gallon of

loaf of bread, a pound of butter, and a quantity of sweets;
and then, perfectly happy, lay down on the floor. After
two hours’ hard labor he was induced to leave the cot-
tage.

There have been published the languages of
flowers, stamps, the fan, and handkerchief. Now, for the
Freshmen, we give the language of the high hat and
Hitting a Freshman’s hat with a brickbat—Have
I fallen in your esteem? Mashing hat over eyes—You can
see menomore. Flipping hat off with cane and jumping
on it (the hat, not the cane)—Are you angry with me?
Seizing cane and throwing-it to other end of campus—
You must leave me foratime. Snatching cane and walk-
ing off with it—Follow me. .

A close business man in Manchester, N. H., after
some haggling, agreed to give $3 to a clergyman to marry
him. At the appointed hour the man presented his in-
tended at the parsonage, but before the trying ceremony
was begun astonished the minister by saying: ‘My wo-
man here is pretty sharp at a bargain, and she thinks
$2.50 is enough for this job.” That amount footed the
bill. ’

An equivocal compliment was lately paid by a son
to his father, the latter a well known physician in Louis-
ville. The son had gone to California, and is there en-
gaged in the tombstone business. He thus writes to his
father: ‘‘There are only four physicians here, and I think
you would do well in San Jose. I know that with you
nearer to me I would be more encouraged in my effort to
build up a paying business.”

It is a curious fact that persons far from robust
often outlive those of extraordinary strength and hardi-
hood. A journal of health checks the exuberant spirits
of the strong, by remarking that the vital parts of the
system must be well balanced in order to attain long life,
and that excessive strength in one part is a source of
danger. '

The death of a favorite dog, belonging to the
Moyamensing Hook and Ladder Company of Chester, Pa.,
caused great sorrow to the members. Their regard for
Budd, by which name the dog was known, was evidenced
by his burial in a neat coffin wrapped in the American
flag. The truck has also been draped in black and white.

It is said that an ex-assemblyman has opened a
sumptuous drinking saloon in Essex street, in this city.
The floor is inlaid with silver dollars, cemented in the
marble floor in holes bored in alternate slabs—heads and
tails up alternately. The handles of the beer pumps are
mounted with silver dollars.

A simple telephone has been constructed by a
Massachusettc man. It consists of a wire and two Derby
hats, one at eac.: end of the wire. By means of it a con-
versation can be heard at a distance of a quarter of a
mile, the listener standing, if he chooses, sixty feet from
| the hat.

The death-rate'of the world is 67 a minute, and the
| the birth-rate 70a minute. This seemingly light percen-

 

| tage of gain is sufficient to give a net increase of popula- .

| tion each year of almost 1,200,000 souls.
|

| The musie of the organ-grinder will be heard no
|morein Boston. A recent ordinance prohibits the per-
formance of street organs, under a fine of $20.

Pheebe Hicks, of Petersburg, Va., has married a
| widower with thirty-one children. She is his eighth
wife.

 

 

pickled onions, a supplyof damsons, a joint of meat,a >

 

 

 

 

 

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eseerpenrepevcme ngs ntti ERE IO

—eemsenrnnee ta