“AN Das SH MON TE GRISTO,” Complete in No. 4 of Street & Smith's Sea and Shore Series. Vol. 43. Office P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. 3! Rose St. Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1888. dy Sireer & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. CQ. New York, March 31, Ask your News Dealer for it. Enterea at the Post Office, New York, as Second. Class Maiter. Three Dollars Per Year, Two Copies Five Dollars. No. 22. **GOD BLESS OUR HOME.” BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH. “God bless our home!” is my orison tender, When the bright sun gilds the east with his splendor, All through the darksome night, while we were sleeping, Angels a watch o’er our household were keeping. “God bless our home!” As the bright day advances, Every new blessing our calm joy enhances. Mercy and goodness still rise up before us— Heaven's dear angels still spread their wings o’er us, “God bless our home!” when approaches the even, And the bright stars gem the blue vault of heaven ; By day and by night on our heads are descending, Rich tokens of grace from a love never-ending. “God bless our home!” Oh, Great Spirit supernal Keep alive in our bosoms a passion fraternal ; Let Thy love be the beacon to guard and to guide us, And then only death can annoy or divide us. {THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM ] Blanche, the Breadwinner: THE SECRET OF THR HESPERIA HOTEL By K. F. HILL, Author of “Orphan Jenny,” “The Mystery ef the | Madstone,” ‘*‘A Mysterious Case,” ‘‘ Branded for Life,” etc., etc., etc. (“BLANCHE, THE BREADWINNER” was commenced last week. ]} CHAPTER V. FALSELY ACCUSED.—THE ADVERTISEMENT Blanche’s life at the Hesperia was far from a pleas- ant one. Not one of the girls employed in the house felt any friendship for the young Southern girl who | was so superior to them in appearance and manner. Blanche herself did nos understand why they all avoided her, and she sought in vain to cultivate their good will. Finding this impossible, she relinquished the attempt. She was too devoid of vanity to guess | the cause of their avoidance of her, and fancied it pro- | ceeded from her own want of sympathy with them. It so happened that they were a shallow, frivolous | set of girls, whose whole conversation was on the | subject of beaus and finery, so Blanche felt in- | stinctively that she could never be a congenial com- | : : : | panion to any of them. That they envied and disliked | her she did not suspect; but not long after her ad- venture in the private parlor their enmity declared | | itself openly. ; Miss Berry, who was a strict and severe lady of middle age, had been for some time missing towels | and other small pieces from the linen-room. : | Blanche had heard her speak of this, but felt little, interest in the matter, as the chambermaids collect- | ed the articles, and she had nothing to do but count | them after they found their way to the linen-room. | To her unbounded surprise, one morning, when she entered the room, Miss Berry informed her that she had reason to suspect that she was the cause of the disappearance of the missing articles. almost choked, and her face one crimson blush. “You look distressed,” said the housekeeper, coldly: “and I am astonished that so young a girl, who has been apparently well brought up, should be guilty of petty pilfering.” The girl could not speak. She had felt no humilia- tion in honest labor to earn her own and her old uncle’s bread, but to be classed with thieves took away her breath. She felt as if the room was whisk- ing around with her, and that the whole affair must be a terrible nightmare. “You do not answer, and your silence looks like guilt,” resumed Miss Berry, who fully believed what she said, so strangely had her mind been poisoned by the other girls. Then Blanch recovered her powers of speech. “JT do not answer because, madam, your charge is 80 preposterous,” she said, with quiet dignity. “I do not condescend to say that Iam not a thief, but I will remind you that I have no opportunity of handling any of the linen till I handle it here in your pres- ence.” She looked firmly in the housekeeper’s faded face; but that lady was obdurate. “T have been informed,” she said, sternly, ‘‘that you have a habit of going into the rooms just vacated by guests and picking up whatever happens to be left behind.” “Whoever furnished such information hood.” Blanche’s eyes were aglow, her cheeks in a flame, and her pulses throbbing madly. To the depth of her | heart she resented this bitter insult. “T can call two witnesses,” replied Miss Berry, and she touched the bell. Two bold-looking girls, who had displayed a most spiteful feeling toward our heroine, entered. They had evidently been on the watch outside, waiting their opportunity. “Mary Eccles and Martha Scofield,’ said Miss | Berry, ‘‘what did you tell me about this girl going into rooms just vacated by guests ?”’ “Why, she always makes a practice of doing it,’ said Mary Eccles, staring in Blanche’s face with two pig-like eyes, fringed with white lashes. She was an over-fed woman, with hair the color of dirty tow, and features that looked as if they were earved from a lump of suet. “Yes,” chimed in Martha Scofield, a vinegar- faced woman, with thin lips curling back spitefully over a double row of big false teeth, which gave her the look of a skull, “I’ve seen her myself.” This elderly damsel was in love with the head waiter, and, as he had expressed admiration for Blanche, was determined to stop at nothing in order that she might get her out of the house. “Do you hear this, Blanche Norton?’ asked Miss Berry. Both the witnesses stared the girl boldly in the face. “Yes, Miss Berry, I hear, and I declare that both those women speak falsely. For some reason best known to themselves, they wish to ruin mein your estimation.” They both bristled up, and talked very loudly about their characters and general standing in the house, but Miss Berry cut them short. ; “You have a trunk, I believe,” she said to Blanche. “Yes, madam; it stands in the hall outside my room door.” “Have you any objection to having it examined ?” “No; IT was about to request you to examine it.” ‘Very well; Ishall doso. Mary and Martha, you may go to your work.” They reluctantly moved away, evidently disap- told a false- | nity that Miss Berry was impressed. | save pointed in not being permitted to witness the jinale of the controversy. Miss Berry led the way, and Blanche followed her | up to the top floor, where the rooms for the help | were situated. A long, narrow hall ran between two Ti NN) il Mi) | nt I ML La YY } Z x Uj Y SN) \ Dy a As) ) Aa \ HI YZ YUE i, tse kth Pe dd Yas Ys rows of small, low-ceilinged rooms, and the luggage stood in the hall, for the large trunks would have al- most filled the rooms. Blanche pointed out her trunk and handed the key to the housekeeper, who S / ; unlocked and threw it open. Blanche stood aghast, her heart beating so that she | On the top of the tray lay a large roll, consisting of | towels and table-napkins, all plainly marked with the hotel mark. “There!” exclaimed Miss Berry, pointing to the missing goods, ‘what have you to say now ?”’ “T can only say I know nothing about these articles being there. Is it likely I would have asked you to search my trunk if I had put those things in it ?”’ The girl spoke with such ealm, unconscious dig- Her mind had been so thoroughly poisoned by the false witnesses that she was unwilling to believe Blanche was inno cent, but she could not believe her guilty. She took up the roll of linen and said: “You are avery young girl, Blanche Norton. I should be sorry to mar your future prospect by telling Mr. Ringold this business. You cannot prove your innocence, and he is a very hard man. He would listen to no plea, but have you arrested and sent to prison. Come down in half an hour, and I will pay you your wages. and leave the house before this story gets out.’ Blanche stared at her, pale and trembling. “But, Miss Berry,” she said, pleadingly, for she saw the housekeeper was acting the part of a friend, ‘must I leave the house without clearing away this accusation? If I goin the way you suggest, every one will think I am a thief.” “Take my advice; Iam older than you, and know more of life in surroundings like these. «Get away quietly and soon, or I shall not have the power to you. If you are innocent, and I believe you are, you have enemies in the house who will hesitate at nothing in their attempt to ruin you.” She looked pale, and spoke kindly. Blanche felt that she had no other course open to her, and resolved to follow the housekeeper’s advice, bitter though it was to her strong self-respect to flee before her accusers like a guilty coward. She shuddered as she thought of herself dragged to a court of justice. Penniless and friendless, what chance had she of proving her innocence? None. “T’ll do as you say, Miss Berry, and thank you kindly for believing me when I tell youI never saw those things before.” She spoke simply and quietly, which impressed the housekeeper more strongly in her favor. She had seen so much of acertain class of hired had become by observation a tolerably fair judge of character. She felt that Blanche was innocent. “Come to me,” which you can the hotels. emies.” Blanche wondered vaguely why her youth should be the cause of arousing enmity in the minds of others, but she felt implicit confidence in her adviser and thanked her warmly for her friendly interest. In half an hour she was out of the house, her trunk —e also on its way to her uncle’s lodgings in Har- em. He was delighted to see her, and overjoyed to learn that she had left her position. He was too simple to realize that it was out of the question for his grand-niece toremain with him always. Blanche had tried tomake him understand that they would starve unless she worked, but her efforts had been vain. She bought some nice cutlets and prepared a tempting little supper, and the old man sat chuck- ling and happy. “Old times again, Blanche!” he said. ‘How glad Tam you are home again. It was awfully lonesome while you were away.” Tears started to the girl’s eyes. Had she done wrong to take the old man from his life of poverty- stricken ease in the South ? He was so simple. so trusting; if she had left him, who would have cared for him? Noone. Her aunts secure another place. Keep out of You are young, and sure to make en- Have your trunk packed, | help, and } she said, as she turned to go away, “and I'll give you a letter of reference, by means of | were too feeble-minded, assume any burden they could evade. too lazy, too selfish to | Poor old Alex | would have become a helpless pensioner on Carter’s | bounty. “No,” said the brave girl to herself, ‘I would never | permit that. While I live I will take care of him as | She talked and laughed gayly with the old man, | who was a child again, with the pitiful semblance of childhood which is the heritage of extreme age. Of course she could not |him. That was outof the question. He would not | understand her if she told him that a Virginian Nor- ; ton had been accused of being a thief. | well as I can.” | she must bear them alone. | Far fromit. The fiercerthe battle of life became, the higher her courage rose. After Uncle Alex had retired, she wrote an confide her troubles to | Heavy though her burdens were, Blanche felt that | Not that she repined. | ad- | vertisement which she intended to insert in the | Herald. | which I have selected. Following Miss Berry’s advice, she resolved to ob- | tain a situation in a private family, instead of a hotel, so she worded her advertisement thus: => D.—A position, not entirely menial, | young Southern girl. | capacity not calling for accomplishments. | Simple accounts, write a good hand, and sew. N., Herald Office. Early next day, Blanche took her notice to the Herald up-town office. Then returned home to spend a quiet day with her uncle, and await results. CHAPTER VI. A DASTARDLY PLOT. Margaret Gilford was not engaged in by Can Address B. nursing a a4 Willing to be useful in any | keep | } | | } | very dangerous case, as Mrs. Havelander had asserted. | On the contrary, she had been at her home since she | left Nora. able neighborhood, and bore a good reputation as a professional nurse and graduate of a training school for misses, in Boston. She lived in Brooklyn, in a quiet respect- | She was a woman of some forty odd years, whose | : | you lose your courage the world must be coming to cold, hard face, did not promise much sympathy with suffering. attached to the Havelander family. she wasin Mrs. Havelander'’s confidence, and that lady possessed a sort of influence over her and right ito her services which seemed mysterious to out- | siders. The servants gossiped on the subject. She had been Clarence’s nurse, and lived in the family until his father’s death, which occurred when the boy | was only ten years old. While the family were stillin mourning, Margaret announced that a small fortune had been left her. She retired from services, and for two years lived on her income. She then declared she was tired of an idle life, and | proceeded to Boston, from which city she returned in | two years a qualified professional nurse. Mrs. Havelander’s recommendation procured her | plenty of patients, and she was rarely disengaged. The day after Clarence Havelander’s departure for parlor. Her face wore a gloomy expression, and she stared out of the window moodily at the lowering sky, for it was a dul] day in the late autumn. She had not long to wait. The portiere wasraised, and Mrs. Havelander appeared. welcome, ‘‘I am so glad you have come. You kuow Clarence is out of the way, and we must make good use of the opportunity.” “Yes, [ know.” of the professional nurse did not brighten. “Whatinthe world makes you act as you do?” asked Mrs. Havelander, impatiently. “T do not like this business.” The lady looked annoyed. ” The girl is helpless; she has no friends. ‘her doctor talks and looks.” the West, Mrs. Gilford sat in his mother’s private | “Ah, Margaret,” she said, while her face expressed | The answer was sullenly spoken, and the cold face | “T am sure it is nothing to make such a fuss about. | She was supposed to be exceedingly | In point of fact | “Oh, that is all very well; but I do not like the way ' x ESTIMATION.” “Nonsense !” “T tell you he suspected something. Now, suppos- ing Clarence is away, directly Nora takes sick the| | x | side, I hope, honey ? eolored servant will run forthat man. We cannot do without him; he must sign the death certificate.” “You think he will make trouble ?” “T am sure of it.” “Then we must move the girl and put her in the hands of a more accommodating doctor. Some of the gloom departed from Mrs. Gilford’s face. “Tf we can do that,” she said, doubtfully. “Of course we can, and must. Old Doctor Mor- risey will be the proper person to act in this case.” “But how can we induce her toleave home and part with the colored woman, for that will also be necessary ?”’ “Easy enough. I’ll send her a message telling her that the neighborhood where she lives is unhealthy for young children, and advise her to move to a place You must go to her imme- diately, Margaret, for I am in terror lest she should take advantage of Clarence’s absence to write to her relations.” Margaret rose, her face still sullen and dark. “Mr. Havelander told me that you had to employ an assistant,’ resumed the woman who was thus coolly disposing of an inoffending girl’s life as a sacrifice to her family pride. “Yes; I cannot do such work alone.” “Why, Margaret, what has come over you ?”’ “T do not know.” ““You who were formerly so bold and confident !”’ Had Mrs. Havelander employed this woman in such work before ? Margaret did not raise her eyes from the floor, as she answered, coldly: “I’m sick of the whole business. I have tried and failed. That never happened to me before. A chill comes over me when I think of this business. I am sure it will end badly.” The cold, haughty woman looked at her tried and trusted accomplice in astonishment. “T do not understand you,” she said, slowly; ‘‘if an end.” “So it may, for all I care,” said Margaret, dejected- ly. ‘Iam sure this will end badly,” she repeated. “Nonsense! Margaret, you must hasten and get this business over; then take atrip to Europe, or somewhere, and get the fays cleared trom your brain. I would not believe August when he told me that you were growing faint-hearted.” A supercilious smile curled her lips, and she looked the personification of evil. The other woman regarded her angrily. heavy face wore a flush of resentiment. “You can afford to laugh,’ she said, passionately, ‘because you keep out of danger; but take care—the same wave that sweeps me away Will reach you.” Mrs. Havelander’s face changed. She put on her air of coldest dignity. “You forget yourself, Margaret,” she said, sternly. “No, I do not,” cried Margaret, now thoroughly aroused ; ‘‘you have used me as a catspaw in all your schemes, and, Heaven knows, they have been wicked ones. You have no sense of wrong, no feeling for a soul upon this earth besides yourself. You know how many crimes you have caused me to commit! You know that a human life is nothing in your esti- mation! You know how you sacrificed os “Hush, hush! Have you taken leave of your senses?’ She laid her hand on Margaret’s shoulder, for the woman was trembling with passion, and had raised her voice almost to a shout. “Let me alone, then.” Margaret’s tone sank back to one of sullen, resentful submission. ‘*Do not taunt me with your sneers and jeers.” “Certainly not. Now hasten away.” “Where shall I take the girl ?”’ “Oh, anywhere you like; only see that the place is safe, and get rid of the negress.”’ “All right. I shall need money to ylace.” The lady opened the drawer of her writing-desk, ” Her dark, ” engage the |} eried Nora, nearly crying again. and took out a roll of bills which she handed to Mar- garet without a word. “T’ll call as soon as I have any news to tell you,” she said, and walked out of the room. Mrs. Havelander sank into an easy-chair, with @ | wearied look on her aristocratic face. Tam glad that scene is over,’ she murmured. “What in the world has come over Margaret? She, who always seemed eager for such work as this.” CHAPTER VII. THE ENDING OF A DREAM OF LOVE. Nora was inconsolable for hours after the depart- ure of her young and fond husband, and old Joanna had difficulty in rousing her from a perfect stupor of grief into which she had-wept herself. The old woman knew how to appeal to her, how- ever, and, half by coaxing, half by scolding, at sensi, to use her own language, ‘“‘made de chile sen- sible.” Nora then sat up and let Joanna bathe her tear- stained face and swollen eyes. She also brushed out the long silken hair, and fastened it in a loose knot at the back of the shapely little head. “Now you is ready to eat some nice supper. eat a bite dis blessed day. An’ dat poor chile done cried himself to sleep. Hates to see folks so selfish dat dey forgits der own poor ehillun,”’ “Oh, Joanna, bring him to me this very moment!” “How shameful of me; Ihave not looked at the baby since he was bathed this morning.” “No, neber gib de chile one tought. I had to gib him de bottle; neber took no sort ob notice ob him.” “How cruel of me! I am ashamed of myself. you say, Joanna, I am selfish.” She had the baby in her arms, kissing him so pas- sionately that he rebelled against this sudden storm of caresses as loudly as he had previously done against total neglect. ‘‘Dere, dat’ll do,” exclaimed old Joanna. ‘Here’s your supper, chile; eat it now, an’ let ole mammy hab little pickaninny.” She drew the baby out of his mother’s arms and forced the grief-stricken girl to eat. The fire burned brightly, and Joanna talked so cheerfully abeut Clarence’s return, and how pleased he would be to find his wife looking so well, and the baby growing, that Nora began to think her grief was too great for the occasion, and plucked up her spirits. “To-morrow I shall hear from him,” she said, as she sat before the fire, the baby in her arms, and the room made tidy. “Ob course you will. Why, de land, honey! plenty ob gen’leinen hab got to lebe der wives for months, an’ years too. Look at de sailors’s wives! I libed with a captain’s wife, an’ he uster go to China, an’ his own chillun did’n know him when he got home.” “How dreadful! If could never bear it.” “S’posin’ you got to bear it? Now de bes’ ting will be to go to bed, an’ see what dare tu’n up to- morrow.” Nora followed old Joanna’s advice. Little did the innocent creature think, as she knelt and prayed by her bed, of, the deadly plot that had been laid, dooming her to death. To-morrow ! Next day she felt brighter; more resigned to her husband’s enforced absence Old Joanna’s homely, but sensible talk encouraged her, and then she had the baby. The old woman wisely left the delightful, though trying, task of bathing and dressing him entirely to Nora. How nervous she grew over it! How limp and easily broken the baby seemed when his clothing was allremoved! The task was a long one, for Nora performed it in fear and trembling, as every young mother can understand. At length it was over, and the child ‘fast asleep in his cradle. Joanna had pretended to be very busy, so that Nora’s mind would be drawn from her grief, and she now warmly congratulated her mistress on her handiness. “Oh, I was so frightened!” said Nora, Ain’t AS “He seemed as if his head would roll off, it turned round so.” “Guess you managed all right. Did’n hu’t his in Nora turned pale at the thought. “Oh, he would not go to sleep if he were hurt; and see how nicely he is sleeping. He can’t be hurt!” she said, piteously. “No; I guess he is all right,” ‘replied old Joanna, delighted to see how well her scheme worked; “but babies is so easy killed, you dun best be mighty keer- ful wid him. Massa go plumb crazy if anyting happen to dat chile.” “That is true. Ah, Ido pray nothing will ever go wrong with my baby!” The day passed away quietly till three o’clock, when a visitor was announced by old Joanna, who looked rather grim. Nora rose to welcome her, though she felt her heart sinking with a foreboding of coming ill, for the visitor was none other than Mrs. Gilford. “T have come from Mrs. Havelander,” said Mar- garet, seating herself, and making no pretense to cordiality. ‘‘Yes; I suppose she has heard from her son ?’ “No, not yet. She does not expect to hear till he reaches the end of his journey, which will not be for some days. Mrs. Havelander is anxious about the baby.” “T am very grateful to her. He is quite well.’ “Yes; but there is scarlet fever in this neighbor- hood.” ‘What !” “Yes; there are so many tenement houses about here, and there is always more or less sickness in them. Mrs..Havelander sent me to move you and the child over to Brooklyn.” Nora looked around her little home in dismay. She had been so proud of it, and enjoyed such happiness init. Now that Clarence was absent, it was all of the brief married life she had in the world, and if it was to be broken up, she felt that all her happiness was gone. “T will not move till my husband returns,” she said, firmly, and meant it. This proud, cold mother was not everything her way. “Mrs. Havelander is not a woman I oppose,” Margaret said, significantly. ‘Well, she cannot expect me to go and fatigue of moving, when my baby old. I am not strong yet.’’ “She does not. All you will be asked to do is to step into a carriage and drive to the new place.” ‘But the furniture? My clothing, and baby’s ?”’ “The furniture can be sold. Your own and the baby’s clothes I will pack, forI do not trust the old wolmau. Colored people are never honest.”’ “Joanna is honest. I won’t sell the furniture. Clarence would be angry, We took such pains to select it.” “Don’t you think he will be more angry if he comes home and hears how you have treated his mother, when she wished to remove his child from a ,sickly place?’ Nora flushed hotly. It was true. Clarence had already accused her of ingratitude toward his mother, and reproached her for feeling such distrust of Margaret. “What shall Ido?” she murmured. It went to her heart to sell the pretty inexpensive furniture of which she had been so proud. Still, not for the whole world would she oppose Clarence’s cold, haughty mother. “You know what an effortit must be for Mrs. Havelander to make any friendly advances toward her son’s wife, who was formerly her sewing-girl,” said Margaret, coldly. ‘Sheis trying to forget that you came to her house a seamstress, and she is anxious that her grandson should live and prosper. Of course I cannot force you to go away from here, I wil! not even recommend you to do so. Mrs. Have- lander instructed me to call and tell you she wished you to go to a home provided for you in Brooklyn. I have delivered the message, and await your answer,” going to have would care to to the trouble is only amonth <= <<—mt THE NEW YORK She looked grim and cold, and Nora felt that Mar- | garet secretly wished her to refuse her mother-in- law’s request. Unfortunately, this l wavering mind, one of Nora’s few faults being a trace of obstinacy. “Pi 0.” Margaret neither looked glad nor sorry. was immovable. “Shall I send for a carriage?” she asked, quietly. “Wait alittle. Baby has never beenout. Welust try on his hovd and cloak.” She dressed the child, and then dressed herself, Margaret calmly looking on while she did so. Then Joanna was sent to the nearest livery stable for a carriage. It arrived before the old woman re- turned, for Mrs. Gilford had requested her to make some purchases, : : “As you are dressed, and the baby seems impatient, we had better go at once,” said the nurse. “I shall come back in the Carriage, and pack. As you say Joanna is honest, she can take care of the house.” “She is thoroughly honest, I assure you.” “Very good. Vl leave the key with’ the woman in the basement. Joanna will be back in a few minutes.” Nora and the baby were soon in their places. Mar- garet took her seat beside them, and the carriage drove off. Some impulse made the girl look back at the humble home, in whichshe had been so happy, and a rush of tears blinded her. She had looked her last on the relics of her husband’s love and protecting care! Her face “Joanna will come to me, of course?’ she said, timidly. “Certainly, if you wish. You must have a servant. As well Joanna as another.” Nora was fully occupied watching her baby, and never noticed which way the carriage drove, but, after crossing the Fulton Ferry it soon after drew up before a respectable house on Hicks street. “Is this the place?’ she asked. “Yes; I have taken a furnished floor for you.” Margaret assisted Nora to alight, and, telling the } coachman to wait, opened the door with a latch-key and led the way up one flight of stairs. She then unlocked another door, and Nora followed her into a parlor rather gaudily furnished and orna- mented with many cheap and showy articles, calcu- lated to set on edge the teeth of people of refine- ment. “It is not a particularly attractive place,” said Margaret, noticing Novra’s glance around the room, “but it will answer till your husband returns, then I believe he intends to go to Europe.” “Yes, so he said before he went away.” “Then you see you have less reason to regret the sale of your furniture.” “True! I did not think of that.” “Now I must leave you. Mollie!’ The call was answered at once by a girl, who came from a back room. “This is the lady TI engaged you to wait upon,” said the nurse. “You have prepared a luach, as I told you to do.” “Yes. ma’am.” The girl was a strange-looking young woman, un- der whose gaze Nora felt uncomfortable. She had peculiar milky-blue eyes, and she fixed them on Nora’s face as intently as if she were trying to solve a problem from her look. “T shall leave you now,” said Margaret. ‘‘Eat some lunch and try to nake yourself comfortable.” So saying, she took her departure and Nora was invited into the back room by the girl, who informed her new mistress that her name was Mollie. The rooms were all of the same style as the parlor, and Nora, whose taste was naturally refined, felt out of place and uncomfortable in them. “Never mind,” she kept telling herself, “Clarence will soon return, and then we shall go to Europe.” Late in the evening Margaret appeared. She looked tired, and her face did not wear a promising expression. To Nora’s joy, however, she gave her a telegram from her husband, which had arrived during the day: “Safe and well. Shall not wire again. Write as soon as reach Milwaukee.” “How will I get the letter ?’ asked Nora, anx- iously. “Tt will come here. I went to the post-office and gave notice of your change of address.” “Thank you.” : Margaret prepared dinner with her own hands. It was an unusually rich and tempting one, and Nora enjoyed it very thoroughly. As the two ladies sat before the fire after dinner, Nora suddenly remembered that she had not seen old Joanna, whom she expected to arrive with Mrs. Gilford. “Why diduw’t Joanna come?’ prise. “She declined to move to Brooklyn, and was so impudent that I do not see how you can possibly re- gret the loss of such a servant.” “She was so kind, so faithful.” Again Nora felt her heart sink. It seemed as if she had parted with every remnant of her old life. “Tf she had been so faithful she surely would have been willing to come over here with you. I shall stay and take care of you now, while you need me.” Nora tried to thank her, but the words sounded hollow, for there was no duplicity in her nature, and she could not act a part. She soon retired, feeling weary and dispirited. She awokein the night, alarmingly ill, and called Mar- garet. iz To her surprise, Mrs. Gilford had not undressed. “Tam in terrible pain,” said Nora, and her face, livid in color, and covered with ice-cold drops, cor- roborated the statement. “Drink this, and I shall send for a doctor,’ said the nurse. Nora swallowed the draught, wondering in the midst of her suffering how it happened that the nurse was up and dressed. pe the arrival of the doctor she sank into a doze. Before morning she was in a heavy stupor, and Margaret. watched her calmly, while the strange- looking Mollie tended the baby whose unfortunate young mother’s ears were deaf to his cries. she asked, in sur- decided her At noon that day Margaret went out for a short | time. Mollie sat beside the bed, watching Nora, whose pale, pinched face was like the face of a corpse, and whose breath caine in short gasps. While Mrs. Gilford was absent, the doctor called. He was a very old man. “Very odd, this sudden illness,” he mumbled, tak- ing a seat, and watching his patient with feeble |} curiosity. He sat nodding, half aslecp,in the warm room, when Mrs. Gilford returned. : “Well, doctor, what do you think of her?” inquired she, with anxiety. “Very bad case; poor hopes of her.’’ “Indeed! I’m sorry to hear it. Mrs. Campbell is such a young woman. What do you suppose the ill- ness arises trom? A sudden chill, producing peri- tonitis ?” “Yes, that’s it. chill.” Margaret had been to the telegraph-office, and sent the following dispatch: “Mrs. HAVELANDER, “Madison avenue, New York. “The work is done.” Peritonitis, arising from a sudden CHAPTER VIII. BLANCHE FINDS A NEW HOME-—A TERRIBLE SURPRISE, Blanche’s advertisement called forth three promis- ing replies, anda great many which her own good sense told her were penned by the despicable scoun- drels with which most large cities are infested— men who seek to tempt from the paths of rectitude girls who are striving to earn an honest living. Of the three situations offered, two Blanche felt she could not accept on account of her uncle, as both ladies wished to travel. The other was written by a French maid in her mistress’ behalf. She men- tioned no names, but requested the advertiser to call at acertain number on Madison avenue. The girl lost no time in complying with the request. The sight of the magnificent mansion almost startled her, but she rang the bell, and met the haughty gaze of the footman firmly. He eyed her superciliously, and muttered some- thing about the servants’ door, when she requested to see the lady’s maid. Blanche ignored his insolence, and walked into the noble entrance-hall as if quite accustomed to such surroundings. “Maim’selle Lucette is up stairs,’ said the flunky, more graciously, as he marked the girl’s beautiful face and handsome form, and noticed, also, the inde- seribable air of distinction that, somehow or other, conveyed the impression that this simply dressed girl was a lady to her very finger-tips, ; Mademoiselle Lucette was evidently on the look- out for her visitor, for she met Blanche at the top of the stairs, where she had been ushered by a friendly looking chambermaid. “Come in,” said the Frenchwoman, leading the way to a pretty, bright room, where another lady sat before a large table, busily engaged in cutting out mourning garments. “This is the dressmaker, Mrs. Claxton; and, should you be engaged, your work, for the present, will be to assist in making the servants’ mourn- ing. There has been a death in the family; Mrs. Havelander’s brother, Mr. Worthington.” Mrs. Claxton was a sharp-faced lady, whose keen brown eyes were fixed on Blanche’s face inquir- ingly. “Can you sew ?” she asked, abruptly. “Yes, but Iam not a dressmaker.” “Pm glad of it. Ud far rather have a girl who makes no pretences, than a botch dressmaker who thinks she knows everything. You can sew any- thing as I tell you to, I suppose.” “T will do my best.” “‘T guess that will be near enough. you can arrange with——” “Blanche Norton.” Now, Lucette, “—Blanche Norton about terms, and soforth. I) lixe her looks.” Blanche found herself engaged at a larger salary than she would have dared to ask. § wraps, and sat down to assist Mrs. Claxton, who she found to be sharp and decided, but not unreason- able. They worked till noon, when a luxurious luncheon was set for them in the next room. “That’s what I like about this house,’ Mrs. Clax- ton said, as she sipped a glass of Claret, ‘‘no0 mixing with the help. No stinginess about the quantity of goods one needs. Mrs. Havelander is what you may call a lady.” “Is she a young lady?’ “No, she’s sixty odd, but handsome as a picture, She’s a widow; her husband died suddenly, and left her with a son only ten years old, or somewhere about that. Money to no end, and one of the oldest families in New York. Nothing shoddy about the Havelanders. They were wealthy people in Hol- land, and have their coat-of-arms on the stained glass windows in the halls.” ‘Indeed !”” “Yes. Folks do say that Mrs. Havelander and her husband hated each other like poison. However, he’s been dead so long no one thinks anything of that; and sheis good friends with Mr. August, her brother-in-law, and her son, Mr. Clarence—— Why, what’s the matter with you?” Blanche had grown deathly pale, and her fork had fallen from her hand. “Notbing—I—I hurt my mouth,” she gasped. “Yes, that curry is hot. Ilike those East Indian flavors. Try the broiled chicken. As I was saying, Mr. Theodore has been in Europe; just returned yes- terday. He is the youngest brother of Mrs. Have- lander’s husband. Not young, of course, but hand- some. Gracious! I met him coming in the hall yes- terday; I never saw such magnificent brown eyes, and such a tall, fine-looking man.” Blanche scarcely heard all this. The name Clavr- ence was ringing through her brain. An old, powertul family! A son Clarence! Could it be possible that fate had directed her footsteps to the very house which held the guilty secret ? She tried to rouse herself; to shake off the thought. Clarence was not a common name, buf in the vast city of New York there must certainly be more than one man who bore the name. “What is Mr. Clarence Havelander like?’ she asked, for Mrs. Claxton was regarding her curiously. “Oh, he is pretty much like any other rich young man. He used to be forever coming in here, when [ was working here two years ago. I had a very pretty girl to help me that time. She was Irish, Nora Dal- ton, and very green, but she had the loveliest com- plexion I ever saw—milk and roses. And her eyes, blue as they could. be, and such long, thick lashes. | She was a beauty, that’s a fact. Tused to think Mr. Clarence was sweet on her, and [ believe Lucette noticed how many excuses he made to come in the sewing-room, so poor Nora was unceremoniously dismissed.” “How long ago was that?’ asked Blanche, in a queer voice she could scarcely think was her own. “Let’s see!” Mrs. Claxton bit offa piece of thread, and went on briskly, “It’s eighteen months ago or more. Wehada heap of house linen to make, and that’s what we worked at.” Kighteen months ago, and a pretty, humble girl whe had evidently caught the fancy of this Clarence! “What became of the girl?” “Oh, that’s more than I can tell you. Mr. Clarence came in one day, and asked her to mend his glove. He was going riding. Nora and he went over by the window, and talked low, and Lucette came in and looked very sharp at them. That night she paid Nora off, aud I never saw her since.” Blanche was singularly silent for the rest of the day, and Mrs. Claxton, who was a. great talker, be- gan to lose her favorable opinion, and entertain fears that her assistant would prove but a dull com- panion. Lucette had granted Blanche’s request to return to Harlem that night, and come back next day with her luggage, so the young girl rose to leave at eight o’eleck, of course with Mrs. Claxton’s permission. “Come early,” said that lady, “for I hate to have my work dragging around till all hours. I never work after our late dinner. There are plenty of books to be had for the asking, and there is a piano in what used to be called the school-room. Can you play ?’ ; “Yes.” “Then we'll have nice evenings. You can have the next room to mInine, and sometimes. Lucette spends the evening with us. We sit here, or in the school- room, and enjoy ourselves, and if we like, we can have anice supper and a glass of good wine.” Blanche had not arrived at the age to enjoy de- licious suppers and glasses of rare wine, but she was glad that she had found what promised to be a com- | fortable home. If only the haunting thought that this was the house where a deadly plot had been | brought to bear against an innocent young life would depart from her mind. If she could only bring her- self to believe that the German waiter’s explanation of the mystery was the true one. But no; she could not. She returned to her uncle, who was overjoyed to see her, and who cried like a child when she told him they must part again next day. He soon forgot his trouble, though, when Blanche set out a nice supper, and went to bed in the highest spirits. Next morning Blanche arrived early. She did not incur the resentment of the footinan by ringing the front door beli, but made use of a side door, and was adinitted by the pleasant-faced chambermaid. As she passed through the hall she met a gentle- man, who stepped back politely as she passed, and bade her good-morning. Z He was aman of about forty years, but so hand- some aud bright was his face, so upright and vigor- ous his forin, that he was farimore attractive than many a much younger man. “That must be Mr. Theodore Havelander,”’ said Blanche to herself, as she gracefully returned the pleasant greeting. She was blushingly conscious that his eyes were fixed in evident admiration on her face, and that they followed her as she ran lightly up the wide stair- | case. “Who is that young lady?” inquired Mr. Have- lander of the footman. “A seamstress that is sewing atthe mansions, for the servants, sir.” “A seamstress? She looks more like a goddess,” murmured Mr. Havelander. “‘What eyes! What col- oring! What a form, and what gracefulness !”’ Of course, these thoughts, uttered half-aloud, were not addressed to the footman. That worthy caught a portion of their meaning, however—enough to re- port below stairs that master was ‘‘dead gone on the new seamstress.” Mrs. Havelander was nervous. spirit. Now shall I tell him 2?” she asked herself, over and over. Lucette observed her troubled manner, but said nothing, only kept up a constant watch out of her nar- row, half-closed eyes. “When my son arrives,” said the lady, ‘remember I wish to see him quite alone. Admit no one till I ring. I wish to hear all the particulars of my broth- er’s death.” “Surely, madam, and Mr. Havelander 2?” “If lhe wishes to see me, or asks for Mr. Clarence, tell him your orders are to admit no one.”’ “Very good, madam.” As the maid spoke, a carriage drew up at the door. Mrs. Havelander sank into a chair, and signed to Lucette to leave her. A moment later her son entered. He was dressed in deep mourning, but looked eager and happy. “T came first to you, dear mother,” he said, kissing her with more affection than he usually displayed, for, to tell the truth, he felt more respect than love for his beautiful, haughty mother. “Of course,” she responded, her arms about his neck, her eyes fixed on his face with a strange ex- pression. “You told me to do so, and I have obeyed you; but, mother, don’t ask me to stay, for you know I long to see my wife.” ‘You wrote me that you had heard nothing from her ?”” Still the strange look in her eyes. A sort of mingling of triumph and affection, with still a slight tinge of regret. “Not one word! Is it not eruelof Nora? True, she could not go out to send a dispatch; but, surely, she was strong enough to write before this. I cannot understand it. You did not hear from her, you said, but surely you sent to inquire if all went on well?” He spoke half-reproachfully. “T heard that the neighborhood was unhealthy the very day after you left here.” “Oh, mother, let me go! She must be ill.” “Stay a moment. I sent Margaret to her, and had herself and the childremoved to a place in Brooklyn, which Margaret herself selected.” ‘Ah, thank you, mother. But why did you not tell me of this?” “Wait. I did not wish to distress you. So long as I could keep silent, I did.” “Distress me! Merciful heavens, mother, what do you mean? The child—heisdead?” — “No, the child is well. He grows fast, and——” “Then Nora is ill? Quick! quick! Give me the address, and let me go! Oh, mother, how could you let me stay in ignorance of my darling’s danger? Quick! give me the address, and let me at least hasten there at once.” She did not speak, but kept her eyes fixed on his face. “Mother!” he cried, wildly. “Hush! It was too sudden; another attack like those you saw. Noone dreamed of any danger vig “For the love of Heaven, what are you telling me?” His face was like the face of the dead. He thrust her arms roughly away. She looked him calmly in the face, and said: “Your wife is dead, and buried !”’ (TO BE CONTINUED.) She removed her } She had risen long | before her usual hour, and she was moving about her | apartments with the unquiet restlessness of a lost | WEEKLY. HIS RELIGION. She goes to church, the pious pet, To hear the parson preach; I go to drink those lessons in No mortal man may teach. She goes to church, the guileless girl, To pour her soul in prayer ; And so do I, but if she knew For what, oh, would she care? We kneel together, and I pray She may be mine, And then Falls from her lips, like prophecy, A low, half-hushed “Amen !” I doubt me of idolatry I have a little taint, Since in the rubric of my heart She’s canonized a saint, I find my sermon in her smile, In her sweet voice my psaln ; Her very presence in the place Breathes a celestial balm. To piety like mine, mayhap, The parson might demur ; For, while she goes to worship God, I go to worship her. To me she stands for all that’s bright And best, below, above ; My heart is but a shrine for her, And my religion Love. I worship her, and shall for aye, Whether I die or live; And He who made her what she is That worship will forgive. He is no tyrant envious, Cruel, and cold, and grim; Blesi be His holy name. He knows In her I worship Him. [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.] One Year After Death: OR, THE BARON'S SCHEME, By HELENA DIXON, (“ONE YEAR AFTER DEATH” was commenced in No. 13. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XI.—(CONTINUED.) T WAS evident. that the seru- tiny which those queer eyes maintained was becoming irk- some to Harcourt, And he asked : “Now what will you do if Baron Heywood orders you flogged ?” The boy’s eyes twinkled. “Cut sticks as fast as I can.” “You mean you would run. ali 4 Poids Bae te Pray, where?’ “Around to the kitchen and have my dinner.” By this time they had reached the huuse. her misery. and stood before him with arms akimbo looking up | into his face with a serio-comie air; “Hello, you! Where on earth did you drop from?’ “Out of that’ere carriage; aud, if you please, I’ve come to see the ghosts and get my dinner. I'd like ; the grub first, for fm hungry.” “A queer customer,’ whispered Harcourt, in an aside. “T should think so. “Down by the gate. so we had to let him.” “A clear case of vagrancy. The casiest way to get rid of him willbe to give him his dinner and send him off.” 7 “Yes, but he insists that there are ghosts here; says his mother told him, so that he means to see them.” “Look, here, boy or man, whichever you call your- self,’ Heywood said, addressing the singular visitor, and looking sternly into his round eyes, ‘‘you shall have your dinner, but as to the ghosts, you will have to go somewhere else for them. Such things do not belong here.” The boy ran his eyes contemptuously over the broad front of the old house, his mouth puckered as though he was going to whistle. “Humbug! I knowed the minute I set eyes on the house ’twas a lie. Don’t look a speck as if ’twas ae But ’'m to have my dinner, sure pop, any- Ow.” When the boy was left to himself by the careless servants in the kitchen, where he sat munching his cold steak and roll with great relish, a door opened suddenly, and Lillian’s pale face peered cautiously into the room. The boy let his eyes droop demurely. “Tt’s all right, Miss Lillian, if you want to see me.” “You are all alone?” “Yes, and might be for all o’ them that get me my dinner,” looking ruefully at his empty plate. “They just cut away and left me with about enough to feed a kitten.” | **¥You shall have more, Michel. Where did you pick him up?” He was bent on coming here, Iwill get it for you well to deceive then. hear from Miss Delisle.” “She’s well, and sends her compliments, and she wauts to know will you be kind enough to send her some clothes and her trinkets ?”’ “T have them done upina neat bundle all but her | jewels. Those I will leave at the bank in Elberton, directed to your master, who can get them for her without exciting suspicion. But I was fergetting that you have not had enough dinner.” She went into the pantry, filled a plate with such cold victuals as were at hand and had nearly reached the table at which the boy sat with the generous supply when.the door opened and Heywood himself popped into the kitchen. “Sol find you here,’ he’ said, giving Lillian a look which she did not quite understand. “I have been thinking that perhaps I ought to question this fellow a little ; but maybe you have done that for me,” still rogerding her with the same expression, only inten- sified. “No, uncle,” putting down the plate and going to the door, “besides asking this boy if the servants had left him alone here I had not asked him a single question. He was still hungry with his plate empty before him, so I replenished it myself.” She went out at once. It was several minutes before Heywood followed her example ; when he did so he was muttering to himself : “It may be all right enough and it may not; there’s no telling . That girl is as cunning as a fox, and as to this fellow he simply surpasses my comprehension. = shall have him watched till he can be got away from ere. a Toward sundown there came up a heavy thunder- shower, and the rain poured down in torrents. The air, which throughout the day had been sultry, grew chill. Lady Heywood wrapped her narrow shoulders in a shawl, and Lillian went up to her room to pro- cure a scarf for herself. To her surprise she found Michel seated on the staircase biting his finger nails. “Bring down the bundle,” mumbled he. “I want to dodge out now and be off.” “Why, boy, do you not see how dreadful the rain pours?” “So much the better ; them fellers that’s had their eyes on me won’t be so apt to be watching.” “But you will get soaking wet.” “T s’pose likely,” he returned, with a droll chuckle; but whatif Ido? D’yes’pose rain’ll hurt me ?” Seeing he was determined to go, Lillian brought down the bundle, wrapped for protection against the rain in a piece of oil-cloth. She was not without misgivings. Michel was seated not ten feet from the doors of the room where the baron and Lady Hey- wood sat. What if either of them should chance to enter the hall before Michel could get away with his bundle? But they did not, and Lillian, with intense relief, watched him darting along undcr the very windows before which they sat and on past the corner of the house. She returned to the parlor as soon as the boy had passed from sight, where having seated herself, she was engaged in casually turning over the pages of a bookof engravings when the door swung open, as if by the thrust of a powerful hand. There presently entered a short, herculean fellow, who stood stock-still in the hall, his garments drip- ping with rain at every point, while by his side, held firmly by the collar of his jacket and looking dog- gedly out of humor was— Michel! Heywood was glancing idly at the pouring torrents outside, and_his wife, who, like himself, sat with her Heywood came out and stood looking at Lillian’s | Wwoe-begone face as though he took infinite delight in | back to the door, was at the moment looking at Lillian. The frightened looks which leaped to the girl’s eyes was the first indication she received that anything had happened, “Godfrey! do look there!” Heywood turned about, then sprang with a bound to his feet. ¢ “There, Emeline! Whatdid I tell you?’ Then to whe servant: “So he was making off suspiciously was eY? “T should say a chap was making off that way, my lord, when he goes dashing through a rain like this the way he did and carrying a bundle as wasn’t his’n.” “Ah, the rascal! A bundle! So Miss Margaret sent you, did she? And this precious niece of mine was helping you off with plenty of comforting words, no doubt. Search the fellow, James. He may have a letter about him that will enlighten us in regard to * ward’s whereabouts.” aines proceeded to do as he was directed, but not a scrap of pa was found about him. Heywood looked sharply at the captive, and darted forward. “Open your mouth, you young scamp, or I’ll have ou choked till youdo! James, he has something in is mouth!” “Just as like as not,” said the burly James, closing his hands around Michel’s neck. “Sich a mouth as his’n I never seen.” Michel saw that resistance would be worse than useless, so he quietly opened his wide mouth and let falla slip of paper which he had contrived to thrust there while the man was dragging him to the house. . Heywood seized the paper and unfolded it. It was, as he suspected, a note written by Lillian to Mar- garet, but it did not reveal her hiding-place, so he Was ho wiser than before. But this boy, he resolved, should tell him where she was. He should never leave the house till he did. “T will take charge of this fellow, James. You may go—or stay, bring him into the library; then leave us. Emeline, I shall need your assistance. This young reprobate can tell us where my ward is, and he shall.” Michel was led between the two men to the library. Lady Heywood, flushed with pleasure at the turn affairs had taken, followed behind, leaving Lillian alone. Her sweet face wore a troubled look as the door closed behind her uncle’s wife. “Will he tell, 1 wonder?’ she mused. ‘He is cun- ning, I know, but may he not be cowardly as well? They will shut him upin that room of horrors, and who can tell that he will not at once purchase his freedom by revealing where Madge is? TIimust con- trive to go to her this very night. She must receive timely warning of her danger.” While Lillian was making this resolve, Heywood and his wife were engaged in literally dragging Michel into the Haunted room. Having got him into the middle of the room, Heywood retreated to the door, against which he planted himself, while his wife struck a match and lighted the lamp. “There, boy! do you see what kind of place you arein? We are about to give you a chance to see the ghosts, unless you prefer to tell us where Miss Delisle is, and so get yourself out of this. I shall keep you here, remember, till you do tell, so you may as well do so at once. Will you tell?” “Pll be blowed if I do!” “You will be devoured by the ghouls if you do not.” Michel smiled—such a queer smile—and looked in- creduious. “What's them?” he asked. “You will find that out soon enough. But will you tell me what I want to know ?”’ “No, sir-ee—I sha’n’t.” “Very well. Bread and water, and the things that make this room their haunt, are what you will have till you do tell. If you find this a pleasant place, then you are as different from other people as are your looks.” . “T ain’t afeared,” the boy said, with a resolute air. “Besides, I’ll get out. Catch me staying here long. “T can dig,” holding up his stout arms. “Yes, you can dig through a solid stone wall, I’ve no doubt,” said the baron, with a sneer. ‘Come, Emeline, let us get out of this. By to-morrow morn- ing this fellow will be as docile as a lamb.” They went out locking the door behind them, and Michel at once struck au attitude and began a series of somersaults, the lastone of which brought him close to the door, before which he made a low bow in mocking obeisance to the pair who had just left him. After this, he sat down on the edge of the bed, and sparse iustache, that he did not see the singular | He regarded her so intently, smiling behind his | | | being who clambered from the carriage till he came | | looked around. “So this is the place they shut Miss Margaret in, and them things sticking out around the wall are what helped to scare her so. Well, its nat’ral for | women folks to be kind.o’ timorous. Now J might just set and look at theni critters forever and not get scared. Long as I know they’re nothing but pic- tures, what’s the use? But they don’t look like pic- tures, There! I could swear that one o’ them things with the snakes dropping all round its head is mov- ing and making faces this way. But, fudge! I ain’t going to get scared like a booby. I’m just going to find some way to dig out of this. Ah! let’s see what that chimney’s made of.” : He went to the fire-place, in which no blaze had been kindled for nearly a score of years, and stuck his head up the broad gorge into which he finally suc- ceeded in drawing his body. + He was gone but a short time before he made his | reappearance. He came down with a spring, and ieee brushed the grimy cobwebs from his gar- ments. “Tt’s all right,’”’ he mused, with his peculiar chuckle. “Only wait, my boy, till after dark, then see how we'll cireumwent ’em. And now, seeing as how I was routed out 0’ bed so early this morning, I’m bound for a nap.” Accordingly he threw himself, wet and dirty as were his clothes, ihto the middle.of the bed, where he was soon fast asleep. CHAPTER XII. LILLIAN OVERHEARS A CONVERSATION. That night Lillian Tetired early to herroom. She collected Margaret’s little store of jewels, some of which were extremely pretty and unique, but none very costly, and put them in a casket, which had be- longed to her friend’s mother, and was, therefore, prized by her. This she put in the pocketof her dress. She was going to pay Margareta visit, and carry the jewels to her. She had not thought much about the way in which the was to elude her uncle's determined vigilance. She knew well that her move- ments were watched, that every night the stalwart James brought blankets, and lay down to sleep near her door; but, nothing daunted, she went on with her preparations. She brought out her hat and riding habit, and laid myself. I am so glad you came, and managed so} them in readiness to put on. Then she exchanged I have been very anxious to | the light shoes she wore for a heavier pair. She might not be able to get a horse from the stable, and so be forced to walk, and she would go prepared. When she had got herself in readiness, she sat down to wait. A whole hour slipped by, before she heard the heavy step, which told her that James was at his post. As usual, he came to her door and rapped to make sure that the bird he was set to watch had not flown from her cage. To Lillian’s question, “What is wanted?” he made no reply, but immedi- ately walked a short distance away, where he spread his blankets, and lay down. Another hour passed, and Lillian rose noiselessly to her feet. It was now midnight. She must delay no longer, or she would not be able to get back be- sore day-dawn. She opened her door alittle way, and listened. The heavy breathing of the man told her that he was asleep. Could she walk past him— within a foot of him, as she must—without disturbing his slumbers? She had drawn over her shoes a pair of felt slips, which she had prepared for the purpose, to deaden their sound. If she could but manage to close the door of her room unheard, she might eG Stepping into the corridor, she slowly and carefully drew it to after her. It shut witha sharp click. The man turned uneasily, but his sleep was too deep to be thus easily broken, and Lillian stepped past him, her garments brushing his feet. The house-door was locked, but fortunately the key had been leftin the lock, and she lost no timein getting out of the house: Her greatest danger was now past. Gathering up the train of her habit, she hastened away in the direction of the stables. She reached the building to find the door bolted on the inside. The stable boy slept in the loft. He had made all secure before going to his bed, where he was now probably fast asleep. Fora short time, Lillian stood undecided how to act; then she remembered that the stable contained a small side door, opening at a distance from the stalls. She took her way to this, to findit as she had hoped she should, unfastened. She entered at once and proceeded to the main door, the bolts of which she was soon able to withdraw. To find and light a lantern was the work of a few moments. But the most difficult feat, that of putting bridle and saddle upon her favorite horse, was yet to be accomplished. This, however. she could do, had done in fact on more than one occasion. When Lillian had lighted the lantern, she stood still fora few seconds, drinking in the fragrance of the new made hay, and admiring the glossy animals as they stood in their respective stalls. : Then she led the nearest one, her favorite, from his place, and proceeded to get him in readiness for her ride. This done, she threw open the door, and let him out and down the avenue to the great gate. Threugh this, and she was ready to mount. This she did by the help of a huge rock by the road-side, and she was off like the wind. ‘ The storm had cleared away, and the stars shone out in all their brillianecy, and the odor of flowers was sweet on theair. But Lillian heeded neither the stars nor the balmy breath of flowers. She was hast- ening to her life-long friend—she who was as dear to her as her own life—to warn her that she was in danger, and must flee at once from the refuge she had found ; to tell her, too, that her own heart was broken, trampled upon and despised by the man of her love. . Lillian had reached the village, and was passing through its deserted streets, when, just in advance of her, she beheld something moving, but whether man or beast she could not yet determine. It was VOL. 43—No. 22. going the same way as herself. As the distance be- tween them neither increased nor lessened, she felt somewhat curious to know what it might be. Touch- ing her horse lightly with the whipshe carried, she 7 quickly at the side of what had caused her won- er. ““Michel !” “Well, now, Miss Lillian, if it aim’t you. I’d have expected to see my own ghost as quick !” “But how is it, Michel, that [find you here? Did not the baron shut you up in the haunted room? And you have brought away the bundle, too. What a sharp boy you are, Michel.” “Didn’t the baron lock me up? T guess he did that, Miss Lillian, and mighty surprised and disappointed they'll feel when they come there in the nforning with the bread and water they promised we, and tin I ain’t theve to eat it. “But how did you get out? The door was locked, /Tam snre; the baron would never forget that, and | there are no windows.” | “But there be a chimbley, you see! Catch me stay- jing ina place like that when there’s a chimbley to | be climbed.” “Ah! I see. But were you not afraid? and how did you manage to get to the ground after you reached the roof?” “Afraid? No. How’dI come down? T just took hold of the gutter spout aud come down like—like water.” “T am very, very glad you escaped,” said Lillian, looking adimiringly at the plucky fellow. “But how does it happen, Michel, that you hgve the bundle? Was it not taken from you?” “No, miss. Iwas just climbing the wall with it when that big fellow sprang up from somewhere, and grabbed me so I just let go of the bundle. It fell the other side of the wall, and there I found it when I caine off in earnest.” Leaving Lillian and Michel to finish their journey to Black Cottage, we will go back to the night when Margaret entered it. After conducting the young lady to her room, Miss Beauplan repaired at once to her brother's study. She found the lawyer settled comfortably in a chair, which was tipped back against the wall, enveloped ina dense cloud of smoke from a choice cigar; for niggardly as Lawyer Beauplan was in other respects, where his personal gratitication was concerned his money flowed freely. “Well, [never! Williard, what acloud! You are a perfect Turk the way you smoke. Put that hateful thing away. I’ve come to have a bit of talk with you.” Miss Beauplan, holding her handkerchief to her nose, dropped into the easy-chair usually occupied by her brother. Williard threw away the remainder of his cigar, and for the space of an hour the two kept up an earnest conversation, which was mostly car- ried on in very low tones. At theend of that time the sister arose, smoothed out the crumpled folds of her dress, took up her bedroom candle, which she had brought with her, and went off to her own room, looking very well pleased with the result of her in- terview with her brother, who, being a man, naturally took to himself the credit of whatever was involved in it. “IT was born under a lucky star,” he mused, as he lighted a fresh cigar. “I knew I should be able to turn that tableau to account in some way. She hasn’t said anything about that marriage! So much the better! She shall hear about it from me when the right time comes. Ha! ha! I shall be the hap- piest man in the world! I have always fancied her, ever since I saw her, a.wee thing toddling around in pinafores. That designing old Baron Heywood never paid me half what he should for my pro- fessional services. Now smiling fortune will help me to pay him off, and get what I. ought to have had from him long ago. Every dog las his day, they say, and what a glorious day is dawn- ing for me! I dubbed old Sutherland a fool for his singular will, and now I could hug him for mak- |ingit just as he did. His whole property, ninety | thousand pounds, besides the place where he lives, Oakenshaw they call it, which is a fortune in itself, to go to his grandchild, providing she marries the lawful heir of ‘The Downs’ before she is eighteen; if she does not, then the whole lump goes to endow a home for indigent old men in his native county. What a strange will, and what a strange old man! His daughter was wooed by a certain heir to ‘The Downs,’ but he failed to win her, though her father | favored his suit, she choosing rather the handsome, portionless Delisle, who had already won her heart. So the old man will withhold his wealth from her child unless she atones for the grief and humiliation which her mother’s marriage put upon him by com- plying with his will. Ha! what asweet surprise I 1ave in store for him when I tell him who is heir to ‘The Downs,’ and how I shall make our little baron foam at the mouth like a maddened cur! Margaret, of course, knows nothing of the will, or of her grand- father’s wealth either, I dare say, and Baron Hey- | wood fancies it will be the easiest thing in the world for him to get possession of her fortune, and keep it, too. But now to bed, and to-morrow I will bask in the sunlight of peerless Margaret’s bright eyes!” But when the morrow came, those wondrous blue eyes scarce bestowed a glance upon Willard the livelong day. Every attention which he lavished upon her failed of its object. Margaret had neither eyes nor thought for the designing lawyer, who for once forsook his books to dawdle away his time in the presence of Miss Deiisle. Before night she be- gan to regard him as a bore, and to wonder whether he meant to keep up the infliction. At dark he put.on his hat, drew on a dainty pair of gloves—he was excessively vain of his hauds—and went out. He remained absent the whole evening. Margaret was in bed and asleep, when his step ascending the stairs aroused her. . The next night he went out again. Miss Beau- plau went early to her room with a headache, and Margaret sat alone in the’dull parlor to wait for the return of Michel from Heywood House. What could be keeping him? Nine, ten, eleven o’clock, and still he had not come. Could it be that with all his cun- ning and forethought her guardian had got him in his power? If so, what might she expect? That Heywood would extort the secret of her ERS ot from the boy, and come armed with power as her guardian to take her away? or would he meet with plucky defiance ? The clock struck twelve. A step sounded on the strip of gravel outside. A minute later, and Willard Beauplan entered the room where she was arene “Up yet, Miss Delisle? So I must infer that Michel has not returned,” he said, taking a chair not tar from Margaret. “He has not. What do you suppose can be the matter ?”’ “Nothing that will deter Michel from coming off allright. That boy is a marvel in his way.” “TI have been fearing all sorts of dreadful things on his account,” she said. “Little coward!’ Willard spoke softly, giving her a a tenderly reproachful glance. At the same time he drew closer to her side, and attempted to take her hand. She withdrew it, and, as she did so, her eyes flashed, under their long lashes, a look of scorn. Her manner changed at once from one of friendly con- fidence to one of cold hauteur. “We shall not quarrel, Mrs. Beauplan, shall we?” “Quarrel? [hope not. That is very far from what I could wish.” “Then, please, do not repeat that action.” The lawyer bit his lip, and turned away his face, which was flushed an angry red. He got up, and began walking up and down the room, paying no further heed to Margaret. His head was bent as in deep thought. Presently he paused to listen to a sound outside. < “It must be Michel has come,” he said. - He went to the window, and carefully drew aside the curtain to look out. “ie has come, sure enough, but some one is with im. Margaret started up as if to fiee. “It is a woman—Miss Heywood, or Mrs. Sykes, I should say, or my eyes deceive me.” This gave Margaret courage to look out. Lilian. It was not until after she had led her to her own room that Margaret noticed the change which had come over her friend’s face. It had certainly grown thinner in the short time she had been away, and was as colorless as marble. Her story was quickly told. Amos had deserted her. That was all there was of it. Margaret once became the artist’s defender. She did not believe he had willfully deserted his bride, and she told her so. ; 4 He could not be at all the heartless scamp Lillian would make herself believe. Her own faith in him yas something wonderful. She declared it as her belief that it was all a vile plot, though by whom It was originated or for what she could not imagine. It is needless to say that Lillian’s faith in Amos, in a measure, returned. If she couldonly feel that he had not given herthis wound intentionally, she would wait for his return, oh, so patiently, and keep her should not come for months, even years! “Tam so glad I came, Madge,” said she, when she rose to go, and her face was less pale and woeful than when she entered, “though at first when I over- took Michel, [did not know but it would: be better for me to go back at once since it is possible I mar be missed and followed. But for the hope you save et I would be willing to run even a greater risk!’ ‘ She prepared to depart with a smile that, however, was no more like the smiles of her old self, than are the rays of the sun in winter like those he sheds when the flowers are in bloom. Margaret stood up to bestow a parting kiss upon her dear friend. Her rare, spirituelle face, in which a look of infinite sadness lingered, looked under the soft lamp-light almost too ethereal for earth. Im- pulsive Lillian rushed to embrace her. “Whatis it, Madge? You are not like yourself. It cannot be uncle’s persecutions altogether, that makes you look so—so like the picture of Generra, which Amos showed us. Whatis it?” Margaret drew back as if she feared her secret was in danger. “Ttis nothing.” i Lillian felt hurt. Her friend’s manner, more than love for him fresh, and her face bright though he ; wince Me Re NG yh oe Ln nen tear titeemctitataetir st an ” ©