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LORD RONALD DARE STOOD WITH HIS HAND PRESS

New York, September 15, 1888,

 

 

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dead man, and then, with a cold, stern face, strode
4 from the room and entered his carriage to drive to
® Dunstane Royals, to break the sad news of his oldest
son's tragic death to old Lord Dunstane Dare.
a They took the Lady Alice Stanhope home in a dead

THE TRAGEDY OF CARNLEIGH SHORES
A STORY OF THE STAGE.

BY HERO STRONG,

Author of ‘The Captain’s Orphan Daughter ” ‘*Born to Command,” ete., etc.

CHAPTER I.

A TRAGEDY BEFORE THE FOOTLIGHTS.

The curtain rang up at the Drury Lane Theater on
@ new sensational play, written by one of the leading
dramatists of the day especially for Miss Clemence
Armour, the beautiful young actress who had set all
London crazy.

The first scene was over, and as the curtain rose on
the second scene, Clemence came forward into the
glare of the footlights.

The instruments of the musicians brayed forth
their triumphant welcome to the world’s favorite,
and the deafening applause of the audience shook
the vast building, and echoed and re-echoedto the
vaulted roof.

And, indeed, the radiant beauty alone of the young
actress was enough to invoke the wildest applause,
for a lovelier, more charming face,
audience had never looked upon.

She was in the first bloom of youth—certainly not
more than twenty years of age, with a form which
no sculptured marble had ever rivaled. Her com-
plexion was pure as snow, with a little touch of rose
color in the rounded cheeks, and a line of vermilion
maiking the delicately curved lips. Her eyes were
deeply blue, fringed with black lashes, and her hair
was golden asthe sunbeams, and rippled far below
her waist in a sea of brightness.

She opened her lips to speak, and the house fell
into silence. Surely that could be no woman’s voice
—it was the music of the spheres! Resonant, sweet,
yet clear asthe sound of silver bells on a frosty
night, Clemence Armour’s yoice was one of her
greatest charms !

In a luxurious private box, overlooking the stage,
sat Lord Ronald Dare, the eldest son of old Lord
Dunstane, of Dunstane Castle.

Tall, handsome, dark as a brigand, with a face full
of passion and power, a face none too good in its
expression of high pride and haughty self-will, Lord
Ronald regarded the young actress from beneath his
dark brows, and bent over his companion, a young
and beautiful girl, and whispered something in her
ear.

Lady Alice Stanhope smiled upinto his face, and
blushed beneath the ardor of his glance.

“But, indeed, I have been told that you admire
Miss Armour very much, Lord Ronald ?’ said the
young girl, half inquiringly.

“Pshaw! Any man may admire an actress.
Actresses are, to acertain extent, public property.
Miss Armouris beautiful, certainly, but what com-
peat could she, a daughter of nobody knows who,

old to you, my peerless Lady Alice ?”’

He bent over her as he spoke, his dark mustache
touched the soft hair above her forehead, his white
hand lay across the back of her chair, and she,

a London |

blushing and sweet, half lifted her shy eyes to the
fire which slumbered in his gaze.
“Lord Ronald,” she said, softly, ‘‘I——”
| The sentence was never finished, for sharp and
| Clear through the hushed silence of the great room,
there. rang out the report of a pistol, and the deadly
whistle of the bullet, as it cut the air, paralyzed the
, crowd and held them breathless.
Every eye turned involuntarily to the young actress,
| as, Clad in her white robes of shimmering silk, with
diamonds on her bosom and on her rounded arms,
she stood with the glare of the gas-light falling over
her, and her hand extended just as she had stood
when she had spoken her passionate appeal to the
| hero of the drama she was enacting.
| But how changed was her face! - The rose-hue had
faded, and left her deathly white; the lips were
drawn, the blue eyes were full of horror and despair.

 

| And following the direction of her stony stare, |

| those who looked saw that Lord Ronald Dare had
' arisen from his seat and stood with his hand pressed
to his breast, his haughty face convulsed in the last
death-agony.

Lady Alice had risen to her feet, and stood white
|and frozen into stillness. The red blood of Lord
| Ronald was on her fair arms, and spattered over her

white robes, and dripped slowly down from the |

eweled fan which hung by its rope of pearls from
er fair wrist.

For a moment longer Clemence Armour stood and
looked on the terrible scene; then, with a wild cry,
she turned and fled from the stage. The curtain fell
with a crash; the audience, as one man, leaped from
their seats; the confusion was deafening. The police
cleared their way to the box, and, assisted by the
young lord’s friends, bore Ronald Dare to one of the

London examined his wound.

He put down the young man’s pulseless wrist, and
stood back to allow his brother Hubert to approach.

All care was useless. Lord Ronald Dare was be-
yond the reach of earthly aid; and, without having
uttered a word or breathed a sigh, he passed out into
the unknown.

Lord Hubert Dare stood appalled, and looked down
on his dead brother like one in a maze.

“Come away,” said the doctor; ‘you cannot help
him. Poor fellow! the bullet went to his heart. His
death was instantaneous and painless.”

“But who has done this thing?’ cried Lord Hubert.
“Who fired the shot !—and why ?”

“No one saw the shot fired, so far as I can learn,’
said one of the policemen.

 

fused crowd, his dark eye full of angry fire, his stern
| lips set under his black mustache. In appearance
| he was like his brother, and popular report said that
| his private life would bear inspection no better than

than of Lord Ronald.
“A thousand pounds to the man who brings my
| brother’s murderer to me?” he cried, hoarsely. “And
a give myself no rest until the wretch is hunted

own!”

He gave a few orders to those in charge of the '

retiring rooms, and the most eminent physician in |

Lord Hubert looked around him on the wildly con- |

faint, and it was very many weeks betore she left
her sick chamber and came out into the world again,
a changed and saddened woman. For, with all his
faults, and he had many, she had loved Lord Ronald
Dare.
And when comparative quiet was restored to the
theater, and the manager looked about him, Clemence
Armour was missing.
No one knew when or whither she had gone. No
one had seen her go. A messenger was hurriedly
dispatched to her lodgings, but there were no tidings
of her there. She had not been home,
The manager was frantic.
Outside the curtain the audience clamored for the
play to goon. They had paid high prices for seats
to see the famous actress, and they were not easily
reconciled to disappointment.
They had the bad taste, some of them, to hiss when
the eras, manager came before the curtain and
explained that Miss Armour had received such a
shock by the tragedy she had witnessed that she
would be unable to appear before them.
Their money was paid back at the box-office, and
| the disgusted crowd departed, and wondered what
| business an actress had with nerves. lf she adver-
tised a performance, she should keep her engage-
ment.

| Meanwhile, Mr. Carter, the manager, was ready to
tear his hair with indignant eee ton:

Such sums of money as he had spent in educating
| Miss Armour; such extra scenery as he had pro-

vided; such unheard-of attractions as the play would
have presented!

And no living woman could take the part of the
leading female character except Clemence Armour.

Mr. Carter fumed, and swore at the other members
of his company, asif they had been engaged in a
conspiracy to spirit Miss Armour away just at the
moment when she was most needed.

| “Butit was a dreadful crime!” said an old gentle-
man in spectacles and a white tie, who had invaded
the greenroon), and had been asking questions which
a Yankee newspaper reporter would never have
thought of—‘‘an awful crime! My .good sir,” he
added, evidently thinking it a good opportunity to
put in a little Pharisaical morality against the stage,
“T should suppose it would naturally induce you to
renounce the theatrical business altogether.”

“That’s where you are mistaken,” returned Mr.
Carter, bristling with indignation. “So far as Dare
| was concerned, he has met his just deserts. I could

tell you stories of his conduct that would make you
blush for your sex. But what should send Miss
Armour off in such a dused mysterious way is more
than I can understand.”

“It shows,” said the gentleman with the white tie,
“that although she is an actress, she is not lost to all
sense of——”

“An actress!” roared the manager, who was in no
'mood for listening to homilies on the profession;
; ‘an actress is as good as any other woman so long as

she behaves as well. And there are ques as good and
true ladies and gentlemen treading the boards to-day
as can be found any where.”
| The old gentleman straightened his spectacles and
| retired precipitately, and Mr. Carter questioned all
the subordinates, but to no end. No one knew aught
of the whereabouts of Miss Armour. No one had
seen her leave the theater. No one knew why she
had gone,
| But there was a reason why she had fled from the
| theater like a hunted animal—why she had fled from
| the city, even, and dared not look back at its lights,
' as they gleamed red against the garish dawn—and
that reason was this:
Clemence Armour had seen the man who fired the

Fatal shot!
CHAPTER II.
THE EARWL’S STORY.

A thousand pounds reward !
The fences and the dead walls of London and its
environs blazed with the offer of Lord Hubert Dare.
; A thousand pounds reward for the delivery into his
custody of his brother’s assassin !
The police were eager to earn the money, and de-

 

 

, tectives of note did not consider it beneath them to
| give attention to the case. But time rolled on,
|} and though numberless clews had been discovered
} and followed up, they all proved valueless, and Lord
| Ronald lay in his grave in the stately tombs of Dun-
stane Royals, unavenged.

Old Lord Dunstane Dare had never recovered from
| the shock of his son’s death, for Ronald had been his
| favorite, it was said by those who knew them both,
| because he had none of the high and passionate tem-

| per of the old lord, who had been a man of dark |

| deeds in his day, and of whom many gruesome tales
| were told.

| Six months after the assassination of his son, the
Hubert reigned at Dunstane Royals.
And though every effort had been made by Mr.
Carter to discover the whereabouts of Clemence
| Armour, no tidings of her had ever been received.
She had vanished out of existence as entirely as
| though the earth had opened and swallowed her.

 

And a new starin the theatrical world appeared,

| and Miss Armour was forgotten, save by a few ar-

dent admirers, who had seen in the genius of the wo-
| man a bewildering prospect of future greatness.
| A year after the tragic death of his brother, Lord
| Hubert Dare succeeded to the’ title and estates of his
| uncle, the Earl of Morleigh, and added the magnifi-
| cent country-seat of Morleigh Castle to his already
| extensive possessions.
The young earl had not married, which was a won-

der, seeing that so many of the beauties of the
county were only waiting to say yes to his proposals;
but he was fastidious, and perhaps a little old-fash-
ioned, for he believed in love as an essential to
domestic happiness. And strangely enough, he had
never yet met the woman who had, beyond the pass-
ing moment, awakened that sentiment in his heart.

But when the autumn following his succession to
Morleigh, he made a visit to the estate in Cornwall,
which had recently come into his possession, his fate
overtook him in a most unexpected way.

He was thrown from his horse by that most unro-

jured so severely that several days elapsed before he
was able to be removed from the cottage where he
had been taken.

And his most devoted nurse throughout his enforced
illness was Mrs. Mayo—a young widow lady living
with her aunt, Mrs. Hastings.

Mrs. Hastings’ husband had been an army officer,

pension and the little cottage with its few acres of
surrounding land, where she now resided.

Mrs. Mayo was her niece, in poor circumstances,
with one little girl, not yet two years old, to care for.

For the rest, Mrs. Mayo was lovely beyond the ay-
erage loveliness of beautiful women, and she was
amiable, and there was about her a nameless charm
which the heart of Lord Hubert could not with
stand; and before he had been a week at the cottage
he knew that this nameless widow had succeeded in
what half the fair beauties of his native county had
failed—in capturing doth his fancy and his heart.

The Earl of Morleigh was a proud man, but he was
a passionate man, and an honorable man as well. He
had the fiery and haughty temper of the Dares, but
he had a high sense of honor where women were con-
cerned, and he saw but one way open before him.

He would win Mrs. Mayo for his wife!

He knew well enough how the proud, blue-blooded
country gentry would open their eyes at his choice ;
but he was indifferent enough not to care for their
criticism, and he was so deeply in love, that mere
worldly considerations did not weigh with him.

And as he sat there through the delicious autumn
mornings, with the cool breath of the sea coming in
at the window and stirring the golden hair on the
fair forehead of his young nurse, he deemed the
world well lost for the love of such a woman.

He had known her only a fortnight, and it was the
first day of his going out of doors. when he told her
that he loved her.

Mrs. Mayo started back from him, and released the
hand he had takenin his. She flushed, and paled,
and trembled, and looked at him with half affrighted
eyes.

“Whatisit, my darling?” he asked,tenderly. “Have
T been too abrupt? If so, forgive me, and let the love
I bear you be my excuse and win my pardon. I could

 

| old lord was laid in the tomb beside him, and Lord |

mantic of all causes, a defect in the highway, and in- |

and had died several years previous, leaving her a |

not wait. I want my happiness now, and surely you
will not say me nay.”

She recovered herself with an effort, and stood pale
| and quiet before him.

“You have taken me by surprise, Lord Morleigh,”
| she said, gently; ‘and I fear that you have not con-
| sidered the step you aretaking. You are a peer of
| England, with a long line of ancestry——”

“And you are the only woman I ever loved,” inter-
| rupted Morleigh, passionately.

|} “Tama nobody. A daughter of the people; and
' for aught you know, with a previous life which may
| not meet with your approbation. Consider how very
| little you know of me.”

“Nor do I care to know. Whatever your life may
| have been, this I do know—there is no shame nor dis-
| grace connected withit. Icanread your purity in
| your face.”

‘‘No,” she said, a little sadly; ‘‘there has been no
disgrace in my life, but much sorrow and misfor-
tune. : But it all came to me through no fault of my
Own.’

“T ean well believe it,’ said Morleigh, warmly.
“But let us put the past aside—it is dead, and does
not concern us. Only tell me that you loveme. That
is all I want to hear.”

“T can hardly tell you that, because I have never
thought of you in the light of alover, And I must
have time to consider. I must think of my little
girl e

“Your little girl shall be mine. Only you must not
love her too much, forI ama jealous man, and though
sheis your child Ido not think I could bear to see
her come between us. But of course I would be rea-
sonable. Give me my answer to-day.”

“T must have time to think,” Mrs. Mayo said, draw-
ing a little back from the arm he would have put
around her. ‘It would be such an unequal marriage.
And you should marry beauty and rank.”

“T have the rank, and you have the beauty. I
shall marry to please myself. Laura—let me call you
as your aunt does—give me my answer now.”

“Wait until to-morrow. I must speak to my aunt,
and before [let you bind yourself to me there are
some things I must tell you which may change your
mind entirely.’

“Nothing can change my love, Laura.”

‘We shall see,” returned Mrs. Mayo. “And now
you must goin. There is a mist coming up from the
water, and you are not strong yet.”

“But I shall always regard that accident which
threw me from my horse as the most fortunate occur-
rence of my life, since it made me acquainted with
you, my darling. How littl we know what is best
forus. I was so angry with Prince for stumbling
that I could have sworn roundly at him for his awk-

wardness.”
“Yes, indeed,’ said his companion. ‘We little
And Iam afraid that you

 

know what is best for us.
do not know now any better than you did a fortnight
ago.

“T know what I want,” cried Morleigh, kissing the
white hand which he was holding in both his own.
“To-morrow at ten, let me take you down to the sea,
and there hear you say that you will be Countess of
Morleigh.”’

“Very well; to-morrow at ten I will give you my
answer.”

She turned quietly away from him, and went down
the sandy path to the shore.. Morleigh stood and
| looked after her, and wondered if in all the world
there had ever before been so beautifula woman!
|The sunlight shimmered on her golden hair, and
| lighted up the red rose on her bosom as she turned
| momentarily toward him, ere she vanished around a
rocky curve, where the cliffs hid her from his sight.

“There have been many beautiful ladies of Mor-
| leigh mused the earl, ‘‘but she will surpass them all!
I wonder if she loves me? ButI will teach her the
lesson. And as for the little girl—well, I will do my
duty by her, and when she grows up providea suit-
able husband for her. Laura has never spoken of
the child’s father—perhaps all might not have been
pleasant between them. But what should I care?
All I want is her love!”

Lord Hubert was restless and distrait until the
evening came and brought Laura to the little parlor.
She seemed to desire to avoid all conversation alone
with him. Mrs. Hastings, a stately old lady in a
widow’s cap, and an old school severity of manner,
came out and sat with them, and posed over her

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

knitting; and little Fairy, as the child was called
played on the rug at her mother’s feet. | ‘

The ladies rose early to say good-night to their

uest.

° The earl detained Laura a moment in the hall.

“Remember, [am suffering agonies of suspense,”
he said, in a passionate undertone, ‘‘and do not
make me any more unhappy to-morrow. You will
not, my darling ?”

She smiled, and her whole face became glorified.
Morleigh could not resist the temptation, and he
snatched her to his heart and kissed her white. fore-
head.

“Forgive me! I could not helpit!” he said, hum-
bly; “and good-night. At ten to-morrow I shall wait
for the words that shall make me the happiest man
alive!”

Mrs. Mayo passed a sleepless night. 4

She sat by the side of her little girl, watching the
peaceful slumbers of the innocent, and debating
within herself what would be the consequences of
the morrow's decision to this child she loved so
dearly.

It os daylight before she rose, stiff and cramped,
and lay down on the bed beside her baby. Her mind
was madeup. She had tasted life’s bitterness to the
dregs, and now that a brighter fate was offered to her,
she would take the goods the gods were ready to pro-

vide.

But first, she had a story to tell the Earl of Mor-
leigh; and what would be the effect upon him of that
revelation she could not foresee.

The morning wore away.

A cloudless sky—a deep hush over sea and land.
The blue hills of the north cut clear against the blue
sky, and the sea like glass lying prone to meet the
sunlight.

Laura threw a crimson shawl over her shoulders,
and went out to meet her lover.

He came toward her—tall, handsome, proud, and
happy, because he read her answer in her face before
she spoke. f

“My dearest Laura! You will be Countess of
Morleigh! LIsee it in your face!”

She bent her beautiful head, and her forehead
touched his shoulder.

“Tf, after I have told you my past life, you still de-
sire it. I will be Countess of Morleigh.”

“Nothing you can tell me will change my desire to
make you ny wife.”

“But your friends? Your relatives? Surely there
are those who will object to your alliance with a
woman of inferior rank ?”

“And do you think, if that were the case, it would
make any difference to me?’ hse aked, fondly caress-
ing the hand he was holding in his own.

“And wouldit not?’

“Certainly not. I am twenty-seven years of age,
and in a position to choose for myself. But I have
never told you anything about myself, Laura; you
have taken me entirely upon trust.”

“As you have taken me.”

“As I would take you always. My love would be
worth but little if I loved you for your circum-
stances, and not for yourself. People will tell you,
Laura, that the family to which I belong area wicked
and self-willed race, and, perhaps, it may be so.
We are not saints by any means. You know, of
course, that my father is dead, and that I have
neither brother nor sister ?”

“I know nothing. How should I? Three weeks
ago, I did not know of your existence, and I have
not lived among England’s nobility to be conversant
with the family ties of those above me.”

“Jt does not matter. Birth is but an accident. But
I confess to you, Laura, that I am not, by any means,
of democratic tendencies. I can think of nothing
more distasteful than the idea of having my way to
make as a tradesman or a laborer. Iam glad for

our sake, as well as for my own, that Lam Earl of
orleigh.” :

“And haying these feelings, you should marry in
your own rank in life.” :

“Tt does not follow. Shall I tell you a little about
myself? And perhaps you will see that it is not
such an unequal bargain after all. Ihave been wild
and reckless in my day, Laura, and more than once
the old lord, my father, has threatened to disown
me. I spent large sums of money on fast horses, and
various other follies, but I have, I am glad to say,been
honorable where your sex was concerned. Nobody—
not even my worst enemy—can accuse me of ever
knowingly wronging a woman! But I have been
mixed up in a great many disreputable affairs—and,
some tine, perhaps, you will hear some of the par-
ticulars. But you must not let the spiteful old cats
who would have gladly married me to their daughters,
set you against me, Laura darling.”

She smiled as she answered :

“The ‘old cats’ would doubtless be much obliged to
you for your flattering appellation.” :

“Nevertheless, they deserve it. But there is little
that I can tell you about myself; it pertains more

articularly to my family. Toa certain extent, we

ave been unfortunate. There is an absurd old
legend in the family that we are all to meet violent
deaths. In expiation of a dark and deadly sin com-
mitted by some remote ancestor, we are to die other-
wise than in our beds, as honest people are expected
todo. Whence or in what way the lcgend originated
Ieannot say, but the old servants have full faith in
it, and though the prophecy has never troubled me
in the slightest. I am bound to tell you that so far it
hascome singularly truc. My oldest sister, Isabel,
one of the most beautiful, and brilliant girls in the
county, was accidentally drowned on the eve of her
marriage with Sir Edgar Leslie; my second sister,
Margaret, was killed while following the hounds—
killed on her eighteenth birthday, with her lover
beside her, and half the nobility of England in full
sight of her; and my older brother was shot by the
dastard hand of an assassin !”’ ;

“Oh, Heaven! do not goon!” cried Laura, grasp-
ing his arm, her face pale, and her voice trembling
-—you terrify me! How dreadful it all was!” y

“My darling!” he exclaimed, drawing her to his
side. ‘““You are cold with fear! I should have known
better than to have clouded this moment with such
a gloomy recital! Try to forget it! And, remember,
that you are to make my life so happy and complete,
that no evil can come to me!” ;

Laura had been looking at him fixedly while he was
speaking, and the strange familiarity of his face
seemed to grow upon her, She had marked it often
before, and it had troubled her; for it had seemed to
her throughout their brief acquaintance, that she
had known the Earl of Morleigh long ago. There
were certain expressions of his dark, handsome face
that were familiar to her; and yet she knew that she
had never seen him until accident had thrown him in
her way three weeks before. ;

She took up the recltal of the family fortunes where
he had dropped it. 5 ;

“Your brother,” she said, slowly, and speaking with
evident effort, ‘“‘was shot, you say. How did it
happen ?” ;

He did not notice the stony look which had crept
over her fair face; he did not see the pink nails
erushing into the flesh in the delicate palms of her
clenched hands; but he felt the shiver which ran
through her slight frame, and he thought to himself
that he would have need to guard her well, she was
so sensitive and so timid. é

“We will not talk of it, dear. It distresses you.
Let us talk of our happiness, and plan our future,”

“T wish to hear about it now; we will speak of—of
our future afterward.” ; :

“As you will. But there is a story connected with
it—a long and sad story, and some other time a

“Tell it to me now; I amin the mood to listen,” she
said, sinking down on a sunny knoll, and drawing
her shawl up around her. :

Morleigh took a seat by her side, and supported her
with his arm, and tried to look into her face, but she
turned it away toward the slumbering sea.

“You are cold, Laura. Let us go into the house,
dear. I ought not to have kept you. There is an east
wind blowing, and the tide is comingin. If I cannot
take better care than this of you, I do not deserve to
haye you.” : ‘

“JT am not cold, Lord Morleigh; Iam only, as is nat-
ural, excited. The sunshine is delightful. Let us
stay here,’ she said, mechanically. ‘Tell me your
brother’s story.” Sar

“Certainly, if you wish it. I could not refuse you
anything. Laura, I wonder if you know how much I
love you? I wonder if you realize how much I would
do to prove that love?” st ;

“Take care how you make your vows! she said,
almost fiercely. ‘You may be called upon to fulfill
them, or prove yourself false!” '

“What do you ae out As think I would not

tand by my prowise ‘ nly try me.”
i “No, indi 1 think nothing of the kind. I was only
indulging in idle talk, Go on with your story.

“Let me look in your face, Laura. I want to see
that you have some pity, some charity for my poor
brother, though I must admit that he was bitterly to
blame. But,if he sinned, his life paid forit. Promise
me, Laura, that you will try and not judge him too
severely.” ‘ ; : aati

“fF will be lenient,” she said, still speaking in that
unmoved and monotonous tone of voice.

® “Thank you, I know your heart is a tender oue.
To begin, then: My poor brother was the elder son.
He had been indulged all his life, and he was of a
tierce and passionate nature, and when he had set his
mind on anything, he never stopped at any obstacle
in the way of securing it. He traveled extensively ;
he had many expensive acquaintances, and, like my-
self, he was a source of great trouble and vexation to
our father. It was old Lord Dunstane’s most earnest
wish that his elder son, and prospective heir, should
marry the Lady Alice Stanhope, a beautiful girl,
quite in our own rank of life, and it was generally
understood that Lady Alice was quite Seay to enter
into the plan. My brother had a great many ntrigues;
indeed, he was never without one or more affairs of
the heart on hand, and his last inamorata was a cel-
ebrated actress who charmed the London world about
two years ago. My father was strongly set against
the stage, and everything pertaining to it, for the
reason that, years ago, he liad lost his heart to a-won-
derful prima donna, and been thrown over for a
wealthier suitor; and when he heard of my brother's
infatuation, there wae a cane scene, and hard

ords were spoken on both sides,
wept you evet see this—this actress with whom
your, brother was in love ?” asked Laura.

“Never. They told me, those who had seen her,

that she was the most beautiful woman the sun ever
shone upon; but I was absent on the Continent at
the time of the affair, and did not return home until
the day previous to my brother’s death. On that
night he was at the theater in the box with Lady
Alice Stanhope, and just as the actress had made her
opening appeal to the hero of the play, the sound of
a pistol-shot rang through the building, and my
brother fell forward, shot through the heart.” °
“Great Heaven !”
“You may well be shocked. It was terrible. I
shall never forget the scene as I’ beheld it, when, a
moment after, I entered the theater. But I will

still a moment, they said, and gazed upon the scene,
and then, with a wild cry, fled from the stage, and
she has never been heard of since.”

“What was this—this actress’ name?” asked Laura,
her voice sounding hoarse and unnatural.

“Her real name I have never heard. At the theater
she was known as Miss Clemence Armour. And now,
my dearest Laura, I have to tell you what colors my
cheek with shame, and what, if I could, I would fain
avoid. My brother had become entangled with this
Miss Armour, who was probably a designing, artful
woman, and who, perhaps, had an eye to the coronet
which he was likely to inherit. She was keen enough
to refuse to listen te his suit until he proposed mar-
riage to her, and then she favored him. I should,
perhaps, tell you that we learned these facts from
the papers he left behind him, and from Guy River-
ton, an old college friend of his, who had been in
many scrapes his boon companion, and who had
always exerted an evil influence over him.

“My brother could not give the girl up, and he
could not marry her for fear of his father's dis-
pleasure. Indeed, I do not think he would have had
the moral courage to marry her under any circum-
stances, but he could not wim her favor in wny other
way than with the appearance of honor, and he, in
conjunction with Riverton, planned a mock mar-
riage, at which Riverton acted as clergyman, and
she believed herself his wife.”

Laura had risen, tall, and white as-a piece of
marble, and stood before him, her hands shaking,
her great eyes stony and full of horror,

“Great Heaven, Lord Morleigh!” she cried, “what
are you telling me?”

“I know it was fiendish and dishonorable, my
dearest girl. Bit his life paid for it. Remember
that he is dead!” cried Morleigh, appalled by her
looks,

“Yes, he is dead. I remember that he is dead,”
she said, and dropped back into her seat.

“He told her that the marriage must be kept a
secret on account of his father, who was an old man
and liable to die at any time, and then she would
reign at Dunstane Castle; and she, poor thing!
readily fell into his plans. Mind you, Laura, I do
not uphold my brother in his course, but you must
know that many another man has sinned thus be-
fore him.”

‘“‘What was your brother’s name?’ __

“His name? Have I not mentioned it?
was Ronald Dare.” , :

“And she thought herself his wife, while in reality
she had no legal right to the name ?”’

“You put it strongly, but so it was.”

“What became of her?’

“T do not knew. Noone knows, She disappeared,
and all attempts to trace her failed.”

“And if she had been found—what then? If she
were found now ?”’ : i

The Earl of Morleigh was surprised at the intense
interest Laura seemed to feel in the unfortunate
actress, but he answered all her questions patiently.

“Tf she were found, I should give her an allowance
for herself, and for—the child, for the presumption is
that there was a child.”

“You haye not told me who shot Lord Ronald
De oF,

“T do not know. I would give a large sum to ascer-
tain. In fact, I have made a standing offer of a
thousand pounds reward for his apprehension. And
though the detectives do not attach much importance
to my opinion, I have asuspicion that if Clemence
Armour could be found she could reveal the name of
the assassin.” t

“You surely do not think that she was cognizant
of, or accessory to, the assassination ?”

“Far from it. But I believe that she fled to avoid
being a witness against some one. Why I think so, I
cannot explain to you.”

‘‘Might she not rather have fled because she could
not bear the shame and disgrace that awaited her
when the real nature of her marriage should become
known ?”

“I hardly think so, because she could not have
known that the marriage was a false one. She be-
lieved it genuine, and so believing, what would have
been more natural than for her to remain and claim
her own rights, and those of her unborn child?”

“True.”

“T am determined, however, to ascertain who killed
my brother. I have devoted myself to the task of
working up every clew which has offered, but thus
far it has been lost time. Ihave inmy employ the best
detectives in England,and Ido notdespair. I shall
yet bring him to account.” j :
“And when you do?’ asked Laura, with feverish
anxiety. :
“He shall hang!’”’ cried the Earl of Morleigh,
fiercely, a dark scowl hovering: on his brow, and he
set his thin lips together in angry defiance.

“And you would show him no merey?” Not even
if I asked you?’

“Not even for you, Laura. No. Ronald was my
brother. He had done many base things, but there
was no warrant for shooting him down in cold blood.
And I feel sure that you will not only see that I am
right, but that you will help me hunt him down.”
She looked at him so strangely as she repeated his
words—he remembered it afterward—‘T shall help
you hunt him down? I wonder if I shall?” ’
Then she dréw ler shawl around her, and said, with
some slight impatience of nanuer : :
“T must go in. To-morrow I will give you a more
definite answer. We shall understand each other
better. Till then, adieu.”

“Laura, you surely will not leave me in this cold
way,” he cried, snatching. her hands and drawing
her to his breast. “My own love. Say that you will
be mine.”

‘‘You will know more to-morrow,” she said, quietly,
releasing herself; and evading him she passed into
the house. ‘

The Earl of Morleigh looked after her a little dis-
appointed. However, he was not a man who worried
himself unnecessarily. Helightedacigar, andstrolled
down to the shore. ;

“Women are strange creatures,” he mused, “and
variable as the winds. And Laura is nervous and
delicately organized. I have frightened her with my
tale of blood. She will be all right to-morrow, and I
shall win a bride to be proud of.”

But when the morrow came it brought the strange
and alarming intelligence that sometime in the hours
of darkness Laura Mayo and her child had left the
cottage, and not a word or a line to tell whither they
had gone!

His name

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
———_>-8<-_ —_—
BLOTCHED FACES.

In some instances exposure to the sunlight will
produce results hardly distinguishable from those of
alcoholic indulgence, and more especially with those
with impure blood, or whose habits have not been
marked by the regularity demanded by health.
Tight lacing or even the mere wearing of stays, no
matter how loosely these may fit, or how soft and
flexible the material from which they are made,
frequently exercise the same effectin every regard.
Many a temperate woman and abstinent maid has

acquired the reputation of being a hard drinker from
the appearance of her face, when, as a matter of fact,
her only fault has been the desire to look attractive
in the foolish compression of her waist and form.

Gluttony is another common cause of a red nose
and cutaneous disorders of the face. And in this re-
gard gluttony does not mean the eating of large
quantities of food, but merely of more than the
system requires. Twoand ahalf pounds of nutri-
ment per diem may be gluttony for a young man or
a young woman who takes little or no exercise, and
passes the day reading, or idly conversing, where
five pounds would be abstemiousness to a young col-
legian playing ball and rowing twelve hours out of
twenty-four.

Many diseases,and more particularly the affections
of the erysipelas class, tend to express themselves
in and upon the nose and face, not only in all their
forms and stages, but even after they have been
nominally cured, they leave or imprint a tendency
upon the system to the same unsightly and disgust-
ing symptoms. However serious and deep-seated
the causes, it is always possible and easy to cure and
prevent the effects. Whether the original source of
the trouble lies in constitutional disease, depraved
condition of the system, hard drinking, overeating,
sunburn, or tight lacing, it cannot produce the blem-
ishes described until after the blood has been sur-
charged with humors and the vital organs have
become weakened in tone and activity. These are
in every instance the immediate cause of the trouble.
If they be stopped before they reach their full devel-
opment, vo skin disease will break out. If they be
properly treated after that point, the disease soon
disappears and the sufferer speedily regains beauty
and health.

————_—____ > @-<+__
DO SNAKES SWALLOW THEIR YOUNG?

Mr. H. J. MeCooey, of Coogee, New South Wales,
was strolling in the neighborhood of ‘his residence,
when he suddenly startled a large black snake and
no less than eighteen young ones. When the reptile
saw him she made a strange hissing or gulping noise,
and opened her mouth wide, into which, her young
glided with extraordinary rapidity, and disappeared
down her throat. Mr. McCooey instantly dispatehed
the reptile, and on dissecting her killed thirteen of

 

the young snakes, the remainder making their es-
cape in the grass,

spare you the details, The unhappy actress stood ©

 

 

IN EXILE.
BY D. J..ROBERTSON.

I would I were the happy wind
That still is free to follow

His heart about the world to find

- The summer and the swallow.

Out to the pleasant north he goes,

' Where I would fain be going,

Through lands where violet and rose
About his path are blowing.

Still northward, northward o'er the seas
With flowers and sunny weather,

Till he can hear the murmurous bees
Among the purple heather ;

Till he can hear the ripples play
About the nodding sedges,

And breathe the fragrance of the May
Upon a hundred hedges.

Wird of the south, if it were mine
With thee to go a-maying, —

In lands of olive and of vine
No more I’d be delaying ;

But from my weary exile freed,
Through sunlit ways or shady,

I’d folow where my heart would lead

Until I found my lady.

Ah, happy wind, fly north to-day,
Fly past the flying ships,

And in the pleasant Northland lay
My kiss upon her lips;

Then shape the music of the birds
That sweetly sing above her

Into an echo of my words
To tell her how I love her.

—__—_ >- @-~«-

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

THE SEGRET OF THE LOGKET.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON.

Author of “*Geoffrey’s Victory,” ‘‘ Brownie’s
Triumph,” ‘* The Forsaken Bride,” etc.

(“WITCH HAZEL” was commenced in No, 42. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XIII.
HAZEL SEEKS A SITUATION,

ANTED—A YOUNG LADY, ABOUT EIGHTEEN

or nineteen, who has just completed her education,

and would like a position as governess and companion to

a miss of fifteen. Must have the best of references, both

as to character and capability. Apply in person or by

letter at No.— Hyde Park Corner, London, during the

ee week in June, between the hours of twelve and two
daily.

This was ‘the advertisement which caught the eye
of Hazel Gay one afternoon during the second week
in June, while she was looking over the daily paper.

“TI believe that is just what I want,” she said, a
quick flush suffusing her beautiful face.

She read it over again, slowly and carefully, and
then sat a long time, a serious look in her eyes, as if
thoughtfully considering some important subject.

“T will do it,” she said at last, in a resolute tone;
and taking a pair of scissors from her work-basket,
she cut'the advertisement out and transferred it to
her pocket-book.

In about two weeks Hazel was to graduate from
the school where she had been a pupil for so many
years. :

For more than a year the question, ‘‘What shall
do when my school days are over?’ had weighed
heavily on her heart.

She did not forget that Perey had always said that

he should make a home for her, and they would live
together, and for a long time she had looked forward
to such a life as the very acme of her happiness. .

But, as we have before hinted, during the last year
“a change had come o’er the spirit of her dream,’’
gue cue had gradually come to feel that it could
not be. % .

She had always called herself Percy’s sister, and
spoken of him as her brother to her teachers and
mates, while she had ever submitted to his guidance
as a. younger sister naturally would to a brother
several years older than. herself. ,

With Perey, however, it was different. Every year,
as: Hazel developed more and more into perfect
womanhood, he experienced greater satisfaction in
the knowledge that she was of no kin to him. He
knew he loved her with all his great heart—this
queenly, beautiful girl, with her exuberant spirit,
yet with a depth of character which few girls at her
age possessed—and, secretly, he was planning to
oe ar as his wife when her school days should be
ended.

During the earlier part of the last school year he
had come one evening to make her a little visit and
he brought a gift with him—a charming little watch,
which she had been longing to possess, but never
dared to breathe her wish aloud.

Hazel was delighted with it, and,in the excess of
her pleasure, she clasped both hands about his arm,
raised herself on the tips of her toes, and kissed him.

“Percy, you are the dearest brother in the world!”
she cried, joy beaming from every feature of her
lovely face.

The quick color flashed to his brow, and a look of
pain contracted it, for she had all the innocence and
freedom of a child in this expression of her gratitude,
and the fear smote him that she would never learn
to love him other than as’a brother.

He drew himself up and slightly away from her.

“But, Hazel, I am not really your brother, you
know,” be said, in a constrained tone.

A shock went through her, depriving her of her
color and her joy. A feeling of shame took posses-
sion of her.

Had she been hoidenish and unlady-like, forward
and rude? And did he feel it needful to reprove her
thus for her freedom with him—to make her feel
that now she was a young lady grown, and she must
not be so willing to bestow her kisses and caresses
upon young men?

It was a keen arrow in her soul.

She knew he was not her brother, but he had been
so good to her always that she loved him like a—yes,
she was sure that no sister ever loved a brother more
dearly than she loved Percy; then why should she
not give expression to that affection?

Then another shock, more terrible than the first,
followed, as a sudden light broke in upon her.

Did she love Percy after a sisterly fashion? Had
the absorbing, almost idolatrous affection which she
possessed for him anything of a fraternal nature
about it?

No, it was far deeper, tenderer, more sacred; and
the revelation, so sudden and startling, almost con-

gealed her, and her heart sank like a lump of lead, as"

she thought that perhaps she had unconsciously be-
trayed this, and Percy had felt it necessary to restrain
and reprove her for it. .

Still her pride would not allow her to betray any-
thing of this inward struggle.

Her face flushed hotly, then paled, while she man-
aged to reply quietly, and with an air of humility
that touched and thoroughly deceived him:

“I know it, Percy; but you have always been so
good to me that I could not help regarding you as
a brother.”

He longed to take her into his arms, and tell her all
that was in his heart, to probe her own and see if he
could not awaken in it something of the passion that
so nearly deprived him of composure.

But no, he told himself, he would wait until she
was through school; it would not be best to startle
her now and distract her thoughts from her studies.
But after she should graduate he would tell her how,
for long years, she had been growing to be a part of
his very self; he would win her with all the tender-
ness and eloquence, of which he was niaster, to be-
come his wife.

But, unconsciously, he had done mischief that
night which he would have given worlds to undo, had
he known. :

The storm that swept over Hazel’s soul after he left
her, bowed her to the earth. It had found her a happy
child, it left her a suffering woman, and the fierce
struggle made her weak and ill for several days, so
that she was unable to see Percy the next time he
came,

When they did meet again he was troubled and
anxious about her appearance.

She was pale, and showed her recent illness more

| than he would have believed possible. Her manner

was quiet and subdued, very unlike the free, out-
spore merry Hazel of old; but he attributed this
change to the state of her health.

She gave him her hand when they met, but did not
offer her lips as usual, and when he beut to kiss her
she turned him her pale, cold cheek.

This pained him, but did not awaken a suspicion of
the truth, and then she began to question him, about
his life in Kingston, and kept him so busy talking of

 

 

hers.

He went away troubled and perplexed, and this
state, of feeling only increased as time passed.

Hazel was as lovable and beautiful as ever. She
was brilliant and fascinating in conversation, and
yet he was conscious of a radical change in her.

She never refused the caress which he never forgot
at meeting or parting :/she submitted to it in a quiet,
lady-like way ; but never offered it now in her free;
merry way as of old.

“Tam afraid thatthis last year is too much for you,
Hazel,” hesaid, at one time. “I fear that you are
wearing yourself out.” y

“No, indeed. Perey, I am perfectly well,” she an-
swered, with animation, “and I am enjoying my work
s0 much—I am looking forward to my graduation
very hopefully.” ?

“Still I cannot feel
sisted; “you have no
months—
conclud.
iously. ;

Hazel felt startled. For the world she would not
have him suspect the nature of the change in her.
She must do something to allay his fears.

“T am getting rather old to be the witch I used to
be,” she said, with a merry little laugh, and then she
began chatting more like her old self, although, if he
had been less glad to see her so, he must have noticed
the unnatural constraint there was about her. -

“T shall be glad when it is all over,’ he told her,
“when I can have you all to myself. I will have you
riding horseback every day, and see if we cannot
freshen np these fading roses somewhat,” touching
her cheek softly. “I must be looking after a house
and a housekeeper pretty soon; how many rooms do
you think we shall need, dear ?”’

A burning blush mounted to Hazel’s brow at this
question; but she stooped to pick up a pin from the
carpet before replying.

“T do not know; do not do anything about it, Percy,
until—until I am through school,” she. said, con-
strainedly; and he could get nothing more satisfac-
tory from her, although he tried several times after
that; while, with a sense of impatience and keenest
pain, he was always conscious that she was drifting
farther and farther away from him—that an intangi-
ble barrier had risen between them, and he had no
power to sweep it away.

During this time, however, Hazel had made up her
oe that she should not go to Kingston to live with

ercy.

He was not her brother—he had told her so; she
had no claim upon him, beyond what his kindness,
and his promises to his father to care for her, in-
volved.

Her little fortune had all. or nearly all, been spent
eee her education, and she was determined that
she would not bea burden upon him. Her proud
spirit rebelled at the thought of being a
upon his bounty, and she sternly resolve
would take care of herself.

It was with this determination in view that she so
carefully cut the advertisement from the daily
paper, as mentioned above. She meant to apply for
the situation as governess and companion to the miss
of fifteen.

It was a bold step to take without advice, and she
was conscious that Percy would oppose it with all
the strength of his will; but with her mind once
made up she would not be turned from her purpose.
She-meant to make the engagement before telling
him, and having thus committed herself, he would
be powerless to prevent it.

It would be a little troublesome to make the ap-
plication the last week in June, for the examinations
and closing exercises came then, and she would be
very busy. ‘

But she determined to attend to the matter at the
very beginning of the week, and have it off her mind.

Accordingly, one morning, she asked the princi-

al of the school if she would give her a recommen-

ation for character and qualification to teach, and
was gratified by receiving, an hour later, a letter
from Madame Hawley, setting forth, in glowing terms,
her rank in acholarship, and speaking of her in the
highest prea personally. %

Armed with this, she started out at twelve the
same day, called a cab, and was driven to Hyde Park
Corner, where she was set down before an imposing
residence, with a great coat-of-arms blazoned over
the ponderous door.

Ringing the bell, she was ushered through a mag-
nificent hall to asmall reception-room on the right,
where she was told to wait. a
_ She sat down and guieny amused herself by look-
ing at the beautiful things all about her.

“It would be delightful to live insuch aplace, if all
this was one’s own,” she thought, with a sigh of ap-
preciation, as her eye roved from picture to picture,
from statue to vase, each in itself a work of high art,
and of great value.

Presently she was interrupted by the entrance of a
trim servant-girl in a pretty lace cap and elaborate
apron.

“Please, miss,” she said, smilingly, “my lady would
like you to walk up stairs.”

Hazel arose and followed her guide up the wide,
beautiful stair-way, and was ushered into a lofty
room on the second floor.

Here she found two ladies, one a genial, pleasant-
looking old lady of about sixty years, with the love-
liest white hair, clustering about her face, and an
imperial, handsome woman, who instantly chilled
fea by the critical glance that she bestowed upon

er, i

There was also a young girl present—a saucy,
merry elf, with rosy cheeks and sing, mischief-
loving eyes, yet having a straightforward, honest
look in them, that attracted Hazel at.once.

“You are Miss Gay?” remarked the younger of the
two ladies, inquiringly, and glancing at the card that
Hazel had sent up.

“Yes, madaim.’’

‘And you have called, I presume, in answer to the
advertisement regarding a governess and com-
panion, You are very prompt in your application.”

Hazel flushed slightly at this.

“The reason for my coming so early is that my
school closes this week, and my time will be very
fully occupied later,” she eer explained.

“Do you graduate then?’
for it was she who was in search of a governess and
companion for Belle.

SL do.”

“T suppose you have a recommendation of your
qualifications,” the lady observed, studying the beau-
tiful face and tigure opposite her. :

Hazel took an envelope from the dainty little bag
that she carried, and passed it to her. :

“Hum !” remarked Mrs. Stewart, after running her
eyes overit. “I shonld judge that you were a favo-
rite with madam. She says you are very proficient
in both music and drawing. I’m glad of that—Miss
Belle, make up your mind to spend two or three
hours daily at the piano.”

Miss Belle made a comical grimace, and shrugged
her shoulders.

The action was so droll that Hazel’s eyes began to
twinkle, and a smile of amusement to struggle at the
corners of her pretty mouth, whereupon Belle
laughed outright, tossed her wayward head, and
eried, merrily:

“Miss Gay, I hope you are not very ferocious, for,
if you come to us, { am the incorrigible pupil whom
you are expected to reduce to order.”

A smile, like a ray of warmest sunlight, broke over
Hazel’s face at this, and she felt instantly that she
noe be good friends with the frank, outspoken
girl.

But before she could reply, Mrs. Stewart exclaimed,
reproachfully : ,

“Ferocious! What an expression to use to a young
lady, Belle! I must insist upon your being more re-
fined in your language. Miss Gay, won’t you play
something for us?. L am something of a critic in
music myself,” the lady continued, glancing across
the room toward a handsome upright piano. ~

Hazel flushed.

She was not shy about playing before people usu-
ally, but the word ‘critic, and something in Mrs.
reaary imperious manner, disconcerted her some-
what. :

The duchess had been quietly observant of Haze
ever since she entered the room. She saw ata glance
that she was a little lady, in spite of the fact that she
was applying for a “situation,” and her kind heart
went out to her in sympathy mingled with admira-
tion. She now arose, and turned, with a gracious
smnile, to her, saying, as she saw her shrink from the
coming ordeal:

“My dear, perhaps it is not easy for you to play
from memory; but I have quite a collection of new
ap here. Come and select something to play

or us.” ; ,

She led the way to the piano, and laid out a dozen
or more pieces for Hazel to choose from.

The young girl gave her a grateful glance, accom-
panied by a low ‘“‘Thank you,” and began to turn over
the music. 2 x

It was nearly all familiar to her, and she told her
He aig that she would play anything that she

iked.

The duchess laid two pieces on the rack, giving her
another reassuring smile, and then Hazel sat down
to her work.

She played brilliantly and correctly, and Belle
Stewart was charmed to her side before she was half

seemed like ourself for
ou are not my ‘Witch Hazel at all,” he
, Smiling wistfully, and regarding her anx-

uite easy about gous he pt

ensioner
that she

through, watching her skillful fingers with admiring:

eyes.

“Tf I could learn to pay like that, I wouldn’t mind
the practice,” she said, when Hazel paused; ‘‘but it
is just dreadful to have to sit hour after hour drum-
ming away at a dull exercise,.and counting ‘one, two,
three, four’ over and over.”

“You dislike the counting?” said Hazel, siniling.

“T—hate it!"

“T have one collection of exercises. which I think
you would not call dull; they are prettier than many
pieces.

“But you have to coun all the same,” 7

ie yes: one must keep time, to be a. good mu-
sician.’

“But it is so tedious!” sonny Belle.

Hazel glanced at some fancy work. that the girl
held in her hands.

“Do you like to crochet?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed ; it is delightful work.”

 

 

| delightfal

 

 

 

 

 

; na
his own affairs that he had no opportunity to discuss! ‘But you have to count,’ observed Hazel, with an

arch look.

“Y-es,” and for an instant Belle seemed slightly
disconcerted.

“Do you ever find it ‘tedious’?”” pursued Hazel.

“Oh, no; one can make such lovely things that one
eee net ater to tribe the OO a i

“And that is true, too, in music,” Hazel returned.
“One can make Been tately melody if one plays in
time, that one does not mind the counting.”

“T never thought of it in that way before,” Belle
said, looking up with real interest. “It has always
been ‘Belle, you must count your time—you will
never make a player, Belle, if you don’t keep time—
child, what dreadful work you are making with that
exercise,’ until the counting has grown to be such a
bugbear I cannot think of anything else,” quoted the
girl, witha droll mixture of mischief and pathos.

“That is a great mistake,” Hazel said, quietly; then
turning to the duchess, she asked: —

“Ts , there anything else you would like me to

play?

“Yes, please ; here is alittle thing that I am very
fond of,” and her grace placed an arrangement of
“The Shepherd Boy,” before her, then went back to
her seat near Mrs. Stewart. Rae

“Take my advice,” she said, in a low tone, under
cover of the music, “and engage that girl—she will
be just the companion that Belle needs; she has
already given her alesson in music that she will
never forget.” .

CHAPTER XIV.
“WILL NOTHING MOVE YOU FROM YOUR PURPOSE?”

It takes a delicate touch and great nicety of ex-
pression to play “The Shepherd Boy” effectively,
simple as itis. But it was also one of Hazel’s favor-
ites, and putting her whole soul in it, the very air
aes to quiver and thrill with the sweet, plaintive
melody.

The duchess thanked her with her most gracious
smile, as she arose from the piano.

“You are a true musician,” she said, looking ad-
miringly into Hazel’s flushed, expressive face; ‘‘you
feel every note that you touch.”

“When could ios come to us, Miss Gay?’ Mrs.
Stewart inquired, her habitual imperiousness greatly
modified by real respect for the girl who possessed
such rare talent, and who was evidently areal lady.

_**My schoel will close on Thursday—I shall be at
liberty then,” Hazel quietly replied. But her heart
sank within her as she thought of the trial in reserve
for her in the resistance that she would have to meet
from Percy when he should learn of her decision.

“Would you object to leaving London—to going to
the sea-shore for three or tour months?’ Mrs, Stewart
continued. ;

“Oh, no; I love the sea,” Hazel said, her face
growing luminous at the suggestion.

She had long pined for the sea, whieh she regarded
almost as her natural element, from having lived so
many years in the very midst of if,on her island
home, with Perey and his 5

“That is well,” remarked Mrs. Stewart, in a satis-
fied tone. “for we have taken @ villa at Bri n,
where we shall remain until ene. of September
and we leave the tirst day of July. Can you be ready
by that time?’ _

“Yes, madam,’ but some of her levely color for-
sook her faee atthe thought of going so far away
from Percy. Ae

If she wentto Brighton she felt that she might not
see him during the whole sumnier, and such a separa-
tion would be@ bitter trial to her. Nevertheless, she
was steadfast im-her purpose; she had made up her
mind to earn ‘her own living and not be dependent
upon him, and this opening attracted her, for she
was greatly drawn toward the young girl whose
companion she was to be.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Stewart, complacently, “I
think you may come to us; ‘‘that is,” she added,
directing a quick, keen glance toward her, “if the
terms I offer meet with your approval. Your salary
for the first year will be fifty pounds, besides your
living. Attheend of that time, if we both should
desire to prolong the arrangement, we can consult
further tt the. question of remuneration.
You are to act b as governess and companion to
my daughter, and I shall expect that four hours of
every day will be devoted strictly to lessons; after
that you will see that Miss Belle attends faithfully to
practice for a couple of hours. During the remainder
of the day you shall both be at liberty to do as you
like. Will you accept the position under these con-
ditions 2?” nme

Hazel signified her willingness to do so ina few
well-chosen words.

“Very well, then,” her patroness returned; ‘‘we
will consider that you are engaged. Monday will
be the first day of July, and we leave at ten o’clock
for Brighton. I will send a carriage for you at
nine. Seat ; 7

Mrs. Stewart arose as she spoke, thus signifying
that the interview was at an end,

She was about to ring for a servant to show Hazel
out, when Bella interposed.

ane ee down with Miss Gay, mamma,’’*she
said, eagerly. ;

‘Yes, dear, if you like,’ her mother replied, indif-
ferently, as she bowed te her prospective governess.

Hazel then turned politely to take leave of the
duchess, Who smiled upon her in a motherly way that
quite won her heart. - ‘ete ss

‘‘Good-morning, my dear,’ she said, kindly. ‘You
will like Brighton, I am sure; it isone of the most

htfal places in the world to spend the sum-
mer in.” ek; ; 2

Hazel could have kissed the- hem of her garment
for her graciousness, in which there was not the
slightest tinge of arrogance, and, giying her a grate-
ful glance, she passed quietly trom the room. |

“Miss Gay, I know Lam gto like you ever so
much,” said Belle, as the door closed after them,
while she confidentially linked her arm within Hazel’s.
“You're nota bit Jofty, as I have imagined English
governesses are. I even suspect that you like a
good time now and then yourself,” and she shot a
merry glance out of her restless black eyes as she
concluded,

Hazel laug musie¢ally, and pressed the plump

Angnised: Men, Stewark hand that rested on her arm in a friendly way.

“Thank you, Miss Belle,” she began.

“There, stop that, once for all, if you please!” in-
terposed Belle, with pretty authoritativeness. “I
won't be ‘Miss’ to anybody whom [I like, and who is
to be with me every day, unless it is a servant. I
want to be just ‘Belle’ from this time out.” ;

“If your mamma would approve——” Hazel com-
menced, doubtfully. i oe

“Mammae¢must approve. I just wow have it;” and
she enforced her words with an emphatic tap of her
pretty kid slipper.

“Now, Miss Gay, by the way, whatis your Christian
ee > ef = continued, in her impulsive way.

a7 aze a

“Oh, that is very pretty, and it just suits you, too.
May I call you Hazel?”

“T should like you to do so, if Mrs. Stewart does not
object,” said Hazel, smiling.

“Of course she won’t object. Why, we are to be
companions, you know, and who ever heard of any-
one saying ‘Miss’ toa girl you’re with every day in
the year. I do not believe you are so very much
older than I, either. Jam fifteen.” :

“And I am eighteen.” returned, Hazel, frankly, but
wie a little laugh at this indirect question regarding

er age. a4

“Well, three years don’t make one so very much
older, though I expect you are ever so much more
clever than I shall be when Iam eighteen. Only
think, you are ready to graduate and able to teach,
while I hardly know my mimar correctly yet.”

“But I have been in school for a good many years
without any interruption,” said Hazel, feeling more
and more drawn toward this bright, ingenuous girl.

“T am afraid it will be too hard for you to teach all
the rest of the summer, after studying so hard as
you must have had to do to get ready to graduate,”
Belle said, with an anxious glance at her new friend.
“But we are going to the sea, where it will be cooler
than in London, and, Miss Gay—Hazel”’—with an
arch, appealing glance—‘we will have just the jol-
liest times! Mamma has taken the loveliest villa,
all furnished, and the grounds slope right down to
the beach. Our rooms join, and look out upon the
ocean. I have a boat, all my own, and we are to have
some nice saddle-horses. Do you ride?’

“No, I have never learned to ride,” Hazel answered,
with deepening color, as she remembered that Percy
had said she should have a horse and ride with him
after school was over,"‘but,I can row. My home,when
I was a little girl, was on an island in the sea, and I
can do almost anything with a boat,”

That is lovely, for I shall have to learn to row, and
you can teach me. Whata pity that we must spend
four long hours over lessons and two more at prac-.
tice every day!” Belle concluded, with a long-drawn

sigh.

‘Haxei laughed brightly. : ;

“But for the study and practice I should not come
to you, you know,” she said, | :

“True, and I know 1 need it, too. I have been out
of school a good while now traveling with mamma
and Helena—thatis my grown up sister—and mamma
says I shall be a regular dunce if I do not get at my
iba again pretty soon. But I do love a good

ime.’ ;

“So do I,” Hazel responded, heartily, “but I always
enjoy it a great deal better when I earn it.”

“Earn it? at do you mean ?”

“Why, if there is anything that must be done, such
as study or practice, and I am faithful in my duty,
Lalways feel that I have earned the rest and. recrea-
tion that come after it,” Hazel explained:

“Y-es; but I don't like duties much,” said Belle,
with a shrug of her pretty shoulders, and looking
very grave.

“What a rueful face,” said Hazel, merrily,and play-
fully tapping the young girl’s rosy cheeks with the
tips of her fingers. **‘What would life amount. to with-
out duties ?”’

“Shall you be very. strict?” Belle asked, searching
the face of her ma enneee atone ingui ¥

“T shall want to do whatis night, ” Hazel re-
plied, earnestly. “You would not me if I did
not, and it would not, to. aecept

Mrs; Stewart me and

LY
-honorable
the posto .Which,M lias-of me
not try to do my very best for you. But I must not

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
      
    
   
       
     
   
     
        
        
         
      
     
     
     
     
   
    
     
     
    

 

 

 

        
    
   
        
         
        
       
      
     
        
         
       
       
     
     
     
     
    
    
    
    
    
      
     
    
   
   
    
         
      
   
     
       
         
      
     
     
    
    
   
    
    
      
        
     
   
    
        
       
      
       
       
    
   
      
       
          
     
   
    
     
  
  
 
 
   
  
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
   
  
   
 
 
 
  
    
  
 
  
   
 
 
 
  
  
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
 
   
  
 

    
      
       
      

 

 

 

 

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‘hall, and now Belle reluctantly withdrew her hand

. you ean ha

 

 

   

 

 

VOL. 48—No. 46,

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

 

 

 

stop longer with you now. I have study and work
eee: me, so I will say good-by to you for a
week.

The two girls had come very slowly through the up-
per corridor and down thelong stair-way to the lower

from Hazel’s arm to let her go.

“IT shall wish the time away,” shesighed. “I think
you are just delightful, and [ do hope you will learn
to like me a little by and by.”

Hazel’s eyes danced.

“Play that it is ‘by and by’ now,” she said, with an
arch look and a lovely smile..

“What! do you!—already ?” cried Belle, with a
gasp of delight, and, impulsively throwing her arms
poet her companion’s waist, she kissed her fondly on

e lips.

“Yes, indeed I do ‘already,’ and not ‘a little’ either,”
responded Hazel, as she returned the caress, and
then with another good-by she went away.

* * x * * *

“Hazel, what does this mean?”

Scene—A reception-room in Madame Hawley’s
fashionable establishment for young ladies. Time—
An hour after the graduating exercises of the senior
class were concluded on commencement day. Dra-
matis person#—Percy Morton, sitting pale and stern
upon the sofa, an open letter in his hand, while Hazel,
in her spotless graduating robes, and no less pale,
but otherwise apparently composed, sat in a low
rocker near him.

“Tt means, Percy, just what it says,” the young girl
replied to his brief query.

“That you are going te be a governess ?”

“That you will not allow me a brother's privilegein
caring for your future ?”’

“You, are not my brother, Percy. I have no real
claim upon you.” :

“No claim upon me! Heavens! Hazel, you have
every claim upon me,” Perey returned, in a low, in-
tense tone.

“You are very good to say so,” she answered, with
downcast eyes, ‘‘and I know that your kind heart
prompts you to do everything possible to shield my
future as you have shielded my past. Nevertheless,
the fact remains that no kindred tie unites us, and,
to be frank, Iam too proud to be dependent,” Hazel
concluded, with rising color.

“No kindred tie unites us! Hazel,” the young
physician repeated, in a yoice full of pain, his lips
whitening and quivering, “does no common bond
unite our hearts after all these years ?”

“Of course—I grant that,’ she said, unsteadily.
“You have always regarded me with kindness and
affection ; believe me, I appreciate it, return it, and
fam very grateful——” :

Perey interrupted her with a passionate gesture,
whieh, however, she interpreted as one of impatience.

“Hazel, never speak tome of gratitude again—I
eannot bear it,” he said, constrainedly, the very
effort he made to control his suffering making him
seem stern and displeased. You say I have treated
you kindly, affectionately ; child, can you speak so
coldly, so dispassionately, of our past relations? I
have always regarded you as belonging to me; that.
it wassmy right to shield and guard you from eyery
possible ill, and I have looked forward to this i § of
your emancipation from school with hopes such as

Pg Epa I believed that when
you graduated you would come to me, and we would
make a home for ourselves somewhere. I have
planned for this, lived for this, until the hope has
become almost apartof my life. You talk of de-
pendence,” he continued, bitterly ; ‘‘think you that I
should owe you nothing for helping to make a pleas-
ant home for me—that it would not repay me a
thousand times more than the costin pounds and
shillings, to be able to return to a genial ‘fireside

 

after a hard day’s work; to have my life continually
cheered and beautified. by your familiar presence?’

Hazel’s lips trembled.

The ear’ was very attractive, and her heart
yearned to make it a reality; but she knew that she
could not go into his home to live in any such way.

She lifted her eyes appealingly tohim. Why could
he not understand that 1t never would do ? ;

His face was very white and stern, and wore a
strangely pained expression.

She believed that he was very angry as well as
grieved over her refusal to do as he wished.

“But I should be dependent all the same,” she mur-
mured, tremulously. “I havyeno money of my own—
suas has all been spent upon my education and—
an ae tee

“Well?” he questioned, gloomily, as she faltered
and stopped.

“T should need things ; there would be personal ex-
penses now and then, and [ could not ask you—I
could not ask any one for money.”

“You should not, Hazel; I will settle an income
upon you—the same amount as this woman offers
you, and you need never ask me for a penny,” he
said, bending eagerly toward her, his. face lighting
as he thought how easily this difficulty might be
overcome. ¢

Oh, if he had only told her the truth ! if he had only

said :

“Hazel,I love you. I have loved you for years.
Come and be my wife, and thus make my home the
brightest spot on earth to me,” how willingly she
would have laid her hand in his and gone to him.

But he did not dare to say this then.

He told_ himself that she was still too young, that
she could know nothing of suchlove as he felt for
her, that her mind had been filled simply with books
and study, and she was too innocent to have any
thought of marriage as yet.

He had planned to win her gradually when he could
have her all to himself; to lead her by degrees to
comprehend the absorbing passion that would
darken all his future if he must lose her.

She made a little gesture of dissent at his proposal
to settle a sum upon her.

“That would amount to the same thing, Percy. You
are very kind to think of it, but.I could never spend
a pone of it without feeling uncomfortable,” she
said.

He sprang to his feet and began pacing restlessly
back and forth. a

“Will nothing move you from your purpose?” he
cried, a feeling of despair at his heart. -

“No, Percy, I think not. I believe that I am doing
right,’ Hazel replied, gently but firmly.

e stopped shert and looked at her at this.

Did shefear the gossip of idle tongues? he won-
dered. Didshe fear that when people should learn
that she was his sister only by adoption they would
question the propriety of their living together in the
ror that he had planned?

She sat there looking so fair and pure in her spot-
less robes, with her pale, troubled face, and down-
cast eyes, and her small white hands clasped upon
her lap, that he could- not believe that any such
thought had ever entered her mind.

But he was very blind.

“No, you are not doing right, Hazel,” he said,
gravely, “you are doing very wrong. I am your
proper guardian by right of my ,maturer years, by
right of having helped to reseue you when you were
a little child, and by right of my grandfather’s injunc-
tion, when he lay dying, to care for you always and
never let you want for any needful thing. What has
come over you of late?” he went on, more excitedly;
“vou have not been like yourself during this last year;
you have grown cold, reserved; you have repelled
me and kept me at arms’ length, sometimes making
me feel like a stranger. What is it, Hazel? have I
ever offended or wounded you in any way?”

He came nearer her and looked appealingly down
upon her.

“No, indeed, Percy,’ Hazel replied, feeling that she
must not allow him to imagine anything like this—
he must. not think that she had aught against him
when he had always devoted himself to her in every
possible way. “Lam sorry if I have ever given you
cause to think that; you have always been all that
was kind and good. I have not meant to be cold or
reserved,” she continued, rising and laying one hand
upon his arm; “forgive me for unconsciously wound-
ing you, my brother.” |

That last word smote him Soak for she had. evi-
dently uttered it with an effort, while he longed to
be so much mere thau a brother to her.

She was so levely standing there in her fresh,

oung beauty, and her touch thrilled every fiber of

fee until, for a moment, he lost control of him-
self.

He caught her to him in a fond embrace.

“You shall not sue for forgiveness for an uninten-
tional wrong,” he said, in a low, eager tone, “perhaps
I have been too exacting—haye expected too much.
Thave forgotten that you are grown to young lady-
hood, and of late, I have missed your childish ex-
pressions of affection. But, oh! Hazel, if you would
pron ddl ha up this wild scheme! think a moment,
dear, Lam all alonein the world, but for you, and
now you insist upon leaving me.”

She looked up archly, and strove to conceal her
emotion thus, though her face was like the clouds
at sunset, while she trembled within his clasping
arms to which she yielded for one delicious moment,
telling herself that it was for the last time.

“But you have done without me all these years
that I have been at school, and I have done without
you!” she began playfully, never dreaming that he
would lay her words to heart in the way he did.

Pov ep.) deh we can get along without each
other indefinitely—all the affection, all the delightful
memories of our childhood, all our hopes for the
future count as nothing and are to be ignored,” he
interrupted, coldly, cut to the quick, his arms drop-
aa her like bars of lead.

“Oh, Perey, you know I did not mean that,’ Hazel
eried, a sob bursting from her, ‘the only hard thing
about my going to Brighton is that I shall not have
your regular visits. I shall miss you more than I
can express.”

His face lighted at her words.

“Then don’t go; come to me as we een so long
ago,” he pleaded, bending to lay his lips against her
pure forehead. “We will have the snuggest home
that I can find; some good woman shall come to be
companion and housekeeper for you; you shall have
your horse, your flowers, and an ee, else you like,
aad moet be as happy as in the old days on the

sland.’

“Oh, if I might,” Hazel sighed within herself, ‘‘but
I never could ae it, if, some time, he should bring

some one else there to be mistress; it would be better

never to go there at all.”

“T cannot,” she said, aloud.

“You will not, you should have said,” he returned,
ina Gieplonses tone, and her heart was nearly burst-
ing with grief.

She knew she could not bear the interview much
longer, and she stepped a little away from him.

“Please do not urge me any more, Percy,” she said,
and her voice was cold and constrained from the curb
that she put upon herself.” I have given my promise
to Mrs. Stewart, and I cannot break it.”

He stood looking at her gravely for a moment.

“Very well, Hazel,” he then said; “‘you shall do as
you wish. I will oppose you no further.” :

Then his manner changed, and he was the kind,
elder brother once more, and asked if there was any-
thing he could do for her to help her toward the
change she was contemplating. f.

She was very glad to avail herself of his offer, and
after asking his advice regarding some matters, she
grew calm and cheerful again, and finally took leave
of him very much as she was accustomed to dojwhen
he went away after one of his regularvisits. Butshe
little suspected the heavy heart he carried away
with him, and the feeling almost of despair that set-
tled upon him at the thought of thus losing her out
of his life.

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

The Man of Mystery:
“QUOTATION MARKS.”

An Exciting Detective Story.
By EUGENE T. SAWYER,

Author of ‘“‘Manton Mayne,” “The Maltese
Cross,” ‘‘Ramon Aranda,” etc.

 

 

 

{‘“THE MAN OF MYSTERY,” was commenced in No, 44.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XI.
THE MINE SUPERINTENDENT'S DISAPPOINTMENT.

HAT would have eventually
resulted from the strange meet-
ing between Alda Duane and
Creed Lawton, it is impossible
to say; very likely there would
have been a confidential talk,
in which much of mystery
would have been explained,
had not Maurice Holton ap-
peared, hatless and well-nigh
out of breath, just as the de-
; . tective had withdrawn his
arms from about his sweetheart, and was gazing
with loving pride into her flushing face.

His back.was turned to the superintendent, and
that gentleman announced his presence by excitedly
exclaiming:

“T heard the shot, and knowing of your coming

about this hour, Miss Duane, I hurried to your as-
sistance. But I perceive,” in a tone of regret, tinged
with bitterness, ‘‘that x94 have found a protector.
Will you introduce me?’

“Certainly,” replied the young lady, with a beam-
ing countenance, “Mr. Holton, this is Creed Law-
ton.”

The man who had rescued Miss Duane from the
stage robbers, started as from a blow, a spasm seized
him and his fade turned ashy pale.

But he was possessed of a powerful will, and when
he met the detective’s searching gaze, his agitation
was observable only in his pallor.

“T—I have a heart trouble,’ he confusedly said,
“and the rapid running, together with the thought of
the lady’s terrible danger, has nearly upset me. I—I
am better now, and, Mr. Lawton, [ am pleased to
meet you.”

He held out a shapely hand, which the detective
took mechanically.

“How did it happen,” pointing to the dead man.
“Did he assault you?”

Alda briefly narrated what had occurred.

Holton lifted the mask from the ruffian’s face.

All that was mortal of Coll Herrin, the highway-
man, lay before him. :

*“T don’t know the man.
never saw him before.”

“T knew him,” said Lawton, grimly; ‘‘and, if I am
not mistaken, I have cut one notch on my stick of
vengeance.” ,

His sweetheart looked at him in pained surprise.

The detective smiled back at her, and then turned
his attention to Maurice Holton.

‘i cae are the superintendent of the Rajah, I be-
eve?

“T am, sir, and Miss Duane was on her way to the
mine to inspect the underground workings, at my
invitation.”

“You will have to exeuse me,” said the young lady,
“for, after what has happened, [ am in no mood for
bight peeing. Besides,’ with a rosy smile, “I have
unexpectedly met a dear friend.”

As she spoke, she glanced archly at the detective.

Though inwardly enraged, the mine superintendent
was yet sufficiently master of himself to politely

rhea 3

“Some other day willdo. As for this carrion, Mr.
Lawton, I will attend to its disposition. I will send
one of ny men to notify the coroner.”

As he turned his back on the happy couple, his
brow grew black as night, while a strange fear tugged
at his heart.

‘“What’s the matter with the fellow, Alda?’ ques-
tioned Lawton, as they walked slowly toward the
hotel. “That heart story was rather gauzy, don’t
you think so?’

“No,” with a sober look, “though he equivocated a
little, lexpect. You have always given me credit
for my perception, you remember.”

“Yes, you can see through a mill-stone. [Tam a
fair judge of human nature myself, but you can
beat me.”

“Well, then, he is in love with me.”

“T am not surprised at that.’

“Indeed, sir!” flashing him a glance of indignant
surprise. ‘And why?’

‘Because he were made of stone not to fall in love
with the handsomest and most charming woman in
California.” é

And he sealed his conviction with a kiss.

“Now that I have satisfied you in that regard,” he
resumed, with an intenseiy satisfied air, ‘‘tell me
what you think of him.”

“[ have every reason to think well of him, and as
he looks upon you as a dangerous rival, he was natu-
rally agitated when he found that the role of the
rescuer had fallen to you instead of himself. But the
honors are easy, even now.”

And then she told him of the stage robbery, and
Bolen? sudden appearance and praiseworthy ac-

1008.

Lawton was silent for some moments after she
had ceased.

He was evidently engrossed with some weighty
subject.

“Why don’t you say something?’ she poutingly
demanded. “Or perhaps you have heard the story
before?”

“So I have.”

“Indeed! And yet you listened as if the intelli-
gence was a surprise.”

an pursed her pretty lips, and looked frowningly
at him.

“Oh, that’s all right, Alda’”—with a tender glance.
“T always like to- hear you talk, and besides, your
version of the affair deeply interested me.”

“But who told you?”

“A man who says he is your friend; a strange fel-
low, but as true as steel.”

“His name ?”’

“Quotation Marks.”

“Ah, yes’—with a pleased expression—“I remem-
ber him, And yet he puzzles me. I amsureI have
met him somewhere in the past.”

“Probably. By the way, have you ever seen this
cousin of yours, Lawrence Carlton ?’

* **You have read the papers, then, and know of my
good fortune ?’

“Yes,”

But as she uttered the words her fair face became
pale, and her eyes grew moist.

The thought of her murdered brother came up
afresh.

When she again found voice, her lips trembled.

‘“*My poor brother would have shared with me, and
now he is dead.”

Her lover did his best to comfort her.

“You must not give way now, Alda,” he said, sym-

athetically, ‘for his murderer must be found and
rought to justice. I may need your help.”

“And you shall have it,” she responded, looking at
him with glittering eyes. “Iam but a woman, with

 

He’s not a miner, and I

 

 

but a woman’s strength, and yet I willdo and dare
anything to bring to punishment the wretch who
killed him.”

“He will meet his deserts, never fear,’ was the
calm, confident reply.

Then he added:

“We were speaking just now of Lawrence Carlton.
When and where did you last see him ?’

“In the East, when I was about ten years old. I
remember him as a boy of sixteen or seventeen, who
teased me unmercifully. Heis a younger brother;
John was a perfect paragon, in comparison.”

“Was he fair or dark?”

“Who ?7—John ?”

 

_ “No, Lawrence.”

nearly drove his parents wild.”

‘““He.may have changed since then.”

The detective spoke more to himself than to his
lovely companion.

“The years bring many changes. I was a dread-
fully good girl in those days. Buta truce to this,”
pursued this young lady of varying moods; ‘‘what is
your object in asking about my cousin ?”’

“T wanted to get his description, for he may be here
in San Tomas.”

‘“‘What makes you think so?’

“Suspicious circumstances, nothing more.”

“Then you have no substantial grounds for the
belief?”
ete one. Imight not know him,if I should meet
im.

“Do you think he had anything to do with the mur-
der of my brother?’ ‘

“Tf don’t know what to think. I need more light.”

Arrived at the hotel, they proceeded to one corner
of the long veranda, and the day being warm, seated
themselves for an interesting tefe-a-tete.

They were no sooner ensconced in willow rockers,
than a man stepped out of the hotel office.

When his eye fell upon the detective and his be-
trothed, he hurriedly returned to the interior.

“<“Two are company and three are none.’ There is
no chance there fora poor man,” he muttered, softly.
“But there’s one comfort—I never kick at fate. I
am ‘a man that fortune’s buffets and rewards hast
ta’en with equal thanks; and blessed are those whose
blood and judgment are 80 well co-mingled that they
are not a pipe for fortune’s finger to sound what stop
she pleases.’ ”’

It was Quotation Marks.

Approaching the bar, he beckoned mysteriously to
its presiding genius.

“Barkeeper, give me an artesian cocktail.”

“What is that, sir?”

“A glass of water with a snail in it.”

CHAPTER XII.
A STARTLING PROPOSITION.

“Where did you meet Mr. Marks?’ asked Alda
Duane, shortly after she had seated herself by her
lover on the veranda. :

“A few nights ago. He saved my life.”

“You have been in danger, then?’ regarding him
apprehensively. :

“Yes. My life was threatened by a gang of scoun-
drels, and but for Quotation Marks, I would now be
a dead man.”

A shudder ran through the lovely girl’s frame.

“T will tell you how it happened.”

After narrating what is already known to the
reader—the trailing of Rattler and Herrin, the sud-
den and unexpected assault by the black-bearded
stranger, and the exposure to a terrible death on the
bowlder, he continued: :

“T must have fainted, for when, after making up
my mind that death was close at hand. [again opened
my eyes, I found some one tugging at my cords. As
soon as I was free, instinet, [ think—for I was in no
condition to reason calmly—made me seize my un-
known preserver by the arm, and hurry him away
from the spot. S

“Wehad searcely gone fifty yards, and got under
the shelter of agroup of live oaks, when a terrific
explosion occurred. There was a shower of frag-
ments of rock, and some struck the ground near us,
but luckily we were not injured. Then, when
silence succeeded, I turned to the man who had done
me this inestimable service, and asked bis name and
how he came to arrive so opportunely to my assist-
ance.

“His reply was, ‘Call me Marks. I live in a little
cabin down the hill, and the sound of angry voices
attracted my attention. I arrived too late to under-
stand the situation, but finding you bound upon the
rock, I hastened to release you.’”

Alda Duane’s expressive face was as pale as death
when he ceased.

“Oh, Creed, from what a fate were you saved! I
can secareely realize it. You are sitting here, con-
tentedly by my side, and only three nights ago, you
were there on that lonesome rock, in the very shadow
of an awful death. Providence must havehad ahand
in it.’ .

“And the eqn ofa kind Providence was Quota-
tion Marks. rave fellow! I already love him as a
brother.”’

Then he soberly continued :

“T shall die some time, of course, but from what
has happened, I have an abiding faith that I shall
not depart this life through the agency of the vil-
lains who once entrapped me. But what caused you
to leave Oakland, Alda? Did you suspect the truth
from the dispatch published in the San Francisco
papers ?”’

“No, I saw no dispatch.”’

age, you came here of your own accord?”

se oO.

Then she told him of the telegram.

“T never sent it. The game is deeper than I
imagined.”

The death of my uncle must have suggested the
plot.’

“T am sure of it,” he returned.

“Then Lawrence Carlton must be interested.”

“Tt looks like it, and yet L[ have my doubts.”’

“Why not interview Mr. Marks?’ she urged. “He
evidently knows a great deal concerning my affairs.
Tam sure of it from his words and manner when I
met him after the robbery of the stage.”

“A wise suggestion, Alda. [I will act upon it.’”’

“You can find him, I suppose 2?”

“Oh, yes. In fact I have an engagement with him
this atternoon. Idid him a good turn day before
yesterday.” ;

“How and where?”

She was all interest at once.

“After he rescued me we went to his cabin on the
banks of the ereek, but concealed from the road by
the trees and bushes. He was anxious to inaugurate
a hunt forthe highwaymen who had stopped the
stage, and for certain reasons of my own I agreed to
assist him. I know the country about here well.
Several years ago I assisted in exterminating a gang
of outlaws who had their headquarters in a cave
some three miles from the city.

“The cave then had two entrances, or rather there
were two means of egress and ingress to an elevated
grotto init. When the band was broken up one in-
let was closed by filling both the hole which formed
the opening to the grotto and the outer entrance
with rocks. Noone afterward knew of the closed
passage except the officers and the bandits who had
been imprisoned. After talking the matter over
with Marks, we agreed upon a plan of operations.
We would start out next day, reach the cave by a
short cut, and investigate it. Marks working the
main open entrance, while I tried the closed one.

“They were some distance apart, and when I
was about to enter the secret passage I heard several
shots. Creeping cautiously in the direction of the
sound, I saw ves friend in the handsvof the highway-
men, and heard the order given.to take him to the
grotto. I then hastened back, worked away at the
rocks that had formed a portion of the wall of the
grotto, so that a slight push would tumble over the
obstruction, and waited for developments.

“They were not slow in coming. Marks was
brought in, bound hand and foot, and his words con-
vineed me that he confidently relied on my assist-
ance to extricate him-from his perilous predicament.
Just as a burly ruffian was about to plunge his knite
into his heart, I acted. The rocks fell, and I bounded
ever them just in time to witness a strange spectacle.
The assassin, terrified at my startling entrance,
jumped back, stumbled, partially recovered hi.wself,
turned, and then, as his foot caught in a crevice, fell
forward, his right arm being held in such a position
that the whole weight of the body pressed against
sae pola of the sharp-bladed knife. He was stone
dead when I stooped over him, killed by the visita-
tion of a power whose righteous mandates he had
set at defiance. I released Marks, and we hurried
away after closing the secret entrance,”

Alda Duane had listened in rapt attention to the
narrative.

After drawing a deep breath, she asked:

“Did you recognize the leader of the outlaws?”

“Yes, by his voice and his black beard... It was the
man who bound me on the rock; and I have heard
that voice somewhere. Who is he?”

But memory refused to come to his aid.

“Never mind,’ he went on, after a-pause, “for I
will one day unmask him, and when [ do, the nystery
that surrounds this case will be a mystery no
longer.”

“But perhaps he is bnt the agent of some one
se.’

 

else.
“Then I will force the truth from him.”

He spoke with an air of stern resolve.

It was on her lips to say, “Don’t risk your life
again; be careful for my sake.” But the determined
expression of his manly, intelligent countenance,
induced her to remain silent.

She recognized his superiority to the generality of
men, and her feeling of anxiety soon gave place to
one of pride and confidence.

He will succeed,” was her thought, ‘‘and I must not
discourage him.”

When she again spoke, it was to refer to a different
branch of the subject.

“What were you doing near the mine this after-
ee eat how came you to appear so providen-

ially

“T was standing in the door-way of Marks’ cabin,’
was his answer, ‘‘when [I heard your voice. You
were singing. [I was not disguised, and on the im-

pulse of the moment I started quickly for the road.

t had been my intention to keep the fact of my res-
cue from death a secret for the present, but fate has
determined otherwise.”

“But you must not be seen abroad as- Creed
Lawton.”

‘Have no fear,” he consolingly responded. “I will
take care that the villains shall not catch me
napping.”

They separated soon after, Alda Duane to return
to herroom, Lawton to seek the cabin by a round-
about way.

As he passed the “El Capitan” saloon, a colored
boy halted him.

“Ts yo’ name Lawton. sah ?’

*“Yes,’”’ in some surprise.”

 

“Den dis billy-dut is fo’ you; dat’s all, boss,” and

“Dark, very dark, and full of mischief. His pranks j

he hurried away, after placing a note in the de-
tective’s hand. :

In unqualified amazement he read the following:

“Mr. LAWTON: ‘Self-preservation ‘is the first law
of nature.’ I have an important proposition to make
to you, and I must see you alone as soon as possible.
I will speak plainly, so that youmay have no doubt
as to my sincerity. I was once the secretary of a
mining company, and evil associations caused my
downftall.. For some months I have been a mem-
ber of Captain Careless’ gang of road agents. A
few days ago there were four of us. Now, there
are only two, the captain and myself. Death,
at your instigation, has removed Faro Bill and Call
Herrin. Now, I don’t want to die just yet, and some-
thing tells me that if I continue with the gang, I, too,
willbe sacrificed on the altar of your vengeance. I
prefer to compromise and save my bacon. I will sell
out the captain in the interests of justiceif you will
agree tolet me off, and do the square thing, finan-
cially. Iean tell you all about him, for I knew him
years ago, and you will almost jump out of your skin
when [ open my budget and yeu learn the truth.

‘Meet me to-night at eight o’clock at the stone
quartz mill, this side of the Rajah Mine. It is not
running now for want of ere en account of the tem-
porary shutting down of the mine, and we will be
alone, and safe from observation and molestation.
Have no fears. I am talking straight business, and I
will not betray you. But should you doubt me, take
a friend along, one upon whom you can rely. If you
shall deal fairly with me, [ willleave the country and
never bother you again.

“Yours respectfully,
“PETER RATTLER.”

The detective was lostin thought for some time
after reading this strange missive.

Crumpling the note in his hand, he abstractedly
threw it away.

Then as his brow cleared he walked on rapidly un-
til he reached the cabin.

At the door he was met by Quotation Marks.

The game was about to assume a new and startling

phase. ——
CHAPTER XIII.
LAWTON KEEPS THE APPOINTMENT.

The dangerous erisis in Florence Aldwyn’s illness
having passed, she began to improve rapidly, and on
the afternoon of the day of the events last recorded
—half an hour after the departure of Creed Lawton
from the hotel—she took a ride with Alda Duane,
who had now become her dearest friend.

They. had much to say to each other, and it was
close upon sundown when they returned.

Their departure had been observed by Duke Val-
lance from the window of ‘El Capitan,” and his heart
beat faster as he noted the delicate pallor on the
cheeks of Florence Aldwyn, and the melancholy ex-
pression in her deep, soulful eyes.

“Prettier than ever. By Heaven, I must not lose
her! HerlI must marry, come what may! As for
the other—well, we shall see. Time shall determine
her fate.”

« * * * * * * *

About an hour before dusk an aged colored man,
whose duty it was to look after the quartz mill, and
see that the works were not tampered with during
the period of disuse, was approached, while sitting
on a bench by the door, by Pete Rattler, the tool and
confederate of Captain Careless.

“Shall you watch here to-night?’ he asked.

“No, sah. My wuck fo’ de day’s mos’ done wid.
My boy takes kyah de place in de night time.”

“When will he be here?’

“Sammy’s late sometimes, but I reckon he’ll be
roun’ afore long, sah.”

ar as he spoke, a young colored man hove in
sight.

e was singing some plantation melody, and when
he reached the small clearing in front of the mill, he
turned a succession of somersaults, winding up at
the feet of the thin-faced highwayman.

‘‘Heah, you young tar’yer!’’ shouted the old man,
rising with difficulty to his feet. ‘‘Wad fo’ you wand
ter shame de gemman in dat owdashus manner? I’se
a good min’ ter pulverize yer fo’ yer fool tricks. Look
yer, Sammy, do yo’ t’ink yer’s a monkey?”

Sam turned a smiling face to the highwayman, and
showed a set of glistening white teeth and a pair of
brilliant eyes, twinkling with mischief.

“You must not worry the old gentleman,” observed
Rattler, with a patronizing smile. ‘Remember that
he is your father, and that he is a stickler for
dignity.” 2

“W'a’s dat?”

‘Dignity ?”

“Yu ”

“A sedately polite deportment, or words to that
effect. But you are too ig—you are not sufficiently
versed in matters of intelligence to understand me.”

*‘No, spec’s not.”’

Then, with a cunning leer:

“Does you oustan’ de meanin’ ob dem big words
yo’seff ?”’

“Oh, yes, and so does the old gentleman, your
father.”

The aged janitor nodded areneh

“Look heah, boss,” said the son, ‘don’ you bodder
wid de ole man. He is used terdem spells. Dey
don’t *’mount ter nuffin. Hi, daddy!” and quickly
coming behind the venerable negro, he placed a
hand oneach shoulder and lightly vaulted over his
head. ‘‘I’se a whole cirkiss, Lis, an’ it’s a cold day
w’en I gets leff.”’

“You’re a happy lad,” remarked Rattler, with an
amused expression.

*“Course I’se happy, and I feel so good sometimes
w’en I shakes my legs, dat it ’pears as if I was in de
sky dancin’ wid de sheriffs.”

“Seraphs, you mean, probably.”

“Tf dunno, only dey’s got wings.”

And leaping on the bench, he executed a jig ina
manner-that: would have reflected credit on a pro-
fessional master of the art.

“Quit that, boy,’’ was the father’s stern injunction,
“or Pll raise dis foot, an’ ef it cotches yer, der will be
a sick nigger. You heah me!”

Sam obeyed by standing on his head, and the old
negro, throwing down a large key with a gesture of
disgust, hobbled off and was soon lost to sight among
the trees.

The thin-faced outlaw waited until Sam had ap-
parently exhausted himself, and was seated on the
aeons fanning himself with a shingle, and then
said:

“Would you like to earn five dollars ?”

“Wonld i like to be struck wid lightnin’. Jes’ try
me, boss, an’ see,” his eyes shining with increased
brilliancy.

Rattler sat down beside him, and whispered :

“TI will give you that sum, if you will lend me your
key, and allow me to use the mill until ten o’clock.”

“Wad. yo’ goin’ terdo? Hole a pr’ar meetin’ ?”’

Sam looked at Rattler in puzzled surprise, mixed
with suspicion.

“No, and I shall do nothing to hurt the mill. I
have an appointment with some friends, and we want
to be alone for a while.”

**Hones’, true?) Hope you may die dead ?”

“Yes,’’

“Well, I’ll do it, boss, but I mus’ be heah ter see
dat nuffin goes wrong. I reckon you’s all right, an’
dat you wouldn’t harm a skeeterif you couldn’t
eotch him; but I wants you to onstan’ dat I ockypies
a ’sponsible posish, and dat [’se no sardine, if Lama
colored folks.”

He arose and swelled out his chest, and then con-
tinued:

“Tt’ll nebber do, boss, wid de whole mill on my
han’s, ter hab some one getin an’ monkey wid de
*chinery.”

. “The machinery. sha’n’t be harmed,” was the earnest
response, “and you must go away. You must not be
within half a mile of here until ten o’clock. Other-
wise no five dollars.”

He held out a glittering gold
satisfaction when he observe
change of countenance.

‘Boss, Pll doit. Dar’s gwine ter be a colored ball
in town to-night, an’——’”

“There’s ‘a little yaller gal’ you want to see, eh ?”’

“Who tole yer?’

“T guessed it. Am I right?’

“Sure’s yo’ born.”

“Go tothe ball then, but stay no later than ten
o’clock Come back at that time, and you shall have
tive dollars more. But on no account, mind, must
you tell any one of the meeting here to-night.”

Sam answered in song, his voice a rich, swinging
tenor:

* Dar’s a meetin’ in de woods to-night,
Av’ we'll all come merry aun’ bright,
Fo’ de stars in the sky am shinin’,
Dar’s a meetin in de woods to-night.”

“No, boss,” he said, when the verse ended, “I hope
I may nebber see de back ob my neck if I say a word.
Heah’s de key,” picking it 4 from the ground where
it had been thrown by the old negro, and handing it
to him. ‘An’ now fork ober de shiner.”

Having secured the coin, bitten it, and placed it in
his vest-pocket, he went up the road, singing
“Dinah’s Wedding” at the top of his voice.

After he had gone, Rattler unlocked the door and
went inside. ,

There were two large apartments. The one in front
held a eer a ore crusher, the engine, and other
machinery. The other contained the separating
boxes, amalgamating apparatus, ete. t

In one corner of the crushing room was a table, a
desk, and several chairs.

Rattler went through'the mill from front to back,
and then, in a contented frame of mind, took a seat
by the table and waited.

Darkness had settled over the earth, when there
came a knock at the door.

It was opened by the thin-visaged outlaw, and his
small eyes twinkled with satisfaction when he saw
that his visitor was Creed Lawton.

The interview that followed was an exciting one.

iece, and smiled in
the colored man’s

 

CHAPTER XIV.
SAM NEATLY TURNS THE TABLES.

The detective, upon entering the mill, glanced
cautiously about him.
He was in a measure operating in the @ark, and

 

for fear of possible treachery, had not taken the

traveled road to the rendezvous, but had reached it
by a circuitous route.

ane leading to the separating department was
closed.

For some reason, Lawton did not open it, but he
seated’ himself, apparently without intention, so as
to face it.

Rattler, after admitting his visitor, closed and
turned the key in the door.

“This is for my benefit,” he remarked, as if an ex-
planation was called for, ‘I don’t propose to take
any risks, as at present I don’t know how I stand.”

The detective said nothing in reply.

“You preferred to come alone, [ see,” continued
the highwayman, as he touk a seat near Lawton.

“Yes. Why shouldn’t I? Your letter was ex-
plicit enough, and left no room for suspicion of foul
play.” *

There was just the shadow of a sneer about his
lips as he spoke, but Rattler did not appear to no-
tice it.

“No one will follow you here ?”’ the latter asked.

“No one will follow me. My whole force is at
present In this building.”

“Meaning you?’’—looking at him intently.

“Who else should I mean?’ was the sharp re-
joinder.

The highwayman, now easier in mind, drew his
chair closer, and said:

“Tam about to place my liberty, perhaps my life,
in your hands. Will you'play me fair?”

“Tf you shall tell me the truth, all you know con-
cerning Captain Careless, and the murder of Carlton
Duane, I promise for myself to make no attempt to
punish you. But I must be assured that you speak
truthfully, and without reservation.”

“T will give the whole snap away.”

He spoke with emphasis, and on the words there
came three taps at the door.

Creed Lawton sprang to his feet and drew a re-
volver.

“We're all right,” whispered Rattler. “He can’t
get in, whoever he may be. Put up your gun.”

“No; I propose to be prepared for any emer-
geucy.”

“But the door is locked,” insisted the other.

Asif to give the lie to the words, the door, which
had apparently been fastened, was quickly opened,
and a tall, black-bearded man stepped into the
room.

He held a pistol in one hand, and for a moment the
two enemies, weapon to weapon, confronted each
other.

Rattler, standing with his back to the wall, and out
of range, had his eyes fixed meaningly on the new-
comer. ;

He was the first to break the silence.

“Come, come, gentlemen,” he said, “lower your
guns, and settle down to an understanding. Let us
have no bloodshed.”

“When Captain Careless lowers his, I will lower
mine,’ the detective coldly responded.

The black-bearded man started as the name of the
dreaded highwayman was bestowed upon him, and,
though his eyes gleamed savagely, he yet allowed
the hand holding the pistol to drop to his side.

Creed Lawton followed suit, but his eyes were
ready to catch the first sign of treachery.

“Now, Rattler, you may lock the shebang
earnest,” was his leader’s command.

The thin-faced rascal turned the key effectively,
and then took a position in front of the door.

“What am I to understand by all this?” asked
Lawton, with a cold, stern face, and without the
slightest indication of fear.

“That you have again been trapped; that the ripe
intelligence of my friend Rattler evolved a plan that
pulled the wool over the eyes of the smartest detec-
tive—in his mind—in this part of the world.”

“Then you do not mean to betray your captain ?”’
addressing Rattler, with an inscrutable expression
of countenance.

“Betray nothing. What do you take me for?”

“And this picnic was arranged for my benefit?”

“For your benefit—precisely !’”’ was the black-beard-
ed man’s reply.

“And the outcome is to be—what ?”

“Your death,”

‘Suppose I object ?’

“Objections will be of no avail. You are in a box.
The odds are against you; and Rattler and I shoot
to kil. You may wing one of us, but the other will
get you sure.” :

‘In that case’—raising his voice—‘‘I surrender !”’

As he uttered the words, the door leading to the
separating departinent was thrown open, and the
negro, Sam, appeared, with a revolver in each hand.

‘Don’ make a move,” he shouted, ‘tor out goes your
daylights! I’m a howlin’ wilderness w’en I turns
loose!’

The supposed Captain Careless turned at the words,
and as he did so, Creed Lawton sprang forward and
Stas him over the head with the butt of his re-
volver.

As he fell, the detective tore off the false beard.

The face of Duke Vallance was revealed!

CHAPTER XV.
A CRY FOR HELP.

When Creed Lawton felled Duke Vallance, Rattler
found himself covered by the negro, Sam, and as he
looked down the two barrels, charged with sudden
death, his knees trembled, and he threw up his
hands.

Sam quickly relieved him of his weapons, and
pushing him into a corner, forced him to sit down.

The detective had already disarmed Vallance, and
as the villain arose unsteadily to his feet, his emo-
tions were painful in the extreme.

“J will make somebody pay for this,” was his
wrathful thought. ‘I might have known the scheme
would not work. But,” as his brain became clearer,
“the battle is not yet lost. This is only the pre-
liminary skirmish.”

When he raised his eyes, after these reflections, to
look at the man who bad overmatched him, there
was an evil glitter in them.

“Not tamed yet?” remarked Lawton, sarcastically.

in

 

“Not yet. This is but one actin the play. There’s
more coming.” :
“But your engagement will end to-night. The cur-

tain will go down, as far as you are concerned.
You'll hear Gabriel’s trumpet before long, you in-
fernal scoundrel.”

A musical voice from the corner now burst forth:

“Tn de mawnin’, :

In de mawnin’ by de bright light;
Wen Gab’l blows his trumpet

In de mawnin’.”

It was Sam.

Vallance scowled.

“| don’t believe that fellow is any more negro than
Iam,” he snappishly said.

“Right you are, Captain Awfully Careless, alias
Vallance, who has lost his balance,” returned the
person to whom reference had been made. ‘lama
colored pusson, sah, for this occasion only. ‘My
name is Norval; on the Grampian hills my father
feeds his flocks ’—while my mother darns his socks.
I am also the Great Unknown. I was born in a
sewer, and if [ choose ‘I could atale unfold whose
slightest whisper would harrow up thy soul.’ But I
don’t choose ; I smokes.”

“Who in the fiend’s name are you ?”’

“Quotation Marks, but not in the name of your
master. I owe my allegiance ina different quarter.
Momus, Terpsichore, Thalia—I turn trom one to the
other, and I adore them ail. But I am not always
gay, for ‘I have that within which passeth show;
these but the trappings and the suds of——’ whoa,
Einma!”’

The last words came as a startled ejaculation, for
at that moment a woman’s shriek in the near dis-
tance burst upon his ears.

He looked at Lawton in eager, apprehensive in-

uiry.

Pais before a word was said by either, the shriek
was repeated, this time louder and more thrillingly
suggestive, as if fraught with terrible danger.”

There was no time, in the minds of the two brave
wen, to further consider the situation which con-
fronted them in the room.

With one impulse they dashed out of the door,
leaving the villainous twain free, but unarmed.

AS they reached the road a faint cry, ot awful
meaning, was borne to them on the breeze.

it was “Murder! Help! help!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
A SCIENTIFIC CURIOSITY.

The Telautograph is the latest scientific curiosity.
By its use a man of business will be enabled to sit
down in his office, take up a pencil or pen, write a
message, and as his pencil moves, so will a pencil
move simultaneously in the office of his correspon-
dent, reproducing in fac-simile the same letters and
words. The mode of using the telautogtaph is as
follows: The person wishing to communicate with
another pushes a button, which rings an annunciator
in the office of the person with whom he desires to
hold written communication. Then the first party
takes his writing pen or pencil from its holder and
writes his message on a roll of paper. As he writes,
so writes the pen at the other end of the wire. In
writing, the pen or pencil is attached to two small
wires, and these wires regulate the currents which
control the pencil at the other end. But these wires
give no trouble, and the message may be written just
as easily as if they were absent. The writer may
use any language; he may write in short-hand, or use
a code of cipher; no matter, a fac-simile is repro-
duced. More than that, ifa picture is to be sent b
the telautograph, it may be faithfully reproduced.
The artist of an illustrated paper may thus transmit
a sketch of arailway accident, or any other event,
with just as much facility as a reporter telegraphs
his deseription in words. The two pencils move
synchronously, and there is no reason why a circuit
of five hundred miles cannot be worked as easily as
one of ten miles. The telautograph will supplant
the telephone in many ways, for it will have marked
advantage over the latter. It will be noiseless and
less affected by induction, and no misunderstanding

 

 

can arise in its use.

 

 

  

  
 

 
 
 

 

  

 
 

 

 

 

 

«ss THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

art cite Tia hate eh dete ee rae

a i

oe

VOL, 48—No, 46,

 

 

 

 

yeas yee

NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 15, 1888.

eee Vee

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TWO NEW STORIES,

BY

HERO STRONG

AND

MRS. M. V. VICTOR.

In addition to the vigorous and spirited story we
begin this week, “THE MANAGER’S FAVORITE,” by
HERO STRONG, we shall continue our list of attrac-
tions by laying before our readers, next week, the

 

 

opening chapters of an entrancing romance of love
and hate, entitled

ih eee

Enemy of the House

THE UNSEEN HAND.

By MRS. M. V. VICTOR,

Author of ‘‘The Phantem Wife,” ‘The Brown
Princess,’’ ‘‘ Born to Betray,”
“ Back to Life,” etc.

It dramatically describes the artful rascality of a
hidden foe, whose schemes to einbitter the lives of
an entire household are as ingenious as they are vin-
dictive. Misfortune after misfortune results from
these repeated

AMBUSHED ATTACKS,

loving hearts are estranged, and the bewildered
heroine knows not where to turn for sympathy or
whom to trust. A charming love story is interwoven
with the

EXCITING AND SURPRISING EVENTS,

and every chapter develops new complications and
novel situations, so that the reader’s attention is
ever on the alert, curiosity at its utmost tension, to
learn the next movement of

THE ENEMY IN THE DARK.

This gracefully penned and well-constructed ro-
mance has several capitally drawn characters, and
the entire work is in the author’s best style

The opening installment will appear neal week.

News agents should be prepared to promptly sup-
ply the demand for the NEw YORK WEEKLY con-
taining our two new stories, “THE MANAGER’S
FAVORITE” and “THE ENEMY OF THE HOUSE.”

re

THE HOUSE I RENT,

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

There are rooms enough in the house which I rent,
but some of them are locked against me a third of
thetime. I pay the rent regularly. Itis the only house
that Ican get,so that I must pay the rent or be
homeless. Ido pay it. I care for the honse, within
and without, pay water and all other taxes.

Yet every few days there are parts of this house of
which [have no use; other parts that I can only par-
tially use, or, if I occupy them, I am a sufferer every
moment that I attempt it. What do you think of that,
my reader ?

I presume, however, that Iam as well off as the
average of my neighbors. I know a rich man, next
door to me, who never pretends to use parts of his
house. If he were to attempt it I think the neighbor-
hood would be informed by his yells. He has rheu-
matism.

This house is my body. I got up this morning and
found that I could not use my neck. If I turned it to
the left, a pain seized me. A stiffneck. Why I was
shut outof the proper use of my neck I cannot im-
agine; but I presumelI left a window open and a
draught of air struck me. Last week I was refused
the proper use of my stomach. I wanted a dinner
and ate it. I expected my stomach apartment to be
at my disposal; I knew no reason why I should not
have the full use of that chamber in my dwelling.
But it was no use; I was shut out. The horrible party
which occupied the room—it must have been the
seven devils spoken ot in Holy Writ—locked the door
onme. My food furnished me no strength for the
labors of the afternoon. I might as well not have had
a stomach.

Not long since I was refused the use of my left
foot! Think of it—my own left foot! It appeared
all right on the outside. But I, the owner, was not
admitted. It was what they call ‘ sprained.”
Sprained? Whatis that? I was not sprained. My
mind was never clearer nor my work more pressing ;
but the foot was no longer mine; at all events, [
could not step on it. My house was out of repair,
and through ro want of care on my part; the thing
slipped on an orange peel as I was entering the
court-room that forenoon.

IThave known what it was tobe denied my own
head. There was tlie head, all right on the shoul-
ders; every outward appearance was correct; but
pain had full tenaney, and I was left, business and
all, to look after myself. Have you never been in
like misfortune? After an interval I am privileged
to use my whole self again; the head is once more
my own; but the vulgar ree who burglarized me
left things in miserable shape. The brain chamber
was littered with fragments of old pangs and tatters
of unrestful sleep and the filth of neuralgia. Who
and what is this person or thing called Neuralgia?
Evidently a base intruder, not to say thief. How
hard he, she, or it is to dispossess; how impossible to
lock the door against the demon!

But bethink you, reader, of palsy, of insanity, of
the numbness and paralysis of parts of the body.
How strange! Often the proprietor is in the full
tide of great affairs when these rough intruders
kick him out of his own self; they colonize in some

of his parts. He, the man, is still there; he weighs
as much, has the same complexion, eyes, stature,
and other personal data of identity; but he can’t
use himself. Doors are bolted against his own keys,
He can even use another man’s members better than
his own, and walks, for instance, by a pair of hired
legs, ofa servant, if you please. Thousands of people,
who have good eyes, to all appearances, must use

 

 

other people’s eyes, though they have eyes of their

own in the house.

I might go on in this way; but I forbear. I moral-
ize. LTrealize, by all this, that I am one thing, and
the house which I rent is quite another thing. My
body is not myself. I have a hope that, if I can sur.
vive the loss of a leg, that I shall not perish though
my two legs perish. Why may I notsay, if my two
arms perish I shall yet be alive? If my trunk, my
head be taken from me, that I am not taken away
from myself? ‘Though my outward man perish m
inward man is renewed, day by day,” said St. Paul.
In fact, what has become of this man, Paul? His
house is demolished. I can go back and see where it
stood, but every timber is gone. Yet the personality,
Paul, seems to be abroad in this world even now. He
speaks; his opinions have weight; his example is
potential. Has he no existence anywhere? The
two friends who found and construct a great news-
paper, who then pass out of the editorial rooms, out
of the building, out of the street, out of the city, out
of the world; yet their noble sheet goes on; are they
not yet alive? Beyond sun and stars, in that fair em-
pyrean that arches from silver dawn to golden eve,
where life is not dependent on bread and blood; some-
where they live. e sure of that.

This house of mineis fearfully and wonderfully
made. Iam not decrying it. I thank the God of
Nature, whose it is, for the reasonable rent and the
use which I do have of it. I think it is as good a
house as the average. It is far, far better than |
could build... The Architect and Builder performed
wonders in its planning and construction; and I am
certain that, though the genuine Owner has left
many monumental marks onthe earth for our ad-
miration, he has never surpassed this house of man,
the human body, in mystery, grandeur, and power.
No flower was ever so beautiful as some human
faces thatI see. Nosea was ever so grand, no moun-
tain so imposing as some commanding human resi-
dences, when the great-souled tenant is at home and
receiving visitors. A Webster, the orator, for in-
stance, when listening thousands are invited by him
to gaze through his features at the sumptuous
furnishings of his thoughts. A Jenny Lind, when
the harp of her spirit swayed the muititude as golden
grain before an autumn wind. Afriend’s hand, a
child’s touch, a mother’s kiss—these outward caresses
are but the lovely beauties, in reflection, of the far
lovelier and more beautiful soul, :

And if these be the wonders of a rented, a con-
fessedly temporary house, marred by disease, in-
convenienced by pain, hurt by accident, belittled by
inheritance, and wearing out with use of years—tell
me, ye immortals, to what mansions ye may hope to
come, “by the jasper sea.”

— > @~ —_____-

A MORTAL AFTER ALL.

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER.

“Thave done the best I could, Charles. The fire
wouldn’t burn, the stove wouldn’t bake, and conse-
quently the biscuits are dough, and the omelet
smoked. There! I’ve owned up! So don’t frown
any more, you bear!”

“But, Nancy, these things happen too ofteh. You
always lay it to the wood, or the stove, or something
of the sort.”

“When has it happened before, Charles? Every-
thing has been cooked to perfection, I think, lately.
Mother says I am a very good cook for one so young,
and with no more previous experience.”

“That will do very well as the opinion of your
mother, who, of course, is prejudiced in favor of her
only daughter; but I wouldn’t have my mother come
here for the world till things run smoother.”

“You make me almost hate the name of your
mother, Charles Peters. Never having seen her, I
picture her as some horrible virago, who, when she
does pounce upon us, will almost make me afraid of
iny life.” i ‘

Charles Peters couldn’t help laughing, in spite of
his poor breakfast, as he gazed at the scarlet face
and pouting lips of his fair young wife.

Presently their one little servant-girl brought in a
fresh loaf from the bakers, and this, with a slice of
cold ham, and another cup of tolerable coffee, fin-
ished out arather meager breakfast for the young
and not very happy couple.

Better is itin some respects (hear this, a2 waiting
and expectant maidens) to marry a man sick, weary,
and disgusted with his first, second, and third-rate
boarding-house, than one fresh from the paternal
mansion and the loving and careful ministration of
the maternal hands.

To the man who has run the gantlet of boarding-
houses, a home is a blessing (be it ever so humble),
and he sees no faults, or looks upon them as trifles,
in the young and inexperienced wife. Together
they laugh over ludicrous mistakes and culinary
surprises, and resolve to “make the best of it” in the
infancy of their housekeeping, andin the language

' of the school song, “Try, Try Again.”

By adopting this course, Charles Peters might
soon have had everything to his mind in his really
sunny home. But his manner irritated the young
housekeeper, and made her dread to undertake any-
thing in the cooking line; and, in fact, dread even
the firm, decided step of her husband unless he came
suddenly upon her while at work. His severe
comment upon her housekeeping sent hear in tears
to her mother, which certainly did not mend matters
in the least. :

“Mamma, I must leave him now,” said Nancy, one
day, as she threw herself in her mother’s arms.

“Don’t do that, child! he is a good husband in
every thing else but this fretting and fuming, and
he’ll get over thatin time! He is a good provider,
free from vices, and I think kind at heart.”

“Oh! I can bear a great deal from him, for I love
him, mamma; but his mother is coming to make us
a visit, and I won’t bear her interference, so there!”

“Do the best you can, and trust for the rest, Nancy.
Don’t show the white feather. Go home and I will
come overand help you with your first dinner, when
the important day arrives, with the more important
personage, Mrs. Peters.”

The important day did arrive,and with it the much-
feared personage, Charles Peters’ mother.

While the small servant was showing her in with
her innumerable bundles and boxes, Nancy stood at
the head of the stairs reconnoitering, before she
should descend and advance to meet the fancied
enemy.

“Why, mamma,” whispered she as she caught that
worthy woman’s hand who stood by her side, ‘do
look! Whata little thing! Hardly 4 3 to my shoul-
ders And listen. A voice like the chirp of a robin,
or like our silver tea-bell. I’m not one bit afraid of
her, so there!”

Down went the plump, blooming young matron,
her mamma in her wake, with open arins, to receive
that mite of humanity, Charles’ mother. j

Mrs. Peters expected no such reception as she re-
ceived. She was agreeably disappointed in her
daughter-in-law. Charles, in his letters to her, had
apologized for his wife instead cf praising her, until
the old lady had come to sigh and think her beloved
son had made the greatest mistake a man could
make in life—married the wrong woman.

“Why, you little dear, you put mein mind of the
tea-rose in my garden. Let me reach up and kiss you
again. There. Now for my boxes, for I’ve brought
not only some goodies besides my wardrobe, but
Towser and Titmouse, my dog and cat, which [I
couldn’t shut up in the house to starve, you know,
dear, even for a week or two.”

“You are welcome, and everything belonging to
you, dear mother,” said the genial Nancy, as she lib-
erated the frightened cat from her basket and fondly
smoothed the ruffied hair. Towser, more of a cos-
mopolitan, had already stretched his length on the
hearth-rug and made himself at home,

The dinner hour drew near, and Charles would ar-
rive in fifteen minutes, at least. Everything was
cooked to a turn, and the table “looked splendid,” as
Nancy declared for the tenth time to her mother and
the bustling servant-girl.

Charles came in at the appointed time, teok his lit-
tle mother in his arms, fairly lifting her off her feet,
and then kissed Nancy, and glanced toward the din-
ing-room with a rather troubled countenance.

“Everything is all right, Charley,” said the con-
fident wife in his ear, as he retired to ‘‘wash up” for
dinner.

“T hope so,” sighed Charles.

The solid portion of the dinner was a perfect suc-
cess. Mrs. Peters declared that “such roast lamb”
she had not eaten for years, and as for the dressing
to the turkey, it beat hers by a great deal. But the
first nortification Charles experienced was when he
cut a gooseberry pie and dealt it round.

“Nancy,” said he, with a flushed and angry face,
“this pie is abominable. No sugar, and all salt.
Mother, I hope you’ll excuse this oversight in my
wife,” changing his voice to an injured tone.

“Why, good gracious, Charles Peters! that’s one of
my pies, as Llive! Ishould know that plate a mile
off,” piped the old lady, smothering a musical laugh
in her pocket-handkerchief. ‘“There’s where you
nicked the edge when a vor Then I forgot the sugar,
did I? Well, no wonder; I was so anxious to make
something uncommonly nice to bring up here, When
we try the most, sometimes we fail the most. Don’t
you often find it so, my rosy daughter Nancy ?’

Nancy could hardly answer, as she laughingly con-
templated the dazed expression of her husband’s
countenance, when he seemed to wake up for the first
time to the knowledge that his mother was human,
and as fallible as the rest of mortals. Yet he was
vexed at himself, and looking abont, seeking out
something on which to vent his spleen, he espied Tit-
mouse, sitting on a vacant chair, ready for a spring
on to his mother’s shoulder.

“Drive that cat out of the room, Nancy! Where
did it come from? Mother, don’t be frightened,” as
the cat leaped upon her; ‘“‘you shan’t be subject to
such annoyances again.”

Afraid of my own Titmouse, that I brought with
me, and who wants her dinner as well as other folks!
I guess not,” piped the old lady. “Come, Towser,

that smarter people are through.”

The dog opened one eye, saw the situation, rose up
languidly, as if not half rested from his journey,
shook hiinself, and with much effort stood on his
hind legs in a begging posture.

The sense of his own folly, and the ludicrousness
of the surroundings struck Charles Peters in a comic
light, and he burst into a fit of uncontrollable
laughter. .

In this the company joined, and the day ended in
the happiest way.
* * * on * * x *
“Then, mother, ee think my Nancy will event-
ually make a good cook—that Is, know how things
ought to be done, even if she doesn’t have to do them

herself?’

“Why, she’s amuch better cook and housekeeper
than I was at her age. We must all serve an ap-
prenticeship at any business. You’ye begun wrong
with Nancy. She’s as good as gold, my son, and you
don’t half appreciate her. Don’t scold her any more;
bear with her little mistakes, as [ have borne with
yours many atime. Then we will see what we shall
see.”

In ten years from that time, when Charles Peters
had a large house and three children to be looked
after, besides the two old mothers to be nursed and
tended, no more notable housekeeper was there the
country round than Nancy Peters.

Little Peters, a perfect counterfeit of his father in
all things, always exclaims, when he has been toa
nighbor’s to tea, that everything was good, ‘but,
then, it didn’t taste like mother’s,” :

Happy illusion!

THAT CLOTHES-LINE.

BY KATE THORN.

It was invented to try the patience of the family
man—the clothes-line was, and it attends closely to
business,

There is about as much “pure cussedness” in the
average twenty-five-cent cluthes-line as you can buy
for a quarter any where.

It is always taken down in a hurry, and conse-
quently it is never wound up just right. There are a
few kinks in it, and when the family man goes to un-
wind it at his wife’s command, he finds that these
few kinks are ready to multiply into a hundred.

He tugs at it, and twists it this way and that way,
and it snarls up, and doubles upon itself, and as fast
as one end is straightened out, the other curls up.
Then the man gets his back up, and he shuts his teeth
hard, and vows he will untwist the thing before he
puts it on the pins, if he dies for it!

His wife comes out with the basket of clothes, and
wants to know, with her mouth full of clothes-pins,
and the perspiration of honest toil on her womanly
brow, what in the world he wants to stand there for
poking with that clothes-line? Why doesn’t he put
itup? Doesn’t he see that she is waiting for it?

He makes another effort, and the clothes-line is
flung out with a will. He feels sure that he is just
about to do it, when suddenly the thing fetches a
twist around his legs, and he pulls up on it,and down
he goes, and falls om the side of the clothes-basket,
and spills the week’s washing on the ground, and his
wife rushes up like an avenging spirit, and wants to
know what he thinks a woman wants to stand all the
forenoon over the wash-tub for, if a careless man is
going to undo all that she has done? And as she
proposes this conundrum, which no man has ever yet
been intelligent enough to solve, she viciously shakes
out the skirts and petticoats, and the suds fly hither
and thither, and the man who is putting up the line
rises, and disentangles his feet, and hunts up his hat,
and feels his back to see if it is there all right, and
then he returns to the charge.

He gets the lire through the hooks and givesita
yank, and his wife tells him to be careful, ‘‘for those
eae loose, and he’ll have ’em down if he doesn’t
mind!”

Then he slacks up, and she wants to know why in
the world he doesn’t put that line up so that it won’t
sag and let the sheets and night-gowns down so they
will touch the ground,

And then she seizes it, to show him how; and out
comes the hook, and the woman is thrown back by the
sudden let go, aud she skins her elbow against the
corner of the wood-pile, and she recovers herself, and
looks daggers at the partner of her bosom, and says
she ‘wishes she had put that clothes-line up herself.
A man never knows how to do anything as it should
be done!”

And then the much abused and afflicted head of the
family puts that line up with an emphasis that rends
it in twain and necessitates tying it, and he swears a
few words to make the knot hold, and the neighbors,
who are listening at their back windows, tell each
other that poor Mrs. Jones must lead an awful life of
it with that man, who swears like a pirate!

HOW TO MAKE MONEY,

BY ELLIS LAWRENCE.
No. 8.—KEEP YOUR EYES OPEN,

If ever you go to California and fall in with some
men who were there during the mining craze, you
will probably be told the story of the “Sidewalk
gold mine.” It seems that beside one of the city
streets, on the line of what should have been a
flagged sidewalk, was a ridge of rock that was just
high enough above the surface of the ground to be a
nuisance. Of the thousands of men who tramped
daily along that side of the street, at least one half
stubbed their toes against that rock and used bad
language.

For two or three years that rock continued to
make trouble for gold hunters, great and small; but,
one day, a fellow who saw it before he reached it,
and consequently did not stub his toe, broke off a bit,
examined it closely, and then ‘staked a claim.”

Within two or three days everybody had learned
that ‘‘the sidewalk claim” was the richest gold-bear-
ing quartz that had yet been discovered in the State.
Every day hundreds and thousands of men had been
compelled to look at it, but only one man had sense
enough to see what was in it. ; 7

It is a good deal the same way with other busi-
nesses beside gold mining Good opportunities are
lying around, where men by the thousand absolutely
stumble over them, but the man who finally avails
himself of them is seldom the smartest man of his
set; often he is such a quiet fellow that his friends
are astonished when he makes any success. One dif-
ference between him and then is, that he is a man
who keeps his eyes open.

Thousands upon thousands of tailors wondered for
many years why a machine could not be made to do
sewing, but only one man had eyes sharp enough to
see that the thing was possible by changing the
shape of the needle.

For fifty years every boy who studied natural
philosophy in school has learned that a wire or piece
of string will conduct a sound farther than the sound +
can be heard through the air; they have also learned
that electricity will prolong the vibration of a “sound
wave,” but of the millions, in all countries, who knew
this, only two, or at most three, combined the two
facts and brought forth the telephone.

It is the same wayin every department of me-
chanics, in shop-keeping, in farming, and all other
work. I used to know alot of farmers near a large
Western city who planted wheat and corn every year,
and grumbled because their grain brought them only
money enough to keep body and soul together. One
of them, who never seemed much interested in other
people's business, studied the city papers carefully
for a year to see what prices various country pro-
duce was bringing. Then he astonished his neigh-
bors by planting five acres in strawberries—a crop
which the other farmers spoke of merely as ‘‘back-
yard stuff.” He sent his berries to the city, and put
a thousand dollars in the bank that year—’twas the
first bank account that any farmer in that neighbor-
hood had opened. Now he is well off; he grows
nothing but vegetables and berries, and his neighbors
are following his example; but to this day they won-
der how he ever thought of it.

There is nothing so good but itcan be improved,
and put money in the pocket of the man who does
the improving, but to be the lucky one requires wide
open eyes—that means strict attention to business.
Nearly all the improvements in machinery, which
are made by thousands every year, originate in the
wits of men who are handling machines day by day,
yet almost never do two men strike the same idea.
In a big millor shop there never seems more than
one man who keeps his eyes open, the others appear
satisfied to be merely part of the machinery.

But aman need not be in ashop, or mill, or ona
farm, to find chances of bettering his condition by
keeping his eyes wide open. The chance is within
the reach of day laborers, servants, bootblacks, news-
boys—everybody, in fact, who has eyes to see what is
going on around him, and does not let all business
talk go in one ear and out at the other.

Why, in New York there is a Laplander who owns,
and lets at big rents, four brown-stone houses on a
fashionable street. He came to this country a few

ears ago in the steerage of an emigrant ship, and

ad only about twenty dollars in his pocket. He
could not even speak the English language, and he
had no friends of his own race to help him in any
way, for Norwegians and Swedes, who are Lapland’s
nearest neighbors, look upon a Lapp as a far inferior

eing.

What did he do? Well, he began by peddling vege-
tables from a basket which he carried on his arm.
All he knew, in English, was the names of his goods

 

 

and the prices to charge. He learned the difference

7 '
rouse up, you lazy brute, and get your dinner, now

between good and common varieties of lettuce,
radishes, and berries; he found out where and how
such things were raised; he finally ‘“‘squatted” on a
vacant lot, and did some gardening on his own ac-
count. His wife came over from Lapland to ah
him, and his customers slowly came to understan
that nobody supplied as good and fresh vegetables
ashe. So he made money—and saved it.

And yet—doesn’t it seem strange }—- men who knew
him when he began, and turned up their noses at him
asa stupid, ignorant heathen, are as poor now as
they were then; they can’t even understand why he
has got ahead, while they have not.

The writer of these lines happened to be in the
South a few months after the war ended, and used to
hear a great deal of complaint, in a certain neighbor-
hood, that there was nobody to do general black-
smithing or to mend tools. One ot there came into
the town a negro, who had recently been a slave; his
only tools were one hammer, two files, and a tailor’s
goose, of which he made an anvil by turning it up-
side down, with its handle fixed tight in a split log.
He had done general plantation tinkering in his
time though, and he offered to do plain blacksmith
work. His forge was an open fire of hickory wood
under a big tree, and you would have almost cried
with pity to see the trouble it took him to loosen the
nut of a bolt by holding a stone against one angle
while he hit the other with his hammer. But he did
good work, bought anew tool or two every week out
of his earnings, and never felt rich enough to get
drunk. That colored nan now is the sole dealer in
agricultural implements in a large Southern town,
and his eldest son, who, in spite of his color, is an
admirable young man, has just finished his education
at a European college. Thesons of the white men
who used tostand around with their hands in their

ockets, and laugh at the rude way in which the
ignorant fellow did his work, aren’t educated at all.

Of cours», in advising you to keep your eyes open,
itis supposed you work at the same time, and are
saving money so you won’t lose good chances for the
sake of a few dollars inready cash. There are men—
gamblers, pickpockets, and confidence men—who get
a great deal of money by being wide awake, but they
never give anything inreturn. If youtalk with men
who have best succeeded in this world, however, you
will almost always find that they give as well as get,
pic that is one of the secrets of what is called their

uckK.

Keeping an eye open for something better does not
imply that you are to be careless of the work you
havein hand. When Edison was at his tirst inven-
tions, he was a common tolpecaph operator; but he
was none the less careful about his messages, or ir-
regular in his hours, because he expecte
make a big strike.

Neither does it mean that you are to rush head-
long into something which some other man says

romises well. There are any number of traps laid

or the man who is known to have a little money
saved up, but you needn’t fear falling into any of
them unless you are hasty. The best business
chances in the world are not snapped up quickly, al-
though you may suppose so.

As an exainple, the great natural gas deposit, at
Findlay, O., which in the past three years has made
many men millionaires, was discovered forty years
ago, by a man who still lives, and who worked more
than half his life-time to interest capitalists to the
extent of boring a well at a costof five thousand
dollars.

Most men are fools at any business but their own.
so the good chances of life will not be snatched
away from you, Keep your eyes open and your wits
at work while your acquaintances are telling yarns
in bar-rooms, and you’ll suddenly—perhaps when
you least expect it—be worth more money than all of
them put together.

A NEW SERIES OF HUMOROUS ARTICLES,

BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.

soon to

in the next number of the NEW YORK WEEKLY
we shall begin a series of humorous articles descrip~
tive of the adventures of a plain country couple and
their high-minded daughter in New York. The popu-
lar author, MARY KYLE DALLAS, is at her best in the
ludicrous portrayal of the queer experiences of the
blunt and breezy old sea-captain and his guileless
better-half, as narrated in

THE SLOWLY PAPERS.

LOST ARTS,

BY JOSH BILLINGS,

 

Sum ov our best and most energetick quill jerkers,
hay writ essays on the “Lost Arts,” and hav did
comparatifiiy well, but they hav overlooked several
ov the missing artikles, whitch i take the liberty, (in
a strikly confidenshall way)tew draw their attenshun
to. :
“Pumpkin Pi.”—This delitesum work ov art iz (or
rather was) a triumphant conglomerashun oy baked
doe and biled pumpkin.

It waz diskovered during the old ov the moon, in
the year 1680, by Angelica, the notable wife of Rhe-
hoboam Beecher, then residing in the rural town. ov
Nu Guilford, State of Connekticut, but since departed

this life, aged 84 years, 3 months, 6 daze, 5 hours, and
15 minnitts.

Peace tew her dust.

This pi, immejiately after its discovery bi Angelica,
proceeded into general use, and waz the boss pi, for
over a hundred years.

In the year 1833 it was totally lorst.

This pi hain’t bin herdfrom since. Large rewards
hav bin offered for its recovery by the Govenor ov
Connekticut, butit has undoubtedly fled forever.

Sum poor imitashuns oy the blessed old original pi
are loafing around, but pumpkin pi az it waz (with
nutmeg in it) is no more, ‘

“Rum and Tanzy.”—Goodjold Nu England rum, with
tanzy bruized in it, waz known to our ancients. and
drank by the deacons and the elders oy our churches,
a century ago.

It iz now one ov the lost arts.

A haff a pint ov this glorious old mixtur, upon git-
ting out ov bed in the moruing, then a haff a pint
jist before sitting down tew breakfast, then thru the
day, at stated intervals, a haff a pint ov it, and sum
more oy it just before retiring at nite, iz wat enabled
our fourfathers tew shake oph the yoke ov grate
brittain, and gave the Amerikan eagle the majestik
tred and thundering big bak bone, which heused tew
hay. But, alass! oh, alass! we once had spirits ov
just men made perfek, but we hay now (0 alass!)
spirits oy the dam.

One half-pint ov the present prevailing rum would
ruin a deacon in twenty minniftts.

Farewell, good old Nu England rum! With some
tanzy in yer, thou hast gone! yes, thou hast gone
rae ane bourn from which no good spirits cums
back.

“Rum, requiescat, et liquorissimus,”

* * * * ie * * *

“Arly to bed, and arly to rize.”’ When our ancestors
landed on Plimoth Rok, out ov the Mayfiower, and
stood in front ov the grate landskape spred out be-
fore them, reaching from the boisterous Atlantik to
the buzzum ov the plaintive Pacifick, they brought
with them, among other tools, the art of gitting up
in the morning and going tew bed at nite in decent
seazon.”

This art was az familiar to them az codfish for
brekfast.

They knu it bi heart. ;

It waz the eleventh command in their katekism.

They taut it tew their children, their yunginen and
maidens; andif a yung one waz enny ways slow
about larning it, he waz invited out to the korn-krib,
and thare the art waz explained tew him, so that he
got hold ov the idee for ever and amen. :

T am sorry to say that this art iz now lost, or miss-
i

ng.

What a loss waz here, my countrymen!

I pauze for a reply.

Not a word do I hear.

Silence iz its epitaph.

Perhaps some profane and unthinking cuss will ex-
klaim “Let her rip!” .
Arly to bed and arly tew rize is either a thing of

the past or a thing that ain’t cum—it certainly don’t:

exist in theze parts now.

It haz not only gone itself, but it haz tookoph a
whole lot ov good things with it. ;

This art will positively never be diskovered agin;
it waz the child ov innocense and vigor, and this
breed ov children are like the babes in the wood, and
deserted bi their unkle.

‘‘Honesty.’’—Honesty is oneov thearts and sciences.

Learned men will tell you that the abuv assershun
iz one ov Josh Billings’ common lies, and yer hav a
perfektrite tew believe them, but i don’t. ‘

Honesty iz jist az much an art az politeness iz, and
never waz born with a man.enny more than the
capacity to spell the word Nebuddkenezzer right the
first time waz.

It took me seven years to master this word, and i
and Noer Webster both disagree about the right way
now.

Sum men are natrally more addikted tew honesty
than others, jist az sum hava better ear for musik,
and larn how tew hoist and lower the 8 notes more
completely than the next man.

Honesty iz one ov the lost or mislaid arts. Thare
may be excepshuns tew this rule, but the learned
men all agree that ‘“‘excepshuns prove the rule.”

The only doubts i hav about this matter iz tew
or the time very cluss, when honesty was fust

ost.

When Adam in the garden of Eden waz asked,
“Whare art thou, Adam ?” and afterward explained

 

hiz absence by saying, “I was afraid,” iz az far ‘back

 

 

 

 

 

 

az I hav bin able tew trace the fust indikashuns ov

weakness in this grand and noble art.

I shouldn't be suprized if this art never waz fully
recovered agin during mi day.

I aint so anxious about it on mi own ackount, fori
kan manage tew worry along suhow without it;
but what iz a going tew bekum oy the grate mass ov
suffering humanity ?

This iz a question that racks mi simpathetick buz-
zum!

 

CAUGHT FIBBING.

An amusing incident happened at a Boston dry-
goods store not long since. Two ladies, who were
evidently sisters, were standing at a counter ex-
amining rich dress fabrics. One of them, who was,

judgingfrom her attire, in a more prosperous finan-
cial condition than the other, made a selection, and
as she did so said:

“Mary, I am sorry there is not more of this, for I
intended to present you with a pattern just like it.”

“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the ready clerk,
who was anxious to make another sale, “we haye
plenty more in stock.”

The first speaker made no reply, but pretended to
be examining some other i She was caught in
a falsehood, but she did not have generosity enough
to get out of it gracefully by duplicating her order.

tilt alte,
——>

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,

F. R. B., Whitby, Canada,—The common octopus, found
in the European seas, has a round body about as large as
a man’s fist, with eight arms around it, each three or four
feet long. Near the body these arms are joined by a tough
skin, by opening and shutting which it can swim back-
ward, It has also atube which opens near its mouth,
through which it blows out water, which helps it to swim
in other ways. It ¢an walk on its eight arms in the same
way with the cuttle fish. In the seas of hot countries
the octopus grows very large, and is very strong and dan-

gerous. The “devil tish,” introduced by Victor Hugo in
the ‘‘Toilers of the Sea,” is, as we have said to other cor-
respondents, mythical, or, in other words, an impossible
creature. The only species of octopus known on the
American coast, north of Cape Hatteras, is the one dis-
covered in 1872 in the deep waters of the Bay of Fundy by
Prof. Verrill. Several, all males, were dredged that sum-
mer in 75 to 200 fathoms, on shelly, tt and sandy bot-
toms. ‘The largest had a body two inches long and one and
a quer. inches wide, with arms two and a quarter
inches long; the color pale bluish white, translucent,
with specks of light and dark brown. The body was short
and thick, dotted with erectile tubercles, inoanis rounded
posteriorly ; head almost as broad as body, and swollen
and oe about the eyes; arms of about equal length,
relatively short, stout, and tapering. Each arm had two
rows of 60 to 65 suckers.

C. B. £., Philadelphia.—The architecture of the New
York Post-Office building is a mixture of Doric and Re-
naissance, with several domes patterned after those of
the Paris Louvre. The building has a front of 279 feet to-
ward the Park, and of 144 feet toward the south, with two
equal facades of 26214 feet on Broadway and Park Row.
The walls are of granite from Dix Island, Me. The gird-

ers, beams, etc., areofiron. It is five stories high above
the sidewalk—one story being in the Mansard roof—be-
sides a basement and sub-basement. It cost between
$6,000,000 and $7,000,000, and was first occupied on Sept. 1
1875. The postmaster’s and other offices are on the secon
floor, The third and fourth floors are used by the Law
Institute, and by the United States Courts and their
officers. The fifth floor is used by the donthers ane for the
storage of various articles. From 1,700 to 2,000 men are
ong in the collecting, sorting, and delivery of the
millions of letters, newspapers, etc., annually handled in
the post-office.

M. E. E., Severy, Kansas.—ist. The essential features of
the financial policy which carried the nation through the
civil war were the issue of United States notes, known as
greenbacks, which bore no interest, but were made legal
tenders; borrowing money upon bonds maturing at va-

rious dates, and bearing different rates of interest payable
in gold ; and the so-called national banking system, under
which each bank was required to deposit in the United
States Treasury $100 in bonds for every $90 of notes issued
by it. 2d. The first act authorizing the issue of $150,000,000
legal tender notes was dated Feb. 25, 1862, and the second
act for the same amount, July 11, 1862. Both made pro-
vision for funding them in bonds issued on the credit of
the government 3d. Letters addressed to the Treasui

Department and Patent Office, Washington, D.C., wi

elicit full information upon the subject of your inquiries.

Carl Reine, Rhinebeck, N. Y.—ist. Camel’s hair is im-
ported occasionally into the United States, in bales, from
Persia via England, or directly from Rusian ports, and
is mostly used in the manufacture of pencils for drawing

and painting. 2d, The camel’s hair used for shawls is
longer than sheep's wool, and often as fine as silk. There
are three kinds or colors, black, red, and gray, the darkest
of which is considered the most valuable, It is said that
the hair on a camel weighs aboutten pounds. In Bokhara
the camel is watched while the fine hair is growing. This
is cut off so carefully that not a fiber is lost, and when suf-
ficient has been collected it is spun into a yarn unequaled
for softness, and then dyed manner of bright colors.
a at corre rae Zar te ate. ot ne agp hair, of aless
valua_le kind, stu or carpets, tents,and wearing a

parel, and cloth is made of it in Pasa” Ti

Mentor, Ohio.—The harpsichord was a keyed musical
instrument, somewhat in the form of a grand piano, in
which the sounds were produced by the action of oblong
slips of wood call jacks, furnished with crowquill plec-

trums, and moved by finger keys, upon a series of
stretched wires resembling a horizon harp It was
provided with stops for increasing or diminishing the
power of the strings, and with aswell; and the best in-
struments had a compass of five octaves, from double F
below the base to F inaltissimo The harpsichord was in
use as early as the fifteenth century, and gradually took
the place of the spinet and virginals, remaining the
highest form of the keyed instrument until the introduc-
tion of the piano-forte into general use in the latter part
of the 18th century.

Regular Reader, Burlington, N. J.—The duel between
Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr took place at Wee-
hawken, on the Hudson River, opposite this city, July 11,
1804. At the first fire Hamilton received a wound of
which hedied the nextday. Burr believed he had been
deteated for Governor of this State, by Morgan Lewis,
through Hamilton’s instrumentality, and availed himself
of the first opportunity to vent his disappointment upon
him. He first called upon Hamilton to disavow any ex-
ern ames oe, to his Gy cheat honor, and then chal-

enged him. amilton had previously opposed Burr’s
aspirations for the Presidency.

L, A. B., Lexington, Ky.—ist. Among sailors, Yellow
Jack is a common personification of the yellow fever. It
is used as a proper noun, but it is thought that-the
original meaning of the appellation was nothing more
than yellow fiag, a flag being termed a jack a seeres,
and yellow being the color of that displayed m laza-
rettos, or naval vessels, or from vessels in quarantine.
2d. King Charles II., of England, was familiarly known
as the **Merry Monarch.”

Ww. W. W., Albany, N. Y.—ist. The half-cent has not
been coined since 1857, and but few remain in circulation.

The total coinage of the half-cent was, from 1793 to 1817,
5,235,573 pieces; from 1818 to 1837, 2,305,200 pieces; and
from. 1838 to 1857, 544,570 pieces. 2d. We can send you a
coin book for 25 cents. 3d. The half-cent of 1794 is the
exact counterpart of the cent. Like that of 1793, the edge.
is lettered ““C'wo hundred for a Dollar.”

G. S. W., Grand Rapids.—Glendale Station is a post vil-

lage of Queens County, N. Y.,on the South Side Rail-
road, six mileseast of Brooklyn. It has four churches,
and manufactures of macaroni, wire, and marble, A let-
ter addressed to the postmaster there will receive attcn-
tion. ;

F. F. F., Salem, Mass.—According to the officially pub-
lished quotations of the gold market in New York, the
currency price of $100 gold reached its maximum on July
11, 1864, in quotations for that day ranging from $276 to
$285. The average price of $100 gold for the monthot July,
1864, was $258.10.

Emily, Harlem.— First-class passengers are persons
who secure the best accommodations on vessels or rail-
roads; contradistinguished from second and third-class
passengers, who pay lower fares and have inferior accom-

modations. \

Alfarita, Baltimore, Md.—A book entitled the “‘Usages
of the Best Society” will give you the information de-
sired. If you wish it, write direct to the NEW YORK
WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. Price 50 cents.

S. K. B., Washington, D. C.—One solution to extinguish
fires consists of five ounces of sal-ammoniac to one gallon
of water. Another is said to corsist of dried prussiate of
potash, sugar, and chlorate of potash.

L. A. G. Scranton, Pa.—An appropriate Latin inscrip-
tion would be this: “Cor unum, via una’”—‘One heart,
one way.”

L. M.N., Staten Island.—“‘If God be for us, who can be
against us?’ will be found in Romans, chapter 8, verse 31.

Leonard 8. C., Galveston, Texas.—A hair’s-breadth is @
nominal measure, considered the 48th part of an inch.

A Subscriber, Mapleton, Dak., and Coins, Peoria.—We
can send you a coin book for 25 cents.

A Constant Reader.—Business addresses are not given
in this department.

J. F. L.—No knowledge of it.
Mimi Wilde.—No. . ;

The following MSS. are respectfully declined: ““D
My Subject;” “Margaret Hall’s Life ;” “A Raed ae
Aven yates with Moonshiners;” ‘ cent Predic-

tion ;” “A Fat Vagabond ;” ‘A Clay Idol.”

 

 

 

 

 

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aloud, by and by.

 

 

VOL. 48—No. 46,

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

 

 

AFTERWARD.

 

BY MADELINE 8. BRIDGES.

 

“Never,” he vowed it, ‘‘while life may last,
Can I love again. I will die unwed.”
“And I, too, dear, since our dream is past,

Ey live single,” she sobbing said.

A storm of farewells—of wild good-bys—

He rushed from the spot like an outcast soul,
She hid in a pillow her streaming eyes,

And wept with anguish beyond control.

Just five years afterward they two met
At a vender’s stand in a noisy street ;
He saw the smile he could ne’er forget,
And she the eyes that were more than sweet.

‘How well you look !”
“Oh, Kate!” “Oh, Harry!” 2 «prow well you look!”
“JT stopped,” he said, ‘‘just to get a toy
For my little girl.” “I wanted a book,”
- She softly said, ‘for my little boy.”

TEPPING-STONES.

By MARION HARLAND,

Author of “The Match-maker,” ‘‘ Alone,” “The
Hidden Path,” “The Howe Ghost,” etc.

 

 

CHAPTER IV.

“MAN SHALL LEAVE FATHER AND MOTHER,
AND CLEAVE UNTO HIS WIFE.”

“You do rot understand the case in all its bearings,
mother,” said Ronald Hartley, with ill-concealed im-
patience. “You cannot comprehend how I shrink
from removing Julie from the life of beauty and lux-
ury to which she was born; how unfitted the poor
child really is, despite her brave heart, to cope with
the comparative hardships of the best home [ could
offer her for along while tocome. Mr. Mebane, appre-
ciating this, and being, moreover, unwilling to part
with his only single daughter, has, in the most
friendly manner, insisted that we shall live with
him. Heurges that the house is larger than is need-
ful for his own family, consisting now of himself and
wife, his son Sylvester, and Julie. Mrs. Mebane’s
health is delicate, and she pleads that her child may
be allowed to remain with her. Can anything be
more kind and reasonable? Would f not be a selfish
boor were I to negative the united petitions of Julie

and her parents for a whim of mine, growing out of
a past difference of opinion between her father and
myself ?’

x It is all right, I suppose, my dear boy,” replied
the widow, thoughtfully stroking her apron. “Ionly
feared lest you, with your independent spirit, would
not be pleasantly situated there. Mr. Mebane has the
name of being a hard, purse-proud man.”

“T am not going to marry him,” interposed Ronald,
shortly.

Bue you will be a part of his family, and subject
to his caprices, without the power of defending
yourself.’ :

He interrupted the mild argument again.

“T do not see that. He loves his daughter very
dearly, and knows that to insult me would be to lose
her. She should not remain under his roof for a da
beyond the time at which such an offense was offered.
He is too wary a tactician not to comprehend that

 

 

the vantage-ground is mine.”

Would 4 ae aa be unfair to your wife?” asked
Rebecca’s quiet voice from the table where she was ©
sewing. ‘Ought not you to shelter her, instead of
her standing between you and insult?” |

Ronald’s brow flushed darkly at this unexpected |
home-thrust. |

“Really,” he said, with a laugh his mother shud-_
dered to hear, “‘I have been eee unfortunate in |
my arrangements. Just when I flatter myself that, |
having made peace with the Mebanes and gratified |
Julie’s wish to remain with her relatives, all is fair
sailing ahead of me,I dash upon this new reef of |
offense.” ; |

“No offense, my son,” Mrs. Hartley hastened to say. |
“Nothing you can say or do can be that tous. Our)
first consideration is your happiness. If this will be |
advanced by this new plan, try it by all means. |
Should you ever see reason to change your mind, you |
can always find a home here until you choose to re-
move to one of your own.” i

“Here!” The dismayed intonation was involun-

after their arrival at home. Another hurried line
from Ronald stated that they would be at home on
Tuesday, the 25th of January, and by noon of that day
the cottage was in its blithest winter dress.

“By the 11 A. M. train,” read Mrs. Hartley from the
letter. ‘Then they will probably—I may say cer-
tainly—be in to tea.”

Rebecea’s gentle demur being overruled, prepara-
tions were made for the reception of the happy pair
—fresh cookies, preserved strawberries, sardines, and
short-cakes, crisp and brown to a charm.

Rebecca assisted bravely in the work of getting
supper, and endeavored yet more bravely to allay the
apprehensions that arose in Mrs. Hartley’s mind as
the slow hours went by and there were no tidings of
the expected guests.

Her fears of accident and sickness were quelled on
the morrow by a note from Ronald. He had found it
impossible to come to them on the preceding day,
Julie being sadly fatigued.

“And I could not leave her on the very evening of
our return,” he set down as atruism not to be con-
tradicted. ‘I tind an enormous accumulation of work
at my office, but you may certainly expect me”’—he
had written ‘‘us,” then erased it—‘‘this evening. In
great haste, as ever, RONALD.”

“As ever to be, perhaps,” sighed Rebecca to her-
self, after perusing the epistle. ‘But not as he once
was!’

She erred. Ronald was unchanged, except for the
circumstance that the area of his affections and
aspirations was enlarged. He loved his mother and
sister dearly as ever, but Julie outranked them. His
memories of the brown cottage were tender and
sweet, but he had ou wnit. He even felt that he
was physically taller and_ broader than when he had
left it, as he bowed his head in the low door-way
that evening, and caught his breath with difficulty
in the small parlor, heated to suffocation by the air-
tight stove lest he might suffer with cold after his
sojourn in the bajmy South. He came alone, but was
the bearer of a yerbal message from Julie, who meant
to have come, but ber mother prohibited it since she
was suffering from a severe cold with predisposition
to fever.

“She will be overjoyed to see you, if you can drop
in some day soon,” said the young husband, so
heartily as to leave no doubt in his hearers’ minds of
his sincerity. : ;

He could not stay to tea. He had promised Julie
to be home to dinner, but during the half-hour he
spared them he was so cordial in affection, so merry
and free, so full of his new happiness and confident
of their sympathy, that his departure left a lovely
twilight in the hearts that had so longed for his ap-
pearance. :

“So Julie has taken cold—from the change of cli-
mate, I suppose,” remarked the mother, as they
were dwelling over his callin their talk of him or his.
“Don’t you think, daughter, that we ought to go to
see the dear little thing? She may suspect us of
coldness or indifference, if we stay away when she is
unable to come to us.”

“IT think we are justified in waiting until an invita-
tion from the Mebanes places us on visiting terms at
see house, mother,” said Rebecca, in her sturdy
pride.

“Ronald asked us to come soon,” answered the
mother, flushing a little.

“It is not his house,” Rebecca objected.

“Tt is his home, and he has surely aright to invite
his mother to visit his wife!” retorted Mrs. Hartley,
ruffling up her plumes like a hen, whose brood is
attacked. ‘And, allow me to say, Rebecca, that I am
a better judge than yourself of whatis right in such
cases, I shall assuredly callupon Julie Hartley to-
morrow, unless I hear that she is decidedly better. I
should like you to go with me, butI shall put no
force upon your inclination.”

“T will go if you wish it, mother.”

“You see,” pursued the mother, mollified by this
respectful submission, “I have no doubt but the dear
child’s mother is an ignoramas so far as sickness is

concerned. These fashionable women generally are,
and miserable housekeepers too, You remember
Ronald intimated something of the sort the first time
he brought Julie here to tea.”

“The only time,” thought Rebecca, but she had the
good sense not to urge her protest.

 
 
 

 

\

KO:

Wess

tary and ungracious, and he tried to efface whatever | -<—

unfavorable impression it had made. ‘No, mother |

dear, I have tres upon your bounty for too |
many years mendes I am doing well in m
ness. Before long I hope to be able to offer Julie a

pretty little home, Then you must come and live

with us.”

The widow pondered lovingly this invitation when
he had gone, her fingers busy with her knitting
through the long winter evening.

“Heis a generous, affectionate son,” she thought

Rebecca drew her thread and breath hard, and said
nuthing. She had a heart-ache—a growing, suspicious
pain discretion forbade her to put into words. She
saw what her mother did not, that the current which
was bearing Ronald on to prosperity, was dividing
him from them. She was not jealous of his love for
Julie. She was distrustful of Julie’s wealth and the
influence of her nee relatives. Yet, ought she—
would she, if she could—keep him back from the en-
joyment of a single one of the advantages these
would give him? ,

“And about this plan of living at Mr. Mebane’s,”

ursued Mrs. Hartley, never satisfied until she had
her daughter’s opinion—“‘I dare say his judgment is
more sound than mine. Of course we cannot visit
him as freely as if he were in a boarding-house, or in
his own, but, if he is satisfied, we should not com-

lain. He must come to see us, and bring his pretty
ittle wife, the oftener on that account.”

“We must not éxpect it.” Thus much Rebecca felt
that she might say. ‘‘He doesn’t belong to us now.
The Bible says that, ‘A man shall leave father and
mother, and cleave unto his wife.’ ”

Thensheremembered, with a sharper pang, the Rey.
Luke Catton and the answered letter in the locked
drawer up stairs, and, for the first time in her joyless
life, the poor, tried heart cried out ene the Lord
who h made her a woman, since His very Scrip-
tures legislated more mercifully formen. The same
feeling made her look out another text that night
before she slept:

“Make to yourselves friends of the Mammon of un-
righteousness, that when ye fall they may receive
you into everlasting habitations.”

CHAPTER V.

MRS. HARTLEY PREPARES A LITTLE SUR-
PRISE.

The marriage took place in January. Mr. and Mrs.
Mebane were opposed to long engagements. The
former deprecated them as unbusiness-like. The
latter sighed plaintively that since Julie was bent
upon sacrificing herself, the sooner it was over, the
better. His future father-in-law stated his senti-
ments on the subject to Ronald in no needless deli-
cacy, and the bridegroom could hardly object toa
decision that gave the prize the sooner into his
keeping. He hung back from declaring that he would
be a wiser and a more honorable man if he were to
postpone the fruition of his desires until he had made
money enough to meet the expenses of his wedding
outfit and tour. Nor, this opportunity lost, had he

 

the moral courage to frankly state to his fiancee his

inability to purchase for her such a bridal present as
should not be shamed by the gifts of her rich friends.
He elected, instead, to run in debt for a set of pearls,
which, after all, looked pale and insignificant beside
the diamonds presented by her father.

In other respects the affair was brilliant—to the
babi of Mrs. Hartley and Rebecca, absolutely daz-
ziing. The thought that the gay assembly, the mag-
nificent array of presents, the costly entertainment,
were honors paid to Ronald and to Ronald’s wife, filled
the mother with wondering exultation, while the sis-
ter’s satisfaction had a tinge of arian, Her hopes
for her brother’s future were mingled with a presenti-
ment that all these glories would put him furtheraway
from the home and friendship of his boyhood. She
felt the chill of the separation in the lavish respect
accorded him as the rising young lawyer, the husband
ofa ee belle, and the son-in-law of the opulent
merchant, as opposed to the utter indifference of the
fashionable throng to his relatives.

If any one interested himself or herself sufficiently
in them to aaa who were the little old lady in
bombazine and the prim woman ina figured brown
silk, who sat so quietly in a recess apart from the
revelers, and seemed to know nobody, the two stran-
gers were unaware that they received that modicum
of notice. They went into the supper-room unat-
tended, and when the hour of dispersion arrived, got
into the hack which Ronald had ordered to wait for
them, and drove home without an escort, uninvited
to repeat the visit to the priucely mansion.

But Ronald had said at parting:

“T shall see you very soon after our return,” and
Julie had kis them with an echo of the promise.

They had something to live upon until the receipt
of the letter from New Orleans, a pleasant, loving
note, signed ‘‘Ronald and Julie,” announcing the fact
of their supreme content, and reiterating their in-

busi- |

 

| some of the younger members of the party,

‘HE LOVES HIS DAUGHTER VERY DEARLY, AND KNOWS
THAT TO INSULT ME WOULD BE TO LOSE HER.”

Neither did she object to her mother’s expenditure
of an hour, at this busy season, in the manufacture
of a small loaf of delicate cake.

“Julie took a great fancy to it the evening she was
here,’ she said. ‘‘And sick people often relish little
surprises. like this.”

It was her notion, also, that the call should be paid
when Ronald was at home—to wit, about six o’clock
in the evening. She ‘“‘wanted to see the dear children
together.”

“T wiil just pin a clean cap under my dress-skirt,”’
was the final precaution of the far-sighted old lady.
“Tt is possible they may insist upon our staying to
dinner. At any rate, Julie may want me to spend the
evening with her in her own room.”

 

CHAPTER VI.
UNWELCOME VISITORS.

The bride looked like anything but an invalid, as
she came forward hurriedly to meet the visitors an-
nounced at the parlor-do vr as ‘‘Mrs. and Miss Hart-
ley.” She was in full dinner-dress—mauve silk and
point lace—and at the instant of their entrance stood
talking gayly with a knot of gentlemen, all in dress
coats and white cravats. There were perhaps fifteen
other persons present, and notwithstanding the gen-
eral good-breeding of the company, an awkward
silence succeeded the introduction. The widow in
her well-sayed weeds, advancing with a meek, be-
wildered smile, and Rebecca, in her plain walking-
dress, hesitating upon the threshold, were appari-
tions which nothing but consummate tact and moral
courage could prevent from being ridiculous under
the circumstances,

had kept her constant to her troth to Ronald in de-
fiance of her father’s opposition. That she would
ever be called upon to brave the'‘laughter of her fas-
tidious associates on account of her lover's relations,
had not occurred to her. She took in the situation at
a glance—the distressingly absurd features of it es-
pecially—even to the white paper parcel in her
mother-in-law’s hand, which could be nothing but a

could not have warmed them, in receiving the kiss
the old lady would, upon no consideration, have
omitted.

“And your daughter too!” she faltered, smiling
affectedly at Rebecca, who still hung back. ‘You
are very kind to come so unceremoniously. Here is
Ronald!” with a sigh of relief.

She had great confidence in her husband’s ability
to circumvent all sorts of trouble, and he justified it,
on this oceasion, by taking his mother on his arm
after a brief but kindly greeting, and leading her.into
asmallinner room. The dinner guests were yet in
full sight through the arehed door-way, and Rebecca
noted the covert but meaning smile exchanged by
articu-
larly Mrs. Mebane’s shrug, as she muttered some-
thing behind her fan to her other married daughter.

“T expected to find you in bed, my dear,” said Mrs.
Hartley, apologetically, to her beautiful daughter-in-
law, who had accepted the seat set for her, by Ronald,
at his mother’s right hand.

“T was a little indisposed yesterday, but I am
quite well now, thank you,’ answered Julie, ab-
stractedly. 3

Dinner would be served in a very few minutes, and
what was then to be done with these—I am afraid
she said ‘‘horrid people ?”’

inable.
pretty bride jumped up.
it

fashionable tibs, unblushingly,
than she would have spoken an agreeable truth.

loaf of cake or bread, and her cheeks flamed as fever

“Now that she has seen for herself that you are
convalescent, Julie, love, mother will, I am sure, ex-
cuse you—will not detain youlonger from your
friends,” said Ronald, in the most natural way imag-

And with an inward ejaculation of gratitude, the
“Maybe I ought not to be staying here, pleasant as
i

8.
She uttered the falsehood as eerie generally do
and more suavely

“These formal dinners are great bores,” she ran on,
in a confidential undertone; ‘but one has to submit

 

 

tention to visit their beloved mother immediately

 

 

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Gastoria,

 

to them, for the good _ of society, I suppose. We are
coming out to Lavender Lodge—the name of a felici-
tous impromptu—very soon. There is real satisfac-
tion in seeing you there, away from all the parade
and vanity. Good-by, then, for a little while!”
Ronald’s eyes followed her fondly as she tripped
away, and a proud smile lingered in them when he
resumed his talk with his mother.

“T am sorry she is engaged this evening. Mrs.
Mebane’s invitations were issued before we returned,
and she is a bit of a despot, in a kindly way. Julie’s
tastes are more simple than are those of the rest of
the family, but, being the most amiable creature
alive, she submits to their requirements.”

‘Have you dined ?” queried Rebecca, who had not
opened her lips till now, only sat up very straight in
her chair and taken observations.

“No; dinner has not been announced yet.”

“But it will be direetly—when we are gone,” fin-
ished his sister, without a symptom of sarcasm in
her tone or look. ‘Mother, we are keeping him from
his friends, and them from their dinner. Come!”
The widow made a movement to unwrap the cake,
which was frustrated by her daughter’s capture of
the parcel and determined march toward a side door.
Still meek, and more bewildered than ever, the poor
lady followed, attended by Ronald, to the front en-.
trance. There, withdrawn from the curious eyes in
the parlor, she put her arm about his neck, standing
on tiptoe to do so. ,

 

      
   

 

Leptin ‘ z > \
| —,, \i
ie \

 

 

 

 

— = =_

“IT IS HIS HOME, AND HE HAS SURELY A RIGHT TO
INVITE HIS MOTHER TO VISIT HIS WIFE!”

“You won’t forget or cease to love your old mother,
will you, dear?” i

“Good heavens, mother! whata question! What
have I ever done to merit such an insinuation? You
surely do not blame me for showing decent respect
to my wife’s relatives !”” ;

“She does not,” Rebecca interfered, to avert the
scene threatened by her mother’s working features.
“She never blamed you in her life, Ronald. I will
explain everything to her. There is our stage,
mother—hurry, or we shall miss it!”

“T would put youin, but you see——” said Ronald,
looking at‘his evening dress and thin boots.

“We see,” returned his sister, fairly dragging her
charge away with her.

“You are a veritable Napoleon in some matters,”
said Julie to her spouse that night. ‘*How cleverly

you contrived the speedy exit of our mal-apropos vis-

itors this evening! I lost my presence of mind
entirely—came near fainting when they made their
appearance. Mamma gaye private orders at once to
keep dinner back; but, altogether, it was a mortify-
ing occurrence all around.”

“Embarrassing, but hardly mortifying,” rejoined
Ronald, very gravely. “I trust I shall never be
ashamed of my best friends—be tempted to disown
my mother and sister.” :

It cost him such an effort to take this stand, that
his self-esteem—depressed by the recollection of his
mother’s clinging embrace and swimming eyes—be-
gan te mount slowly in the contemplation of his
heroic fidelity to his early benefactors. ‘ ,

“Certainly not!’ responded Julie, in quick alarm
at the prospect of a lecture. ‘But I do hope they did
not fancy themselves slighted—or anything.”

“They hardly expected to be invited to your
mother’s dinner-party. But, my love, when we get
into our own home, we must never omitthem. They
must be a8 much at home there as we are.”

With which declaration of rights the matrimonial
dialogue ended.

“He will change his mind, never fear,” was Mrs.
Mebane’s consolation, when Julie repeated this, con-
fidentially. ‘‘He will be wiser in the ways of the
world by and by. Shabby relations are not a desir-
able appendage to a handsome establishment. Papa’s
main objection to your marriage was Mr. Hartley’s
family associations, although we had no idea then
that they were so very exceptionable. Only be care-
ful not to provoke Ronald into taking their part.
Be polite and friendiy whenever you meet them,
but discourage such familiarities as their visit of
last evening.”

 

CHAPTER VII.
THE SLIGHTED GIFTS.

At the end of two years Ronald removed with his
wife and child from the paternal mansion to one in
the same neighborhood, as handsome in finish and
appointments, though less spacious. This was Mr.
Mebane’s gift to his daughter, and being one who
was averse to covering up his meritorious deeds, he
presented her with the Ropers transferring the prop-
erty to her, her heirs and assigns, at the christening-
dinner of his grandson and namesake. It was a
proud occasion to the youthful mother. __ ;

Papa had quite forgiven her former disobedience,
and took so much notice of Ronald, and was so
yleased that they called the baby after him! But
how could she do otherwise, loving and revering him
As she did, dear, dear papa!

No formal invitation was sent to Lavender Lodge.

“Shall I direct one to your mother?’ Julie had
asked, looking up from the pile of satiny envelopes
on her desk, as Ronald inspected her list.

“No-o,” slowly. ‘Mother is an old-fashioned body,
and she would feel out of her element among your
guests, lil speak to her about it before Thursday.

  
 

Julie had tact but no courage. Love and obstinacy | =

-

Wie ee
\\ “———S—— >
SS

“THE AFTERNOON AND EVENING OF EXISTENCE HAVE
THEIR JOYS AS WELL AS THE MORNING.”

I wish I could steal more time for visiting her. IT
haven't been near her for a fortnight.”

“She must understand how busy you are, my dear,”
the fair scribe made wifely response. ‘‘Nobody can
accuse you of a lack of attention to your mother. I
only hope our boy may be as exemplary a son.”

She believed that she fy honestly. Had not
Ronald sent a new bombazine to his mother, and a
sewing-machine to Rebecca at Christmas, and
wouldn’t he have dined with them in the holidays
had she been able to accompany him? Didn’t he go
to see her almost every Sunday, if he had only time
tor a five minutes’ call

So she finished directing her invitations, and the
next time Ronald visited his mother, which was not
until the Tuesday before the important Thursday, he
“spoke” of the fete after this wise:

“By the way, we are going to invest that wonderful
boy with his name in regular style day after to-
morrow. The grandparents meditate making a fine
affair of it, I believe. I suppose the business savors
too strongly of the pomps and vanities for us to hope
for your countenance, mother? Julie asked me to
mention the subject to you.”

“You have decided upon a name, then?” said Re-
becca, to give the widow time to reconsider the imn-

ulse that lighted her face into a smile at the
imagining of the christening—a feast made in
honor of Ronald’s child! ;

“Yes, Julie gives him her father’s name.”

 

 

 

There was no verbal comment, but Mrs. Hartley
sighed plaintively. She hada habit of sighing, and
dropping ill-timed tears, that irked her son, while he
strove to excuse these melancholy exhibitions by re-
minding himself that she was growing old and child-
ish. He wastretted now at what he construed into
an implied reproach of his wife.

“Asif a mother had not the right to call her child
by whatever name she pleased. Mother was un-
reasonable in her prejudices—fast verging upon
dotage.” :

Rebecca gave him aneat parcel when he was going
away.

‘Take our love to your wife, and kiss the baby. We
shall think of him on Thursday, although we shall
not be with you.”

Whereupon Mrs. Hartley added her gift—a box con-
taining the gold and coral necklace her rich brother
had given Ronald, his namesake, when an infant,

“T have keptit for your first-born, dear,” she said,
her eyes growing very wet.

Rebecea’s present was a nainsook slip, beautifully
made, and trimmed with the finest lace her purse
allowed her to purchase.

“You don’t suppose she meant it for a christening-
robe, do you?” said Julie, anxiously, when she had
shaken out and examined it.

“T have no doubt of it,* returned Ronald. “It is
very handsome—isn’t it? Rebecca is a remarkably
fine seamstress. It was kind in her to bestow so
much pains upon this.”

“Itis very neat,’ Julia assented, cheerfully gen-
erous. “Very suitable for a morning slip. But baby’s
robe came home from Madame Lingerie’s last week.
It is the most elegant ever sent out from her es-
tablishment. Mamma ordered it, and you know
what her taste is. She insisted, too, upon paying the
bill. I don’t see how I can let the darling wear this
one—pretty as it is for a home-made article—without
detracting from his good looks, and offending her.”
“Please yourself, my love,’ was Ronald’s con-
cession to this reasonable statement.

Then he produced the coral which Julie exclaimed
at as ‘tan interesting relic.”
; Stee queer to think that you ever really wore it,”
arling!” :
The “darling” laughed, and rightly surmising tha
she would think it ‘‘queerer” still were he to pro-
pose the display of the relic upon the person of his
son and her heir, he refrained from hinting what he
felt were his mother’s wishes with regard to it.
What did it matter, since she would not be at the
christening, how the child was dressed, so long as
Julie was satisfied? ,
By Rebecea’s management the cottagers did not
pay their first visit to Ronald’s house until the re-
moval and settlement were fairly accomplished.
They were so lucky as to find the mistress of the es-
tablishmentalone. Not sorry of an opportunity to
show off her new toy,she conducted them from base-
ment to attic, and put the finishing touch to her
affability by pressing them to stay to luncheon.

“She is quite another creature when removed from
her mother’s influence,” said Mrs. Hartley, in
triumph, and the less sanguine Rebecca did not dis-
sent from the favorable judgment.

Within the week the widow repeated the call with-
out her daughter. Julie was in the parlor surrounded
by a circle of morning visitors.

“She did not introduce me to one of them,” sighed
Mrs. Hartley, in relating her adventure to her only
confidante. ‘‘And after saying a careless ‘Ah! good
morning!’ to me, when I entered, and asking me to
sit down, she did not look at or speak to me for the
next hour atleast. I know everybody present mis-
took me for some seamstress or washerwoman who
had called upon business. I[ waited until the room
was clear of other company, then took my leave
very stiffly, forI meant herto see that I was offended.
‘I haven't had a chance to say a word to you,I de-
clare!’ she said, when I gotup. ‘But between rela-
tives there should be no ceremony.’ She offered no
other apology for her rudeness. Times have changed
woefully since I was young.”

“Times have changed,” said the sensible Rebecca;
“and we must accommodate ourselves to them.
Ronald’s way and ours parted long ago, mother. It
is only wise in us to acknowledge this fact, and keep
ourselves where he and popular opinion would place

hi SS

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eee. - rae BT =a
AAR eat re

‘“ THIS IS ALL THE REWARD I SHALL EVER RECEIVE
FOR MY YEARS OF DEVOTION!”

us—in the background. Not thatI find fault with
him or with Julie. If I were in their situation I
might actin the same way. Human nature is the
same everywhere, and poverty, if not a crime, is the
reverse of ornamental.”

After this candid expression of her views and
phieaeehy, the intercourse between the two house-

olds was confined almost entirely to Ronald’s fort-
nightly, sometimes monthly, visits. He was a man
of many engagements, professional and social. His
connection with the Mebanes had proved exceeding-
ly profitable. The retired merchant had maintained
a steady hold of his interests from the date of his
marriage, and was pleased to express in ari f ways
his approval of his conduct and _ abilities. In view
of his already heavy expenses and increasing family,
of Julie’s unfitness for any other sphere than that
which she now occupied, and the imperative neces-
sity that he should continue to hold in the eyes of
the world the ground he had gained, a disagreement
with his wife’s father was to be avoided by all justi-
fiable means, and his good will to be courted by the
same. If the happiness of the parent, whose love
was his beyond the chance of alienation, and whose
scanty means he no longer needed, seemed to his
ripened judgment a matter of secondary importance,
he was, as his sister aptly put the case, not to be
blamed for being human.

From their very different standpoints, Mrs. Me-
bane and the pale seamstress had arrived at one con-
clusion with respect to this matter, viz. : the extreme
undesirableness of cultivating relatives who are
many degrees poorer or less fashionable than one’s
self. If any sentimental philanthropist is disposed
to cavil at their conclusion, he is hereby invited to
investigate for himself the unprinted family history
of successful men, the architects of their own for-
tunes and fame, and of lucky women who have se-
eured prizes in the mart matrimonial.

Ronald may not have been better than his asso-
ciates. He was certainly no worse.

 

CHAPTER VIII.

“TF THEY CAN LIVE WITHOUT ME, I CAN
EXIST WITHOUT THEM.”

When the little Mebane Hartley was a year old, he
was left at his grandfather’s country-seat, in charge
of a French bonne, supervised by Mrs. Mebane, while
his parents took a six weeks’ vacation from the
wearing cares of business and society.

“We shall be on the wing constantly, and a letter
would hardly catch us at any point,” said Ronald to
his sister. at his brief farewell call. ‘‘Moreover, our
route is still uncertain. But, if you should need me
~+if anything should happen while I am gone—you
had better apply to Mr. Mebane for our probable ad-
dress. He will be tolerably well-advised as to our
mevements, since we shall want to hear frequently
from the boy.”

‘‘He does not care to hear from us at all!” thought
Rebecca to herself, that evening, dwelling longer
than was good for her peace of mind upon her
brother's careless adieus, and contrasting them with
the fond leave-takings of other days, when his in-

unctions that they should write often, and at
ength, were enforced’ ey the declaration that the
delay of a day in the receipt of his home letters made
him miserable and useless for work or enjoyment.
“Yet we have not altered. We would serve him
faithfully and zealously now as _ever, if he required
our help or affection, which he does not. I ought to
be thankful for his prosperity, but oh, dear! this is a
tiresome world we live in!”

She was sitting in the starlight upon the door-step,
too weary in body and sick at heart to take pleasure
in the perfumed air breathing over the lavender and
thyme beds, or to note who approached the gate,
when a tall figure with a perceptible stoop in the
shoulders, came up the walk and paused before her.

“This is Miss Hartley, I believe?” Q

She replied with a variation of the inquiry:

“Is this Mr. Catton ?” ‘

His wife had been dead a year. His business now
was the same he had broached in the letter she had
answered ten years before. He made this known in

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

a matter-of-fact way, that accorded well with his
years and the dignity of widowhood.

“Before [ answer, come in to the light, and see
how much older and plainer I have grown,” re-
sponded prudent Rebecca, leading the way to the
parlor. ‘‘When people reach our years, they ought
to look at things as they really are—be perfectly
truthful in their dealings with one another. Mine
has been a quiet, but a busy life, and every year has
left a mark upon me,”

When she had placed herself in the strong glare of
the unshaded gas-burner, he smiled and bent his un-
covered head that she might observe his partial
baldness and grizzled hair.

“T am still your senior by a half-score of years, dear
Rebecca. The afternoon and evening of existence
have their joys as well as the morning.”

* * * * * * * «

Ronald was at home a week before he could snatch
from business a moment which he felt he could con-
scientiously devote to the cultivation of filial and
fraternal graces. He did not write to his mother at
first, because he intended to call so soon, subse-
quently because he did not care thatshe should know
how long he had been near without visiting her. She
was inclined to be unreasonable in her old age, and
could not understand what a slave he was obliged to
be to his business.

He drove out to Lavender Lodge after sunset on
the eighth day, which was Sunday. Could this be
the right street? for he failed at one glance to recog-
nize the house. The front palings were gone; the
roof that used to slope above his chamber was half-
demolished; the windows yawned shutterless and
sashless; and the once neat garden was choked up
breast-high with rubbish and lumber. Not a living
creature was upon the premises; and having assure
himself of this, he rang an agitated peal upon the
door-bell of the house opposite, wherein dwel’ a
friend of his mother.

Moved to unusual explicitness by his ashy com-
plexion and faltering tongue, the neighbor told her
story in a few sentences. Rebecca had been married
two weeks before.

“Mr. Catton would not hear of an engagement
longer than a month,” said the narrator. “It seemed
providential that while they were debating the ques-
tion, Mrs. Hartley had an excellent offer for her
house, and the purchaser wanted to take possession
atonce. They wrote to you twice, Mr. Hartley, but
I suppose the letters miscarried. The wedding was
strictly private, but I have seldom seen a happier
eouple. From what your mother told me, I gathered
that it was an old attachment. Mr. Catton offered
himself to Rebecca ten or eleven years ago, but she
did not consider herself justified by the circumstances
of the family in accepting him, although she was
partial to him even then. She looked really young
and pretty in her handsome traveling-dress. She
would not be married in white. She will make him
an excellent wife, and Mrs. Hartley seemed delighted
at the thought of returning to her old home. Mr.
Calton is your father’s successor, you know.”

Thanking her for the information she had supplied,
Ronald said ““Good-evening,” got into his buggy, and
drove back to his own house, with a heart pained and
burning beyond any anguish he had known since Mr.
Mebane refused to ide him his daughter.

Julie sympathized warmly in his resentnient, if she
did not in his wounded affection.

“After all you have done for them, too!” she ex-
elaimed, in a burst of indignation. ‘‘One would sup-
pose that common gratitude. if not a sense of pro
priety, would have induced them to delay this
Pee movement until you could be consulted.

erhaps Rebecca feared lest you might oppose her
marriage. It was a ridiculous step in a woman of her
age. And what did she mean by saying that circum-
stances prevented her acceptance of her reverend
wooer ten years ago ?”

“T do not pretend to account for her eccentric say-
ings and doings,” replied Ronald, curtly. “I, for one,
never interfered with her love projects, nor with any
others, for that matter. But I am grieved at my
mother’s conduct. It was settled, long since, that if
she ever sought another home, it should be in my
house. As you say, this is all the reward I shall ever
receive for my years of devotion to her comfort and
happiness. Ah, well! if they can live without me, [
am certain I can exist without them.”

“Entre nous,” said Julie, next day, to her mother,
“T regard the Reverend Luke as a benignant fairy.
Ronald will feel relieved by their absence from the
city, when he has thought the matter over coolly.
He could never have shaken them entirely off had
they continued to live here.”

She was a feminine Solomon, this small woman;
for what are stepping-stones but eye-sores and stum:
bling-blocks when the need of them has passed ?

(THE END.]
——__——_ > © + _____—__-

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

EDDED POR PIQUE

By MRS. MA¥ AGNES FLEMING,

Author of ** Guy Earlscourt’s Wife,” ‘‘A Wonderful
Woman,” “A Mad Marriage,” ‘‘ One Night’s
Mystery,” *‘ Lost for a Woman,” etc.

 

(‘WEDDED FOR PIQUE” was commenced in No, 34.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.j

 

CHAPTER XXII.—(CONTINUED.)

It was a weird wedding: party, without bride-maids
or blessings, or flowers or frippery ; andonthe way not
one word was spoken by any of the party. Barbara —
sat like a cold, white statue, her hands lying list-
lessly in her lap, her eyes fixed on the floor, her
thoughts—where? Mr. Sweet's heart was beating in
feverish and impatient throbs, and his breath came
quick, and on his sallow cheeks were two burning
spots; in his serene eyes shone a strange fire, and
his yellow-gloved hands trembled so that he had to
grasp the window to keep them from seeing it. The
little housekeeper looked frightened and awe-struck ;
and Mr. Black, with his hands stuck very deep in his
coat-pockets, was scowling desperately on them all
by turns.

Fifteen minutes’ fast driving brought the grim
bridal party to the cathedral, where a curious crowd
was collected; some came to attend morning service,
which was then going on, and others were attracted
there by the rumors of the marriage.

The lawyer drew his bride’s arm firmly within his
own, and led her in, while the two others followed,
while more than one audible comment on the strange
looks of Barbara reached his ears as he passed.

The cathedral was half filled, and the organ poured
forth grand swelling notes as they walked up the
aisle. Behind the rails, in stole and surplice, and
book in hand, stood one of the curates; bride and
bridegroom placed themselves before him, and the
bridegroom could hear nothing, not even the music,
for the loud beating of his heart. All the spectators
held their breath, and leaned forward to look,

“Who gives this woman to be married to this
man ?”’ demanded the curate, looking curiously at the
pepe bride. And Mr. Black stepped forward and
gave her.

“Wilt thou take this woman to be thy wedded
wife?’ demanded the curate again.

Mr. Sweet said, ‘‘I will,” in a voice that was husky
and shook; and the bride, in her turn, said, ‘I will,’’
too, clearly, distinctly, unfalteringly. And then the
ring was on her finger, and they joined hands, and
the curate pronounced them man and wife.

The organ that had been silent for a moment, as if
it, too, had stopped to listen, now broke out into an
exultant strain, and the voices of the choristers made
the domed roof ring. The names of the married pair
were inserted in the register, and Mr. Sweet took his
wife’s arm—his wife’s this time—to lead her down the
aisle. The dark eyes were looking straight before
her, with a fixed, fierce, yet calm intensity,and as
they neared the door the bride’s gaze fell on some-
thing she had hardly bargained for.

Leaning against a pillar, pale and haughty, stood
Leicester Cliffe, who had arrived just in time to wit-
ness the charming sight, and whose blue eyes met
those of the bride with a powerful look.

The happy bridegroom saw him atthe same in-
stant, and the two burning spots deepened on his
cheek bones, and the fire in his eyes took a detiant
and triumphant sparkle. There had been a galvanic
start onthe part of the bride; but he held her arm
tightly, and Mr. Sweet, with a smile on his lip, bowed
low to him as he passed, and Barbara’s sweeping
skirts brushed him, and then they were gone, shut u
in the carriage, and driving away rapidly to cate
the next London train, the bridegroom happy in the
possession of the bride who had WEDDED FOR PIQUE.

* * * * * * ” *

Leicester Cliffe turned slowly from the cathedral,
mounted his horse, and rode to Cliffewood. There he
had his dusty traveling-dress to change, his breakfast
to take, and a great deal to hear from Sir Roeland,
who was full of news, and whose first question was,
if he knew that his old flame, pretty little Barbara,
had married that oily fellow, Sweet. Then, as in
duty bound, he had to ride to his lady-love, and re-
port the successful accomplishment of all his trusts
and charges, and spend with a gay party there the
remainder of the day.

It was on that eventful day the engagement was
publicly and formally announced, and all the kissing
and congratulating Vivia had dreadeiso much was
gone through with, to her great discomposure; and
she was glad when evening came to leave the talking
crowd, and wander under the trees alone with her

 

thoughts. It was a lovely night, moonlit and starlit,
and she was leaning against a tree, looking wistfully

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

e<oiy THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

VOL, 48—No, 46,

 

up at the far-off sky, thinking of the wedding that

had taken place that day, and the other so soon to
follow, when the sound of a horse galloping furi-
ously up the avenue made her look around and be-
hold Tom Shirley dashing along like a madman. He
had been spending the day at Lisleham with Lord
Henry; and Vivia, as she watched him flying along
so fiercely, began to think the wine at dinner had
been a little too strong.

“Why, Tom!’ was her cry; “have you gone
crazy ?”

Tom had not seen her, but at the sound of her
voice checked his horse so sharply and suddenly,
that the steed reared, and pawed the air animatedly
with his'two fore legs.

The next moment his rider had jumped recklessly
to the ground, leaving him to find his way to the
stables himself, and was standing beside Vivia, very
red in the face, and very excited in the eyes, holding
both her hands in a fierce clasp.

“Vie! Vic! it’snot true!—it can’t be true! IT don’t
helicve a word of it!” began the young man, with
the utmost incoherence. “‘Tell me, for Heaven’s
sake, that it’s all.a lie.”

“The wine was certainly dreadfully strong,”
thought Vie, looking at himin terror,and trying to
free her hands. But Tom only held them the tighter,
and broke out again, more hotly, and wildly, and
vehemently than before:

‘You shall not go, Vic! you shall not leave me
again until you have heard all. Tell me, I say, that
it is not true.”

“What is not true? Oh, I don’t know what you're
talking about, Cousin Tom,” said Vivia, looking round
her in distress.

Tn spite of his momentary craziness, Tom saw her
pale face and terrified eyes, and became aware that
he was crushing the little hands as if they were in
thumb-screws, and relaxed his bear-like grip con-
tritely.

“T am a brute,” said Tom, in a burst of penitence
hardly less vehement than his former tone. ‘Poor
little hands. I didn’t mean to hurt them; but you
know, Vic, what a fellow IT am, and that infernal
story they told me has nearly driven me.erazy. Iam
RAAT A: I know, and what must you think of me,

ic?”

Vic laughed, but yet with a rather pale cheek.

“T think that Lord Lisle’s port is rather strong, and
you have been imbibing more than is good for yeu,
Cousin Tom.”

“Oh, she thinks lam drunk!’’ said Tom, with an-
other burst, this time with indignation; ‘‘but allow
me to tell you, Miss Shirley, I haven’t dined at all.
Port, indeed! Faith, it was more than wine that has
got into my head to-night.”

There was a cadence so bitter in his:tone that Vie
opened her pretty blue eyes very wide, and looked at
him in astonishment. Cousin Vic was very fond of
Cousin Tom, and she never felt inclined to run away
from him, as she invariably did from Cousin Leices-
ter.

“Something has gone wrong, Cousin Tom, and you
are excited. Come, sit down here, and tell.-me what
it is.”’

There was arustic bench under the waving chest-
nuts. Vic sat down, spread out her ample skirts, and
made room for him beside her; but Tom would not
be tempted to sit down at any price, and burst out
again: ;

‘“Itis just this, Vic. They toldme you were going
to be married.”

The bright eyes dropped, and the pale cheeks took
the tint of the reddest rose ever seen.

“T know itis not true. It can't be true.”

She did not answer.

“Speak!” exclaimed Tom, almost fiercely; “speak
and tell me it is not true.”

“T cannot!” very faintly.

“Heavens!” he said, “‘you can never mean to say it
a trge |.

She arose suddenly, and looked at him, a cold ter-
ror chilling her heart.

“What do you mean ?” she asked.

“Vic, is it true?”

SAL i8,7°

aeee are going to be married to Leicester Cliffe ?”

“Tam!”

The rosy light had left her cheeks, for there was
something in his face that no one had ever seen in
Tom Shirley’s face before.

“Do you love him ?’

; TOM, what are you thinkingof, to.ask such a ques-
tion ?”’

‘‘Answer it,” he said, savagely.

“T will love him!” said Vivia, firmly.

And Tom broke out into a bitter, jeering laugh.

“Which means that you. will marry him now be-
cause he is an excellent parli, and papa, and grand-
mamma, and Uncle Roland wish it, and trust to the
love to come afterward. Vic Shirley, you are a mis-
erable, heartless coquette, and I despise you.”

She was leaning against a tree, clinging to it for
support, her whole face perfectly colorless, but the
blue eyes quailed not beneath his own.

“You!” he went on, in passionate scorn, and with
flaming eyes, ‘‘you, the spotless, inmaculate Victoria
Shirley! You who set up for an angel, and made
common mortals feel unworthy to touch the hem of
your garment. You, the angel on earth! a wretched,
cold-blooded, perjured girl! Oh, Lucifer! star of the
morning, how thou art fallen!’ ‘

“Tom, what have Lever done to you to make you
talk like this ?”

“Oh, nothing! only sold yourself, body and soul!
A mere trifle, not worth speaking of.”

She gave ‘him a look full of sorrow and reproach,
and turned with quiet dignity to go away.

“Stay!” he half shouted, and tell me for what end
you have been fooling me all these months.”

‘IT do not understand.”

“Poor child! Its little head never was made to un-
tangle such knotted problems. Will you understand
if I ask you why you have led me on, like a blind
fool, to love you?”

“Tom !”

“You never thought of it before, of course; but
you have done it, and I love you. And now, before
you stir a step, you shall tell me whether or not it is
returned.” ;
_“I dolove you, Tom—I always have—as dearly as
if you were my brother.”

“I’m exceedingly obliged to you; but,as it hap-
pens, I don’t want your sisterly love, and I shall take
the first opportunity of sending a bullet through Mr.
Leicester Cliffe’s head. I have the honor, Miss Shir-
ley, to bid you good-night.”

“Tom, stay! -Tom, for Heaven’s sake Pe

And here the voice broke down; and covering her
face with both hands, she burst into a hysterical pas-
sion of weeping.

Tom turned, and the great grieved giant heart, so
fiery in its wrath, melted like a boy’s at sight of her
tears.. He could have cried himself, but tor shame,
as he flung himself down on the bench with a sobbing
groan.

“Oh, Vic! how could you do it? How could you
treat me so?’

She came over, and kneeling beside him, put one
arm round his neck, as if, indeed, he had been the
dear brother she thought him.

“Oh, Tom, I never meant it—I never meant it!”

“And you will marry Leicester?”

“You know I must, Tom; but you will be my dear
brother always.”

He turned away and dropped ‘his head on his arm.

“You know it is my duty, Tom, And, oh, you must
not think such dreadful things of me any more. If
you do, I shall die.”

“Go!” he said, lifting his head a moment, and then
dropping itagain. Go and leave me! I know, Vic,
you are au angel, aud I—I am nothing but a misera-
ble fool.”

And with these words the boy’s heart went out from
Tom Shirley, and never came back any more.

CHAPTER XXIII.
VICTORIA’S BRIDAL EVE.

In the bluest of summer skies, heralded by the
rosiest banners of cloud, rose up the sun on Victoria
Shirley’s wedding-day.

The rose gardens around Castle Cliffe were in full
bloom, the bees and butterflies held grand carnivals
there all the long sultry days, and the air was heavy
with their burden of perfume. The chestnuts, the
oaks, the poplars, the beeches were out in their
greenest garments; the swans floated about serenely
in their lakes; the Swiss farm-house was radiant in
the glory of new paint; and the Italian cottage was
lost in a wilderness of scented creepers. ‘The pea-
cocks and gazelles, the deer and the dogs, had tine
times in the June sunshine; and, over all, the banner
floated out from the flag-tower, aud everybody knew
rte it was the bridal-day of the heiress of Castle

sliffe.

And within the mansion wonderful were the pre-
parations. At nine in the evening the ceremony was
to take place, and Lady Agnes had resolved and an-
nounced that a grand ball should'follow; and at
twelve the next day they were to step into the cars
and bid good-by to Cliftonlea for twe lone years.

A whole regiment of Gunter’s men had come down
from London to attend to the supper, which was to
be the greatest miracle of cookery of modern times;
and another regiment of young persons in the dress-
making department filled the dressing-rooms up
stairs. Invitations had been sent to half the county,
besides to ever so many in London—so many, in fact,
that the railway trains had their first-class coupes
crowded all day, and their proprietors realized a
small fortune. The grounds were all to be illumi-
nated with colored lamps, bung in all sorts of fanci-
ful devices. And there was to be such a feast there
for the tenantry, with music and dancing afterward,
and such a display of fireworks, and such a lot of

bonfires, and such ringing of bells aud beating of |

drums, and shouting and cheering, and general joy,
as had never been seen Or heard of before. Lady
Agnes declared herself distracted and nearly at
death’s door, although Mr. Sweet, who had come
back from his short wedding-tour, helped her as
much as he could,and proved himself perfectly in-
valuable. And in the midst of it all, the bridegroom
spent his timein riding over the sunny Sussex downs,
lounging lazily through the rooms of Cliftonlea, and
smoking unheard-of quantities of cigars. And the
bride, shut up withjLady Agnes and the dressmakers,
in the room of the former, was hardly ever seen by
anybody—least of all by the intended husbaud.

 

The wedding-day came, and all:the snowy gear in
which she was to be tricked out lay on the bed in the
Rose Room—gloves, and slippers, and vail, and
wreath, and dress; and the inlaid tables were strewn
with magnificent presents, every one of them a small
fortune in itself, to be publicly displayed that even-
ing. And Vivia, who had been shut BP all day with
the seamstresses, a good. two hours before it was
time to dress. she had broken from her captors and
turned to leave the room.

“Where are you going, child, asked Lady Agnes.
“There is the dressing-bell ringing.” ;

“T don’t care for the dressing-bell. I’m not going
down to dinner.”

“Where are you going, then?’

“Through the house—the dear old house—to say
good-by to it before I go. There will be no time to-
morrow, I suppose.’

“T should think not, indeed, since we start at noon.
Tsuppose you expect the house will say goed-by to
you in return ?” ie

“{ shall think it does, at all events. I wish we
were not going away, at all.” agi, ;

“Of course youdo. I neverknew you wishing for
anything but what was absurd! You must have din-
ner in your own room,and remember you are not:to
be too late to dress for your wedding. It would be
justlike you to keep the bridal party waiting!”

Lady Agnes sailed past majestically to make her
own toilet, and Vivia, with a fluttering little heart,
yet happy while she trembled, went from room to
room to take a last leok. She had nearly finished
the ¢cireuit, even to the dreadful Queen’s Room, and
was standing in the picture-gallery, looking wistfully
at the haunted faces of all her dead ancestors, when
some one came wearily up the stairs, and, turning,
she saw Margaret Shirley.

ff others had been changing within the last few
weeks, so had Margaret; always pale and thin, she
moved about like a colorless ghost now; her black
eyes, the only beauty she had ever possessed, sunken
and hollow; and the deep lines about the mouth and
forehead toldtheir own story of silent suffering. She
shunned everybody, and most of all, her bright and
beautiful Consin Victoria, and seeing her now, stand-
ing radiant in the amber haze of the sunset, she
stopped, and made a motion as if to retreat. But the
clear, sweet voice called her back:

“Don’t go, Margaret; I want you. Come here.”

Margaret came to the head of the stairs, and there
stopped.

“T have been wanting to see you all the week, but
T couid not get near you. Why do you keep away
from me?”

“T.do not keep away.”

“You know youdo! Why are you not cordial as
you used to be?”

“Tam cordial] :” still hovering aloof.

“Come nearer, then.”

Again Margaret moved a step or two, and again
stopped.

“We ought to be friends, Margaret, since we are
cousins! But we have not been friends this long
time.’

No answer. Margaret’s eyes were on the floor,
and her face looked petrified.”

“You are to be one of my bride-maids, and my
traveling companion for the next two years; and all
that proves that we ought to be friends.

“You mistake, Cousin Victoria; Lam not going to
be your traveling companion.” ;

“No? Grandmamina said so.”

“Probably she thinks so.”’

Be are jesting, Margaret!”

oe ou?

p {Where are you going? What do you intend to
Oo 3?

: “Excuse me; you will learn that at the proper
time.’

Vivia looked at her earnestly. An intelligent light
was in her eye, and a scarlet effusion rose hot. to her
face, and rapidly faded.

“You are unhappy ?”’

Am IT?”

“Yes; and I know the reason.”

The black eyes were raised from the floor and fixed
quietly on her face.

“Shall I tell you what it is?”

**As you like.” ft

Vivia leaned forward, and would have laid her
hand on the other’s shoulder, but Margaret recoiled,
with a look on her face that reminded her cousin of
Barbara. She drew back proudly and a little coldly.

“You have no right to be angry with me, Cousin
Margaret! Whatever I have done has been in
obedience to grandmamima’s commands. If byit you
are unhappy, if is no fault of mine!”

The black eyes were stilllooking at her quietly, and
over the dark, grave face there dawned a smile sad
and scornful, that said as plainly as words, “She
talks, and knows not what she is talking about!” but
before she could speak, Mademoiselle Jeannette came
tripping up stairs.

“Mademoiselle Genevieve. I have been searching
for you all over. My lady says you are to go directly
and take your dinner.” .

Margaret had vanished like a spirit at the appear-
ance of the maid; so Mademoiselle Genevieve, with
a little sigh, followed her cousin to her boudoir,
where the slender meal was placed. There was a
little Sevres cup of coffee ; a petite glass of sparkling
champagne, vale ala creme, and an omelette; and
Vivia ate the pate, and tasted theomelette, and drauk
the coffee and wine witha very good appetite; and
had only just tinished when Lady Agnes came in, and
announced that it was time to dress. After her,
came half a dozen _bride-maids, Cousin Margaret
among the rest, und they were all marshaled into
Lady Agnes’ dressing-room and handed over to a
certain French artist. who’ had come all the way
from London to dress their hair.

Vivia’s beautiful tresses required least time of all,
for they were to be simply worn in flowing curls, ac-
cording to her jaunty custom; but mostof the other
damsels had to be braided, and banded, and scented,
and “done up” in the latest style. This important
piece of business took a long time, and when it was
over, monsieur withdrew. The femmes de chambre
flocked in; and Vivia, under the hands of Jeannette
and Hortense, went to her own room to be dressed.
Lady Agnes followed, looking as if she had some-
thing on her mind.

“There is no time to lose!” she said to the maids.
“You will have to make your young lady’s toilet as
fast as youcan; and Victoria, child, don’t look so
pale. A little paleness is eminently proper in a
aie ;, but I want you to look ever so pretty to-
night!

“T shall try to, grandmamma! What are all the
people about down stairs ?”’

“They are all dressiug, of course! and it is time I
was following their example,’ glancing at her
watch.

“Grandmamma,” said Vivia, struck with a little
cloud on that lady’s serene brow, ‘“‘you have been an-
noyed. Whatis it?”

“It is nothing—that is, nothing but a trifle; and
all about that absurd boy, Tom.”

Vivia started suddeuly, and caught her breath.
Since the night under the chestnuts she had not seen
Tom—no one had; and it was a daily subject of won-
der and inquiry.

“Grandmamma, has anything happened to him ?”

“Nothing that [am aware of—certainly nothing to
make you wear such a frightened face. But what
will you think when I tell you he is in Cliftonlea, and
never comes here? Itisthe most annoying and ab-
surd thing Lever heard of, and everybody talks about
it.”

“How do you know heisin Cliftonlea?”’

“Your papa saw him last night. He, and Captain
Douglas, aud some more of the gentlemen had been
out at the meet of the Duke of Bedford’s hounds;
and riding home about dark, they saw him down
there near the beech woods. ‘They called to him, but
he disappeared among the trees, and the people here
have done nothing but talk of it ail day long, Rogers,
the gamekeeper, says he has seen him haunting the
place in the eee manner for the last few days,
as if he was afraid to be seen.”

Her paleness deepened as Vivia listened, and her
heart seemed to stand still.

“Itis the most unaccountable thing I ever heard
ot; and I never saw your papa sovexed aboutatritle
as he is about this.. I cannot understand it all.”

But her granddaughter:could ; and she averted her
face, that grandmamma’s sharp eyes might not read
the tale it told. The eagle eyes saw, however, and
her arm was suddenly grasped.

“Victoria, you can read the riddle. I see itin your
eyes. When did you meet Tom last?”

“No answer. ;

“Speak!” said the lady, low, but imperiously.
‘When was it?”

“Last Monday night.”

“Where ?”’

‘Out under the chestnuts.”

“What did he say to you?”

“Grandmamma, don’t ask me!”

And the pale cheek turned scarlet.

Lady Agnes looked at her a moment with her cold
and piercing eyes, and then dropped her arm.

“T see it all,” she said, a haughty flush dyeing her
own delicate cheek. ‘‘He has been making a fool of
himself, and has got what he deserved. He is wise
to stay away; if he comes within reach of me, he
will probably hear something more to the point than
he heard under the chestnuts. WhenI am dressed,
I will come back,”

The thin lips were compressed. The proud eyes
flashing blue flame as Lady Agnesswept out of the

Rose Room. If looks were lightning, and Tom. Shir- |

ley near enough, he would certainly never make love
to any one else on earth.

But Vivia’s face had changed sadly, and she stood
under the hands of the two maids all unconscious of
their doings and their presence, and thinking only of
him. She thought of a thousand other things, too—
things almost forgotten Her whole life seemed to
pass like a panorama before her. She thought dimly
as we think of a confused dream, of apoor home, and
a little playmate that had been hers long, long ago;
then of the quiet content in her dear France, where
year after year passed so serenely; of the pleasant
chateau, where her holidays were spent; of Claude
who had been almost as dear to her as Tom, and
whose life she had embittered like his; of her first
visit to England and to this beloved home, where she
had met this stately grandmamma and idolized
father; and then, more vividly than all the rest,

 

 

 

eame hack the first meeting with Barbara. Black.

Again she was kneeling in the Demon's Tower, with
Margaret crouching in a corner, her black eyes shin-
ing like stars in its gloom—Tom at her feet, bleeding
and helpless ; the raging sea upon them in its might;
the black night sky; the wailing wind and lashing
rain, and a little tigure in a frail skiff flying over the
billows to save them.

They had been so good to her, and had loved her
so well—Barbara and Margaret; but, somehow, she
had alienated them all, and they loved her no longer.
What was it that was wanting in her? what was this
string out of tune thathad made the discord? Was
she only a sounding brass and tinkling cymbal, and
was the real germ of good wantingin her after all?
Vivia’s blue eyes were full of tears, but she could
not find the jarring chords; and now all that was
past, and a new day was dawning forher. Her whole
life was changed; but the dark vailot Futurity was
down, and it was well for her she could not see what
was beyond it.

And while Vivia sighed and mused, the hand-
maidens were going on with their werk, and the
moments were flying fast. The wreath and vail were
on; the diamond necklace and bracelets clasped;
the last ribbon and fold of lace arranged, and the
dvor was opened, and eee Agnes, in velvet and
jewels, looking still youthful and unmistakably fair
re-appeared. At her coming, Vivia awoke from her
dream. She had something to do besides dream,
now.

“Ah! you have finished!’ was my lady’s cry.
“Turn round, Victoria, and let me see you.”

Victoria, who had not once seen herself, turned
round with a bright face.

“Will I do, grandmamma?” :

“You look charming, superb, lovely!” said Lady
Agnes, in a sort of rapture. ‘‘My child, you never
looked so beautiful before in your life.”

Hearing this, Vivia turned to look for herself, and
a radiant glow came to her face at the sight. Lovely
she must have looked in anything. Dazzling she ap-
pearedin her bridaldress. The dress itself was superb.
It had been imported from Paris, and had cost a for-
tune. It was of rich white velvet, the heavy skirts
looped with clusters of creamy white roses, the cor-
sage and sleeves embroidered with seed-pearls, and
a bouquet of jessamine flowers on the breast. The
arching throat, the large and exquisitely molded
arms were clasped with diamonds that streamed like
rivers of light; the sunny curls showered to the
small waist crowned with a wreath of jeweled
orange-blossoms sparkling with diamond dew-drops;
and over all, and sweeping the carpet, a bridal vail,
encircling the shining figure like acloud of mist.
But the lovely head, the perfect face drooping in its
exquisite modesty, and blushing and smiling at its
own beauty, neither Jace, nor velvets, nor jewels
were aught compared to that.

My darling!” cried Lady Agnes, in an ecstasy very,
very uncommon with her, ‘“‘you look like an angel to-
night!”

“Dear, dear grandmamma, I care for nothing if I
only please you. Are the rest all ready ?”

“Thave not been to see, but Iam going. Do you
know,” lowering her voice, ‘‘a most singular thing
has oecurred.”

“What?”

“T¢ is only half an hour to the time appointed for
the ceremony, the drawing-room is filled, everybody
is there but,the one that should be there most of all.”

“Who's that?” ‘

“There’s a question! Leicester Cliffe, of course.”

“Has he not come, then ?”

“No, indeed; and when he does come, he shall be
taken most severely to task for this delay. The man
who would keep such a bride waiting, deserves, de-
serves—the bastinado! No, that would be too good
for him; deserves to lose her.”

Vivia laughed.

“Oh, grandmamma, that would be too bad. Has
Uncle Roland come ?”’

“Uncle Roland has been here fully an hour, and
knows nothing about the matter. It Spee the
young gentleman has been out riding all day, and
never made his appearance until dinner, when he
drank more wine than is usual or prudent with
bridegrooms, and behaved himself in a manner that
Was very strange altogether.”

“What did he do?”

“Oh, I don't know; he was queer and excited, Sir
Roland says; but he thought little of that, consider-
ing the circumstances. He has seen nothing of him
since, and came here in the full expectation of see-
ing him here before him.”

‘Well, grandmaimma, he will be here before the end
of the half-hour, I suppose, and that will do, won’t
it?’

“It will do for the wedding, but it won’t save him
from a severe lecture from me—a sort of foretaste of
what he may expect of you in the future. Every-
thing seems to be going wrong, and I feel as if it
would be the greatest relief to box somebody’s ears.”

Lady Agnes looked it, and Vivia laughed again.

“You might box mine, grandmamma, and relieve
your feelings, only it would spoil my vail, and Jean-
nette would never forgive you for that.’

But Lady Agnes was knitting her brows, and not
paying the least attention to her. :

“To think he should be late on such an oceasion!
it is unheard of—it is outrageous !”’

“Oh, grandmamina, don’t worry. I am sure he can-
not help it; perhaps he is come now.”

‘“‘Here come your bride-maids, at all events,” said
Lady Agnes, as the communicating door opened, and
the bevy of gay girls floated in, robed in white, and
crowned with flowers, and gathered round the bride
like butterflies round a rose, and—

“Oh, how charming! Oh, how lovely! Oh, how
beautiful!’ was the universal cry. “You are looking
your very best to-night, Victoria.”

“So she ought, and so will you all, young ladies, on
your wedding-night,” said Lady Agnes. :

“Ts it time to go down? Has everybody come?” in-
quired one.

“Tt is certainly time to go down, butI do not know
whether everybody has come. Hark! is not that
your papa’s voice in the hall, Victoria?”

“Yes. Do let him come in, grandmamma. I know
he would like to see me before going down stairs.’’.

Lady Agnes opened the door, and saw her son comw-
ing rapidly through the hall, looking very pale and
stern. ,

“Has Leicester come yet?”

“No.”

“Good heavens! And it is nine o’clock !”

“Exactly. And all those people below are gathered
in groups, and whispering mysteriously. By hea-
vens ‘ I feel tempted to kick him when he does
come.”

“Oh, Cliffe, something has happened !”

“Perhaps. Is the bride ready?” 8

“Yes; come in; she wishes to see you—the bride is
ready ; but where is the bridegroom ?”’

“Where, indeed? But don’t alarm yourself yet; he
may come after all.”

He followed his mother into the bride’s maiden
bower, and that dazzling young lady came forward
with a radiant face. :

‘Papa, how do I look ?”*

“Don’t ask me; look in the glass.

You are all

| angels, every one of you.”

He touched his lips to the pretty brow, and tried to
laugh, but it was a failure; and then, nervous as a
girl, for the first time in his life, with anxiety, he hur-
ried out and down stairs, to seeif the truant had
come. ;

No, he had not come. The.bonfires were blazing,
the joy-bells were ringing, the park was one blaze of
rainbow light, all the clocks in the town were strik-
ing nine, and Leicester Cliffe had not come.

Sir Roland, nearly beside’ himself with mortitica-
tion and rage, was striding up and down the hall.

“Ts she ready?’ he asked.

“Yes,” said the colonel, using the words of his
mother, ‘‘the bride is ready and waiting, but where
is the bridegroom?”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
2
USEFUL HINTS.

Marble should be washed with ammonia and
water, never with soap-suds, as the latter discolors
the stone.

A wineglass ef strong borax water inu pint of raw
starch will make collars and cuffs stiff and glossy.

Wash mirrors in warm suds, then dust with whit-
ing from a muslin bag and polish with chamois-skin.

After washing rub your lamp chimneys with dry
salt, and you will be surprised at the new brilliance
of your lights.

To clean ornaments of alabaster dissolve borax in
boiling water and apply with a cloth or soft brush,
rinse carefully, and dry in the sun.

To raise the pile of plush or velvet, dampen on the
wrong side with clean cold water, then hold tight
across the face of a hot iron, and rub up the crushed
spot with a clean stiff brush.

Pongee silk must be washed in tepid lather; soap
must never touch it, as it makes it harsh; hang to
drain without wringing after being well rinsed;
then fold while very damp, roll in a cloth, and iron
after twelve hours. ;

Clean oil-cloth with a wet towel pinned over a stiff
broom, and rub with long, sweeping strokes.

Matting should tb6 washed with strong salt water
and a clean cloth, and do it, if possible, at midday,
to insure quick drying, which prevents discoloration.

Twenty drops of carbolic acid evaporated from a
Lot shovel will gofar to banish flies from a room;
while a bit of camphor gum, the size of a walnut,
held over a lamp till it is consumed, is the best thing
to banish the festive musquito.

To renovate velvet, free from dust by laying face
down upon paper and whipping smartly; then
brush with a camel's hair brush, damp on the wrong
side with borax water, and hang pile inward in the
sunshine to dry, taking care that there is no fold or
wiinkle on the line.

 

 

A POET’S DREAM.
BY SUSANNA JARDINE.

My days are all such busy days,
I have no time for singing

Half of the chimes and grateful lays
Which in my soul are ringing.

The same old round of work and cares
Awaits each morning’s waking ;

Each night the same, a wearied frame,
And sometimes sad heart-aching.

But yet thank God that on my path
Of quiet household duty

Has fallen a dower of magic power—
The poet’s sense of beauty ;

And things the world calls common things
To me have deep revealing,

Oft touching springs with their light wings
Of highest, holiest feeling.

A nest of dewy primroses,
In their thick leaves reposing—

A white cloud sailing through the sky—
A daisy’s petals closing ;

The laughter of a happy child,

A greeting from a neighbor—

All these have brought me stores of thought
Through many an hour of labor.

Sometimes I dream a pleasant dream—
’T will scarcely bear the telling—

A mighty wood’s deep solitude,
A lonely rustic dwelling; »

Shut out from all the great world's strife,
Cut off from all things human—

A mind serene, a holy life,
A quiet, thoughtful woman.

A dream—I know ’tis but a dream—
But yet as such I prize it:
In troubled days my spirit strays
Years hence to realize it.
Oh, seltish prayer !—these clouds of care
But make the goal the brighter;
When God sees fit to order it,
My load will be made lighter.

—_>-o-

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

A WOMAN IN THE CASE

By MRS. E. BURKE COLLINS,

Author of ‘Married for Gold,” ‘Bonny Jean,”
‘““A Terrible Penalty,” etc. —
ge .
'*& WOMAN IN THE CASE” was commenced in No. 41.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]}

CHAPTER XVI.
REUNITED,

NDER the dull flare of the

street lamp, Morris Dudley

gazed down upon the face of

the woman at his feet. Her

features were pallid, pinched,

and wan; a wealth of golden

hair was drawn away from the

small, childish face, and fas-

tened in a careless knot at the

back of her head, from which

the faded hood had fallen. Her

dress was thin, old, and patched; and the little foot
peeping forth was poorly shod.

Fora moment he paused there, astonished, bewil-

dered, strange fancies surging through his brain and

taking possession of his heart; then he stooped and

| lifted the woman’s head, and laid his hand upon her

pulse.

Suddenly her eyes flashed open—deep blue, inno-
cent eyes, which met his gaze with a long, steady
glance; then she tottered to her feet.

“Morris Dudley,” she said, in a low, scornful tone,
“stand out of my way! Where is my bundle? Thank
you. Good-night!”’

And she turned with feeble steps to pass on. With
a bound he was at her side, and caught her hand.

“Viva!” he panted, ‘there is something to be ex-
plained.”

She turned and faced him calmly. F

“Ay, there is something to be explained,” she re-
peated quietly. ‘‘Wait! my home is near, if you
choose to come. The street is searcely the place for
you and me to come to an understanding.”

She turned with swift, flying steps, excitement
lending wings to her tired feet, and led him into a
gloomy looking building not far distant, up a flight
of erazy stairs, iuto a shabby, half furnished apart-

ment.

Viva laid her bundle upon the pine table, and pro-
ceeded to light a candle which stood in a brass
candlestick upon a shelf; then she faced her hus-
band, her eyes flashing, her superb form drawn up
to its full height. :

You come to arraign me, Morris Dudley !” she said,
in a low, fierce tone, ‘‘and J demand a hearing; it is
time.” r

“Viva,” he said, bewildered beyond expression, for
the case was reversed—she was the accuser, he the
defendant, “sit down here,’ and he drew a chair for-
ward. ‘Now go on and tell me all, for I begin to see
that I have been a miserable dupe, or frightfully
inistaken.” ‘

She tossed her faded hood aside, and faced him,
with deep scorn in her beautiful eyes.

“You believed an appearance of wrong,” she said;
“now listen to the truth—the whole truth—so help
me, Heaven! I left your home, it is true, but not for
a life of dishonor—oh! how could you live and be-
lieve that ?—but because she, Lurline St. Cyr, made
me believe—for I wasa giddy, foolish child—that I
would be a great actress, and coin money for—youw!
I had reflected a great deal upon our poverty, and
felt certain that you might become a great physician
if we only had money. that we might mingle in the
world. So I went on the stage—her stage—not the
elevated life of real talent and genius; andin half a
dozen nights I hud seen what her life amounted to.
Needless to say, I was thoroughly heart-sick; I left
the company, and repentant, and despising my own
folly and credulity, I went home to our little cottage,
determined to be content with the lot in life to which
Heaven had called me. But, alas! you had been
there, and finding me gone and the silly note which
I had left, you had disposed of everything; the
house was in the hands of strangers, and when I
sought you there was no trace of your whereabout
to be discovered—only you had gone to America. I
came to Paris then. I found anold woman whom I
had once known at home; she was or, and she
gave me a shelter. She could sew, and had a position
in asmall shop. She took me with her for company,
taught me to work, and I have earned my bread
since by such work as this.” f

She opened the bundle on the table; it contained a
dozen coarse shirts.

For a moment Morris Dudley stood gazing upon
her face, like one who suddenly beholds a wonderful
revelation. The pinched, half-starved look, the deep
blue eyes, full of wordless sorrow, the patient little
mouth—all told their tale of suffering.

He drew nearer, and falling on his knees at her
feet, he caught the toil-hardened little hand, and
crushed it against his lips.

‘“‘May Heaven forgive me!” he moaned, contrite:y.
“What a wretch, what an unpardonable wretch I
have been !””

For a long time he knelt there sobbing like a chila;
then he raised his eyes to her face. She was weeping
silently, but her tears were more of joy than grief.

“Viva!” he cried, wildly, “can you ever forgive me?
Do you hate me, Viva?’ *

For auswer she threw her arms about his neck.

“Morris,” she said, softly, through her tears, “I
was to blame, I was wrong—altogether wrong! But,
believe me, for the Father of all knows it is true,I did
not leave home forany wrong ere not even with
the love of the stage; but simply and entirely be-
cause [, in my foolish inexperience, hoped to earn
money, and surprise you with the gift; you had done
so much for me, Morris! But I was wrong, my dar-
Jing, and Heaven knows how [repent and regret the
past. I forgive you freely, Morris; how could I do
otherwise ?”

Hours passed, and the two so strangely reunited
heeded not the flight of time. Sitting there together,
Morris Dudley told Viva of all that had oceurred, of
Lurline Chadwicke’s scheming, and the false position
which she held, and which could not be taken from
her because they possessed no proof that she was an
impostor. ;

Viva listened with wonder and amazement; when
he had concluded, she caught her husband’s hands
in herown. 7

“Morris,” she cried, eagerly, “I believe I can hel
this poor girl, Lesley Dinsmore. You look surprised.
Let me tell you. I happen to know something con-
cerning Lurline’s wicked plots; she confided in me,
to an extent; she wrote me that she had married

Barton Chadwicke, for she had deserted her hus-

wrote me of her disappointment in regard to the
will, and that, when the time came for her to act, she
knew what to do. There are three letters. I have
them here. By these letters you will ascertain her
intention to perpetrate a fraud of some description.
The strange part to me is, that a woman of her
worldly wisdom and duplicity, and wickedness,
should have been so silly as to hint her plans to any
one else, A wise woman never writes any thing that
she does not wish the world to see. Here are the
letters, Morris.”

From the table-drawer she took several letters. tied
with a faded ribbon, and, withdrawing three from
the package, she laid them in Dr. Dudley’s hand. He
recognized Lurline’s chirography at once, and read
them carefully, one by one, to the end. When he
had finished, he sprang to his feet.

“Can you he ready to start for America to-morrow,
Viva?” he cried. “I am going, and you shall go with
me, and all the world shall know the truth at last.”

CHAPTER XVII.
“T WILL STAND ASIDE AND WAIT.”
Lurline Chadwicke stood like a frozen thing, and

| confronted the man, her eyes never wandering from

his dark, stern, angry face.

Max Ruthven stepped ferward, and extended his
hand, with aun air of relief.

“Ah, St. Cyr,” he cried; “I’m glad to see you. We
all believed youdead. But I imagine your presence
will assist in clearing up complications here.”

The other smiled; it was an ugly smile to bee.

“Yes,” he returned, sardonically, ‘‘my lady here
has had her own way long enough. It’s about time
for the curtain to ring down upon the last act in
the farce which she is playing. I understand her
role, and I am prepared to check her in every
game.”

“You are nothing to me!” stormed Lurline. “True,
you were the manager when I was silly enough to
appear in your vaudeville, and afterward you mar-
ried me; but—bah! what of that? ‘Men were de-
ceivers ever,’ and when I found you playing me
atins. ot left you; and then your death was re-
ported.” ;

“Ah, yes,” returned the Frenchman, cooly; “it was
said that I blew out my brains because you took
French leave, but ah, my dear, you should have
known me better than that.”

Brule /” she ejaculated, spitefully. But even as
she spoke, defiantly, showing her hatred in the mur-
derous expression of her beautiful face, she looked
like the mouse, upon which the close bars of a wire
trap have shut down, and rushing frantically to and
fro, wild with a hope of escape, still knows that its
fate is sealed, and it is only beating its life out
against the strong bars of the prison trap.

She stood like a wild thing at bay, her blue eyes
flashing fire, her breath coming in fitful gasps, her
small hands clenching and unclenching convulsively.
Suddenly she turned to a tiny cabinet near, and
caught up a dainty glittering stiletto—its handle in-
crusted with gleaming emeralds—and, ere the two
men could suspect her intention, she had sprung
upon St. Cyr.

“Demon!” she hissed, between her set teeth.

But Max Ruthven had been watching her intently,
and was half frepared for this. He darted forward,
and catching her arm, tore the weapon from her
grasp and threw it across the room.

 

 

 

She drew back, panting and baffled. St. Cyr was
the first to speak.

“Let her alone,” he said, grimly; “let her go her
own way. I havea fancy tosee just where she will
bring up. Don’t trouble her, Ruthven—thank you,
all the same, for saving my life. It doesn’t amount
to much; but, somehow, it is the one thing with
which aman generally dislikes to part. I do not in-
tend to interfere with Mrs. Barton Chadwicke’s busi-
ness; only——”

He stooped, and waces up the emerald hilted
dagger, hid it in his breast.

“Itmight come useful some day,” he suggested,
glancing into Lurline’s face with a wicked langh.
“And now, my dear Mrs. Chadwicke,” with a sneer-
ing smile, “go on with your planning, and plotting,
and performing. I'll stand in the background and
wait. But whet is this bit of gossip which reached
my ears down in the village garden—that the lady of
Chadwicke Hallis going to give to her dear friends
and neighbors, who have never called upon her or
taken notice of her, a grand reception! Something
on the plan, I suppose, that ‘Mahomet will not zo to
the mountain, so the mountain must come to Ma-
homet.’ Lurline, my dear, explain.”

She flashed him an angry glance from the depths
of her blazing eyes. Max looked at her in question-
ing surprise.

“A reception, Lurline?’’ he ventured, inquiringly.

“Yes, I have decided to give a reception,” she re-
turned, ungraciously, “and I shall do it. I am worn
out with living the life of a recluse here. Without
society I shall die. People will come, and if they
come once they will return, and I think they will ac-
et because I have intimated something unusual
to be expected—a disclosure in reg: to that wretch-
ed Ardsley, about whom they are making such an ex-
citement. Anything to get them here ence, and I
am sure they will come again; and why do you smile,
Monsieur St. Cyr?’

“fT was thinking,” he answered, “how dramatic
when you shall have made your disclosure (though
Heaven only knows what you are about to disclose)
for me to supplement it with the announcement of
our marriage, exhibit the certificate, you:know, my
dear, and add a few fitting remarks to the memory
of the late Mr. Chadwicke, who was——” __

She sprang forward as though she would rend him
in pieces, but, with a mocking bow and a satanic
laugh,. her tormentor. disap, , the door of the
boudoir closed behind him, and ‘Lurline faced Max
Ruthven alone. sand

She fell upon her knees before him and held up her
jeweled hands imploringly. All her former resent-
ment and anger were forgotten.

**Max! oh, Max!” she wailed, “I beg you ‘to help
me, to have pity on me, and save me from this man!
IT hate him and ‘fear him, and yet he is:telling you
truly, he is my husband, though I believed him dead.
Yes, heaven ‘knows, I believed him dead. Pity me,
Max. I know that you have ceased to love me, and I
am all alone in my misery. But listen! I will give
up the Chadwicke estate—I will do anything, if you
will flee with me, for——” a

“Hush!”

He turned aside coldly.

“Do not stain your soul with any further dishonor,”
he said, slowly. *“‘You are nothing to me, Lurline,
and never can be. Good-by.”

And he left her kneeling there, her white face
bowed upon the azure velvet couch, her slender form
trembling with the storm of sobs which burst from
her pale lips. Ske would have forgiven him any
crime, and would have followed him to the ends of
the earth, no matter how sin-stained he might have
been ; but, you see, it was only the difference between
a man’s love and a woman's. (

After a time she aroseto her feet; an awful look
settled over her pallid face.

“Curse her! irse Lesiey Dinsmore!” she mut-

tered, savagely. “She shall never marry Max Ruth-

ven! Iwill bring John Ardsley back to the world
again beforeshe shall be free to win the man who has
cursed and ruined my whole life !”’

At that very moment a servant appeared, and

lacing a sealed envelope containing a slip of paper

efore her, withdrew without a word. She seized it
eagerly, and her eyes devoured its contents. A low
moan issued from her pale lips.

“Foiled again!” she muttered. “I cannot bring
him back. He has escaped me.”

She buried her face in her trembling hands, and
the slip of paper fluttered to the floor. It contained
these words:

“The job is done. John Ardsley is dead!’

And as she did not glance at the date, she did not
perceive that it had been delayed, and should have
reached her days before.

CHAPTER XVIII.
A WOMAN IN THE CASE.

Notwithstanding her discomtiture, Lurline deter-
mined to hold a reception. The ecards had already
been issued, and all the fashionable and aristocratic
society which had virtually ignored her existence
were invited. She had managed to convey the im-
pression that she had received information regarding
the late John Ardsley, and pone curiosity was ex-
cited just enough to induce those invited to accept.
For John Ardsley’s strange death had been a topic
of universal interest, which the fact of his secret
marriage to Lesley had increased tenfold. Every-
body liked the aes man, and so, at length, nearly
all had decided to attend the grand reception at
Chadwicke Hall, after which it was generally agreed
to drop its very name from the visiting lists as long
as Lurline should be its mistress.

The night of the reception arrived. The mansion

music floated weet the sumptuous rooms, and the
house was filled with rare flowers. The guests were
exquisitely attired, but freezingly cold, and polite
to a degree quite arctic.

Mrs. Chadwicke herself was dressed in a lovely

robe of white lace, like frost-work, and glittering
with diamonds. There was no woman present so
beautiful. :
' The guests gathered in the great drawing-room,
and waited with ill-concealed impatience for their
hostess to introduce the subject of John Ardsley.
The time came at last. :

She stood in the very center of the room—a picture
never to be forgotten. She raised her beautiful pans
blue eyes with a strange smile, and said slowly an
distinctly:

“T feel that it is my duty to expose, as far as I am
able, the true character of this man who has been
lately taken from our midst; for there are those fool-
ish enough to mourn him, but who would soon dry
their tears had they known his real character.”

“For shame, to speak against the dead!” cried an
indignant voice, ~

Mrs. Chadwicke turned in the direction of ths
speaker.

 

“True,” she returned, gently, “and no one regrets
more than I the truth of this matter. But this man

 

 

band, St. Cyr, and now believes him dead; then, she.

 

was a blaze of light and beauty. Strains of sweet.

 

 

 

 

nadie tetera

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL, 43—No. 46,

 

Ardsley was an impostor, living here under an as-
sumed name. He had no right to the name he bore.
I have a paper here’’—and she raised one pearly
hand weniels held a folded paper—‘‘which will prove
the truth of my assertion, and make Miss Dinsmore
repent her imprudent folly to the end of her days;
for this paper will bear me out in my assertion that
his real name was Guy Raleigh, of Herefordshire.
England, and——” t ;

“Let me see that paper, if you please, Mrs. Chad-
wicke,” said a voice at her side, and Lawyer Greyson
suddenly appeared.

The woman grew pale and started, but she had no
resource but to obey. He glanced the paper over,
then placed it in his pocket.

“Tam under obligations, madam,” the old lawyer.

observed, blandly. “This paper is the missing link,
which I have long sought, in the chain of evidence.
Tt is quite sutlicient, together with the other proof in
my possession (among which are three letters from
one Lurline St. Cyr to Viva Dudley), quite enough, I
repeat, to prove Guy Raleigh as the long lost heir to
the Chadwicke estate, the position usurped by your-
self. And, since Guy Raleigh and John Ardsley are
one and the same person, I advise you, Mrs. Chad-
sue to step down and out, at once and forever,

‘or———”” :

He turned, and her eyes followed his, and staring
vacantly before her, grew black as night with pas-
sion, horror, desperation; for there, emerging from
a side room, was John Ardsley himself. with Lesley—
pale, but, oh, so happy !-leaningonhisarm

‘Ladies and gentlemen,” cried Greyson’s ringing
voice, ‘‘the game is played out. Our hostess desired
to treat yeu all to a surprise to-night, but I conclude
that my little surprise will ‘out-Herod Herod.’ You
all see that John Ardsley is not dead, although our
charming friend, Mrs. Chadwicke here, tried hard
enough to put him outofthe way. She recognized
him, knew who he was, and also that he was aware
of herown miserable past, which he had threatened
to expose; so she hired two ruffians, tools of hers, to
abduct the young man and keep him a prisoner until
she could devise some diabolical plan to remove him
forever. The villains sueceeded in carrying him off,
and locked him up in an old cabin two or three miles
away in the woods; but one of the men, on his way
back to report to Mrs. Chadwicke, in the darkness of
the night, and being a stranger in the place, fell into
the river and was drowned. He had stolen Mr.
Ardsley’s ring (an heir-loom, by the way, in the Chad-
wicke family), and as. he slightly resembled.Ardsley
in personal appearance, and happened to have worn
a suit of clothes like his also, it was no wonder that
the mistake was made, and the wrong man buried,
for John Ardsley.

“But the detective who was searching for Mr.
Ardsley found in the pocket of the drowned man a
visiting card, bearing the name of Lurline Chadwicke
on one side, and on the reverse a penciled line, in her
handwriting, telling the ruffian how to. conduct the af-
fair in regard to Ardsley’s imprisonment—a. very fool-
ish and careless way of doing business, let me add, Mrs.

-Chadwicke. Well,the detective worked secretly, and
soon discovered where the young man was impris-
oned; he was soon liberated, and to throw her off the
track, a written m ‘e was sent to Mrs. Chad wicke,
to the effect that Ardsley was dead (for, of course,
she knew who the drowned man really was), and, my
friends, John Ardsley stands before. you, or, rather,
‘Gay, Raleigh, the grandson of Eben Chadwicke.

“But the romantic part of the story is still to come.
Guy Raleigh was born and. educated abroad ; he came.
on here to claim his fortune, after learning of the
death of Barton Chadwicke and seeing, advertise-
ments seeking information of himself—came on, and
found Lesley Dinsmore (after him, the next of kin)
in possession. He came here to the Hall, and, in the
moonlight, saw Lesley sitting at her window. and fell
headlong in love with her. He conceived the roman-
tic idea of obtaining a situation as steward on the
estate, and winning and wooing the girl he loved;
and, once his own, knowing that she had married
him for himself alone, he would reveal all. All this
he did; and he was married under his own name. I
have seen the former solicitor of the Chadwickes’
estate, who acknowledges this young man. to be the
real heir, and in this old lawyer, Guy (as we must
now call him) has confided, from first to last. Every-
thing has been satisfactorily proven, and nothing
now remains but for Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh to take
possession of their home at once.”

The crowd pressed around Lesley and her husband,
kissing, congratulating—a merry babel.

In the midst of the excitement, Doctor Dudley en-
tered, with Viva, lovely in white silk, and looking,
oh, so happy !

For amoment Lurline’s eyes were riveted upon
Viva Dudley’s face; she threw up both hands, with
a cry of horror, and fell, gasping, to the floor.

Just then, through the crowd a tall, dark man made
his way, wrathful, half-demented.

“Let me pass!” he panted; and all fell back, in
wonder and horror, at the sight of his awful face and
blood-shot, angry eyes. ‘‘I am Ferdinand St. Cyr, and
this woman was my wife!” ;

He reached her side. The man was half-insane,
but no one knew it. He drew forth that shining,
emerald-hilted dagger, and, without a word, plunged
_itinto Lurline’s side. With a low groan, the blood
- rushed from her mouth, and she fell to the floor, as
he dashed away through the crowd.

Max Ruthven was the first to reach her and raise
the golden head upon his arm. She turned her face

so that she could look into his eyes. |

“Listen !” she gasped, pitifully. ‘All they say is
true—and more. Morris Dudley, do you remember
the day that Barton Chadwicke was found dead in
the hotel chamber? I overheard you then when you
said, in all the tragedies of life a woman is usually at
the bottom of the trouble, and to blame. You were
more correct than you knew. Listen—I killed Bar-
ton Chadwicke with my own hand! Ah, Doctor
Dudley, after all, you see there was ‘a woman in the
case!”

She went on to tell them, with gasping, fluttering
- breaths, and long pauses between, while all the great

room lay silent as the grave, and every ear was
strained to listen, how she had determined to put
Chadwicke out of the way Having first influenced
him to make his will in her favor, she had followed
him, when he had left home on some business in the
West; and disguising herself as.a boy, she had taken
a room over the restaurant next door, having first
ascertained the exact locality of Chadwicke’s room
in the hotel.

The window of his room, it will be remembered,
opened upon a balecony,so did the window of the
room which she had secured in the next house; it
was the easiest thing in the world for the lithe young
trapeze performer to leap from one balcony to the

- other, and gain access to Barton Chadwicke’s room.
Once there, she did not attempt to conceal her iden-
tity, but had laid her strange behavior to anxiety for
his welfare, which had caused her to follow him, and
saying that she had wished to keep that fact a secret
from others, she had kissed and caressed him until
he forgave her mad freak. Then they drank wine
together, and into his glass she had contrived to
ee sufficient to take him out of the
world.

After the frightful deed had been accomplished she
had taken the tell-tale wine bottie, and leaving the
vial, labeled “laudanum”’, on the table, she had re-
turned to her own room in the way that she had
come. And no one could wonder that Barton Chad-
wicke’s death was attributed to suicide.

In painful gasps the wretched woman told her
awful story, and all who listened were overwhelmed
with horror. They saw that she was dying, and Max
lifted herin his arms and laid her on a couch, and,
with her beautiful eyes fixed steadfastly upon his
face, she breathed her life slowly away. Her last
words were: "

“Forgive me, oh, Max! I loved you so!”

A * * * * + A

They are very happy now, at Chadwicke Hall,
though Mr. and Mrs. Raleigh can never quite forget
the shadows of the past.

St. Cyr was captured, and, being proved insane,
was sent to an insane asylum; he died there a few
weeks after his arrival, and that unhappy chapter
was ended.

Dr. Dudley and his fair young wife live happily in
the city, not far from Chadwicke Hall; they often
visit the Raleighs, together with old Lawyer Grey-
son and his kind-hearted lady.

Max Ruthven has gone to Europe to live, a sorrow-
ing, repentant man, who would give worlds to undo
his past. Repentance is better late than never.

Maude Bradburn was married, last week, to a young
pour and still makes her home at The Cedars, to

e near her dear friend, Lesley.

And so we will leave them, happy, loving, and be-
loved; the wrong all righted,the good triumphant
over the evil wrought by a woman. Yetit is just as
apt to be a man, as a woman, only men tell, and wo-
men do not; and itis wiser to pause and refiect ere
we heap the burden higher upon the frail shoulders
of the weaker sex ; and whenever we hear of crime,
or sin, or wrong-doing, sneer contemptuously, and
exclaim:

“A woman in the case!”

[THE END.]
ht A atacand
COMPLETION OF NERO’S CANAL.

Among the most important public works in Greece
is the canal through the Isthmus of Corinth, of which
General Turr is the engineer. It was begun in 1882
and was to be completed this year, 1888, but it will
not be finished for several years yet. It has the same

breadth and depth as the Suez Canal, and is about
four miles long. The deepest cut is 250 feet. It
passes through solid rock and its sides are as yet left
almost vertical. It is to be lighted by electricity.
The cost was estimated at $7,000,000, This canal will
save vessels from '[rieste or Brindisi to Athens or
Constantinople about two hundred miles; it willsave
ships from Gibraltar about seventy-five miles. It

‘been dug largely by Italians, Turks and Monte-
negrins. Few Greeks
not take kindly to such work. The canal carries out
a plan that was cherished by many of the ancients;
it actually follows the course which was surveyed by
order of the Emperor Nero.

 

 

 

 

have been employed; they do

 

 

HASTY WORDS.
BY ASTLEY H. BALDWIN.

As specks in the sky are the germs of the tempest,
As cloudlets of black spring to birth in the blue,
Harsh words will oft drop, in the wrath of a moment,

From hearts that are generous, noble, and true.

Beware! for words hasty, unmeaning, when spoken,
Have severed true friendships in anger and pain;

Ah, if once the sweet links of that gold’ chain be broken,
No tears, no regrets may unite them again.

No gem was e’er faultless, no joy without sorrow,
No sky without clouds, and no sea witheut storm ;
And it may be that good hearts repent on the morrow
The words that escaped when the temper was warm.

One word brings another, the stream grows a torrent,
The breeze that was slight in a hurricane ends;

Stay wrath at its birth then, meet.half way each other,
Leave harsh words unspoken, and kiss and be friends.

LOST IN NEW YORK,

By BURKE BRENTFORD.

CHAPTER XXIII.
A COTTAGE BY THE SBA.

Miss Armstrong drew Meta gently into the cottage,
and when the latter raised her tearful eyes from the
shoulder of her friend, she noticed that, in addition
to Seth Bennett and his cousin, a gentleman was
present whom she had a vague recollection of having
met before.

“Don’t you remember this gentleman?’ said her
friend, smiling. “I must, then, introduce, you to Mr.
Wilkins.”

Meta then remembered the “perfect gentleman”
who had conducted her home after her escape from
the kidnappers in the sleigh, and blushingly made
her acknowledgments, while at the same time look-
ing inquiringly at Miss Armstrong.

“You wonder at my acquaintance with him, and at
our presence here,” said the latter, drawing her
softly into a seat by her side, while the others also

drew around the comfortable fire that sparkled upon
the hearth. “But a, full answer to such questions
would involve a longer story than I have time to tell
you at this moment, darling.”

“Ts there not time for you to give her at least.an
outline, Gertrude?’ said Mr. Wilkins, smiling gently,
and addressing the lady by her first name with an
easy, though unconscious, familiarity that caused
Meta to open her eyes wider than before.

Miss Armstrong slightly blushed at remarking her
surprise, and, as she did so, Meta noticed that she
was pale and thin, though with the light of a strange,
new hope and happiness in her face and eyes that
she had never seen in them before.

“Well,” said Miss Armstrong, tightening the arm
that was clasping Meta’s waist, and at the same time
beaming pleasantly upon the rest of the party, “you
must know that on the very evening after you left
me, dear, I was prostrated by the fever that had
been menacing meso long. Fortunately, one of my
friends chanced to visit me on the following day,
and Isoon had her installed constantly at my side.
while the best medical treatment was procured at
once. It was very fortunate, for, on that second day,
little Maggie—who had probably been faithless and
dishonest for a long time—disappeared, with pretty
much everything valuable that she could lay her
hands on. But I was, fortunately, in good hands, and
I was. very sick, Meta. For two weeks my life
wavered upon a chance, and when the crisis was
finally past, my convalescence was a hard and
tedious one. ;

“Would you believe it, it was weeks after you left
me when I first heard from Mrs. Vance of your hav-
ing failed to reach her house. She had deemed that
you and I had suddenly altered our minds about
your contemplated visit—had taken offense thereat—
and, indeed, it was more through accident than any-
thing else that the truth was revealed to me. Of
course I surmised that you had been kidnapped
again, and only too successfully. Had I been less
advanced in my recuperation, I think the blow would
have killed me; but, as it was, it seemed to actually
rally me on toward complete restoration.

“Tf you will remember, when you first showed me
Mr. Wilkins’ card, I merely told you that I recog-
nized his name as that of a prominent New York
editor; but I concealed from you the fact that I also
recognized the name of one of my native townsmen—
an old schoolmate and playfellow of mine. In this
emergency I thought of him and his influence, and
at once wrote him a note, requesting an interview.
He responded with alacrity. I told him your whole
history, mentioned my fears respecting your safety,
and entreated“his assistance, on the strength of our
early friendship. Ineed not add that I did not ap-
peal in vain, and that itis to him Iam indebted for
meeting you here now.” ;

“Rather say to accident,” said Mr. Wilkins, mod-
estly taking up the story as Miss Armstrong came
to an embarrassed pause. ‘It is now nearly two
weeks since I had the pleasure of renewing relations
with my old schoolfellow here, and becoming once
more interrested in your romantic case, Miss Davis.
For along time my efforts to discover your where-
abouts were unavailing. Mrs. Parker was, indeed,
unearthed and duly interviewed by one of our re-
porters, but she was as uncommunicative as a fish,
and professed to know nothing of you. - At last it oc-
curred to me to look up the circumstances attending
the case of this gentleman, Mr. Bennett, and, finding
out the time at which his unjust imprisonment was
to expire, I met him at the landing of the Blackwell's
Isiand boat last evening, put him on the track of his
relative, Mr. Elliott, the boat-builder here, promised
to meet him at this romantic spot, in company with
Miss Armstrong, at this unseemly hour, and—here
we are.”

“It seems like a dream,” murmured Meta, again
turning to Miss Armstrong and pressing her hand.

*‘And we will soon to have to hear the story of your
last sad experience, my poor dear,” said Miss Arm-
strong, responding to the pressure, and turning to
her with shining eyes.

“But not just now, if you will allow an old sailor to
interrupt you, ma’am,” said Mr. Elliott, poking np
the fire a bit, and turning his rough face solemnly
upon the group. “Business afore pleasure, says I,
and then all hands to grub, or battle, if you please. You
know I told you in the boat, Miss Davis, as how I
had seed suthin’ bearin’ on your case in to-day’s
paper. But perhaps you, sir, bein’ an editor, may
have suthin’ of it already,” he added, turning to Mr.
Wilkins.

“I regret to say that these other matters pre-
vented,” said Mr. Wilkins, smiling, ‘and that this is
the first day for many years that has passed without
my looking into a newspaper.

“Very good, then,” said Elliott, unfolding a news-
paper which he had just taken from a shelf in the
closet. Here is this merning’s paper, what contains a
certain notice as may consarn some on ye, and which
I will take the liberty to read ye.”

And thereupon Mr. Elliott read from the newspaper
in his hand an advertisement headed *‘A GrRL MIss-
ING—SUPPOSED TO BE LOST IN NEW YORK.” It gave
particulars of Meta’s personal appearance, apparel,
the circumstances of ber departure from Bath, Me.,
her destination, ete. It was signed ‘Hugh Davis,”’
and requested that any information concerning the
missing girl should be sent to him care of Walker &
Wilhelm, Attorneys-of-Law, at the Bennett Building,
mene of Nassau and Fulton streets, New Yor
city.

The perusal of the advertisement was listened to
with varying emotions of pleasure and interest by
the little party. Meta’s joy especially was of an in-
tense and profound character, for she felt that now,
indeed, she was safely beyond the limits of her
enemies’ resentment and pursuit, and she could not
refrain from throwing herself into Miss Armstrong’s
arms and shedding some tears of thankfulness and
gratitude upon her faithful breast.

“We may all feel grateful at this announcement,”
said Seth Bennett, with more solemnity of manner
than was usual with him, and he straightway began
to put on his hat and overcoat. ;

“Why, where are you going, Seth?” exclaimed
Meta, poking BD surprisedly through her still shin-
ing tears. ‘You are not going to leave me ?”’

Only for the present, darling!’ said the young
man, a little brusquely. ‘‘That advertisement means
that your old father, Captain Hugh Davis, is some-
where in this city of New York at this present mo-
ment, if it means anything at all; and lam going to
hunt him up and bring him to you right away, or my
name’s not Seth Bennett!”

“But it’s past two o’clock in the morning,” said
Elliott, glancing at alittle round clock that was tick-

noisily on the wall. ;

in
fy ust another reason why there’s no time to lose,”

said Seth; resolutely. ‘Just let me have that news-
paper, if you please. The notice mentions the name
of a law firm on Nassau street, to whom all informa-
tion is directed, does it not? Well, itll be along
toward morning before I can get down town. I can
soon scare up a city directory at some hotel, and find

out through it the residence of one or other of these.

lawyers, and in that way impart my information,
and find out the whereabouts of the old captain him-
self; don’t you see?”

“Yes; you are eee right,” said Elliott; “but
let me say a word to you in the presence of the rest
of our friends here, before you take your departure.

 

>
You must have heard from what was said by our pur-

suers as we were pushing off from the Island, that
my boat had been recognized, and there’s more than
one 0’ them prison-keepers as knows me personally—
though notin acriminal or disrespectable way, by
no manner of means. ‘Well, the very first thing
they did when we got clear, rere ne it, was to
telegraph the escape to police headquarters in Mul-
berry street, and from there your Mrs. Parker, as you
call her, would probably at once receive notification

of the event.” —
“Come down to plain talk, Sam,” said Seth. ‘Tell
just this,’ said the boat-builder, a little

us what you’re driving at.”

“Why,

t “Don’t you see that my establishment here
is well known to alltheauthorities, and that, at almost
any moment between now and daylight, we nay
look fur a visit from Madame Parker and her friends
in red-hot search of this little gal?” ‘

“Ah, yes; I begin to see,” said Seth, thoughtfully.

“Thope you can hide me from them somewhere,
until Seth comes back,” said Meta, suddenly rising in
a startled way, and feeling one of the old tremors of
alarm beginning to repossess her.

“Not by no manner o’ means,” eried Elliott, en-
ergetically. ‘“‘My plan isto let’em take you. Now
don’t be skeery afore ye understand,’ he added,
gently, pushing Meta back into her seat. “Don’t ye
twig the plot?) Why, we’ll do a little plottin’ on our
own account this time. If they come, I’ll purtend to
be sort o’ intimidated, and you can appear as skeered
as you like; but yon must permit yourself to be ear-
ried off. They can’t take ye back to the asylum with-
out a fresh order, but the ole woman will have to
take ye to herowncrib. Then, say at nine or ten A.
M., in the midst of the brow-beatin’ an’ teeth-showin’
in pops the ole eapting, with his lawyers, a police-
man or two, Seth an’ the rest of us at his heels, an’
there’s a general high old smash-up and kerflummux
sich as would cause a railroad accident to grow white
with envy.”

“A little highly colored !” said Mr. Wilkins, laugh-
ing. ‘Mr. Elliott, I think, if you had begun a little
earlier, you would have made a first rate sensational
reporter.”

“T rather like the plan,” said’-Miss Armstrong.

“You do?” exclaimed Mr. Wilkins, turning to her
in considerable surprise.

“Yes, if Meta is willing to carry out her part,
which is, of course, the most important,” said Miss
Armstrong, energetically. ‘I don’t approve of
melodrama, as a general thing, but it would be turn-
ing the tables on these wicked people with a ven-
geance. I don’t object to keeping Meta company
here; that is, if—if you remain.”

“Of course I shall remain, if you do,” said Mr. Wil-
kins, laughing, and yet coloring somewhat. ‘But is
Miss Davis willing?”

Meta testified her willingness, though not very
enthusiastically; and Elliott’s plan was then agreed
upon.

“Of course,” said Seth, “this programme can only
be carried out in case Mrs. Parker really discovers
our retreat here, and comes after her captive. I
shall first come here after prosecuting my quest down
town, and then, if it should prove that they have
taken you away,” turning to Meta, “I will proceed
at once to Mrs. Parker’s house, the address of which
Mr. Wilkins has already given me. Good-by for the
present, darling.”

“Wait one moment,” said Meta, rising. ‘Here is
something which perhaps I should also give you be-
fore you go.”

She then retired: into one of the adjoining rooms—
the entire cottage consisting of four apartments on
one floor—from which she presently emerged, hold-
ing in her hand the self-convicting letter of her step-
mother, which she had just taken from her stocking.

“Should you really meet my father, Seth,” said she,
“and give him a running account of his little Meta’s
misfortunes, just give him this letter, with a brief
explanation of how it came into my possession, as I
have already related to you. It will be safer in your
possession than mine, should I once more have to
submit to Mrs. Parker's orders even temporarily.”

“So it will, and I will take good care of it!” cried
Seth. ‘‘Good-by, and Heaven bless you, darling.”
And, embracing her tenderly, -he took his departure.

CHAPTER XXIV.
FIGHTING FIRE WITH FIRE.

The cottage of Sam Elliot ‘by no means furnished
many facilities fora gentleman and two ladies of re-
fined tastes to amuse themselves at the extraordinary
and unseasonable hour of which we are writing,
however amply it may heretofore have answered the
requirements of the rude old bachelor of a boat-
builder, who was rather proud in his sense of pro-
prietorship upon most occasions.

He now, however, made no pretenses at.a show of
hospitality beyond his power, but modestly indicated
to the ladies a chamber in which they would find a
couch upon which they could lie down, and into this
both Miss Armstrong and Meta, after a vain attempt
to keep awake, forth with retired, whileMr. Wilkins,
whose profession had accustomed him to irregular
hours, prepared to watch out the period of darkness
with his host by the comfertable fire. ‘

They found it tedious enough, but at last the
clock over the mantel-piece struck six. and the gray
of the early morning light began to stealin through
the closed shutters of the windows.

And just about this time they caught the sound of
approaching footfalls upon the narrow board-staging
that bridged the marsh between the back of the cot-
tage and the somewhat higher made ground fifty or
sixty yards tothe rear. Elliot at once ran to one of
the rear windows, and peeped out.

“It’s a lady and four men, one of whom is a police-
man; and the coach that brought them is drawn up
at the side of the railroad track over yonder on the
avenue,” he exclaimed, his eyes glistening, his jaws
becoming set like a mastiff’s, and at the same time

grimly rolling up his shirt sleeves, and displaying |

two magnificent arms, under whose hundred quaint
designs in Indiaink the sinews and muscles stood
out like whipcord and knotted ropes. ‘‘Ay, they’re
coming.”

“T will call the ladies at once,” said Wilkins, tap-
ping at the door of the chamber in which they had
retired.

They were sleeping soundly, but speedily awoke

and made theirappearance, calm and collected, when |
afew words from the gentleman sufliced to explain. |

“Look you, Mr. Elliott,” then said Mr. Wilkins,
turning a little sharply upon the boat-builder, who
was still making certain ominous preparations in
grim silence. “You are not forgetting the plot
which you yourself concocted, are you? Of course,
IT cannot consent to your fighting in the presence of
these ladies.”

“By Jupiter! but I did forget, for which I humbly

axes the ladies’ pardon,” said Elliott, slapping his |
“But still (’d rather |
tight for it, if it wasn’t for their presence. There are |
only three of them, and I’m the strongest man in|

thigh with genuine surprise.

Harlem. That policeman, at least, knows me by
reputation, you can bet.’ And he stretched out one
of his mighty, blue-figured arms with a simple ges-
ture of unaffected grace and selt-confidence.

“There must be no resistance?” exclaimed Meta;
“it would spoil everything, and [I have thoroughly
made up my mind as to the course I will pursue.”

“She is right,” said Miss Armstrong. ‘Pray do not
think of resisting them, Mr. Elhott.”

“Oh, ivs all the same to me, of course,” muttered
the boat-builder, rolling down his sleeves again and
resuming his jacket, though with evident reluctance.
“But, ladies, you had better go into one of the other
rooms and keep there until it is time for you to come
out.”

In the meantime the footsteps had drawn steadily
nearer, they passed around to the front of the house,
and the ladies had hardly again secreted themselves
in one of the adjoining rooms, and closed the door
behind them, before there came a knock at the front
door—a peculiar knock, half-menacing, half hesitat-
ing, as of one who was in some doubts as to the sort
of, reception that awaited him.

At a sign from Blliott, Wilkins opened the door.
The big policeman who filled the opening still stood
hesitating upon the threshold, and peered cautiously
into the interior until his eyes fell upon the master.

“It’s nothing agin yourself, Elliott,” said he, ina
sort of deprecating tone, ‘‘but we’re only looking for
a young woman who, it is surmised, may have taken
refuge in your house.”

“Why the duse dont you comein and search for
her then ?” growled the boat-builder.

“But I come with ample authority.” said the officer,
still hesitating. ‘‘It’ll really do you no good to cut up
rough, old fellow.”

“T don’t intend to. Come in, come in!” exclaimed
Elliott, in a tone of quiet contempt; and, as the
officer now entered the house with considerable brisk-
ness, closely followed by Mrs. Parker, her son
Thomas, and Colonel Scooper, he rapped significantly
on the door leading into the room in which the ladies
had concealed themselves.

Miss Armstrong at once came out, supporting her
companion, who simulated the ntmost terror at find-
ing herself again in the presence of her enemies.

Colonel Scooper gave a start at recognizing Miss
Armstrong, and looked suspiciously at Mr. Wilkins,
but speedily recovered his composure.

As tor Mr. Wilkins, he merely nodded indifferently,
much as he would have saluted’ a coal-heayer who
should do him the honor of eying him over-earnestly.
It was evident that the two men had met before, and
in some circle where their relative social values
had been well known and duly weighed.

“So you’re there, are you?” exclaimed Mrs. Parker,
sinking into the easiest chair, with a sigh of relief,
and at the same time fixing upon Meta a gaze of
mingled rage, disappointment, and reproach.

“Yes, ma’am,’’ murmured Meta, meekly.

“Oh, you deceitful, dissimulating thing!” cried the
lady. “How can I ever have any faith in human
nature again ?”’

“The young lady is willing to go back with you, if
you have come here with authority to enforce her
compliance,’ said Elliott, turning to Mrs. Parker,
with much bluntness. ae,

“Of course I’ve come here with such authority,
since I’m her guardian; aud I won’t trust her out of
my own house this time,” eried Mrs. Parker, angrily.
“No more public asylums for me, after what has
taken place, I assure you. But if she is ready to go
back, what in the namie of common sense did she rua

away from the asylum for? This very day she was
to have come to my house, to prepare for her mar-
riage with my son, who loves her to distraction, and
of whom she is equally fond.”

“Oh, no, no, no!” sobbed Meta, counterfeiting the
most extravagant grief and contrition combined. ‘TI
never loved him, as you well know. But still, I—T
would not have run—run away from the asylum, had
I known as much as I do now.”

This was in reality the unvarnished truth, though
not exactly as the new-comers understood it; for, of
course, had she known of the newspiuper advertise-
ment concerning her, she thight readily have com-

thus have saved herself the sepa excitement, and
discomfort that had attended her escape in the boat.

“All I know about it is this,” said Sam Elliott,
gruffly: A young fellow came here last evening, and
hired one of my boats, and he went away, with an-
other fellow to help him row it. He returned some
hours ago, accompanied by that young lady, and T
rather think thay they must have had a quarrel on
the way. At any rate, he soon afterward deserted
her, leaving her here, and she has been eryiug and
taking on ever since.” :

“Oh, that is all, is it?” said Colonel Scooper, with
his covert sneer. ‘And I suppose there were no prior
preparations made for receiving her here ?’

“Why should there have been, sir?” said Elliott,
fixing his calm, clear gaze upon him.

“Simply because these friends of hers seem to have
happened in upon you very opportunely, for the pur-
pose of holding a reception, that is all,” again sneered
the colonel, indicating Miss Armstrong and Mr. Wil-
kins by a wave of the hand. “I fancy I have seen
them both before.”

“Hold your peace!” exclaimed Elliott, in a deep
voice, and stretching out his mighty hand in a gesture
of warning. *‘These ladies are under my roof and my
specia! protection; and if so much as a breath of
disrespect concerning them passes yoursneering lips,
I will break your back like a dog, and toss you out
yonder in the mud, for the eels to fatten on. Oh,
don’t frown on me, you pettifogging whelp!” he con-
tinued, advancing a step, and lowering his voice to
one of suppressed passion, before which his antag-
onist, bold and desperate as he was, instinctively
recoiled. ‘Had you twenty times the dirty political
power that you boast, you wouldn’t be able to brow-
beat me worth a cent. I’m perhaps as well-known
in my ward as you are in your own, though in a
darned sight better way, rough and ready as I am.”

“Tush! there is really no need of: this,” said the
officer, interfering gently, and making a warning
gesture to the colonel as hedidso. “There is the
young person that we came for. Let us take her
with us and be off.”

“Meta, at this, arose, still moaning and sobbing,
but bowing her head submissively on her breast,
while Miss Armstrong sadly encircled her waist:

“Come,” said Mrs. Parker, taking her firmly by the
arm. ‘Your repentance seems so sincere that I can
almost forgive you the shabby trick you played me.
I only hope that you will manifest the proper spirit
hereafter. Weshall just about reach home in time
for breakfast. Thomas, dear, give Meta your arm to
the carriage. Colonel, escort me, if you please.”

CHAPTER XXV.
“OUT OF THE CLOUD AND THE SEA.”

the avenue, where the policeman separated from
them, and the remaining four at once entered the
carriage that was in waiting for. them, and were
driven away. ;

During the drive down town, Tom Parker—who
shifted uneasily in his seat, and gave other indica-
tions of being thoroughly alive to the contempti-
bility of his position—made several vigorous but
ineffectual attempts to sustain a genial conversation
upon general topics with Meta, who sat directly op-

posite, but as he received no encouragement from
ner, she having suddenly lapsed from her show of
violent grief into a state of comparative apathy and
indifference that must have been rather puzzling to
her companions, he speedily fell into silence, and his
mother and the colonel kept up the burden of seem-
ing cheerfuiness between them until they reached
their destination.

As Meta passed up the high brown-stone stoop and
into the hall, it struck her that a general air of
neglect and disuse had fallen over the house since
her last visit. Nearly all the front shutters were
closed, there was a placard of ‘‘This House to Let,
Furnished,” hanging beside the entrance, and the
hall-way looked dismal, damp, and generally uncom-
fortable. ~

But a nice breakfast was being laid upon the
een table, and Mrs. Scooper met them at the
door.

“I saw the carriage a long way up the street. and
knowing you would be hungry after your cold drive,
ordered breakfast upon the table at once,” said she.
“Shall I help you take off your things ?’ she added,
turning to Meta, with just a trifling show of em-
barrassment.

“Don’t trouble yourself; I shall not need your
assistance,’’ was the icy reply; but at the same time
she could not help looking at her with something of
the curiosity that she might have manifested in con-
templating a strange variety of the feline species as
celebrated for its beauty as for its secret ferocity
and danger.

Frankie had such physical advantages that she
possessed a certain degree of attractiveness at all
times, but upon this morning she certainly appeared
to a slight disadvantage. Her morning wrapper was
considerably the worse for wear in more ways than
one, her hair had not been carefully arranged, one of
her eyes was discolored, as though she had fallen
upon her face and narrowly escaped putting it out,
and there was a certain recklessness and even de-
spair in her rather wan face that seemed in peculiar
keeping with the neglect and decay that had taken
possession of her material surroundings. But still
her manner and aspect were as defiant, unabashed,
and fearless as ever.

“You do not seem to desire a renewal of old rela-
tions, after what has passed?” said she, still persist-
ing in her advances toward Meta, as though she
found a sort of dreary excitement in them.

‘Most certainly not,” replied Meta, very spiritedly.
“T am quite hungry, I assure you,” she added, with
a simile, turning to Mrs. Parker, who was regarding
her with a peculiarly puzzled, almost alarmed ex-
pression, as were, indeed, both Tom and the colonel,
though they stood with their backs to the fire appar-
ently at their ease; “but I should like to run up to
your room @ moment and smooth my hair, before
sitting down to the table.”

“To be sure,’ was the hesitating reply; and as
Meta slipped airily from the room, she heard the
eR hig comment, “What can have happened to the
girl?’

On the first staircase landing, she was confronted
by Norah, who hastily seized her hand, and kissed it
affectionately.

*Jist let me whisper a word with ye, me sweet
lady,”* said Norah, in a low voice, and with a signifi-
eant look. ‘Don't ye let them skeer ye one bit this
time, honey, fur the whole tribe are on their last
legs, and there’s divil a dollar in the house. The
cook will lave them to-day, and it’s myself that’s
only lingerin’ with the hopes of gettin’ a part of me
back pay.”

“What has happened ?”’ said Meta.

“Shure, an’ it’s been goin’ down, down, down fur a
long time, and what with their wine-drinkin’—though
it’s whisky they’ve got down to at last—their card
playin’, and their quarrelin’ among themselves, it’s a
wonder they aren’t allin the poor-house afore this,”
resumed. Norah, with a grin. ‘Did ye notice the
black eye that Mrs. Scooper has got? The colonel
giv’ it to her last night, besides givin’ her a sound
basting in gineral.”

‘Impossible!’ exclaimed Meta,
shocked.

“Och, an’ it’s the truth, honey!’ continued the
girl; ‘‘an’ it’s no pity that the hussy desarves, fur
it’s hard-hearted and contimptible she acted to ye.
Don’t ye let’em scare ye agin, honey; that’s all I
have to say.” Paes

“IT will try to take care of myself, Norah; and at
the same time shall never forget what Lowe to your
kindness,’ said Meta, hurrying into Mrs. Parker’s
room, where, after dispatching what had summoned
her to it, she returned tothe dining-room, and seated
herself at the table with the rest.

She was perhaps the only one of the party who en-
joyed a real appetite, and yet the others, Mrs. Parker
noticeably, seemed to desire a prolongation of the
repast to the last moment. A somber and uneasy
feeling seemed to have descended over all of them,
and they one and all continued to glance furtive
glances at Meta, as though at a loss to account for
her comparative vivacity and freedom from care,
which were, indeed, in suspicious contrast with the
noisy grief that she had manifested at being separ-
ated from her friends but an hour or two before.

“Well, we can’t keep this up much longer, thank
goodness !” at length exclaimed Mrs. Scooper, sud-
denly rising and pushing angrily back from the
table. “One would think ita funeral feast, instead
of a wedding breakfast; and I’m almost tired of
playing the part that has been allotted to me.”

“Be careful!’ muttered the colonel, in a low, stern
voice, accompanying the injunction with a look that
was decidedly more inenacing than lover-like, while
her aunt and cousin alse glanced at her in surprise
and warning.

“T don’t care!” continued Frankie, biting her lip,
yet appearing not more than half-cowed; ‘‘I’m weary
of it all.”

“And Lam only satisfied with the repast, since I
have enjoyed it so well,” said Meta, coming to her
assistance, for all the wrongs that she had sustained
at the hands of this young woman could not alto-
gether stifle the seas2 of contpassion that she now
felt for her, in seeing her apparently so humbled and
degraded from the eee and attractive position
that she remembered to, have once seen her occupy.
“But I cannot see howif can havo been any more a
wedding than a,funeral breakfast, as I was not aware
that.a marriage was at hand.”

“You seem to have buta'short memory, my dear,”
said Mrs. Parker, looking up sharply, while Tom
Parker began to look ill at ease, though the colonel
leaned back in his chair, stuck his thumbs in the

 

inexpressibly

 

municated with her father’s lawyers named in it, and

Meta continued with the party until they reached

 

arm-holes of his waistcoat, and smiled amusedly.
“But let us go into the drawing-room.”

“Certainly,” said Meta, rising; and then they all
followed the lady of the house into the drawing-
room, striving more than ever to appear at ease, as
they seated themselves in a group near the bow-
window at the side of the house.

“The magistrate who is to perform the ceremony
will be here at eleven o’clock,” said Mrs. Parker,
again turning to Meta, and making an attempt to
take her hand, which, however, was coldly declined.
**His services will answer quite as well as those of a
clergyman in cases like the present.”’

“Perhaps so.” said Meta, beginning to take an in-
terest in the part she had resolved to support, as she
felt that the triumphant denouement was not far dis-
tant, ‘especially if it is the same virtuous mavistrate
who would so cheerfully have sent me to prison as a
thief upon false testimony, and to whom, as it is, I
am partly indebted for my mad-house experiences.”

Both Mrs. Parker and her son looked momentarily
contused and _ uneasy, but Mrs. Scooper gave a dry,
shameless little laugh.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
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<aisg THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3—=

 

VOL. 43—No. 46,

 

 

 

ODE TO POVERTY.
BY FRANCIS 8, SMITH.

Oh, Poverty, twin-brother to Despair!

Thou source of woe! Thou summoner of care!
Dreadful task-master! author of misery!

What tongue can say one word in praise of thee?
Like a grim fiend of diabolic birth

You sit beside the honest toiler’s hearth,

To mock him with your presence, and to see

His wife’s distress and his deep agony.

Ruthless you send your keen, envenomed dart
With cruel aim into the proud man’s heart—
High-toned, well-bred, retiring, and genteel,
Too sensitive to beg, too virtuous to steal—
Reckless he hides away from human ken,

And wrestles with you in his wretched den,
Till famished by your frame-destroying breath
He sinks at last and yields himself to death.

Your skull and cross-bones banner you unfurl
Before the weary, heart-crushed working-girl.
You throw your icy fetters ’round her heart,
Unmindful of the bitter tears that start—
You see temptation near her and you cry:

I have no mercy—you must sin or die!”

And should she follow guilty pleasure’s train,
All hope is gone—she’ll ne’er know peace again.
A few brief months of dissipation o’er,

A prey to thoughts she never knew before,
No power to stem sin’s swiftly rushing tide,
She ends her sad career by suicide.

Such work as this, oh, Poverty, is thine,

Yet in thy presence man should not repine,

For sometimes (all with Shakespeare must agrée)
Sweet are the uses of adversity.”

And ere I send my tired muse away,

I e’en for Poverty a good word will say:

There’s many a genius, it must be confessed,

Who at the start by Poverty was blessed,

Who would have idled had he been born rich,
Wasted his means and perished in a ditch,

But who, when want aroused ambition’s flame,
Strained every nerve to capture wealth and fame,
And who, while struggling for the foremost place,
Developed some new fact to bless his race.

Many rich blessings that we daily meet,
Many inventions priceless and complete,
Both on the land and on the boundless sea,
Ne’er had existed but for Poverty.

And thus ’tis patent to the truly wise
That evils oft are blessings in disguise.

TODD'S OLIVE PLANTS,

BY CLARA AUGUSTA.

Ih
Gait as
a, By 5 ae 2
a)
areal

ORS

i

ie

x
§

ie
A U

Bees are all smart at their business, and the exe-
cution Farmer Campbell’s Italians made among the
Todds was frightful.

John James was stung beyond all recognition, and
Ann Maria couldn’t see out of her eyes for a week.
Rey. Tobias jumped into the pile of smoking shingles
to cut George Washington free, and the bees did not
come near the smoke.

Farmer Campbell arrived on the scene just when
the fray was at its wildest. The farmer was mad
clear through when he saw what had been done to
his trees, and he gave vent to his feelings in words
which would not look well written down here. .

The sound of the melee reached the house, and Mrs.
Todd appeared on the scene. Likewise Mrs. Camp-
bell; likewise a half-dozen of the neighbors -and
their dogs.

It was better than a circus, and nothing to pay for
the sight.

After awhile the Todds were gathered in, and
poulticed with onions, and washed in ammonia, and
smeared over with hogs’ lard, and variously doctored
otherwise, and put to bed, with promises of un-
limited candy and peanuts in the future if they
would keep still and not bellow.

For two days all went well. The bees had done
their work so faithfully that the young imps of mis-
chief were too sore and stiff for action, and Rev.
Tobias had arest. He actually set about getting up
a sermon to preach at a school-house in the vicinity,
where he had been invited to officiate and administer
the ordinance of baptisin on the following Sunday.

Mrs. Todd put a hemlock plaster on her back, took
some medicine, and lay down to rest herself.

The olive plants were up stairs in the hospital,
which was the garret of the house, with some cot
beds put up under the eaves,

The garret was like that of most country houses.
Tt was rich in the wealth of the accumulated rubbish
of acentury. There was a wheel in one corner with
the flax still on the distaff, and there was a loom,
and some “‘snifts,’ and two or three old fashioned
reels, and strings of bell peppers, and bunches of
dried herbs, ana gourd shells full of pumpkin seeds;
and bustles, and hoopskirts, and bonnets of an obso-
lete style; and old hats, and coats, and tin lanterns,
and glass bottles, and demijohns, and a variety of
other rubbish.

John James had been amusing himself with eating
pumpkin seeds, and trying the strength of the bell
peppers on Dody’s eyes and nose, for some time,
but finally Dody rebelled; and besides it was getting
monotonous to see him rub his knuckles into his
smarting eyeballs and expostulate:

“Don’t now, John Todd. I say, don’t now. I'll tell
pa, I vow I will!”

“Say!” exclaimed John James, “say, boys, less git
out of this, and have some fun. I’m well enough to
travel. Less travel. Darn the stings. I wish them
bees was bottled up in benzine, and I had a match.
I say, less git out of this.”

“Father’ll be mad,” whispered George Washington,
who was still a little unsteady from haying been so
nearly burned af the stake. ‘He’ll do something to
us. He'll make us learn Bible pieces, or the cate
chism, and I’d rather die.”

“You are a little coward,” said John James, con-
temptuously. ‘“Who’s afraid of pa? He never hurt
anybody in his life. And ma’s down, she’s took pills.
When she’s took pills, she’s done for at least two
days. Less all git up, and climb out onto the wood-
shed, and slide down to the ground on that grape-
vine, and have some fun.”

“We havn’t gotno clothes up here,” said Dody.

“Don’t want any,” said John James. ‘‘Here’s the
things that old Campbell’s grandsir wore,and less put
’emm on and play ghost. We can wrap up in sheets,
and rush in and astonish the natives. heern pop
and old Campbell talking about spirits the other day,
and warn’t they courageous? You bet. Popsed he
shouldn’t be afraid of an army of spirits. He sed
there wasn’t any sucha thing as ghosts. And if
there was, he sed they was the works of the devil.
He sed he should show ’em the Bible and they’d van-
ish. But ma, she sed he’d better preach one of his

werful sermons to ‘em and they’d go double quick. |
No spirit |

a is a brick. Lord, wouldn’t they go.
that was ever built could stand one of pop’s efforts.
He'd rather go back to Gehenna, and that sort of
thing. I say, less git up and do it.”

John James, being always the leading mischief-
maker, soon ae, on the other Todds, and, light-
ing a lamp, for it was getting dark, the three boys
proceeded to array themselvesin the garments of
the transplanted Campbells.

John James’ face was still swelled beyond all re-

cognition, and to say that he looked horrible in old
Grandfather Campbell’s tall white hat and black
stock is to put it mild. Dody appeared, as of the fem-
inine sex, in a flowered calico of scrimped skirt, and
sleeves the size of flour barrels, with a white night-
cap on his head, the border of which stuck out around
his face about six inches, like the’ halos around the
heads of the painted saints.

George Washington wore a military coat and a very
long sword, which, when duly strapped round his
waist, dragged about or put behind him, and made a
noise like the tramping of an army. ;

“Golly!” cried John James, ‘“‘won’t this give the
old folks a waking up? Campbell sed he'd like to see
the ghost that would skeer him. And marm Camp-
bell sed she’d scald one in aminit. She sed she was
a Seates before she was married, and she sed the
Scateses wasn’t afraid of satan himself. She sed
they was all heroes, and the rest was heroines, And
pop, he went to bragging about how he’d been in
grave-yards after dark, and how the Lord had always
sustained him. Ma didn’t say anything. She knows
she always has to see that the doors is fastened, and
if there’s anything wanted down cellar after dark she
has to go for it. Pop has got the rhumatis in his
Eanes Easy now. Spirits always move easy, you

now.

It was little trouble to the juvenile Todds, accus-
tomed as they were to all varieties of climbing, to
get out of the window, and by the grape-vine reach
the ground. ,

John James crept round the house, and peeped in
the sitting-room window. Everything was favorable.
Rev, Tobias was tearing away on his sermon, with
his hair pushed back from his forehead, and a tum-
bler of sweetened water beside him toassist in the
inspiration; Mrs. Todd was asleep on the lounge;
three of the other Todds were experimenting on the
two cats of the household; the baby Todd was
cramming a newspaper down her throat, and facili-
tating the operation by punching away with a clothes-
pin at the sides of her fat mouth; Farmer Campbell
was chopping meat for the mince pies, and Mrs,
Campbell was peeling apples.

On the sofa, quite out of reach of the lamp-light,
Emma Campbell and young Ned Jones were engaged
in the interesting science of courting, but nothing
was heard from them beyond an occasional ‘‘te-he-
he,” which showed that matters were progressing
satisfactorily,

Suddenly the door was flung open, and in rushed
the three ghostly Todds, patente wrapped in sheets,
and standing straight and stiff as statues.

“Glory to Peter!’ yelled Farmer Campbell, getting
behind his wife, and dashing down the chopping
knife and tray indismay. “It’s grandsir; I swear it
it!”

Mrs. Campbell jumped up on the bureau, and
screamed murder at the top of her lungs.

Rey. Tobias dropped his pen, and made a dive un-
der the table.

“Lord save us!” cried he; “the sons of Belial are
upon us.”

The lovers got close together, feeling that in union
there is strength, and Mrs. Todd, roused from an un-
easy slumber, grasped her sides with both hands,
and exclaimed:

“Saints presarve us!
of nightmare!”

For about half an hour everybody, except the mis-
chief-makers, seemed to act as if there were a grand
universal upheaval, and the world had come to
an end.

Such a rushing hither and thither, stumbling over
each other, in their efforts to escape they knew not
what, was never before witnessed.

In the excitement the kerosene lamp was knocked
over and broken; dnd in an instant the streaming oil
was in flames, running here and there over the floor.

Coming partially to their senses, the Rey. Tobias
and Farmer Campbell hastily procured buckets of
water, which they unthinkingly dashed over Mrs.
Todd and the young ones. In a moment, however,
they saw their mistake, and fresh supplies of water
soon extinguished the flaines.

At last the tumult was quelled, and when the
alarmed ones had collected their senses, and learned
the cause of the excitement, the maddest person in
the group was Farmer Campbell. He was fairly
boiling with rage, and he looked savage and vindic-
tive enough at the plotters to wring their necks.
“Brother Todd,” he said to the Rev. Tobias, “if I
had such youngsters as yours, I believe I’d scald ’em,
or make ’em join the Salvation Army, or ship ’em off
to the Cannibal Islands. If there are worse imps in
infernal regions, I’d like to see a specimen
of ’em.

At this outburst the Rev. Tobias was mute. He was
aware that his cherubs had laid the last straw on the
camel's back.

The meek and philosophic clergyman was plainly
told that it was about time for him and his tribe to
“seek fresh fields and pastures new.” A week more
of such goings on, Farmer Campbell said, would drive
him and his family mad.

There was no opposing such a hint as this; and the
next morning the Rev. Tobias and. his spouse were
on their way homeward, accompanied by their rest-
less and mischief-loving OLIVE PLANTS.

[THE END.]

We take pleasure in announcing, for next week’s
issue, the beginning of a new series of humorous
articles, from the entertaining pen of

MARY KYLE DALLAS.

Our readers will find much to amuse them in the
strange adventures of the well-seasoned couple
whose droll experiences in the metropolis are
uniquely chronicled in

- THE SLOWLY PAPERS.
The Ladies’ Work Box

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

FASHION’S FANCIES.
Blouse waists are very popular.

I’m p’izened, or I’m a victim

 

Turkish toweling is used for tennis dresses.
Redingotes will be fashionable in the fall.

Some woolen street dresses have the sleeves plaited
close to the arms.

Regular old-fashioned knitting is the most popular form
of fancy work for piazzas this season.

Clusters of hops, hazel nuts, green acorns, and chest-
nut burs are among the most popular of hat trimmings.

Light-colored shoes are worn more this summer, by
men, women, and children, than ever before.

Hem-stitched tucks and clusters of fine tucks, run by
hand, trim sheer white muslin dressses for those wearing
mourning.

Velvet dog collars for ladies are again popular, and a
jeweled pendant is generally added to the velvet band.

Bands of tan and russet leather, in open work designs,
outlined with fine gilt cord, are among the most attractive
of new dress garnitures.

Dresses shirred around the waist are finished by a thick
silk cord and tassels, or they have a handsome girdle of
jet or silver.

Small-patterned cambrics with a printed border are in
favor for childrens’ dresses, the border forming a band
around the bottom of the skirt.

Japanese cotton dresses are worn by young ladies in
the country, and they come in blue and white, in quaint,
all-over designs, like the pictures on Japanese fans.

Youthful evening toilets have very slight bustles, and
are short enough in front to disclose the fancy low slip-
per, with hosiery to match, the slippers being adorned
with old-fashioned buckles.

When the officer collar is worn it is higher than ever, to
make up for the lowness of the sailor and Toby collars,
three and even four inches not being considered too high,
per the wearer has to hold her head with the greatest
stiffness.

If one have faultless arms, wrists, and hands, there
is no prettier sleeve for a house frock than the rather long
single puff gathered into a wide band of embroidery just
below the elbow.

The latest window box for flowers is a carved oak
cradle, and ancestral garrets, stripped pores aes of spin-
ning wheels and chests of drawers and stiff old uneasy
chairs, will now be called on to yield up such treasures as
they may conceal in the shape of cradles. The rockers
are left in their place, and no carved oak box will do asa
substitute,

Long Pe alpaca aprons, with ckets, are super-
seding the pretty trifles in muslin and embroidered linen.
Their primness sets off the coquettish air of the frock very
well, and is rather becoming in itself.

The demand for white watered ribbon with feathered
edges is something new at the watering-places, Colored
bows are worn on colored frocks, but white ribbons are

referred for white muslins, and there are ten white

rocks to one colored one.

Silken habits is the name which London gives 'o the
Fo or shirred garments worn under jackets. They
differ from the waistcoat in having collars to match the
habit itself, instead of collars which seem to be part of
the coat, while this collar is straight and high, and either
shirred or folded, as one prefers.

The bishop sleeve is now made very full and then
shirred about four inches from the top on the outside with
five runnings, of which the uppermost passes under the
arm. This makes a high shoulder puff, which is not un-
becoming if the figure be slender, and, as for the natural
line of the shoulder and arm, itis not going to be visible
for a little while.

The new Cadogan knot is one of the most graceful
styles of dressing the hair. There are some very light
waves on the forehead, and at the back a knot, about twice
as long vertically as itis horizontally, made by forming
the hair into one heavy braid and then pulling the strands
into puffs. Two thick half-curled tresses fall straight
from this knot, just touching the shoulder and concealin
the nape of the neck. The effect of this when worn with
a low dress is exquisitely pretty, while with a high collar
the curls are omitted.

 

 

A French device for renee dressing-room tidy is
to make a fourfold screen, the outside of which may be

as ornamental as one pleases, but which has countless
pockets on the inner surface, and also narrow shelves on
which bottles may stand. The pockets furnish places for
combs, brushes, and other useful things; a pendant
cushion holds ornamental pins; a pretty quilted and per-
fumed bag furnishes a place for the dressing jacket, and
another is provided for the slippers. In short, everything
necessary for the toilet finds a niche here, and after one
is dressed, the screen may be pulled in front of the wash-
stand, and the dressing-room turned into a sitting-room.

Dressing the dog is getting to be quite a serious mat-
ter, the regular outfit now prescribed by fashion being as
follows: rst of all he should have a traveling costume
for the baggage-car, and this should be a plain, neat
blat ket, bordered with ribbon, and ornamented with the
centile, arms. When at home, or at any watering-place,
or at the sea-side, he should have a much finer blanket, so
fitted and buttoned that it is really a little coat, and that
blanket should have a pocket for sugar, and another for
his little handkerchief. His coHar should be of leather,
with gold or silver knobs and bells, or else set with beads
of the new frosted nickel, which looks like Roman pearls,
while his bracelets are uf gold, and their settings may be
of any precious stone.

Jennie B., Brooklyn, N. Y.—Maiden-hair fern leaves,
ivy, rose petals, and a little cresson or pale olive-green
velvet are used to decorate summer bonnets of tucked
silk muslin or shirred tulle, while cream-white is used in-
stead of blue-white. White oriental lace is finely plaited
and laid in rows on frames of small, fish wife poke bonnets.
In front is a high double shell-shaped plaiting of the lace,
with a bunch of giltand pearl wheat in the center, and
the brim is covered with black, olive, or golden-brown
velvet, shirred into a full puff just over the peak in front.
Persian lace, in rich broche effects and colorings, and
also metal laces and ornaments, are used for dress bon-
nets, or merely fer the brims, while in these, gilt and sil-
ver insertions are alternated with pretty effects, and the
bonnet is transparent. A trellis pattern of fine pearl
beads forms a charming bonuet over mauve, ciel blue, or
cream crape, with tucks drawn up into shirrs, in great
fullness inside the crown. Fine-cut jet trellis designs,
ever Roman red tulle, form ideal bonnets for brunettes
with a clear olive complexion. .

Mrs. J. C. E.—Jackets in various lengths and long
wraps will be worn for fall and winter, and also mantles
of the material of the dress will be popular. <A feature of
the new long cloaks for winter is the Russian collar of
fur, in shawl shape, lapped over irregularly in front.
There will be an effort to introduce the three-quarter
lengths in jackets; and matelasse silks, in large tapestry
patterns, plushes, and velvets, trimmed with fur, will be
popular for the winter,

Constant Reader, Bridgeport, Conn.—ist. ‘Vails are
worn to drop below the chin. 2d. When there is a point
at the back of the corsage, the fullness of the skirt is
gathered to it.

Helen A., Staten Island._We can send you a book en-
titled ‘‘The Poet’s Companion ; or, Rhyming Dictionary,”
for twenty-five cents.

Inquirer.—A small book on short-hand, entitled ‘‘The

Phonographic Teacher,’ can be furnished for thirty
cents.

Daisy.—In the language of flowers, a bachelor’s button
signifies that the giver is “single and selfish.”

oo

Pleasant Paragraphs.

The Curved Ball.
The pitcher had a little ball,
It was as white as snow,
And where the striker thought it was
The ball it wouldn’t go. }
It had a sudden in-curve shoot,
It had a fearful drop,
And when the striker wildly struck,
The ball it wouldn’t stop.

Ruffling an Elderly Bride.

Old Lady (to elderly bride on wedding-trip)—“‘That
young man who just went into the smokin’-car seems
wery fond o’ you, ma’am.”

Elderly Bride—‘‘Ah, yes,
dearly.”

Old Lady—‘‘It does my old heart good to see sech
affection these days. Is he the only son ye got,
ma’am?”’

John loves me most

Abuse of Privilege.

“T will be frank and truthful with you, my dar-
ling,” said George Himself, tenderly, “as I always
intend to be after we are married. You are not beau-
tiful, but you have more good sense than all the
pretty girls I know put together.”

“And I, too, will be frank and truthful,” replied
Amanda Herself, for it was she. ‘You don’t know
as much as a last-year’s bird’s nest, but you have a
larger mouth and keep it open longer at a time than
any man I ever saw.”

She smiled like an angel when she ceased to speak,
and somehow George Himself began to wonder
whether this franking privilege couldn’t be carried

to excess.
All Full.
New Arrival—“I want a bed.”
Clerk—‘‘Can’t have one, sir; they’e all full.”
N. A.—“‘Then I’ll sleep with the landlord.”
Clerk—‘‘Can’t do it, sir. He’s full, too; fuller than
a goat, and has been for three days.”

A Pair of Spare Legs.

A littie girl was standing at the station to see her
father and a gentleman friend off, when she suddenly
observed to her father, referring to his friend, who
was tall and lank:

“If the train runs off the line and any legs are
broken, I hope they’ll be Mr. H.’s.”

“What’s that for?’ said the startled H.

“Because,” she added, artlessly, ‘Aunt Mary says
you have 4 pair of spare legs.”

The arrival of the train prevented any explanation.

An Accommodating Landlord.

At one of the country hotels, after the fourth or
fifth execrable meal, I determined to speak to the
landlord. He was a mild-mannered man, and I beck-
oned him out behind the house and began with:

“Say, do you realize that you are keeping one of
the poorest, meanest hotels in all Tennessee ?”

“Why. no!” he exclaimed, in great surprise.

“You have the poorest beds I ever slept in, and I’ve
slept in a hog-pen once or twice.”

“You don’t say!”

“Your cook ought to be killed with a club, and your
cross-eyed waiter should have been in the grave long

zo.”’
“Well! well!”

“How you have managed to get along and keep the
place beats me. I don’t want to be mean, but I want
to ask you if you can’t improve things a little?”

“T can, and [ll cheerfully do it, sir.”

“It’s for your benefit to please your guests, of
course !”

“Of course it is, and I’m bound to doit. Dll make
an improvement in less than half an hour.”

In about twenty minutes he came around to me on
et veranda, smiling and rubbing his hands and
said:

“Well, I’ve made it. I’ve cut the cook’s wages
down a dollar a month and swapped that cross-eyed
nigger waiter off for a lame wench! Bet your life
things have got to go different here, if it costs every
cent Itakein. Can you suggest anything else.”

it Makes Him Indifferent.

A leading physician invariably prescribes for his
patients one dish and one glass of wine. The other
evening he chanced to find himself dining with a
patient on one hand and a stanch teetotaler upon the
other. The patient, who through many weary weeks
had followed the dreary curriculum of a dish and a
glass, watched the physician to see in what manner
he dined, but was highly incensed to find that the
doctor ate and drank heartily of everything that
came before him. At last he burst forth:

“Well, sir, you certainly do not practice what you
preach. Why, you have eaten of everything on the
menu.”

“Yes, yes,” said the doctor, testily ; ‘“‘but what is a.

man to do who runs about all day, and comes home
at night with thirty or forty letters to answer? He
must have a bottlo of champagne.”

Here the teetotaler burst in angrily, saying:

“But, doctor, do you mean to tell me that a man is
better able to answer thirty or forty letters when he
has had a bottle of chainpagne ?”’

“No,” said the doctor, ‘but when he has had a bottle
of champagne he does not care a snap whether they
are answered or not.”

She Had Heard It in French.

“Tsn’t that beautiful ?” said a young traveling man
‘to Mrs. De Porque, as the orchestra finished playing
the “‘Marsellaise.” “There is something so sublime
and soul-stirring about that grand old air.” ‘

“Yes,” responded Mrs. De Porque, languidly. “Bu
you should have been with me to Paris and heard it
played in French.”

An Opportunity for Both.

“T cannot give you a definite answer to-night, Mr.
Paperwate,” said the girl, softly; “you must give me
a month to think it over.”

“Very well,” was the young man’s response; “and
in the meantime I can think it over myself.”

He Got More Than Even.

“Good-morning, Mr. Gubbins,” said Pat, whose oc-
cupation was that of taking care of horses.

“T don’t want you to speak to me, sir, nor any other
fellow who grooms a horse for a living,’ was the un-
gentlemanly reply.

_ “Oh, you don’t, eh?’ said Pat. “Shure, an’ bedad,
it’s yersilf that grooms an old jackass, or else ye neg-
lect yersilf shamefully.. Good-mornin’, Mr. Gubbins.”

A Husband’s Little Game.

The wife of a loving Boston husband usually leaves
him for a week during the summer, and he always
promises to write to her every day. Now, the un-
necessary trouble in this busy business life of having
a love-letter composed by mail time is considerable,
not to mention the unexpected calls upon his time
which might embarrass him, and so the very night
of her departure he writes six letters—one for each

 

day—seals, directs, and stamps them, and

laces
them on his desk, with orders to his oetae B

oy to

 

'
mail one each day. This plan has worked gloriously

for years. But, alas! the son of the family has
knocked the little scheme sky high. He went to his
father’s office one day this week, found the heap of
letters ready for daily service, saw the point, and
wickedly mailed the whole squad. Explanations
were difficult, but they had to be made, and now the
little wife will hereafter require strong proof to con-
vince her that day and date are identical.

An Explanation Desirable.

He was doing very nicely in the parlor, when a sol-
oon ere came through the open window from the
porch:

“That young man makes me very tired.”

“Don’t be alarmed, Mr. Sampson,” said the girl, as
he hastily started up; “it is only Polly, our parrot.”

“T understand it’s the parrot,” he replied; ‘but I
would like to know who taught her to talk?”

Too Much Shortening.
Miss Rural (watching the promenaders)—“Who is
that curious little man—almost a dwarf?’
Mrs. Metropole (shocked)—*Why, my dear, that’s
Hubert Highlife, He’s the very upper crust.”
Miss Rural—‘“‘He is? Then they putin a great deal
too much shortening.” ‘

He Succumbed,

Ed—Do you love me, Lena?”

Lena—“I think so. TI dream of you every night.”

Ed—What is your dream ?”

Lena—“I see you at Tiffany’s, looking at diamond
rings.” :

The Tramp’s Argument.

Woman (to tramp)—‘I don’t see how you kin eatin
such hot weather. I don’tswaller enough to keep a
bird alive.”

Tramp puso away the last morsel)—‘‘Madam,
poor people have to put up with a great deal.”

ete s’pose 80. Now can’tyou saw a little
wood ?”

Tramp (reproachfully) —‘‘Madam, if you think it is
too hot to eat, it is certainly too hot to saw wood—
woman is nothing if not inconsistent.”

An Unlicensed Poet.

Youth—‘‘I’ve got some poetry here I’d like to have
you look over.”

Editor—‘‘Yes, sir.
you?”

Youth—‘‘My license ?”’

Editor—*Yes; your poetic license.”

Youth—‘N-n no. I didn’t know I had to have one.”
Editor—‘‘We never look over poetry without first see-
ing the poet’s license. Good-day.”

How He Began Life. i

Missouri Citizen—*Good-morning, Mr. X. Pounder.
I came over to see if I could get you to preach a
funeral sermon to-morrow afternoon.”

Rey. Mr, X. Pounder—“I think I will be able to.
Who is dead ?”

“James Cooper, one of our oldest and most re-
spected citizens ’”

“Was he a native of this state?”

“Yes, born here and lived here all his life. Owns a
eae deal of property. He’s always beena very in-

Have you got your license with

uential citizen.’ y \
‘ “Had some connection with the railroads, I be-
ieve. ;
- “Yes; in fact, he began life as a train robber.”

A Milesian’s Mishap. ‘

“How did you come to shvot yourself in the left
hand?” asked the surgeon, as he dressed Dennis
O’Toole’s wound. .

“Faith, an’ I’ll tell yez, sorr. Ye see, I was a lukin’
for Jerry Madigan, and whin he kum it was sorter
dark, and I wasn’t. sure whether it was Jerry Madi-
gan or Pat Mulhooly. SolI claps me hand on the
muzzle of the pistol, begorrah, so as to wing him if
it was Jerry and miss himif it was Pat. That was
how, sorr.”’

The Girl With a Huge Appetite.
“There was a young lady named Mand,
Suspected of being a fraud;
And the sat at the table,
To eat was scarce able;
But in the back pantry, oh! Laud!

Sport for the Summer Boarder.

Rural Boy—‘Say, pop, that new summer boarder
from Philadelphia has been fishing in the pond for
most a week, and I’m ’fraid he’s gettin’ discour-

”

aged.”

Pop—“That won’t do. You drive over to town to-
plait and buy another fish. Maybe the one we put
in last week is dead.”

A Hereditary Disease.

A correspondent writes that a hydrocephalic child
was born to an ultra Prohibitionist father, who said
to the doctor:

“Whatis the matter with my child 2?”

“Why, it has inherited its disease from you.”

“What do you mean ?” Bs

“Why, it has water on the brain.”

Humorous Brevities.

Stranger (addressing an old colored bricklayer)—
“Uncle, who’s building this house?’ Colored Brick-
layer—‘‘Mr. Hirshbug he build de house, but Queen
Anne she drawed de plan.”

A “grass” widow always knows how to “make
hay,” whether the sun shines or not. ©

Minister (called upon to marry a young lady to an
effeminate dude)—*To avoid all mistakes, please
state which of you is the bride.”

Lightning struck a gilt angel over the sign of a
saloon keeper in Chicago the other night. That
lightning must have struck an angel unawares. It
certainly could not have been looking for angels in
Chicago.

_ Whatever may be said of jewelry and Winter cloth-
ing, it is not considered at allimproper to soak your
bathing suit.

Wendell Phillips once gave the advice: “Never
calla man a liar.” Wenever do. It is much more
polite and just as true to call him a gas meter.

Husband—“T’ve some bad news, my dear; that old
bachelor brother of mine has failed—lost his entire
fortune.” Wife—Oh, John, how dreadful! and just
Rie had named the baby after him. Poor little
ellow !” ;

“Yes,” said Quiggles, “I have a good deal on my
hands just now.” “So I perceive,” replied Fogg;
“why don’t you try some soap and water?”

Bobby and Flossie were playing “boarding-house,”
with Flossie in the role of applicant. **Have you any
parents?” inquired Bobby, with great stiffness of
manner. “Yes, sir, two,” replied Flossie, timidly.
“Sorry, ma’am; but we never take children who
have parents.” f

Wife (with her head out of the second-story win-
dow, to husband at front door)—‘‘Can’t you find the
keyhole, Henry?’ Henry (doubtfully) — “No, m’
dear. You mush've took ’tup stairsh wis you.”

The devii gets the bulge on the clergy in the sum-
mer time, and no wonder. He’s used to hot weather
and doesn’t mind it a bit; but the ministers have to
go to the mountains or seek the sea-shore to cool off.

Mother—“Johnny, you musn’t play with Willie
Brown any more.” Johnny—‘*Why not, mamma?”
Mother—‘‘Because he is a bad little boy.” Johnny—
“Well, mamma, I ain’t so doggone good myself that
you ought to be kickin’.”’

Judges are men who lay down the law, and some of
them are not able to pick it up again when they are
obliged to go out to practice it for a living.

Texas Judge—‘What’s the charge?” Plaintiff—
“The prisoner stole a horse.” ‘Then he mustang.”
The judge falls, pierced by sixteen bullets.

¢

——_>-——

READY WIT,

None of the professions seems more devoted to
ready wit than that of the law; and, judging from
the following story, this devotion is of no recent
origin. It is related that on one occasion Sir Nicholas
Bacon, an English judge, was about to pass judg-
ment upon aman who had been guilty of robbery,
at that time punishable by death; but the culprit
pleaded for mercy on the ground that he was related
to the judge. ‘How is that?’ he was asked. “My
lord,” was the reply, “your name is Bacon, and mine
is Hog, and hog and bacon have always been con-
sidered akin.” ‘“Thatis true,” answered Sir Nicholas;
“but as hog is not bacon until it has hung, until you
are hanged you are no relation of mine.”

Still more to the point is an anecdote told regard-
ing two opposing lawyers. The counsel for the de-
fense was so severe upon the prosecutor that the lat-
ter rose and asked: ‘Does the learned counsel think
me a fool?” The retort was prompt: “My friend
wishes to know if I consider him a fool; and in reply
to his question, I can only say that I am not pre-
pared to deny it.”

There are many instances of passages at arms be-
tween bench and bar, but this one may be new to
most of our readers. At the close of a lengthened
wrangle between a judge and a prominent counsel.
the former said: ‘Well, sir, if you do not know how
to conduct yourself as a gentleman, I am suré I can’t
teach you.” To which the lawyer mildly replied:
“That is so, my lord.”

Occasionally, however, the votaries of the law
have the tables turned upon them, as in the case of
the lawyer who, driving along a country road, asked
a woman who was going in the same direction the
way to his destination. She told him, and added
that, as she was going part of the journey, she would
point out the way. ‘All right, my good woman,”
said the lawyer; ‘jump up—better bad company
than none.” After going some miles, the woman
thanked him for the drive and descended, and he

asked how much farther he had to go. “Oh,” she
answered, ‘“‘you passed the place gor want two or
three miles back; but as I thought bad company bet-
ter than none, I brought you on.” The legal gentle-
man certainly deserved the lesson, and it is hoped
that he profited by it. : i

Elections usually afford a good field for the exer-
cise of wit. While a well-known politician was con-
ducting his canvass, he met a bully, who declared
fiercely that he would “sooner vote for the devil
than for him.” “I’ve not the slightest doubt of it,
my friend,” said the candidate, quietly; ‘‘but in the
event of your friend not coming forward, may I count
on your vote?”

ere is another of the same kind. At an open
political meeting a man cried, “Hurrah for Jackson!”
to which a bystander retorted, “Hurrah for a jack-
ass!” “All right, my man,” exclaimed the first
speaker; “you can hurrah for your favorite candi-
date, and I'll do the same for mine.”

An enviable quickness of repartee was shown by a
French actor when the head of a goose was thrown
upon the stage. Advancing to the footlights, he
said : ‘Gentlemen, if any one among you has lost his
oe I shall be glad to restore it at the conclusion of

e piece.”

Of wit bordering on the malicious there are many
examples, and some of the repartees are fully de-
served, while others are only calculated to give pain.
Among the latter is one told at the expénse of an
elderly French widow who had fallen in love with a
young nobleman, whom she was never tired of prais-

ng to her friends. as “handsome as one of Dumas’
‘Three Guardsmen.’” “Yes,” said a lady who heard
ner, and who was possibly jealous; ‘‘he is the guards-
man, and you are ‘Twenty Years After.’”

Mueh more merited than the above, probably, was
the answer given by Foote to a dissipated acquaint-
ance who asked him in what new character he should
go to a masquerade: “Go sober!”

A‘man about town” said toa young lady: ‘No,
I’m not esi’ J engaged, but I have the refusal of
two or three girls.” e undoubtedly deserved the
crushing rejoinder: “I suppose you mean you have
asked them and they have said ‘No.’”

Ready wit cannot be said to be natural to youth,
for the answers given by precocious schoolboys are
not always witty, being usually the outcome either
of misunderstanding or of “cheek.” There are ex-
ceptions, however, to this rule. A teacher asked his
class what was meant by ‘divers diseases,” and was
rather surprised when one of the boys answered,
“Water in the head.”

A little dot of a girl inquired of her mother the
meaning of ‘‘trans-Atlantic,” and was told ‘*Across
the Atlantic.” ‘Does ‘trans’ always mean ‘cross,’
mamma?” she then asked. ‘‘Yes,” replied her mother,
“but don’t bother me any more.” ‘Then I guess
‘transparent? means a cross parent,” was the con
clusion the unconscious little humorist came to as
she relapsed into silence.

During the last half of the eighteenth century
British politicians often tested the value of money in
controlling elections, and the party in office frequent-
ly kept themselves in power by bribing and corrupt-
ing members of Parliament; and this was the case
during the debates on the India Bill, when the oppo-
sition, led by Fox, found its majorities steadily de-
creasing. This, it was known, was the work of the
Secretary of the Treasury, John Robinson, who used
both places and money to carry out the ministerial
policy. One evening Sheridan, speaking of the de-
crease, said: ‘This is not to be wondered at, Mr.
Speaker, when a member is employed to corrupt
everybody to obtain votes.”—‘‘Who is it? Name him
or withdraw!” rose fiercely from all parts of the
House. Sheridan saw that he was in a predicament,
but he was equal to the emergency. ‘Sir,’ he said,
“it would be an unpleasant and an invidious thing to
name the person, and therefore I shall not do it.
But don’t suppose, sir, that I refrain because there is
any difficulty in naming him; I could do that, sir, as
soon as you could say Jack Robinson,”

Sheridan's ready wit was equaled some years ago
by another prominent politician on the occasion of
the Derby being won by a French horse. The French-
men present, as was natural, cheered yociferously,
and not content with that, one of them shouted,
“Waterloo avenged !’—Yes,” said the statesman,
who happened to hear the remark, “you ran well in
both cases.”

 

an
o-

Items of Interest,

For many months the depredations of a man-eating
tiger has alarmed the residents of a settlement about a
hundred miles from Calcutta. It was determined to at-
tempt to capture the beast alive, and therefore a deep pit
was dug, and in it placed alive bullock as bait. In two
days the unsuspecting but voracious brute scented the
bullock, came prowling around, and jumped into the pit.
In three minutes the bullock was writhing in its death-

_| agony. To capture the tiger, a second pit was dug near

the first and of the same depth. From this a tunnel was
run to the first pit, a thin wall of earth being left between
the end of the tunnel and the pit. A strong bamboe cage
was pushed into the tunnel from the secend pit. A goat
was placed in the cage, and the wall of earth was broken
down. The tiger sprang upon the goat, the entrance to
the cage was quickly closed, and the beast was fast, and
staid so until he was safe in Calcutta.

Some folks in the neighborhood of Canonsburg, Pa.,
where there is a gas well of unusual volume and force,
fear that the supply of gas is so great that it will cause a
disturbance of the earth’s crust at that point. Already
it possesses the greatest registered pressure of any in
the world. The gas looks like a solid piece of blue steel
for some distance after it comes outof the pipe. Sold
masonry twelve feet thick surrounds the well to hold the
cap on. When in drilling the gas was struck, tools and
rope weighing 5,000 pounds were sent whirling out
through the air as thongh they were feathers.

Miss Jennie Wehle, of this city, is the daughter of
a millionaire. There is no need for her to work, yet she
isemployed daily as the type-writer for Thomas L. James,
president of the Lincoln Bank. She has a delightful

home, with every luxury; but so fond is she of type-

writing that she has declined more than one flattering
proposal of marriage because she knew that in order to
marry she would have to give up the occupation of a
type-writer. :

Somebody told a man in the Catskills that lime was
an excellent thing to purify water. He therefore emptied
about twelve pecks of lime into his well. There chanced
to be only a few feet of water in the well at the time, and
since then he has been selling to his neighbors an excel
lent article of whitewash, at the rate of two buckets for a
cent, and walking a mile and a half to the creek to get
drinking water for his family.

A little bird flying in and out of the back window
of her house attracted the attention of a lady in North
Gainesville, Florida. When it came again it passed
through several rooms, and finally settled on the parlor
“what-not,” in a retired corner. There the lady found a
nest with four eggs in it, and the undisturbed bird is in-
dustriously engaged in warming the eggs into life.

A new glass recently invented in Sweden is said to
be capable, when made into a lens for a miscroscope, of
“enabling us to distinguish the 204,700,000th part of an
inch.” Itis also said that there is great promise of this
glass producing wonderfully powerful telescope lenses,
and a new departure in astronomy. ;

Something new in the way of electricity has been
invented by an Englishman. It is an electric gun, in the
stock of which there is a small storage battery, with a
current strong enough to explode the cartridge. Five
thousand cartridges can be exploded with one charging
of the cell,

The negro is a great philosopher. Old John Sprad-
ler, of Smithville, Ga., had just paid up the last dollar on
the mule he bought last spring, when suddenly the ani-
mal died, leaving him a financial wreck. On being sym-
pathized with, he said, “Well, his time come ter go, sah
an’ I radder him dan me.”

A train on the London and North-western Railroad,
on August 6th, made the run between London and Edin-
burgh, 400 miles, including stops, in7 hours and 25 min-
utes. This was an average of over 53% miles an hour.

Experiments made by a crazy electrician in Paris
have been so satisfactory that he is confident of his
ability to produce thunder-storms whenever desired, and
wherever the people want them.

A Western man is making afortune by advertising
“Jovers’ ink” for sale, the peculiarity being that the
writing vanishes in twelve hours, leaving the paper
blank.

_ Achurch organ has recently been constructed at
Milan whose pipes are made of paper pulp instead of
metal. It has 1,400 pipes, and isan instrument of great
power and sweetness of tone.

When a preacher in Hutchinson, Kan., announced
as his text last Sabbath, ““Ye are the salt of the earth,”
the congregation rose simultaneously and indulged in
prolonged cheering.

A telegraph cable between Canada and Australia
is about to be laid. It will take three years to complete
the work, and the length of the cable will be 7,500 miles.

Bricks to the number of one million a day are

’

 

made in Denver.