“AN IRISH MONTE CRISTO,” Complete in No. 1 of Street & Smith’s Sea and Shore Series,

Ask your News
Dealer for. it.

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year

1888. 2y Sireer & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

Enterea at the Post Office, New York, as

Second Class Matter.

 

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

Too long have we been parted—
Come back to me!
I’m lonely, broken-hearted—
Come back to me!
I tread familiar bowers,
But scentless are the flowers,
And weary are the hours—
Come back te me!

Think of your promise broken—
Come back to me!

Your words of love once spoken—
Come back to me!

Hearts truly pledged forever

No thoughtless word should sever,

The past we’ll think of never—
Come back to me!

I’ve loved since first I met thee—
Come back to mé!
I never can forget thee—
Come back to me!
With looks of love I’ll meet thee,
With words of love I’ll greet thee;
Relent, then, I entreat thee—
Come back to me!

i

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

 

 

 

{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.}

GEOFFREY'S VICTORY

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

(““GEOFFREY’S VICTORY” was commenced in No. 16.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER XXXIII.—(CONTINUED.)

Geoffrey departed with a bounding heart, yet hardly
able to realize the good fortune that had so unex-
pectedly fallen to his lot.

He found Gladys in the music-room, running
through some new pieces which he had purehased
for her the day before.

He went up to her, captured the two small hands
that were evoking such sweet strains from the piano,
and drew her to a small sofa that stood near.

‘““My darling, I have a very important communi-

cation to make to you,” he said, bending toward her |

and fondly touching her forehead with his lips.

“**Very important?” she repeated, archly.
look as if it was very pleasant, too.”

“Tt is tome, and [I hope it will prove the same to
you. What do you suppose our paterfamilias has
been proposing to me this morning?” the young
man asked, with a luminous face.

The beautiful girl thought a moment before reply-
ing, the quick color leaping to her cheeks.

“T believe I can guess it,’ she exclaimed, clasping
her hands with a gesture of delight. ‘‘Oh, Geoffrey,
is he going to take us all to Europe? Thatisit!’’ she
added, exultantly, “I know by your tell-tale face.
How perfectly charming!”

Geoffrey smiled wisely.

‘You have guessed too much and too little, my sun-
beam,” he said.

‘What aparadoxical statement! my learned Bache-
lor of Arts! I expected better things of you,” re-
torted Gladys, merrily.

“You have yet to find my statement true, in spite of
the seeming paradox,” he replied, with mock dignity.
‘‘Somebody is going to Europe—we are not all going,
however.”

*‘Oh, Geoff! you are not to be left at home, are you?”
eried his betrothed, in a disappointed tone, her face
paling at the thought.

“Guess again, my lady,” he said, teasingly.

“Well, I know that papa would not go without
mamma, and I am sure she would never cross the
ocean without him, and they certainly would not

You

take such a trip and leave me behind,” responded |

Gladys, with a puzzled air.

«Plato, thou reasonest well,’” quoted Geoffrey, an |

amused twinkle in his eyes; ‘‘and not to keep you

 

 

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Three Dollars Per Year,
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No. 30.

color all gone from his own face, his lips sternly
compressed.

Without making the slightest noise he stole from
the veranda, picked up his shoes, and hurried from

| the place.

Outside the gate, he paused long enough to replace
his shoes on his feet, when he again mounted his
horse and rode quietly away. s

Half an hour later Colonel Mapleson emerged from

| the front door of the cottage, and, afterlooking cau-

 

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longer in suspense, I will inform you that Uncle | t ] l
| trousseau and preparations for the grand reception,

August has some business abroad, which, as he can-

not make up his mind to the voyage, he thinks I can |}

attend to, and he has proposed that I take you along
with me. We are to have a six months’ trip, combine
business with pleasure, and get all the enjoyment we
can out of it.”

Gladys gave one startled, astonishece glance at her
lover’s face as he concluded, and then her face
clouded and her eyes dropped beneath his.

“Did—papa propose that to you?’ she asked, ina
low tone, a burning blush suffusing her face.

“Yes, dear. He said you had long wanted to go

They discussed their anticipated trip fully and
| freely after this, laid out their route, and formed
| many a pleasant plan for the coming years.

| The whole family held a council that evening, and
it was decided that preparations for the wedding
should be entered upon immediately, and that the

the steamer on which the young couple would em-
bark for Europe.

Mr. and Mrs. Huntress found it somewhat trying
to contemplate the loneliness which they knew would
follow the departure of their children, but they be-
lieved that the arrangement would be for their in-
terest and happiness, and they would not mar their
joy by giving expression to any feeling of sorrow or
regret.

Geoffrey at once entered upon his duties, and with
an enthusiasm and energy that promised well for the
future; while Mrs. Huntress and Gladys busied them-

marriage should occur just previous to the sailing of
i

selves about the interesting mysteries of a wedding |

that was to follow the marriage ceremony in Plym-
outh Church somewhere about the last of December
or the first of January.

A * * * * * *

While all these events were transpiring in Brook-
lyn, Everet Mapleson was living ina state of de-

| pression and unrest in his beautiful home near Rich- |

mond.

_ After his trip to that mining district in New Mex
ico, where he had visited the grave and former home
of Annie Dale, he returned immediately to Vue de

was very young and only visited Uncle Jabez during
my vacation—you know he sent me to Baltimore to
school. Uncle Jabez gave them a cottage rent free,
and gave them something beside to help eke out a
small annuity that Mrs. Dale had, and that was all
they had to live upon until they opened a small
private school. After I came into possession of the
estate I allowed them to remain in the cottage, the
same as before, although they would not accept from
me the money that they had received |from Uncle
Jabez—they were very proud.”

“Then that cottage belongs[to you?’ Everet re-
marked.

sO8.”

“Has it ever been occupied since the Dales left
it?”

dno ”

 

“To whom does the furniture belong ?’

“How do you know that itis furnished?’ Colonel
Mapleson asked, turning around and glancing sharply
| at his son.

Everet colored.

“T was riding by there one day and felt a curiosity

| to look inside the house eo

“But the curtains are all drawn,’ interrupted his
father.

“True; but I managed to get a glimpse for all that,”
the young man returned, lightly, although he did not
eare to tell just how he had learned that the house
was furnished. ‘By the way,” he continued, ‘‘there

| is some strange story about the disappearance of Mrs.
| Dales’ daughter, isn’t there ?”’

HE BEHELD THAT WHICH RIVETED HIM SPELL-BOUND TO THE SPOT.

|

| that was nailed to the frame.

 

am convinced there are more concealed somewhere |
else.”

“T do not see what the man could have been think- |
ing of, if he was in his right mind, to hide his prop- |
erty in such a way, without leaving some clew to it! |
How could he expect his heir would ever be benefited |
by his money, when what represented it was con- |
cealed in that secret compartment?” said Everet, |
impatiently.

“That is a question, and the act was only one of the
many queer things that made the man what he was,”
replied his father.

‘“‘What will you do with these papers?” the young
man inquired.

“T do not know what to do with them,” returned the
colonel, a perplexed frown on his brow.

“Who would inherit the property in case the direct
legatee cannot be found ?”

“T suppose I am the nearest of kin,” said Colonel |
Mapleson. “It was so decided when the question as |
to who should inherit the Hermitage and land be-
longing to him, came up after his death.”

“Then all this money will be yours also, if neither
Annie Dale nor any of her heirs can be found ?’ said
Everet, with suppressed eagerness.

“T suppose it will; but .

“But what?’

“T do not want it, Everet; I have enough without
it. I would much prefer that the rightful heir should
have it.”

“T suppose you will advertise for Annie Dale, or
for her nearest of kin?’ Everet said, bending a keen

| while

tiously around, as if he was afraid of being observed,
he passed quickly down the steps out of the gate,
carefully closing it after him, and then strode rapid-
ly toward a thick growth of trees and bushes, behind
which he had fastened his horse.

Springing into his saddle, he spoke sharply to the
animal and rode away ata brisk trotin the opposite
direction from that which Everet had taken a little
while before.

But at the end of a mile or so, he turned abruptly
into another cart path, and, after nearly an hour's
ride, came in sight of the Hermitage.

Dismounting, he led his horse behind the house
into the dilapidated stable, where he would be shel-
tered andconcealed from sight, if any one chanced to
pass that way, and then he made his own way inside
the Hermitage. ;

It was evident, from all his movements, that he

| had come there with some settled purpose, for he
| drew a hammer and chisel from one of his peckets,
| and then commenced a systematic examination of
| the room that had been Robert Dale’s sanctum.

But it proved to be a rather discouraging under-

| taking, for there was very little about the room to

suggest a place of concealment for anything of a

| valuable character.

There was so little wood work about the house that
there was not much chance for secret panels or clos-
ets. The doors were of oak—solid oak, for he tested
them thoroughly with his hammer. The book-cases

| offered not the slightest evidence of any hiding-place;
| the desk he examined several times, finding the com-

partment of which Everet had told him, but no other,

| although he critically examined every portion of it.

The floor was of brick, paved in herring-bone pat-
terns, but there was no indication thata single one
had ever been removed for any purpose whatever,
although he inspected the whole surface with the
utmost care. Atlast, wearied out with his fruitless
efforts, he sat down in the chair before the desk, to
rest and to think.

“T am confident,” he muttered, “that the man must
have made a will, and that there are other papers

| existing, representing a large amount of property. I

believe he cunningly concealed them during his life-
time, thinking that when he came to die he would
have warning enough to enable’ him to confide his
secret to some trustworthy person.”

He looked up at the ceiling; he closely scrutinized
the window-casings and the fire-place. But there
wasn’t a crack nor a crevice that promised a revela-
tion of any kind.

Suddenly an idea struck him, and he hastily arose
from his chair:

It was a stout office chair, cushioned with leather
He turned it bottom
side up. Nothing but solid wood met his gaze.

He setit upright again and passed his hand over
the cushion. It wasspringless and to all appearance
had never been disturbed since it was tirst nailed to
the chair.

After thinking a moment, Colonel Mapleson took
his jackknife from his pocket and deliberately cut
the cover entirely off

Only ascant layer of curled hair lay underneath,
closely matted and filled with dust. He removed
this, and instantly an exclamation of satisfaction
escaped him, for there, in the bottom of the chair,
he had discovered a square lid, so cunningly and
smoothly fitted in its place that no one would ever
have suspected it was there.

A tiny leather strap indicated how it was to be
lifted from its place. He eagerly removed it and,
underneath, discovered a small japanned trunk
about twelve inches square.

It was the work of but a moment to take it from
its cunning place of concealment, where it had lain
undisturbed for so many years, and set it upon the
desk before him.

Then he sat down again and gravely looked at it,
he actually trembled with excitement and
drops of perspiration stood all over his face.

It was strange that the unearthing of another
man’s secrets should affect him thus, and it almost
seemed as if he shrank with a sort of superstitious
terror from examining the contents of that inoffen-
sive-looking trunk.

At length he raised the hasp and threw back the
lid. The first thing that met his eye was a document
labeled, *‘ Will of Robert Dale, with the date, showing
that it had been made only a very few years previous
to the man’s death.

With a slight shiver of repugnance, Colonel Maple-
son laid it unopened on the desk.

Underneath he found{several bank-books and cer-
tificates, all in Robert Dale’s name. Then to his as-
tonishment he found a lady’s kid glove that once
had been white; a handkerchief, fine and sheer,
edged with soft lace, and marked with the initials
“N. D.,’? worked with in hair. A little package, con-
taining a few faded flowers, lay at the bottom of the
trunk, and the secret of Robert Dale’s hermit life,
and of the disposal of fis property, was a*secret no
longer.

An examination of the bank-books and certificates
revealed the fact that many thousands of dollars
would fall to Robert Dale’s heir or heirs, whoever
they might be,and that point doubtless the will would
settle.

abroad, and he thought this would bea fine oppor-
tunity for both of us. Doesn't the idea please you?’

Geotfrey knew well enough what was passiig in
her mind, but he was so jubilant and so confident of
the issue of the interview that a spirit of mischief

l’Eau, where he remained, appearing very little like | ‘‘Yes, I believe so; she went away somewhere to
the free and easy student who had been so full of | $¢t_a place as governess, and, as she never came
life and hope at the conelusion of his college course. | back, people imagined there was some mystery about
Colonel Mapleson and his wife returned from New- it.’
port about the same time, and both wondered what |

look upon his father,

“T don’t know. I shall have to think the matter
over first—perhaps consult my lawyer about it,”
Colonel Mapleson replied, nfeditatively.

Colonel Mapleson replaced the contents of the
trunk just as he had found them, until he came to
the will, which he held irresolutely in his hands for a

“Whatis your theory regarding it?” Everet asked long time and apparently absorbed in thought.

 

 

possessed him to tease her a little.

“T should love to: go abroad—I have always longed
to go, as papa says,’ Gladys anwered gravely, and
with still downcast eyes; “but—I do not think I can
go without papaand mamma.”

“Why!” returned Geoffrey, in pretended surprise. |
“Uncle August thought, as you and I were both fresh |

from school, we should appreciate and enjoy the
sight-seeing much better to go together.”

“It would be lovely, but—Geoff, you know I cannot
go—so,”’ she persisted, with a crimson face, and a sus-
spicious tremor in her voice.

He gathered her close into his arms, and laid her
head against his breast.

“Darling, forgive me for teasing you,” he said.
“Of course you cannot go—‘so’; but, Gladys, will you
go with me as my wife ?”’

He could feel the quick bounding of her heart at
this unexpected proposition, and he knew well enough
that she would raise no more objections to the trip
abroad.

He then repeated the conversation that had passed
between her father and himself that morning, telling
her how surprised he had been at the plan, and how,
at first, he had hardly felt it right to adopt it, con-
sidering his rather doubtful positionin life. Still, he
had reasoned, if he could save Mr. Huntress from a
dreaded journey in the dead of winter, and if his
services were to be worththe generous sum he had
named as his salary, he might feel justified in waving
his own scruples and in accépting the great happi-
ness offered him, though he never would have
dreamed of proposing such a measure himself.

“My Gladys,” he said, in conclusion, “it is very
sudden, and there is only a little time before I must
go. Will you come with me, or must I go by my-
self ?”’

There was a minute of silence, then Gladys raised
her head, and laid her lips softly against her lover's
cheek.

“Under such circumstances, you may be very sure
that I shall not let you go alone,” she murmured,
with a happy little laugh.

His arms closed more fondly about her. He bent
and kissed her lips, his face radiant with joy.

“Oh! my darling, who would have believed eight
or nine years ago that such happiness could fall to
the lot of the poor boy whom you rescued from a
mob in the street,” he said, in a tremulous tone.

could have occurred to change their son thus in so
short a time.

Mrs. Mapleson attributed it to his hopeless attach-
ment to the beautiful girl whom she had seen at Yale,

/and for whom Everet had confessed his love; but

she could not get one word from him on the subject,

several occasions.
“Father,” said the young man, coming into the
library one morning after the household had settled

| into its usual routine, while you,were away I visited

the Hermitage, and made
there.”’

“Ah! I imagined everything of a singular char-
acter had disappeared from that place when Robert
Dale departed this life. What was the nature of your
discovery, pray?’ Colonel Mapleson remarked, look-
ing up from the newspaper that he was reading, and
removing his spectacles.

Everet described his visit to the place, told of his
energetic blow upon the desk andits results, and
then produced the package of certificates and the
picture which he had found, to prove his statements.

“Well, this is a singular discovery, I confess,” said
his father, when he had finished. ‘‘Let me have a
look at that picture.”’

He held out his hand, and upon receiving it he
turned to the light to examine it.

“Yes, this must be a likeness of Mrs. Dale; it re-
sembles her strikingly, although she was greatly
changed, and this must have been taken many years
previous to my acquaintance with her.”

“Then you knew her,” said his son.

“Oh, yes; I've eaten many a fine cookie baked by
her hands during my boyhood,” replied Colonel
Mapleson, musingly. ‘Poor Robert Dale! so he
treasured his love for her as long as he lived!”

‘‘And he has left all this money to her daughter,”
said Everet, touching the package of certificates that
lay on the table.

“Tt would have been-more to the purpose if he had
given the family some of it while they were suffering
the stings of poverty,’ Colonel Mapleson remarked,
his attention still riveted upon the picture.

“Did you know the daughter?’ Everet inquired.

‘““Yes—I had some acquaintance with her.”

“Were they so very poor?’

a singular discovery

 

for a while; but I did not realize it at the time, for I

although she had tried to gain his confidence upon

| “My theory. I don’t know as I have any; I was
away traveling at that time. She may have gone as
governess into some family who afterward went
abroad, taking her with them; or, what is more
likely, she may have married and removed to some
distant portion of the country.”

“One would suppose that she would have wished to
| dispose of the furniture in her home before going
| away permanently,” Everet observed.

“‘Oh, the furniture belongs with the cottage—didn’t
I tell you?” replied his father.

“No, you didn’t,” said Everet, dryly, and thinking
old Jabez Mapleson must have been pretty lavish
with his money to have furnished the cottage in such
a luxurious style for his poor relatives. ‘At all
events,” he continued, “it is strange that she did not
communicate her plans, whatever they were, to some
one whom she had known, isn’t it?’

“Well, perhaps; butit seems to methat you are
strangely interested in the fate of this girl, Ev,’ and
his father turned about again and looked him square-
ly in the face, as he said this.

Again the young man colored.

“I don’t see anything very remarkable about it,
when I have just discovered a fortune for her,” he re-
plied, after a moment of hesitation.

“Well, no; there is something in that argument,
surely,” returned his father, ina tone of conviction.
“How much does it amount to?’ and Colonel Maple-
son took up the certificates and began to examine
them. ——-
CHAPTER XXXIV.

ROBERT DALE’S WILL BROUGHT TO LIGHT.

He looked each paper carefully through, writing
down the amounts represented, and finally adding
them to find the sum,

“Well, it makes quite a handsome little fortune,
when we take into consideration the fact that it has
been accumulating all these years,’’ he said, as he
pushed toward his son the paper upon which he had
been figuring. ‘And yet,” he added, “I know that
this cannot represent one-half of Robert Dale’s for-
tune. What can have become of the rest?”

“He may have given it away during his life,”
Everet suggested.

 

“Well, they had a pretty hard time of it, I reckon, } Mapleson, thoughtfully.

“Possibly; and yet I do not believe it,” said Colonel
“He was a strange charac-
ter, a8 the hiding of these documents proves, and I

 

He fell into deep thought, and neither spoke for
several minutes.

At length the colonel glanced up at the clock.

“Well,” he remarked, with a sigh, ‘I have business
to attend to, and I must be off.”

He arose, gathered up the papers, carefully wrap-
ping them all together, then locking them in a drawer
of his desk, he abruptly left the room.

Everet sat there for more than an hour afterward,
his head bowed upon his hand, thinking deeply, his
brow contracted, his whole face wearing a perplexed
and troubled look.

At length he, too, left the house, ordered his horse,
and rode away in the direction of the old mill.

Reaching the Dale cottage, which was evidently
his destination, he dismounted, fastened his horse,
and then bent his steps around to the back door, in-
tending to force an entrance, as before; and yet, if
any one had asked the question, he could not have
told why he had come there again.

But, as he was passing the window of the little bed-
room, he was sure that he saw one of the curtains
move.

“Aha!” he said to himself; ‘‘either a mouse or some
human being was the cause of that. I donot believe
there is anything inside that empty house to attract
a hungry mouse, so I will be cautious in my move-
ments, and maybe I shall make a discovery of some
kind.”’

He slipped off his low shoes, stepped noiselessly
upon the veranda, keeping out of the range of the
window so as not to cast a shadow within the room,
and crept close up to the low sill.

The curtain had been thrust aside a trifle so that he
could easily see the interior of the room, and he be:
held that which riveted him spell-pound to the spot,
and drove every drop of blood to his heart.

He saw—his father sitting close beside the window,
so close that his lightest movement caused one of his
arms to hit the curtain.

On the floor before him there stood an open trunk |
of medium size, which, apparently, had been pulled
from beneath the bed, and from which Colonel
Mapleson had taken a portfolio, while he was ab-
sorbed in looking over a package of letters which it
contained.

‘Somebody has to know first or last,’ he at length
muttered, with a long drawn sigh, but he shivered
with a sort ot nervous dread as he unfolded the
document which was not sealed, and began to read
it.

It was very briefand comprehensive, bequeathing
all that the testator possessed, unreservedly, to
“Annie Dale and her heirs for ever,’ and naming as
his executor a certain man residing in Richmond—
Richard Douglas, to whom alone had been confided
the secret of the concealment of the will and other
papers.

“Ah!” said Colonel Mapleson, ‘this accounts for
their never having been discovered before—Richard
Douglas was very ill at the time of Robert Dale’s
death, und was himself buried only a week later.

There was a codicil to the will, mentioning some
later deposits which had been made in the name of
Annie Dale, ‘‘certificates of which would be found
beneath a movable panel in one end of the writer’s
desk, there being no room for them in the trunk with
the others.”

Colonel Mapleson looked greatly disturbed when he

| finished reading the document.

“It would have been better for me had a mountain
fallen upon me,than the duty which this discovery
imposes,” he groaned, as he laid it back in its place
and closed the trunk. “I must either do it, or com-
mit a crime by witholding a fortune from the lawful
heir.”

He fell into a profound reverie, which lasted until
the sun went down and the light began to grow dim
and the air chill within that lonely dwelling.

An impatient and prolonged whinny from his horse
at length aroused him from his painful musings,
when he arose, and, taking the trunk with him, he
left the house, brought forth his horse from his long
fast, and started on his homeward way. ‘

It was quite dark when he reached Vue de l’Eau,
and, by exercising a little caution, he managed to ef-
fect an entrance to his library unobserved, where he
immediately concealed the trophy which he had that
day discovered.

* * * * *

* *

While Colonel Mapleson had been engaged with his

 

He was very pale, and his son could perceive traces

laborious search at the Hermitage, his son was ear-

of deep emotion on his face, which seemed to have | nestly pursuing investigations elsewhere.

grown strangely old during the last two hours.
The young man drew back, after that one look, the

After stealing noiselessly away from the cottage,
where he had discovered his father within it looking

 

 

 

 

 
 

    

 

 

 

Z oS

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. $=

VOL. 483—No. 30

 

 

 

over that trunk, he only proceeded as far as the old
mill, where he again dismounted, and leading his
horse beneath a shed that was attached to it, and
which was so thickly overgrown with vines that it
made a very secure hiding-place, he fastened him to
a post, after which he climbed the stairs to the main
portion of the crazy structure, and remained there,
watching until he saw Colonel Mapleson leave the
cottage, and when he was well out of sight he stole
back to the mysterious little house, resolved not to
leave it again until he, too, had seen the contents of
that hitherto unsuspected trunk, and learned the se-
cret of its being there.

He effected an entrance the same way that he had
done defore—by shaking loose the bolt on the kitchen
door—made his way to the bedroom, lifted the val-
ance of the couch and looked eagerly beneath it.

The trunk was there.

It was the work of but a moment to pull itef6rth
from its hiding-place, but it was not so easy to open
it.

He pried patiently at the lock for along time be-
tore he succeeded in forcing it; but it gave way at
last, and, with a thrill of expectation; mingled with
something of awe and dread, he laid back the lid to
examine the contents.

It was packed full of elothing. :

There were dainty dresses of different materials—
silk, and wool, and muslin. There were mantles
and jackets, with underclothing, finely embroidered
and trimmed with lace, besides many other acces-
sories of a refined lady’s toilet. There were pretty
boxesifilled with laces, ribbons, handkerchiefs, and
gloves. There was a small jewel casket, in which
there were a few but expensive articles of jewelry
—a watch case, containing a small enameled and
jeweled watch and chain, and many other articles in
that closely packed trunk.

But Everet cared for none of these things; he
was hunting for, and at last he found, that port-
folio over which his father had ‘been so absorbed,
and he seized it with an air of triumph, for he be-
lieved it must contain the solution of the secret
which of late had caused him many sleepless nights
and anxious days.

CHAPTER XXXY.
TWO LETTERS.

The portfolio was not locked, and within it Everet
discovered numerous letters, all of which were ad-
dressed to ‘‘Miss Annie Dale.’ Most of them were
in ladies’ handwriting, and a glance sufficed to show
that they were from schoolmates and girlish friends,

There were also several essays, which had evi-
dently been written by Annie herself, when she was
at school, and these were carefully tied together
with a narrow and faded blue ribbon. A package
of little billets contained locks of hair of various
eolors and shades, fancifully braided and glued to
the paper, each with the name of the donor written
underneath. There were a few drawings, very
neatly done, some of landscapes, others of flowers,
ferns, and grasses, and one that brought a startled
cry from Everet Mapleson’s lips, for it was a faith-
ful representation of that very house in the mining
village of New Mexico, that he had visited only a
few weeks since. The same hand had done this thathad
drawn the others, there could be no doubt, even if
the initials “A. D.” at the bottom had not testified
to the fact.

“*A. D.,’? murmured the young man. ‘The puzzle
is slowly unweaying itself. This trunk must have
been brought here after she died ; but by whom ?

His face was very grave and troubled, for dis-
agreeable thoughts and suspicions came crowding
thick and fast upon him.

He put the drawings carefully back into the pocket
from which he had taken them, and then continued
his examination of the portfolio. But he found noth-
ingin the other pockets, save a goodly supply of
stationery, and he finally came to the conclusion that
if there had been any papers of importance in the
receptacle they had probably been removed by his
father that very day.

He began listlessly turning over the blotting leaves
that were attached to the middle of the portfolio;
there was now and then a half-sheet of paper be-
tween them, but nothing else, until he came to the
last two, when a scrap of paper with some writing
upon itin a bold, masculine hand, fell fluttering to
the floor.

Everet stooped and picked it up to return it to its
place, but the instant the writing met his eye, the hot
blood mounted to his brow, and he exclaimed, in a
startled tone:

“At last I have found it!”

It was the other half of that letter, which had been
torn in two, and which he had found caught in the
writing-desk during his previous visit to the cottage.
And this is how it appeared:

* “SANTA FE, June 10th, 18——”
nie,
It is with deep pain and
just learned of the death of
se I know that this leaves
annuity which was hers
se and your future is
tle friend! I can say
n how vain and
me; but, believe me, my
you, and were it pos-
and strive to cheer
Tam now going to ask a
e been friends during all our
not refuse me.
the cottage. Let it be still
as it has been in the
any restrictions.
alone, for it would
secure some com-
n yourself who will
Do not mind the
that we are relatives
in this extremity
ck sufficient for
when [ return I
ent arrangement
I shall be very
you.
our friend.
“WILLIAM MAPLESON.”

Everet merely glanced at this, then taking his
wallet from one of his pockets he drew from it a
folded paper.

It was the other half of the torn letter.

He laid the two portions together; the ragged
edges fitted exactly, the writing was identical, and
the epistle was complete and read thus:

“SANTA FE, June 10, 18——

“MY DEAR ANNIE:

“It is with deep pain and
regret that I have just learned of the death of
your mother. Of course I know that this leaves
you alone, and that the annuity which was _ hers
tor life only must now cease, and your future is
uuprovided for. My poor little friend, I can say
nothing to comfort you, for I know how vain and
cold words are at such a time; but, beheve me, my
heart is with you. I sorrow with you, and were it pos-
sible I would come to you and strive to cheer
you in this sad hour. But I am now going to ask a
favor of you, Annie—we have been friends during all our
life. and surely you will not refuse me.

“T want you to remain in the cottage. Let it be
your home for the future as it has been in the
past—it is yours without any restrictions.

“You must not, however, stay there alone, for it would
not be safe, and I want you to secure some com-
panion—some one older than yourself, who will
be a sort of protector to you. Do not mind the
expense, Annie, for you know that we are relatives, and
I have a right to care for you in this extremity.

“Enclosed you will find a check sufficient for

your present necessities, and when I return I
wil make some permanent arrangement
for you. Write me at once, for I shall be very

anxious until I hear from you.
“Ever your friend,
“WILLIAM MAPLESON.”

“T thought the writing was familiar. I suspected
my father wrote it from the first, and yet his hand
has changed very much since this was written. But
surely there is nothing in this merely friendly epistle
to warrant such dreadful suspicions as have nearly
driven me wild during these last few weeks. I have
believed the very worst—thatit was he who enticed
her away, and then betrayed her confidence. [I
know that he was in New Mexico at that time; I
know that she went there and lived with some one
for a year; and then that ring seemed to prove
everything to me. Still this is not a lover's letter;
itis simply a friendly expression of sympathy and
interest, and a desire to provide fora relative who
had no one to rely upon. Heavens! will this mys-
tery never be solved?” he concluded, rising and
shutting the portfolio, but retaining the scrap of
writing he had found.

He replaced everything in the trunk, closed it,
though he could not lock it again, then pushed it
back under the bed; after which he went quickly
out of the house, feeling depressed and bitterly dis-
appointed that he had discovered nothing tangible
either to prove or dissipate his suspicions.

As he stepped off the veranda, something white
fluttered in the tall grass at his feet.

It was another letter.

A thrill went tingling all along his nerves, as he
stooped and picked it up.

It was addressed to ‘Miss Annie Dale, Richmond,
Va.,” and bore the date of July 15th, of the same year
as the other one already in bis possession.

It was also if the same handwriting, and had been
mailed from Santa Fe.

“This is one of the things that Ae came hither to
secure, and he must have dropped it as he passed
out,” Everet murmured, as he sat down upon a step,
drew the letter from its envelope, and began to
reac it.

“My DEAR ANNIE,” it began, like the other, “your
reply to my former letter has hurt me keenly. I can-
not bear the thought of your going out into the
world alone to earn your own living. I hoped that
you would be content to remain in your own home,
and let me provide for you asa brother would do.
But since you refuse—how cold and dignified your
refusal was, too!—I am forced to break all barriers
down and make a confession that for years I have
yearned to make and dare not. Annie, you must
not become a governess; I should be wretched to

think of youin such a situation. If you will not let

me take care of you there at home, in a friendly way,

you must come to me here; tor, darling, [love you! I
|; have always loved you, ever since we played to-
| gether, as children, by the brook near the old mill,
| sailing our tiny ships side by side, and promised
} each other that, when we were older, we would ‘be

married, and take a voyage around the world to-
| gether.’ Come and redeem that promise to me now,
| Annie, darling. Do not hesitate because it will in-
volve the sacrifice of the fortune bequeathed to me,
under certain conditions, for I cannot—I will not—
marry my Cousin Estelle while I love another as [
love you; and what is all the wealth of the world
compared with our happiness? I am doing finely
here in the mines; in a few years, at this rate, I
shall be worth even more than IT shall have to forfeit
by this step, so I will gladly relinquish every dollar
to Estelle for you, my darling.

“Annie, I believe that you love me—I have long
believed it—and I have yearned to make this con-
fession, and to hear a similar one from your lips, for
a long, long time. Had I not been hampered by
Unele Jabez’s will and an unworthy yacillation on
account of it, [should have told you this that last
delightful summer we spent together. But I have
passed the Rubicon now, so do not ruin all my hopes.
[am sorry that I cannot come for you, my own love,
but my presence is absolutely necessary here, and |
cannot leave for such a long trip; but if your heart
responds to mine—if you will come to me and give
yourself to me, I will meet you on the way, at Kan-
sas City, and from there I will take my. little wife to
her own home among the mountains of New Mexico,
where we will be all in all to each other. You will
not mind the isolation for a little while, will you,
love, until [I can make my fortune, when we will
return again to our own dear sunny South? Annie,
will you trust me? Will youcome? If you do not, I
believe my life will be ruined. Do not think fora
moment :that I shall ever regret Jabez Mapleson’s
money. I shall notif [can have you. Judge me by
your own heart.

“Tnelosed you will find the route you are to take
earefully mapped out, and the check that you would
not keep before—iny proud little woman! I feel sure
that you can come with perfect safety alone as far
as Kansas City, where I shall surely be waiting to
receive you. Send a telegram, naming the day and
the hour that you will start.

“One thing more, love—say nothing to any one of
your plans; leave that to me to explain after we are
one. Annie, you will not fail me. [ could not bear
it now, for [ have set all my hopes ‘upon you. I shall
not rest until I receive your telegram.

“Ever your own,

WILL.”

Everet Mapleson’s face was as white as that of the
dead as he finished reading this epistle.

“It is all true, after all,” he said, with blazing eyes
and through his tightly locked teeth. “It was he who
enticed her away in secret, hiding her in that out-of-
the-way place—literally burying her alive. I have
been convinced of it ever since [found thatring with
those initials—*W. M. to A. D.”’—engraven within it,
and yet I kept hoping it could not be proved. So she
went to him—foolish girl!--beilieving that he’d marry
her and give up his money; and she only lived one
short year!

“Now Geoffrey Huntress’ strange resemblance to
me is all accounted for,’ he went on, after a fit of
musing; ‘he is my father’s son and—my half brother,
and to him will belong all Robert Dale’s fortune if
he should ever learn the secret of his birth. Now I
understand why he was given into Jack and Margery
Henley’s care. It would have been very awkward for
the heir of half Jabez Mapleson’s fortune if that New
Mexican escapade had leaked out. But I cannot
comprehend how the boy became an imbecile—an
accident Mr. Huntress said—and I suppose those
people got tired of caring for him and cast him off.
No; that can’t be it either, for that woman seemed
terribly upset about it. It’s all a wretched puzzle,
anyhow. ’

“Zounds !” he continued, with sudden energy, ‘“‘the
governor is a wonderful actor. He never be-
trayed himself by so much as the quiver of an eyelid
this morning when we talked about this girl’s dis-
appearance. I wonder what he will do about that
money. Will he dare keep it? or will he try to find
the boy and make it over to him in some roundabout
way? No; I do not believe he will ever run any risk
of having that New Mexican escapade revealed. He
couldn’t quite stand that, and my haughty mamma
would never forgive him. We will keep the money
and say nothing. Geoffrey Huntress will never get
his fortune, for ZJ shall keep the secret that I have
this day discovered closely locked in my own breast.
Neither he nor my father shall ever learn through
me that he is an heir of the houses of Dale and
Mapleson, Z

“He loved her, though—I am sure he loved her!”
he resumed, his eyes falling upon that still open
letter. “This shows it in almost every line; and his
face to-day, as I caught a glimpse of it through the
window as he bent over that triink, looked as if he
had just buried the dearest object of his life. It
must have been hard to look at all her pretty fixings
and remember that one short, happy year; for they
were very happy, according to Bob Whittaker’s story.
That is the reason he keeps this house and all in it so
sacred. Why couldn’t he have married her like a
man? Money! money! I believe it is only a curse
to half the peeple in the world.”

He arose, folded the letter, and put it in his pocket:
then going to the old mill. he unfastened his horse,
mounted, and rode back to Vue de l’Eau, looking
stern, and grave, and unhappy. .

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

> @~<—________

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

ING OM AR;
The Triumph of Love.

Founded on the romantic drama of “Ingomar,” as
performed by Mary Anderson.

 

 

By NATHAN D. URNER,
Author of “Florence Falkland,” ‘‘Evadne,”
“Miriam Despard,” etc.

 

. [‘INGOMAR” was commenced in No. 27. Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER VIII.—(CONTINUED.)

HE DAY was now consid-
erably advanced, however,
and it would not have been
possible for thei to reach
Massilia ere the darkness
fell. So, shortly before sun-
set, they made a halt beside
a brook in a desirable open-
ing of the forest. Here, after
=< making a meal of berries and
some nutritious roots, which
they managed to gather, Ingomar built a bower,
wherein the maiden could pass the night protected
from the wind and dews.

Then, while the twilight slowly drooped and thick-
ened around the wilderness, they seated themselves
beside their little camp-fire, and conversed of many
things. And then it was, for the first time, that Par-
thenia mentioned her suspicions that one of her re-
jected suitors, a rich and powerful Grecian, had
«chiefly instigated her attempted abduction to the
coast by the discontented Allemanni. And when, at
last, upon her companion’s inquiry, she carelessly
mentioned Evander’s name, she was astonished at
the startling effect which it produced.

“Evander!” he almost roared. ‘May the gods for-
get him in his hour of need! I thought him dead, or
faraway. Oh, may Heaven grant that I do meet him
face to face!” :

It was some time before he could control his agi-
tation sufficiently to explain its cause to her; but at
length he said to her:

“Thou recallest the name of the little Folko, that I
oft have mentioned unto thee, Parthenia ?”

“T do, indeed,” she assented. ‘Thou meanest the
little brother thou didst love so dearly.

“T do,” said he, with emotion. ‘He was slain,
cruelly slain, Parthenia—trampled down beneath the
hoofs of a proud Greek’s horse.”

“Ha! she exclaimed; “was it near Avenna, years
ago?’

He looked at her with surprised inquiry, and
she at once related the story of Evander’s crime, as
it was well remembered throughout Massilia, and
which still caused him to be shunned by such of his
fellow-townsmen as dared defy his wealth and power-
ful influence. She also, out of justice to Evander,
did not neglect to inform him of the latter’s persist-
ent denial of wanton or intentional cruelty upon his

art.

“The Greek speaks falsely!” exclaimed Ingomar,
fiercely. “I have had the true story from one of the
little Folko’s companions, since grown to manhood.
I was at that time far away among the Apennines,
and but a small number of our Allemanni were en-
camped in the thick woods surrounding Avenna.
The little Folko and some of his playmates were
playing in the mountain road, when Evander and his
cavalcade came thundering down uponthem. The
steep, precipitous road-sides did not admit of an easy
escape, and the foremost of the horsemen humanely
drew their reins to let the urchins quit the path.
Most of them succeeded, but before Folko could
clamber the steep bank, the Grecian fiend who ruled
the cavalcade—Evander’s self—spurred torward, with

  
    

 

a laughing oath, and trampled out his young life

{ underneath the blood-stained hoofs!

 

Oh, this is
true, Parthenia! It has been sworn to me.”

“Horrible, too horrible for even Evander’s deed !”
exclaimed Parthenia.

“True, true, on my life!” cried Ingomar, savagely ;
and then he added, in more hurried but lower tones:
“Upon hearing of my darling’s cruel death, I has-
tened from the mountains for revenge, with all of
our tribe that I could muster forth. Too late! Upon
reaching Avenna, we were solemnly assured that the
boy’s murderer had sailed for Cyprus, and had even
died on shipboard. Fools that we were! we believed
those lies, else had we leveled their proud walls to
the dust, and enslaved them all. And now to think
that he was here, here in Massilia—ay, even in my
very camp—and [ not know it! Oh, by the loud
thunder! but the gods have wrought me wrong in
thus defrauding me of my revenge.”

“Nay, accuse not the immortal gods,” said the
Greek girl, reverently. ‘Evander cannot know that
his victim was aught to thee—he cannot even guess
that thou dost know his name, else had he never
ventured in thy camp, even to possess himself of
me.’

“Enough! I will speak no more of him until—un-
til we meet,” gloomily muttered Ingomar, clutching
his hands convulsively; but presently his brow
cleared, and he said, gently: ‘‘Get thee to thy rest in
the shelter I have prepared for thee, Parthenia. The
darkness falls, and IT will watch without.”

She again ventured to kiss his hand, as a timid
recognition of his consideration, and they then sep-
arated for the night.

At an early hour upon the following morning they
were again upon their way; after making auother
meager repast upon such roots and berries as they
could gather in the wood.

At last, about midday, and after a number of minor
adventures, they came to a part of the mountains
whence they could almost see the towers of Massilia
and the sea beyond, and Parthenia, all wearied as she
was, could scarcely push forward fast enough.

“Follow me carefully now,” said Ingomar, taking
her hand to guide her down a particularly precipitous
place. ‘‘Hadst thou gone the other way, as thou didst
wish, it would have been to danger. Ah! when wilt
thou trust me?” Hast thou forgotten the moor,
where, following thine own will, the ground gave
way beneath thee? If I had not then cast my broad
shield beneath thy feet——”

“T should have sunk, but for thy timely aid,’’ she
interrupted, smiling.

“And [ with thee,” said he.

“T do believe thou wouldst,” she ¢ried, with glisten
ing eyes; ‘‘and formy. sake thy shield lies now be-
neath the quakiag bog. Ay, and last night, too,
didst thou not break thy spear to feed our fire? Oh,
thou true guide !”

“Come, now—this way !” said he, still leading.

“Ah, thou wast right!’ she cried, looking about
her, delightedly, as they issued into the open land.
“Itseems tome I ought to know this place. Yes, it
was near here that Helon, the a ll became my
guide, and on my knees I prayed the gods for strength
to reach my captive sire, and bid him to his home
once more.”

“Ah, say not so!” said Ingomar, with a troubled
alteration in his looks and voice. “Far, far from
here [’d have thy home.”

“Yes, here it was!” cried Parthenia, hastily climb-
ing a little eminence, and not noticing his changed
demeanor. ‘See, yonder’s the hut; and there the
sea; and yonder, shining in the purple light, Mas-
silia’s snowy walls and towers. Thanks, ye inmortal
gods, that ye have brought me home once more!”
And she knelt upou the ground, and clasped her
hands in the fervency of her gratitude.

“Would that [lay beside my shield under the deep
morass!’’ muttered Ingomar, between his teeth.

“And see!” cried Parthenia, again springing to her
feet, with a joyful cry ; “there is little Helon himself,
running forth to greet me. Helon, tell me what news
there is of home!” she added, fairly seizing upon the
lad, as he wondering made his appearance above the
bank from the farther side. “Speak out; this great
and warlike man will not devour thee.”

It was some moments before the simple rustic could
suftiiciently recover from his mingled surprise and
alarm todo her bidding, but presently he told his
story.

“Thy father’s friends and neighbors, gentle maid,”
said he, “have still refused to succor thee by money
or by force; but only this oReE the poor fisher-
men of the coast, at Lykon’s appeal, have held a con-
ference in thy behalf. It was then agreed to make

the round of all their little villages for such dona-.

tions as would swell thy ransom’s great amount.
Even now they push their kindly offices to that end.
Oh! ‘twill be a blessed day. when thou returnest

home, for all thy kindred are quite well, save with |

suspense downcast.”

“The gods be praised!” ‘exclaimed Parthenia.
“Now, hasten thou on before us, my good lad, and
bid them be of joy; for Ingomar himself is leading
home their child, safe, free, and ransomless, unto the
city’s gates. Begone, good Helon, fly!’

He needed no second bidding, but sped away
toward the city, tossing his cap, and shouting in his
joy.

“Oh, Ingomar !” cried Parthenia, turning her de-
lighted face toward him, as she now led the way,
while he but followed with asullen air; ‘‘why art
thou now grown sulky, like-a vexed child, when all
my soulis winged with joy? Wilt not rejoice with
me, now that our toil is over ?”’ ;

“T—I rejoice!” he brokenly exclaimed, coming to a
dead stop upon the plain. ‘In the bleak wilderness,

‘| alone with thee—yes, there, where fear and danger

pressed me to thy aid—did I rejoice! I was thy
world, and thou my heaven. But here, where those
accursed city: walls cast their cold shades, to tear
our souls asunder—here ——”

“Ah, me!’ she murmured, regretfully; “yes, I re-
member—here we part. And yet let it not be here,”
she added, with sudden eagerness. ‘Come with me
to the city.” .

“T? he exclaimed, in amazement; “I, the bar-
barian, the freeman, to cage myself yonder in dark
walls with polished Greeks? Impossible! Yonder
thy pathway lies—this to my mountain home. Oh,
would that [ bad never seen thee, girl! Farewell!”

He turned, with bowed head, and arms hanging
dejectedly by his side, and slowly moved away.

She bit her lip as she looked after him, and her
bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She hesitated,
and then reaching out her hands, called out to him

beseechingly.
CHAPTER IX.
FROM FOREST AISLES TO CITY WALLS,

“Stay, Ingomar,” cried Parthenia, ‘thou shalt not
go from me without one gift, which in some distant
time may call again my image to thy memory.”

“What wouldst thou give me?’ he asked, turning
mournfully once more toward her.

“Take this,” and she drew her dagger from her
bosom, and presented the hilt toward his hand.

“Thy dagger,” he exclaimed,.starting back, with a
aeep blush. “What!is it to remind me how once
my violence armed thine own hand withit against
thyself ?”

‘Not so,” she cried, eagerly; ‘‘but to remind thee
how these weary hours, alone, through moor and
wood and tangled thicket, thou didst still protect me,
without my needing once to touch its hilt. Of this
let it remind thee; and so—and so, farewell.”

Her own voice had wavered at the close, and her
head drooped upon her breast.

“No, no; [ cannot—will not!” cried Ingomar, with
@ sudden wildness of tone. ‘Oh, do not leave me!
Be my own, Parthenia; be my wife! I am chief
among my people; plenty dwells in my tent at home;
thou shalt be mistress of thyself, of all the queen.

“Oh, come, then. I will build a house for thee in
the shadow of the trees; before it, a rich meadow
with its herds; beside, a laughing, joyous brook ;
around, all green and still. Say yes—say yes, my
love—and come where joy and bliss shall ever
reign!”

“Ah, me,” she murmured, turning aside her head,
while heaving a deep sigh.

“Why dost thou. droop thine eyes? Why art thou
silent ?” he cried, still more urgently. ‘‘Thou canst
not doubt me; thou thyself didst tell me that deep,
true love was gentle, meek, unsélfish, tender. By
yonder heaven, such will I be to thee. Oh, I will
hold thee with as tender bonds as thine own hands
the wreath thou weavest; will see each wish told in
thine eyes ere thou hast thought it; whatever lives
on earth, in sea, in air, shall minister to thy desires.
Rich shalt thou be, honored and happy. Oh, then,
doubt no more. Be mine, Mine own, and speak no
more of parting.” ;

“Hush! hush this siren song!” she murmured, with
emotion as profound as his own, but less demon-
strative.

“Thou wilt not, then ?” he cried.

“Nay, but listen.”

“Oh, thou believest me not!’ he exclaimed, bit-
terly ; ‘‘thou hatest me!”

“Not so; I respect, honor

“But canst not love,” he gloomily interrupted.

“But think of my parents,” she said, hesitatingly.
“Can I desert their age, forget long years of love
and care, resign the worship of our gods, the quiet
customs of my home, to follow among strangers, my
country’s foe?’

“I see—I know it,’? he groaned; “thou despisest
me!’

“No, by my life!’ she cried, with noble eagerness.
“T hold thee for most noble, most good—a bright and
glorious star, but shadowed by a light cloud—a cup
of ruby wine, with the wreath only wanting. Oh!
wert thou but a Greek; were law, right, order not
unknown to thee; were violence not thy god, the
sword thy judge; wert thou not a a

“Why pause?’ he exclaimed, filling in her hesita-
tion with intense bitterness. ‘Yes, speak it out.
Were I not a barbarian, a cattle stealer. Yes, I re-
member well what thou didst call me once—a thief,
a desolater, an assassin !”

“Ingomar !” she said, with a world of soft reproach
in her tone.

“Oh, I see it all!’ he went on, still more bitterly,
still more sadly. ‘There isa gulf, indeed, between
us, and thou art ashamed of me. Thou fearest the
jeers of thy refined companions; the polished Greeks
would mock at the rude savage. Thou art right; I
should but shame—disgrace thee. Yes, thou art

 

hed

 

 

 

 

  

right. Farewell! farewell!”

 

  

“Oh, leave me not in anger!” she cried, piteously:

“In anger?’ he exclaimed, even more piteously.
“Oh, Parthenia, couldst thou but see and read this
heart of mine! I—I—it breaks—it bursts! No more!
Farewell!” .

And, with that, he rushed out of her presence.

“Ingomar! stay, hear me!” she cried, piteously.
“He heeds me not; he flies up the steep cliff; he is
gone, and [shall never see him more. It seems to
me as if the young spring were about to die.”

She covered her face with her hands and wept,
though the sensation of the tear-drops foreing their
way through her fingers seemed to fill her with
amazement.

“What, tears?” she murmured. ‘Nay, nay, I must
not weep! Let me rouse, and think of my duties, of
the home that waits me, of parents, friends. No,no;
I cannot. Oh, Ingomar! whom shall I find there
une to thee? Thou good, thou generousone! Lost—

ost!’

Again the hot tears ran, and this time acccom-
panied by low sobs.

Her own name, softly, rather timidl
caused her to dash away the tears, an
more,

“Parthenia !”

“Yes; it was Ingomar himself that spoke. He had
returned to her presence, and was now advancing
toward her with a new and softened demeanor.

“Ah! thou art come again, then, Ingomar?’ said
she, lightly, banishing all traces of her tears.

“Tam,” was his reply, in a firm but rather con-
strained tone. “I cannot—will not leavethee. I will
go with thee to the city. I—yes, I will become a
Greek.”

“How sayest thou?’ she exclaimed, in mingled
astonishment and delight.

“Oh, say thou dost not despise me, Parthenia!”’ he
cried, eagerly. ‘‘No, thou art not ashamed of me,
but only of my nation, my rough ways. There’s
remedy for that; it can be mended. Though I am
no Greek, yet am I a man; for ’tis the soul that
makes the man, and not his outward seeming. My
shield and spear are left in the morass; so will I[
leave my nation, manners, all, to follow thee. In
yonder town, for thee, I will become a Greek. And
now ve said it, I am strong and well and brave
again!’

“What! thou wilt follow me?” she murmured again.

“T know I’ve much to learn, but thou wilt’ teach
me, and that will make it easy,” he wenton. ‘When
it is done, thou’)’t love me then! thou wilt—I feel it
here—say, like a sunbeam in my heart it glows; it
shouts like the loud triumph of a conqueror ; like the
voice of the high gods, it penetrates my soul! Thou’
wilt love me then. Speak to me, Parthenia; wilt
thou not love me then?’

“Tf not,’ she murmured to herself, “if not, oh,whom
ean LT ever love? So thou wilt follow me to Massilia,”
she said aloud. ‘And thou dost promise to forego
all thy savage instincts?’ :

“All, all, I swear to thee!’ he cried, with fresh
eagerness.

“Think—thy revenge?” .

“My revenge?—Ha! Evander ?”’
drawing back.

“Ay, even that—even thy revenge upon Evander !”’
said she; “for we regard but law and order in
Massilia.”

“Wait,” said he, slowly, and after a moment of
deep thought. “You have often prond, athletic
games—the contests of the young and strong—there
in Massilia, have you not ?”’

“Ay; the spring-tide games in honor of Diana even
now approach,” she answered.

“And in these doth Evander himself participate ?”’

“Ay; in all of thein is he ever foremost, for he is
strong and brave, even as he is evil.” -

“And would I, the stranger, be permitted to take
part in them?’

“Yes,” she replied, wonderingly. ‘It is according
to the laws that, once declaring thy intention to be-
come a citizen, thou shouldst have choice to enter in
our games.”

“Enough, then,” said he, with a strange smile.
“Keep thou my secret of the wrong which he hath
done to me, and I do promise ne’er to publicly dety
him, or to challenge its requital. Yes, [ promise.”

“So, thou’ll’t follow me to Massilia?”’ she mur-
murmured yet again, and with difficulty concealing
her delight. ‘‘But where wilt thou, unknown, find a
host to give thee shelter ?”’

“A host? Oh,” he cried, carelessly, “the first that
comes across my path I’ll ask for salt and fire. What
needs there more? But look!” he added, glancing
over the plain; ‘‘already some approach who look
like Greeks.”

“Ha! cried Parthenia, following the direction of
his glance; ‘*’tis he—’tis he—my father!”

And with aloud and joyful ery she ran toward old
Myron, who, with several of his townsmen, was seen.
approaching them from the walls.

Ingomar stood, with folded arms, watching the
joyous meeting of father and daughter, and present-
ly they all came trooping to his side.

“What! my darling child restored to me at last?’
exclaimed the armorer, upon whose neck Parthenia
was still clinging. ‘Oh, let me bless the brave man
who hath brought her back to me! But what is this?
Ha!” he fearfully added, now for the first time fully
recognizing Ingomar; “ what do I see? Help,
friends, help! The Allemanni are at hand; fly !”

“Nay, fear not, my father!’ cried Parthenia,
laughingly quieting. the fears of the old man, who
had been only imperfectly informed of the cirecum-
stances attending her deliverance. "Twas he him-
self, ’twas Ingomar, who gave thy child her free-
dom, and who now brings her in safety to thine
arms again.”

“What sayest thout—he? And comes he now
alone?” stammered the old man, still quivering ap-
prehensively. ; :

‘Ay, all alone, I come among you,” said Ingomar,
advaucing with a smile, “I bring thy daughter back
to thee, old man; [deem thou art not loth to take
her at my hands.”

pronounced,
look up once

he exclaimed,

 

CHAPTER X.
INGOMAR IN CIVILIZING TOILS.

“Oh, I thank thee! thou art weleome—very !” stam-
mered the armorer, still eying Ingomar with hesita-
tion and distrust. ‘I did not think to see you again
so soon. You are come to see about the ransom, I
suppose ?”’

“Bah !” cried Ingomar, with gruff impatience.

“Pray, do not be angry,” resumed old Myron, still
timidly.
drachias, and I will give you those at once.”

“Old man, thy ransom’s paid,’ said Ingomar,
abruptly. “I bought it, with thy chiid’s release, at
eost of all lowned. I give thee both.”

“What! do [hear aright?’ gasped the armorer, in
astonishment.

“‘Ay, thou hearest truly,’ was the bluff rejoinder.
“Now, I ask thy friendship, and have come to live
among ye.”’ .

“To live with me?’ gasped Myron, fairly stagger-
ing. Thou ?—one of the Allemanni?’’

“Well, I: have been thine enemy, I own,” said the
civilization-seeker, a little embarrassed. “I have
made thee my prisoner, true; treated thee as my
slave—agreed! But yet have I done thee some ser-
vice, too, and come in peace. Let all be blotted out
—thereis my hand! Accept it, and thou’llt perhaps
find ine more true as friend than enemy. Dost fear to
take it?’

‘Fear ?” echoed Myron, still shivering, and looking
with doubt and dread upon the hand extended to him.
“Fear? N—n—n—no! Greeks never fear!’ And he
recoiled a step or two to smite his shriveled chest,
and assume a valorous, even heroic, look. ‘But are
you quite sure you have come alone? You see,
although I have no fear myself, the citizens vs

“Tell them,” was the proud reply, “that Ingomar
comes single in the midst of them, to ask a home. If
any bear him malice for past wrongs, let them stand
forth! Say Ingomar is here, to answer one and all.”

“Merciful powers! he’d challenge the whole city!”
ejaculated the armorer, under his breath.

“But [ have little thought of them,’ continued In-
gomar, extending his hand again with renewed
heartiness of manner. “But thou, old man, I'd have
to be my friend—ay, more—my father. Give me thy
hand, as tothy son. ‘Ay, that is well!” he added,
cordially, as Myron rather reluctantly placed his
thin but tough hand into the outstretched palm.
“Now, take me to thy roof, and teach me thy cus-
toms. Teach me among the Greeks a Greek to be.”

“T take thee to my home?’ cried the other, with
increased alarm.

“Tt shall be sacred as the temple of a god!”’ was the
solemn reply.

“Thou learn from me to be a Greek ?”’ exclaimed
Myron, who still seemed unable to comprehend such
a proposition. ‘“I—I—know Iam bound to you for
much, for many thanks. But Iam a poor man, and,
shouldst thou be my guest, thou needs must share
poverty, weariness, and care with us.”

‘Poverty !” cried Ingomar, laughing. ‘Can I be
poorer, having given up my race and home? And,
as for weariness and care, can such things be where
sweet Parthenia dwells? Out, out, old man—thou
ata but mock me! Tell, me, rather, what must I

ov ;

“Well, first, thou must strip off thy skin,” said
Myron, turning with a smile upon a number of other
citizens, who had by this time come out of the city’s
gate, and gathered around the strange group.

“My skin!” cried Ingomar, starting back, in com-
ical amazement. ‘*Must I be flayed. Oh, this ?” Burst-
ing into a laugh, as his eye caught the splendid
wolfskin mantle thrown over his shoulder. ‘Ha!
ha! ha! Well, be itso.” And, without a demurring
word, though secretly disliking to part with it,
he loosened the clasp, and cast the skin upon the
ground.

“Next, thou must cut short thy hair and beard,’
said Myron.

“My hair and beard!’ exclaimed Ingomar, indig-
nantly. “That will I never! They are my proud
race’s mark of free descent, growing freely with the
free. And yet’—he added, hesitatingly, for at that
instant he caught the gaze of Parthenia’s sweet eyes
fixed pleadingly upon him—‘‘and yet—well, well, (ll
cut them off,”

“How wondrous tame he grows—he that was wild
as an unbroken horse!” muttered Myron to himself,

 

'
on the hills; a vineyard also; work must be done,

too, with harrow, plow, and spade; and thou ——”

“What!” burst forth the barbarian, with fierce
scorn, “Guide the plow and harrow, dig up the
ground, root in the earth like ants and moles?
Wouldst_ make of me a slave, with slave’s employ-
ment? By the loud thunder, if——”

“Be calm, I pray thee,” deprecated Myron, almost
carried off his feet by the torrent of wrath he had
unwittingly provoked, ‘Remember, ’twas thyself
| didst wish to be a Greek; and we are very poor. We
ou must work; not [I alone; my wife, Parthenia,

O----

‘“Parthenia, didst thou say ?” cried Ingomar, in an
altered tone, and turning his glance a moment upon
her. ‘“Parthenia labor?’

“Ay, why not?’

“She—Parthenia?’ continued the tamed savage,
gently. *‘No; that shall she never! V’H work for
her at any toil thou wilt—the plow, the harrow, any-
thing. Well, then, what more ?”

“And then,’ said Myron, ‘thou, too, must help me
at my forge, and learn how to wake arms.”

“Ay, by my life, that will [ joyfully!” cried Ingo-
mar, with kindling eyes. “That must be glorious!
That's spending strength on strength—the hammer
murdering the shrieking steel, that writhes at every
blow! Ay, that is brave and noble By my life, it
seems to ine that making good swords must be al-
most as pleasant as wielding them !”

“Stay, stay!” cried Myron, with fresh alarm. for
Ingomar had unconsciously placed his hand upon
the hilt of the great sword dangling at his belt;
“thou must not wield them here. We are a quiet
people, and love peace. And therefore thou must
give up thy sword.”

‘Give it up?” exclaimed the other, while his brows
darkened, and his hand instinctively tightened its
se an the brazen hilt beneathit. “Goto; you
jest!

“Not so,” was the timid reply. ‘‘Itis forbidden,
under heavy penalties, for strangers to go armed
into Massilia. I will take care of it for thee. Give it
to me, sir.”

“My father’s sword!” exclaimed Ingomar again,
drawing baek menacingly ; ‘that which has given me
defense and victory! Give up my sword! Thou art
playing with my softness to insult me.”

“Parthenia,” said Myron, turning timidly toward
his daughter, who quickly approached.

“Give thee this sword?” continued Ingomar, in the
same indignant tone, and at the same time drawing
it from its scabbard. ‘Sooner my blood—my life.
My sword’s myself{—the sword and mau are one. Bid
any come and take it, if he dare.”

The Greeks all fell back from himin alarm, as, with
flashing eyes and the bright blade gleaming in his
hand, he threw himself into a defiant attitude ; with
the single exception of Parthenia, who smilingly ap-
proached him, laying her small hand lightly upon the
hilt he grasped.

“Ingomar, thou wilt give the sword to me?’ she
said, softly. **Dost thou remember how I carried it
from the mountain? Thouw’ll’t surely trust me now.
Father, haste on before,” she added, as the barbarian
suffered her to disengage the weapon from his grasp,
like one ina dream. ‘I long to embrace my mother.
Go, prepare her; we will follow thee.”

Old Myron, accompanied by his neighbors, slowly
withdrew to do her bidding. but still casting aston-
ished glances behind him, as if wonder-struck at the
change that had been wrought in one whom he had
known but assthe sheer embodiment of savage pride
and fierceness.

As for Ingomar, he stood as ina dream, amazed
and bewildered at himself.

“Why dost thou linger, Ingomar?’ smilingly in-
quired Parthenia, going a little before him, and then
turning to beckon him on with his own sword, which,
however, she was compelled to thus wield, wand-like,
with both hands. ;

“Who is he? Who spoke of Ingomar?’ cried the
other, confusedly. *‘Dost thou mean me? Am I,
then, Ingomar? My senses whirl; beneath my feet
the solid earth seems falling. I am a child—a fool—
I know not what I do. Stay—give me my sword
again.”

But she still moved away, smiling and beckoning.

“Come, Ingomar,” said she:

He stood for a moment, still irresolute, still con-
fused, as if waging fierce war with himself.

Then, with the single cry of “Parthenia, I come!”
he rushed after her. Race, customs, hereditary in-

 

“I have not earned as yet but a few?

stincts, even nature itself, had melted like snow, in
the steadfast, burning glance of immortal love, and
his friends. his people, and his widd free life were to
know him no more.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. |
TH E

icht-Hawks of Paris,

By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE,

Author of ‘‘Ida’s Hidden Sin,” ‘A Lost Life,”
“Princess Alexandra,” ‘‘The
Brother’s Secret,” etc.

 

 

(“THE NIGHT-HAWKS OF PARIS” was commenced in No.
23. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE RAG-PICKERS OF PARIS.

Moucheron’s plan was instantly formed. Now that
both the dandy and the dancer knew him, it would
have been impossible for him to venture into the
house; but he had friends in a class of people from
whom few Parisians’ homes have any secrets, when
they choose to discover them.

A great number of our readers will be surprised to
learn that the people of whom I speak are no other
than the crowd of rag-pickers—that is, the rag-pick-
ers of the more intelligent class; men who are so
glib of tongue that they readily ingratiate themselves
with the servants, and thus become familiar with the
secrets of the family.

The street-boy, Moucheron, who had done service
as a rag-picker, had numerous acquaintances in all
ranks of the great family. He knew by heart the

saying that “No man is a hero to his valet”—which >

amounts to saying that there is no secret belonging
to his master which a servant cannot penetrate; and
starting from this point, he was sure of knowing, day
by day, all the actions, aud even thoughts, of the
dandy with the eye-glasses, if he could only find out
who were the lucky rag-pickers who daily visited the
dandy’s place of abode.

Having nothing more to gain or learn by stopping
betore the dancer's door, he was about to go away,
when the sight of a coupe stopping at the same door
nailed him to the spot.

A woman got out lightly and hurriedly, and in that
woman he recognized Malaga, the wicked enchantress
of the Maison d’Or.

It was the confirmation of all he had learned from

the chestnut seller. But what the man could not tell
him, and what his lynx eye detected instantaneousiy,
was the person of a little chimney-sweeper, black
with soot and smeke, who had kept pace with the
carriage, running on the other side of the street, and
stopped when the vehicle did.
, .Moucheron, instead of going away, came back to
the chestnut dealer’s and investing two more sous in
chestnuts, crunched them one by one, while he kept
a sharp eye on the chimney-sweeper, noting all his
movements. ;

He saw him, after the carriage had driven off. go to
the corner of a carriage-driver, opposite the dancer’s
house, and sit down philosophically on the damp
curb-stone, with his eyes fixed on the door-way
through which Malaga had just disappeared.

“Ha! he’s a shadow!” thought the street boy,
greatly surprised.

He left the chestnut roaster, and went up to the
chimney-sweeper.

When they were within two paces of each other,
both of them uttered an exclamation.

““Moucheron !” cried the chimney-s weeper.

“Hippolite !” cried the street boy.

Then they shook hands.

“What are you doing here?’ asked Moucheron.

“I’m shadowing a lady,” replied Hippolite.
oe Suspected so,” said Moucheron. ‘Who is the

y ‘r

“An opera dancer—nothing shorter.’

“For whose interest are you working ?’,

“TI don’t know, You must ask the boss.”

“And who is your boss ?”’

“Mr. Joseph. Perhaps he’s gotanothername. But
that’s no matter, so long as he is good pay. He’s a
sharp old file. He must make money, for he don’t
work on his own account, but for rich nobs. Hecame
for Palu and me this afternoon at the wine shop, in
the Rue du Cadrau. It seems he wasinahurry. He
brought us in a carriage, and he himself fixed us up
as chimney-sweepers. How do I look?”

“Splendid! I had to look at you twice before I
knew you. And you say Palu is with you?”

“He was. But just now he is shadowing another
individual—a baron. in the Rue Drouot.”

A flash oflight struck Moucheron. He remembered
the commission Double-Six had given hini for a
certain Baron de Marau, in whom he recognized the
person who had employed him at the Lyons station,
and who had afterward sent him in pursuit of Lucien
whom he had afterward met at the Maison d’Or, in
the company of the opera dancer.

“And do you know this baron’s name?’ asked
Moucheron.

“Yes.”

“Was it the Baron de Marau?”’

“That’s the name.”

 

 

 

then adding aloud: “Then I have fields up yonder

   

“How lucky !” cried Moucheron.

 

 

 

 

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VOL. 48—No. 30.

+ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #%~

 

; 3
“Why so?’ asked Hippolite, astonished at his

comrade’s sudden joy.

“Hippolite!” cried Moucheron, very energetically,
“are you a friend ?”

“Of course I’m a friend,” replied Hippolite.

The street boy continued:

“You have asister. haven’t you? Well, I haven't
any, but it’s all the same as if I had one. Fancy I
haveone. Now,ifI told you there was a knot of
beggars plotting against her, and laying snares to
ruin her, wouldn’t you lend me a hand to smash ’em
u >?

“Ot course I would.”

“Then, if I told you the birds of prey you and Palu
were shadowing, the dancer, the baron, and another,
a pale fellow with eye-glasses, and three hairs for a
mustache, are exactly the wretches who are working
against my sister, would you tell me what you know
about them, the same as you would to your boss?”

“Yes, [ would.”

“You are afriend. And Palu?”

“He'll do what I do.”

“You’re the boys for me!” cried the street boy,
enthusiastically. “‘You are what I call friends.
Look here, Hippolite, sometimes I don’t mind being
little and weak. But at other times I should like to
be as big as.the tower of St. James, and as strong as
Double-Six. If I were, to-day, instead of tracking
these brutes, I’d iust go to my dandy with the eye-
glasses, and smash him. But when a fellow is weak,
a fellow must be sharp. When do you make your
reports to your employer ?”’

“To-morrow morning at six o’clock.”

“Where does he live ?”

“Passage du Saumon. You goin by the passage,
and out by the Rue du Cadrau.”

“Then to-morrow morning at seven o’clock you will
be at the Friend’s Smoking-room ?”

“Yes, I'll be there,” said Moucheron.

“Allright. As weleave the boss Palu andI will
join you.”

“Thanks, my boy. I'll busy myself with the dandy.”

And leaving his friend, the, chimney sweeper, at
his post ofobservation, Moucheron, the indefatigable,
took wing toward the heights of Montmartre. There
he knew he should meet friends on whom he could
reckon to help him envelop Octavius de Mong¢har-
mont and, if necessary, Malaga. in the meshes of an
occult supervision which would reveal their secrets
to him, day by day.

A certain quarter of the Montmatre contains the
hovels occupied by rag-pickers and tramps.

Moucheron’s errand took him to the most wretched
house in this vicinity, where all the houses are
wretched. ‘

We need not follow him nor record his sayings and
doings; but his joyful face, when he came out of the
house, showed that henceforth Moncharmont and
Malaga would have as many spies about them as
they had servants.

 

CHAPTER XXIV.
MALAGA KEEPS HER APPOINTMENT.

This evening, Malaga, from a simple habit of pru-
dence, leaving her house on foot after Octavius de
Monucharmont,who was going to his club, took a hired
coupe, in the Rue Lafitte, to go to the Place de la Con-
corde. It was near nine o’clock. The broad thorough-
fare of the boulevard was full, as usual, that evening
with carriages crossing each other in every direction,

beginning to be impatient, but who, allured by the
napoleons she had received from the baron, would
not have abandoned tke place appointed for the
meeting till the crack of doom.

Malaga was wrong to entertain the slightest doubts
aboutit. She did not yet know her partner as well
as the worthy woman deserved to be known.

The carriage stopped at the point agreed upon. As
the windows were raised and the door half opened
according to avreement, Madam Louis could not’
have the slightest doubt. Moreover she was a per-
son of intelligence and experience. Without any
hesitation and without speaking a word, she slid into
the carriage beside Malaga. The coachman, a man
accustomed to such adventures, had not thought it
necessary to get down from his box to help his new
fare in.

The door once shut, he gathered up his reins, stuck
his whip in the socket, and half turning, placing his.
arms on the roof of his carriage, he rested his head
on his arms, and took the attitude habitually as-
sumed by his brethren, when a stoppage is long
enough to allow them to indulge in a light sleep.

Yet his hands, which ought to have remained in-
active, were singularly busy. They were sliding to
and fro, gently and noiselessly in its grooves, one of
the varnished planks which covered the coupe.

It is just to say that if the hands were skillful, the
sliding planks were ingeniously prepared by an ex-
perienced coachmaker. As soon as the coachman
could hear, if not see, everything that was done and
said in the carriage, he probably made up his mind
to go to sleep, for he did not stir after this.

“You sent forme, and Tam at your orders.” said
Madam Louis, darting a look of eager curiosity at
Malaga.

The look was thrown away, for Malaga’s person
was too well concealed in her cloak and vail to ren-
der her recognition possible. She had not seen the
look, but she foresaw the curiosity, for her first
words, uttered in a dry and unanswerable tone, were
these:

“Don’t bein an unnecessary hurry to try and guess
wholam. You shall know when I am willing to tell
you, and when I shall feel sure of you. At present I
ean only confirm what had decided you to come here
—a bank-note of a thousand francs in exchange for
a fortnight or three weeks of your time.”

“At that rate I would sign an engagement for ten
years !” cried Madam Louis, enthusiastically. “What
shall I have to do during these three weeks ?”

“During these three weeks you will be lodged like
a princess in an apartment chosen by yourself. All
your expenses will be paid. The thousand frances are
extra. During these three weeks you will have to
eat, drink, and sleep as much as you please.”

“Quite a jolly life!”

“Does it suit you?’

‘Perfectly. But there are two sides to everything.
What is the reverse side to this ?”

*““You will soon know.”

“When ?’

“Immediately.”

the opening of the front window and by the voice of
the ballet-girl, who, thrusting out her head and pull-
ing him by the cloak, cried:

“Coachinan, Bridge of Jeno! Fast!”

Malaga raised the glass again, and the carriage
started.

Madam Louis, who was discretion personified, did
not ask a single question. She was doubtless reflect-

 

in the midst of which the dancer’s coachman, with the
consummate skill of the Parisian driver, went ahead at
the reasonable rate of five miles an hour.

On approaching a crossing of the Rue de la Paix
the crowd became so dense that he had to pull
his horses down to a walk. At the moment when,
seeing an opening before him, he was _ getting
ready to start again, another carriage, driven at
greater speed, struck the coupe and came very
near upsetting it.

The shock was so violent, Malaga, thrown from her
seat to the othersie of the carriage, thought, she was
killed, and doubtless, to make sure how much life re-
mained, began to scream like a peacock.

The two carriages had stopped simultaneously,
and the coachmen had, at the same time, juniped
down from their seats to ascertain the extent of tlieir
respective damages. ;

By a strange chance it was the dancer's carriage
which had been injured, and so seriously that itcould
not go on. One of the wheels had four spokes broken.
The other carriage was unharmed.

As always happens in such cases, a gathering of
eurious people was soon formed, each one taking
sides for or against one or the other of the coach-
men, who were liberally exchanging the most
rhetorical phrases of their vocabulary.

The ballet-girl was erying in vain.

At last the cocked hat of a police officer appeared.
His first care was to ascertain whether Malaga’s out-
cries were prompted by any serious injury.

The ballet-dancer was not hurt. She was only
angry at being stopped in her drive.

On examination, it was found that the dancer’s
coachman was not at all to blame, but that the other
man was entirely wrong, and so he was ordered by
the police to pay damages. The crowd of idlers then
dispersed, and there only remained the dancer and
the two drivers who were settling their accounts.

Malaga stamped her feet impatiently.

“Ts it all over?” she asked.

She took the handle of the door and was getting
into the vehicle, when the coachman stopped her.

“T can’t carry you,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to walk my
horses back to the stable. My carriage is smashed.”’

“Then who will drive me on my errand?” cried
Malaga.

“T’ll send you a comrade, if I come across one.”

She examined her watch by the light of the lamp.
It was twenty minutes past nine.

“Ten francs if you’ll take me,” she said.

“Not for a hundred frances,” replied the coachman,
who had remounted his box. ‘I should upset before
I had traveled two squares.”

He turned round and drove off at a walk, not hear-
ing a word more.

Malaga stifled a malediction between her little,
close-set teeth. All along the boulevard carriages
were whirling on, but not one of them was empty. A
bright idea occurred to her. She ran to the driver of
the other coupe, who was preparing to mount his
box.

“Coachman,” she cried, ‘I engage you.”

‘“Tmpossible, my little lady,’ he replied ; “I’m full.”

“You are full?” she exclaimed, in astonishment.

In fact, it was difficult to believe that the persons

a

inside, if there were any, could have remained dur- |

ing this long scene without giving any signs of life.
They must be dead or have gone away. She made a
remark to that effect, and the coachman was in-
clined to agree with her. :

“It’s a fact,” he growled; ‘‘there are people capa-
ble of taking advantage of these accidents to cut
stick without saying good-by, a cheap way of paying
for-a ride.”

He opened the door.

“IT say, sir,” he cried, ‘‘are you in there ?”

“Are we ever going to stant?” growled a deep
voice from the interior, in a tone of ill-humor.

“Directly, sir,” replied the coachman.

He turned to Malaga.

“T told you [ had a fare.”

“What is it now ?” asked
his head out.

“A young ladyina great hurry. I smashed her
cowpe, and now she wants me to take her.”

“A young lady?’ cried the man, ina milder tone.
‘‘Where are we, coachy ?”’

“Opposite the Rue de la Paix, sir.”

“Is it far to the place you were driving me to?”

“No. 70 Rue Basse? wenty-five or thirty yards.”

“T think I can walk it,” said the passenger. “It
hasn’t been raining, has it? The sidewalk isn’t wet,
isit? I’ve got patent leather shoes on, and don’t
care to muddy them. Open the door. Ill speak to
the young lady.”

It is useless to say that Malaga had listened to this
conversation with increasing interest. The carriage
door being opened, a fat gentleman, irreproachably
dressed in black in the style of a man who is mak-
ing calls or going to a party, and whom, notwith-
standing his change of costume, the two little chim-
ney-sweepers had ee recognized for the man of
mature age who knew how to render porters com-
municative, heavily plunged down the steps and ap-
oe the dancer who had stopped on the side-
walk.

“Madam,” he said, bowing to her respectfully,
“T have not the honor or pleasure of knowing you.
I live at Rheims. But though a provincial, I am
not so ignorant of the ways of the capital, and I
an too fervently devoted to the ladies to leave one
of them in trouble when I can easily assist her.
The coachman tells me you are inahurry. Permit
me to offer you this carriage. I shall only have a
few more steps to take, and the trouble will be
more than repaid by the happiness of obliging you.”

Notwithstanding her anxiety and impatience, Mal-
aga had to bite her lips to keep from laughing in
the face of the country gentleman from Rheims.
The man, the tone, and words, were all natural, but
absurdly comic. However, his proposition suited
her so well that sle was ready to pardon all the
man’s absurdities.

“T accept your offer with gratitude, sir,”
swered, promptly.
Thanks! thanks!”

“T am too happy, madam, too happy.
whelm me,” saic
word he uttered.

_A few moments afterward, while the amiable gen-
tleman from Rheims was walking toward the Rue
Basse on the tips of his patent leather shoes, she was
driven at full trot to the Place de la Concorde, which
he reached this time without the slightest acci-
dent. But the hour was well advanced, and Malaga
was mortally afraid she should find no one at her
first rendezvous. Now, what she hoped from her
successive meetings with mother Louis and the wo-
man who enjoyed Double Six’s confidence, was. the
key-stone of her plans. A check in this direction
might be irreparable.

The look she cast over the deserted square was full
of anxiety, but her expression instantly changed.
She had just perceived under the first trees, half-
lighted by a gas-jet, a woman whom she recognized
as Madam Louis.

It was,in fact, Madam Louisjin person, who was

the passen ger, thrusting

" ; she an-
“Ttis the offer of a gentleman.

You over-
the gentleman, bowing at every
- - y

 

ing on the splendid position offered her—free Crink-
ing and eating for at least twenty days.

When the carriage stopped, the bailet-girl herself
opened the door, sprang lightly out, and invited

¥
!

The sleeping coachman was suddenly awakened by |

“Mother Louis,” she said, quietly. ‘‘You are our
mistress still, for not one of us has as keen a scent as
you have. You ought to be heaping up napoleons,
instead of keeping house for others at fifteen fran¢s
@& month.”

“Everybody has her troubles,”

replied Madam

Louis. ‘But our little business seems to be arranged
nicely. I shall have everything prepared by to-

morrow evening, and day after to-morrow this gir]
will be in our power. Assoonas [ have her under
lock and key, I will come and tell how everything
has passed and ask you for fresh orders.”

Malaga inade asign of assent, and presenting her
porte-monnaie, said :

‘Don’t spare for money, we must succeed.”

“With a word like that, my child,’ said Madam
Louis, “you could make mushroons spring up in the
Place de la Concorde.”

“You have nothing more to say to me?”

‘“No—that is to say, yes. I require a young woman
whom you can perhaps procure for me.”

: ae kind of a young woman? [have a nursery
ull.

“A girl seventeen or eighteen years old, sharp wit-
ted and obedient, who could pass for a short time
for the daughter of a nobleman. The question is to
supply the place of a child lost at three yeans of age,
whom nobody bas seen since, and who is supposed
to have just been found.”

Madam Louis uttered an exclamation of joyful
astonishment.

“How lucky!
age, fresh as a bouquet and white as a lily.
intelligent and docile.”

“Bring her to me to-morrow evening before the
play. I'll see her and make hertalk. If she suits
me, Mother Louis, it will be more money in your
pocket.” :

“Let us hope she will, then.”

The clock of the Hotel des Invalides struck ten—
the hour for Malaga’s second appointment.

“Everything is settled, then. Let us return to the
earriage,” she said. “I will set you down at the end
of the Cours la Reine, Mother Louis, a hundred paces
before reaching the square, for I have another per-
son to see there.”

“A fault, my child,” responded the hag, in pro-
fessional tones. ‘‘Your idea of halting at the end of
the bridge and taking the middle of the river for a
consultation room is excellent. We must distrust
all sorts of ears, even coachmen’s. But to go back
together over the same ground, and then separate
while you go on, would certainly be a mistake. Go
and attend to your matters alone. I will cross the
bridge and tind some carriage on the esplanade to
bring me back.” ;

Malaga without doubt recognized the wisdom of
the advice, for she hastened to follow it, and while
Madame. Louis was crossing the bridge turned back
toward the carriage.

The coachman was at this.time sleeping soundly on
his box. Malaga awoke him and made him drive her
to the end of the Cours la Reine.

Madam la Girafte, who had received her instruc-
| tions from Double-Six, was waiting for her.

Then, as she had done with the other woman,
Malaga took the Giraffe with her, and, without a
word, planted herself in the middle of the bridge of
Jena, far from all eyes and ears. There shé gave her
detailed instructions to her new auxiliary.

These instructions—the spirit of which we are
familiar with, and therefore need not repeat—were
such that, except through the intervention of a
miracle, the ruin of Marguerite was inevitable.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

T know a young girl just the right
She is

 

Madam Louis to do the same.

“Wait here,” she said to the coachman.

And, followed by her respectable companion, she
advanced with rapid step over the bridge.
+ The coachman,stupefied for a moment, looked after

er,

“The boss didn’t reckon on this,” he said.

He gazed sharply behind and around him, and see-
ing no one he opened his arms and let them fall by his
side as much as to say:

“What canI do? Nothing.’

Malaga had reached the middle of the bridge, then
absolutely deserted from énd to end, and Madam
Louis had followed her with perfect docility, but
saying to herself, ‘This woman’s figure is not en-
tirely unknown to me. I ought to know this fine lady.
If she isn’t one of the stage beauties then I’m a
goose.”

“We can talk here without fear of being over-
heard,” said the danseuse, making a half turn and
resting on the parapet.

“You are a careful woman,” observed the other.

“One can’t be too careful. Now, do you wish to
nang, Oe reverse of the golden inedal I showed
you?’

“T am listening.” -

“This is it. To-morrow morning you will hunt up
and engage a suite of rooms suitable for a repectable
lady such as the widow of an officer of the army or
| the civil service.”

‘I know what you mean.” ;

“Select a quiet and retired quarter—the neighbor-

; hood of the Rue de lOuest in the rear vf the Lux-
embourg, for instance.”

“Very well.”

“This apartment, stocked with decent hired furni-
ture, must be ready to-morrow, for you are to sleep
there to-morrow night.”

“With money everything is possible.”

“The money will be forthcoming.”

Then everything will be done, I answer forit. But
that’s only the scenery and setting of the stage.
aa isthe play tobe? What part am I to take in
it ?”

 

well the day and hour—a young girl eniployed in a
store in the Rue de Rivoli, the second as you enter
by the Rue de St. Antoine, will be accused of steal-
ing laces and driven out of the store. Exactly at this
crisis you will be there making some purchases, and
distressed at the girl’s despair, indignant at the ac-
| cusation of such a sweet and charming child, whom
| you know to be incapable of such a crime, you hero-
ically take up her defense.”
“A dramatic situation.”
| “Which you will keep up with spirit. Taking ad-
| vantage of the agitation caused by this unexpected
| charge, you will allow no one else to go home with
a or rather go to the people who have been parents
to her.”
“Who will also make haste to turn her out of
doors,” interrupted Madam Louis.
“Very good,” said Malaga, ‘you understand me
| perfectly.”
| The respectable woman, thus encouraged, went on
with increasing volubility.
“Then it is my character that develops and fills
the stage. [implore these barbarians with a warmth
not quite great enough to persuade them not to ex-

| “Day after to-morrow, at two o’clock—remember
}
|
|
|
|
|
|

poverty and isolation. ) [
picture of the snares and traps of this horrible Paris,
followed by a few sounding phrases, destined to

drilled in advance, will persist in their excellent idea
of turning the young girl into the street.”

“They will persist,” atlirmed Malaga.

“Then the rest goes of itself. I am too tender-
hearted to see so great a wrong perpetrated without
trying to preventit. I begin by cursing the unnatu-
“al hearts, hard even against all appeals, then turn-
ing to the terrified young girl, and raising my arms

to the ceiling, I ery out in a voice, trembling with
emotion and suppressed sobs, ‘Poor young girl!

 

Since you are ejected,since you are thought guilty of
a erime which I know you have not commited,
come to me. I will be a mother to you, and you will
take the place of those children which Heaven might
have bestowed on me, but didn’t. [ amnotrich. I
enjoy only a modest competence. I am only the
widow of an officer, who would have been a major-
general by this time, if he hadn’t died when he was a
third lieutenant, but all [have is yours, my child.’
Whatdo you say to that. Isn’t it rather a good
speech ?” asked Madam Louis in her natural voice,
which was as sweet as the screeching of an ill-tuned
violin.

Malaga could hardly help smiling at the explosion
of these honorable sentiments, so well recited by the
cunning old woman.

“Bravo!” she cried. ‘You are a woman of intelli-
gence and imagination.”

‘When I was young,” replied Madam Louis, “I
produced a drama in seven acts and twelve tableaux
at the St. Marcel theater.”

“You bave remembered some of it. No matter.
You understand the situation, and I have scarcely.
anything to tell you, for you have seized my hints.
You see the object. I rely on you to employ the
surest means to reachit. This young girl must fol-
low you trustingly and share the apartment you will
hire to-morrow.”

“Make yourself easy—she will follow me. But
once there, what shall I do with her?”

Malaga reflected a few moments.

“Tn the first place, I must know to-morrow how you
have got along with the first steps. You will write
to me addressing your letter simply ‘D. D., Post-
Office.’ ”’

Madam Louis gave utterance to a kind of snarl it
would be difficult to describe, but which she herself
explained by saying abruptly to the danseuse:

“Why shouldn’t I write to your house and to your
name? Pshaw! I like plain dealing. You were prais-
ing my sharpness just now, and now you insult me
by thinking I could remain with you fifteen minutes
without finding you out. When a person has played
walking ladies and old women for twenty years, one’s
wits get very sharp, and may my next cup of tea
poison me if youJare not my little Malaga, formerly
of the Rue Brayere, now the great Malaga of the Rue
Lepelletier, and my pupil into the bargain. For you
cannot deny, my child, that I instructed you in the
genteel comedy of high life that we play at the ex-
pense of ninnies. Deny it if you dare.”

The ballet-girl did not deny it, but accepted the
situation frankly.

“It may cost me a few thousand frances more,” she
thonght, ‘but we shall get on all the faster for it.”

Madam Louis, draped in her cloak, and preserving
the attitude of the antique Juno, seemed to wait for
a word from Malaga toload her with maledictions or
‘ throw herself into her arms.

 

pose so young and pretty a girl to the perils of |
Here will come in a pathetic |

set for young girls abandoned to their own resources, |

have no effect, for I suppose the pretended parents, |

 

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

Midnight Prophecy.

By EMMA GARRISON JONES,

(“THE MIDNIGHT PROPHECY” was commenced in No.
18. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]}
CHAPTER XXXIX.

JUDITH LOOKS FOR THE COUNTESS, AND FINDS SOME
ONE ELSE.

It was nearing the middle of June. For an entire
month Judith Ford had been steadily pursuing her
object, yet to no purpose. She had traveled almost
the entire length and breadth of England, visiting
every mad-house, both private and public, into which
she could gain admittance; yet nowhere could she
hear of such a place as Milford Grange, or find the
slightest clew to her lost lady. Any other girl would
have despaired, and given over the thing as hopeless,

 

 

 

 

“No more you sha’n't,” she cried; ‘‘you shall have
a permit to git inat the Moor, provided that will
answer. Thatcher he be in wi’ the squire, and he ken
manage it. But ’tis a poor chance, I’m feared—wim-
min folks die out powerful fast in them ’sylums. Be
yer friend a woman ?”

She was a noble lady, the Countess of Strathspey,”
replied Judith.

Mrs. Thatcher came within a hair’s breadth of
dropping her blessed baby.

“Oh, Lud!” she cried, ‘ta countess! An’ ye h’ainta
tellin’ me which you be a noble lady yerself, miss, a
settin’ here on the White Hart porch ?”

“No,” smiled Judith; ‘I was maid and companion
to the countess, but I loved her, and I would give my
life to find her. She was no more insane than you
or me when they sent her off. She was foully dealt
by, poor lady !”

“Ye shall go and hunther,” said the landlady,
“and Pll go along, leastwaysif I can git Jinnie to
come and keep the baby, bless her heart! I’ve been
inside o’ the ’sylum, and I’d be company like fur ye—
~ I do pray ye may succeed in finding the poor lady
alive.”

On the following day, through the influence of the
squire, the landlord of the White Hart succeeded in
getting the permit; and on the day after, Jinnie, the
landlady’s sister, having comeover to look after
baby, the landlady herself, accompanied by Judith,
set out for the institution.

They were parading a number of the inmates up
and down the grounds when the two women entered
the gates ; and Judith, asshe walked slowly up the
broad avenue, scanned every face she met, witha
beating heart.

Poor, wan, vacant faces by the score, but nowhere
the face she sought. Speaking kindly to the poor
creatures that thronged around them, the two women
made their way into the building, and as afirst step,
Judith begged leave to see Doctor Penryth, the sur-
geon in charge. She was accordingly conducted by
one of the keepers to a small office, where the doctor

 

she should lose him. The siren knew full well, and
it cost her a bitter pang to confess it, that after all
her efforts, the influence she had gained was very
short-lived. Once out of her presence, delivered
trom the spell of her sorceries, and the Earl of Strath-
spey’s heart would be beyond her control.

“And I will not lose him now,” she thought, clench-
ing her hands in very desperation, ‘‘after all IT have
dared—all I have done—I will not fail in the end.”

She arose and closed her casement, shutting out
the green June landscape, and the distant turrets of
The Towers, and rang her bell for her maid,

Dundas entered almost immediately, with her lithe,
pantiftr-like movements and dark, inscrutable face.

“Dundas,” said her lady, seating herself in an im-
mense velvet chair. “‘I want you to dress me; look
up something pretty and airy, and do my hair to
correspond. I want a becoming toilet; you under-
stand?’

Dundas nodded reflectively, wondering inwardly
what new freak her handsome mistress had on hand.
She went about the toilet in earnest, and produced a
marvel. A morning robe of pure white, with just
the faintest suggestion of mourning here and there;
delicate laces at the throat and wrists, and ornaments
of jet and gold; the hair one careless, rolllIng mass of
braids and curls. adorned by a spray of odorous,
creamy white hyacinths.

Lady Druinmond, sitting before the mirror, smiled
epproving!y, and complimented her attendant on her
skill.

Then she arose, and arming herself with a little
waiter of chased silver inlaid with gold, upon which
were two tiny crystal glasses, and an exquisite little
flask filled with rare old wine, she crossed to the
boudoir in which the earl spent his mornings, and
tapped for admittance.

“Come in!”

She entered with the step of a fawn.

Lord Strathspey lay face downward on a velvet
couch, in a fit of miserable despondency. The world

 

soon joined them—a small, wiry little man, with an
alert, ferret-like face.

Judith stated the object of her visit at once, and
produced the card bearing the address of Milford
Grange. Could Doctor Penryth remember if a lady,

hair, Marguerite Strathspey by name, wife of Lord
Strathspey of Strathspey Towers, had heen trans-
ferred trom Milford Grange to this asylum ?

The doctor watched her keenly while she putthe
question.

“ Countess of Strathspey!’ he meditated. ‘ Well,
so many of the poor creatures fancy they are queens
and countesses, tis ahard matter to keep the run of
theirnames. I cannot call to mind any such name
or individual. Do you come from the unfortunate
lady’s friends ? Do you desire to remove her ?’

Judith answered warily.

“T was her friend, and wish to know what has be-
come of her?”

Doctor Penryth was sorry, but he could not give
her any information. He bowed himself out, and
Judith regested the keeper to conduct them through
the institution.

“And,” she added, as he proceeded to guide them,
opening her hand and showing him a five-pound note,
ot you get methe information I desire l’ll give you
t iV Weg

The man grinned at sightof the money, and bade
them follow him. Atthe door of the first-matron’s
room he paused, and tapped lightly. A stern and
stately woman appeared.

“She can tell youif any one can,” whispered the
keeper.

Judith stated her business, and the matron. ap-
parently won by her pleasant face and earnest man-
ner, bade them enter and be seated.

“Countess of Strathspey !’ she repeated, putting
her hand to her head. ‘*The name sounds familiar to
me—but I hearso manynames. Countess of Strath-
spey !—what manner of woman was she ?”’

“Small and slender, and very lovely, with blue eyes
and golden hair.”

“T think I do remember her,” replied the matron,
at last, “or a woman of that description, who called
herself Countess of Strathspey. She came to us at
Milford Grange, and was brought up here, and—oh,
yes, I have it now—she made her escape !”’

Judith uttered a cry of surprise.

“Yes,” continued the matron, reflectively, ‘‘she es-
caped, and attempted to cross the river below here.
It was swollen from prolonged rains, and the poor
creature was drowned. The shawl she wore drifted
ashore the next day, and her body was found about
a week after. That was about two years ago, and I
think her people were apprised of the event.”

Judith did not utter a word. The cruel truth had
stabbed her heart like a knife. After all her hopes
and weary efforts, this was the end!

She arose, with afew words of thanks to the ma-
tron, and passed out, slipping the five-pound note
into the keeper’s hand.

“Won’t you look around a bit, ma’am ?”’ he said,
smirking and bowing in his delight.

Mrs. Thatcher was anxious to avail herself of the
invitation, and Judith did not object. She followed

 

in the face of the rebuffs and difficulties that Judith
encountered ; but she was one of those persons in |
; whom energy and unyielding determination are vital
| forces. She hoped against hope, in the very face of
despair.

 

them along the dim and dusty corridors, thinking
what a life her poor lady must have led shut up in
that dreary place, and picturing to herself all the
horrors of her attempt to escape, her very soul dis-
solved in pity and grief.

The cells were ranged along the corridors, with

 

The middle of June found her down in Lancashire,
|} at a little public house on the edge of Lancaster |
| Moor, called the White Hart. She had been there be- |
| fore, in the first week after she left the Towers, and

had failed in gaining admittance into the handsome |
county asylum for the insane that stood out upon the |
| moor, and, led by a kind of impulse, she took the |
place on her return route, determined to make a |

second trial. |
| The landlady of the White Hart was a pleasant, |
chatty little woman, and she and Judith speedily be-
came the best of friends,

They sat out upon the back poreh,in the golden
glamour of a June sunset, when Judith had been there |
some three or four days. Mrs. Thatcher dandling her |
black-eyed baby on her knee, and Judith looking
away toward the distant glimmer of the Irish Sea |
with solemn, wistful eyes.

Life was growing to be very earnest and sorrowful
to poor Judith; nowhere in the wide world, perhaps,
could there be found another yeung person so quiet
and cheerful of demeanor, and yet so utterly hope-
less at heart. Apart from her generous efforts for
those she loved, she had not a single personal inter-
est. Since the day when she read that brief notice
in the breakfast parlor at Aukland Oaks, poor Judith’'s
| heart had lain dead and hopeless. The Victoria was
| lost, and Hendrick was gone; and Judith’s personal
interest in life had gone with him.

She was thinking it all over as she sat there that
June afternoon on the porch of the White Hart Inn,
her sad eyes wandering far out to sea—thinking of |
the dear, kindly face that the cruel waves had for- |
ever hidden, and picturing what might have been if |
| Hendrick could only have come back to her. Halfa
| score and more of years made no change with Judith;
her love was as true and tender, her loss as bitter
and irreparable as in the first hour of her bereave-
iment. But she was entirely unselfish; she never
magnified or paraded her own sorrows. The tears
were gathering thick in her brown eyes, but she
forced them back, and turned calmly to her hostess.

“And youreally think, Mrs. Thatcher,” she said,
resuming a former conversation, “that I shall succeed
in getting a permit to the asylum.”

Mrs. Thatcher gave her baby a toss, and a kiss, be-
fore she replied.

“Thatcher says you may,” she said, “which he
| knows, too, bein’ as he is in the squire’s employ, an
| he said he’d make mention 0’ it this werry h’evening
—I spose you’ll know when he comes ’ome.”

‘Tis very kind in him,’ replied Judith; “I feel
very anxious to gain admittance. Do you ever see
any of the inmates, Mrs. Thatcher?”

“Bless me, yes!”” They parades ’em out summer
days, an sometimes they passes right by the door.
Many be the drink o’ beer I’ve give the poor, crazy
creeturs! There was one young man, in particular, [
used to feel so sorry for; a fine,’andsome fellow he
was, a kind o’ sailor, I think; an sich a mild, mourn-
ful look on his face.”

“And what became of him!” asked Judith. ‘Had
he no friends ?”’

“T believe not—an I han’t seen him this month or
so—they transfers ’em sometimes, an mebbe he’s
been transferred.”

“They transfer them, do they ?”’

“Yes, indeed—‘Hush a by-baby, your mamma’s a
lady’—yes, indeed, they transfer’em. Why, near all
o’ these over on the Moor be sprung up from ‘Milford
Grange last summer; an’ a Wild-looking lot be some
o’ ’em.”

Judith caught her breath. At last, and from the
lips of this chatty little bar-woman!

‘Milford Grange!’ she repeated, ina voice trem-
ulous with suppressed excitement; ‘‘and where is
that?”

“Oh, furder down a good bit,’ replied Mrs. That-
cher, giving her baby a vigorous toss; way down
*pout the coast pint—they used to keep’em down
there, but the ’old place be fallen to pieces, and they
transfers ’em all to the Moor.”

“You are sure none are kept down there now ?’

“Sure ’nough—the Grange was left to go to rack,
| but a month ago young Lord Ross bought it, and he
be a buildin’ it h’up for aresidence, an’ a doleful resi-
dence ‘twill be, right down on the coast, in a thicket
of wild firs.”

Judith rose to her feetin a tremor from head to
foot. ;

“Oh, Mrs. Thatcher,” she cried, “you don’t know
what a favor you have doneme! Forover a month
I have been searching in vain for Milford Grange.”

“T beg your pardon, young woman, returned the
landlady, with, wide, amazed eyes, ‘‘but what ken
you want o’ Milford Grange? The young lord as lives
there now——”

“Thad adear friend sent to Milford Grange over
twelve years ago,” interrupted Judith, ‘‘and I have
been trying to find her ever since. Oh, Mrs. Thatcher,
I hope [ shall not fail now.”

Judith was sobbing now, despite her coolness and
self-repression, and Mrs. Thatcher, a kind-hearted
little woman, brushed a sympathetic drop from her

 

 

little square windows in the doors, through which
the poor, crazed inmates could look out, only the
most violent being closely confined. All the way
down they were peering out, laughing, and gibber-
ing, and singing—a sad sight to behold.

Judith barely glanced at.them in her sorrowful
preoccupation; but presently Mrs. Thatcher clutched
her arm.

“There he be!’ she eried, pointing to one of the
windows—“‘the sailor-feller as I telled ye of. which

| come to the White Hart long ago. See the poor soul—
| do let’s stop and speak to him!”

Judith followed her pointing finger, and saw a}
After |
the first glance, she stood still and stared like one in |
Then making a step forward, she uttered |

pale face, lit by a pair of kindly brown eyes.

a dream.

a piercing ery, and fell in a deadly swoon before the |

 

door of the cell.
CHAPTER XL.
LADY CECILIA FAILS,

Poor old Sir Varney had been dead and buried for
two months—buried down in the Drummond grave-
yard, at his own old country-house in Sussex. The
suinmer grasses were springing up thick and green
upon his graye, and a showy tombstone, bearing a
flattering inscription, marked the spot, erected by
the loving remembrance of his wife.

Lady Drummond had mourned her husband’s sud-

den death with apparent sincerity, and now, after |
two months had gone by, although the sharp edge of |

her sorrow had worn off, her crapes and bombazines
were voluminous; and whenever she drove out, her
pale, beautiful face was shut away from all admiring

| eyes by her heavy widow’s vail.

An object of great interest was my Lady Cecilia,
for she had come into possession of all her husband’s
estates, which were very valuable, and also, because

of some old entail, it was decided that Auckland |
Oaks, and the Chateau in France, would fall to her, |

in the event of Lady Marguerite Strathspey’s death.
And Lady Marguerite Strathspey was dead beyond a
doubt. So Lady Cecilia was the possessor of an
ample forune, and one of the most fascinating
women in England. Aas)

In all probability, Lady Cecilia was thinking of
this very thing as she sat one morning in her pretty
dressing-room at The Furs, gazing through the open
window toward the gray turrets of Strathspey
Towers.

The Earl of Strathspey had almost entirely re-
covered from his perilous illness, and had ordered
his carriage to be sent down that afternoon, to take
him to the Towers. Lady Neville and Pearl had gone
out for a drive, and the gentlemen visitors were
shooting in the grounds, and the earl and_ his lovely
hostess had the rambling old house all to themselves.

And my Lady Cecilla sat atthe open window, her
dark brows heavy with perplexed thought. At last,
she stood upon the ground which she had bartered
her very soul to gain. There was not a single
obstacle between her and the man she still loved.
Although he had forsaken her and stabbed her proud
heart by his indifference years before, she still loved
him with all the wild passion of her selfish nature.

For a whole month, while he had been lying help-
less, she had been his ministering angel; watching
at his bedside, and anticipating his slightest wish,
with a subdued and sorrowful gentleness that had
touched the proud earl’s heart to the very core.

Lady Cecilla knew just what advantage she had
gained, for she was eminently a shrewd and sharp-
eyed woman. She had watched her patient very
narrowly beneath her dark, curling lashes; and she
knew that his heart was more susceptible to her in-
fluence than it ever would be again. To use a com-
mon phrase, she knew that the iron was hot, and she
must strike then or never. If he left her house and
returned to the world uncommitted by word or act,

asmall, beautiful lady, with blue eyes and golden |

seemed very hopeless on that fair June morning, to
this noble peer, and he was half regretting that his
| life had beemspared, it seemed so utterly wretched
and worthless. He struggled up to his feet to wel-
| come Lady Cecilia.
| “Now, my lord,” she cried, chidingly, ‘is this obey-
ing my orders?’ putting down her sparkling service,
and advaneing'to his side. ‘Didn’t I tell you, yester-
day, that I would not suffer you to mope and meditate,
and here you are at it again! Come, you need not
deny it!”

The earl smiled bitterly.

“T do not deny it, Lady Drummond,” he replied ;
“T was only this moment regretting that you saved
my life.”

She looked at him, her fine eyes full of tender re-
proach; such alovely, winning, bewildering creature,
with the creamy hyacinths in her hair, and the odor
of spring clinging to her dainty garments. Lord
Strathspey, as we have said, was by naturea gay
and pleasure-loving nan. He was also a passionate
admirer of feminine beauty, and Lady Drummond’s
beauty, that morning, was resplendent. The sight
of her thrilied the very blood in his veins, and his
moody eyes brightened with admiration.

“Now, Angus,” she said (she called him Angus at
times, on the strength of their old acquaintance).
“Now, Angus, is that grateful. to say the least? If I
have saved your life, you might appreciate the gift,
if only for my sake.”

“You saved my life, undoubtedly, Lady Cecilia,”
the earl replied, ‘‘and I never can be grateful enough
—I would do anything on earth to repay you—but
alas! my life is a poor gift now, it is so utterly
wretched and aimless.”

She laid her slender, white hand on his arm, with
the shy, timid grace of a girl.

“Angus,” she said, her thrilling voice just above a
whisper, her eyes running over with tears, ‘is there
nothing—nothing that I can do to make you happy !”’

“You have made me happy,” replied the mole-blind
earl, unconscious of what she meant; “I am always
happy, asevery one else is, in your presence, Lady
Cecilia; but when I go away my old troubles and tor-
ments will get the better of me again.”

“Then why go away?’—why leave me? Why not
let me always make you happy? Oh, Angus,Angus !”
and she clung to his arm, and buried her burning face
in the cushions, ‘‘do you remember the hour we
parted at old Cavendish Manor, so many weary
years ago? Since that hour my life has been a tor-
ture, amockery, and I never shall be happy again,
unless—unless st

She broke into a storm of passionate sobbing, leay-
ing the sentence unfinished. Lord Strathspey rose
to his feet in grave wonder, confused, irresolute.
Should he take her to his heart, this lovely, bewilder-
ing woman, who had loved him so long? Should he
bury the dead past, and be happy himself again ?
For one brief moment he wavered ; and then, like a
pallid specter that undying memory arose before
him. The white, hopeless face of the wife he had

‘adored, looking out through the grated bars of a
mad-house. No, there never could be another love
for him!

“T am sorry for this, Lady Drummond,” he said,
gravely. ‘“‘[am your true friend, and I would lay
down my life to serve you; but never more im this
world can there be another love, another hope for
me Thatisall past. But for you there is a cloud-
less future, and you will soon be strong and hopeful
again.

He crossed to the table and filled the tiny glasses
with the rare old wine.

“Come, Lady Drummond,” he said, kindly, ‘‘and let
us pledge our friendship before we part. I hear my

-arriage on the drive below, and I may as well say
farewell at once.”

She arose, and dashed the passionate tears from
her cheeks.

“T beg your pardon, my lord,”

 

 

she said, accepting

the glass and draining it; “IT am so weak and
wretched, and shall be so lonely when you are

gone. But,’ she added, “I must shut up the Firs,
| and run away to London.” ;

The earl drank his wine, uttering some polite and
complimentary words, then he took ber hand and
raised it to his lips.

“Good-by, Lady Drummond, and may Heaven re-
| ward you for all your kindness.”

“Good-by, my lord; but you will soon drive over
again. You shall have this as my parting gift,” de-
taghing the spray of hyacinths from her hair and
“And now I must run

; putting it in his button-hole.
Oh, dear, I wish you all

away and see Lady Neville.
could remain !”
; And away she flew. with her graceful, gliding step,
smiling radiantly, with the tear-drops on her cheeks.
But once within her own chamber, a terrible change
came over her smiling face. It grew almost livid,
and her eyes glared like those of an enraged panther
in her wild passion and disappointment.

“Oh!” she cried, in anawtul, sibilant whisper, her
hands clenched and her teeth set, “I have failed !
I have stained my soul with murder, I have humbled
my woman’s pride, and, after all, I have failed !”

She threw herself into a chair, and rocked back-
ward and forward in her humiliation, a piteous
sight to see. Then she started up again, her eyes at
white heat.

‘Earl ot Strathspey !’ she hissed, menacing some
invisible object with her clenched hand, ‘‘yow shall
die for this! Nothing will wipe out this insult but
your heart’s blood, and I’ll have itif I lose my own
in the effort!’

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

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We will print yournameand address in

 

 

   

ONLY $3 F cents

a
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Jenny June, the most popular of all writers on dress a
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N. B.—Mention New York Weekly, as the 1st, 20th,
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we have already given watches. We are doing this solely
you want to see sample copy send 4c. in stamps. We refer

 

 

 

own eye, against her baby’s fat cheek.

HO

for HOUSEWIFE 6 Months

And a Stem Winding, Stem Setting WATCH,

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HOUSEWIFE has the best story-tellers as well as the most delightful
How to Talk, How to Get up N

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Lessons in drawing, painting, embroidery, vocal music, how to converse; how to furnish parlors and bedrooms;
how to cultivate plants and flowers; home sanitation, ete, will be given from time by those who know most about
Mrs. John Sherwood, one of the leaders of New York’s best society, and the authority on etiquette;

     
 

 
 

 

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In March and April HOUSEWIFE you will see the names of fifty persons to whom

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USEWIFE PUBLISHING CO., Greenfield, Mass.

 

 

 

  
       

 

 
  

 
  
   
   
 
  
 
 
 
 
 
 
  
 
 
   
 
  
 
  
   
  
 
  
  
   
  
   
  
 
 
 
  
  
   
 
   
  
 
  
 
  
  
 
 
  
 
 
 
 
  
 
  
  
  
 
  
 
  
  
  
   
 
 
   
  
   
  
  
   
 
   
   
   
   
  
  
   
  
   
   
    
  
   
 
    
     
  
  
    
   
    
   
   
   
  
   
   
   
  
  
  
  
   
    
   
  
   
   
    
   
 
   
  
   
    
   
 
  
 
   
   
   
  
   
   
 
    
   
   
    
   
  
 
 

ple sata Mecano

 

 

   

   

 

 

 

 

 

OO emer oo vy yYewes
NEW YORK, MAY 26, 1888.
en neem
Terms to Mail Subscribers:

(POSTAGE FREER.)
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Always state what issue you desire your subscription
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P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

AN EXCITING DRAMATIC STORY.

A story of remarkable power, founded on the

 

 

 

popular drama of the same name, will be begun
week after next, under the title of

TEE

Carpenter of ROvED,

By JOHN F. COWAN,

Author of “O’Connor’s Child,” ‘‘A Strange
Revenge,” Etc.

 

It is descriptive of the strife that existed years
ago in that ancient city of France, between the
nobility and the poor, when titled rascals became so
tyrannical and immoral that to the humbler classes
life became almost unendurable, and they had to
combine for self-protection.

THIS BACKWARD SPRING,

BY KATE THORN,

 

 

 

From every quarter we hear the cry, ‘‘What a back-
ward spring!”

The wise “old inhabitant,’ who is supposed to know
everything, tells us that the seasons are changing,
and that the weather is 2 geod deal more out of joint
than it used to be when he was young, and ‘them
fellows” at Washington didn’t have anything to do
with it.

The dry-goods dealers wear long faces, and pedes-
trians in over-coats, and sealskin caps, shiver as they
look in at his tastily arranged windows, and admire
the new muslins and cambrics, and wonder if the
time will ever come when anybody will feel any per-
sonal interest in them.

The milliners display their gay spring flowers, and
their pretty hats, and live in hope. The chilly organ
grinder’s teeth chatters as he grinds out his many
last summer’s tunes. The strawberries in the mar-
kets look cold and uncomfortable at twenty-five
cents a box. ;

No straw hats break the dread monotony in mas-
culine head gear. ‘ s

The robins chirp as if their throats were sore, and
the few adventurous frogs in the wayside pools
appear to be afflicted with chronic bronchitis. Surely
the peach crop cannot be ruined by frost this year,
for the buds will not come forward until frost will be
a thing of the past.

Everybody longs for a warm day. A day when the
black flies will fill the air, and stick fast in the new
paint on the smart_country villas, and the south
winds will blow, and you will be tempted to shed
your winter flannels, and get a cold that will last you
till the fourth of July.

The woman who wants to clean house, and take
down the stoves, will be very unhappy this year.
So will the young girls who expect to do consider-
able courting in hammocks. So will the itinerant
dealer who travels over the country with a lean
horse, and a long load of ladders, and lawn settees,
and willow rocking-chairs, all painted a bright ver-
milion, and warranted not to fade, and everybody
knows that three weeks of hot sunshine will reduce
them to a state of pallor pitiful to contemplate.

The farmer is the only hopeful man we meet. He
plows his land and plants his peas, and if they freeze
in, as likely enough they will, he knows tbat his
prize hens cannot scratch them out, as they other-

’ wise would.

A backward spring is fruitful of reminiscences.
You will hear how it was in’68, and how the snow
staid under the fences in ’72 till June, and. how the
year that Dr. Jenkins died they went to the ceme-
tery in sleigbs in May.

Oh, if you circulate round among your fellow-
citizens to any extent, you will find that this is not the
first backward spring on record; almost any of your
acquaintances can tell you of parallel cases, and itis
cheering to know that other people before you have
shivered over hot fires early in May, and gone to bed
fortified with ginger tea and warm soap-stones in the
sunny month of May.

And meantime, let us hope that the cold winds will
soften, and the gray skies grow brighter, and the
flowers blossom, and the grass spring fresh and
green as usual, and that our toes will thaw out, and
our noses lose their blueness all in good time.

A NEW ROAD.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

 

“We never took this drive before,” said one of the
children.

“Humph !” exclaimed her little sister. ‘But lots
of other people have. It’s only a new road tte us.”

And that was true. The ancient highway elimbed
the ancient hill over Dorchester Heights, where the
ancient trees, standing for many a generation shad-
owed the ancient mansions of one of the most an-
cient of all the regions of old New England. Thous-
ands of eyes had gazed on these scenes, years and
years agone, and the eyes of the beholders had clesed
in death before we were born. To us, only, all was
new. The very antiquities of architecture and land-
scape, had for us all the novelty of the newly made.

Life is very old. Solomon said, ‘‘There is nothing
new under the sun.” Yet, did you ever think what a
wonderful blessing of God it is, that to each of us, in
turn, life issonew? The old man steps aside for the
young lovers to pass, and growls at ‘‘such foolish-
ness.” Thank God, it does not seem “foolishness” to
them. Farfrom it. To them the moonlight walk,
arm in arm, is just_as fresh in its joy, as if the old
man had never had his fill of it. To them the pleas-
ure of each other's society is as keen and unflagging
as if the thousands of generations had not been on
this old road before them. The latest wedding is not
trite, though itis the youngest child that is married
to-day, standing on the identical spot of the identical
parlor where all the older sisters have stood before
her. The Creator’s joy is an inexhaustible fountain ;
and each of those who keep his laws shall find that
there are draughts of happiness for him and her, asif
all the millions of millions of brothers and sisters
had not slaked their thirst there before.

The sunshine is as sweet to this generation, as
eapable of bringing pleasure with the spring, as it
ever was to mortal eyes. Food, sleep, warmth, bodily
comfort; we of this latest population relish all these
as tirelessly in God’s earth so old as did Adam in his
bower. Each generation of young men goes into busi-
ness just as hopefully as if there never had been mil-
lions of bankruptcies, or countless failures, to find
satisfaction in accumulating wealth or the prosecu-
tion of affairs. Did you ever think of it, that we
never inherit a disgust for life? Wemay inherit a
thousand defects from our parents, but we do not
heir their hopelessness. Noris this because most of
us are born while our parents arein their prime. The
old man’s babe never inherits the old man’s dises-

a a a :

 

hatreds

If anything, life grows sweeter the longer the old
path is tred by man. Individual men wear out; but
the race is more vital, more careful of itself than it
used to be. Life is by no means as cheap as it once
was. Men do not throw it away so carelessly in the
slaughter of battle, in the exposure to fire and flood,
in the contempt for care to avoid preventable dan-
gers, as they used to. Though the countless billions
have toiled and been disappointed. and sunk down to,
often, willing rest in the grave, yet we who are now
going over the worn path are more anxious to make
italong path than the first that traveled it. Thank
Heaven! What if the world’s disgust were left in
store, generation after generation, as their wealth is,
as their accumulated invention and discovery and
achievements are? What a gloomy world this would
be by this time.

But no; when a man dies he leaves the world new,
all new, to hisson. Whena traveler has gone over
the road, he has not worn out the road; even if he be
a bad man, and break a bridge or two, yet the stream
that babbles beneath it runs from perennial foun-
tains; werepair the bridge and forget him. Down
into the grave goes mostof the evil that men suffer,
and is buried with them. At all events, all the
multitudes cannot poison the sweet air for the
children who shall come after.

How it magnifies the great Creator! By what
alchemy does he cleanse the sea waves of a thousand
years? What power has he to brighten the old sun-
beams, to polish the unwearied stars,to freshen hope,
and faith, and love in human hearts? Does He
never tire of making sugar sweet? Will bread never
cease to be grateful to the hungry? How does He
create that strange thing hunger, or how attune the
inexhaustable nerve supply that the eater should ex-
claim, ‘That tastes good!” The fire of genius, the
poet’s dream, and the singer’s song, are as unique
and as wonderful in the growing boy who manifests
these gifts to-day, as in any’ previous epoch of the
world. The deep fountain of a mother’s love wells
up from the secret heart of every true woman, when
God puts the child inher own arms, Ah, a mother’s
love is the oldest, as it is the most stupendous
miracle of creative power! Men are as heroic to-day
with all the fine frenzy of the fireman, the patriot,
the streng swimmer, as when the ancient race was in
its youth. To do, to dare, to be; these are facts of
to-day with higher exemplifications than in any
previous time.

Inever hear men speak contemptuously of “this
mean old world,” but instantly know thatitis mean
and old to them only ; not by any means do I think
any less of the world or of this human career, be-
cause of their disgust. I am glad to know that every
morning is some one’s birthday, some one’s wedding-
day, some one’s day of success after long trial, the
day of some one’s happy return from far exile. I am
often moved to stand by the window as I am dressed
to go out of a morning, once more to begin what may
be to me a worn and trite old struggle in which there
is ‘nothing new ;” glad, I say, to gaze out and think
how, to thousands on thousands, itis the day of a
new experience, a new victory, a new business, a
new joy. For Heaven is a fountain of life. God is
not old. Life is a wonderin its constant throb and
bound. And life grows richer and fuller to the race
of mankind as we continue to populate, and explore,
and master the material world. Life, with virtue,
is eternal.

 

THE TWO LOVERS.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

 

 

“Tam so sorry you are going away, Katie. The old
farm-heuse will be so lonely without you.”

The softening purple of the summer twilight was
just dotted with the trembling gold of one or two
stars; the white pinks along the garden walk were
distilling their clove-like fragrance in the dewy
damp of the atmosphere; and the great oleander, in
its green tub by the door-steps, was one mass of pink
tropical blossoms. Katie Evelyn pulled their waxen
petals apart, as she stood in the porch with Jonas
Caverley at her side.

“T am sorry, too, Jonas, and yet ’m glad. Ishould
not like to grow up an ignorant country-girl, and
this bequest of money comes just in time. I shall
comeé back here again, when I have completed my
education in New York.”

“Yes, you will come back here again, but you'll not
be the same little Katie. You will be a city young
lady, ready to criticise and sneer.”

“Jonas !””

“T know it seems impossible, Katie, but such things
are of almost daily occurrence. You will remember,
though, that we loved you very dearly; that we tried,

all of us, to be very kind to you.”

“As if I could ever forget it, Jonas!”

“And Tll take care of the oleander for your sake,
Katie, and the old blackbird. Oh, Katie, how lonely
it will seem when you are gone !”

Katie burst into tears. Bright as was the prospect
before her sixteen-year-old eyes, she was yet very
tenderly attached to her kindly oid relatives, and she
had almost begun to fancy herself in love with Jonas
Caverley, their handsome, stalwart son.

“T’ll write every week, Jonas; and—and [ll wear
the little ring you gave me always.”

This was some consolation to Jonas. He had no
doubt at all as to the question of being in love; and
no wonder. Katie Evelyn was as pretty as a china
shepherdess, with pink cheeks, blue, liquid eyes, lips
as red as sealing-wax, and a fresh complexion, with
rings of golden hair curling round her azure-veined
temples. And she was very graceful and very win-
ning, and had a soft little voice, like the rippling of
some mountain stream, and small, fluttering hands,
whose fingers reminded you of the tendrils of a
reaching, clinging vine.

“Katie,” said Jonas, solemnly, ‘‘you’ll not forget ?”

“No, Jonas; [ll never, never forget!”

So Katie Evelyn, an heiress now in the eyes of the
simple country people, went away to the grand New
York boarding-school and entered upon her ne® life,
while Jonas remained at home and pondered over
her last words, and kept the faded roses she had
worn in her belt, and watered the oleander morning
and evening, and hung the blackbird’s cage in the
sunshine because Katie had been fond of him.

“Only four months to the Christmas vacation,”
pondered Jonas.

But at Christmas no Katie came back—only a per-
fumed note, written on pink paper,in Katie’s new
style of leaning Italian chirography, which old Mrs.
Caverley compared to ‘‘a row of bean poles in a high
wind!’ to tell them that she was to spend the
Christmas vacation with her friend, Mabel St. Eyre,
who lived on Lexington avenue, and had, oh, such a
handsome brother!

“Well, there !” said Mrs. Caverley. “I do think that’s
real ungrateful of Katie, and we wantin’ to see her
so bad !”"

“No, no, mother, you musn’t be hard upon her!’
apologized Jonas. ‘She’s but a young thing, and of
course it must be pleasanter for her in New York
than to spend Christmas in this quiet old farm-
house.”

And then Jonas went out with a heavy heart to
walk under the leafless old elm trees, with the wintry
blast striking keenly against his face. But he did
not feel the wind; he was thinking only of Katie.
Surely, surely she was changed!

The year came round—the midsummer glow
mantled once more over meadow, hills, and valley—
and Jonas’ heart lay lightly in his breast once more.
Katie was coming home for good and all!

They were all standing at the gate, in the mellow
light of the sunset, when the old stage-coach, with
its not unmusical flourish of horns, rolled up to the
old farm-house, and Katie alighted. But she was not
alone.

“This is Mr. St. Eyre, Jonas,” she said, with rosy
cheeks and sparkling, down-vcast eyes.

Mr. St. Eyre bowed, and put up his eye-glass.

“Pretty picturesque little spot, I should think,’ he
eondescended to say. ‘“‘Trouting in yonder stream,
eh, my good fellow ?”

But Jonas did not answer; he was busy with
Katie’s trunks.

So this was the rival for whom Katie had given him
up! For the garnet ring he had given her was gone
from her forefinger, and in its stead sparkled a hoop
of diamonds.

But Katie herself looked lovelier than ever, in her
soft gray traveling dress, with its linen collar and
knot ef blue ribbons, and her blushing cheeks and
soft little voice. And she kissed Father and Mother
Caverly as tenderly as ever, and cried over the
empty cage of the poor old dead blackbird, and clapped
her hands over the crimson crests of the magnificent
oleander tree, just as Kittie of the olden times had
done, but for all that, there was an inscrutable change
inher. She was the same, yet not the same; they
felt the alteration, though they could not define its
shadowy outlines.

Meanwhile Mr. St. Eyre went yawning about the
place with his eye-glass. Farmer Caverley watched
him with @& comieal side glance, but said nothing.
Mrs. Caverley declared that he was ‘‘a conceited
puppy, and she hadn’t no patience with him, that
she hadn’t!” And Jonas tried to be civil to the man
whom Katie liked, but was aware of the gradually
deepening dislike that had taken root in his heart.

Katie was sitting with Mr. Theodore St. Eyre in
the soft starlight one night. It was very warm, so
|they had lighted no lamp, but sat whispering, as
| lovers like to whisper, by the windows, with fire-flys
glowing through the dark, and sweet air floating
across their senses.

“Hush!” said Katie, suddenly. ‘‘What’s that?”

“It’s the old clock, striking midnight.”

‘“No—hark—it’s something else.’

Katie was right. It was the creakingof a bolt—the
sound of strange, stealthy footsteps.

‘There’s some one in the house—burglars— robbers

 

' io : te ,
teem for life, nor his sour disappointments, nor his

 

 

—perhaps murderers!” faltered the girl, clinging

wildly to St. Eyre’s, arm.

At the same instant the door of the room was flung
noiselessly open, and two men entered, carrying a
dark lantern, and with faces hidden by masks.

“It’s in the cupboard where the old man keeps his
bonds and loose cash,” said one, in a suppressed, al-
though perfectly distinct voice. ‘Hello!’

For they had discovered Theodore St. Eyre with
Miss Evelyn. The city cavalier backed pacifically
cerrene the door, leaving Katie to take care of her-
self.

“Theodore !” cried the girl, “you will not let these
ruffians rob my poor uncle ef his hard-earned money ?
Help! Murder! Robbers!”

Her voice rang clear and loud through the silence ;
but the next instant it was smothered by a handker-
chiel passed swiftly and silently over her mouth.

“Confound the girl! muttered a deep, angry voice.
“Her pipes ’ll ruin us all yet! Quick, Bob, into the
cupboard.”

“My good friends, really, you mustn’t,”’ cried Mr.
Theodore St. Eyre, in a quaking voice, still backing.
“You see, Katie,” for her appealing eyes were turned
wistfully toward him, ‘‘they’re two to one—what van
a fellow do. Better be peaceable.”

The man called “Bob,” turned suddenly and say-
agely on St. Eyre, twisting his fingers in that ex-
quisite’s necktie with apoplectic tightness.

“Where are those bonds? Answer quick, or Pll
throttle you to death.”

“TIn—in the little tin box, back of the pile of books,”
stammered Mr. St. Eyre, limp and helpless as a
stuffed effigy in the hands of his tyrants. ‘Don’t
squeeze so hard, my good sir. I—I won’t scream.”

“Give us your watch and chain,” snarled the man,
suddenly snatching the jeweled pin from his cravat.

“Yes, sir, certainly; here it is,’ meekly assented
St. Eyre.

“And give us that ring oft the girl’s finger!”

Katie, spirited as an Amazon of old, although she
ae cee hand and foot, closed her little fingers
tightly.

“Get it for us! I want no scenes,” said her captor,
turning sharply to St. Eyre.

“Better give it up, Katie; I—I’li get you another,”
faltered Theodore,

The man had seized her resolute little hand to pos-
sess himself of the glittering circlet by violence,
when a blow like that of a sledge-hammer, descended
upon his skull, and he fell heavily tothe floor with-
out a single groan.

“Take that, will you, you scoundrel!” roared Jonas
Caverley, and the next instant he had closed with
the other ruffian, dashed the lantern to the floor, and
was struggling in a breast to breast encounter.

It lasted but for an instant, and the burglar, who
had miscalculated the giant strength of the young
farmer, lay on the floor as helpless as his companion.

“Bring on the ropes, father!’ shouted Jonas.
We'll tie ’em hand and foot, and have em in Leslie-
ford jail by to-morrow’s dawn. There, if they get
out of those little loops, 1 lose my calculation !”

And he bent tenderly over Katie, removingthe gag
that had nearly suffocated her and cutting the bonds
that fastened her feet and hands, with a gentile celer-
ity.

Vixatie, ny darling, have the brutes hurt you ?”’

“No,” sobbed Katie, clinging with both arms round
his neck; ‘‘but, oh Jonas, I have been so terrified.”

“T heard you cry for help. I mixed it up somehow
with my dreams,” said the farmer's son, ‘but then I
knew it was your voice, and I hurried down stairs as
fast as ever I could come. My poor little love, how
fast your heart beats!”

“Yes—y—yes—it was certainly a very nervous busi-
ness,” chimed in Mr. St. Eyre, who was by this time
sufficiently reassured to pick up his watch and chain
which were lying on the floor.

“What have you got to say!” sternly demanded
Jonas. ‘You miserable, pale-faced coward, why did
you not defend this poor little creature, who has
twice your pluck and courage ?’

‘“‘Well—I—you see,” argued Mr. St. Eyre, “there
were two to one. What could I do?’

‘“‘Were there not two to one when Jonas struck the
miscreant down ?” demanded Katie, with eyes that
flashed indignation. ‘I,a woman, would have re-
sisted, if they had not bound me, and you—go! I
thought you wereaman. I find that you are but a
spiritless wretch. And take that with you!”

She drew the diamond ring from her hand, and
threw it on the floor toward him.

“But, Katze——”

“Hush! I will not listen to another word!”

She clung more closely than ever to Jonas Cay-
erley’s broad, brave breast.

“Oh, Jonas, I have been so deceived—se cruel, so
eapricious! But you will fergive me, will you not?”

Forgive her! There was forgiveness in the verr
clasp with which he infolded her, in the tender light
of his eyes, and the thrill that passed through his
frame. Katie need not have doubted that!

Mr. Theodore St. Eyre had received his dismissal.
Katie Evelyn had learned how much more self-reliant
and reliable honest Jonas Caverley was. And when
the *‘city man,” as old Mrs. Caverley persisted in call-
ing him, had gone home, she came down stairs, shy
and pretty as ever, with her needle-work in her
hand.

“Tt looks natural to see you here once again,
Katie,” said Caverley.

“Yes,” said Katie, I shall stay here always, now.”

“With me, Katie?’

“With you, Jonas.”

Nothing more was said; but each felt that the
compact was alife-lomg one. And Jonas Caverley
was happy at last. He had earned his sweetheart.

HOW TO MAKE LOVE,

BY ELLIS LAWRENCE.

 

 

 

No. '7.—BE TENDER.

 

The best way to avoid committing faults is te prac-
tice virtues, and the best way to avoid being rude
and overbearing, while leve-making, is to. devote
yourself to being tender.

Perhars you imagine you are in no danger of being
rude or overbearing. Well, all young men have that
idea about themselves, but they don’t impress listen-
ers and beholders that way. One ofthe most enrag-
ing. boors in the world is the average young man
when he first finds a young woman who seems willing
to hear him talk all he likes.

Of course he doesn’t mean to make himself offen-
sive, but unfortunately most of the world’s worst
tormentors “didn’t mean to do” the mischief that is
remembered against them. It is because you don’t
mean to be hard, and rude, and arrogant, and offen-
sive, that you are herein advised to be tender.

Don’t feel insulted, and say that you were too well
brought up to be rude to a lady. Don’t. say that
your mother and sisters have always got along with
you, and you guess what was good enough for them
will be good enough for any other woman. Your
mother and sisters loved you, as a matter of nature,
long, long ago, and some women endure a great |
deal from those they love, rather than complain.
But the girl to whom you are making love has not
reached that stage as yet, and if she has proper
respect for herself she never will love a young man
who displays, even in conversation, an overbearing
disposition. So be tender.

You probably will turn up your nose and declare
that the writer is a born fool. Tender? Well, are
you ever anything else, you’d like to know? Wouldn’t
you rather freeze in all the blizzards of Dakota, than
have one winter breeze chill the tip of her pretty
ears for a thousandth part of a second? Wouldn’t
you hold her tiny hand in yours for an hour rather
than have it nipped by Jack Frost? Tender! Why,
you wouldn’t even let her have the work of putting
a her own cloak or rubbers, if you were allowed to
1elp it.

Oh, yes, my boy, all that sort of thing is tenderness
—of one kind; but, seriously now, don’t you suppose
the meanest cub alive would feel that sort of tender-
ness for any pretty girl? Some of the lovers—yes,
and married people, too, who are tenderness itself
toward each other personally—fight like cats and
dogs about everything that doesn’t agree with their
own inclinations.

Boys and girls don’t think alike about many of the
affairs of life; you may have noticed this long before
you were a big boy. Well, young men and young
women are only children of larger growth, and one
reason why Civilization has decreed a period of court-
ship, instead of the old plan of marrying at sight, is
that each of the parties to a probable wedding may
adjust their opinions, likes, dislikes—their entire na-
ture, in fact—to each other. So be tender.

The average young man will ask, ‘‘Am I to knuckle
under to everything any girl says or wants, and let
her tramp all over me? Am I to swear that black is
white, just to please her?’ No, certainly not; if she
is that sort of girl, you have made a great blunder in
selecting her. It is more likely, however, that the
young man who talks in this way has the very fault
the writer condemns, for he is inclined to think only
of the defects of the girl, and not at all of his own.

But if you really are immensely smarter and more
sensible than your girl, there is all the more reason
for you to be tender, gentle, forbearing in your re-
marks upon her opinions and tastes, and in talking
of yourown. You have probably learned your man-
ners more on the ball-field, the school play-ground
and the street, than at home, and they may be what
they need be, to get along with a lot of aggressive
boys and men; but no one ever could afford to treat
men and women in exactly the same way unless he

VOL. 43-—No. 30.

 

 

 

enough to understand that delicate material must
be worked with delicate tools. You wvuldn’t try to
repair a watch with a sledge-hammer, yet it would
be quite as sensible as to try to correct your girl’s
mistaken impressions with “Pshaw!” or ‘Oh, non-
sense!” or ‘I don’t think so at all.”

You are pretty sure to find that many things which
you like and practice, or think all right, don’t meet
your girl’s views at all. Perhaps she is wrong; but
you can easier tame a mad bull by flaunting a red
rag in his face than by rudely insisting that you are
right and she is wrong. Be tender enough to yield a
great deal, for the sake of the prize you are hoping
to win; besides, it isn’t at all unlikely that you may
in the end come to the conclusion that, after all, you
were the one who was wrong.

This brings us to the very important fact that
whatever tenderness you may display, even if it
seems very Magnanimous on your part, and all for
her sake, may turn out to be quite as much for your
benefit as your girl’s. Both boys and girls need cer
tain reforming that does not seem to be obtained in
any way but by respectful, unselfish, considerate
acquaintance with each other. Young women may
seem only thoughtless, careless, grown-up girls, but
young men are quite as likely to be half-barbarians,
or worse. Because they can behave fairly well for
an hour or two in ladies’ society, when they have
nothing to put them off their good behavior, is no
sign that they would be even half-way endurable if
tied to their sweetheart’s apron-strings for life. And
don’t forget that marriage, to a man, really means
being tied to a woman's apron-string, and should be
gloried in as such, just as to a woman marriage
means being pinned to a man’s coat-sleeve. There
are ways of escaping both these bonds, from time to
time, or even all the time; but no one ever saw either
side grow the better for it, or happier either. If you
are not tender, there is going to be a great deal of
chafing; and this is one of the troubles all your smart-
ness and rudeness can’t prevent you from suffering
a full half of. Not all the philosophy and selfishness
that have been talked and written about love can
get rid of the fact that two people must make them-
selves one to get along smoothly in wedlock, and that,
to become one, each must be most tenderly consid-
erate of the other.

Finally, don’t leave tenderness, like most other
virtues, to luck, and believe it will come some way
after marriage. It will grow after marriage, of
course, but not unless it is planted before and nour-
ished very carefully until it has some strength of its
own. So be tender; whatever it may or may not do
for the girl, it will do wonders for you, and do it
just where you probably can stand a great deal of
wonder-working without damage.

0

Correspondence.

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

 

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

 

R. L. L., Lebanon, Va.—ist. Wheat is supposed to have
first come from Asia. Itis not known to grow wild any-
where. 2d. As the date tree, which grows in North
Africa, Arabia, and Persia, is quite tall and straight, and
has no branches, it is difficult to climb, but the Arabs
reach the top in the following way: They put a rope
round their backs and under their arm-pits, and then
round the tree, and tie the ends inaknot. Putting the
rope into one of the notches left by the fallen stalk of a
leaf, they slip the rope down to about the middle of the
back, and then taking hold of the trunk with their hands
and knees, raise themselves up a few inches. Then,
while holding fast with knees, feet, and one hand, they
slip the rope up with the other hand until it rests on the
next notch, and so on until they accomplish their work.
They then pluck the fruit and throw it down into a cloth
held by other men for the purpose. 3d. The tree bears
atthe top a crownof forty to eigity leaves, generally
eight to ten feet long, among which the fruit hangs in
bunches. Dates are usually brought to this country
pounded together in a mass. Fresh or dried they con-
stitute one of the chief articles of food in Africa. The
date tree is described as one of the most useful trees in
the world. The trunk makes timber for houses and
fences, and wood for fuel ; the leaves are used for making
baskets, bags, mats, fans, and brushes. Oil is made by
grinding and pressing the stones of the fruit, and what
is leftis fed to cattle. Wine is also made from the
fruit.

Molly L., Richmond, Va.—To make bread muffins take
four thick slices of bakers’ bread, and cut off all the crust.
Lay them in a pan, and pour boiling water over them, but
barely enough to soak them well. Cover the bread, and
after it has stood an hour, drain off the water, and stir the

soaked bread until it isa smooth mash. Then mix in two
tablespoonfuls of sifted flour, and half a pint of milk.
Having beaten two eggs very light, stir them, gradually,
into the mixture. Grease some muffin rings; set them on
a hot griddle, and pour into each a portion of the mixture.
Bake them brown; send them to the table hot; pull them
open with your fingers, and spread on the butter. If these
directions be carefully followed, the muffins will be found
light and nice.

Cleopatra, Nashville, Tenn.—St. Paul discoursed on the
covering or uncovering of the head in public worship,
because, as is evident from his remarks, he had been re-
quested to give some directions upon the subject. It was
the practice among Greek Christians, of whom the Corin-

thians were among the most distinguished, to uncover
their heads when attending divine service; but in other
and more Eastern parts of the Church the custom of
worshiping with the head covered was retained. That
St. Paul had advised the uncovering of the head by the
male, and the vailingot the head by at least the female
portion of the congregation is evident. See I. Corin-
thians, chapter 11.

Amanda H. C., Augusta, Me.—What is popularly
called transcendentalism Ralph Waldo Emerson declared
to be idealism. Inalecture he said, “As thinkers, men
have always been divided into sects—materialists and
idealists—the first class founded on experience and the lat-
ter on consciousness—the first thinking from the data of

the senses, the second considering these data not final, but
going back of their representations to find a something—
they cannot tell what. The meterialist insists on facts,
on history, or force of circumstances; the idealist, on
the power of thought and will, on inspiration, on miracle,
on individual culture.”

Alex. R. C., New Orleans.—ist. A broker must obey the
directions of his principal. If he should sell without
notice, and the market price should rise, he is liable to
the principal for all the profits he might have made by
holding the stock. 2d. Where stocks are sold “on a

margin,” as where the principal furnishes ten per cent.
of the amount, and the broker the balance, and the
market pricefalls, the broker must give notice to the
principal before he can sell to protect his advances. If
the principal does not furnish more “margin,” the broker
may then sell with impunity.

Marylander, Annapolis.—To make sally lunn (why
so called we cannot state) rub three ounces of butter into
a pound of fiour; then add three eggs beaten very light,

a little salt, one gill of yeast, and as much milk as will
make it intoa soft dough; knead it well. Put it ina
buttered pan; cover it and set it in a warm place to rise.
Bake it in a moderate oven, and send to the table hot. To
beeaten with butter.

Pembroke, Providence, R. I.—Cornaro was the name of
a Venetian family. Among its members was Caterina,
Queen of Cyprus. In 1473 she succeeded her husband,

James II., ‘as regent, until Feb. 26, 1489, when she ab-
dicated in favor of-the Venetian Republic. Her portrait
was painted by Titian. She had brilliant intellectual
and social qualities, and has been the theme of various
Frenelh novelists.

A.N. P., Fulton, N. ¥.—To paper whitewashed or kal-
somined walls, make flour starch as you would for starch-
ing calico clothes, and, with a whitewash brush, wet the

wall with the starch. Let it dry; then, when you wish
to apply the paper, wet the wall and paper both with the
starch, and apply the paper. This method issimple and
inexpensive, and saves a great deal of trouble and time.

B. M. J., Bordentown, N. J.—Buenos Ayres, after Rio
de Janeiro, is in nearly all respects, the most important
city in South America. It has been called the Athens of

that country, itdiffering but little from the large cities of
the North American and European seaboards. Since
1860 great improvements have been made in the style of
its buildings, etc.

J. H., Omro, Wis.—ist. Try Rio de Janeiro. 2d. Por-
tuguese, Spanish, and French. The language of the first
is closely allied to the Spanish. 3d. Write to the U. S.
and Brazil Steamship Co., this city, for any particulars
désired. 4th. We think your prospects would be good.

Etiquette, Jeanerette, La.—The second lady referred to
has no reason. to be offended, unless it is the invariable
practice of the gentleman to invite the other lady first.

In that case the lady complaining would be indeed
“second choice.”

E. 8. M., Kimberton, Pa.—ist. Unable to inform you.
Write to some paper in the city named. 2d. The “Poker
Primer” will cost, in paper cover, 10 cents. 3d. Regular
railroad rates.

B. W. B.—The skin is sometimes called the “ third
lung,” as its office is to throw off impure and effete matter
trom the body through its pores by perspiration.

Reader, Chicago.—ist. No directions that would be of

of nineteen your penmansnip is very fair.

White Cross, Burlington, N. C.—We will furnish a
coin book for 50 cents. Wecan find no tac-simile of the
piece described.

 

was a perfect gentleman; and that sort of character
isn’t found among young fellows going courting for
the first time. It takes a long time to ripen a gentle-
man. ;

It may appear to you simply ridiculous to listen
respectfully to childish remarks, such as most young

Artist, New Orleans.—Iist. Yes ; freehand drawing. 24d.
A course of lessons will be necessary.

Cc. G., New Orleans.—The ingredients are not known to
us; besides, it is a patented article.
eae H., Kingman, Kansas.—No personal knowledge
of it.

 

women often make about matters which they don’t
fully understand; but you ought to have sense

J.C. D., Goshen, Ind.—A great many unquestionably
are.

practical use to an inexperienced person. 2d. Fora youth |

 

AFTER THE STRIKE.

 

BY NATHAN D. URNER,

 

What have we gained by the strike? you ask.
Well, to judge by this cottage poor,

With never a glimmer of hope to mask
The grinning wolf at the door,

With the cupboards empty, the wife avers,
And the children ragged and gaunt,

And the times still growing from bad to worse—
Not much, at a glance, I grant.

Time was, you say, when the garden there
Was a heaven of birds and flowers,

And not a cottage around so fair
And tidy as this of ours;

And then you glance, with your sneer again,
At the wreck that has come to pass,

At the old quilt stuffed in the broken pane,
And the litter upon the grass—

At the young ones sullen, the good wife blue,

And myself like a beast at bay.
‘Not much to be gained by strikes!” say you,

But there’s where you’re wrong, J say.

For the thoroughbred ever his teeth will show
Where the mongrel cowers with fright ;

And it’s something to give back blow for blow,
Though the odds are against you quite.

You are also the Company’s servant, you say,
And you bravely stood at your post.

Yes, you live in a grand house over the way,
Where the comforts of life you boast.

And your princely galary suffered, too,.
A considerable shave throughout.

Why, man, it’s a pity for such as you,
And you had great loss, no doubt.

A horse or a yacht the less, belike,
With a cheaper hotel at the Springs,
And a general retrenchment, to meet the strike,
In wine and cigars and things;
While we, who had but a crust before,
Have now but its half, or naught.
Ah, well, no wonder you feel so sore,
And curse us fools, as you ought.

I wish that clothing but grew on trees,
And Labor could feed on air,

Then perhaps, with the rest of us on our knees,
You swells would have more to share.

But this I know, I would sooner the cross
Of defeat on my shoulder lay,

Than be wrongside up in the profit and loss
That is struck on the Judgment Day.

For the greed of gold that can stifle the groan
Of the suffering sons of toil,

And souls of iron, and hearts of stone,
I am sure God’s love can foil;

And the motive, as well as the deed, shall stand
When the rich and the poor shall meet,

With records of life in each trembling hand,
Before His mercy seat.

 

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

Blanche, the Breadwinner;
THE SECRET OF THE HESPERIA HOTEL.

By K. F. HILL,

(“BLANCHE, THE BREADWINNER” was commenced in
No. 21. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents.)

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
MARY ECCLES AND MARTHA SCHOFIELD.

Mrs. Havelander was taken by surprise when
Theodore was announced. She wondered whether
he came as a friend or afoe. She did not keep him
waiting, however, but descended at once to the
reception-room, and held out her hand in friendliest
greeting.

If he had come for battle, he must be the first to
sound the trumpet for the fray.

Like August, she preferred to fight by unseen
methods, sapping the foundation of her enemies*
defenses rather than meeting them in the open field.
This was not Theodore’s way, and she knew it.

“Helen,” he said, after he had shaken hands as
coldly as it is possible to perform that ceremony, “I

want to know what you think of this.”

She took the letter, for it was Blanche’s letter he
handed to her with these words, and read it through,
then folded it and returned it to him.

“T think that Miss Norton displays more sense than
I gave her credit for.”

Her face was calm; there was no expression of
triumph on it.

“You do? I wish to ask further, and should feel
obliged if I were favored with a straightforward
answer. Have you any hand in this matter?”

Mrs. Havelander elevated her delicate dark eye-
brows.

“T am at a loss to understand your meaning.”

“T mean, have you anything to do with the resolu-
tion which Blanche formed so suddenly ?” .

“Thave never seen the girl since I saw her in this
room the day she left nry house.”

“Nor communicated with her in any way ?’

“Nor communicated with her in any way.”

“Lucette, your maid, seems to have interested her-
self very muchin this business. Can she have tam-
pered with Miss Norton ?”’

“Lucette has not been out of her room for three
weeks. She is ill in bed.”

“She might write.” f

“She has not done so. I should have heard of it if
she had, and she is too ill to write.”

Theodore felt completely mystified.

“To my mind, the only solution of the puzzle is
that the girl knows site is not worthy to become your
wife,” said Mrs. Haveiander, calmly.

“She is worthy!” exclaimed her brother-in-law,
angrily.

“Very well. Then why does she go? What is the
meaning of her letter ?”’

thers was a question that could not be readily ans-
wered.

“There is some strange mystery here,” he said,
rising to leave the house.

“T know nothing of it. I am surprised at Miss
Norton’s action, but I do not deny that I am pleased
to think she has displayed so much good sense. I
have a better opinion of her.

Without replying to this parting thrust, Theodore
left the house.

He had eaten nothing for hours, so he went to din-
vet at his hotel. Here he found letters awaiting

im.

One was addressed, in very poor handwriting, on a
dirty envelope. It had been brought by his servant
from down town, and bore the number of his box.

“This must be from one of those girls,” he said, as
he cut it open with an old-fashioned Italian dagger
which he used as a paper knife.

He was right.

The letter was badly written and badly spelled. but
it announced that the two girls he had advertised for
were in New York, after some months’ absence, and
might be seen anytime at No. — King street.

“They are too late,” he said, laying the letter care-
fully aside. “They shall vindicate my darling’s
reputation, however, so that, when next i see her I
may tell her the foul lie is proved a lie.”’

It he had only known that he owed the answer to
his advertisement to August Havelander’s detective,
he would not have rejoiced so much over the reap-
pearance of Mary Eccles and Martha Schofield.

‘“‘T shall go at once to the house where they are, and
interview them,” he resolved.

Immediately after dinner he ordered a hack, and
giving the driver the number of the house in King
street, threw himself back on the seat, and became
absorbed in refiection.

Why had Blanche acted in such an unaccountable
manner? There was something mysterious about
this sudden change in his plans.

“T shall not give her up,” he said, resolutely, “I’ll
find her if she is above the ground. Happy thought,
I’ll employ a detective.”

Hailing the driver he had the hack turned in
another direction. He drove straight to police head-
quarters.

Here he inquired for the address of a steady,
sensible detective.

Having secured it, he drove to the detective’s
house. Fortunately for Theodore Havelander, who
was becoming more impatient every moment, the
man was at home.

Theodore stated his case.

‘“How soon shall I hear from you?” he asked, as the
ete made a few notes in his memorandum
JOOK,
atte of twenty-four hours in a simple case like

his.”

Theodore opened his eyes.

“Do you call it a simple case?’ he asked, in as-
tonishment.

The great man smiled a pitying smile.

 

“Bless you, sir! I might call it a difficult case if I

 

 

 

     

 

 

 

 

 

  

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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wanted to open your pocket-book, but what’s the use?
All P’ve got todo is to find the express man who
moved that young lady’s traps. Q
naturally employ the handiest and nearest express
man, so there we are.”

Theodore Havelander paid an involuntary tribute

to genius. He exclaimed:
cone very smart! I never would have thought of
at!

Again the detective smiled. He liked innocence,
though he was a detective and a New York man.

“Now for the two women,” said Theodore, his heart
light as eider-down, for had not the detective said
that within twenty-four hours he would discover
Blanche?’ He would soon put an end to her doubts
and fears. All moonshine and romantic nonsense,
he made no doubt.

The hack stopped before the house in King street,
and the driver was told to wait. Miss Eccles and
Miss Schofield were at home.

They were in the parlor, and they looked as they
did the day they stood up in Miss Berry’s room and
lied about Blanche before her face.

Mary Eccles was the same dirty tow-headed, white
eyelashed, fat-faced over-fed creature as before, and
Martha Schofield had the same expression of cold de-
ceit and crafty cruelty, and wore the same thin-
nue smile, which displayed large, aggressive false

et

“T came here,” said Mr. Havelander, without any
ceremony, for he saw ata half-glance what these two
women were, as any student of Lavater must who set
eyes on them. He christened them in his own mind
“thehuman panther andthe human pig.” ‘“‘Icame here
to ask you what you meant by the lies you told about
Blanche Norton while you were employed at the
Hesperia Hotel ?”’

They were prepared for him. August Havelander
had been with them, and they had received their
instructions.

“Lies, indeed !” exclaimed Miss Schofield, with her
wide-mouthed, cat-like smile.

**“Yes, lies. Miss Berry never believed you, and yon
were both discharged for misconduct from the house
where you had traduced an innocent girl.”

Now, even if [these two women had not been
creatures of August Havelander’s, which they were,
this was not the right way to go to work.

“Tsay, Mary, this feller advertised we would hear
something to our advantage,” said Miss Schofield,
indignantly.

‘Well, ain’t we?’ asked Ecles, with all the cutting
irony of a Bowery ‘‘tough.” |

“See here, Iam going to pay you well, but I shall
only pay you for telling the truth. I don’t value
money, butIdo value Miss Norton’s good name, for
sheis my betrothed wife, and she is foolish enough to
place some stress upon this accusation of yours,
which is, of course, totally unfounded. Now, name
your own price, and sign a paper which I shall have
drawn up. You must do it before the nearest notary.
I have a carriage at the door, and shall escort you
there, and the carriage can bring you home.”

The eyes of the human pig sparkled, but the hu-
man panther hesitated. She hated Blanche because
she was handsome, and her ears eagerly drank in
a words, ‘‘She is foolish enough to lay some stress,”
ete.
If ithad not been for the sentence ‘name your
price,’”’ she would have stuck to the lies and trusted
to August’s promises of a reward in the future, but
August had blocked his game by meanness. He had
given the women nothing as yet, and did not intend
- Sie them very much at any time, so Theodore won
the day. 7

“The story about Miss Norton was a lie,” said Miss
Schofield, promptly, after due consideration, ‘and
I’m willing to sign the paper for one hundred and
fifty dollars. [ll tell you something else you’d be
glad to know for another hundred.”

“What is that?’ °

Theodore was so unfavorably impressed by this
bn sga that he hardly cared to hear more of her vil-

ainy.

“711 tell you who found us and brought us here.”

“You came in answer to my advertisement,” said
Theodore, in astonishment.

“No, we didn’t. A detective found us in Boston, and
brought us here. Do you want to know who em-
ployed him ?”

“Hush, Martha!’ said the human pig, who thought
they might as well be rewarded by both sides, a
dazzling vista of bribery and falsehood opening up

before her.

“Pshaw! Hush yourself. if you want to. This
gentis agent, and knowit. Well, sir, for another
hundred, which you will never miss, I’l1 tell you who
hired us to lie through thick and thin and say Blanche
Norton was a thief. He was not honorable like you,
for you told the girl to tellus Mr. Havelander wished
to see us, and I know that’s your name for [asked the
clerk in the post-office whose box it was. He (the
other fellow who hired us) was underhand.” :

“JT shall give you the extra hundred, and your
friend also.”

“Then here is his card. I’ve done some shady busi-
ness in my time, and I got hold of it, forhe paid us
with promises, and I mistrusted that was all I’d ever

-see if I didn’t know who he was.”

“Martha, you never prigged his card-case?’ ex-
claimed Mary, admiringly.

“Didn’t I? Well, I guess I did.”

Theodore Havelander was sitting silently regard-
ing the piece of cardboard that lay in his hand.

“Another fifty for that card-case,” he said, quietly.

“Here it is?”

She drew it from her pocket, and Theodore laid
down one hundred and fifty dollars before her, and
one hundred before the human pig.

“Now,” he said, rising and putting the card-ease in
his pocket, “‘come with me and earn one hundred
and fifty more apiece.”

“You are a gentleman, sir, as Martha says,’ cried
the human pig; “and I’d do anything for you and
Miss Norton.”

Theodore could not smile over her enthusiasm. He
was too utterly cut to the heart by the plain proof of
his brother’s villainy.

“There will be a terrible reckoning between us,”
was the thought passing through his brain, and, ‘‘oh,
Heaven, that he should be my brother!”

“Young ladies,” he said, whenjthey returned,for they
left the room to dress for the street ; ‘‘I will be ob-
liged if you will allow me to pay your expenses here
for a short time. I may require you to meet me in
company with Mr. August Havelander.”

“All right, sir, you can depend on us,” they ex-
claimed together

“Tf you see Mr. August Havelander meanwhile,
say nothing to him of what has taken place.”

“Very well, sir.”

Martha with a sharp eye to the main chance,
thought this was an excellent arrangement. If the
hero of the card-case rewarded them for their trouble
in his behalf all the better.

The notary drew up the paper and both the women
signed it. Theodore then assisted themjinto the hack,
and politely raised his hat as they drove off. Of
course he paid them first.

“Now, there is a high-toned gent!” exclaimed the

eat.

“Ain’t he lovely? Just think of the luck of that
Norton girl.”

“Well, there’s no doubt but she is a beauty,” said the
panther, with the magnanimity imparted by having
two hundred and fifty dollars in her pocket.

“Yes, andalady. You could see she was different
from the rest of us; that’s what made me hate her
though she hever gave herself airs either.”

Theodore Havelander left the notary’s office with
a stern face. He determined to seek his brother
without one moment’s loss of time. He had the proof
of his guilt in his pocket—the card-case which Martha
Schofield had purloined,

“TI firmly believe he was also the means of induc-
ing Blanche to act as she has done,’ he muttered
savagely as he rode up-town. ‘‘Andifso I'll force
the truth from the lying hound if I have to take him
py the throat to do it,” “

 

CHAPTER XXX.
HOPE FOR ALICIA._THE NET CLOSING IN.

“Do you never go out?” asked Blanche of Alicia,
one lovely spring day.

The invalid sighed. A hopeless look cameoverher
beautiful face.

“No, and I fear [never will. [hate to be paraded
as a broken-backed cripple, and I could only go out
in that shape. Mamma, who has fully as much
sensitiveness and delicacy as an_average clam, sug-

ested that she might have a carriage built in which

could lay at full length under an awning. I fancy
I would create about as greata sensation as Barnum’s
parade.” ‘

Her pale face wore a faint rose flush, and tears
were very near the large blue eyes. Blanche bit her
lip; she was angry with herself for wounding the
eon” being whom she had already learned to

ove.
“Heighho! How I wish Doctor Clifford would
come back,” Alicia went on, turning the point lace
she was making over in her slim fingers.

“Who is he, dear?’ asked Blanche, gently.

“He is a doctor, not one of the famous great guns,
put I’ve been told he can cure me.”

«And where is he?” :

“Heisin Europe. He is a plain hard working and
hard worked man, and therefore less likely to be a
humbug than the soft-voiced, well-fed men who roll
up in carriages, feel my pulse, and say there is a
want of tone, as if I were a cheap piano, then write
prescriptions, pocket their fees, and roll off to inter-
view the next victims, and tell them the same thing.
I hate them, and refuse to see them now.”

Blanche had remarked that no medical man was
attending the sick girl, and supposed it was owing to
the fact that her case was hopeless.

“And you have faith in Doctor Clifford ?”

“Yes. My nurse Ruth has a cousin who is Doctor
Clifford’s cook. She tells Ruth her master cured a
case exactly like mine.” ;

«When he returns you will consult him then?’

“Yes, and attend to what he tells me, This old
colored woman is taking care of his house while he
is in Europe,”

“T hope he will soon come back. How. delightful
it will be if he can guy restore your health.”

y

“Yes, more especially as I have, like the people in

A young lady would |

Hades are requested to do, ‘abandoned hope.’ It

seems strange that I should place such reliance on
what old Ruthie says, but she loves me better than
any one else does, so I lean on her more than you
would suppose. I see your eyebrows going up,
Blanche, but her love for meis far greater than that
of my mother.”

TR act believe that,’? Blanche protested, ear-
nestly.

“You may rest assured that it is a fact,” Alicia
went on, coolly; she wasin one of her bitterly sar-
castic moods. ‘My mother was proud of me till I
met with my accident, because I was not thick-
waisted and vulgar looking as so many pork-packing
heiresses are; but since I am condemned to lie here
like a log, she has pretty nearly lost all interest in
me.

Blanche remembered Mrs. Audley’s description of
her daughter as an “invalid who was nervous and
ae, and felt that Alicia was speaking the
ruth.

She was not what her mother had represented her
to be. She was patient under suffering, considerate
of others, and very grateful forevery kindness. Her
mother saw her once a day, calling in on her way to
the breakfast-room to inquire how she had slept, ete.
It was a formal visit of duty, and Alicia, with her
keen sensitiveness, was fully aware of the fact.

Her brothers neglected her, they were both too
much taken up with their own pleasures to trouble
themselves about their sister.

Blanche had felt an instinctive dislike for Robert
Audley. He had attempted to act the gallant every
time they met, and his mother’s presence seemed to
have no effect in checking the vances he tried to
make. Blanche recalled Mrs. Audley’s words, the
day she engaged herself as her daughter’s attendant:
“You are a pretty girl, but I guess you know how to
take care of yourself,” and felt thankful that the
lady understood her.

As Blanche and Alicia sat talking, a tap at the door
interrupted them.

Blanche rose and opened it. There stood Robert
woe magnificent bunch of hot-house flowers in his

and.

“Good-morning, Miss Norton,” he said, in his most
effusive manner. ‘Is Alicia well enough to see me ?”

“Yes, Bob,” said the inyalid, “I’m always well
enough to receive such charming company, especially
when they come loaded with offerings.”

“I brought you some orchids and ferns,” Robert
said ; he was too dense to be warned by his sister’s
mocking smile of what was coming.

“Thanks, so much. Miss Norton, will you be so
good as to put them in water?”

Blanche took the bouquet from Robert, who at-
tempted to press her hand, an action which was not
lost on Alicia.

“T hope you are feeling pretty well, sister?” Rob-
ert had seated himself near her couch, and was gaz-
ing at her with great affection. m

“Thank you, Bob; there is no great change in my
condition of health, since Isaw you last—that was
three months ago, if my memory serves me as well
as it usually does.”

Robert colored. He was so anxious to stand well
in Blanche’s opinion that he had the grace to feel
ashamed of neglecting his sister.

“T’ll drop in every day if you like, Alicia,’ he said,
confusedly. ‘I never really know whether you are
glad to see me or not, and from mother I always hear
how you are.”

“Yes, mother still thinks it her duty to gall on me
once every day. How long the practice will continue
it is hard to say.”

Robert bit his lip; he was no match for his sister in
a battle of wits, and he well knew it. :

‘How is Dick?’ the invalid went on; “he has be-
come a dazzling light in the world of fashion, by this
time, I should say.”

“Heis all right; he is going to Long Branch to-
morrow.”

“Indeed 2?’

“Yes, he is going to look for a cottage. You know
mother is going there for the season.”

“Indeed? I was not aware of the intended change,
but of course that does not matter.”

“T don’t know what you mean, Alicia?’

“T mean that I shall not accompany her.”

 

 

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“YOU ARE A LIAR, A VILLAIN, AND A COWARD!”

“Why not? I should think the sea air would be the
very thing for you.”

“And the .stuffy bedroom to which I should be
closely confined a prisoner?”

“Nonsense! You know we all would be glad if
you would consent to come down stairs. I think you
are unreasonable, Alicia, I must say.”

“Don’t be alarmed, Bob; I’ll never be so foolish as
to parade myself a broken-backed cripple, and spoil
your pleasure at the Branch. Your object in going
there is to get into society.”

“T don’t care for society, except the society of
people I admire,” said Robert, endeavoring to pay a
clumsy compliment to Blanche, and casting a very
obvious glance of admiration at her while he spoke.

“Don’t you? Lamsurprised. I thought Dick and
yourself were breaking your necks to get among the
elile, and make people forget about the pork.”

Robert looked exceedingly uncomfortable, and felt
that his visit was a failure. He looked at his watch,
and rose to go.

“Good-by, Bob,” said his sister, more kindly than
she had spoken hitherto. ‘Call in whenever you
want to see your sick sister, but don’t bring any
more flowers. I am not used to such delicate atten-
tions, and they make me suspicious.”

“Suspicious of what?’ asked the clumsy Robert,
daring his fate.

“Suspicious of your motive in calling on me.”

“Well, [am_sorry, Alicia. Isitany wonder I do not
call more often, Miss Norton, when she pitches into
me in this fashion?”

- “J think your sister is a little hard on you, Mr.
Audley,” said Blanche, who was really sorry to see
her friend in such a bitter mood.

He smiled in his most odious manner, and Blanche
felt sorry she had spoken.

The luncheon bell rang soon after he had taken his
departure, and, to her disgust, she found he was to
be ae only member of the family present at that
meal.

Blanche, according to a habit she had got into, ar-
ranged Alicia’s luncheon on a tray before taking her
place at the table. When she did so, Mr. Audley
addressed her more familiarly than he had ever done
before.

The man who waited on the table was absent fora
moment, and they were quite alone.

“Miss Blanche, I should be glad to drop in often
during the day, and enliven your dreary existence, if
my sister were not so hopelessly selfish and bad-tem-
pered,” he said, grinning all over his coarsely hand-
some face.

“T fail to understand you,”’ replied the girl, looking
him calmly in the face.

“Why, you heard how she flew atme? And then to
cast it up that she hadn’t seen me for months! ’Gad!
She was ‘fly’ enough to know I didn’t come there on
her account,”

Blanche kept her eyes on her plate, and returned
him no answer whatever. :

“Tt must be terrible for you to have to live with
such a wasp,” the fond brother resumed, fancying he
was producing a great impression on this little girl.
“T shall be glad to give you a little fun, if you can
get off duty oceasionally. You might meet me some-
where, and I’d take you out driving, or to the theater
and supper. Can’t you ask leave out sometimes ?”’

Without deigning one word in reply, Blanche laid
down her knife and fork, rose from the table, and
walked out of the room, leaving Mr. Robert Audley
staring after her in amazement.

“Say,” he called to the footman, who entered at
this moment with a bottle of iced champagne, ‘‘is
that young woman taken ill ?”

“f do not know, sir.”

“Well, go and ask. Say I sent you.”

The footman obeyed, and soon returned.

“Miss Norton is not ill, sir, and she bade me say
that, in future, whenever Mrs. Audley is out she will
take her meals in the housekeeper’s room.”

“Oh, indeed! Putting on airs!” muttered the gen-
tlemanly Robert, with an attempt at an ironical
sneer which, as the servant remarked afterward to
his fellow-footman, ‘“‘made him look a bigger fool
than ever.”

Blanche walked straight up to Alicia’s room, but

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

 

 

she had not intended to vex the sick girl by men- j

tioning what had taken place.

When the man came bearing Robert’s kind in-
quiries she was forced to tell the whole story, and
Alicia was furiously angry.

“T shall tell mother that [ will not live in the house
with those scoundrels!” she exclaimed. ‘They are
thoroughly depraved, but they might keep their un-
gentlemanly conduct for outside.”

“Do not get excited, I beg,” cried Blanche, fright-
ened for the consequences of all this.

“How can I help it when my brother, whom I am
ashamed to call a brother, insults the only friend I
have in the world, except poor old Ruthie, my
nurse.”

“Hush! hush! Alicia, do, for my sake.”

She was trembling and cold, and her face was white
as marble, when Blanche took her hand in hers and
tried to soothe her.

“It is nothing, Alicia. I do not think of it any
more. Be quiet, I beg you. It distresses mé far
more to see you excite yourseif so, and know you
will be ill afterward, than all Mr. Robert Audley
could say in a year.”

“You are sure you wen’t leave me on account of
my wretch of a brother?’ asked Alicia, piteously.

“Perfectly sure. As your mother Said when she
engaged me, I am quite able to take care of myself.”

“That animal shall not insult you, all the same. I

 

“MARGARET THREATENS TO GO TO POLICE HEAD-
QUARTERS AND REVEAL THE WHOLE STORY.”

shall tell mamma the whole story, and she will soon

attend to Master Bob.
times.”’

Blanche offered no objections to this. Indeed, she
was rejoiced that the young man should have a
lesson.

It came that very evening. The moment Mrs.
Audley returned, the housekeeper informed her that
Miss Alicia wished to see her.

She hastened to her daughter’s room with an anx-
ious face. She was by no means so indifferent to
Alicia’s health as her daughter supposed. She found
her looking weak and exhausted. Blanche, by Alicia’s
request, was absent, but Ruth was fanning her dearly
loved young mistress.

Alicia’s story was soon told, and her mother was
as indignant as herself.

“Do not worry, Alicia,” she said, pressing a kiss
on her daughter’s pale brow. ‘I shall see your
brother, and give him to understand that another
such transgression will banish him from the house.”

Mr. Robert had drank his chanipagne without much
relish, and he was smoking a cigar in the library
when his mother entered.

“T have beenin search of you,” she said, quietly ;
but he saw by the look in her eyes that his escapade
had come to her ears.

“Yes? Well, hereIlam. I’m just going out.”

“Wait till you hear what I have to say. I have
heard of your conduct to-day. A repetition of it
closes my doors to you, and you will be under the
necessity of living on an allowance.”

“Yes, my father was fool enough to leave every-
thing in your hands,” grumbled the dutiful son.

“Because he knew you and your brother too well
to give you the controlof his fortune. Remember
what I have told you.”

She swept out of the room, and Robert Audley was
left to mutter curses on the innocent girl who was,
as he termed it, “‘the cause of all the row.”

How littie did Blanche know how the actors in the

tragedy which ended with poor Nora’s life were
gathering together around her!
- After that day she had heard Alicia mention the
name of Doctor Clifford over and over, and the only
thought she bestowed on him was an earnest hope
that his skill might restore her friend to health.

The two girls were now alone, for Mrs. Audley and
her two sons had taken their departure for Long
Branch, where they were living in a cottage amid
the whirl of fashionable sea-side life. Alicia had de-
clined to accompany them, and Blanche felt far hap-
pier when they had the house to themselves.

One bright day, when they had been about three
weeks alone in the big house, with just as few ser-
vants as it was possible to do the work, old Ruthie
came into Alicia’s room, looking radiant and joyful.

“Oh, missy,” she exclaimed, with all the enthu-
siasm of her race, “I jes’ had a message from
Joanna, an’ de doctor jes’ got back from Yurrup.”

“Is thatso? I am glad of it. Blanche, sit down
and write a note to him. Tell him to call at his
earliest convenience.” s

So the threads of the web were drawing closer
together.

She is awfully severe at

 

CHAPTER XXXI.

A VILLAIN UNMASKED—MRS. HAVELANDER CON-
DEMNS HER ACCOMPLICE TO A TERRIBLE FATE.

Theodore Havelander first sought his brother at
his hotel. He was not there. He next proceeded to
the Knickerbocker Club. He was there seated near
a window, alone, a newspaper in his. hand.

He looked up when Theodore stopped before him.

“How do you do, Theodore ?” he said, cordially.

“You are a liar, a villain, and a coward!” was the
startling reply.

 

     
 

       
  

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“SHE MAY HAVE SENT THE TRUNKS TO THE EXPRESS
OFFICE AS A BLIND.”

August sprang to his feet, and looked around ap-
prehensively to ascertain who was within ear-shot.

Several gentlemen had looked up from their
papers, and even those who were playing billiards in
the next room paused in the midst of a game,

“What do you mean? Are you mad?’ August
asked, his face pale and his limbs trembling.

He was by no means his brother’s equal in physi-
cal strength, and he dreaded an attack of physical
force,

“T mean what I say.
scoundrel !” ;

Theodore dashed the card-case on the floor at his
brother’s feet. . 2

The latter picked it up and examined it with
trembling fingers. i ;

“This is my card-case,” he said, attempting to
speak calmly. “Ido not see how that proves me a
scoundrel.” :

“Do you not? Where do you suppose I obtained
it?’

“How ean I tell ?”’ ‘

He was trying to regain his composure, with very
poor success. ’

“I obtained it from Martha Schofield, your hired
assistant in a plot toruin an innocent girl.”

August saw the faces around him full of curiosity
and felt that he must make some effort to assert his
dignity. ‘ :

"Oh I see,” he said, with a sneer; ‘‘all this fuss is

See that, you unmitigated

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 —

1
made on account of Blanche Norton, the servant-girl

whom you are going to marry.”

The words had scarcely passed his lips when he
measured his length upon the floor, knocked down by
a stinging blow on the mouth.

‘Lie still, you cur!” shouted Theodore, furiously ;
“and keep your lying mouth shut, or I will not leave
you a tooth in your head.”

Several gentlemen now interposed to part the two
men, exclaiming about the disgracefulness of such a
scene.

“T am sorry, gentlemen,” said Theodore, calmly,
for he regained his composure ina moment; “but
each of you would act as [ have done under the same
provocation. I shall go into another room and ex-
plain my conduct, and request as a personal favor
that August Havelander be expelled from the club,
as he is no longer a fit associate for gentlemen.”

He did so, and the result was a written request
from the club committee for Mr. August Have-
lander’s resignation, which was sent in during the
next day.

Theodore also wrote to his brother informing him
that he intended to call at every club in the city, of
which August was a member, and explain why he
had been expelled from the Knickerbocker Club. He
also advised him to resign his membership without
waiting to be requested to do so, and August followed
his advice. : '

He, August, was ill from fright and excitement, and
the knock down he had received had not done him
any good.

Late that evening he ordered a carriage, and drove
to the house of his sister-in-law. He held a handker-
chief before his face as he requested an interview
with Mrs. Havelander.

“T think she has retired, sir,” said the ‘servant,
doubtfully.

“Send some one up to tell her it is very important
business.”

He went into the empty drawing-room and sat
down in the darkest corner, still keeping his hand-
kerchief before his disfigured face.

Presently he heard the swish of silken garments,
and Mrs. Havelander entered with a hurried step. -

“What has happened, August?’ she asked, anx
iously.

“This, ”? rh

He withdrew the handkerchief, and she saw that
his face was cut and bruised.

“Why, what has happened ?”’ she asked again.

“That brute, Theodore, has found out our little
plan with those twoinfernal women. He knocked
me _ down in the club, and told the whole story. He
told it in such a melodramatic fashion that they ex-
pelled me, and I knew the story would leak out so
I’ve sent my resignation to the other clubs with
which Iam connected, and I shall go to Europe till
the whole affair blows over.”

‘‘And leave me alone to contend with everything?”
asked Mrs. Havelander, her large dark eyes fiashing
indignantly.

“My dear Helen, be reasonable. Iam found out,
sol am no further use in the Blanche Norton busi-
ness.”

“Yes, but there is that other business.”

“But that is all over, settled, and done with.”

‘Indeed it isnot. Margaretis acting very strangely
and I am growing uneasy about her.”

August turned as pale as he had done in the club-
house.

“What do you mean ?” he asked, anxiously.

“She comes here and upbraids me. Accuses you of
being her tempter, who has enticed her to sin and
ruined her soul and body. I begin to think her mind
is affected.”

August was terror-stricken.
coward, as we have seen. ;

“Great heavens?!” he cried, starting up from his
chair, and sinking back with a groan, for he was no
longer young, and he was sore from head to foot from
the fall.

“We must see to this or she will be calling on some
clergyman and revealing the whole affair.”

He was an arrant

“Just what I have been thinking,” said Mrs. Have-
lander, coolly.

She looked upon the coward with contempt.

“We had far better get herinto an insane asylum
without delay.”

 

“T AM THE DOCTOR WHO WAS SUSPICIOUS OF THE
CAUSE OF MRS. NORA HAVELANDER’S ALARMING
ILLNESS.’’—(SEE CHAPTER XXXIII.)

‘‘Beware, if she finds out you are trying any such
game as that.”

“Oh, it would be easily managed. I know a man
who would carry out the whole scheme if he were
properly paid.”

Mrs. Havelander mused. She had not exaggerated
the danger, for Margaret Gilford had become a
morose and gloomy woman, who constantly brooded
over her crimes, and who had repeatedly threatened
her wealthy employers.

“Tf you know such a man, and he can accomplish
the work, I will share the expense with you cheer-
fully. Margaret imagines that I have made away
with Clarence, and is constantly telling me she will
go to, Police Headquarters and reveal the whole
story.

‘Merciful Heaven !”

It was fearful to hear this guilty, murderous wretch
calling upon Heaven to be merciful to him.

It struck even his sister-in-law as incongruous, She
shrugged her shoulders and said, impatiently:

“Defer your appeals to Heaven, August, and tell
me who this man is and where he can be found.”

“Very good. Now, I'll tell you another thing first.
T shall send and purchase a ticket on the first steamer
that sails for Europe, and have it announced that I
am gone from the city. I shallsend for my luggage
from the hotel and stay here, for I don’t care to be
seen after what has happened. Your people will
hold their tongues if they are well paid, I suppose ?”’

“T suppose so. I never put myself in their power,
and never bribe them.”

“Well, I see no other course open to me now. The
man I speak of livesin Philadelphia. I will wire him
to come on at once.” i

“Do so. Now, as itis long past midnight, and I am
tired, ’ll ring for the servants to prepare a room for
you.” ;

“Do so. My man will be here in the morning with
my luggage. I’ve given him his orders.”

“Very well. Good-night.”

August retired to rest in one of the guest-chambers,
but his sister-in-law knew no rest during the night.
The girl who had been employed to fill Lucette’s
place was so surprised when she saw her mistress in
the morning, so haggard and unlike herself did that
lady look; purple shadows lay under the keen, bright
eyes, and the lines about the perfectly formed but
cruel mouth had deepened.

“Are you ill, madam,?” asked Mary, impulsively.

“No. Whosaid that I was?’ replied Mrs. Have-
lander, haughtily.

“No one, madam, but I thought you did not look
well.”

“Remember, once for all, that I did not engage you
to think.” i

Mary blushed, but felt hurt and angry. Truly, the
mistress of the house did not possess the art of win-
ning the hearts of those who served her.

August and his sister-in-law breakfasted together,
and immediately after a message was dispatched
to Philadelphia.

It ran thus:
“DocTOR ABEL SLOANE,
No. , North Sixth street.

“Come at once to No. —~, Madison avenue, New
York. Let nothing stop you. Important business.
Money in it.” ‘“HAVELANDER.”

“That will bring him,” said August, ‘He does
anything for money, and he is the smartest man in
the world.”

“T shall be glad to see him. Butremember, he has
a smart woman to deal with.” = * .

“1 do not fear the result. Itis only a question of
money.”

“Ts he trustworthy ?”’

“T believe so.” k ,

“Then why didn’t you employ him in that business
instead of Margaret?” ‘

“He was in Mexico at that time.
sorts of new discoveries there.”

“T hope some of them may benefit us.”

“No doubt they will. Wait till he comes.”

That evening the door-bell rang, and the servant
announced ‘Doctor Sloane.”

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Gastoria,

 

He has made all

 

 

 

Mrs. Havelander remained seated, while August
rose to receive his guest.

Doctor Abei Sloan was a most remarkable looking
man. He was tall, being over six feet in height, but
looking much more on account of his extreme spare-
ness. His head was perfectly bald, not one spear of
hair being visible on its shiningsurface; his face was
long and clean-shaven, and the skin resembled the
face of a corpse, so dry, yellow, and parchment-like
was the whole face and neck of the repulsive-looking
man whose aid August had invoked. His eyes were
concealed by smoke-tinted glasses, but his beak-like
ee and wide, thin-lipped mouth told of a relentless
nature.

August addressed him politely, and thanked him
for his prompt attention to his request.

Om had other business, but preferred to come at
once.”

“Take a seat. First let me present you to Mrs.
Havelander, the widow of my late brother.”

“T am glad to know the lady.”

They were seated together and August soon stated
the reason, the urgent reason he had for calling the
doctor from his home.

The learned man hesitated for a few moments after
hearing August’s account of the business in hand.
Needless to say it was not the true one.

“Yes, Mr. Havelander,” said Doctor Sloane, ‘this
woman is suffering from a delusion, and you judge
it poe to have her taken care of tor a time?”

ee res.’

“The terms will be high, for if I comprehend the
situation the woman is dangerous ?”

“Very. Name your own terms.”

“T have, singularly enough, asanitarium in German-
town. Notaninsane asylum, but a quiet, private
institution, where I could receive her. She will re-
quire special attention, however, and that with the
difficulties and risk ef getting her there will cost you
five thousand dollars down, and three thousand
dollars a year.”

August made a wry face, but Mrs. Havelander said
promptly:

“We agree to the terms.”

“You will not regret it. When once I receive a
patient, that patientis never any trouble to his or
her relations again. I have discovered, during my
researches in Mexico, a plant which has the simple,
harmless appearance of the common milkweed. It
possesses, however, remarkable qualities. It acts
entirely and immediately on the brain, and with un-
failing certainty. Administered in drink or food, it
does its work promptly, faithfully, and satis-
factorily.”

He spoke in the same even, dull, monotonous tone
he had used during the whole interview.

Mrs. Havelander’s face brightened.

“Whatis the name of this wonderful plant, and
what are the results of its use?’

“The plant is called the Toboache plant, and it
grows freely in all parts of Mexico, but most thriftily
in the Sierra Caliente or hot regions. The results it
produces are first, violent-delirium or imsanity, and
then harmless, but hopeless idiocy. Its qualities are
known to some of the natives, and it is often used by
them when they are jealous or wish to be revenged
upon anenemy. Strangely enough, it does no injury
to the physical health.”

“A valuable agent in some cases,” said Mrs. Have-
lander, thoughttully.

“Yes. I experienced great difficulty in getting it
prepared so that it would keep. It is the juice of the
plant that is used, andit is a thick, milky, tasteless,
odorless fluid. At last I succeeded in preparing an
extract. I have no doubtthatit was the Toboache
plant that was used in the case of the Empress
Carlotta. Its effects are precisely similar to the con-
dition she is in at present, and her insanity is hope-
less for this poison permanently alters the action of
the brain.” .

Mrs. Havelander’s eyes glistened. What would she
not give to possess some Of this deadly drug.

“Does your drug never kill, doctor?’ she asked,

carelessly.

“Never. Andits operation is so insidious that it
cannot be suspected. It is a secret and infallible
agent.”

“Will you dispose of it, or a portion of it?”

“No, madam ; there is not money eneugh in the
city of New Yerk to buy one drop ofit. Itis my dis-
covery, and I mean to retain it in my own hands.”

Mrs. Havelander looked disappointed, but she said
nothing.

“Now, about this lady,” the doctor said, consulting
his watch. ‘‘When can I see her?’

“T’ll give you her addressin Brooklyn. Orwill you
see her here ?”’

“T’ll see her in Brooklyn, and then you will never
be identified with her disappearance.”
~ “You are right.”

“What is her profession or business ?’

“She is a protessional nurse.”

“Then the whole business will be simple. Iengage
her as a nurse in my sanitarium.”

Mrs. Havelander looked doubtful.

“T do not think she would go as nurse in an institu-
tion. Sheis not dependent on her work. She hasa
snug fortune.”

“Then I'll engage her to attend a very dangerous
case, having heard of her skillfrom a former patient.
Tell me the name of some influential person she has
nursed.”

“She nursed General Marshall’s wife last winter at
the Knickerbocker Hotel.”

“That willdo. Now, [expect to be paid my fee—
five thousand dollars—and the first year’s board in
advance.”

“Certainly.
amount.”

Mrs. Havelander did so, and the doctor folded it
and put it in his pocket-book.

“Ts there no danger of getting into trouble on ac-

I will write you a check for the

count of kidnapping this .woman?”’ he asked. ‘I
mean has she any relatives who will make in-
quiries ?”

‘““No; she has no living relatives.”

When the lady answered this she forgot to men-
tion that Margaret's mother, who had come into her
husband’s family a young widow with her childa
few months old, had lost sight of her kinsfolk
through her devotion to her employers.

“Sheis Mrs. Gilford. Her husband is not living, I
presume.”

“No; he was a sea-captain, and sailed from Port-
land, Maine, for China. He was never heard of
again.”

“How longago was this? Iam obliged to be par-
ticular, because I wish to do the work effectually.”

“Eighteen years ago.” ¢

“Then, there is noone who will be likely to em-
ploy detectives to hunt her up when she is missed ?”’

“No one.”

“Then you may consider the business settled.
You will hear from me in the course of a few weeks.”

He bowed himself out, and Mrs. Havelander turned
to August with a sigh of relief.

“Thank fortune he is gone,” she said, “I declare I
feel as if I had been making a bargain with the evil
one himself. Hereminds one of a rattlesnake.”

“He is a useful man, and silent as the grave.”

“You have employed his services before?’ said
Mrs. Havelander, sharply.

“Whatif Ihave?’ replied her fellow-conspirator,
defiantly. ;

“Nothing, August. Believe me, I do not wish to
know all your rascalities.”

“Ah, indeed! Well, Ido know the most of yours.
Except one. What have you done with Clarence?
Poisoned him ?”’

As they reached this portion of what promised to
grow into an angry dispute, a sight sound made
them turn their eyes from each other toward the
door.

Theodore stood before them, having entered the
room noiselessly.

 

CHAPTER XXXII.
A BAFFLED DETECTIVE—THEODORE’S RESOLVE.

The detective employed by Theodore Havelander
found the case he was, in professional parlance,
‘piping,’ not quite so simple as he had at first sup-
posed. Readily enough he found the expressman
who conveyed the two trunks from Harlem. Then
he was baffled, for they had been left at the express
office, to be called for, and he did not know where to
look for the man who called for them.

He was obliged to inform his employer that he
must have a little more time, and it was a great dis-
appointment to Theodore when he confessed that he
was for a time thrown off the scent.

“Don’t worry, sir,’ he said, confidently. ‘‘It’s as
easy as falling off alog. Vl have the young lady
dead to rights in no time; only I thought Id call
and let you know the reason of the delay. I’ve got
to find the man who took the trunks frum the ex-
press office. That’s all there is to it.”

“Then I may hope to hear within a few days?’

“Yes, unless there is some fresh complication. It
looks to me like the young lady didn’t know herself
where she was going when she left that house in
Harlem.”

“What complication do you expect?’ asked Theo-
dore, adapting his question to the detective’s own
way of expressing himself.

‘Well, this. The lady may not have gone to Brook-
lyn. She may have sent the trunks to the express
office as a blind.”

“1 do not think anything of the sort. The young
lady is not aware that any one would wish to ascer-
tain where she had moved.”

Theodore had not told the man that the girl he was
in search of was his intended wife. He dreaded
notoriety, and feared that Blanche’s name might be
dragged into the daily papers, which would be as
painful to her as to him.

“‘1’ll find the expressman, if she went to Brooklyn,”
said Peters, the detective, ‘‘and if she didn’t, I’ll find
out where she did go, but of course that will take
more time.”

With this scant consolation Theodore had to be
content. ae

Heknew that his brother had not leftthe city, though
he saw in the morning papers an announcement that
August Havelander had sailed in the Cunard steamer
Umbria for a tour in Europe.

“He would never sail with such a’face as he must

 

have to-day,” said Theodore to himself, grimly, ‘‘and

 

 

 

 

 
 
  
  
 
  
  
   
 
  
 
 
 
   
   

  
 

 
  
   

   

 

Seen eategensenietarainneg cia ee aeantaetate iene

      

 

 

 

 

 

 

he shall not sail till he faces those women and signs
a retraction of all he has said about Blanche to them
and others. The coward! He gave me his word of
honor that he had never tried to injure her!”

It was terribly bitter for such a proud man as
Theodere Havelander to know that his own brother
had proved such a scoundrel.

He had no false pride, but had always taken pleas-
ure in the thought that he bore an old and honorable
name. Now that name had been dragged in the
mire. :

His idea of a gentleman was a man who could
never stoop toa mean or dishonorable action. No
man who could allow a falsehood to soil his lips was
entitled to the name of gentleman.

“T’ll go to Helen’s, where he is hiding, and speak
to him for the last time in my life,” he said, ‘‘and I[
shall force them both to tell the truth.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
i ee

‘OTIS YIELDING THAT CONQUERS.”

 

BY EMMA 8, THOMAS.

 

Yield to all things that are noble and true,
Yield unto others, and they’ll yield to you,
For ’tis yielding that conquers.

Yield to the right and not to the wrong,
Follow your leader, and be not too strong,
For ’tis yielding that conquers.

Yield pleasure to duty, ’tis always the best,
From life’s restless stirrings you.then shall have rest,
For ’tis yielding that conquers.
> a
[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. ]

A HEART'S IDOL,

By BERTHA M. CLAY.

 

 

{(“‘A HEART’S IDOL” was commenced in No. 14. Back

numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

 

CHAPTER XLIX.
“J NEVER KNEW HIS NAME.”
}, (Tf THAT thrilling and pathetic
os ery, indicating at once the
strange secret of that young
Jf life, and some hopeless misery
Z in her hidden marriage, Lord

      
 
  

y between his cold, trembling
~ hands, and held her from him,

But a wave of foam and crimson broke over his
lips, and the priceless wedding vail that covered
Ferol was dyed with her father’s blood.

Martha Morris was the first who sprang forward to
lift the senseless form of Ferol, while the physician
laid the earl back on his pillow.

The cares of Lady Cameron were naturally with

her son. Martha took away from Ferol the vail, with
its ominous stains, and secretly kissing her cheek,
whispered: :

“TI knew you would be true and brave at last! IT
did not speak; I knew you would say the word at the
right time!”

But Ferol heard her not.

Lois ran to her sister, and aided Martha and Cora
in taking her to her chamber.

Sir Grant Lester, white and silent, stood at the foot
of the bed until the physicians requested every one
but the nurse and Lady Cameron to leave the room.
Then he went to the library. He felt sure that a few
hours would make him Earl of Seawold—and he had
almost made an illegal marriage!

“What aneseape! What an escape of a scandal I
have had!” he exclaimed to himself, ever absorbed
first in his own interests. ‘And yet, heavens! how
matchlessly lovely that girl is! and what a peerless
Countess of Seawold she would have been! Given
Seawold and Ferol, what more could I have asked ?”’

Then his mind turned to the revelation that Ferol
had made. She was married—secretly married. Evi-
dently her father knew nothing of it. Who had fore-
stalled him? Who had won her hand? His heart
bad divined in Herncroft a rival. Doubtless, it was
Herneroft whom she had married.

When the breakfast hour drew near, Sir Grant
made some inquiries concerning the earl, and then
went to his club. The only person in the room which
he entered was Sir Lawrence Neville.

“How is Cameron this morning?”
Lawrence.

“T expect word of his death each moment.
just left the house,” replied Lester.

“The weddings that have been whispered of will
then be put off for a year?” ’

“They are off for good and all,” said Sir Grant,
angrily. ‘“Yhe Honorable Lady Ferol has made some
private marriage.” :

“Followed the exampie of her parents! With
whom? A good match, I hope, for she isa lovely
creature, though blonde beauties are not to my
taste.”

“T fancied the happy man must be your nephew,
Herncroft,” said Lester, sharply.

‘“Herncroft? He is virtually betrothed to Lady
Lois. Why, my word is pledged on that marriage!”
eried Sir. Lawrence, hotly; and at that moment,
Herncroft himself entered.

Sir Lawrence was so excited that he at once took
his nephew by the arm.

‘Tell me, Guy, have you privately married Lady
Ferol Cameron ?”

“Certainly not,’ retorted Lord Guy, with a hasty,
angry look at Sir Grant.

‘Well, she’s married—privately, it seems—to some
one.”

Lord Guy shook off his uncle’s hold on his arm, and
demanded: ;

“Who dares say that?”

Sir Grant spoke quietly:

“Most unhappily, I said it—on the strength of the
plain avowal of my young kinswoman, that she was
married. I only know that about it. My distress
goaded ine to state the fact to Sir Lawrence. I feel
that I can beg of you both to say no word of it. A
most wretched scandal may be unearthed beside the
very bier of ny Cousin Seawold.”

Lord Guy, white and breathing hard, looked from
one to the other. He longed to cry out that this was
a lie, and to thrust it back in Sir Grant’s face. But
the chagrined, pallid features of Sir Grant’s face gave
assurance that he believed and lamented the story.
His eyes were fixed on the carpet, and he gnawed the
ivory head of his cane.

The servants'came in with Sir Lawrence Neville’s
breakfast, and Lord Guy strode away.

He hastened to Lord Cameron’s home. No hatch-
ments were up, but straw was laid thickly down in
the street.

Lord Guy asked for Lois.

She came to him. Her black curls were loose and
disordered. She still wore the crimson costume of
the previous afternoon. Dark circles were under her
black eyes, which looked larger than ever, and as if
drowned in tears. She held out both little feverish,
tremulous hands to Lord Guy, as she met him, and
eried out:

“Oh, we are so unhappy !”

“T came to try to help and comfort you—is there
nothing I ean do for you?”

‘Oh, no one can help us. Papa lies as if each breath
would be his last. Oh, poor papa, and I have been
such a careless, undutiful girl! You cannot tell how
I have vexed him.”

“T am sure he does not feel so,” said Lord Guy.

‘“Butitisso. And my darling Ferol. She lies very
ill. Threatened with brain fever, and she does not
know what she says; and all the time she mutters
How can I say it!”

“What?”

“She moans ‘Married! married! married! saye me!
save me! married! married!”

“Tt is true, then?” said Lord Guy, with a terrible
sinking at heart.

“Oh, Ido not know whatis true!’ eried Lois, and
laying her cheek against his arm, she burst into
tears.

She felt Guy’s strong frame tremble.

“You loved her, Guy, did you not?” she said, in her
frank, childish way. ‘‘Oh, you will not condemn her,
will you? Ferol, poor Ferol!’’

“TI shall never do Jess than love her with all my
soul,’ said Lord Guy, heartily.

Lois looked up.

“Then, from this hour, Ferol has at least two firm
friends—you andme. Yes, then I know David Lang-
don will also be her friend.”

* * * * * * * * * * *

I have

 

Those were slow, dark days that followed, but they
became days of hope instead of despair. As Sir
Grant Lester each morning made his inquiries for
his kinsman, the answer pointed gradually to re-
covery, and at last came the assurance that love and
pain, intense excitement and struggle, had worked
some miracle beyond the physician’s art, and the
earl was likely to rise from his bed, a man wholly
sound.

But Grant Lester, seeing his hope of a coronet
growing less, and maintaining a steady countenance,
never inquired after Ferol.

 

asked Sir}

When at last he sent parting regards to the earl,
saying that he was going to France, he made no
mention of his fair cousin. :

Had he asked, he would have heard, as Lord Guy
did daily, that she, too, was escaping a severe illness.

The hour came when Lord Cameron, seated in his
ee was able to see his favorite and unhappy
child.

Martha, who had installed herself as Ferol’s nurse,
and cared for her assiduously, whispered to her, as
she dressed her for the interview :

“Keep heart! Your father loves you too well to be
angry at anything.”

Led between Lois and Lady Cameron, Ferol went
to her father’s room. He held out his arms to her,
and sinking on her knees at his side, she laid her face
on his breast, crying:

“Oh, father! you cannot hate me for what is my
misfortune, not my fault! Pity me, and save me!”

“Child,” said the earl, “I must know from what to
save you.”

Lady Cameron lifted Ferol up, and drew her to a
seat beside herself, saying:

‘““Dear child, have confidence, and tell your story.”

“But I have—I have nothing to tell,” said Ferol,
faintly.

“Ts it true that you are married?” cried the earl.

"Yes, father,” sobbed Ferol.

“Ts your husband living?) Who is he?—where is
he ?—what is his name ?—his station ?”

Ferol wrung her hands.

“Tt do not know, I do not know!
name, nor who he was!”

I never knew his

CHAPTER L,
“YOU SHALL NOT BE IN THIS HIDEOUS POSITION.”

Lady Cameron took Ferol’s hands in hers.

“Be calm, child. Tell us freely. Was not your
marriage free, of your own choice, the result of some
girlish fancy ?’

“No, no,” cried Ferol, “I was forced toit! With a
total stranger! I never heard his voice but twice. I
never saw him but when he stood beside me at the
church, and where that cburch was Ido not know.
They told me it was Frampton Church, but after-
ward [ found that it was not Frampton.”

“But who committed this hideous wrong? And
why ?”

“T do not know why. It was Hester Lacy who did
it ”

“My child, why have you never spoken? Why have
you not told us of this ?”’

“T could not. I dared not. It made me sick to
think of it. I thinkin other things lam brave, and
have spirit; but about this I have been so weak and
so frightened! It seemed such a terror and disgrace.
My one hope was to hide, to hide forever from this
man to whom [had been bound! I have asked you
questions sometimes, and I read a book that Lois
had, and ITasked questions now and then of other
people, and all seemed to make me sure that this
man could claiin me when he found me. The older I
have grown, the more terrible this seemed tome. I
know now what I should have done. I should have
cried out, ‘No! no!’ in that church, and begged the
curate to save me; and he would, I am sure. But,
then, I did not know. LI knew so little. I was so
young, only a little girl it seems now. I was fifteen.”

“Poor child, poor little girl!” sighed Lady Cameron,
holding Ferol closely to her.

‘“*You remember how I have always said I longed
to be safe, and asked if you could protect me—can
you? If that man comes here and demands me, must
I go!” sobbed Ferol.

ae ! So Heaven help me, not one step!’ cried the
earl.

“And how long did you see this person
marriage ?’’ asked Lady Cameron.

“No time at all,” said Ferol, simply. ‘‘We went
from the chancel to a little vestry-room, and there
were the church registers, and Hester Lacy signed

after your

seemed all dull, and in a mist; but after the service
we went into that room to register, and then out to
the church porch, and we all got into the cab that
brought us, and drove through some green lanes, and
—he said, ‘Well, we'll see what the end will be. Itis
all your fault!’ and he stopped the cab and got out.
Then he said ‘Good-by,’ and I had not looked at all at
him, for [ hid my face in a shawl I wore.
he had gone I uncovered my face, and the air made
me feel better. We drove a long way, and that night,
by rail, we got back to St. Stephen’s, and I felt very
ill. Next day I was worse and did not get up. The
doctor said it was nervous fever, and I was ill several
weeks. After that, [ never left St. Stephen’s until
Hester brought me to London. When she came for
me she swore solemnly to me that she was not tak-
ing me to the man I had married; she said she
meant to find me a place as governess, Then I hoped
I should be with people who would take care of me.”

“But what means did this wicked woman use to
make you marry in this strange way ?”

“At first she told me it was to be so.
she thought I would obey, as I always had; but when
it filled me with fear, even to think of it, and 1 said
‘No, I would not,’ then she coaxed and bribed me;
and when that did no good, she threatened ine. And
then she took me away to a large, old house—I think
there was no one in it—I only saw it as we came to it
and left it. I was there for ten days or more, shut in
two great rooms. They were alldark. The windows
were closed with heavy shutters—I did not know day
from night. When Hester brought me my meals she
brought me a piece of candle each time. The house
was full of hideous noises; the winds roared in the
wide chimney, and rats ran in the walls, and there
were other noises. It was dreadful! I think I was
afraid, very much afraid.”

“Oh, my poor Ferol! my darling Ferol!’’ cried Lois,
clasping her sister in her arms; ‘I wish I had been
there, [should not have been afraid of anything! I
would have made that wicked woman let you go!”

as she spoke. : f
“‘Ferol,” said her father in a smothered voice, ‘‘go
on, go on with this story of your terrible wrong.”

garden, and told me I could walk about and pick
some flowers.
a room with the blinds down. The next day, early,
she dressed me and took me away in a cab, to the
church, and I seemed to know nothing clearly, only
IT ain quite sure I was so frightened that I said ‘yes’
in the service, whenever Hester touched my arm.”

“Oh, how could you! Why did you?’ eried Lois.
“T would never, never have said ‘yes.’ ”

“T was frightened and confused. I think, too, I
had been drugged. Nothing now would make me do
asI did then. But you know I scarcely knew what
marriage, or love, or family life meant.
alone with Hester, and then in the school, where such
things were never spoken of.
have been here,’’ and Ferol turned her eyeson Lady

love and true marriage may be,” and a glorious
bright glow rose over her pale face, ‘I see what a
weak and wicked thing I did that day.”

“Poor child,’ exclaimed Lady Cameron, ’

helpless.”

Tf, until now, Lady Cameron had secretly felt that
Ferol was rivaling and outshining her own petted
Lois, now her good and motherly heart could only
see how cruelly this young lfe had been blighted,
and what a shadow had fallen upon it.

‘‘Dear child, this is too much for you,” she said.
“Come away to my room, and he down and rest,
while I watch by you.”

Her father drew her to him, and kissed her.

“My darling, yon shall be avenged, protected. You
shall not be left in this hideous position. You shall
have help if there is any help in England. You shall
be righted, if Icall in all the lawyers in the land!”

his face on his hands with a bitter groan. How were
all his hopes. and plans for this cherished girl
frustrated!

A gentle touch roused him.

“Papa,” said Lois, ‘‘we must save my sister!”

She was a charming little image, standing there.

Her black curls, clustering short about her low
straight brow, hung nearly to her waist, over her
sboulders. Her dress of crimson silk had a fan
shaped vest of white velvet, and a ruff rising about
her little round throat; she looked like some fascinat-
ing princess out of a fairy tale. And like the fairy
princess, she spoke of hope.

“Dear papa, we will save my sister!”

If the grieving earl noticed his younger child at all,
at that instant, it was merely to mourn that her fair
elder sister, was so much less fortunate.

“Yes, Lois, yes; but how and where to begin 2?”

“T wiil tell you. Begin with David Langdon,
papa.”

“What—who is he?’

“You remember, sir, the lawyer at the Temple?”
said Lois, with a vivid blush.

“He is grandmamma’s friend. He was Ferol’s first
friend in the city, and took herto Mrs. Morgan. He
will know all that is to be done; he will surely find a
way out. You have no idea how wise, and strong,
and persistent he is!’

“And how, child, should you know all these
qualities? A manof age, experience—Westcott.”

“Oh, no, papa! He would be shocked and sorry,
but so slow. You need ayoung man. Some one who

quickly out of her misery. And then, youknow, Mr.
Langdon has been busy for Ferol, when she was first
left alone in the city. You may make sure he will
ferret this all out, and help you more than any other
man. And heis one who knows how to work quietly
without talk, papa!”

The earl forgot that here was a young girlspeaking
for a young man!

“If he helps us, I will make his fortune!” cried the

earl.
CHAPTER LI.
“ASK ME WHAT YOU WILL.”

It was a warm May morning, and the Honorable
Lady Lois Cameron was standing before her looking-
glass. She had no fault to tind with her curly head,
nor yet with the dress of soft maize colored muslin,

 

 

which set off her dark glowing beauty. But Lois

forme. I donot know what reason she gave for
that. Ido not remember the morning very well I/

But after |

I suppose |

and Lois’ black eyes flashed, and her cheeks glowed |

“Finally, Hester took me down one day to a little |

While I was there, she was talking in |

I had lived |

Since then, since [|

Cameron, ‘and I have learned what home and |
family mean, and have read over the marriage

service in the prayer-book, and have thought what |

|
*not |
wicked, not even weak, but most wronged, most |

As Lady Cameron led Ferol away, the earl bowed:

will be quick and devise great things, and get Ferol |

’ ,.
| was sorely perplexed as to what to put at her throat,

| What should harmonize with her simple dress, her
| piquant face, and the dear little dimpled chin. She

| tossed a hair-pin and arose amber-pin, three ribbons |
| and six knots of flowers in a heap on the table, and
| said “DEAR!” in an aggravated voice. '

| ‘Let me try, Lady Lois, laughed Cora Lee, turning
|from the bureau. And she adjusted at Lois’ throat a
| tie in exquisite black lace, and put a sash to match
|} about her waist.

‘‘Now, Miss Lois, you can go down to the library,
| where you have been in such a state to go this past
|}hour! Dear knows! you look prettier than all the
|rest of the world, unless itis Miss Ferol. But why
} you are so particular about your dress passes me.
One would think you were going to see a lover down
there.”

“So lam!” said Lois, promptly.

“T can’t make that out, you know; there’s only
your father and the young lawyer there with Lady
Ferol.”

“Well, Cora, here is the riddle for you—one of these
two men Iam bound to marry, and it is quite evi-
dent my lordly parent is to be counted out. Where
is my best dog? There is nothing to cover a little
embarrassment on my part as to have my dog to fall
back upon, and clapping her hands to the King
Charles, which was struggling in the arms of the
laughing Cora, Lois darted off, with the little crea-
ture barking at her heels.

“Lady Lois! if you please——” cried Martha.

“T beg you, Lois——” cried Lady Cameron from the
door of her room.

But Lois, heedless of both, sped on like the wind
down stairs, through the conservatory, into the gar-
den, to arrive by an outer way, and apparently un-
concerned, at the library.

Meanwhile, in that library, the destiny of Ferol
was being weighed. The arguments of Lois, the
approval of Lady Cameron, and Ferol’s melancholy.

“TI think I dare speak to him of this dreadful thing,
papa, rather than to Mr. Westcott,” had turned the
earl’s mind toward David Langdon, and he had been
summoned to hear Ferol’s story.

Encouraged by the clasp of her father’s arm about
her, and his loving voice in her ear when she faltered,
Ferol, with tears, and shame, and terror, had once
more told her story.

David Langdon never looked at her as she spoke.
He sat by the writing-table, his curly head bowed, a
little gold pencil with which he absently toyed be-
tween his fingers, now and then making some cabal-
istic sign on a sheet of legal cap before him.

“And that is all,” said Ferol, wearily.

“That is all?’ repeated David.

Then there was along, anxious silence.

Still with his head bent, David asked, at length:

“Why did Hester Lacy sign the register for yon?’

“Because I would not.” .

“And why would you not?’

“T had found out that my name was not Lacy ; and
as she. would not tell me my true name, I said I
would notsign. Oh, at that hour I hated her so for
what she had done that I was glad my name was not
hers. I would not write Ferol Lazy !”

“That was well. But how long had you known
that was not your name?” How did you know it?”

“Tt was what I heard her tell the person she spoke
with while I was in the garden. You know as I went
near the window to pick a flower, I found she spoke
of me, and so—I blushed at it then, but Ihave no
defense, I was in the hands of an enemy—TI stole
close up, after [seemed to go away, close up under
the window, and listened !”

‘Quite right,” said David, roundly.
what you heard 2?”

“She spoke with a man,” said Ferol, flushing. “She
said, now you have seen her, you see that she isa
poanetty? girl, and will makea very beautiful woman,
and——”’

“And? urged David, still tapping the gold pencil
against the nails of his left hand.

“And he said,’ rashed on Ferol. ‘She looks well

“Now tell me

enough, I suppose. But she is nothing but a little
| girl. You'll let me in for marrying a girl under legal

| age, perhaps.’ Then Hester said ‘no; here is the
copy of her baptismal register, and you see she is
tifteen past, this three weeks.’ But then you see,”
said Ferol, ‘Hester had told me I was not so old as
that, and I saw she had been deceiving me.”

“What next!” said David Langdon, in a business
monotone, that did much toward relieving Ferol’s
terrors and embarrassment.

‘Then I think the man was reading some paper, for
he said, louder. ‘You swearthis is no trick? She
is the daughter of—,’ and I couldn’t hear the next,
for I think Hester put her hand on his mouth, and
I heard her say. ‘yes; and I have only called her
Lacy—but her true name is there—Ferol , and
she spoke so low I lost the word, ‘and not a drop of
Lacy blood in her body.’

“Go on, dear,’’ said the earl.

Then they talked.low a long time. I could not hear
a word, until I caught Hester’s, ‘Your fortune will
be made. Her family will be bound to accept you,
and put you ina position suited to their own.’
| ‘They’re more like to transport me,’ he said, and
| Hester went on, ‘You know itis no crime to marry a
| girl past fifteen if she takes you at the altar, as she
will, and you’ll be no bad husband to her; you can
be sure of success as a "painter, or what you like. |
The family will have to make the best of it.’ ‘All
right,’ he said ; ‘only a wife is the last of my want-
ing.’ And Hester said, ‘You need not claim her for
three years.’ Then they seemed torise up, and she
said, ‘Of course you'll marry her as Ferol Lacy, for |
I do not want her to know her true name until—until
the right time comes,’ Then I stole away from under
the window, and kept saying to myself, ‘She is no
relative of mine. I am past fifteen.’ ‘My name is
not Lacy.’ Then she came and brought me in, and
talked kindly, and we had tea together, Hester and
I, and I think she must have put some drug in my
tea, for I slept heavily all night, and hardly knew
when I was dressed. I seemed to have no will power
of my own, only to mumble what Hester wished.
But, as the lapse of time, or the fresh air roused me,
I came .more and more to myself; and when the
question rose about signing, she said, ‘You will sign
your name, Ferol Lacy,’ I said, ‘No, I will not!
| Lacy has never been my name, and I will not sign

unless you tellme my true name.’ I was so taken
| up with my name and my troubles, that I never no-
ticed the man’s name!’’

Ferol’s voice had sunk lower and lower.
clung with a low ery. to her father.

“Oh, why, why have Isuch a wretched, disgrace-
ful story to tell.”

David Langdon still sat with his head bent, and |
his brows knit. Presently his face cleared, and he}
|; rose. Turning quietly to the mourning Ferol, he bent
| over her, holding out his hand.

“Dry your tears, Lady Ferol Cameron. I have
| found the way out of our difficulty’ You are FREE.”
| “What are you saying?” cried the earl. ‘‘What do
| you mean, Langdon ?”

| ‘TI mean that though steps and measures must be
| taken, all will end well. Lady Ferol is free!”

The earl caught Langdon’s hand.
| “Man! man! Do you mean it?
the way out of this horrible evil?
my child?

 

 

 

Now she

 

 

Have you found
a Have you saved
Ask what you will of me, Langdon, and

race. “What are you promising,
hear him, Mr. Langdon?
will” You may yet ask him for—something worth
having,” and she bent her blissful eyes on David in a
way that shook the calm young lawyer from head to
foot with a sudden thrill of hope and love.

“He is worthy of my largest gratitude,” cried the
earl. “Lois, do you understand? He has found out
a way to save your sister.”

“Any one, any lawyer,” began David——

“Any one could not!” interrupted Lois, quickly. |
“Only you, Iam sure, could have. Do not under-
value yourself, Mr. Langdon. But tell me, some one,
quickly, how is my sister to be saved ?”’ ;

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

papa? Did you

 

DISRESPECT TO A MOTHER.

Young people sometimes know so very much more
than their elders! at least, according to their own
estimate of their knowledge. They pride themselves
on advanced methods of thought and freedom from
“old fogy notions," but possibly they will find, on
reaching middle age, that years bring their own
peculiar teachings, which youth is not yet capable
of receiving. Said an overworked mother once, in
a moment of bitterness:

“T’m afraid I don’t enjoy my children as much as I
did when they were little. Then they were werely
clinging, affectionate creatures; they never criti-
cised what I did, or doubted that I was the most re-
markable woman in the world. Now they seem so
much wiser than I, that it appears to be natural for
them to find fault with me.

“Nothing I do is considered very praiseworthy. In
fact, I am almost always in the wrong. If I try to
join in their conversation, they evidently think
‘mother’s opinions are not worth much; she lacks
culture—hasn’t had the latest advantages.’

“Perhaps I do lack culture. I have been too
busy to become a very cultivated woman; but it
seems to me affection, taken by itself, ought to count
for something in this world.”

Yet her childret really loved her; they only omitted
to respect her in daily life.

The next day after her death, her son stood beside
her coffin, looking at the worn. placid face, and said,
through his tears:

“T never could understand why mother was not
happier. She had every comfort in her later years,
but she always looked worn and discouraged.”

Had he been of clearer vision, he need not have
sought far for the reason. It is usually our own
warmth or lack of tenderness which makes the faces
about us bright or gloomy—a truth to be remembered
before it is too late.

 

 

<li ty lls
——_>-

 

A MISER grows rich by seeming poor; an extrava-
gant man grows poor by seeming rich.

| Shawl she wore about her slender shoulders with a
| shivering clutch. Her face flamed red. She felt in-

| too; she did not forget that even then.

you shall have it.” :
“What do I hear?” eried the gay voice of Lois, run- |
ning in through the long window opening on the ter- |

He said ‘Ask what you |

«<atsa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #35>

‘VOL, 43—No. 3.

 

 

THE OLD WIFE.

 

By the bed the old man, wailing, sat in vigil sad and
tender,
Where his aged wife lay dying, and the twilight shadows
brown
Slowly from the wall and window chased the sunset’s
golden splendor
Going down.

“Ts it night?’ she whispered, waking, for her heart
seemed to hover
Lost between the next world’s sunrise and the bedtime
cares of this;
And the old man, weak and tearful, trembling as he-bent
over her,

 

Answered ‘‘Yes.”

‘Are the children in!’ she asked him.
All the treasures
Of their household lay in silence many years beneath
the snow ;
But her heart was with them living, back among her toils
and pleasures
Long ago.

Could he tell her? |
|

And again she called at dew-fall, in the sweet old summer
weather, ¥
“Where is little Charley, father? Frank and Robert—
have they come?’
“They are safe,” the old man faltered; ‘‘all the children
are together,
Safe at home.”

Then he murmured gentle soothings, but his grief grew
strong and stronger,
Till it choked and stilled him-as he held and kissed her
wrinkled hand,
For her soul, far out of hearing, could his fondest words
no longer :
Understand.

Still the pale lips stammered questions, lullabies, and
broken verses,
Nursery prattle—all the language of a mother’s loving
heeds,
While the midnight round the mourner, left to sorrow’s
bitter mercies,
Wrapped its weeds.

There was stillness on the pillow—and the old man lis-
tened lonely—
Till they led him from the chamber, with the burden on
his breast,
For the wife of seventy years, his manhood’s early love
and only,
Lay at rest.

“Fare you well,” he sobbed, “my Sarah; you will meet
the babes before me;
’Tis a little while; for neither can the parting long
abide, ¢
And you’ll come and call me soon, I know—and Heaven
will restore me
To your side.”

* = * * * * * *

 

it was even so. The spring-time in the steps of winter
treading,
Scarcely shed its orchard blossoms ere the old man
closed his eyes,
And they buried him by Sarah—and they had their
“diamond wedding”
In the skies.

 

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

(ne Year Alter Death.

By HELENA DIXON

(“ONE YEAR AFTER DEATH” was commenced in No. 13.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
RALPH GOES ABROAD.
Margaret drew herself away, tightening the light

 

dignant, humiliated, angry. A married man! How
dared he talk to her as he had done? She was bound,
How could
she when, sleeping or waking, the sallow, caleu-
lating face of Willard Beauplan was ever before her
vision? But had she not tried her best to shun him
always? Did she not even now do her utmost to
make him withhold the words he had so passion-
ately uttered? Her lips were pale but resolute, as |
she said :

“You came to say good-by, sir.

“Forever? Margaret!”

The word seemed to stun him.

“Forever. Certainly.”

How cold and hard her voice sounded even to her;
how much more so to the man who was heft standing
under the garden tree alone.

With these words she had gone, sweeping up the
walk leading directly to the house like an angered
Juno. He watched her till she passed from sight,
then turned slowly away to meet Mary, who had |

stolen upon him, her hands full of flowers, and her |
bright face wearing a pitiful expression.

“I’m so sorry for you, old Doady,” she said, in her |
childish way. “But don’t fret; it will all come right |
in the end, I dare say.”

“Sorry forme? Why? And what do you mean will |
come right?’ he asked, with asmile that made the |
girl think of sunshine in January.

“Oh, she’s been jilting you; I know she has,” |
motioning in the direction Margaret had taken. ‘‘I |
see it in your looks, just as I see that she loves you |
in hers. That’s why [ think it will all come right |
some way. She lovés you as much as you do her, |
and [ know it.”

Ralph groaned, and Mary heard, stifled as was the
sound.

“How provoking you are, Doady! Here am I tell-
ing you that the girl you adore is in love with you,
and you look and go on as though I’d brought you
bad news. Well, you’re positively disagreeable, that’s
all. I do believe you'll make a disagreeable hus-
band, and I mean to tell Miss Branch so the very
first chance I get.”

Having thus spoken, Mary pouted her red lips and
ran off toward the house with her flowers, to sur-
prise Margaret in tears. That quite disgusted her
with her striving at match-making, and she at once
resolved to attend strictly to her own affairs in
future, mentally pronouncing her cousin and Miss
Branch the most stupidly foolish couple in existence.
She went away, thinking:

“Tf the dear, handsome fellow didn’t seem so much
like a brother, I’d flirt with him myself just to see
what jealousy would do. But I suppose he is going
away, so there is an end of that.”

The sight of Ralph at that moment in the carriage,
which was being driven away by the coachman, fully
assured her that her plan was thought of too late.

It was after dark that night when Ralph Sher-
wood, his ride by rail past, stood before the door of
a stately and time-honored dwelling, and rang for ad-
mittance.

To the servant who shortly appeared, he said:

“How is your master to-night ?”

“No better, sir, than this morning; worse, the doc-
tor says. Let me see, you’re the gentleman as called
this morning ?”’

“No. I did not know your master was ill till a few
hours ago. Take him this card, and tell him the per-
son who sent it is here.”

“But, sir, the doctor’s orders are that no one must

Let it be forever.”

 

be allowed in Heis dangerotts, and he won't have
him disturbed.”

“Take the card up as I bid you. I will wait here till
you return.”

There was something about the visitor, though the
man could see his face but imperfectly, that inspired
him with a feeling akin to awe. He could no longer
think of disobeying his command let the consequence
be what it might; so taking the card he hurriedly
disappeared up the broad staircase. Returning
shortly, he said:

“You are to come up, and I hope you will do my
master good. He seemed to grow better the moment
the nurse read the name on the card.”

Ralph followed the man tothe door of the sick-
chamber where he disinissed him, going in alone.

The nurse had been sent away as soon as the ser-
vant left the room to bring up the visitor, and when
Ralph entered he found himself alone with the sick
man.

“My father!”

He was standing by the bedside, looking down at
the white, furrowed face on the pillow, and holding
both the sick man’s hands in his own.

“So ill!” in aremorseful tone. ‘‘Why did you not
send for me sooner ?”’

“And call you from your work? No, my boy, I

 

could not_be so selfish, though I wanted you badly

 

 

enough, Heaven knows. But what you have set

yourself todo must be done, and it will be all the
more necessary now that I am to be taken away.”

The young man’s conscience reproached him. “His -

work,” for which his father could spare him from
his bedside, while hired hands alone ministered to
his wants, had suffered neglect while he day after
day had idled his time at “‘The Elms’.

“How are you getting on? But poorly I fearby the
heavy countenance you bring me.”

“We have not yet been able to find the body of my
poor friend; but I have an able detective at work,
and Gleason has promised to do allin his power to
bring the murderer to justice.”

The young man sat down by the bed-side, and for

| several minutes the voices of the two men—one, deep

and musical, the other, low and tremulous—might
have been heard in earnest converse. Then the door
opened to admit the doctor that he might male his
nightly visit to his patient. He bestowed a keen
glance upon Ralph as he proceeded to feel the sick
man’s pulse.

“Doctor Worth, this is my son. My boy, the doctor
knows all.”

Doctor Worth grasped the hand held out to him ina
way that betokened warmth of feeling.

“Your disguise is perfect,” the doctor said, when
the sick man had dropped off in a doze; “but pardon
me, perhaps you object to the word.”

“Why should I, since circumstances have forced
me to appear in colors not my own. But 1 hate it,
and shall be glad to throw it off when the time
comes.” :

“Which will be when Theron Harcourt meets the
exposal his villainy deserves.”

- “And that will be as soon as the body of his victim
is found.”

“His last victim.’ There was atwinkle in the
doctor’s eyes as he said this.

“Yes, his last ; poor Amos !”

Here the old man opened his eyes, and looked
around the room. When he saw Ralph he said ;

‘So you are here. I dreamed they would not let
youcome. It willbe a year, my boy—a year before
they can touch what belongs to you. That was a
wise provision of my ancestors, that the heir should
not enter upon his estate until his predecessor had
been a year in his grave.”

“T hope, my dear father, that year will not come
soon in your case. The doctor assures me you have
little or no disease. You may get well ——”

The old man shook his head.

“Disease I may not have; but I am going, T feel it.
A week from now this room will be tenantless.”

And so it proved. A week from the day on which
Ralph stood by the bedside of his father, the old man
was borne away to his final rest, and “the year”
fixed by his ancestors as a sort of probationary one
for the fitting of the heir for his new duties, was en-
tered upon.

Ralph was going away. He was resolved to spend
the year at least in foreign countries. Whether he
came back at its close or whether he ever came back
at all, mattered little to him. Gleason would attend
to everything in his absence, and take possession of
the estate in his name when the time came, and in
regard to hunting up evidence against Theron Har-
court for the murder of his friend, he was already
engaged heart and soul in the work.

He had returned with his family to London,whence
he paid weekly visits to Elberton without gaining
the slightest clew, however, that would enable him to
tind the body of the murdered artist. He met Har-
court, he followed him on his rambles by day and
haunted him like a ghost by night, only to return to
his lodgings at theinn disappointed, unsatisfied.

It is not to be supposed that Ralph could so soon
forget Margaret, though in his letters to his cousin

he never mentioned her; indeed he had not the

faintest idea, knowing Gleason's peculiarities as he
did, that she was, for a time at least, to constitute a
member of his family. It was as much on account of
his hopeless love, as anything, that he had deter-
mined to leave England.

It was nearly two weeks after the funeral that
he took seatin the cars for London. The morning
was bright and balmy, and reminded him of those
spent in the company of Margaret, at Elberton.
Where was Margaret now? he wondered. Witha
keen pang he thought of her struggling with the
world for her daily bread. If he had only been wise
in the days gone by, it might have been his good for-
tune, he thought,to have made herhis wife,but it was
too late, too late for anything but vain regrets and
heart-sick longings for a happiness which could
never be his, On reaching London he procured a
cab and went at once to his cousin’s house. At night
he must take the train for Southampton, he having
procured a passage on the Western, which sailed on
the morrow for America. At ftirst he had intended
making a tour of the Continent, but changed his
mind in favor of America.

The servant who admitted him into the Gleason
mansion was one who had been at “The Elms,” and
as there Mr. Sherwood had been as one of the
family, he was not at the pains of announcing him.

“Mr. Gleason was out, but Mrs. Gleason was in the
drawing-room. Would the gentleman walk up?”

But Mr. Sherwood heard some one singing in a
room at a distance from the onein which he was, and
he inferred that there he might find his cousin’s wife,
so he directed his steps thither.

It was Mary, he thought, and yet it was strange
that he had never known she could sing like that !
The charmed voice of Nourmahel, he thought, could
not have been sweeter or more full of pathos. And
then, how sad, how almost solemn the air she sang—
the words he could not hear as yet—while in ac-
companiment to her voice rose and fell the sweet
notes of a guitar.

It was a love song he knew, as he drew nearer and
could catch a portion of the words, and involuntarily
he stood still to catch every strain. Could it be that
his pretty cousin, so young, so gay, so child-like, had
had ‘‘an affair of the heart?” If not how could she
sink like this, throwing her soul into the words of
her song, making them utter moanings and com-
plainings, and filling them with tears and reproaches
that did not belong to them ?

The song ceased, ending as it seemed in a quiver-
ing sigh, and Ralph walked slowly to the door, when,
seated on a low stool, her back toward him. her head
bent forward, and her hand still resting upon her
guitar, he beheld—Margaret!

He was turning to go, glad and yet sorry that he
had heard her, for his heart told him that she loved,
and that she loved him, when she turned her head
and saw him standing there.

At first she blushed confusedly and was too much
distressed to speak. That he, of all men living,
should have heard her sing that song! But the feel-
ing passed away quickly. and when she rose to her
feet, as she shortly did, she was outwardly calm.

“Good-atternoon, Mr. Sherwood. I hope I did not
quite frighten you with my song. It is dreadfully
silly, but a great favorite with Mary, so I have got in
the way of singing it.”

“Hereafter: it will be as much my favorite as
Mary’s,” he said, ‘‘that is if I should ever hear it
again, which may not be, not at least as I heard it
just now, as to-morrow I leave for America.”

“To-morrow !”

There was a mist before Margaret’s eyes, and her
heart seemed suddenly to stand still, but she did not
betray by word or look that she was moved. She
despised herself that his going away. even if forever,
should move her, even in the smallest degree. He, a
miarried man, and she herself a wife! How could
she be so weak, so foolish, so wicked!

‘You should defer your voyage till after to-mor-
row,” she said, carelessly. ‘‘The Wheatons and Sir
Chauncy Everton’s family, and Lord Cosgrove’s and
ourselves, are going for a sail,and you should go
along. I dare say Mrs. Gleason and Mary will be
quite. disappointed that you do not go, since you are

ere.” n

“Well, Ishall be sorry to disappoint them, but I
must, if my going to Southampton to-night will do
it,” he said, almost curtly.

To say truth, he was more than a trifle disappointed
himself that Margaret manifested so much indiffer-
ence at his mention of departure.

She turned her face, cold and proud, upon him.

“Mrs. Sherwood accompanies you, I suppose ?”

“Mrs. Sherwood ?”

“Yes. Your wife.”

A red wave swept over the handsome face of Ralph
CNT It receded and ieft a deadly pallor in its
place.

‘Miss Branch,” he said,speaking fast,as if thesooner
to get rid of a topic that was disagreeable to him. “I
have no wife. I told youl was married, and I told
you the truth, but neither before the hour which saw
me a bridegroom at the altar, nor since, have I ever
beheld the woman to whom my vows were spoken.
She was chosen for me by another, not by myself,
and I have reason to think that the marriage was as
distasteful to her as to myself; so we parted, she to
go her way and I mine!’”

Margaret leaned forward and fixed her yearning
eyes upon him; but the next moment she drew back,
haughty and erect as ever.

“Will you tell me where this marriage took place?”
she asked, ea

“In the little ¢ eve of the ruined abbey, near
Elberton !” he replied, wondering, not so much at the
question, as at the intense interest which she
betrayed.

This answer came very near causing her to faint.
As it was she fell backin achair white and breathless.

He sprang to her side and would have raised her
drooping head, but she waved him back.

He spoke to her, and was it not the same voice as
had thrilled her that. night in the abbey chapel?
Surely it was he who had stood beside her there in
the shadows, holding her hand in his while the words
were said which could never be revoked.

Before God, though it was a secret unrevealed to
man, this man was her wedded husband. But he
should never know it from her lips, she thought; she
was too proud for that. She would die sooner than
so much as say that she was Margaret Delisle. He
would surely find it out some time. she thought; and
then he would seek her out, let her be where she
would, and then how gladly, how thankfully, she
would seek rest and shelter in his strong arms!

But a shiver passed over her frame the next mo-
ment, and the eyes which she raised appealingly to
Ralph were luminous with despair. ‘

She was thinking now of some one else—of the
man whose name was linked with her own in the

 

 

 

 

 

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P Se RA.
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VOL. 43—No. 380.

COS ah

:

THE NEW YORI

 

 

 

 

marriage register—of what that man had said to her
at Fisher’s Cove. What she had been thinking was
- but an idle dream. She was the wife of Willard Beau-
plan, and so must remain till death! ;

“‘T am sorry to see you are not strong yet. Shall 1
go and order water for you?”

“Thank you. And please ask Mary to come to
me.”

He had reached the door, when he turned.

“T shall not see you again. Must we part without
even the good-by I asked for at ‘The Elms’ ?”’

She tried to speak, but her lips were glued to-
gether.

Oh, if they could have been spared the pain of this
parting! But it must come. He went toward her
and held out his hand. She drew back, cowering in
= chair, covering her hands in the folds of her

ress.

ase away and do not touch me!” she feebly gasped.
sé io 49?
He did as she commanded; and as he left the room
he looked so dejected and wretched that her heart

yas touched with pity for him, while before she had
only blamed him for daring, while bound to another,
to make love to her.

When the servant came in with water she brought
word that ‘Miss Mary would be up soon. She was
engaged with her cousin, who had just come from
the country.”

Ralph’s stay at the Gleason mansion was neces-
sarily short. In less than two hours from the time
he entered London he was on his way to Southamp-
ton. He had seen his cousin, and that gentleman,
while he said nothing either to dissuade him from
his purpose or tosencourage him in it, was secretly
glad that the young man was going abroad.

“A year can do so much fora girl of Mary’s age,”
he thought. “She is handsome, and growing quite
womanly, and he admires her very much. When he
returns it will require but little effort on my part to
make his admiration of my child ripen into love.”

And Mary herself was wondering at the very mo-
ment when her father was indulging in this pleasant
fancy whether her beautiful governess had anything
to do with sending her cousin away, and if on his
return the trouble between them, whatever it was,
would be forgotten or removed. .

All that night Margaret lay awake, hearing in
imagination the angry roar of the sea and seeing a
storm-tossed ship, having on board one she loved
truly, hopelessly.

It was not untila letter received by Mrs. Gleason
assured them that the wanderer was safe in the New
World, that Margaret could dismiss her fears regard-
ing the safety of the ship on which Ralph Sherwood
had taken passage for America.

CHAPTER XIX.
LADY HEYWOOD GOES TO THE ROCK HOUSE.

When Theron Harcourt, having securely fastened
the doors of the gioomy Rock House upon Lillian,
returned to Heywood, his brain was busy with a
new scheme for the finding of Margaret. He had
acted wisely and weli, he told himself, in securing
Lillian, as she must sooner or later grow weary
enough of the desolate prison-room to which he had
consigned her, to accept her liberty through the be-
trayal of her friend’s hiding-place. But while she
was making up her mind to this he must employ
other means for the aceomplishment of his ends.

Accordingly, the following “morning, while the
baron was in the library brooding over his repeated
failures to find his ward, he entered the room where
Lady Heywood was sitting. Taking achair near her,
he disclosed his plan, after relating the facts con-
cerning the ruse adopted by Lillian, and the manner
of her falling into his hands.

“Now, madam,” said he, “if you can be half as
skillful in assuming a disguise as was that girl, you
ean learn within the day just where your husband’s
ward isin hiding. I do not ask you to attempt this

for nothing, as you must necessarily run consider- | fay enh yah webeed

able risk, and the wife of a baron would not like to
have it said that she was caught masquerading in
gipsy or peasant attire. Sir Rufus is lying at the
int of death. He will drop away one of these days,
eaving me master of a fortune that a prince might
envy, and then you may set your own price for your
services. Margaretis In Elberton; I firmly believe
there is no question of that, yet I have vainly
haunted the streets and hung about the corners, till
the children have grown to look wonderingly at me.
What you need to do is to gain access to every
house. Will you make the attempt?”

Lady Heywood was thinking greedily of his offer.
“Her own price!’ Yes, she would doit; but the
baron must know nothing about it, and she would be
ready to go that very afternoon. Her :ife in Scot-
land had been so exclusive that few in Elberton
would know her, even in her proper guise; disguised
as she would be, she had little fears of detection.

She socn left the room, going at once to make
preparations for the work she was to undertake.

Theron Harcourt followed her with his glance till
she was gone; then a sinister smile curved his lips.

“Work away. my erafty lady,” he said, as he threw
himself in a lounging attitude upon asofa. “You
and I will be fast friends till Margaret is mine, and
then you will find that [ know as much about that
will of old Sutherland’s as you do. Not one penny of
Miss Delisie’s fortune do you or her guardian ever
get your hands upon!”

Lady Heywood went away in her pony-phaeton
that afternoon, with Theron Harcourt as driver. She
was dressed in arich but loose carriage robe, under
which she wore the garb of a gipsy.

Alighting not far from Elberton, she threw off the
outer robe, put on a jaunty straw hat in place of her
matronly bonnet, and eee ae Harcourt meet her
there at sunset, she walked boldly away.

She desired her doings kept a secret from the
baron for two reasons—fear of his disapproval was
the first; for whatever improper acts he might stoop
to do himself, she knew he would frown upon if per-
petrated by her.

The second and chief reason was that she wanted
the mouey, which Theron had promised as a reward,
for herself.

In the character of a gipsy fortune-teller she found
access to many an area gate that afternoon, and plied
the housemaids with adroit questions regarding the
inmates, but she was forced to return home at night
with her mission unaccomplished. The next day,
however, she met with better success. She was tray-
ersing the street in which Black Cottage was
located, and had visited every house save that one,
when a chance question put tu a small boy in the
neighborhood led her to suspect that Margaret was
with the Beauplans. She had kept away from their
house lest she should be recognized by the sharp-eyed
spinster, her brother. The boy assured her
house contained young ladies, lovely ones, too; he
knew that, forhe hadone morning met them in the
lane leading back from the cottage.

Lady Heywood returned to Harcourt, who was
waiting for her as on the preceding evening, reported
progress, and sent him home with word to the baron
that she was going to remain a portion of the night
with a sick friend, who would see that she had con-
veyance home when she wished to go. Then, with a
countenance as serene as though this lie had not been
spoken, Lady Heywood turned back to the village.

It was quite dark when she reached the neighbor-
hood of Black Cottage, and she proceeded at. once in-
side the inclosure surrounding it. A faint light
gleamed from a window of the kitchen, and to this
window the lady made her way. The curtain was
but partially drawn, so that she was able to see the
objects in the room.

Seated before a table, on which asmall lamp was
burning, was Willard Beauplan, enjoying a meal,
which Lady Heywood was not slow at conjecturing
he had himself prepared. He was alone, there being
not so much as a cat visible. He sipped his tea, and
ate slices of cold roast meat, with the air of a man
onjon ae himself. :

dy Hey wood, standing still outside, was growing
fidgety by the time the lawyer had finished his meal
and arose from the table. After all, she thovght, she
was likely to learn nothing of the whereabouts of
Margaret here. Still she lingered by the window,
watching the lawyer’s inovements while he removed
the remainder of the victuals to the pantry and dis-
posed of the dishes by shoving them to the further
side of thetable. This done, he wiped his fingers on
a napkin and sat down again at the table, drawing
the lamp close. He then took from his pocket a letter
in an old and faded envelope, and read it with a grim
sinile of satisfaction, refolding it when he had
finished, and, laying it upon the table before him, he
beat a tattoo upon it, while he watched the flickering
lamp, meditatively.

“JT wonder what Margaret will say,” he thought,
giving audible expression to his thoughts. ‘At first
she won’t believe it was I whom she married, but I
shall have no trouble in convincing her; the register
in the abbey chapel will do that. If she doubts my
assertion I shall take her there and show it to her.
But before I go to see her I must run down to this
outlandish place that my old nurse tells me of in this
letter, and get those papers; I must leave by the noon
train. I wonder I never cared for them till now;
they would have given me some honor among my
fellows, at least. With them in my pocket, and Mar-
garet Delisle as my wife, how completely I shall have
outwitted that pigmy Heywood. Oh! but won’t the
Sutherland property do him good—when he gets it!”

Lady Heywood watched the lawyer with bated
breath! Married! Margaret married to this man!
Then what was to become of the baron and herself?
Ruin stared thein in the face! Was there no way,
none, by which the golden harvest they coveted
might be reached? There was 10t. Unless Margaret,
before she was eighteen, was married to the heir of
The Downs, the whole niffety thousand pounds went
to endow a home for indigent old men. So said the
will, and they could not alter that. It wasthrough
the confidence of Lawyer Beauplan that Heywood
had first learned the contents of the old man’s will,
he having drawn it up when quite a young man, and
ever since the wicked baron had looked forward to
. the time when by forcing his ward into compliance
with the requirements of her grandfather’s will, he
might obtain possession of her fortune. And now
the lawyer stood in his way to thwart him ; had done
so already, if, as his words implied, he had married
Margaret. ‘

Lady Heywood stood still, just as she had stood for

 

 

 

the

 

the last half hour, gazing into the window, when the
lawyer arose from his chair once more, and taking
up the ee en the room.

The lady heard him ascending the stairs, and then
the thought came to her that he had left the letter
lying on the table. -She must get it, buthow? She
was not courageous enough to enter the house, even
—as was unlikely—should the door be unlocked. She
tried the window, and succeeded in raising it far
enough to admit her arm. The table was near the
window, and after several efforts she succeeded in
reaching the letter. She drew it outof the window,
lowered the sash, and at once hurried away in the
darkness.

She had to walk home, and her feet were blistered
and her limbs weakened by the unusual exercise
before the journey was accomplished. To her sur-

rise she found the baron still out of bed, though the

our was late. He was in the library looking over a
pile of papers which lay upon the table, and she
threw herself into a chair opposite, dressed as she
was in hergipsy garb, for now she had come to the
conclusion to make a confidant of her husband. So
she teld him at once what she had done, and what
she had learned. Then she produced the stolen letter,
which she read aloud.

Before the reading was concluded, Heywood’s
small black eyes were glowing in their deep sockets
like twin stars. Beauplan was married to Margaret,
the proof of that might be found in the register ;
so his wife had heard the lawyer say. Moreover, the
lawyer was the lawful son of Oliver Harcourt,
brother, and the one next younger than himself, of
old Sir Rufus Harcourt, the present owner of The
Downs. Therefore, the lawyer, and not Theron, was
heir of The Downs!

Beauplan was about to enter upon a desperate
game! The wily lawyer knew all about the pro-
visions made in old Sutherland’s will. He had an
eye on Margaret’s fortuue, and would have it unless
prevented. ;

There was but one thing, the lawyer told himself,
that could prevent his getting it—death !

Heywood was not yet fully hardened, and he shud-
dered, and his lips grew white as the dreadful
thougbt was born; but the next minute he was
charging his wife on no account to let Harcourt
know of the discoveries she had made,

Lady Heywood left the room soon afterward, and
retired to find the rest she so much needed, but the
baron kept his place. While the clock on the mantel
struck off the hours one by one he remained buried
in deep thought.

If he could manage to get possession of the papers
spoken of in the letter written to the lawyer by his
old nurse, the lawyer's life might be spared. The
papers were certificates of his mother’s marriage to
ee Harcourt, and of his own and his sister’s

irth.

Besides these certiticates, there was probably
others by which the lawyer could expect to fully and
easily prove himself a Harcourt. The letter inti-
mated that such was the case; and the care with
which it said they had been preserved and finally
concealed convinced Heywood that it was so.

The letter gave minute directions for the finding of
the papers. What was to hinder himfrom possessing
them before Beauplan should leave Elberton? The
lawyer was going by the noontrain. He would leave
in the morning, and with so many hours the start of
the lawyer, was it not likely that he would come off
the winner ?

Having come to this resolve, Heywood retired for
the, night.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

ee
AS OTHERS SEE US.

“This,” said the returned missionary to the Poor
Heathen whom he had brought over, “is a church.”
And the Poor Heathen greatly admired the church.

“Who is the fat man with the big watch seal, who
looks at the church as though he thought. some of
putting in a fifty-dollar bay-window and raising the
rent $500 a year?”

“That is a trustee,” said the returned missionary.

“He does most of the praying, I suppose?” said the
Poor Heathen, who, in his blindness, knows very
little about the way we do these things.

“No,” said the returned missionary, ‘‘he doesn’t be-
lieve in praying. He is not a member of the church,
but he isa good, clear-headed business man, good
manager, strong on real estate deals, and so he’s a

trustee. Doesn’t take very much of a Christian to be
a trustee, except in the country. In town a church
only wants a good business nan for trustee.” ;
“And who is the man who stands in the door and
glares at the people as they pass in and tries to keep

“That is the sexton,” replied the missionary. ‘‘He
doesn’t believe in opening the church for religious
service at all. He says the church was built to have
swell weddings in, and that for preaching and prayer
meetings, and other side shows of that nature, the
trustees should hire a hall.”

“Who is the very young man who pushes people
out of the way that he may have room to pass in, and
stoops very low as he enters the twenty-foot door,
and sits directly under the steeple lest he should
strike his head when he stands up?” i

“That,’’ said the returned missionary, ‘is the new
superintendent of the Sunday-school. They are all
that way at first. By and by, when he has forgotten
every line of his beautiful speech, when there are
distinguished strangers present, when he has started
the wrong tune to an entirely strange hymn, and
corrected himself by striking the right tune on a key
so high that the Chimes of Normandy couldn’t ring a
second bass toit; when he has flunked, fair, square,
and outright, on the first ten questions in his question
box, he will know less by a ton than he does now, and
be a good, useful, earnest, and humble superinten-
dent. He’s only young and new, like an August
persimmon.”

“Here comes the owner of the church,” the Poor
Heathen said. ‘‘He looks as though he had decided
to make pemmican of the sexton and trustee, and not
hold any service to-day.”

‘No, that is not exactly the owner of the church,’’
the returned missionary said; ‘that is the leader of
the choir.” ;

“Who is that meek, timid little man who is trying
to creep in without letting the sexton see him, and
who nan just taken off his hat tothe leader of the
choir ?’

“Oh, that is only the pastor of the church,” the re-
turned missionary replied. ‘Will you go inside ?”

And the Poor Heathen said he would, because he
rather guessed, from their looks, the sexton and the
leader of the choir had made up their minds to settle
that morning which of the two should take the church
and run it. ROBERT J. BURDETTE.

> 0-~
A YOUNG MAN ENTRAPPED.

“Trene,” exclaimed the young man, a pang of jeal-
ousy shooting through every fiber of his heart, as he
noted a ring he had never seen before on one of the
fingers of her left hand, ‘‘is that an engagement-
ring?’ }

“I will not deceive you, Mr. Kiljordan,” replied the
young lady, blushing deeply. “Itis what might be
considered a conditional engagement-ring. The mat-
ter is not positively settled as yet, but mamma thinks
Mr. Peduncle——”

“Then it may be that I am not too late?” said Bar-
dolph Kiljordan, passionately, the violence of his emo-
tion breaking down every barrier of reserve that the
cold, calculating behests of expediency had erected
between himself and his heart’s idol. ‘Irene, I had
not thought to say to you for months, perhaps years,
the words that now come thronging for utterance
and will no longer be stifled. J had intended to wait
until time should prove the depth and sincerity of
the feelings with which you have inspired me, and
until I could speak with the confidence of one who is
certain of his foothold and has gained an assured
position in life. But you know something of my
prospects, Irene, and I have sometimes dared to
think thatI am not altogether displeasing to you.
Can you not give me some hope that I have not
aspired in vain—that your own heart echoes the
throbbings of mine which almost choke my utter-
ances? Give me the right, Irene, to call you my
own and to feel sure that no’man, henceforth and
forever, can stand betwee! me and all earthly hap-
piness. Will you?’

“T will, Bardolph.”

And the eloqnent stillness that followed the softly |
spoken words of the fair young girl was punctuated
by that old yet new sound, that rapturous, wild, fer-
vid, unpronounceable percussion whose ecstatic ar-
ticulation marks the climax of two trusting lives.

“Trene,” said the youth, after a pause, ‘‘you will
let me remove this ‘conditional engagement-ring’
now, will you not?”

“Certainly, Bardolph, though it is really of no im-
portance. Take it off if you wish.”

“And now tell me of that conditional engagement,
my own.”

“It was an engagement to meet Mr. Peduncle at
two o’clock next Saturday afternoon, should the
weather prove fair enough for me to venture out. T
put it on myself so I would not forget it.”

“To meet Mr. Peduncle? Where, let me ask?”

“At his office, of course. Don’t you know Mr.
Peduncle?”’

“No. Who, in the name of Christopher Columbus,
is he?”

“The dentist. One of my teeth——” ‘

“Trapped!” said the young man, in a deep, tragic
tone. ’

them out?” asked the Poor Heathen.

a me 0 me

By imagination, a man in a dungeon is capable of
entertaining himself with scenes aud landscapes
more beautiful than any that can be found in the

 

 

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A
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(COPYRIGHT, 1887.]

Are You Sick?

Do you feel dull, languid, low-spirited, lifeless, and inde-
scribably miserable, both physically and mentally; expe-
rience a sense of fullness or bloating after eating, or of
“oneness,” or emptiness of the stomach in the morning,
tongue coated, bitter or bad taste in the mouth, irregular

petite, dizziness, frequent headaches, blurred eyesight,
“Rpating specks” before the eyes, nervous prostration or ex-
i irritability of temper, hot flushes, alternating

ily sensations, sharp, biting, transient pains here
and there, cold feet, drowsiness after meals, wakefulness, or
distur’ and uvrefreshing sleep, constant, indescribable
feeling of dread, or of impending calamity ?

If you have all, or any considerable number of these symp-
toms, you are suffering from that most common of Ameri-
can maladies, Bilious Dyspepsia, or Torpid Liver, associated
with Dyspepsia, or Indigestion. The more complicated your

Davin G. LowE, Esq., of St. Agathe, Man-
itoba, Canada, says: ‘About one year ago,
being troubled with a terrible bilious at-
tack, fluttering of the heart, poor rest at
night, etc., I commenced the use of your
‘Golden Medical Discovery’ and ‘Pellets,’
and derived the very highest benefit there-

Attack.

Mrs. Moxnire E. Tamor, of Cannelton,
Ind., writes: “I think the *Golden Medical
Discovery’ is one of the greatest medicines
in the world. I gave it to my little girl,
and it cured her of the malarial fever.”

Malarial
Fever,

.. Dyspepsia.—TuHERESA A. Cass, of Sprinafield. Mo., writes :

I was troubled one year with liver complaint, dyspepsia,

and sleeplessness, but your ‘Golden Medical Discovery
me.

. Mrs. ELIZABETH J. BusHwaw, of Sidney,
Liver Ohio, writes: ‘My little boy was so afflict-
ed with liver trouble and other diseases
. that our family physician: said he could
Disease not live. In fact, they all thoughtso. I
' eave him Dr. Pierce’s Pellets, and they

saved his life. We have also used the

‘Golden Medical Discovery’ for throat and bronchial trouble,
and found such perfect relief that we can also recommend it

very highly. ie

disease has become, the greater the number and diversity of
symptoms. No matter what stage it has reached, aa
Prerce’s GOLDEN MEDICAL DISCOVERY will subdue it, if
taken according to directions for a reasonable length of
time. If not cured, complications multiply and Consump-
tion of the Lungs, Skin Diseases, Heart Disease, Rheuma-
tism, Kidney Disease, or other grave maladies are quite
wore to set in, and, sooner “or later, induce a fatal termina-
ion.

Dr. PIERCE’S GOLDEN MEDICAL DISCOVERY acts powerfully
upon the Liver, and through that great blood-purifying
organ cleanses the system of all blood-taints and impurities,
from whatever cause arising. It is equally efficacious in
acting upon the Kidneys, and other excretory organs, cleans-
Ing, strengthening, and healing their diseases. As an appe-
tizing restorative tonic, it promotes digestion and nutrition,
thereby building up both flesh and strength.” In malarial
districts, this wonderful medicine has rained great celebrity
in curing Fever and Ague, Chills and Fever, Dumb Ague, and
kindred diseases.

Mrs. I. V. WEBBER, of Yorkshire, Cuttarau-

s “T wish to say a few

words in praise of your ‘Golden Medical

. : iscovery’ and ‘Pleasant Purgative Pellets.’

Disease ‘or five years previous to taking them I

' yas a great sufferer; I had a severe pain in

ay night side continually; was unable to

domy own work. Iam happy to sayIam now well and
strong, thanks to your medicines.”

A. B. WEAVER, Esq , of 996 Bouck A ve-
nue, Buffalo, N. Y., writes: “Having
used your ‘Golden Medical Discovery’
in my family, I desire to testify to the
Headache great relief afforded by it in cases of

! sick headache. As a children’s remedy,

"for coughs and colds, Ihave likewise

ound it all that could be desired, its employment having
ey availed to promptly check any attacks of that
irae?

Mrs. MELIssA ATWATER, of Steuben,
Washington Co., Maine, says: “I was
afflicted with dyspepsia, nervous and
general debility, for which I took your
‘Golden Medical Discovery’ and ‘Favor-
ite Prescription,’ six bottles of each,
That was some two years ago. It cured
me so that Ihave not had a sick ae

ik

Dyspepsia

since. Ihad been in very poor_healt

age
Debility.
for a number of years, and too

much medicine from physicians, but received no benefit
from them.”

 

“FOR THE BLOOD AS THE LIFE.”

Thoroughly cleanse the blood, which is the fountain of
health, by using Dr. RCE’s GOLDEN MEDICAL DISCOVERY,
and good digestion, a fair skin, buoyant spirits, and bodily
health and vigor will be established.

GOLDEN MeEpicaAL DiscovERY cures all humors, from a
common Blotch, or Eruption, to the worst ‘Scrofula, Salt-
rheum, “‘Fever-sores,” Scaly or Rough Skin. in short, all dis-
eases caused by bad blood, are conquered by this powerful,

purifying, and invigoratiug medicine. Great Eating Ulcers
rapidly heal under its benign influence. Virulent blood-

‘ poison’ are, by its use, robbed of their terrors. Especially
as it manifested its potency in curing Tetter, Eczema, Ery-
sipelas, Boils, Carbuncles, Sore Eyes, Scrofulous Sores and
Swellings, Hip-joint Disease, ‘“White Swellings,” Goitre, or
Thick Neck, and Enlarged Glands.

A medicine possessing the power to cure such inveterate blood and skin diseases as the following testi-
monial portrays, must certainly be credited with possessing properties capable of curing any and all skin

and blood diseases, for none are more obstinate or difficult of cure than Salt-rheum :

 

 

r

 

“COLUMBUS, OHIO, Aug. 18th, 1887.
WORLD'S DISPENSARY' MEDICAL ASSO-
alt- Rheum CIATION, 663 Main St., Buffalo, N. Y. :
Gentlemen :—For several years I
have felt it to be my duty to give to
all eyou the facts in relation to the com-
* plete cure of a most aggrava' case
Rh um atism of salt-rheum, by the use of your
e 1 ‘Golden Medical Discovery.’ An el-
 derly 1 relative of mine had been
+ Brees sufferer from salt-rheum for upwards of f: orty years.
The disease was most distressing in her hands, causing the
skin to crack open on the inside ot the fingers at the joints
and between the fingers. She was obliged to protect the raw
poe by means of adhesive
andages, and during the winter months had to have her
hands dressed daily. The pain was quite severe at times,
and her general health was badly affected, paving the way
for other diseases to creep in, Catarrh and rheumatism
caused a great deal of suffering in addition to the salt-
rheum. She had used failthfully. and with the most com-
mendable perseverance, all the remedies prescribed by her
yhysicians, but without obtaining relief. She afterwards
Petiais treating herself by drinking teas made from blood-
purifying roots and herbs. She continued this for several
years, but derived no benefit. Finally, about ten years ago,
chanced to read one of Dr. Pierce’s small pamphlets setting
forth the merits of his ‘Golden Medical Discovery’ and other

plasters, salves, ointments, and |

medicines. The name struck my fancy, and seeing that it
was essentially a blood-puritier, I immediately recommended
it to the old lady who had been so long a sufferer from salt-
rheum. She commenced taking it at once, and took one
bottle, but seemed to be no better. However, I realized that
it would take time for any medicine to effect a change for
the better, and encouraged her to continue. She then pur-
chased a half-a-dozen bottles, and before these had all been
used she san to notice an improvement. After taking
about a dozen bottles she was entirely cured. Her hands
were perfectly well, and as smooth and healthy as a child’s.
Her general health was also greatly improved ; the rheuma-
tism entirely left her, and the catarrh was almost cured, so
that it ceased to much annoyance. She has enjoyed ex-
cellent health from that day to this, and has had no return
of either salt-rheum or rheumatism, The ‘Discovery’ seems
to have entirely eradicated the salt-rheum from her system.
She is now over eighty years old, and very healthy for one of
such extreme age.

I have written this letter, of which you can make any use
you see fit, hoping that some sufferer fromi salt-rheum might
chance to it and obtain relief by using your ‘Golden
Medical Discovery’—for ‘Golden’ it is in its curative proper-
‘ties, and as much above the multitude of nostrums and so-
called ‘patent medicines,’ so zealously flaunted before the
public, as gold is above the baser metals.

Respectfully eae
. W. WHEELER, 182 2ist St.”

 

 

F. AsBurRY HOWELL,” Pastor
| di ti Ae 4 Church, of _ Silverton,
n iges ion, : “I was’ afilicted with
1 blotches began to arise on the surface
0l $ of the skin, and I experiencedga tired
? feeling and dullness. I an the
Bl t h use of Dr. Pierce’s ‘Golden Medical
0 C es. Discovery’ as directed by him for such
+ eee and in one wera? aco c
began to feel like anew man, and am now sound and well.
The Pleasant tive Pellets’ are the best remedy -for
billious or sick h ache, or tightness about the chest, and
bad taste in the mouth, that I have ever used. My wife
could not walk across the floor when she began to — ei
e

‘Golden Medical Discovery.’ Now she can walk quit ttle

ways, and do some light work.”

Mrs. Ipa M. SrroneG, of Ainsworth,

1 i Ind., writes: “My little boy had been

Ip- on e § troubled with hip-joint disease for two

: years. When he commenced the use of

Disease your ‘Golden Medical Discovery’ and

' Pellets,’ he was confined to his bed, and

could not be moved without suffering

sage pain. But now, thanks to your ‘Discovery,’ he is able

o be up all the time, and can walk with the help of crutches.

He does not suffer any pain, and can eat and sleep as well

as any one. It has? only been about three months since

he commenced using your medicine. I cannot find words

with which‘to express my gratitude for the benefit he has
received through you.”

Fever-sores.—-ALICE H. CRAWFORD, of Sioux - Rapids,
Buena Vista County, Iowa, writes : “Six years ago I was
cured of ‘Fever-sores’ by the use of Dr. Pierce’s Golden Med-
ical Discovery.”

Skin Disease.—The “Democrat and
News,” of Cambridge, Maryland, says:
“Mrs. E1rizA ANN POOLE, wife of Leon-
ard Poole, of Williamsburg, Dorchester
Co., Md., has been cured of a bad case of
Eczema by using Dr. Pierce’s Golden

t
A Terrible
. s
Affliction.
Medical iscovery. The ease =
eet, extended to the kness, covering the

peared first in the
whole of the lower limbs from feet to knees, then attacked the
elbows and became so severe as to prostrate her. After be-
ing treated by several physicians for a year or two she com-
menced the use of the medicine named above. She soon
began to mend, and is now well and hearty. Mrs. Poole
ae the medicine has saved her life, and prolonged her
Mr. T. A. AyrEs, of East New Market, Dorchester Co., Md.
youches for the above facts. 2A

Sore Eyes.—Mrs. Saran A. TURNER, of City, Utah
Territory, says: “My eldest child was cured, nearly three
years ago, of sore eyes, being at the time nearly blind, by
four Golden Medical Discovery,’ and following the direc-
ons in your book.”

[A Bad Ulcer.

it up perfectly.”

Isaac E. Downs, Esq., of Spring
Valley. Rockland County, N._Y.,
writes: “The ‘Golden Medical Dis-
covery’ has cured my daughter of a
very bad ulcer. Three bottles healed

Goitre, or Thick Neck.—Juiis P. Beckwirn, of 407
West Gay_Street, Elmira, N. Y., writes: “After the use of
your ‘Golden Medical Discovery’ and ‘Favorite Prescription,’
together with your good advice, my neck has now become

 

perfectly well.

CONSUMPTION, WEAK LUNGS, SPITTING OF BLOOD.

GOLDEN MEpIcaL DIscovERY cures Consumption (which is

-Scrofula of the Lungs) by its wonderful blood-purifying, in-

vigorating, and nutritive properties. From its marvelous
power over this terribly fatal disease, when first offering this
now world-famed remedy to the public, Dr. Pierce thought
seriously of calling it his ‘CONSUMPTION CURE,” but aban-
doned that nameas too restrictive for a medicine which,
from its wonderful combination of tonic, or strengthening,
alternative, or blood-cleansing, anti-billious, pectoral, and
nutritive properties, is unequaled, not bape! as a remedy for
Consumption, but for all Chronic Diseases of the Liver, Blood,

. Mrs. Rutu A. Sickies, of Ocean Port.
Monmouth Co., N, J., says: “We have used
ung your ‘ Golden’ Medical Discovery’ in our
amily for the last two years, and find
{ nothing else to equal it. One of our chil-
isease, dren had the Haagen and one lung be-
came consolidated, but by the use of the
e has entirely recovered, and is now in ¢

 

GO

edge of the patient, if desired, by
articles of f

GOLDEN

IS A DISEASE, and

can be Cured, by adminis-

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iven without the knowl-
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LDEN SPECIFIC. It can be g

 

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ew Work

 

SoLtomon Burrs, of North Clay-
ton, Miami Co,, Ohio, writes: “I
have not the rds to express m

gratitude for the good your ‘Gol-
vhas done my wife. She was taken

| Consumption.

d sdical D: ;
Coal consumption, and after trying one doctor after ed

 

 

 

scovery

ave up all hope of relief. Being very poor, an
Late ba one dollar in the world, I prayed to God that he
might show me something; and then it seems as though
something did tell me to get your ‘Golden Medical Discov-
ery. My wife took it as directed, and as a result she is so
she can work now.”

Wasting Disease.—Warson F-

5 CLARK, Esq., of (Box 104), Summerside:

Gained Prince. Edward Island, Can., writes -

“T would like to give you a slight tes-

d timonial for the benefits which I

oun S$: have received from your preparations

during the past twelye months. When

aking your ‘Golden Medical Discovery’ I did

so at the solicitation of J. A. Gormlie, druggist, of this place.

He had sold me many other preparations, always recom-

mending your ‘Discovery,’ which I did_ not take, owing to

prejudice. However, I finally took his‘advice and your med-

icine, and have never been sorry for either, as lam te-day a

healthy man, while one year ago I was not able to work, and

was a burden to myself. At that time I weighed 122‘pounds,

and to-day I weigh 147 pounds, ‘Then I used to eat about one

meal a day, and now can eat four or five if I dared to. After

all these benefits, how can Lrefrain from adding my testi-

monial, unsolicited, to the thousands already in your pos-
session ?”

’ isease.—E. B. NorMAN, Esq., of Anon, Georgia
eye kiN the ‘Golden Medical Discovery’ is the best
medicine for pain in the chest that I have ever known. I am
sound and well, and I owe it all to the ‘Discovery.’ ”

Worth $1000
ollars, and I would not take three

A Bottle,
put back whereI was. I am endeavy-

ousand dollars an 2 en
oring to have all my neighbors keep your remedies in the

house.”

commence

W. R. Davis, Esq., of Bellville, Flor-
ida, writes: “I have taken your won-
derful ‘Golden Medical Discovery,’
and have been cured of the worst case
of consumption. I am now sound
and well, and have only spent three

a.

Golden Medical Discovery is Sold by Druggists.

and Lungs. For Weak Lungs, Spitting of Blood, Shortness
of Breath, Bronchitis, Chronic Nasal Catarrh, Seyere Coughs,
Asthma, and kindred affections, it is a sovereign remedy.
While it promptly cures the severest Coughs, it strengthens
the system and purifies the blood.

The nutritive properties of extract of malt and cod liver oil
are trifling when compared with those possessed by the ‘‘Dis-
covery.

It nerey builds up the system, and increases the flesh and
weight of those reduced below the usual standard of health

by “wasting diseases.”

Mrs. N. W. Rick, of Newfane, Ver-
mont, says: “I feel at liberty to ac-
knowledge the benefit I received
from two bottles of the ‘Golden Med-
ical Discovery,’ which cured a cough
of five years’ standing, and dyspep-
sia, from which I had suftered fora
long time, I have also used Dr.
Pierce’s Extract of Smart-Weed, or
Water Pepper, in my family with

s0ugh of
Five Years’
Standing.

Raised Blood.—L. H. Cox, Esq., of Wales Centre, N. ¥.
writes: “I was troubled with pain in the chest, and raised
quantities of blood, and was unable to do any work for sey-
eral months, but after taking three bottles of your ‘Golden
Medical Discovery,’ and several vials of the ‘Pellets,’ lam
now able to do considerable work, and gain very rapidly.”
es Vrs. MARTHA OWEN, of Carthage, Jasper
Co., Mo., writes; ‘I was treated for several
ung years by some of the best physicians for

consumption without receiving any ben-
D S ase efit. Soon after 1 commenced taking Dr.

| e@ 8 @Pierce’s ‘Golden Medical Discovery’ and

‘Favorite Prescription’ all the symptoms of

consumption vanished. I wish also to report the cure of one

of my neighbors, who was a great sufferer from womb dis-

ease, and was permanently cured by the use of Dr. Pierce’s
Favorite Prescription.”

CARRIE 8. STOWELL, Postmistress at Mag-
nolia, Colorado, writes: “TI feel that I can-
not say too much in praise of your ‘Golden

fledical Discovery,’ for Ihave found that
itis of golden worth. It has helped both
my husband and myself. Two years ago
Mr. Stowell was afflicted with what ap-

eyes 0 be asthma, and our altitude being so high, the dif-

culty in breathing attendant upon this distressing malady
was greatly increased. But he began to improve at once
after commencing the use of your ‘Discovery,’ and was en-
tirely cured by this wonderful medicine. As for myself, I
have used it for nervous and acre debility, and for an
affection of the kidneys and bladder, and I found that it was
without a rival for these complaints.

without your ‘Discovery.’”
s

Consumption, began taking your ‘Favorite Pre
scription,’ -Golden Medical Discoy-
ery,, and ‘Pellets,’ I was so weak I could not be on my feet
but afew minutes atatime. They did me a great deal of
good, and I take pleasure in expressing my gratitude to you
for the excellent health I now enjoy. When I first wrote you

I was said to be in the first stage of consumption.”

We are now never

Mrs. W. H. NicKir1n, of Marlbor-..
ough, N. Y, says: “When I first

 

Price $1.00 per Bottle, or Six Bottles for $5.00.

WORLD’S DISPENSARY MEDICAL ASSOCIATION, Propr’s.,
No. 663 Main Street, BUFFALO, N. Y.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

asst THE NEW YORK WEEKLY

VOL. 43—No. 30,

 

INFLUENCE.
BY PAUL CLAYTON.

I dropped a pebble in the stream,
It sunk forever from my sight;
A moment in the sun’s warm beam
A diamond sparkled pure and bright,
Reflecting far its radiant light.
A circle, small indeed at first,
Widened e’en midst the tempest’s rear,
Until at last it faintly burst
And vanished on the farther shore.

A frown, a scowl, an angry glance,
A hasty or unguarded word,
A formal bow, a look askance—
These, quicker than a swift-winged bird,
Pierce to the heart like two-edged sword ;
Spreading a baneful influence wide,
They cast a mirksome shade and gloom
Across life’s rough and troubled tide,
And reach unto the silent tomb.

A word, a look of sympathy,
A penny generously bestowed,
A simple act of courtesy,

A kindly influence shed abroad,
And from the soul lift many a load,
These angel-deeds, grand and sublime,

Like ripples on the restless sea,
Sweep o’er the fretful stream of time
And reach into eternity.

LEGENDS ON THE DEEP,

Tales Told on Shipboard.

BY H.

 

A. FREEMAN.
No. 5.

IQ

NS

%t is a frequent occurrence in ocean travel that
‘some one of the passengers seems specially selected
by fertune to lavish her gifts upon.

Such are distinguished at once, and homage is paid
to them, in recognition of the old and well-established
rule that nothing succeeds like success; and that fact
is broadened to read that nothing shouid be more de-
ferred to than success.

The magnate whom everybody on the Nomadic,
from the captain to the scullions, seemed to bow
down to and worship, was a handsome, imperious-
looking lady, elderly, dignified, and gracious. She
was a widow, and owned as much stock in the Bright
Star Line as even Mr. Farnsworth. She was certainly
very rich, and Captain Patterson unbent enough to
converse with her on deck during the short intervals
in which his duty did not command his entire atten-
tion. Her aets of charity were not specially promi-
nent on shipboard, but many unfortunate passengers

in the steerage had reason to remember gratefully
the kind lady who drew from them the little homely
story of the hardships which drove them from their
native land, and forced them to seek the new world.
A broad gold piece is not a fortune to even a poor
emigrant, but, properly bestowed, it is a great heart-
warmer.

One day a wreck was made out, still afloat, and
waterlogged. It could be seen, on nearer approach,
that she was deserted, and, beyond a sentimental
interest, she attracted no special attention from those
on board the Nomadic.

And she never would have, but for a phenomenon.
Mrs. Olmstead, the favored passenger, dared to ask
Captain Patterson to delay the ship long enough to
examine the wreck, in the chance of rescuing some
unfortunate castaways.

More than that, she insisted upon it.

And, still more wonderful, she prevailed.

A boat sent to the wreck brought back one poor,
emaciated skeleton of a man who, lying ill, had been
deserted by his shipmates and left to his fate.

“T was lucky to be so sick,” he said, ‘or I should
have starved. I have had no nourishment but a little
water for a week.”

He was made comfortable, and the next day was
strong enough to lie on a steamer chair on the deck,
fanned by the warm, life-giving sea breezes. The
steward had shaved and “tidied him up,’ and he
seemed a refined, and very sick and pale man of
about thirty, whose handsome features evidenced his
superiority to his recent surroundings.

“T used to consider myself unlucky,” he said, to the
bevy of newly found friends who clustered about
him, “ but I know now that [am notso. Ishali find
my fortune all in a lump some day.”

And yielding to the entreaties of those about him,
he told them the story of

“THE CASTAWAY WHO BELIEVED IN
LUCK

WhenI was a lad I believed myself the special
target for ill-luck. It seemed to me that everything
I touched was doomed to mishap. If I had a pet, it
would die or be lost. If I had a sweetheart, some-
thing that I could not foresee would occur foestrange
us. Whatever went wrong would in some way at
last come back to me, and I always took. the blame.

Yet [ was not particularly awkward, blundering, or
ore and I was never vicious. I wassonly un-

ucky. :

I became misanthropic and super-sénsitive. TI
think my mother was the only sincere friend and
sympathizer that [had. She would sometimes point
out the frequent instances where my supposed ill-
fortune resulted in good luck at last. I can see now
how that is almost invariably the case, but I could
not then.

Once I went kite flying with my twe brothers.
True to my record I plunged at once into ill-luck.
My kite weuld not fly, and in trying to force it I lost
itinatree. In my effort to recover it, I climbed into
the tree from which coign of vantage Lsaw my jeer-
ing, taunting brothers, set upon and soundly thrashed
by the three big boys of a neighboring family, with
whom we were at variance. Had I not been securely
hidden in the thick foliage of the tree, I should have
shared the same fate.

But I was troubled with excessive sentimentality.
T longed to wander away off alone and be miserable.
I wanted to endure hardships and unmerited ill-
treatment.

I cultivated a taste for lugubrious reading, and I
admired Oliver Twist, and doted on Smike. But my
grand hero of heroes was Thaddeus of Warsaw.

With these sufferers to sympathize with me, I could
be philosophical over the cruel fickleness of my
sweethearts, who, by the way, all turned out to be
unattractive and unlovely women; and I used to go
into er gloomy place, and weave out a future for
myself.

My favorite idea was that it would be sadly sweet
to wander far away from home and friends on some
starless night by a lonely path, and atlast fall faint-
ing with hunger and fatigue at the door of some
surly farmer who would take mein to labor for my
keep. I pictured myself enduring his eruelties and
moistening my infrequent crust with my scalding
tears, suffering in uncomplaining, shrinking silence.

This would continue until some day I should find
myself in his grand parlor, and stealing to the open
piano I would let my fimgers wander idly over the
keys, weaving tender melodies, while his lovely
daughter, standing unobserved in the door-way en-
tranced with the weird sweetness of it all, should
yield up the treasures of her young affections to the
humble player. And I, unconscious of her gentle
presence, and overcome by my emotions, should let
my head droop over the keys, and murmuring some-
thing spasmodic and touching about home and
mother should fall forward in a pallid swoon.

'

|! From this I wasto be roused by her ministrations,
and having thus unvailed my true nobility of charac-
ter and gentle breeding, I was to take my rightful
place, and be made my rich master’s son-in-law, and
the heir to his hoards.

And this was to be the end of all my ill-luck.

I grew so fond of building this particular castle in
Spain, that I went so far as to practice a week or two
on an old-fashioned melodeon in order to make a
sure thing of the tender and entrancing melodies.

With my head full of this sort of rubbish, I dis-
dained any sensible way of starting out, and refused
a good chance to go into my uncle’s business. My
elder brother took it instead, and I hope hehas pros-
pered. I never have seen him since,

A‘bit of my usual ill-fortune gave me the oppor-
tunity I coveted to cast myself adrift on the world.

An untoward circumstance, in which I was not
deserving of blame, brought upon me the severe
censure of my practical-minded father, who had not
entirely forgiven my relusal to profit by my uncle’s
liberal offer.

Accordingly Imade up my mind to seek fortune,
fame, and appreciation, beginning at the lowest
round of the ladder, and mounting gradually and
surely to the top. $

And so, one morning, I set out on my life errand—
to conquer luck.

Of course, I did not burden myself with staff and
serip. That would not have accorded with my plans,
T had no foolish fancies about killing Indians or cut-
ting the-throats of wayfarers, and so I took no arms.
I did not even supply myself with fish hooks.

But I carried in one pocket the necessary and con-
ventional crust, selected with special reference to
hardness and dryness, and on onearm [had my initials
neatly tattooed for reference at some possible
auspicious moment.

Yielding to a pardonable impulse, I also took with
me asmall copy of the New Testament, to be utilized
during my long evenings in some lonely hut far from
the busy haunts of men.

Thus equipped for my struggle against the world,
I set out one morning some hours before daybreak.

[Thad not gone far on my sentimental journey,
before I began to experience the welcome pangs of
homesickness. Now I was beginning to sufter, and I
felt my heart swell with honest pride in being already
amartyr. In two hours more I was somewhat tired
and very hungry. I took out my crust and eyed it
with eager longing. But I would not eatit. Oh, no.
It was part of my stock in trade.

This was something like. I sat down on a rociand
almost cried with joy at my accumulation of sorrows.

The whistle of an approaching train told me that I
was near some rajlroad station, but as I had no in-
terest in trains, being absolutely without money, I
had no particular motive in approaching the station
building.

Nevertheless I did so, and almost at its door, I
picked up a small book of cards and tickets.
If it had been stuffed with bank-notes I should have
been disappointed at so early and uneventful a ter-
mination of my struggles, but as it was, Il was con-
tent and even glad.
The book was full of railroad passes.
It was like finding the flying carpet or the enchant-
ed horse in the Arabian Nights.
A train was in sight. Selecting a pass for Albany,
I waited the approach of the cars, and five minutes
later, the conductor had honored the little magic
card, and I was flying toward fortune at thirty miles
an hour.
If tae conductor had questioned me, I should have
told him the plain truth. I had determined to ride
to Boston and there find theowner of the passes, and
deliver them to him. This was to be my introduction
to the railroad magnate, who, I hoped, would start
me on my upward course.
I was dreadfully hungry when we came in sight of
Albany. I don’t know what I should have done, ex-
cept for a fortunate accident. A misplaced switch
derailed our train, and dumped it into a ditch. I
was the only persou injured. My leg was broken.
As I lay in the hospital, convalescing, [had time to
form elaborate plans for my future. My passes had
been claimed by the rightful owner, and the com-
pany declined to be responsible for my hurts, because
I had ridden on a pass, and that one, not my own.
But I was saved the discomfort of starvation, so I
counted the accident as the real beginning of my
good luck. : *
During my stay in the hospital I had been visited
several times by ayoung girl who brought books,flow-
ers, and dainties for the unfortunates. To her, in a mo-
ment of weakness, I one day disclosed myself, and
begged her advice.
She was not one to. advise, but next day she brought
her father, who, after questioning me closely, offered
me employment in his ship-yard near Boston.
This looked so like the career I had marked out,
that I immediately accepted, and for five years I
served for my Rachel; but I never won her.
It was perhaps best, too, for the man who married
her took her to the soft and summery Orient, to win
back the roses to her cheeks.

This I could not have done, and I was spared the
sorrow of mourning her loss. As it was, she grew

| strong and happy, and was always my good friend.

It was lucky for both of us.

In the course of years my benefactor died and
while I deplored his loss, I could not help seeing that
it was lucky forme. I had saved something while in
his employ, and in his will he left me a comfortable
sum.

With this money I established myself in the lumber
business, but not for long. [had not been going a
week when my lumber-yard was burned to. ashes,
and I had no insurance.

In one short hourT lost the savings of my long
years of toil. It was a crushing blow, but not with-
out its good results.

My loss set me to thinking, and I knew that had I
prospered I might never have seen again the home
that I had forsaken and the parents who, for aught I
knew, were mourning me as: dead.

Whatever tends to humanize a hardened heart is a
benefit.

Back I went to the pretty little city in search of my
family. Butthey were long since gone. My father
had returned to England; and there died; my brothers
were in India. But my mother might still be in
England, and the yearning to see her overcame all
other feelings. I determined to find her, and from
that moment made that object the sole purpose of
my life.

i had but little money, and it was soon exhausted.
For two years I again worked and saved, this time
with a definite object—to find my mother. And when
at last I learned that she was alive and in England,
I shipped as a common seaman on the Gulwave for
London. .

But unused as I was to that life, and being a better
theoretical than practical sailor, I fell ill, and when
the storm came which finally wrecked us, I was un-
able to leave my hammock. :

And when the crew, in their terror and despair,
‘took to their boats, believing that the ship was about
to sink, they could ‘not burden themselves at such a
time with my care.

Perhaps I should have lost my life had I been well
enough to fight for a chance in the boats. Perhaps
it was lucky that they left me. They may be far
worse off than I am a‘ this moment.

Life is sweet to even so forlorn a wretch as I, and
if you take me to England and I find my mother, I
shall count the shipwreck as so much good luck
at last. ;

Here some one gently told him the unpleasant
truth. The Nomadic was bound for New York, and
not for England.

This seemed to depress the castaway very greatly.

“T fear I shall not liye to return,’ he said, sadly.

to New York, and my mother was neyer strong or
robust. I shall never see her.”

A bystander essayed to cheer him. ,

; ‘You will soon be all right again,” he said, hope-
ully.

“Does that look like an arm to bring a man a for-
tune ?” asked the sick man, bitterly, baring his right
arm, emaciated and wasted and skeleton-like. ‘Do
you think it will ever bring me another dollar?’

The initial letters which his sentimental fancy had
prompted him to have tattooed on his wrist years
before, stood out bright and clear and assertive,
with their ornamental wreathing of red and blue in-
closing them.

A group clustered around him, idly curious, as
ship-bound people are, to see anything of even the
slightest interest. .

Mrs. Olmstead, dignified and impassive, happening
near, was stopped by Mrs. Farnsworth.

“Do come and look at this!” she chattered. “The
most painful sight! It will just delight you!”

“Suffering seldom delights me,” said Mrs. Olm-
stead, quietly; as the men, in polite deference to the
great lady, made way for her to pass closer to the
sick man. ‘‘Can I do nothing for you, sir?’ she con-
tinued, addressing him in gentle compassion.

But he made no reply. He. only blanched even
paler as he gazed intently on the aristocratic face
before him. He half rose from the steamer-chair,
his lips parted as if to speak, but no sound escaped
them.

And Mrs. Olmstead 2

As the letters “C. O.,” in their fanciful tracing of
red and blue, met her eyes, her hand went swiftly
to her side, as if to stay the too violent throbbing of
her heart.

“Tell me—tell me your name!” she gasped. And
clasping her hands in an agony of suspense, she bent
over the castaway.

He held out his arms—his poor, wasted arms,
through which the warm sunlight almost shone.

“You ought to know, mother,” he murmured. ‘You
named me.”

His great good luck had come at last. ‘ £

OF all education that which has for its object the
right fulfillment of parental duties would seem
among the mostimportant. Yet, as a general thing,
that relation is entered upon with only crude and
desultory ideas of the prineiples involved; and,
while intelligence and experience slowly bring a
measure of wisdom, it often comes too late for the
most pressing necessities.

 

 

Pleasant Paragraphs.

4

“JT shall be in no condition to go to work when I get}

A Too Bashful Lover.
He said “Good-night, love,” at the door,
My trembling fingers softly squeezing ;
I thought he might do something more—
But bashful lovers are so teasing.

My waist was near enough; in truth,

His coat-sleeve touched the belt that bound it;
I waited, but the foolish youth

Ne’er tried to put his arms around it.

I softly sighed, IT hung my head,
If ’twas encouragement he wanted,
I vowed it never should be said
That I was disinclined to.grant it.

He heeded not my gentle sighs,

My glances tender, supplicating;
The ninny! Did he not have eyes?

The thought of it is aggravating.
Responding when he pressed my hand,

I met his with an answering pressure;
The hint he did not understand—

My disappointment who can measure ?

I thought: Another in his place,
A lover more discerning, bolder,
Would have me fast in his embrace

Betore I was a minute older.

But why complain? In life it seems

We can’t have everything we wish for;
We seldom realize our dreams,

Or catch the kind of fish we fish for.

He merely kissed my finger tips.

I thought: How cold a parting this is;
To leave untouched two rosy lips

That never knew a lover’s kisses !

I’ll keep him for a month or so,
And then to jilt him find a reason ;
He’ll never make a summer beau—
In summer, muffs are out of season.

The Man in the Moon.

“T could gaze at the moon for hours, Mr. Sampson,”
she said, in a voice full of sweetness and pneumonia.
“T never tire of it.”

“Ah,” he responded, ‘‘would that I were the man
in it!”

“Yes,” she assented, softly.

“And why, Miss Clara?” he asked, getting ready to
take her hand.

“Because, Mr. Sampson,” she said, shyly vailing
her eyes with their long lashes, ‘you would be four
million miles away.”

Safe Whisky.

Sympathizing Friend—‘‘And so you have had an
attack of the D. Ty’s?”’

Victim (ruefully)—“‘I have, and I hope I'll never
have another.”

8S. F.—‘T’d advise you to drink nothing but Irish
whisky hereafter.”
V.— ‘What good would that do?’
S. F.—‘There are no snakes in Irish whisky, you
know.”

Deafness a Pleasure.

i “T am told, sir, that you are quite hard of hear-
ng.’

“Your information was correct; but what about
7 Q?9

“T can cure deafness in a month. and if I can’t
cure you I will charge nothing.”
“Why, I wouldn’t be cured for a thousand dollars.”
“You wouldn’t?) Why not?”
“My daughter plays the piano.”’

Had Cause to be Nervous.
Passenger (to conductor on Southern railroad)—
You oF nervous and excited,conductor. Anything
wrong
Conductor—Wrong? I should say so! I’ve made
a mistake, an’ if we don’t reach Shacknack switch in
tive minutes the trainis doomed. Talk about being
nervous; you would be nervous yourself if you were
in my place! Ticket, please.

An Effective Compliment.
The other day aman was walking slowly up Miami
avenue and encountered a man walking hurriedly
down. They ran into each other, both drew off and
apologized, and the one in a hurry added :
“T’ve been so mad all the morning I couldn’t see
straight.”
“Nothing serious, I hope.”
“Well, my wife had some photos taken and the
artist made a botch job. I’m now on my way to
puneh his head.”
“Can I see them ?”’
The were exhibited, and after a careful inspec-
tion the gentleman said :
‘My friend, you are way off. The work is well
done, and you ought to be proud of your wife’s
looks.”
“Do you mean it ?”’
“Certainly. There are not ten as handsome women
in Detroit.”
“Shoo !”’
“It’s a fact, and the workis thatof areal artist.
You should be more than satisfied.”

“Well, I declare! I guess I’ve been too hasty, and
T’ll drop the matter right here. Glad I didn’t punch
the photographer’s head.” {
“Yes, so am I,” said the other to himself as he
went his way.

It was the artist himself.

An Ingenious Alarm.

First Miner—‘‘ Great Mulligan! what’s Mike got
that candle stuck in his ear for ?”
Second Miner—‘Oh! How long ye been over?
That’s an alarm candle—see? Mike’s got to wake to
go on th’ four o’clock shift up in th’ shaft; candle
burns an ineh anhour. Mike’s made his calcula-
tions on it;
it’s four o’clock—see ?”

; An Enraged Musician.

An old colored musician was engaged to furnish
music at a country wedding which was to take place
a number of miles from his house. The old darkey,
with the box containing the fiddle under his arm, had
almost reached his destination, when he was over-
taken by his son, panting and blowing.

‘“Daddy—you has—done—forgot de—de bow—ter—
de fiddle.”

“Whar am it, niggah ?”

“At home, ob course.” :

The trip back, however, was made in very good
time, as the exasperated old negro chased the boy
the whole distance, hitting an occasional whack at
him with his, cane.

The Letters that Never Came.

The first issue of a western paper contains the fol-
lowing unique apology :
| We begin the publication of the Roecay Mountain
| Oyclone with somo phew diphiculties in the way.
The type phounders phrom whom we bought our out-
phit phor this orphice phailed to supply us with any
ephs or cays, and it will be phour or phive weex be-
phore we can get any. The mistaque was not phound
out till a day or two ago. We have ordered the mis-
sing letters, and will have.to get along without them
till they come, We don’t lique the loox ov this vari-
ety ov spelling any better than our readers, but mis-
taix will happen in the best regulated phamilies, and
if the ph’s and c’s and x’s and q’s hold out, we shall
ceep (Sound the ¢ hard) the Cyclone whirling, aphter
a phashion, till the sorts arrive. Itis no joque to us
—it’s a serious aphair.

Beyond Belief.

‘Omaha Man—‘Isee by the papers that. a Chicago
policeman has gone crazy because the girlhe wanted
wouldn’t hayé him.” : 3

Police Captain—‘Guess there must be some mistake
about that.” : :

O. M.---*‘Didn’t you ever hear of a policeman going
crazy?”

P, C.—*“I never heard of a girl refusing a policeman.”

A Spoiled Hat.

A Boston lady was informed by her servant-girl
that a box of flowers had been left at the door for
her. Being occupied at the time, the lady told the
servant to open the box, sprinkle the flowers with
water, and put them on the ice, adding, that she
would attend to them when she went down to tea.
The box really contained a new spring hat, which
had been ordered, but, was forgotten at the time the
servant reported the arrival. Only the flowers were
to be seen when the box was opened. The servant
followed her orders explicitly, and the flowers were
so thoroughly drenched, that from a ‘‘perfect love of
a hat,” it became a limp and worthless mass of dis-
colored ribbons and straw.

A Starving Man’s Request.

Tramp (to woman)—“Can you give me something
to eat, madam ?”’ :

Woman—‘‘Naw; there ain’t a thing in the house;
an’, besides, I’ve got a couple of letters to write an’
no time to bother.”

Tramp (pleadingly)—‘‘Madam, let me lick the
stamps. I can’t starve.”

A Farmer’s Protector.

Noted Electrician—‘“I see you still have that old
notion that a lightning rod is a protection.”

Nebraska Farmer—‘‘I have.”

“Well, of course, you don’t keep up with the electri-
cal progress of the age, and can’t be expected——”

“T take half a dozen newspapers and three maga-
zines, including the Flectrical Review, sir.”

“You do! -Well, well! Now, sir, if that is the case,
will you be kind enough to tell me what you think a
lightning rod on your house protects you from ?”

“Lightning rod agents.”

A Toper’s Trick.

“A neat trick was played upon me by an old toper,
the other day,’ remarked a Buffalo saloon-keeper.
“The toper brought in a black bottle and asked for
fifty cents worth of whisky. I drew it, and clung to
the bottle while he went through his pockets after
the silver. Presently he put on a look of dismay, and
said he had lost the money. ‘Ali right,’ says I, and
turned out the whisky and put the bottle on the bar.
He took it and went away, saying he’d be back after

 

w’en th’ candle burns down to his ear |

the inebriator presently. He didn’t come back, how-
ever, but five minutes later I found him sitting ona
horse-block around the corner, poking something
into the bottle with a stick, and after every poke
turn out a thimbleful of whisky into a cup. I seized
the bottle and made an investigation. What do you
think I found? Why, the old rascal had forced a
sponge as big as my clenched fist into it, and this
had soaked up a glassful of my whisky when I filled
the bottle.”

.
Humorous Brevities.

A waistcoat of some pronounced plaid is recom-
mended for a heavy eater. It enables him to keep a
check on his stomach.

Near-sighted hens are not so bad after all. Jones
says he had one once that ate a quart of sawdust,
supposing it was meal, and then went off and laid
a nestful of bureau knobs. But Jones is near-sighted
himself.

She (at the theater)—‘‘What a long, stagy stride Mr.
Ham, the tragedian, has.” He—‘‘Yes; I under-
stand he has acquired that gait by traveling on every
other tie.”

“This is very strange,’ remarked Billy Bliven,
thoughtfully, after he had tasted the contents of his
butter dish. ‘Very strange, indeed.” ‘What is
strange?” “That such delicate, pale butter should
turn out to be so robust.”

“George,” she whispered, “what was that you asked
for?” ‘‘Noodle soup, dear.” “But, George, isn’t it
ay eee like cannibalism for you to eat such food
as that?’

A New York physician says that the guillotine is
the most comfortable death. Every doctor should
have one one in his office, and thereby save his pa-
tients much suffering.

Mrs. Riley—‘“‘Are yez on calling turms wid our
neighbor?” Mrs. Murphy—‘“‘Ave coorse I am. She
called me a thafe, an’ I called her another.”

Don’t you believe the milk I sell you is pure?”
asked a milkman of a customer who complained that
the lacteal fluid looked rather blue. ‘‘I won't tell you
what I believe,” replied the customer, “but I know
vour milk makes my mouth water.”

Newly arrived emigrant—‘But fwhat good do I git
out av it, if I jointhe Milaysian Mutual Binifit and
Protective Association?’ Acclimated Milesian—
“We bury a mimber ivery Soonday, an’ it’s a beauti-
ful drive to the cimetary.”

a
—-

The Ladies’

Edited by

WevksBa,

Mrs. Helen Wood.

“Minnie,” Brooklyn, E. D.—When first putting on
gloves, have the hands perfectly clean, dry, and cool, and
never put on new gloves when the hands are warm or
damp ; when a person is troubled with moist hands, it is
well to powder them before trying on the gloves, though
in most cases this is not necessary. First, work on the
fingers, keeping the thumb outside of the glove, and the
wrist of the glove turned back. When the fingers are all
in smoothly, put in the thumb, and work the glove on
very carefully, and then, placing the elbow on the knee,
work on the hand. When this is done, smooth down the
wrist, and button the second button first, then the third,
and so on to the end; then smooth down the whole glove

and fasten the first button. Fastening the first button
last, when putting on a glove for the first time, makes
quite a difference in the fit, although it may seem a
trifling matter. When removing gloves, never begin at
the tips of the fingers to pull them off, but turn back the
wrist and pull off carefully, which will necessitate their
being turned wrong-side out. When off, turn them right-
side out, turn the thumb in, smooth them out lengthwise,
in as near as possible the shape they would be in if on the
hands, and place away with a strip of white canton flan-
nel between, if the gloves are light colored, though if
they are dark. this is not necessary. Never roll them
into each other in a wad, as the moisture in them from
the hands will cause them to become stiff and Wriakled.

“Emma,” Syracuse, N. Y.—Greek draperies are now
the rage, and thus the folds of bodices and skirts are
made long and deep, in soft woolen fabrics. A beautiful
model has a stone-colored woolen skirt, laid in fine ac-
eordion plaits, which, as they are not fastened, open and
close gracefully with the movement of walking. Over
this is an overdress of light woolen goods, arranged in

irregular deep folds on one side, caught up high on the
other, and so draped in the back as to form a long, hang-
ing monk’s hood. The belted corsage is made entirely of
folds, which are taken in at the shoulders, crossed trans-
versely over the chest down to the waist. and there taken
into a wide folded Greek belt. The portion left bare
around the neck and chest by these folds, is filed in with
achemisette of old silver embroideries, while there is a
dcuble sieeve to this dress; one of stone-color, made tight-
fitting to the arm, with tight cuff of silver embroideries,
ona another made of wool, flowing and ending at the
elbow.

“Mrs. Mary L.”—One of the newest designs for dinner-
table decorations consists of three large horse-shoes, in
‘tin, placed together in the center of the table, the toes
almost touching, and slightly raised so as to slope down-
ward to the open ends. In filling them with flowers,
those of a small and compact nature should be chosen, as

they are least likely to destroy the outline of the horse- |
shoe. Parma violets and Guelder roses, with ferns look
well, while a mass of daffodils is pretty and: spring-like,
and deep-scarlet geraniums, just relieved by their own
white-edged foliage, will be found wonderfully effective. |
Two horse-shoes are placed at each end of the, table,
while as many small ones as are required are scattered
about. Croton leaves are much used, and are beautiful |
in their endless variety of shape and color. They are
simply laid on the table, and from their pointed nature
are graceful in almost any position.

 

}
}
|
}

“Percy,” Camden, N. J—A business man may wear a |
cutaway suit made from one piece of cloth; or a dark cut-
away or Prince Albert coat, with trousers in fancy figures
of plaids, stripes, checks, or mixtures The dark coat
may be of heavily-ribbed material, diagonal, or rougher
goods, and may be black, blue, or of any dark shade, while

the vest may match the coat, or it can be of more fancy
designs, blue, maroon, or other colored grounds, dashed
with small figures in contrasting hues. The walkin
overcoat is made of light-colored venetians, or dar
cheviots, cut single-breasted, fly fronts, plain edges, and
smooth fronts. Something between a dress and business
coat for gentlemen is the three-button, one piece cut-
away, with patch breast-pockets and side flaps. Cheviots
are used for these coats, while all other business suits are
| made sack fashion. .

 

 

 

| “Nellie W.’—Ist. Flowers are worn in the hair ‘with
full-dress toilets. 2d. Large hats, like the Gainsborough,
| but with comparatively low crowns, and wide front
| brims shading the eyes, are heavily trimmed with large
| ostrich tips and lace, and will be popular for carriage
| wear at the watering-places; while for sea-side resorts,
| where feathers are hopelessly injured by the damp air,
| large clusters of crushed roses and other flowers, vailed
| by lace, will constitute the garnitures.

“Ettie B.,” Brooklyn, N. Y.—Walking dresses are made
| in various styles, each person selecting that which suits

 

words waz put into the dikshionary for those giants
in knolledge tew use who hay tew load a kannon
klean up tew the muzzell with powder and ball when
they go out tew hunt ants.

But i don’t intend this essa for laffing in the lump,
but for laffing on the half-shell. -

Lafling iz just az natral tew cum tew the surface
oe arat iztew cum out ov. hiz hole when he wants

ew.

Yu kant keep it back by swallowing, enny more
than yu kan the heekups.

It aman kan’t laff there iz sum mistake made in

putting him together, and if he won’t laff he wants
az ee keeping away from az a bear-trap when it
iz sot.
_ I have seen people who laffed altogether too mutch
for their own good or for ennyboddy else’s; they
laffed like a barrell ov nu sider with the tap pulled
out, a perfekt stream.

This iz a grate waste ov natral juice.

I have seen other people who didn’t laff enuff tew
giv themselfs vent; they waz like a barrell ov nu
sider, too, that waz bunged up tite—apt tew start a
hoop and leak all away on the sly.

Thare ain’t neither ov these 2 ways right, and they
never ought tew be pattented.

Sum pholks hav got what iz called a hoss-laff,
about haff way between a growl and a bellow, just
az a hoss duz when he feels hiz oats, and don’t
exackly kno what ails him. ;

Theze pholks don’t enjoy a laff enny more than the
a: duz hiz vittles who swallows hiz pertatoze
whole. .

A laff, tew- be nourishsome, wants tew be well
chewed. -

Thare iz another kind ov a laff which I never did
enjoy— one loud busst, and then everything iz az still
aza lager beer barrell afterit haz blowed up and
slung 2 or 3 gallons ov beer around loose.

Thare iz another laff whitch I hav annalized; it
cums out ov the mouth with a noize like a pig makes
when he izin a tite spot—one sharp squeal and two
snikkers, and then dies in a simper.

This kind ov a laff iz larnt at femail boarding-
skools, and don’t mean ennything; it iz nothing
more than the skin oy a laff.

Genuine laffing iz the vent of the soul, the nostrils
of the heart, and iz just az necessary for helth and
happiness az spring water iz for a trout.

Thare iz one kind ov a laff that I always did rekom-
mend; it looks out of the eye fust with a merry
twinkle ; then it kreeps down on its hands and kneze
and plays around the mouth like a pretty moth
around the blaze ov a kandle; then it steals over into
the dimples oy the cheeks and rides around in thoze
little whirlpools for a while; then it lites up the
whole face like the mello bloom on a damask roze;
then it swims oph on the air with a peal az clear and
az happy as a dinner-bell; then it goes bak agin on
golden tiptoze like an angel out for an airing, and
laze down on its little bed ov violets in the heart,
whare it cums from.

Thare iz another laff that noboddy can withstand ;
it iz just az honest and noizy az a distrikt skool let
out tew play; it shakes aman up from hiz toze tew
hiz temples ; it dubbles and twists him like a whiskee
phit; it lifts him up oph from his cheer, like feathers,
and lets him bak agin like meltedled; it goes all
thru him like a pikpocket, and finally leaves him az
weak and az krazy az tho he had bin soaking all day
in a Rushing bath and forgot tew be took out.

This kind oy a laff belongs tew jolly good phellows

 

| of a house.

 

| her figure best. The full bodice, with deep round belt is
becoming to slight figures only, but the peaked bodice is
quite as fashionable, while finely plaited fronts, crossed
at the waist, are becoming to figures inclining to embon-
point. Summer dresses will be made with bodices open-
ing into a point, over a narrow peaked chemisette of
plaited white crape or cambric.

“Miss Effie H.”—1st. The short wrap, so artistically
formed of lace, jet, velvet, and passementeries, is still
considered the most elegant garment by fashionable wo-
men, though the jacket is still popular, and is made very
close-fitting, buttoned up to the neck, and elaborately
trimmed with brandebourghs, braiding, and plain gal-
loons. 2d. We can furnish a book containing the desired
information, entitled the ‘‘Baker’s Manual,” tor fifty
cents.

“Ellie W.”—“‘Gems of Dance Music,” containing [selec-
tions from the works of favorite composers, and arranged
for piano or organ, will cost sixty cents, and the “Manual
of Needlework” will be fifty cents.

“Miss Laura.”—The price of the short rubber gloves is
$1,25, and the long ones $1,50, on receipt of which the NEW
YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will mail them.

“C. E. H.,” Washington, D. C.—We will furnish a book
of ‘Fancy Costumes” for fifty cents.

LAFFING.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

Anatomikally konsidered, laffing iz the sensashun
ov pheeling good all over, and showing it principally
in one spot.

Morally konsidered, itiz the next best thing tew
the 10 commandments.

Philosophikally konsidered, it beats Herrick’s pills
3 pills in the game.

Theoretikally konsidered, it kan out-argy all the
logik in existence.

Analitikally konsidered, ennv part ov itiz equal
tew the whole.

Konstitushionally konsidered, it iz vittles and sum-
thing tew drink,

Multifariously konsidered, it iz just as different
from ennything else az it iz from itself.

Pnumatically konsidered, it haz a good deal ov es-
sence and sum boddy.

Pyroteknikally konsidered, it iz the fire-works ov
the soul. .

Syllogestikally konsidered, the konklusions allwuss
follows the premises.

Spontaneously konsidered, it iz az natral and re-
freshing az a spring bi the road-side.

Phosphorescently konsidered, it lights up like a
globe lantern.

Exsudashiously konsidered, it has all the dissolvy-
ing propertys ov a hot whiskee puntch.

But this iz too big talk for me; these flatulent

 

who are as helthy az quakers, and who are az eazy
tew pleaze az a gall whoiz going to be married to-
morrow.

In konclusion, i say laff every good chance yu kan
git, but don’t laff unless you feal like it; for there
ain’t nothing in this world more harty than a good,
honest laff, nor nothing more hollow than a hartless
one.

When yu do laff open yure mouth wide enuff forthe
noize tew git out without squealing, thro yure hed
bak az tho yu waz going tew be shaved, hold on tew
yure false hair with both hands, and then laff till
yure soul gets thoroly rested.

Items of Interest,

Much amazement was caused, about a fortnight
ago, in Liverpool, by the discovery of the dead body of a
man on the top of a street car. No clew to his identity
was found on his person, but he had with him two carrier
pigeons. Tooneof these an officer attached a piece. of
paper with the words, “Come to the detective office at
once,” and the bird was set at liberty. In half an houra
man arrived at the detective office, and stated that the
deceased was his father, and had been very unwell. He
had gone out for exercise, and to fly the pigeons.

Mabel Smith, a nine-year- old little girl, was blown
off from a fast train on the New Orleans and North-
eastern Railway, while she was passing from one car to
another. The engineer of the next train, which came
along twenty minutes later, saw something that looked
like a child lying on a clump of blackberry briers. He
whistled “down brakes,” brought the train to a stand-
still, and, running back, found Miss Mabel lying in the
briers, badly scared, and badly seratched, but otherwise
none the worse for her remarkable adventure.

The following is a very good test as to the dryness
Weigh a small quantity of fresh lime, and
place it in a dish in the center of the room to be tested.
Then close the windows and doors, and leave it for
twenty-four hours. At the expiration of that time weigh
the lime again, and, if the increase of weight exceeds one
per cent. on the original weight, the room would be dan-
gerous toinhabit. It is perhaps needless to add that the
experiment would be vitiated by damp or foggy weather.

A curious accident happened to a package of money
in the overcoat pocket of Manager Brown, of the rolling
mill at Findlay, Ohio. There were $500 in the roll of bills,
and as he walked up the railroad track a spark froma
locomotive dropped into his pocket. When he discovered
it the fire had eaten clear through the center of the bills,
leaving only the two ends of each billunharmed. There
was just enough left to enable him to have the money re-
deemed by the Treasury,

Perhaps the oldest married couple in the country
are Mr. and Mrs. M. B. Merrill, of Crawford County, Pa.
They were married in 1813, and at the seventy-fifth anni-
versary of their wedding, lately celebrated, had fifteen
children, ninety-four grandchildren, and thirty-five great-
grandchildren present. There has never been a death in
the family. Mrs. Merrill is ninety years old, and her hus-
band ninety-seven, and they are both remarkably well
preserved. ,

A vast scheme, of interest to sportsmen, has been
suggested by some Georgia capitalists. They propose to
convert about 3,000 acres of land in Twiggs County into a
national hunting ground. The entire tract is to be fenced,
and stocked with deer, turkeys, partridges, rabbits, ’pos-
sums, and coons, and made the great hunting park of the
United States. A hotel and club-house are to be erected
in the park.

A strange occurrence was witnessed some days
ago, during a thunder-storm at Milledgeville,Ga. Imme-
diately after a heavy peal of thunder, a big frog came
down with the rainand struck the sidewalk with a thud.
It lay motionless for a moment, then flopped over on its
feet, and then, with mighty bounds, jumped into a store
and upon the show cases, greatly frightening several wo-
men there.

Electricity, if seems, can be utilized to turn gray
hair to its natural color, It is asserted that an overseer
in one of the mills in Biddeford, Me., in the course of his
regular duties, is exposed to a strong electrical current,
generated by the large belts in rapid motion near by.
The electrical conditions are such as to have caused his
fine head of iron gray to change toa beautiful bay.

A snoring canary bird is owned by Miss Almeda
Taft, of Sadorus, Ill, and it is the wonder of the town.
Its peculiarity was unexpectedly discovered one morn-
ing, when its snores aroused the household. The bird
being awakened, the noise instantly ceased. Now the
folks stay up at night, just to hear that bird snore,

An old bachelor in Paris esteemed his housemaid
so highly that when a young man asked permission to
marry her, he attempted to kill her. Becoming penitent,
he agreed to the marriage, and the next morning was
found hanging dead. He had written a few lines to say
that he could not live without his servant.

Watch dials are now made by photography ata
mere fraction of their former cost. They all used to be
painted by hand. Now a hundred are made in the time
formerly required to produce one, and each of the hun-
dred is better than the one would have been.

An egg-eating contest took place, a few days ago,
at Ansonia, Conn., ‘between, Michael Beegan and James
Brennan. The latter gave up after swallowing twenty-
four raw eggs; but Beegan continued until he had eaten
fifty-three.

A huge lemon was recently picked from a tree in Los
Angeles, Cal. It was 6% inches long, 5 inches in diame-
ter, and weighed 6% pounds.

When an inferior “star” appears before a Montana
audience, they unanimously shout that much-abused title
spelled backward.

It has been remarked that tramps with bald heads

 

are very scarce. j