aming, Bertha M Clay, Duncan McGregor, Francis A. Durivaeg, and Mrs. Georgie Sheldon, Now Running.

+

nnn}
ae

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year

usePul

 

1390. Oy Sireer & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. 0.

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

 

Vol. 46.

THE BIRD’S COMPLAINT.

 

 

BY FRANCIS 8S. SMITH,

Sing to me, birdie sweet, sing me a song,

Dejected and silent you’ve been the day long;

And I am solonely with nothing to do,

It seems that I haven’t a friend left but you.

Then warble thy gayest and liveliest strain,

And lift from my sad heart this dolorous pain;
Arouse from thy stupor—cease pluming thy wing—
And pour forth thy melody—sing, birdie, sing!

**T’d sing for thee, lady,” the birdie replied,

As he in deep sorrow his young mistress eyed,

“Tf I had the strength to perform, but you see

The servant you trusted to wait upon me

Has forgotten me quite; and your kind help I need;
For two days I’ve had neither water nor seed.

Now since, gentle mistress, you’ve nothing to do,
Please wait upon me and I’ll warble for you.

*“Whene’er you go out I am left alone here;
I’ve no one to speak to me, no one to cheer;
I’m a prisoner, too, and can’t help myself,
Though the seed I so crave is just there on the shelf.
For generous food and pure water I pine,

Sweet mistress, oh, what are thy troubles to mine?
And yet you expect me to welcome you home
With an outburst of music whenever you come.

”

I don’t mean to say that speech came from the bird,
But reproof may be given by look as by word;

And the tender maid read in her pet’s look a sermon,
And she flew to the seed-cup the truth to determine.
"Twas empty—the small water-cup too was dry,
And a pang smote her heart, and a tear filled her eye,
As she cried, with compassion, ‘You poor little elf,
Hereafter I'll always wait on you myself.”

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

 

 

 

>
?

STER ANGELA

W7edded by FE'ate.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of “‘His Heart’s Queen,” ‘‘Max,” “Sibyl’s
Influence,” ‘‘Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘The
Forsaken Bride,” etc..

CHAPTER I.
A MYSTERIOUS APPLICANT.

One dismal day in November—a day when the sky
was dull and leaden, when the wind sighed and
moaned with exceeding mournfulness, and a fine,
cold rain that was almost sleet was falling, a young
girl, clad in a long, dark ulster,a brown felt hat
upon her head, her face concealed by a thick vail,
entered the reception office of the City Hospital in
Boston, Massachusetts.

Going directly to the clerk, who sat within a little
box-office, she asked:

“Can I see the superintendent?”

The woman eyed her curiously for a moment, then
eurtly replied:

“This isn’t visitors’ day,
to see any friend, calling
won’t do you any good,
rules.”

miss,and if you’ve come
upon the superintendent
for we never break our

Office 31 Rose St.
P.O. Box 2734, N.Y.

 

“JT have no friends here; I have not come to visit
any one; I simply desire to see the superintendent
upon 4 matter of business,” the young girl quietly
returned, but with a certain dignity which appeared |
to impress the clerk, for she at once rang the bell, |
and then bent again over the book in which she had
been writing when the stranger entered.

Presently a man appeared.

“What’s wanted ?” he briefly asked.

“Is the superintendent in his office ?’ the clerk in-
quired, without lifting her eyes from her book.

“Yes.”

|

Set there’s a lady here who wishes to see
m.”

The man retreated, after shooting an inquisitive
glance at the visitor, was absent about five minutes,
when he reappeared, and, by a sign, indicated that
the girl was to follow him.

She arose at once and left the room with him.

Passing through a narrow hall, her guide at length
opened a door on his left and told his companion to
enter.

She did so, but finding the room empty, she turned
an inquiring glance upon the man.

“The superintendent’s in his office with one of the
directors, but he’ll be out presently,” he said, then
vanished, closing the door after him.

The girl sat upon a chair neara window, turning
her vail back from her face, a heavy sigh escaping |
her as she did so.

The act disclosed a pale, but strikingly beautiful |
countenance. The features were perfect, clear-cut, |
and with the imprint of the patrician plainly stamped |
upon them.
The brow was rather low, but full and beautifully |

|
|

 

shaped, and crowned by waving black hair, as fine
and glossy as silk. A pair of great jet-black eyes
were shaded by long curling lashes. The nose was |
small and straight, the cheeks delicately rounded,
the mouth a marvel of loveliness and sweetness, while |
the prettily rounded chin had a charming little
dimple at its base.

Her complexion was strangely fair for one who
had such dark hair and eyes, and this «fairness was |
enhanced by the vivid scarlet of her lips and the
utter absence of color in her cheeks.

There was an expression of sadness in her eyes,
and every now and then a quiver of pain swept over |
her red lips and found vent in a deep sigh, which
plainly betrayed that she had some secret anxiety or
trouble on her mind.

She was rather slightly formed and delicate in ap-

pearance, yet there was a strength and vigor in her }

movements, despite the air of depression that per-
vaded her attitude.

Presently a door, opposite the one by which she
had entered, opened, and a tall, rather awkward-ap-
pearing man came into the rgom.

He eyed his visitor with a kcen glance. as he bowed
courteously to her, and then stood waiting for her to
state her business,

She arose as he came forward and, extending a slip
of printed paper toward him, remarked :

“F have come to you, sir, in reply to this advertise-
ment for nurses.”

The man regarded her with surprise at this an-
nouncement.

Her every tone, and word, and gesture, betrayed
culture and refinement—that she had been delicately
and eyen aristocraticaliy reared and, although ad-
verse circumstances might have driven her to the ne-
cessity of working for her own support, he wondered

| ing,

 

 

New York, November 1, 1890.

 

 

 

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

 

 

mt

 

 

a
FF naa

a a aa
ac

aif
See see” amen 5

Sa BY

“YOU ARE A NOBLE GIRL,” CRIED THE DOCTOR,, AS HE USHERED HER INTO THE ROOM.

that she should have chosen the laborious avocation

of a common nurse,

‘‘Have you had any experience in nursing ?” he in- |

quired, as he took the slip from her and ran his eye
over it.

‘Yes, sir, although I have never been regularly
trained in that line. I had a—a friend’—her voice |
faltered slightly over the word—‘‘who was an in-
valid for several years, and so I have had a great
deal of experience in the sick-room.”

“Hum—how old are you?” asked the superintend- |

ent, glancing sharply at the beautiful face of his
companion, and thinking that she seemed very

young for one who professed to know so much re- |

garding the care of invalids,

A delicate flush arose for a moment to her cheek,
as if she felt the touch of irony in his question; but |
she replied, with the utmost self-possession :

“Twenty-one last month. I would like very much,
sir, to become a trained nurse, and that is why I |}
have applied to you to-day.”

“You are slightly built—you do not look very
strong, and I do not need to tell you that it takes a |
robust constitution to endure the hardships of nurs-
” the man returned, as he regarded her curi-
ously.

The girl straighténed her lithe form, with a move- |
ment that was replete with energy.

“T know that I do not have the appearance of |

| being very strong, but I am,’ she said, positively. |

“T have had long and thorough training in physical |
culture—I continue the practice of the various exer- |
cises daily, and my muscle and sinews are strong |
and flexible as steel.”

As she concluded she threw out her right arm with
amovement which showed that there was great la- |
oa strength init for one apparently so delicately
uilt.

“You are quite pale too—you do not look very |

well,” continued her companion, without appearing
to heed her statements.

“Tam naturally pale—itis a complexion that I in-
herit; but I am never ill,” she quietly responded.

The superintendent bent his head in thought a mo- |

ment.

He knew that there was, in some instances, more |
of endurance in a person of her physique, than in |

more robust-looking people, and they frequently
made better nurses,

tained manner of the young girl, and a certain re-

| serve force which had made itself apparent from the

moment when she had first spoken, and he felt in-

| clined to give her a trial.

“We are in great need of nurses at present,’ he
said at length, ‘‘and I think I will take you on pro
bation as the Methodists say—that is if you can
come and begin your duties immediately.”

*T can come at.once—I can remain now if you like,
since I am entirely at liberty, and I can send for my
trunk by an express messenger,’’ she answered with
an under-current of eagerness that was somewhat
at variance with her previous calmness and self-pos-
session.

“Very well. I would like you to remain.
home—are your friends in this city ?”

“No, sir,’ was the brief reply.

Again the man glanced sharply at her. A certain
sadness that seemed to pervade her, together with
the quiet dignity and self-possession of her bearing,
somehow moved him strangely, while it was evident
from the brevity of her last reply that she intended
to guard her previous history from all inquisitive-
ness.

“Your name, if you please ?’ he asked, seating him-
self at his desk, aud opening a book that lay upon it,
although his eyes never left the applicant’s fair face.

Is your

| suspended above the next line, he continued:

| obscurity as possible.

| he observed in
| who are admitted here

| —obliged to provide for my daily necessities. I came

| is above criticisin ;” this with a proud uplifting of

| and if such proof is necessary, [ can only give it to
} you by my
He was greatly prepossessed by the quiet, self-con- !

 

Again a slight flush leaped to her cheek at this
question, and she hesitated an instant before reply-
ing; then she said, quietly:

“Salome Howland.”

The superintendent wrote the name, together with
her age, in his register, though a queer little smile
played over his lips the while; then with his pen

“Your birthplace, if you please, and present place
of residence ?”

“T was born upon the Atlantic Ocean. My present
place of residence is—-Boston,” she answered, with-
out changing a muscle of her countenance.

Clearly she intended to keep heridentity in as much

Again that peculiar smile curved her companion’s
lips, and it was with no little eagerness and curiosity
that he put his next question, for he was becoming
deeply interested in this fair stranger.

“You, of course, have the necessary references ?”’
a matter of fact tone. ‘‘All nurses
are required to be well re-
commended.”

Now a vivid flash of color leaped to the brow of
the girl, and he could see that her delicate under lip
quivered painfully, while there was a moment of
ominous silence.

Then she turned and confronted him squarely, and
lifted her beautiful face appealingly to him, meeting
his glance with her great black eyes frankly and un-
flinchingly.

‘‘That is the one weak point in my application, sir,”
she said. “I have no reference—no recommendation
to give you. [am alonein the world, and friendless

to you from the death-bed of the only relative I had
in the world.” She caught her breath with a little
sob at this, and the man’s heart was touched, “and
what I have told you about my abilities as a nurse is
strictly true. My personal character, I assure you,

her small head that carried conviction with it, and
proved to her companion that she was no ordinary
person, and would scorn to do anything that would
serve to lower her in the estimation of others, or the
esteem of herself; “but,” she added, ‘I have
only my own word to prove all this to you

daily deportment, during my term of
‘probation.’ ”
It was a little out of order fot him to receive a

OF LOVE! &

Ti

mi

NS
\\Y fj & .
ii}! i
Had
(a ml

J

3 : } ait
‘* THERE IS

superintendent was almost dazzling in its brilliancy,
and revealed two rows of the whitest and most per-
fect teeth that he had ever seen.

“TI hope she isn’t a coquette,”’ he mused, with some
anxiety, as he, for the first time, realized the full
power of her beauty; “for if she is, she'll be turning
the heads of the male nurses and young doctors and
make no end of mischief for us.”

But it was too late to retract now, and, after
settling a few more preliminaries and assigning her
to the ward wherein she was to serve, he arose and
told her to follow him.

He led her from the office building, through the
spacious grounds of the hospital, to the main en-
trance, and thence to a ward in alarge wing. Then
calling the head nurse of that department, he intro-
duced the novitiate and stated that she was pre-
pared to enter upon her duties immediately.

cs * * x *

Salome Howland’s month of probation passed rap-
idly, and during that time, the fair girl endeared
herself to every one with whom she came in contact.
The head nurse of the ward spoke in the highest
praise of her.

She had never before had any novice, she said, so
efficient—no one so intelligent or so thoroughly in-
terested and enthusiastic in her work; while the
patients whom she attended grew to love the very
sound of her footstep. There was no one so gentle,
so patient and sympathetic as Miss Howland, they
affirmed—no one who had so bright a smile, such
cheery, comforting words for those who were suf-
fering and depressed; no one whose touch was so
tender and soothing, whose voice was so musically
modulated, whose steps were so light, whose service
so willing.

“T am glad that you like her, and that she proves
so efficient,” the superintendent remarked when, at
the end of the allotted month, he sought the head
nurse to ascertain if she was giving satisfaction. ‘‘I
should have been sorry to have sent her away, for
she seemed anxious to become a trained nurse and,
somehow, I feel deeply interested in her.”

“She is a treasure! She throws her whole heart
and soul into her work; if it will only last,” the head
nurse added, with a sigh, as if she feared it would
not.

“Do you think she is quite well ?—she looks so pale,
while she is not nearly so robust in appearance as
most of the nurses,” the superintendent remarked,
as his glance followed the movements of the fair

 

nurse. under such circumstances; but the more he
saw of her the more interested in her he became, and
his curiosity to see and know more of her was clk
cited.

Then, too, there was a certain ward in the hospital
that was sorely in need of nurses. He saw that she
was intelligent, cool, and clear-headed, with more
than ordinary reserve force and self-possession, and
feeling confident that she was all she represented
herself to be—though he had some doubt that she
had given her real name—he determined to waive
the strict letter of requirement, for once, and engage
her without inquiry.

He completed the entry in his register, and then
told her that she might consider herself as engaged
for a month, upon trial; after which she could be
booked, if she gave satisfaction, to become a regular
nurse.

An expression of infinite relief swept over her face
at this information—a look which seemed to betray
a@ sense of rest and security, as if she suddenly felt
that a safeguard from dreaded danger had been
thrown around her.

Her magnificent eyes lighted; more of energy and
animation than she had yet shown took possession
of her, while the smile with which she thanked the

 

girl, who, in her pretty white cap and apron, seemed
even more dainty and delicate than when he had
first seen her, in her felt hat and ulster, in his office.

She was moving lightly about the ward, with a
free, elastic, but noiseless step, distributing the flow-
ers that were sent up every day from the conserva-
tories for the patients, and he did not fail to notice
how every face brightened at her approach, and how
fondly the glanee of every one lingered upon her;
and surely, he thought, she was a goodly sight for |
any one to look upon.

“She seems to be perfectly well and strong,” the
nurse responded. ‘I am surprised at times to see
how strong sheis. She looks delicate, I admit; but

 

her powers of endurance are wonderful, and she can
manage with as little sleep as any one I ever saw.
She is remarkably intelligent and practical too, both
regarding her own bealth and the treatment of the
patients. She obeys rigidly the rules for physical |
culture, is regular as a clock about taking her meals, |
and her rest. Most of the nurses complain that they |
do not get sleep and rest enough and are often dull |
and stupid upon being called to their duties. But |
Miss Howland is always bright and fresh as a daisy.
She says itis because she never allows herself to talk |
or worry upon retiring, but wills herself to sleep im- |

 

THE MAN WHO NEEDS YOUR BLOOD!”

mediately. I believe her only thought or aim is,
how best to fit herself for her work and I predict
that she will make an invaluable nurse, if——”

“Tf what?’ inquired the superintendent, with some
curiosity, as the woman abruptly ceased.

“If some one doesn’t find her out, marry her, and
take her away from us,” responded the nurse, some-
what shortly, adding ‘‘she’s far too bright and pretty,
let alone her goodness, not to be appreciated and
captured by somebody. The young doctors all make
eyes at her, butshe never sees them—or pretends she
doesn’ t.”’

“Modest—eh !” laughed her companion, while he
also might almost have been accused of ‘‘making
eyes” at the pretty face that he was watching so in-
tently.

“Yes, almost to prudishness; but wait—the right
one will come along one of these days, then puff!
away she’ll go, like a bit of thistle down upon the
wings of the wind; it’s the way with all such
“treasures !”’

The superintendent gave vent to a little laugh of
amusement at the woman’s quaint prophecy.

*“T am glad you like her so well,’ he said, and then
went his way to other duties while Salome Howland
was, for the time at least, forgotten,

CHAPTER II.
A NARROW ESCAPE AND A WONDERFUL
EXPERIMENT.

It was the third day of January. A fearful storm
had been raging for two days, and now the weather
was growing intensely cold.

It was late in the evening when a young man
arrived at one of the first-class hotels of Boston and
registered as Truman H. Winthrop, M. D., New York
city.

He was apparently about twenty-five years of age,
and he was a tall, massively formed fellow, yet so
finely proportioned that he did not really seem so
powerful ashe was. A fine brow, surmounted by a
wealth of curling brown hair crowned a keen, clear-
cut and intelligent face. A pair of deep blue eyes
gleamed with a kindly light, yet seemed to take in,
with swift-comprehensive glances, everything going
on about him ; while about the sensitive mouth there
lingered an expression of sweetness, which betokened.
a tender heart and warm sympathies, though the
somewhat heavy chin betrayed an under-current of
great strength and firmness of character.

“Can yougive me a comfortable room,” he inquired
of the clerk, after he had entered his name upon the
hotel register.

“We are very full to-night,” was the answer, ‘‘and
the best that I can do for you will be to give you a
room on the third floor over the hall.” ;

“Hum,’* mused the young physician, with a some-
what disappointed look on his fine face. ‘How is it
heated ?” he asked, after a moment of thought.

“By a stove. It was originally used as a store-
room, and steam was not carried ‘into it when we re-
fitted the hotel,” replied the gentlemanly clerk.

“Well, if that is the best that you can do for me, I
shall be obliged to put up with it for one night, as

| the storm is too severe for me to go out to hunt up
| another,” the stranger returned, with an air of resig-

nation,
“T can do better by you to-morrow, perhaps, as
some of our guests may be leaving,’’ said the clerk.
“All right; you may order a fire to be lighted at
once, 80 that my room will be warm by the time I
ain through supper,” responded the young physician,

| and then he turned to follow a servant to the dining-

room.
Half an hour later he retired to his room and to

 

 

a

 

oe

 

 
 

 

 

 

ecm THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 38>

bed, having tirst given orders to be called at eight
o’clock the next morning.

“Make sure that I am awake,” he said to the call-
boy, as he went up stairs, “for I have an important
engagement at nine.”

Tt was well for him that he gave this order, or he
would never have opened his eyes in this world
again.

Promptly at eight the next morning the boy
rapped upon the door.

There was no response.

Again he knocked, and more vigorously this time.

Still no answer from within.

‘“Hulloa there!” cried the man, at the same time
using his knuckles with redoubled energy. ‘Wake
up, can’t you!”

But the occupant of the little room over the hall
was either a.very heavy sleeper, or something was
wrong with him. >

The man put his ear to the keyhole and could
plainly detect the sound of heavy breathing.

“Something is amiss there; nobody could remain
in any natural sleep during such a racket as I’ve
made,” muttered the man, an anxious look coming
into his face. -

He hastened below and reported to the clerk, and
together they hurried back to the physician’s room
and tried a second time to arouse him.

It was in vain, however; there was not the slight-
est movement within, although they could plainly
detect the heavy breathing of the man.

“He’sina fit of some kind and we shall have to
force the lock or break the door,” said the clerk.

Both men put their shoulders against itand used
all their strength for this purpose; but in vain, for
the door was stronger than they.

A step-ladder was then brought, and a boy, with a
Tope around his body, was sent up to remove the
transom, then told to crawl through, when they
oe let him down inside the room to unlock the

oor,

This was soon accomplished, and the moment the
clerk stepped inside the door he comprehended the
situation.

The room was full of coal gas.

The man upon the bed was asphyxiated.

Every window in the room was closed, and the
damper in the stove-pipe had, by either the force of
a strong draught or a sudden gust of wind, been shut,
and thus the fumes from the burning coal had been
thrown into the room.

The young doctor lay flat upon his back, breathing
stertorously, while his face was ghastly, his skin
clammy, and his pulse alarmingly feeble.

By this time quite an excitement prevailed on that
floor of the hotel, and a crowd of curious and awe-
stricken people had gathered about, the proprietor
among them.

“A doctor—is there a “doctor in the house?” cried
some one, who had not been quite so fully paralyzed
by the appalling discovery as the others.

This aroused the proprietor to a sense of his duty.

“No, there is none,” he said, “and none nearer
than street, that I know of. But,” a bright
idea suddenly occurring to him, ‘‘the City Hospital
is near by; it’lk take no longer to get him there than
to get a physician here, and they have every facility
there for every kind of treatment.

This plan seemed the most feasible of any, and, ac-
cordingly, the young doctor was warmly wrapped in
blankets, a carriage hastily summoned, and both the
oo and his clerk accompanied him to the

ospital.

Immediately upon their arrival there, the most en-
ergetic measures were adopted for the man’s re-
covery, although the attending physicians looked

rave and doubtful as they remarked the failing con-

ition of their patient.

They gave him hypodermic injections of ether and
brandy, besides administering other remedies. His
stomach was emptied of its contents and then a tube,
eonnected with a great jar of oxygen, was inserted
in his mouth so that he could breathe pure oxygen
instead of air.

But all these efforts proved unavailing, and the
doctors then held a hurried consultation as to whether
it would be wise and best to try, as a last resort, the
transfusion of blood.

“He cannot live as he is—it is his only chanee, and
itis worth trying—if we can tind any one whois wil-
ling to give up blood enough to save him,” the head
physician remarked, as he regarded with a sorrowful
glance the splendid physique and intellectual face of
the man before him.

He wanted to save his life, and he would gladly
have given all that was necessary of his own blood,
but he knew that he alone could perform that delicate
and difficult operation successfully.

Then they began a hunt for some strong, well per-
son among the nurses, who would sacrifice some of
his life-current.

But it seemed likely to prove a fruitless search, as
no one appeared to be willing to submit to the experi-
mnent of having his veins opened for the benefit of
another. :
~ One man sullenly muttered that he ‘“hadn’t any
more blood than he needed himself.” Others stared
vacantly at the doctor, then shook their heads, turned
on their heels and walked away, and it seemed as if
the undertaking must be relinquished and the patient
left to die; he seemed very near death now, for every
time he drew in a breath of oxygen his body shook
like a leaf.

“What shall we do? Icannot let him die,” the
physician cried in an agony of anxiety, for every mo-
ment was precious.

+ He turned away in disgust from the strong men who
had refused his appeal, walked to the door and looked
out into the long corridor.

No one was in sight, but the next moment a light
step in the distance warned him that some one was
approaching, and then one of the nurses from the
women’s department came tripping around a corner
from another hall.

“Ah, Dr. Hunt!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight
of him, “I was just seeking for you—the head _ nurse
in ward twelve wants you to come there immediately
—a new and critical case has just arrived.”

“T cannot go at present,” the physician answered.
*“T am in the greatest extremity myself, just now,
over a case of life and death, and only for the want
of alittle pure blood which no one will give.”

Salome Howland, for she was the nurse, was all in-
terest at once and, lifting her eager, earnest face to
his, asked :

“What is it—tell me, please ?”

She was a favorite with Dr. Hunt, and he ex-
plained the case to her.

*“He’s a magnificent fellow, and it is the greatest
pity in the world to let him. die, without giving him
this chance,” he said in conclusion.

‘And isn’t there anybody who will make so simple
a sacrifice for him ?’ the girl inquired, a curl of scorn
wreathing her lips.

“No. LI ean’t find a man among all the nurses who
has courage enough to let me open a vein. I'd give
my own blood gladly, only there is no one else who
can conduct the operation. Heavens! I am getting
desperate enough to gag and bind some one and
forcibly take his blood,’ Dr. Hunt concluded, as he
gnawed his under lip savagely. : ;

There was a moment of silence, then the fair girl
before him said, quietly:

“Dr. Hunt, J will give this young man a chance for
his life—you shall take from my veins all the blood
that you need.” :

The physician started, and regarded -her with as-
tonishment. He had not thought of calling upon a
woman for his experiment.

“Child !” he cried, ‘‘do you mean it?’

“T certainly do, doctor.”

“But,” scanning her face critically, ‘“‘you do not
look as if you have any blood to spare.”

“Why ? because Iam pale?’ she asked, thenadded:
“That is natural to me, as you ought to know by this
time, though, perhaps, the excitement of the moment
has intensified my paleness a trifle. But I am well
and strong, and I know my blood is pure. I have
never been ill. I have no taint of disease about me,
I have perfect confidence in you, Dr. Hunt, and I
know that if I am well cared for afterward my veins
will soon be so replenished to make up for the blood
that you take from me. Do not hesitate—do not
waste precious time, but save this man’s life if you
ean,” she concluded, with an earnestness, yet with a
calmness which wou both his gratitude and admira-
tion.

He laid his fingers upon her pulse.

It beat full’and strong beneath them, with the flow-
ing of the pure and vigorous current of her life.

“You are a noble girl!” he cried, as he ushered her
into the room from which he had butjust come.
“There is the man who needs your blood!”

Dr. Hunt immediately dispatched a runner to tell
the head nurse of the ward Salome served in that he
required her services for the present, and her place
must be filled by another. ‘ ;

Then he hastened the preparations for his vital
experiment. ;

A second cot was moved close beside the one on
which the young physician lay, and a tall screen
drawn around them, while all other necessary ap-
pliances were hastily arranged. :

Salome was then led forward to the patient.

The girl gazed upon him for a moment, taking in at
a glance, his grand physique, his noble head and tine
face, and a faint flush stole into her cream-like
cheeks. . ; ; : :

“Oh, he must not die!” she cried in a low, intense
tone, as she lifted a pair of appealing eyes to the
head physician. ‘Save hin—save him, and be quick,
Dr. Hunt, or it may be too late!”

Then, without a thought of self, she lay down upon
the cot prepared for her, and allowed her sleeve to
be cut from her dress, and her arm to be tightly
bandaged about the fleshy portion, even assisting in
these operations herself, without a tremor of fear or
dread,

The arm of Dr. Winthrop was prepared in the same
way, then a hypodermic injection of cocaine was
administered to Salome, to deaden the pain, and
all was ready for the final act.

With a firm and skillful hand Dr. Hunt made an
epening about two inches in length in Dr. W inthrop’s

_ right arm, on the outside, just at the bevel in the
elbow. He cut away until he freed the median
cephalic vein from the surrounding tissues, after
which he treated Salome’s left arm in the same man-
ner. ¢

Then taking along rubber tube, with a bulb in the
center and a sharp pointed steel tube at each end,
he connected the life currents of those two human
beings lying side by side.

Successive compressions pumped the blood of that
brave and noble girl into the veins of that strong,
but then helpless man, and she never flinched or
moved once during the operation.

She lay with her eyes fixed in an anxious, eager
look upon that ghastly face opposite her, as if her
whole soul was concentrated upon the one thought
of giving him life.

When some ten or twelve ounces of blood had
been infused into the patient, a change began to be
perceptible in him; his pulse grew stronger, and he
partly regained consciousness.

The physician then withdrew the tubes, tied the
veins and sewed up the wounds in the two arms;
but before this work was finished upon the heroic
young nurse, she had fainted from loss of blood and
the excitement of the operation, while it became
evident that the young doctor was steadily improv-
ing, and stimulants, mixed with strong beef tea, were
frequently administered to him.

With tears in his eyes Dr. Hunt himself gathered
Salome in his arms, laid her upon @ stretcher, ana
had her carried to one of the best private rooms in
the hospital, where after restoring her to conscious-
ness, he gave her temporarily into the hands of an-
other physician and a competent nurse, while he
went back to his other patient.

It was evident that the experiment was destined
to prove a success, for he found the young man
breathing naturally and conscious, although he could
not yet speak.

They continued to give him nourishment and
stimulants at frequent intervals throughout the day,
and by evening he was much improved, although
still weak and languid from the terrible ordeal
through which he had passed.

He was able to converse a little with Dr. Hunt,
who had worked.so faithfully to save him, when he
made his last round for the night. He told him that
he was a physician from New York city, and had
come to Boston at the invitation of a brother physi-
cian, to visit the various hospitals of the city, and
they had planned to come that very day to the in-
stitution where he was now a patient.

He said he feared that his friend must be suffering
great anxiety upon his account, as he had agreed to
meet him at his office at nine o’clock that morning,
and he would not know where to look for him, as he
had sent him no word telling him at what hotel he
would stop.

Dr. Hunt, appreciating the situation, at once dis-
patched a messenger to his friend, Dr. Cutler, who
came early the next morning to the sick man.

But though Dr, Winthrop steadily improved, he
was not able to leave his bed for several days; his
system had been so poisoned by the noxious gas
which he had inhaled, that it of course took some
time to eradicate it.

Meantime he inquired and learned all about the
circumstances attending his critical condition and
his almost marvelous restoration.

“That noble girl!” he hadexclaimed, upon being
told how willingly, even eagerly, Salome Howlan
had given up her life blood for him. “She will have
my everlasting gratitude. Who is she and where
ean I find her when I amable to get away from
here ?”’

“She is one of our nurses,’ Dr. Hunt replied, “a
young woman of remarkable nerve and strength of
character, and, eminently fitted for the life she has
chosen.”

From this brief description, Dr. Winthrop gained
the impression that Salome might have been some
strong-minded, rather masculine woman, of perhaps
twenty-five or thirty years, with a heart and brain
entirely devoted to the study and practice of her
profession.

He meant.to see her as soon ashe was able to
leave his room, express his hearty gratitude for the
priceless boon she had bestowed upon him, and as-
sure her of his readiness to befriend her or hers to
the extent of his power, if she should ever require
the services of a friend.

How soon and how strangely such a requirement
would be forced on him hedid uot dream, neither
could he have any suspicion how vitally these inci-
deuts were to affect his whole future life,

CHAPTER III.

DR. WINTHRUP BECOMES ACQUAINTED
WITH SALOME.

Meantime, how fared it with the heroic young
nurse, who had so trustfully surrendered herself
into the hands of Dr. Hunt, and sacrificed so much
to save the life of another?

Pale as a snow flake, and weak as an infant from
the loss of blood, which the physician, in his eager-
ness to make sure of the life he was trying to save,
had taken a more generous supply than was perhaps
wise—she lay in a large, sunny room, tenderly eared
for by an efficient nurse, and clusely and anxiously
watched by Dr. Hunt.

She did not rally as rapidly as he had hoped and
expected; her bloed did not make as fast as it ought
to have done, under the nourishing diet and judic-
ious treatment that she was receiving, and the good
man was greatly troubled as well as puzzled.

It pained him deeply, and kept him wretchedly-
anxious to see her lying there day after day so lan-
guid and weak; so spiritiess and nerveless—all her
natural energy and vigor apparently exhausted.

“Whatam I going to do- with you, ny girl, if you
do not hurry up and get back your strength?” Dr.
Huut asked her one morning, with an assumed play-
fulness, which he was far from feeling, and experi-
encing something very like a sense of guilt beneath
the heavy glance of Salome’s great midnight eyes.
“F can hardly forgive myself for having robbed you
of your strength.”

“Pray do not regret your experiment, since it has
proved such a success,” the young girl began.

“T shall not account it a success if it should result
in prolonged injury to you,” he interrupted, gravely.

“Oh, it will not,’ she answered, trying to speak
reassuringly; “I shall soon be better. I do not suf-
fer; I am only a little weak. But how is he—your
patient—to-day ?” she added, drooping her heavily
fringed lids, while she nervously toyed with the hem
of her handkerchief with trembling fingers.

“He is doing first-rate,’ Dr. Hunt answered, ani-
matedly, for he had been jubilant over the success of
his experiment. ‘‘So well,” he added, “that he is
going to leave the hospital to-morrow.”

“To-morrow !” breathed Salome, in a startled tone,
a faint flush leaping to her waxen cheek, while her
heart began to flutter strangely.

“Yes; it is ten days since he began to rally, and he
has improved very rapidly: but I am afraid he has
drawn heavily upon your vitality, my child,” the
physician concluded, with a sigh.

Salome smiled slightly; for she realized, if Dr.
Hunt did not, something of the secret of her present
weakness; for while she lay upon that other cot be-
side that grand and noble-lookiug man, her whole
soul had been concentrated upon the one thought of
giving him life.

“Take the best, the very Dest that I can give—only
let him live!” had been her continuous prayer, as
she watched every compression of the bulb which
had served to pump her life-current into his veins,
and so it had seemed to her as if she had literally
willed and infused her strength aud vigor into him—
the are best, and purest, and strongest of her
blood.

“Never mind,” she said, with a quick upward
glance, in which he seemed to read a gleam of exul-
tation, “‘it will soon come again, and—I am very
glad.” .

There was so much of self-abnegation in what she
said that Dr. Hunt felt a suspicious moisture filling
his eyes.

“You are the noblest girl I ever knew,” he said,
with evident emotion. Then he added, with an effort
at self-control, ‘But Dr. Winthrop begs the favor of
an interview with you, that he may personally ex-
press his gratitude for the inestimable gift you have
bestowed upon him, I was commissioned to ask if
you would receive him to-day—that is, if you feel
able. Or,’’ as he studied her downcast face critically,
“shall I tell him to wait until you are stronger ?”

He was at a loss how to explain her case; he could
not understand it; it baffled him.

He reasoned that, strong and vigorous as her con-
stitution naturally was, she should have rallied at
once; that a couple of weeks, at the most, should have
served to put her where she was before. But nearly
two weeks had already elapsed, and she had scarcely
strength to turn her pillow, while, strangest of all,
she expressed no anxiety or impatience to get well
and go about her duties again.

Could he have read her heart, he would have been
puzzled. no longer. Could he have known that from
the moment when he had led her to the young physi-
cian’s side, when she had looked into his noble face
and realized at a glance the kind of man he was—
could he have known that as he was pumping the
blood from her veins into his, all the finest and ten-
derest sensibilities of her nature were being absorbed
in him, that henceforth she would feel herself a part
of him, that life away from him would never hold
any charm for her—he might not have wondered at
her present condition; it would have explained
everything to him, and then, perhaps he might have
felt that he was responsible for a broken heart as
well as an impaired constitution.

Strange as this may seem, in connection with a girl
of such mental strength as Salome Howland pos-
sessed, it was nevertheless true.

She realized that she was no longer her own, that
she had given herself, with her life-blood, to another,
and that other a stranger whom she had never seen
but once, whom perhaps she might never see again,
who—dreadful thought!—for aught she knew, might
already be the husband of another.

She felt shamed, humiliated, terrified, when she
|awoke to a consciousness of such sentiments as
| these. Shamed and humiliated because she had been

 

 

}
| she had no power to rise above it; terrified because
of the miserable blank that seemed to lay before her,

 

live with the mainspring of life—love—thus rudely
wrenched out of her being forever?

Thus we see why she had no incentive, no real de-
sire to recover—why the duties which, hitherto, had
been the chief object of her life, had suddenly lost
their charm and interest.

Thus, too, we can understand why, when Dr.
Hunt told her that Dr. Winthrop desired an inter-
view, She was oppressed by a sudden sense of guilt
which caused her head to droop and the conscious
color to leap to her very brow in a hot crimson tide.

Her judgment told her that it would be better to
deny hin the interview, for to see him again would
only serve to intensify the sudden and, as she be-
lieved, hopeless passion that had taken possession of

er.

Yet, in opposition to this, a feeling of ecstasy
thrilled her at the thought of being again in his
presence—his living, conscious presence ; of meeting
the glance of his eyes—brown, black, or blue, she
kuew not which; of hearing the tones of his voice
and, perchance, feeling the touch of his hand—that
hand which, but for her, would now have been cold
and rigid in death.

“Only for once,” she told herself. Just once she
would see him and listen to his voice, and then she
would hide the memory of it in the depthsof her
heart to live upon during all the lonely future which
must now lay before her.

“Yes, I will see him to-day,” she said to Dr. Hunt,
with a little quiver of her delicate lips; ‘‘only please
ask hini not to speak of—gratitude.”’

“Of course he will speak of gratitude, dear child,”
returned the physician. “Pray do notdeny him that
slight return when you have given him the-most
precious boon this side of heaven, and at such a
sacrifice, too.” :

Salome flushed again, but of course she could not
argue the question further, and Dr. Hunt remarked,
as he turned to leave the room:

“You may look for a call from my other patient be-
tween two and three this afternoon.”

All day, after that, the nurse who cared for her
wondered if it was simply cxcitement that caused
that delicate, sea-shell pink to lingerin the cheeks of
the fair invalid and her eyes to gleam with a light
such as she had never seen in them before.

At half-past two there came a tap upon Salome’s
door, and the next moment Dr, Hunt, followed by a
handsome young stranger, entered the room.

The physician led his companion directly to his
patient, saying, in his frank, hearty fashion:

“This, my young friend, is the noble girl who ren-
dered you such valuable service a while ago. Miss
Howland, allow we to introduce you to Dr. Win-
throp.”

A queer little smile wreathed Dr. Hunt’s lips as he
performed this ceremony, while his kind eyes rested
admiringly upon the fair invalid before him.

Hitherto he had only seen Salome in her plain
dark dress, with her nurse’s cap and apron, and he
had thought her very attractive in that simple garb;
but now she appeared strikingly beautiful despite
her pallor and loss of flesh.

In anticipation of this call the young girl had sent
her nurse to her room, to bring a pretty crimson
cashmere wrapper, which had lain unused in her
trunk ever since her admission to the hospital.

It was beautifully made and richly trimmed with
quilted satin of the same shade, and there were full
ruchings atthe throat and wrists of finest Valen-
ciennes lace. The dress was extremely becoming to
her complexion, with her dark hair and eyes, and
she certainly was a lovely vision, with the delicate
flush stillon her cheeks and that gleam of light in
her eyes. :

“There is certainly sume mystery about this girl,”
said Dr. Hunt to himself. ‘‘She was never intended
for a nurse in a common hospital, in spite of her
peculiar adaptation to such work; there is some
peculiar reason for her being here, or I am _ greatly
mistaken. I’d wager cousiderable that she belongs,
or has belonged, to some wealthy and aristocratic
family.”

“What a perfectly lovely girl!’ was Dr. Winthrop’s
mental observation, as he went forward and bent
over and clasped Saleme’s white hand, a thrill of
reverence and gratitude stirring his heart.

She raised her eyes to his as she greeted him, and,
looking into those deep blue orbs, so kind, so frank,
so genial, she read there something of the man’s no-
bility of soul, something of his grand and lofty char-
— and a feeling of exultation took possession of

er.

“My blood flows in his veins—my life mingles with
his! I have saved this noble man from death!” was
the glad thought that leaped to her brain, sending a
deeper flush to her cheeks, a brighter light into her
expressive eyes. Was there some peculiar magnet-
ism in the mutual clasp of their hands ?

There might or might not have been—no one can
tell; but the fact remains that during that brief in-
terval, in that simple touch, in that one swift glance,
soul rivet soul, heart spoke to heart, and each was
conscious that a vital change had suddenly come
over their lives; that the hitherto quiet and undis-
turbéd pool in the:depthswf their nature had been
agitated by some unseen spirit, and the ripples
widening into ever increasing circles would influence
all their future.

Was it the magnetism—the spirit of love?

All this was concentrated into a moment of time;
the next Salome’s eyes drooped beneath the earnest,
admiring leok of her companion, and the color
mounted to her temples.

The young man noticed; her embarrassment and
gently released her hand, which he found himself
holding ina closer clasp than Was warrantablein a
total stranger. .

“Miss Howland,” he said, in deep, rich tones that
trembled with emotion, “I am deeply moved by this
meeting and all the thoughts it arouses, and I find
myself tongue-tied before you, when I should be
eloquent from gratitude for and admiration of your
heroic deed of two weeks ago.”

“Pray do not magnify asimple duty,’ Salome be-
gan, lifting an appealing glance to him.

“A simple duty!’ he repeated, interrupting her.
“Tt was a priceless gift that you bestowed upon me—
I feel it a debt that I can never repay.”

“Do not say that,” she returned, looking slightly
troubled. Then she added with a brilliant smile and
aglance that made his heart leap, “a free gift can
never become a debt, so please do not be longer
burdened, Dr. Winthrop.”

‘‘Heaven bless you, Miss Howland,” the young man
said, leaning toward her and speaking with evident
effort. “I see that you are sensitive upon the sub-
ject of my obligation,” he added, ‘‘but just let me
tell you that henceforth my life will be doubly
precious, since something of the life of so noble a
woman is mingled with it, and I shall treasure the
memory of your lofty deed as the most sacred of all
memories. Now tell me that you are really better
to-day, forif my strength has been restored at the
permanent sacrifice of yours I fear it will be a per-
petual burden upon my conscience.”

“Yes, I am better,’ Salome answered brightly.
“Truly, Efeel stronger this afternoon than at any
time previous. If,” with a shy smile.anda saucy
little nod at the elder physician, “if Dr. Hunt would
not make quite such a baby of me, I believe I should
get about my duties more quickly.”

“Baby, indeed!” retorted the good doctor, “when
people have only the pulse of a baby they must be
treated accordingly; eh, Winthrop ?”’

He came forward as he spoke and laid his skilled
fingers upon her wrist.

But it was no baby-pulse that he counted then!

Her blood was rushing at a race-horse speed
through her veins, and the man regarded her with a
curious glance, while he marveled at her almost be-
wildering beauty, heightened asit was by the brilliant
fiush on her cheeks, and the diamond light in her
wonderful eyes.

“T trust that Miss Howland will be patient and
allow herself to be properly cared for, until she en-
tirely recovers her strength,” Dr. Winthrop gravely
remarked, while his glance lingered wistfully upon
her face.

‘‘We shall have herinafeverif we subject her to
too much excitement,” Dr. Hunt remarked, with his
fingers still upon her bounding pulse, ‘‘so Winthrop,
if you please, we will not prolong our call to-day.”

The young physician arose at once.

“T hope we have not already taxed your strength
too much by this interview, Miss Howland,” he said,
regretfully. “I shall be in Boston for two or three
weeks longer, and, if you will allow me—if I shall
not intrude, it would give me pleasure to call upon
you again and see for myself how you are progress-
ing. Believe me, I shall not know a moment’s peace
until you are entirely recovered.”

“You are very kind, Dr. Winthrop,” Salome re-
sponded, with downeast eyes and a rapidly beating
heart, ‘‘and I shall be glad to see you, if you care to
come again.”

“Thank you,” he heartily returned; then, after a
hand clasp in farewell, he followed Dr. Hunt from
the room.

“What an exquisitely beautiful girl!” he exclaimed,
as they passed down the long corridor together, *‘she
is an entirely different person from what I imagined
from your description of her.”

“Hum! TI didn’t know she was quite so pretty
myself until to-day,’ said Dr. Hunt, reflectively.
“I’ve never seen her in anything but the hospital uni-
form before—perhaps that’s the reason.”

“Ts she obliged to make nursing her business ?” in-
quired the younger man.

“T suppose so; at least I imagine she is obliged to
do something for her own support, and perhaps, hay-
ing a love for this profession, she chose it in prefer-
ence to anything else.”

Dr. Winthrop looked thoughtful, but did not speak
again until they reached Dr. Hunt’s office, when he
took leave of him and departed to meet his friend,
Dr. Cutler, and begin his tour of investigation in the
different institutions of the city.

Two days later he made another call upon Salome,
and thought her somewhat improved.

He chatted nearly an hour with her, and was sur-

| prised to find her as cultivated mentally, as she was

| beautiful personally.
so weak as to give her love unsought, and found that |

He took pains to draw her out, and Salome, de+

| lighted to find her companion so genial and interest-

, if this grand man was destined to vanish as suddenly |

| out of her life as he had come into it. How could she

+

ing, forgot herself, and was really charming.
“She is far too lovely to bury herself in a sick-room
—nursing is too hard—too thankless a task for one

so gifted, both mentally and physically, as she,” the
young man mused as he left her.

The next morning.a basket of luscious fruit, and a
| great cluster of Marechal Niel roses found their way
to Salome’s room, and, in the midst of the latter, she
discovered a card bearing the name of **f. H. Win-
throp, M. D.”

She seemed greatly changed from the sad-eyed,
| grave-faced girl who had applied for entrance to the
| hospital as a nurse on that dismal November day.

She was brighter and more animated in her manner;
| there was always a happy smile on her lips, a bril-
| liant, almost joyous light in her eyes, and yet she did
| not seem to gain strength. The slightest exertion
set her panting like a frightened hare. If she at-
tempted to walk from her bed to her chair, she would
be exhausted, almost fainting from the effort, and
Dr. Hunt was greatly exercised over her peculiar
symptoms.

“If this experiment of mine should develop an
affection of the heart, I should find it hard to for-
give myself for having taken her blood,’ he mut-
tered one day on leaving her, after imagining that he
had detected signs of such a disorder,

Dr. Winthrop went almost every day to see her,
and always laden with some dainty offering of fruit
or flowers, or perchance some entertaining book or
periodical—these latter were often productive of an
interesting discussion—and when. he was unable to
pay his usual call, he sent some reminder of himself.

Salome was very generous with these gifts, and
shared them with many a suffering patient, but she
was never without some bud or spray of these pre-
cious mementoes in her hands or on her breast, while
every day she became more and more conscious that
she was groWing to love the giver even to the verge
of idolatry.

She would not, however, allow herself to analyze
her feelings, though she was now and then smitten
with a consciousness of approaching sorrow or
danger. She simply lived from day to day in the
joyful expectation of his coming, and the delight of
his presence, without questioning the wisdom of thus
bestowing the wealth of her love upon him, or what
life would be to her when he should return to his
home and practice in New York.

One day he told her that he was to spend the
whole of the coming week in that hospital, to wit-
ness two or three critical operations and their subse-
quent treatment.

Salome’s heart leaped with sudden joy.

For a whole week she was to live beneath the same
roof with him, and see him every day; perhaps
oftener.

The rich color surged up over her face, and her lips
quivered in a tender smile.

“After that,” added Dr. Winthrop with an uncon-
scious sigh, “I must go home to my duties.”

A sudden blindness, a sense of dizziness rushed
over the fair girl as these words made her realize
what his departure would mean to her. For the first
time she fully comprehended how blank, how de-
void of all that could make life desirable to her the
world would be when he should be gone. A deadly
paleness overspread her features, she gasped once or
twice and then she sank quietly back in her chair,
where she lay without hfe or motion, like some
beautiful spirit from another world.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Another Woman's Wusband,

By BERTHA M. CLAY,
Author of “Marjorie Deane,” *‘A Heart’s Idol,”
“The Gipsy’s Daughter,” “Gladys Greye,”
“Violet Lisle,” etc.

(“ANOTHER WOMAN’S HUSBAND” wascommenced in No,
47. Back numbers can be obtained ofall News Agents.)

CHAPTER XIV.
A PECULIAR TOUR.

T WILL be judged, by what
has gone before, that Lady
Isobel Grantham was a woman
with the passions of other wo-
men, but with a nature to per-
form and a mind to conceive
evil, which, fortunately, is not
common.

When she told Evelyn that a
plan had flashed into her mind,
ah she told a part of the truth,
the whole of it being that the plan was one of con-
summate fiendishness. She did not reveal it to
Evelyn then, but waited until she had had time to
elaborate it and study its possibilities,

In any other mood Evelyn would have shrunk from
it; but now, though she shuddered at it, she ac-
cepted it.

“She will deserve it,” she said.

“Yes,” answered Lady Isobel; but what most
pleased her was not the merited or unmerited pun-
ishment that Edith was to receive, but the plan
itself, which she was proud of.

Guillotin, who invented the instrument of death
that bears his name, is said to have been a merciful
man; but he was eager to see his instrument tried,
from very pride in the instrument. Isobel was not
merciful, and her zest in her wicked plot was all the
greater for that. What the plot was, you shall see
presently.

“Will you manage it?” asked Evelyn; “I do not see
how I can.”

“Oh, yes,” answered Isobel; “I will manage it.
will be difficult, but I shall contrive it somehow.”

“You will require money,” said Evelyn, with fever-
ish eagerness. ‘Tell me how mucii, and I will sup-
ply it as you wish it. Do not be delicate about that.”

Delicacy was not one of the foibles of Lady Isobel,
and she named the sum she would require, and there
ended the preliminaries. To see the plot working
practically, it will be necessary to follow the Lady
Isobel on a sort of pilgrimage. But a lady does not
take the sort of pilgrimage she had in view without
a suitable escort. She had one in her father, who
was the bearer of an empty title, and was a manu of
so timid a nature that it was a frequent question of
Isobel’s how he had the courage to live. Lady Isobel
had forgotten the commandment which has a word
to say in relation to honoring one’s parents. She did
not honor her remaining one in the least.

“Tf 1 were a man, and had your title, ’'d make it
worth something,” she had once said angrily to him.

“JT don’t doubt it, my dear,” he had answered, in
pacificatory tones; “but you see you have your
mother’s spirit, not mine.”

“Somebody must have yours,” she had answered,
smartly; ‘you haven't it yourself.”’

She was a very bright young lady, but hardly ad-
mirable in her home relations; but perhaps some
excuse is due to one who was trying to make an ap-
pearance on almost nothing at all.

She went home from Evelyn’s to this parent, and
said to him, so abruptly that if he had had heart-
disease he must have succumbed to the shock:

“Father, you will get ready to go to the Continent
to-morrow.’’

“My dear, my dear, what are you saying?”

“We take the afternoon boat, and we may be gone
a week, or a month. Now, don’t maunder, but get
ready. Here are fifty pounds. Make yourself pre-
sentable; and don’t try to pay any of the tradesmen.
I’ll see to that.”

“My dear, my dear, you frighten me!” said he,
with every evidence of speaking the truth. ,

“Very likely,’ said Lady Isobel; “but as you will
drift out of this fright into a new one within five
minutes, it is not worth my while to make any ex-
planations.”

“Yes, my dear—yes, certainly,” said the well-
trained parent, and submitted to the guidance of his
astute child without further protest; though he was
not yet so hardened to this sort of treatinent that he
did not quiver inwardly for a little while.”

The afternoon boat for Calais, the following day,
carried on it accordingly an elderly gentleman of
unmistakable refinement, who bore himself with ex-
ceeding deference toward his daughter, a not pretty,
but very patrician and fashionable young lady.

“The Baron of Iddesleigh and his daughter, Lady
Tsobel,”’ said some one later, having had time to
study the passenger list.

“Another title without an estate,’ muttered a
young man who had overheard the remark.

The young man was Ralph Darnley, Marquis of
Glendennon.

Perhaps it was from some fellow-feeling that Ralph
entered into conversation with the old gentieman
when Lady Isobel had retired below, to there with-
stand, as best she might, the rude treatment of the
Channel, which was no respecter of persons, and had
been known to bring even royalty itself to a reckon-
ing.

“You must be a good sailor, sir,” said Ralph, ‘to
venture to. remain on deck when most of the pas-
sengers have gone below.”

“Yes, indeed, sir,’ was the reply, with a gentle
smile, “I should have been a sailor; but I lack other
important qualifications.” :

“Well,” laughed Ralph, “if Iam not misinformed,
you and I are living proof that a man may be a thing
| without more than half the proper qualifications, and
| that half the least important.”
| ‘How is that, sir?’

“ITamtold you are the Baron of Iddesleigh,” an-
} swered Ralph, with his frank smile,

SESS

 

It

 

VOL. 46—No. 1.

. a — — 3

“That is true, sir,’ answered the old gentleman,
with a faint flush of pride, showing he did not hold
his title as cheap as Ralph might his.

“And I,” said Ralph, ‘am the Marquis of Glen-
dennon.”

“Indeed! Tam pleased to meet you, my lord. But
Ido not understand yet what you meant by say-
ing

“That we were a living proof,’ laughed Ralph.
“Why, we are both titled, and we both lack estates,
if I am rightly informed.”

“True,” replied the old gentleman, and forthwith
fell a captive to Ralph’s frank, easy ways.

And from that the conversation went on into other
channels, and continued with pleasure to both until
the shores of France were reached, when Lady Iso-
bel came on deck, looking rather the worse for wear,
as did everybody else; and perhaps that is why she
received his introduction by her father with so cold
a manner.

‘“‘In future, father,” she said, later, “you will please
spare me from your acquaintances.”

“But, my dear,” said the timid gentieman, depre-
eatingly, ‘the is the Marquis of Glendennon.”

“A nobody, like yourself, father. Besides—hut
that is not a thing you could understand.”

However, the old gentleman did. not forget the
young man, whose force of character was apparent
to him at the first, and whose courtesy to him was
therefore the more precious to him, who had for
many years received scant allowance of it. Nor did
the young gentleman forget the old one, whose
sweetness and timidity were both so painfully in
evidenee—the latter particularly so when his aristo-
cratic daughter was present.

“A very sharp young woman, that,” said Ralph,
laughingly to himself, as he thought of it after-
ward. “She knew the moment she heard my title
that it was worth nothing but the sound of it, and
the value of that she has doubtless gauged before
this. A-very hard and unpleasant young woman, I
should say.”

The trifles sometimes count for something. It was
@ trifle that Ralph had crossed the pathway of Lady
Isobel; but it happens singularly in this world that
what comes once is likely to come twice, although
there be a proverb that lightning never strikes twice
in the same place. There is even Latin for it, if that
will make it stronger. Gamblers say that what has
happened once will happen svon again, and they are
a gentry who know the whole theory of chauces—but
only the theory, mind you!

And speaking of gamblers brings us to Monaco. It
is a place that has been described till every one who
has ever looked at printed type knows what it is and
where it is—a fashionable gambling hell, in the love-
liest spot in Europe.

Many go there to see the strange sight of men, wo-
men—yes, and children—gambling there; many more
goto gamble. There is rather more profitin looking
on than in taking part; but certainly more excite-
ment in playing than in standing by.

Just at this time there was an unusual exeitement.
Somebody was having what is called a run of luck,
and everybody else was crowding to watch his play.
Some of the time-worn gamesters had hastened, on
the rumor, to gather near him and follow his play to
the extent of theirsmall means. The thrill of excite-
ment that followed the betting and the playing, until
the result was made known, was a thing to be ex-
perienced, not described. Even the spectators grew
to have that hectic spot on the cheekbones, which
usually comes with that sort of excitement.

The man around whom all this silent, or at the most,
murmurous fever surged, sat in his seat with an air
of imperturbability that was somewhat overdone.
One could see by every evidence that the excitement
of the play was raging like a suppressed volcano
within him, and was devouring his life. The pupilof
his eye was dilated, his shapely head was thrust a
little forward, giving him some semblance to a bird
of prey—a semblance which his nose, shapely though
it was, aided in carrying out; his tongue occasionally
darted out tremulously and moistened his well-cut,
rather sensnal lips; and his swallowing was dry.
When he spoke, which was only when he must, his
voice was low, husky and broken, though his com-
mand over himself was sufficient to give him an air
of ease that might have deceived one who did not
know the signs.

There were many watching him, as has been said ;
but what most interests us is that Lady Isobel and
her father stood among the spectators. The father
stood there because it was the wish of his imperious
daughter. She stood there because the man who sat
at the table making the most of his run, was the man
for whom she had been searching the gambling es-
tablishments of Europe during the past four weeks.

Her father had wondered and wandered, but had
not protested, while his daughter led from one place
to another. If she had gambled, like many other
ladies of her rank ; if she had endeavored to wiu for-
tune on the green table, he could have understood ;
but she did not. She never played. She merely
searched the faces of the players for a tew days at
each place and then went elsewhere, until she reached
Monaco. And there herman was—breaking the bank,
it was said.

He had already won—oh, they put it in the thou-
sands somewhere, and it was probable enough, and
she knew the gambler spirit well enough to know that
nothing on earth would induce him to stop until he
had broken the bank, or—lost everything. One was
a little more likely than the other.

So she waited in Monaco, going every day to watch
her man, and studying his face with a great deal of
interest. He was a handsome fellow, with a magnifi-
cent physique and a certain air of distinction hang-
ing about him. He was generally spoken of as ‘His
Royal Highness.” It was only a nickuame, such as
is always given in such places to prominent charac-
ters; for rio one could have told you who he was.
Nobody cared. The most interesting thing about him
was that he was in a fair way to break the bank.

He was nota reckless player. That is, although
he risked large sums, he did not do it hap-hazard, but
according to a system. It was a system he had
worked out, and had had faith in from the beginning.
He had faithin it, now. So much faith, that one
night, when he rose from his seat, he said with an
alr in which there was the arrogance of success:

“To-morrow Ishall finish. I shall break the bank.’

The next evening he rose from the same chair, his
face white as if chalked, asmile that showed his
teeth in a straight, white line, and his eyes staring.
No two men take ruin in the same way; but there is
no mistaking the marks of it when it comes. He
had not broken the bank-—the bank had broken him.

“A mistake in my system,’ he said, between his
teeth.

“Now,” said Lady Isobel’s father, compassionately,
“he will commit suicide.’’

Lady Isobel laughed in a sneering way peculiar to
her treatment of her father, and he felt that he had
in some way been guilty of a folly, But, of a sudden,
the Lady Isobel had an idea, and stopped laughing
to say: :

“Why do you think so, father ?”’ ‘

He was almost too much abashed to reply, but
stammered :

“His face looked so desperate, and I suppose he is
ruined.”

“He,” laughed Lady Isobel. ‘‘Heis oneof the rich-
est noblemeu.in all Europe, If he is downcast, you
may be sure it is not from the loss of the money; but
because his system bas failed him. If you should
weet him next week, you would find him smiling,
Well, what are you staring at now ?”

“Nothing, my dear, nothing,” stammered the old
gentleman, apologetically.

Asa matter of fact, he had been staring at Ralph
Darnley, who, in his turn had been staring at the
man, who, according to Lady Isobel, was one of the
wealthiest noblemen in all Europe. And, now, you
shall see how she came to know so much about him,

CHAPTER XV.
A PRINCE OF A NEW CREATION.

“TO THE CHEVALIER GRANDAU, Place des Inva-
lides, Monaco :—Monsieur may remember the 5th of
Muay, two years ago. I know you are desperate over
the loss of the money you did not win. Call at the
Grand Hotel, ask for Lady Isobel Grantham, and
send up your card as Prince Radislas, of Poland.
Aun adventure worthy of you is awaiting.

“ONE WHO ALSO REMEMBERS THE 5TH OF MAY.”

The handsome young man who had failed to break
the bank, was sitting in a chair in a room, which had
a very pretty outlook, when the above singular epis-
tle was handed to him. He was for tossing it angrily
aside aS an annoyance when he noticed that the
handwriting was fine and angular—a lady’s in fact.
Then he looked more closely at it, and his hand in-
voluntarily went up to his mustaches and gave each
a twist.

“English, I think,’ he said half-aloud, in as good
English as the best of us could have employed.

Then he tore it open and read it. At the first line
he scowled and cursed, and started uneasily to his
feet, and looked around, not precisely as one of the
wealthiest noblemen in Europe might be supposed
to have done under like circumstances. Then he
read further, aud the scowl that had something of
fear in it, became tinged with surprise. ‘

“Well, [ will go. Ten to one itis that sharp Eng-
lish girl. Thatis 1t—Lady Isobel. Now I remember.
Perhaps itis a trap. No, it can hardly be that. Yes,
I will go. Prinee Radislas! Well, that will give no
trouble; for there might be several of that title.”

The Baron of Iddesleigh was enjoying a surreptiti-
ous nap on the private baleony belonging to their
apartments, when his daughter called to him from
the parlor:

“Father, come here.”

He hurried to where she sat, trying very hard to
conceal any evidence that he had been dozing.

“You make me think of a pet dog,’”’ she said sharp-
ly, “sleeping every time you sit down. Here is the
ecard of agentleman you may remember being
| troubled about, Prince Radislas. He is the gentle-

man who did not break the bank the other day, I
| don’t know how he discovered I was here, or how he

should remember me atall. I met him when I came
| abroad with the Duke of Castleton’s family. I wish
| you would remain with me. These foreigners are
such sticklers for propriety.”

 

 

 

ORGS Ts jens eg EE

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL, 46—No, 1 ‘

 

'

Why his daughter shonld see fit to take him so far
into her confidence as this, the good gentleman did
not pretend to imagine. She wished him to remain,
and as Heaven had given him no will of his own, he
remained. The handsome young gentleman was
ushered into the room. Lady Isobel arose, smiling.

“Prince Radislas. Itis kind of you to remember
me. I would not have dared expect it.”

“Who sees the Lady Isobel once, does not forget
her,” said the prince, with a charming accent and a
profound gallantry. Such a gallantry as 1t is under-
stood only a gentleman of the purest blood of Europe
can acquire; and with such a one it is not acquisi-
tion, but nature.

“How like you to say such a thing,” said Lady
Tsobel, graciously. ‘‘Prince Radislas, my father, the
Baron of Iddesleigh. My father,’ went on Lady
Tsobel with a countenance so unmoved that it ex-
cited the admiration of Prince Radislas, “saw you
lose your opportunity of breaking the bank the other
day, and was troubled lest it should annoy ‘you; but
Itold him that the Radislas estates were probably
equal to consoling you for a trifle like that. I said it
was thedisappointment of finding your combination
wrong—your system, I think you call it—that would
concern you most.”

“Certainly, my dear Baron,” said the prince, “I
really don’t know what my income is—” there was a
twitch of his eyelid as he said this that made Lady
Isobel smile in spite of herself—‘‘but I don’t suppose
the sum of the other day would take a day’s income.
Ah, itis such a bother to think of money.”

Ashe said this alond he wondered in his mind:
“What the duse isin the wind. Something deep, or
T’ll never toss another cube.”

“Yes, yes,” stammered the baron, “money isa great
bother, to be sure. But thelack of itis worse, if I
may so—” He looked hesitatingly at his daughter,
who to his surprise smiled kindly and went to his
rescue.

“Yes, the lack of money leads to so much evil, dear
prince. Of course yon know nothing of such things ;
but actually I have known the case of a very good
looking young man, quite a gentleman in appear-
ance, doing the must wretched things because of the
lack of money.”

“Ah, indeed,” said the prinee, his nostrils dilating,
as if scenting danger.

“Yes, [ even remember the date of the occurrence.
lt was on the 5th of May, two years ago. The young
man had won the fancy of a young French girl of
good family and very wealthy, and had tried to in-
duce her to elope with him. That was balked, for-
tunately for the poor child, and the young man en-
deavored to console himself for her loss by carrying
away a memento in the shape of her jewels and her
mother’s. He was—shallI say intercepted? He was
intercepted, but had the shrewdness to quickly rid
himself of the jewels, so that he was not convicted.
What an ugly word! I have no doubt he would
have been, however, had it not been for the reticence
of a young English girl, who saw him throw away
the jewels, but said nothing about it.”

Tt was an interesting study to see how the conven-
tional smiles on the faces of the two were contra-
dicted by the exchange of meaning glances.

“That young man should have been very grateful
to that young lady,” said the prince.

“She did not ask his gratitude. It is always safest
to appeal to the interest of such aman. Oh, father,”
she said, as if suddenly remembering, “I forgot all
about my watch at thejewelers. I must have it this
evening. Would you excuse him if he went for it,
prince ?”’

“T shall esteem it a rare opportunity to entertain
Lady Isobel during the baron’s absence,” answered
the prince, placing his hand_on his heart, with great
earnestness,

There could have been no more convenient parent
than Lord Iddesleigh. He arose and made his apol-
ogies in the most gentlemanly way, and presently
the two persons were alone together. The prince
was the first to speak.

“This is a charming comedy, and well played,” he
said, ‘but I do not yet comprehend the climax, and
without comprehending the climax, it is awkward
playing.”

“T will be frank with you. My little story has al-
ready convinced you that I know you, has it not?”

“Entirely.”’

“To begin, then, it may have entered your vain
head—it is vain, is it not?”

“A trifle so, perhaps,” he answered, coolly; “but
very much less so than when you last saw me.”

“Well. if it has entered your head that your mani-
fold charms have affected me at all, let me hasten to
disabuse you.”

“Needless, my lady. I never suspected you.”

“Thatis well. Now we shall enter upon negotia-
tions with mutual respect. You are in straits for
money, I suppose.”

“Chronic.”

«Are you willing to take a part in a pretty little
comedy of my composing ?”

“My part to ve Prince Radislas ?”

“Precisely.”

“What risks ?””

“None to speak of. Are youin any danger in Eng-
land for any little escapades similar to the one of the
young man in thestory ?”

“By some extraordinary chance, I am not known
to your police,” he answered.

“T like an out-and-out rascal,” she said.

“Thank you. Flattered, I am sure.”

“The part selected for you is simply this: You are
to enter London society as the Prince Radislas, an
enormously wealthy Pole. My father will introduce
you. He is very poor, but he is very innocent, so
that his introduction, seconded by my countenance
and that_of another of still more influence, will set
you afloat.”

“Very charming, so far.
ble for what is to follow.”

“There is no need. You will meet in London the
most beautiful woman you have ever seen. It will
be your business to woo her and make her marry
- ”
ee Phew !”

“The prince dropped his chin on his hand, and
looked intently at Lady Isobel.

“You will never discover the objectin that way,”
said Lady Isobel, returning his look with perfect
steadiness; ‘‘but [don’t mind telling you what itis.
Revenge! Do you know what that means ?’’

“Oh, yes. But do you realize that to do all this
will require much money ?’”’

“You shall have money, to spend like water.
Nothing shall be stinted you, if you will only satisfy
me that you will act faithfully. Will youdo that ?’

“How can I satisfy you? Could I say anything
that you would believe? I will, in fact, be faithful
to you, because my word is worth something, and I
generally keep it when I give it. Thenlam in-
terested in your novel scheme of revenge; that is
worth something toward faithful performance. You
did me areal service two years ago, and I am not
eur enough to forget it. The gratitude of a hardened
sinner is worth something. Besides, there is the
beautiful wife, and money with her, I suppose.’

“Not a penny, except what you can gather through
me. I will make that as liberal as would be natural
with one who handles the money of another.”

“Suppose the lady in question does not succumb to
my charms ?”’

**We must risk that.”

“Why did you select-me for the service ?”’

“Because I knew you would be unscrupulous, and
because you are avery handsome man. Besides, a
foreigner always has an advantage Over a native.
That accent of yours must be retained. It will be of
the greatest assistance to you.”

“Well, I will do the best Ican. What TI like in the
plan is that even if 1 am detected, I shall not have
been guilty of anything. That is more to me than
you will believe, perhaps. I never get under ban of
the law, if I can avoid it.”

“Highly commendable and prudent.”

“When shall we begin? I confess to an actual im-
patience.”

“This is zeal, indeed,’ sneered Lady Isobel. ‘‘We
shall begin as soon as you are ready. You will re-
main here until I can forward you one thousand
pounds for your outfit.”

“One thousand pounds!

“That is nothing to what will follow. But I must
have some assurance that you will not try ‘the
eflicaecy of your system’ with my thousand pounds.”

“The system had but one flaw, and that I have per-
fected,” began the man eagerly, when Lady Isobel
eoldly interrupted him.

“If you talk nonsense there will be an end of this
at once. You must not try your luck while this
matter isin progress. After that you may do what
you will. Make this woman your wife, and you will
atart out with more money than the bank would
have yielded you.”

“Perhaps you are right. I promise you not to try
my luck. But some day I will prove that I have
found the right combination.”

“Then, Prince Radislas, I bid you a very good day.
We shall see so much of each other in London that it
is hardly worth while to annoy each other here.”

“The name of the lady, please.”

“When we meet in London. I have your address,
and I shall not fail to forward the money to you.
With the best wishes for your success, my dear
prince, au revoir!”

Two days later Evelyn greeted Lady Isobel.

“Well?”

“T have found just the man. An Adonis, with the
manners of a foreign nobleman to perfection. A
* thief, a gambler, and a wretch-generally.”

Evelyn turned pale.

“T almost pity her.”

“T would reserve that,” safad Lady Isobel cynically,
“for his success. Remember he must first overcome
her love for Lord Marchmont.”

It was the tonic Evelyn’s resolution needed.

“When will he be here ?”

“As soon asl ean send him a thousand pounds,
and he ean convert it into the wardrobe of the Prince
Radislas.” f

‘‘You shall have the money to-morrow, and I will
give a ball at which yon shall introduce him.”

“T believe,” said Lady Isobel, ‘‘that my beauty
will fall a victim. It would not surprise me if our
man fell in love. That will be the best surety of his
good faith.”

So charming that I trem-

You are no niggard.”

 

 

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3—

A SONG OF THE FALL.
BY LETITIA VIRGINIA DOUGLAS.

Across the eaves the crimson leaves
In serried ranks go flying—

Ah! I divine from this sure sign
That the long days are dying!

But in their stead glows overhead
The early gray of autumn—

The cobweb pall that Night let fall
In folds—and Earth has caught’em.

Oh! autumn-gray, you pass away
Ere we begin to love you!

If you would stay with us alway,
With these warm skies above you!

Now thou art here! of all the year
The coziest, dearest season . . .

We love you so!—and yetyougo ...
I cannot guess the reason.

You mnst give place with all your grace,
To Winter, old and hoary ;

Could you but stay with us alway,
In all your matron glory!

Youth may be fieet and passing sweet,
And pleasant life’s warm summer;
But neither’s near nor half so dear
As the short lived new-comer !

Oh! autumn dusk, like priceless musk
You breathe across my senses:

I love you so, as well you know,
In all your moods and tenses!

Oh! autumn dream, your shadows stream
Across Life’s pleasant slumber .

If they could last! The days slip past.
And with the dead they number!

et 3

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

uly Roslyn's Pensioner

By Mrs. HARRIET LEWIS,

Author of “A Life at Stake,’”’. ““The House or
Secrets,” *‘The False Heir,” ‘‘The
Heiress of Egremont,” etc.

(‘LADY ROSLYN’S. PENSIONER” was commenced in No
33. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER XLII.
“DO TELL ME AT ONCE.”

“Slight are the outward signs of evil thought,
Within, within, twas there the spirit wrought;
Love shews all changes—hate, ambition, guile,
Betray no farther than the bitter smile.”

THE CORSAIR.

Lord Roslyn’s illness continued for the whole of
that day whereon we last left him, carried or led al-
most insensible to his chamber.

Adine was excluded from the room entirely, but a
spirit of resistance against the constant interference
of Vayle Malvern had risen up within her, and she
resolved that she would speak her mind openly, but
with dignity, immediately on the recovery of Lord
Roslyn. Meanwhile, she suffered an intense anxiety
respecting his health; she wandered disconsolately
up and down the length of her own apartments; she
sent incessantly messengers to the sick-room to ask
how the patient was progressing. She felt that there
was more mystery connected with this sudden at-
tack of illness than she was herself able to account
for, even in her private thoughts and speculations.
What mystery there was in her own past career she
had more than once nerved herself with a great re-
solve to confess openly to Lord Roslyn.

Always, and in every case, Vayle Malvern had
stepped in between her and her husband, and had

caused newer and more complicated estrangement
between them.

There was in the garden at Roslyn Manor a fan-
tastic and gloomy row of trees, cut somewhat after
the fashion of those yews and cypresses at Versailles.
But the trees in this English garden were much
larger. They were of wouster growth indeed, and of
exhuberant strength. The constant pruning of the
gardener was required to keep them in shape. These
shapes were strange and grotesque; one was like the
dome of St. Paul’s, another had some fanciful resem-
blance to a tall soldier on guard,a third had even
some likeness to a ship. Others had indeed no defi-
nite shape, but seen in the first faint dusk of an au-
tumn evening, when the west was lined with red, and
the shadows were creeping over the sky, they as-
sumed something goblin-like and terror-haunting.
Superstitious villagers would not have walked down
the ‘‘Dark Walk,” as it was called, after it became
dark.

“Those trees are weird and awful,” whispered the
voices of wonder and fear along the servants. They
had even been heard to whisper before now, that
words distinctly audible had passed between the tall
soldier and another tree, whose extravagantly cut
branches gave it some semblance to a monk witha
hood and a long robe.

In this melancholy walk, shut away as it was from
the sight of the house, pacing on the rich green path-
way of turf which lay between the roots of the trees,
was Adine, Lady Roslyn. She had just received a
message banishing her completely from her hus-
band’s chamber for the night. She had partaken of
a slight repast, refusing all the ceremony of dinner,
and then, wrapping a shawl over her head, she went
out to solace her drooping spirits as best she might
in solitude and the night air.

She walked up and down the yew-tree walk, until
the last red light had faded out of the west. A few
moments more, and the moon had sailed upin full
splendor from the heavens beyond the wooded hills
to the left; dew had fallen heavily, the night breeze
rustled with a faint whisper among the surrounding

shrubs, the odors of the rich flowers in the splendid

gardens were wafted in delicious fragrance toward
Adine. She paused for a moment, sighed, and then
sat down upon a low, carved seat, which was placed
for the accommodation of visitors to the yew-tree
walk.

“This is a beautiful world,’ murmured Adine to
herself, ‘‘and I am surrounded by a kind Providence
with some of the most beautiful things this earth
contains, yet how sadis my lot, how desolate is my
heart?”

At this juncture, Adine distinctly heard a whisper
in the tree against which her seat was placed.

“Lady Roslyn,” said a voice, ‘‘may I venture to
disturb your reverie ?”’

It was Vayle Malvern, the evil genius of the house
of Roslyn, who addressed himself to her. He came
forward now, and stood before her, under the full
blaze of the refulgent harvest moon, his pale, evil
face looking paler than was his wont, Adine’s
heart swelled within her when she looked at this
man, and remembered all that he had made her
suffer.

There is strongly in human nature a great repug-
nance toward the messenger of evil tidings, even
when the messenger is pure of all blame. But when
instinct whispers to us that he who stands before
us charged with the bad news, has been himself the
instigator of much of the harm, it is nomarvel if we
feel toward him a strong and bitter indignation.

“What new story are you prepared to tell me to-
night, Mr. Malvern? There cannot be much more to
communicate. I know of Lord Roslyn’s infatuation
for the needlewoman. Do not distress me by allud-
ing to the subject again to-night; I really cannot
bear it.’

“Alas! were it not that your very life is at stake,
that Roslyn’s infatuation is pushing him beyond the
the limits of crime, I would hesitate, I would pause
before plunging a sword-thrustinto a heart so ten-
der and so faithful as yours, most beautiful, most
angelic Countess of Roslyn.”

The voice of the hypocrite trembled with agitation,
which was not altogether feigned, since he was play-
ing indeed for a desperate stake.”

“The sword has entered my heart and rankles
there,” said Adine, in a sad, cold tone. “I know
that my husband is infatuated with this woman.
When he has recovered, [ shall pray for him to send
heraway. I have some communications to make
also, and I feel convinced that when once a clear un-
derstanding is established between us, much of what
Tendure now will cease to afflict me, meanwhile, I
wish for no interference—excuse my plain speaking
—no more tales, insinuations, or suspicions.”

“You are severe, but you are afflicted, dear lady,
and affliction warps our judgment, and makes us un-
just. Willingly would TI keep silence regarding
this most unhappy affair, but it would prove your
death !””

“My death?” echoed Adine. ‘This is some refer-
ence to a conversation I had with youin our drawing-
room in town. I remember you wished to accuse
Roslyn of a desire to poison me, Mr. Malvern. I will
not listen to a word of that kind again. I have heard
too much from you. I do wrong in believing one
syllable uttered by you againstmy husband, Your

 

stories I consider are preposterous; they either
i from an excited imagination. or a wicked
eart.’

Adinejspoke with more warmth than was her wont.
Her yoice was tremulous, her heart beat fast and
loud. Seen by the moonbeams, her pale, seraph'c
face, and large eyes, glittering with tears, might
have reminded Malvern of some divine Maaonna
after Glorgione.

‘‘Adine,” said Vayle Malvern. ‘May TI call you so?
Creature refined and angelic beyond the ordinary
types of human clay—creature belonging more to
heaven than to earth. How shall I relate the tale
which I have to tell? May heaven assist me, for
words fail, and my heart grows sick!”

The schemer paused as if in violent agitation. He
drew out his handkerchief and held it to hiseyes; a
sigh seemed to convulse his whole frame—a sob
rather, as of a man in a strong agony.

Adine looked at himin astonishmenf. His acting
was perfect, and, she began to fear that he had in-
deed some ill news to communicate.

“Whatdo you mean?” she faltered

He looked at her for an instant with a cold gleam
of triumph in his glanee. He had brought her to
ask, to question him, after saying a moment before
that she would hear nothing of what he had to say.

“T mean that Roslyn, infatuated to madness by his
love for Mrs. Dasham, has conceived the most dia-
bolical notion of poisoning yon. Last night he
placed some deadly drugin the large crystal jar of
water which is tiled and placed near your bed every
night, since you are subject at times to thirst. Last
night, by some chance the jars were changed; the
jar was carried into the earl’s room, and he drank a
small portion of the poisoned water this morning,
not knowing that it was what he had placed for you.
The action of the drug is slow and deadly. Thus
Lord Roslyn was not surprised to find that you had
taken an early walk this morning. I went into his
room early, and my eye, accustomed to study chem-
istry in all its branches, was not slow to discover,
by the sediment at the bottom of the crystal jar,
what had been Roslyn’s aim. I flew off at once to
the wood, where I discovered him with you. I took
him by the arm, hurried him home, told him of what
he had been guilty, and while reproaching him with
his wickedness, I entreated him to swallow the anti-
dote of poison. He was obstinate and refused to do
so. He said that he had failed in removing the only
obstacle which barred him out from happiness, and
that now the sooner he died himself the better. He
went into breakfast, inspite of my earnest entreaties
that he should swallow the antidote. You know the
result; he became suddenly ill. I do not anticipate
danger to his life,’ continued Vayle Malvern, “be-
cause my system of treatment is excellent, but I
must tell you that his brain is becoming terribly af-
fected by his violent infatuation for Mrs. Dasham.
And what do you expect from a madman but crime ?
Suicide will be his next attempt; he threatens me
with that. Lady Roslyn, if you love your erring hus-
band, you will join with me, and aid me to have him
placed under proper medical restraint. The great
responsibility is certainly yours. I pity you from
my heart, but I must tell you what I consider to be
your duty.”

Adine bent her head into her hands.
struck speechless by this false tale.

“What do you say, Lady Roslyn?” pursued the
schemer. ‘Will you aid me in protecting Roslyn
from his own violence? Shall I write to Sir Peter
Carey, the great authority in these matters? And
shall some doctors and medical attendants come
down and remove Roslyn to-night, or at least to-
morrow morning?”

“No,” said Adine, wildly clasping her hands—‘‘no.
Roslyn’s brain is not affected ; nothing can be more
connected than his conversation, more self-possessed
than his conduct, more clear than his reasoning fac-
ulties. I will not write to Sir Peter Carey. He is a
creat and good man, but I have heard it stated that
he has made that one subject paramount, and he is
always suspicious of nearly everybody. He is likely
to pronounce Roslyn mad upon your single testi-
mony. No; I will not write to Sir Peter Carey.”

Vayle Malvern bit his lip through in his mortifica-
tion. Hitherto he had schemed cleverly and well,
and succeeded in keeping apart these two loving
hearts, but he felt all the while that their passionate
affection for each other was stronger than his mach-
inations. They were like two young eagles shut up
in cages apart, beating wildly against the bars, ard
panting to fly away together into the free air of the
sweet heavens.

No cage that his subtle brains had built could keep
them asunder for ever. The Count Lechelle, Mrs.
Dasham, the needlewoman, those two human beings
whose names he had used so far with success, in
establishing s&spicion between the Roslyns, those
two dark shadows, would dissolve like the goblin
shapes of the mountain mists, when once the strong
light of the love of the earl and the countess was
brought to bear on his false stories. Detection must
come at last, unless death or imprisonment kept one
from the other.

This idea of a mad-house was Vayle Malvern’s last
hope, an@ he turned ill and cold at the thought that
if it failed he might be tempted into baser and more
deadly crime.

“You will see the state into which Roslyn has
fallen,’ said Vayle Malvern, sadly. ‘You will find
him in a high fever, raging, storming, and vociferat-
ing, and yet you must not see him, his state is too
fearful.”

“Does he talk of the needlewoman?”’ asked Adine,
with the quick, painful jealousy of love.

“Incessantly,” responded Malvern, eagerly, ‘he
raves of her.- Oh, if you could see the letters he has
written about that woman !”

“T know it,” said Adine, coldly, “I saw her reading
one in the summer-house.”

“And you can forgive him?” asked Vayle Malvern,
violently.

“Until seventy times seven,” responded the count-
ess, in a low voice, gentlé as the murmurof asummer
sea breeze. “I hate sin, but 1 pardon and love the
sinner; would shield him with my own life, and as
yetit is only infatuation, not sin. And there is good
in the young person; she is pretty, vain, weak, but
not vile.”

“Oh, what sweet philanthropy,” sneered Malvern.
‘‘Lady Roslyn, you are too good for this world; but
let us now talk of business. Unless you send for
medical attendants, Roslyn will commit suicide. Yes,
Lady Roslyn, before the morning he may be a corpse,
but there is no time to obtain medical advice before
midday to-morrow: for Heaven’s sake do not delay
it afterward.”

“TI will go to my husband at once,” said Adine, ris-
ing suddenly to her feet, ‘let him be in what state he
may.”

*Damie then, if you will,” replied Vayle Malvern,
“but you must, if you value your life, take in with
you two or three of the men-servants, since Roslyn
is very violent against you, and he might make a
dash at you. I wished to preserve his sad state a
secret from the household; as long as you are not
there, he is comparatively quiet, and nothing has been
discovered or suspected; still, if you insist upon see-
ing him, I suppose the exposure must be made.”

Foiled at every turn, her best feelings harrowed
and outraged, her love, so it seemed to her, spurned
and trampled on, Adine, proud Countess of Roslyn,
wrung her hands and burst into weeping.

“Take my advice, and have Lord Roslyn placed
under safe medical restraint,’ pursued Malvern,
speaking quickly. “I cannot appear in the affair.
You must be the acting party. There is no other
way to save his life. Consider he may speedily be
restored to all his faculties under the skillful treat-
ment of Sir Peter Carey. Write, write, Lacy Roslyn,
write to-night; write what I shall dictate.”

“Sir Peter Carey may not take the view of my hus-
band’s case that you take,” said Adine.

“He may not,’ responded Malvern; andthe thought
that Sir Peter might for once judge him to be sane
was fraught with terror to Malvern. ‘‘But you must
write, state the symptoms, tell the form the mad-
ness takes, incessant cries for somebody whom he
loves, and cannot see.”

Adine sighed a long, tremulous sigh.

“Then, if it must be done,” she said, “let us go and
do it.”’

She moved slowly toward the house as she spoke,
and Vayle Malvern followed her.

In the library with the lamp burning brightly on
the table, Adine sat down to her hateful task.

Malvern stood by her side, and dictated the letter
she was to write.

It was couched in terms of most earnest entreaty
that Sir Peter would hasten to Roslyn at once, since
Lady Roslyn had reason to fear that Lord Roslyn had
a sudden and violent attack on the brain. Then the
letter was dispatched to the post, and Lady Roslyn
retired to her own apartments.

“The more I struggle to escape from the cruel chain
of circumstances that environ me, the more they
press around me, the more closely they hem me in.
This morning I rose, resolved to have a full explana-
tion with Roslyn. Malvern (altvays Vayle Malvern)
comes between us like something evil, separates us
completely. How is it that he is the one chosen by
fate to act as the barrier between my husband and
myself? It seems to me that my dread and dislike of
him increase more and more. While I am with him
I believe all he says—I have no alternative; but
when I find myself alone, I doubt him again com-
pletely. Oh, Roslyn, why am I estranged thus from
you, forbidden to go into your room, now, while you
are ill? Iam weary, weary of my life!”

She threw herself into an easy-chair and wept very
bitterly. She scarcely slept during the night. The
morning found her restless, unrefreshed, miserable.
She called her maid and desired her to make her a
hasty toilet; then she went out into the grounds
and paced about anxiously. She knew that before
long Vayle Malvern would join her. He came, in-
deed, very soon, and they sat under the sheltering
branches of a large mulberry tree on a secluded
lawn.

“Tell me, tell me,” began Adine, eagerly, “what
kind of night has he passed ?”

“T would rather not recall it,” responded Malvern,
shaking his head and turning aside. ‘It was one in-
cessant struggle the whole night, one perpetual out-
ery for that terrible woman to be brought to him,
that he might fling himself at ner feet, and weep out

She was

 

his life there.”

 

Adine turned pale, and her heart sank.

“It must be madness and infatuation,” she said.
“Roslyn is not naturally a base man, but a noble one,
in whose soul and in whose life all good and holy
thoughts and deeds find place. Thisis a slight brain
attack.”

“Slight, Lady Roslyn?’ echoed Malvern, with one
of his slow, ominous head shakings. ‘‘Heaven grant
thatit may proveso! I can say nothing else.”

“You always forebode the worst, Mr. Malvern.”
cried Adine, distractedly. “You never suffer me to
hope, if you can prevent it. There is surely some-
thing cruel in your method of treating these circum-
stances.”

“T pardon everything, Lady Roslyn, because of
your distress,” responded the schemer, speaking
gravely. ‘‘From no other person would I endure the
implied reproach. I give up my days, my nights, my
thoughts, to the service of Roslyn, and in lieu of
thanks I receive reproaches. Still I desire none
other. Let me but serve my unhappy and erring
cousin; let me be of some slight service to his neg-
lected wife, and I shall rest contented.”

“You must, indeed, bear with me,” responded
Adine, ‘‘for my heart is oppressed, and my nerves are
unstrung. If I havesaid anything offensive forgive it;
and now let us go again into the house. I am impa-
tient for the arrival of the doctor.”

‘‘We have not breakfasted either,” responded Mal-
vern, ‘let us go imand refresh ourselves.”

They went in and partook of breakfast. Afterward
Adine again entreated that she might be permitted
to enter the sick-room of her husband.

“It is impossible!” cried Malvern. “You have no
idea of his state ; besides, hc sleeps now, or I could
not leave him.”
cae me at least look at_him while he sleeps,” cried
Adine.

At this moment a hired carriage drove up to the
front of the mansion.

“Tt is Sir Peter Carey,” cried Adine, clasping her
hands. ‘‘Now I shail know the worst.”

Sir Peter Carey entered the breakfast-room, accom-
panied by an assistant-surgeon. Sir Peter was a tall,
thin, eager-looking man, with scanty, dark hair, a
fine brow, a clear eye, penetrating, yet pitiful; but
Adine‘read abstraction in his glance, that look which
betokens a man who has given up his life to the con-
templation of one idea. A few kind words, an en-
treaty to Lady Roslyn to ealm herself, and then the
two doctors went out of the room, accompanied by
Vayle Malvern.

Adine watched breathlessly for their return, but it
seemed to her that their consultation was long and
dubious. She stole into the marble-pillared hall, and
listened eagerly. Then she heard a door unlocked,
but nobody appeared.

At last the slow-measured tread of Sir Peter Carey
sounded on the velvet carpet of the staircase; in an-
other moment he had stalked majestically into the
apartment. He held his large plain gold watch in
his hand and his face was solemn and sad.

‘Tell me,” faltered Adine.

“Take a little wine; prepare yourself. Remember
that your own life is most precious.”

“Tell me,” responded Adinc; ‘do tell me at once ?”

CHAPTER XLIII.
STILL DECEIVED.

“Had it pleased Heaven to try me with affliction,
Had he rained all kinds of shame on my bare head,
I should have found in some part of my soul
A drop of patience! Butalas! tomake me
A fixed figure for the time of scorn
To point his slow, unmoving fingerat! Oh! oh!”
OTHELLO,

Sir Peter Carey looked compassionatcly into the
fair face of the countess.

“Tam compelled to tell your ladyship.” he said,
slowly, “that the Earl of Roslyn is in a sad state of
health, bodily and mentally, but it is the mind which
is the most seriously affected, unhappily. Thereisa
strange torpor in the brain, a wild glare in the eyes.
He murmurs indistinctly, and yet repeatedly, some
name; he looks about distractedly. Evidently some
disappointment, some shock to the systein, has laid
hold on the mind; and I think you cannot do better
than allow us to remove Lord Roslyn in a day or
twoto my establishment at Salsham, where, under
careful and constant supervision, we will hope he
may speedily find relief, if not an instantaneous
cure.

Adine listened with perfect calm to this painful
communication, while her heart stirred wildly in her
breast, and a feeling of dread sunk into her soul.

“Is it absolutely necessary that Lord Roslyn be re-
moved ?”’ she asked.

“TItis indeed absolutely necessary,’’ returned Sir
Peter, with a wise shaking of his head.

“But I may, I must see my husband,” said Adine,
eagerly. ‘‘I have been forbidden, kept entirely out
of his chamber.”

Sir Peter looked at Adine in surprise.

“T can see no possible reason,’ he said, ‘“‘why you
should not be allowed to enter your husband's room.”

Indignation against Malvern was strong and high
in the soul of Adine.

“T have been told.” she said, speaking with the
slow emphasis of anger. ‘I have been told that my
husband was in a wild and dangerous state, that
- I went near him, he might fly at me, to do me

arm.

‘*There is not the slightest danger of such a catas-
trope,” said the good doctor, speaking in amaze-
ment. “You may visit your husband without any
fear whatever.”

“Then what is the use of removing Lord Roslyn to
a distance?” asked Adine.

“Simply, your ladyship, because he will be under
my care more constantly; every’ change will be

marked, and every precaution taken; and thus his.

recovery will be accelerated. There are certain
forms, however, to be gone through, before his lord-
ship can be removed. You must write, as the person
in power, to consign your husband to my care, and
I, with two other doctors, must sign a certificate of
lunacy.”’

Adine started violently at the sound of that word
with dreadful meaning. She put her delicate hand
to her brow, and turned away her face.

“Lunacy !”’ she faltered, aftera moment’s pause.
“You do not mean that my husband is a lunatic?”

“Do not let the word alarm you, Lady Roslyn,” re-
plied Sir Peter, gently ; ‘she will recover, and all will
yet be well. Meanwhile let us lose no time in having
these arrangements made, which must precede Lord
Roslyn’s removal to Saltham. You must empower
me to remove him, stating it to be your belief that he
is suffering under mental derangement, and that a
few months’ residence at Saltham would benefit him
greatly.”

“A few months!’ echoed Adine. ‘Oh, Sir Peter, a
few days, afew weeks at most!’ and she looked at
the good doctor entreatingly.

“We can but hope for the best,” was the sententious
reply of the doctor. ‘*And now will your ladyship do
what I requested of you? Will you write out the
order at my dictation ; it must be duly witnessed and
signed, and afterward we will return to the earl’s
chamber.” i

With hands that trembled in spite of the restraint
she put upon herself, Adine wrote a declaration at
the doctor’s dictation, which stated that her husband
was in avery critical state, and that his mind was
unhappily so much affected, that she considered it
right he should be placed under careful medical
supervision and restraint.

“And now for two trustworthy witnesses,” said Sir
Peter. ‘‘Mr. Malvern, Lord Roslyn’s cousin, will act
as one, and I conjecture you may find another who is
to be trusted among the servants.”

“There is his valet,” said Adine.

The doctor rang the bell, and the valet was sum-
moned, as well as Mr. Vayle Malvern. This valet
was greatly in the confidence of Vayle Malvern.

The paper which Lady Roslyn had written was
now duly witnessed. The valet was dismissed with a
‘vaution as to secrecy, and then Adine turned toward
Vayle Malvern, with dignified disdain.

“You told me, Mr. Malvern,” she said, “‘that I could
hardly enter my husband’s presence without danger
to ny own life. Now, Sir Peter Carey informs’ me
that there has not been the least reason forthis most
tyrannical assumption on your part; henceforth, I
shall obey nobody’s directions but those of Sir
Peter.”

“You are very wise, Lady Roslyn,” replied the
hypocrite, humbly, ‘‘to attend to no orders save those
which you receive from my learned friend, Sir Peter;
but iny solicitude on your account must plead my
excuse, if I ventured to dissuade you from losing
your night’s rest in Lord Roslyn’s chamber. In the
absence of Sir Peter, I have, I fear, assumed more
than I had a right to do, but in his presence I bow to
his superior knowledge with all respect.”

Sir Peter took a pinch of snuff, and thought Mr.
Malvern one of the most polite and sensible young
men he had ever met with.

“And now,” said Lady Roslyn, “I must go to my
husband.”

She stepped forward as she spoke, and crossing the
room hastened out of sight of the good doetor and
the evil schemer. She found her way at once to that
splendid chamber of luxury, where Lord Roslyn lay
smitten down by this sudden and mysterious attack.
It was a magnificent apartment; gold-framed wmir-
rors, each frame a gem in its elaborate carvings and
basso-relievo figures, after old models, were placed at
intervals against the tapestry-hung walls. Now and
anon an alinost prfteless gem from the brush of Cor-
reggio or Del Sarto, some holy picture of Virgin and
Child, some saint wafted into the seventh heaven
among golden clouds and divine-faced seraphs, met
the gaze of the visitor. The floor was covered with
tigers’ skins, formed into a large and costly carpet;
the bed was of gold and rich blue flowered satin, the
panopy festooned with gold cords. Uvon the centre
were the crests and cipher of the house of Roslyn,
worked in seed pearls. Adine rushed up to this gor-
geous bed; her husband lay in a sort of stupor which
was not sleep; his face had lost its pure dark tinting,
that Italian coloring which is so rare and so beautiful $
the look of health was gone, and a sickly pallor was
spread over the clearly chiseled features; his eyes
were haif-open, but there was no consciousness in
them. Adine went and laid her beautiful hand upon
the white, feverish hand of her husband.

“You may leave the room, Miles,” she said to the
valet; ‘I will watch by the side of Lord Roslyn.”

The valet withdrew, and Adine was alone with her
husband.

“Oh, Eustace!” she murmured, leaning over him.

At the sound of the voice so dearly beloved the earl
stirred, and a gleam of consciousness came into his
face. He struggled to find utterance.

“Adine.” he murmured, “I am dying, all my love
destroyed by your hand. I knowall. Do not think
that I am angry. You hate your yoke. I hope my
death will make you happier. Your hand in mine.”
His strong will seemed absolutely able to compel his
drugged faculties into exertion. “I die by your dear
hand, Adine,” he repeated; “but let no thought of
guilty self-reproach whisper that I died unforgiving.
Oh, Adine, make your peace with Heaven; my wife,
so beautiful, so pure, but yet so cruel.”

She bent over him tenderly. To her his words con-
veyed no other meaning save that his mind was wan-
dering.

“Tam not cruel, Eustace,” she faltered, ‘‘and you are
not dying.”

At the moment she could, and did rejoice that it
was his mind’s abstraction, not the promptings of a
wicked heart, which had tempted him into laying a
snare for her life.

One of the tales suggested by the evil, fertile brain
of Vayle Malvern, the story of the poisoned water
intended for herself, now reeurred to her mind, and
she fancied she detected in these wanderings of the
earl’s mind a reflection of the thoughts which had
tempted him toward a crime for which she did not
deem him responsible.

“There has been no cruelty, Eustace,” she repeated;
“only you are ill.”

“You have hated me very much,” said her hus-
band, looking at her with a mixture of tenderness
and reproach.

“No, Eustace, no,” and her heart swelled with a
great sob; ‘‘no,no. When you get well again, you
will find out that I do uot hate you. Your love has
been given to--to others.”

He looked at her passionately.

“You think of that boy’s love perpetually; Adine;
not that—this last. My love is yours, Adine—oh,
yours, my wife, to the last hour of the life which you
have taken!”

She only smiled pityingly atwhat she deemed his
wanderings.

“T will not talk more,” she said, tenderly, “‘because
you must sleep.—Ah! what is this ?”

For the earl, exhausted by the efforts he had made
to keep his thoughts together, had sunk back faint-
ing on his pillow.

Adine held salts to his nostrils, and bathed his
brow with eau de cologne. Presently he opened his
eyes, and his wife was holding a cordial to his lips.
It was like the face of a Madonna, after Raphael,
holy, peaceful.

He drank the cordial, with a smile, partly calm
and tender, partly sad, partly bitter.

“I take it in all faith, Adine. It is sweet to trust
you. You will let me die in your arms, my Adine ?’”’

“No,” she said, looking at him with a fond smile,
“because, Eustace, you are notdying. You will very
5000 recover.”

“It is inexpressibly sweet to hear you say s0,” re-
plied the earl, “if it were but true.”

Then, after so much mental effort, the effects of
the powerful drug, whieh, we need hardly say, Vayle
Malvern had administered to Lord Roslyn, took away
his consciousness once more, and Adine saw by her
husband’s wandering eyes and uneasy gestures that
he was no longer aware of her presence. She watched
him for some time longer, and then, suddenly, Sir
Peter Carey entered.

He went at once to the bedside, and contemplated
his patient longand earnestly. Astrange expression
settled upon the doctor’s face.

“It is a remarkable case, this stupor,” said Sir
Peter.

“He has been quite conscious twice,” said the
countess.

“There is evidently some weight upon the brain,”
said Sir Peter. ‘“‘We must get Lord Roslyn removed
to Saltham as soon as possible.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
OPALS.

In the early days of the world’s history the opal
was prized above all other gems, and was looked
upon as the embodiment of all that was lucky. A
Roman dame prized none of her possessions so
highly as her opals, and fortunate indeed did she
consider herself if she happened to be the owner of
@ more than ordinarily beautiful specimen. The
fair fame of the opal remained untarnished through-
out the middle ages; and two or three hundred
years ago our ancestors showed a fondness for this
beautiful stone which rivaled that displayed for it
by the Romans. But by a strange freak of fashion
the opal was brought down from its high estate. It
is becoming popular again now; but in the earlier
days of the century it was almost valueless, so great
was the discredit which superstitious people had
cast uponit. This dislike to the opal has been at-
tributed to the Russians, for the stone is so unpopular
among the subjects of the Czar that should one of
them happen to descry an opal, nothing will induce
him or her to make any purchases that day. There
is a universal belief among them that every kind of
bad luck is sure to follow transactions entered into
on a day upon which an opal has been brought be-
fore their notice. The reason for this antipathy is
that Russians regard this gem as the embodiment of
the ‘“‘evil eye.”’

Sir Walter Scott must to a certain extent be made
responsible for the bad odor in which the opal has
found itself of late years. In ‘‘Anne of Geirstein” he
alludes to the belief that the Mexican opal loses its
beauty when exposed to the action of water, and
puts this down to supernaturalagency. Hence arose
the idea that to wear an opal is the royal road to all
manner of ill-luck, and that as a love-token the stone
shows the continuance or decline of the giver’s affec-
tions in proportion as its colors are bright or clouded.
Whenever its hues suddenly changed, misfortune of
et kind or another was believed to be close at

and.

The unpopularity of the opal is, however, capable
of being explained in a more prosaic manner. Itis
a well-known fact that the stone in an opal ring is
very apt to be lost in an unaccountable and myste-
rious fashion. This arises from the fact that the opal
possesses the characteristic of becoming slightly en-
larged under the influence of heat. When, therefore,
its owner’s hand gets hot, it is liable to swell and
force its setting open to a certainextent. When it
grows cold again, the gem returns to its original
size. This process is repeated until the setting be-
comes sufficiently enlarged to allow the stone to
drop out unnoticed. Another equally practical rea-
son for the ill-favor with which opals are regarded is
that they are very easily broken, and cannot therefore
be looked upon as safe investinents.

The most magnificent opal in existence is one
which was unearthed in the Hungarian mines a
hundred and twenty years ago. It was acquired by
the Austrian Government, and now rests in the Iin-
perial cabinet at Vienna. An offer of sixty thousand
pounds made forit by a jeweler was refused. This
splendid stone weighs seventeen ounces; it is
nearly fourinchesinlength,and isindescribably lovely
in coloring. If ancient records are to be believed, it
is, however, by no means the most valuable opal that
has ever been discovered. A Roman senator, Nonius
by name, is said to have worn in his ring one, which
though no bigger than a haze) nut, was of such sur-
passing brilliancy that its worth was estimated at
various sums ranging from a hundred thousand
pounds to a quarter of a million. When Cleopatra
pledged the enamored Antony in a draught of vine-
gar in which tradition says that she had dissolved
a pearl of fabulous worth, the enslaved triumvir en-
deavored to obtain possession of Nonius’ opal in
order that he might present it to the beautiful Egyp-
tion. Butthe senator was too fond of his splendid
jewel to be induced to part with it, and so sought re-
fuge in flight, recognizing the fact that his master,
having failed to obtain the gem he coveted by fair
means, would have no hesitation in resorting to foul.
In vain did Antony try to find him. He concealed
himself and his precious opal so successfully that the
latter has never been seen or heard of since.

Arabia and Syria are said to have been the coun-
tries from which the ancients obtained their opals.
They are, however, no longer renowned for this
particular gem, Common varieties of the opal are
tound in many parts of the world; but the precious
or noble opalis mined almost exclusively in Hungary
and Honduras. The Hungarian opals are the finest
in the world. Those which come from Honduras are
less milky, and are also somewhat deficient in that
fiery luster whichis so striking a characteristic of
the best stones.

© RR re ee

A USEFUL HOUSEHOLD ARTICLE.

 

After a housekeeper fully realizes the worth
turpentine in the household she is never willing to
be without a supply of it. It gives quick relief to
burns; it is an excellent application for corns; it is
good for rheumatism and sore throats. Then it 1s @
preventive of moths; by just dropping a trifle in the
drawers, trunks, and cupboards it will render the
garments secure from injury during the summer. It
will keep ants and bugs from the closets and store-
rooms by putting a few drops in the corners and
upon the shelves; itis sure destruction to bedbugs,
and will effectually drive them. away from their
haunts if thoroughly applied to all the joints of the
bedstead, and injures neither furniture nor clothing.
A spoonful of it added to a pail of warm water is ex-
cellent for cleaning paint.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

<<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 20>

VOL. 46—No. fe

 

 

Ve ev vee vee

NEW YORK, NOVEMBER 1, 1890.

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STREET & SMITH,
P. O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

A SMART WOMAN,

BY KATE THORN.

* = «+ - 75e.|2copies - 2 « = $5.00

oe = © € €''6

 

 

“He’s got a smart woman for a wife.
put things through, nobody can!’

We overheard this remark the other day in regard
to one of our neighbors, and it set us to thinking
what is generally meant by the term “smart
woman.”

The smart woman need rot have much education.
If she can reckon up the cost of six pounds and a
half of beef at seventeen cents a pound; and if she
knows how to change a five-dollar bill and take sixty-
two cents out, she has enough mathematics in her
head. Women who spend their time dawdling over
books are almost always poor housekeepers. What
business has a woman to read? What business has
she to want to read? A woman’s mission is to care
for her children and cook her husband’s dinners;
and algebra, and chemistry, and geography will not
help her to do it.

lt is quite enough if her husband knows what is
going on in the world; if she wants to know about
it, let her ask Aim. If he thinks it proper for her to
know, he will tell her, after he has had his smoke
out, some evening.

A smart woman gets up in the morning before the
sun. No lying in bed for her. There is no lazy blood
in her body, and nobody but a lazy, shiftless piece
would waut to lie abed till seven o’clock.

‘*Early to bed and early to rise
Make a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

To her mind these are the noblest lines ever writ-
ten. The author of them is several degrees greater
than Shakespeare.

The smart woman rises early and gets everybody in
the house up betimes. No wearing out of bed-clothes
on her premises, after five o’clock.

Breakfast at six!

Everything is hurried, because there is so much to
do! The potatoes are half-done, and the biscuits
doughy in the middle, and nobody knows the coffee
from dirty dish-water, because it was thrown to-
gether in such a hurry.

The smart woman sits down to the table the instant
the meal is placed thereon, and begins to eat with all
her might. She does not wait for anybody, because
she has to bake and iron, and fix over'a dress, and go
to market, and clean the paint in the back bedroom
before dinner!

Everybody swallows his coffee scalding hot, and
swallows his steak as a fish does the bait.

She finishes long before anybody else, and begins
to pile up the dirty dishes before she leaves her seat.
She very kindly tells you that you can sit till you get
through, and makes you feel like a culprit as she
says it. She asks youif you have done with the po-
tatoes, because, if you have, she will pare what is
left to put in the hash for to-morrow morning. Then
she wants to know if you are through with the meat;
if you are she will put it in the pantry, away from
the flies. Of course you are through, and you tell
her so with an amount of vicious emphasis quite un-
necessary.

Then you swallow a mouthful of bread and butter,
and rise from the table, and leave her in undisputed
possession of the field.

She hurries through the dishes—drives the hungry
cat outdoors to catch a mouse—flings a bone to the
dog, and slams the door on him; seizes the broom
and whisks the dirt out of the middle of the floor.

Then she goes at the week’s ironing. To see her
handle the clothes, one would think that each indi-
vidual garment had at some time done her an irre-
trievable wrong. She jerks the sleeves of the shirts,
and slaps the bosoms, and pounds the irons on the
one as though she meant to annihilate them
totally.

She has some cooking to do, and she does it with a
will. No foolish dawdling about her. The very pie
erust realizes that a smart woman has it in hand.
The bread will not dare refuse to rise with her sharp
eye uponit. The cookies must be short when such
short work is made of them.

When night comes, as it does come even to a smart
woman, she tells her husband what a day’s work she
has done. He never dreamed of anything like it!

And she is tired to death, and does wish he would
get through soaking his doughnuts in that teacup,
for she wauts to wash it, so’s to get the work out of
the way some time to-night.

And if he wants to do anything, he’d better shell
the beans for dinner to-morrow, or take hold and
help chop the mince meat, and let that pesky news-
paper go to grass! For her part, she doesn’t see
why anybody wants to be forever poring over a
stupid newspaper!

And so the days of the smart woman’s life go on,
and resolve themselves into years; and by and by
she dies, prematurely aged, at thirty-five or forty;
but everybody says she was a smart woman, and
wonders who the widower will have for his second
wife, and what will become of the smart woman’s
parlor carpet and best dresses.

If she can’t

WHAT A TRADESMAN SAID.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

“Mr. Harker, write a word for me?”

“What is that?” Iasked of my good marketman.

“Write of the miseries we poor wretches suffer, we
tradesmen who must weara smile and bow, no mat-
ter how unreasonable a hot-tempered customer is!”

True; I have often noticed myself, when I com-
plained of a disappointing roast, how the red blood
flew up into the face of my own marketman. Behind
all his smile was a surge of suppressed anger; he
wanted to give meas good asI sent, which would
not do atall you know. All tradesmen know what
this misery means. You are not at fault about
the meat, the flour or the shoes. You did your best,
yet the thing was not satisfactory. Probably the
fault’s with the customer himself; you warned him
that he was buying a cheap article, but he would
have it; you foretold him that the shoes would not
fit, yet he would insist on trying for himself. Now,
when he comes back angry, it is very hard to decline
to speak out to him. But ground for ground is not
good policy.

Add to all the above that the man owes you an un-
paid bill already, or that he is at least slow in pay-
ments, or that he always wants to barter, expecting

ou to trade it out at his shop—then his growl is very

1ard to smile at. And if, more yet, he insinuates

that you lie, and were intending all the while to de-
fraud him—if he threatens to take his trade away,
trade that you do not care for any way very much,
except thatyou hate to lose itina huff—then your
good-natured smile is something heroic; it almost
equals the martyr smile at the stake.

But, my friend, you, too, are a customer to some
one else. If yousell meat, you buy coals. How do

J you treat your tailor? You have a chance to bluster

and fret, to brow-beat and complain, in the tailor'’s
shop. You can call him a fool, politely, and insinu-
ate that he is a liar. Do you avail yourself of the
privilege? If so, turn and turn about is fair play.
You know how itis yourself. If you do not like it,
suppose you do not inflict it.

Tf,one stops to think, isit, after all the worst school
in the world, this behind-the-counter school of self-
control? If you can keep your temper all day in the
shop, perhaps you can be sweet as sugar at your own
home at night. Can you? Ordo you take it all out
of your wife and children? For shame, man! You
love them best on earth. If you can repress your
temper under abuse, for dollars and cents, can you
not do it for love? A young man may thank his stars
for the discipline of the shop. I know a young sales-
woman, a beautiful girl, who lost a lover through a
quick temper. The winter after, her rich father
failed in business and she bravely resolved to clerk
it, that the family might not suffer. Before she went
into the big store, her temper was as ugly as her face
was beautiful. To-day, after a year of that schooling,
she is one of the most amiable ladies of my acquaint-
ance. She has, by the way, captured the junior part-
ner and is to be married soon.

There are some men so insolent that their trade is

not worth the endurance. A friend of mine recently
told me of such a case. He said for years he had
suffered the rich man’s brow-beating in silence. But
not long ago he resolved to have it out with the man
the next time.
_ “All-the stirred up anger of thirteen years rose up
inside my jacket. I simply declined to him my usual
sinile at first when he began. He looked astonished,
and resumed, half apologizing. I said, ‘my friend,
you and I are done. Don’t you ever enter my store
again. You haven’t got trade enough in all your
family, and your sons’ and daughters’ families, to
compensate for your ungentlemanly ways.’ With
that I walked off and left him.”

For my part, that was good sense. There is no
reason why aman should turn dog fur the sake of
success in ashop. There are true ladies and gentle-
men enough to give onea living trade without ex-
pecting a man to lick spittle from the floor, at such
people’s feet asI am describing. There is as much
place for true dignity and self-respect behind a
counter as in front of it.

A tradesman generally invites disrespect, if he gets
it. That is, there are tradesmen with whom you
would never think of taking any such liberties. There
are others who cringe, offer false excuses, and de-
serve sbarp answers and complaints by failure to
keep promises, and, on the spur of the moment, in-
venting new ones that are transparent as glass.

A man generally gets his deserts in any neighbor-
hood. There is the inveterate joker, for instance.
You dare say anything to him. There is the insolent
salesman who is too familiar with you; you cansnap
out a complaint to him, and not feel deterred. There
is the dull salesman who never correctly under-
stands an order; the forgetful man, who gives you
every excuse fora reprimand; the sharp trader, who
ought to expect, when found out, to be roundly
scolded. But the true man, the merchant of years
on that village corner, the trim and prompt clerk
who is a true gentleman, you do not take any liber-
ties with such people. You rather look for the fault
in yourself.

Trade is a world in itself. It offers every chance
for self-culture that any drawing-room or cottage
holds, differing only in means. There is no place on
earth where true worth so rapidly wins its way with
men. No one sees so much of human nature, except
the doctor and the ticket-seller at a railway station.
And it may be truthfully said that no faster, fonder
friendships are made than those formed over the
counter where buyer and seller meet day after day.
God bless my marketinan! What secrets of joy and
sorrow I have told him, in the mornings of twenty
long years!

WHAT A FLOCK OF GEESE

BY HELENA DIXON.

DID.

It was a sultry afternoon in July, and Kitty Ryan
was growing drowsy over her sewing, when her
mother came briskly up the box-bordered walk and
entered the cozy sitting-room, near one of the vine-
draped windows at which the young girl was seated.

Mrs. Ryan and her daughter were as unlike each
other as mother and child could well be.

The widow was tall and angular in form, with flinty
black eyes, and hair of the same color, glossy and
straight, and always combed from the low, broad
forehead with critical precision. The broad mouth
was firmly drawn down at the corners, while the
whole contour of her face betokened an inflexible
willand a firm adherence to any formed opinion.
Kitty was short in stature, slender and sylph-like in
form, with deep, blue eyes full of melting tenderness.

 

Then she had the curliest auburn hair, and lips, that
in their smiling curves, bespoke a yielding disposi-
tion.

“Kitty,” said Mrs. Ryan, as she took off her sun-
bonnet and wiped the perspiration from her face,
“the geese have all got into Ralph Homer’s wheat
lot, and you will have to go and get them out. If
young Homer should find them there they would all

come home with'broxen bones. Ralph is just such
another as his father was before him. There never
was any good in any of the Homer stock. So run
along and get the geese home before he sees them.
Strange that George and Will always happen away
just when they’re wanted at home.”

Soon Kitty was walking down the maple-shaded
lane which ran between the two farms. The wind
murmured musically through the leaves of the trees,
and the little brook, which skirted the road-side,
purled over its stoney bed in soft and harmonious
responses.

And Kitty heard, and naturally enough gave way to
musings quite foreign to her errand.

But though the geese running riot in Ralph Homer’s
grain were forgotten, the young master of the do-
main himself was not.

Kitty’s memory carried her back to the days when
as schoolmates, she and Ralph Homer had been all
in all to each other, and, the time when the boy, then
grown to young manhood, came home from the
Princeton Academy to set her childish heart flutter-
ing with his lover-like attentions.

Then came one of those schisms which so often
destroy the harmony and good-will of long-tried
friends.

Mrs. Ryan and her husband considered themselves
the injured parties, the former declaring that henee-
forth neither she nor hers should have aught to do
with the Homers; and old Homer, equally ready to
lay the blame on the Ryans, forbade his family ever
torenew the acquaintance, now virtually at an end.
Several years had passed since then, and the heads
of both families were moldering to dust, and yet the
neighbors kept aloof from each other.

All this, and a great deal more, came to Kitty’s
mind as she walked, and she wondered with a little
sigh whether Ralph remembered her as she did him,
and whether they always were to be as strangers to
each other. ey

But the great flock of geese were doing mischief
surely, and Kitty soon forgot her cogitations in pur-
suit of the truant bipeds.

A goose has either less brains, or more obstinacy,
or both, than any other creature, and these, either
could not or would not, see the broken board through
which they had entered; and Kitty’s patience was
becoming exhausted when her foot caught upon a
stone, causing her to fall to the ground. She at-
tempted to rise, but a violent pain in her ankle ren-
dered it impossible.

In another moment Kitty was lying on the ground
in a dead faint.

When she recovered she found herself in the shade
of a huge maple, which overhung the brook, with
somebody who was bathing her head with water
from his hat. And somebody’s eyes looked tenderly
into her own as she opened them, and then, seeing
she was so pale, a stout arm encircled her waist for
support, ;

Kitty was in the care of Ralph Homer. And with
his arm still about her, and his face soclose to hers
that their hair almost mingled, Mrs. Ryan found
them, as shecame in quest of Kitty, whose protracted
stay had somewhat alarmed her.

The widow’s face grew dark with passion, and her
eyes had a ferocious gleam in their black depths as
they rested on the frank, though now slightly flushed
face of the young man.

“Kitty, I am utterly astonished at you; and as for
you, sir, your presumption is only equaled by your
stupidity. Never dare, sir, to speak to my daughter
again.”

“And why, madam ?”’

“You know very well why. If you do not, let your
memory of the past help you to the knowledge, never
attempt to span the gulf that years ago came between
us. Come, Kitty, what ails you? Getup and come
away at once.” a

Then Kitty found the use of her tongue and stam-
mered forth the cause of her non-return. ;

“Well, I can earry you home,” said the widow,
coldly; her pity for her daughter's suftering lost in
her anger at finding her in company with the man
she considered her bitterest enemy. She was bend-
ing over Kitty and endeavoring to lift her, when
Ralph pushed her gently aside and with alow-spoken
“permit me,” addressed more’ to the daughter than
the mother, he lifted the suffering yirl in his arms as
though she were a mere child, and bore her home-
ward, Mrs. Ryan following close in his path, silently
anathematizing both the young farmer and the un-
lucky accident which had made his assistance neces-
sary. j

When they reached the widow's cottage, Ralph
deposited his burden on the sofa, received Mrs.

 

Ryan’s formal and insincere, ‘‘thank you,” pressed

Kitty’s hand in a way that sent the warm blood ina
rosy flush to her pale face and departed.

But if Mrs. Ryan flattered herself that here the
affair would end, she was doomed to disappointment,
for every morning; during Kitty’s confinement to the
house, Ralph was with her, and Mrs. Ryan, though
very angry, made no open opposition to his visits,
but muttered something about “farmers leaving their
work to take care of itself, while they forced their
company where their room was preferable.”

But gradually as she saw more of the young man
whose daily visits always brought such a happy light
to Kitty’s eyes, Mrs. Ryan. almost unconsciously to
herself, began to like him, and as this new feeling
grew upon her, she often found herself glancing with
acmiring eyes down the maple-shaded lane to rest
on the broad stretch of meadow and upland beyond.
It was the finest farm around, the widow began to
acknowledge to herself, and then came—though more
tardily—a second acknowledgment, viz.: that if
Ralph was a Homer, he wasn’t so much like his
father after all, but more resembled his mother,
against whom personally Mrs. Ryan could remember
nothing evil.

The widow was standing in the door-way overlook-
ing the Homer estate when this conclusion became
settled in her mind. Probably the undulating stretch
of the well-tilled acres had its influence in bringing
about this decision. Be this as it may, the next
morning when Ralph called as usual to learn how
Kitty was doing, instead of sending the little maid of
work to admit him, with injunctions to stay with her
young mistress until Mr. Homer left, Mrs. Ryan her-
self met him at the door, and conducted him, with
encouraging smiles and pleasant words, to the cool
parlor where Kitty was reclining. Of course after
such a generous and unlooked-for reception, the
young man's visit was longer than common, and be-
fore he left he was made happy by the assurance
that Kitty’s love and her mother’s consent to an
early union were his.

Aud all this through the predatory proclivities of
a flock of geese.

oa

“THE BACKSNAPPER PAPERS.”

Next week our patrons will have the pleasure of
perusing the opening article of a series of humor-
ous articles, by DAN’L BARBERRY, entitled “THE

BACKSNAPPER PAPERS.” Several characters typical

of country growth are quaintly pictured, and their
conduct is very drolly depicted.

MRS. RAYMOND’S ECONOMY,

BY ANNA RAVENDALE.,

Drifting—drifting away into the quiet land of
dreams-—half uncertain whether he was awake or
asleep, with a pleaSant semi-consciousness the
while, of the clear fire glimmering on the wall, and
the gray kitten purring drowsily on the hearth-rug,
George Raymond had a very narrow escape from a
sound nap, when his wife came in, with fluttering
dress and elastic step.

“George, dear!” said she.

“Well, Cis.’ He was wide awake in a moment,
and ready tomake an affidavit that he hadn’t had
the least idea of going to sleep. ‘‘What is it, little
busybody ?” he asked, lazily stretching out his hand
to play with her watch chain, as she came toward
him.

“Can you spare me ten dollars this evening ?”

“Of course I can—what is it for?’ he asked,
leisurely opening his purse and handing her the
money.

“The milliner’s bill; she will be here early to-mor-

row morning. Thank you, dear.”

Mrs. Raymond sat down on a little hassock, close
to the sofa, when she had put the money in her
purse, so that the firelight played genially on her
delicate face with its shadowy masses of dark hair,
and large, violet-gray eyes.

“Well, Pussy, what are you thinking, about?” said
her husband, after a few moments’ unBroken silence.

“Totell you the truth, George,’ said Mrs. Ray-
mond, looking up smilingly, **I was wishing that, in-
stead of coming to you for everything I want, I had
a regular allowance of my own.”

“A regular allowance of your own?” he repeated.
“Really, that is very complimentary to my gener-
osity !

“T knew you would laugh at me, George; yet in-
deed I do wish it very much indeed.”’

“And pray, why? Don’t I give you everything you
ask for ?”

“T know you do, my love; yet I should feel richer,
somehow more independent, if I had my own re-
sources—if you would allow me just such an amount
every month.”

“How much would satisfy you, little miser ?’”’

“Well, I think I could do very well on forty dollars
a month.”

*Do you happen to know that I have handed over
to you just one-third more than the sum you specify
during the last four weeks? It strikes me you would
not be muchof a gainer, pecuniarily speaking, by
this new system of finances.”

“But I believe I should, George, for it would teach
me to calculate and economize, and _

“In short, you want to try the experiment?” said
her husband.

“That’s justit,” she said, coaxingly.

“My dear, this is all nonsense,” said he. ‘Believe
me, I understand the care of money better than you
do.”

“Then you are not going to indulge me?” said Mrs,
Raymond, and there was such a plaintive accent in
her voice, that her husband checked himself in the
midst of a tremendous yawn, to look full into the ag-
grieved little face.

“My dear,” he said, laughingly, ‘I have never re-
fused you anything you chose to ask, and it isn’t
likely I shall begin to assert my independence at
this late hour. Take your forty dollars a month—
take what you pléase—but I’m considerably mistaken
if you don’t come to me, teasing me for ‘just a little
more money’ before the four weeks have expired.”

“Now you shall see!” said the delighted little wife.
“What shall I render in payment of your docility,
Mr. Prophet ?”’

‘A kiss,” replied her husband. “And now be off
about.your business, and let me finish my nap.”

How often, during the next twelve months, George
Raymond rallied his wife within an inch of the ‘‘cry-
ing degree” about her financial schemes—how often
he alluded mischievously to the probably exhausted
state of her purse, and his entire willingness to hand
over any amount of money the moment she would
confess herself to be wrong, and him to be right, until
she was nearly tempted to abandon her cause in
despair. But she persevered so bravely that after a
while he declared that he believed his little wife could
do very well with a smaller sum than he had pre-
viously had any idea of.

“But I know you are denying yourself scores of
feminine fol-de-rals, Cis,’ said he. ‘Say the word,
my dear, and I’ll make it fifty dollars a month, in-
stead of forty.”

“No, indeed,” said Cicely, decisively. ‘Didn’t I
tell you that forty would be enough? And it is.”

Nearly five years had passed away. It was a
stormy night in March; the clouds were flying before
a strong gale, and the air was chill and raw with oc-
easional gusts of snow. Mrs. Raymond sat in her
cheerful parlor, stitching away at a little frock for
her sleeping baby, and singing some half-forgotten
melody to herself as she worked,

“T wonder what makes George so late,’’? she mur-
mured, as a stronger )last than usual shook the win-
dows and roared down the chimney. “I hope it isn’t
any difficulty in his business matters. He has looked
very grave lately.” :

The words had searcely passed through her mind
when the door opened, and Mr. Raymond entered.
He did not speak to his wife as usual.

“George, are you ill, dearest? What is the matter?”

He made noreply. Sherose and came to his side,
reiterating her inquiries.

“Ask me no questions, Cicely.” he said at length,
in a tone so strangely altered that she started at its
sound. ‘You will learn evil tidings soon enough.”

“Tell me, my husband. Are not my joys yours,
your sorrows mine? Surely we have not ceased to
be one ?”’ : ; ;

“Cicely,” he said, rising, “I did not intend to cloud
your happy brow with my griefs; but it is too late
longer to dissemble. I had hoped, dearest, to out-
ride this storm of disaster, which has wrecked so
many of our wealthiest merchants in its whirlpool of
failure. To-morrow, however, a heavy payment falls
due. I had relied on receiving debts which would
fully liquidate the amount; instead of which, I have
heard to-day of the failure of the firm on which I had
so wholly depended.”

“But can the amount be raised in no other way,
George ?”’ es

“By borrowing here and there—by straining my
eredit to the utmost, and scraping together every
dollar of available funds, I can raise the sum, all ex-
cept one thousand dollars. But it might as well be
one hundred thousand. Unless the whole amount
is met, | am a ruined, disgraced man. To think
that my whole future life should be darkened for
want of one thousand dollars !”’ :

“And is that all you lack?’ asked his wife.

“All!” hereplied. **But whatis the use of dwell-
ing further upon it. I appreciate your sympathy,
Cicely, but it is vain.” ; :

He sank back on the sofa, clasping his hands op
his elosed eyes. He must have lain there motion-
less for five or six minutes, when Cicely, who had
left the room, returned, and laid her soft hand or
his forehea‘, ‘

 

! that they were only ‘“‘got up” for sale.

 

our childhood’s fable of the lion who was released
from the net by a little mouse’s tiny endeavors ?”’

“What of it?’ he asked, with a vague apprehen-
sion that Cicely’s wits had been a little unsettled by
the sudden news of their impending misfortune.

“Well, I am the little mouse—you the snared lion.
Here is the sum you want. Take it, and may it
prove useful in your time of need !”

He sat suddenly upright, staring alternately at
her and the roll of neatly folded greenbacks.

“But, Cissy, how—when—— ?”’

“Dear George, I saved it from my allowance,” she
replied. “I thought perhaps the day might e-me
when it would be welcome. Believe me, my hus-
band, it gives me ten thousand-fold more pleasure
to place itin your hands than to have expended it
in waste, or on anything that I did not absolutely re-
quire,

“My darling wife!’ faltered George Raymond,
“vou have preserved me from ruin. This crisis once
passed, I can bid defiance to misfortune.”

At that moment Cicely seemed to him to wear the
lovely guise of an angel of rescue. Later in the
evening, as she sat by his side, she could not forbear
whispering, with a touch of loving mischief in her
voice, “George, who was right about my financial
abilities, you or I?”

“You little tease!’ said he, laughing. “TI never re-
alized before what a blessing it is to have an econ-
olmical wife.”

MR. TWIDDLE’S LOVE AFFAIR,

BY EMORY CROSSDALE.

My name is John Twiddle, my age is twenty-five,
and I am what is commonly ealled a ‘‘counter-
jumper,” and was until lately employed in the dry-
goods establishment of Messrs. Flash & Co.. Iam
not employed there now, and this is how the trouble
came about:

One day a young lady came up to the counter, and
asked me to show her some black satin ribbon.

I glanced at her; an electric shock thrilled me from
head to foot. At last I had found my ideal of female
beauty! Don’t ask me to describe her—I eannot,
except very sketchily. She was of medium height, as
fair as a lily, and with the most uncommon of all
eyes*eyes of a violet blue.

She paid for the ribbon, said “Good-morning” (I,
in my chaotic state of mind, murmured ‘“Good-
night’), and went.

A deep gloom seemed to fall on Messrs Flash and
Co.’s establishment, and I wondered why they didn’t
light the gas. ;

Would she come again? What was her name?
Where did she live? And, above all, was she mar-
ried? were the questions [asked myself. ‘Twas the
last query that robbed me of sleep and spoiled my
appetite. If she was married, then adieu to all my
hopes of future happiness. If she were not, then
why should I not aspire to lead her to the altar? for
though she was most lady-like, she was very plainly,
but neatly dressed.

But I was not long left in doubt. She did come
again—she came frequently, but her purchases were
never of great bulk; and though I always asked ifI
should send whatever she bought—even if it were
only a yard of ribbon—in hopes of learning her name
and address, she invariably replied, in dulcet tones,
“No, thank you.”

How was I to make my passion known? A busy
dry-gzoods establishment is not exactly the most ap-
propriate place for a declaration of love. I endeay-
ored to show her what an impression she had made
onme. I infused somuch love in my eyes that they
almost bulged out of my head; but the only effect it
had was that she once asked me if I didn’t feel well,
and if I were subject to nervous derangement. Then
IT advised her as to her purchases. In this I was
falsetomy employers, for I exposed the cheap quality
and flimsy texture of certain articles, and explained
IT even went
further, for now and then I slipped a pair of gloves,
ayard of ribbon, or a small piece of lace into her
parcel, of course charging her nothing. This was
risky business; but what will not man risk for the
woman he loves? I knew how dearly the feminine
heart loved finery, guessed from her inexpensive
attire that her means were limited, and thought that
surely it would disclose my feelings toward her.

But though always extremely pleasant, I cannot
say thatshe ever gave me any encouragement. She
never even thanked me for the little presents that I
—or Messrs. Flash & Co., unknown to themselves—
gave her.

At last I determined to come to an understanding.
T would write her a letter, and slipit into the next
lot of goods she bought.

I did so, offering her my hand and heart, then
anxiously counted the hours for the time to arrive
when I might reasonably expecta reply. Butday
after day went by without bringing it.

I was feeling very sick at heart when I received an
intimation that Mr. Flash wished to see me in his
private apartment. So dejected did I feel that not
even the prospect of an increase in my salary—
which I had been expecting for some time, and pre-
sumed was now about to be realized—raised my
spirits. Buton entering the room, I saw that some-
thing very disagreeable must have occurred to make
Mr. Flash’s usually genial-looking face as black as
a thunder-cloud.

“Twiddle!”’ he said, sternly, ‘Iam more surprised
than I can say to find that a man of whom I re-
ceived such a good character should turn out to be a
thief !”’

‘‘A—a—thief, sir!” I stammered.

“Yes, a thief! Do you know these articles ?’

He opened a parcel, displayed a couple of pairs
of gloves, a few yards of ribbon, and some small
pieces of lace.

Yes, [knew them. They were the little presents
that I had given to my charmer.

“What have you to say, sir?’ asked Mr. Flash,
sternly.

“I—I must plead guilty, sir; and I know I’ve acted
very wrongly, though the full extent of my guilt
didn’t strike me at the time. The fact is, sir, I—I
have been—er—well, sir, hardly responsible for my
actions of late. Pl-please, sir, I’m in love,” I blurted
out.

“So I see, by this idiotic letter!’ he answered,
holding up the epistle I had written to my adored
one.

“How onearth did he get hold of the presents and
letter ?”’ I wondered, quite dumfounded.

“And,” continued Mr. Flash, “you are not only a
thief, but you have not done your duty in other re-
spects. You’ve been exposing the little secrets con-
nected with our trade,”—he referred to my pointing
out that many articles were flimsy and almost worth-
less—nothing better than swindles—‘fand making
love to one whom you thought to be a bona Jide cus-
tomer. It may interest you to know tLat the lady in
question is married, has two children, and is a detec-
tive employed by us to guard ourselves against be-
ing robbed by such scoundrels as you !”

“Please, sir, | fee—feel faint 2?” I faltered.

“And so you ought to,” observed Mr. Flash. “TI
have a good mind to prosecute you; but as you seem
— according to this letter —to be more fool than
knave, I will content myself by instantly dismissing
you without a character. Go!”

' I went.

oo oo

AN EXTRAORDINARY OPERATION,

Wonders in the surgical line are very common, and
perhaps the most extraordinary operation on record
is just reported from Paris.

Dr. Lannelongue, an eminent specialist in the
Children’s Hospital, has just succeeded in the effort
to give intelligence to a poor little idiot. The child,
a little girl, four years old, hada deformed head,
only about one-third the size of an ordinary little one
of her age. She never smiled, never took notice of
anything, and she could neither walk nor stand. The
doctor became convinced that the condition of the
little creature was due to the abnormal narrowness
of the head, which hindered the natural growth of
the brain. About the middle of May last he made a
long and narrow incision in the centre of the skull
and cut a portion out of the left side of it, without
injuring the dura mater. The result of this opera-
tion was something astounding. In less thana month
the child began to walk. Now she smiles, interests
nerself in everything around her, and plays with a
doll. A tolerably bright little child has taken the
place of the idiot.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Abstinence should be the exception, temperance the
rule.

Tf a manshould happen tew reach perfeckshun in
this world, he would have tew die immediately tew
enjoy himself.

One ov the best evidences ov our immortality iz
our desire tew be so.

A man who haint got enny imaginashun at all, iz
just right for a hitching post.

Love iz the fust pashun of the heart, ambishun
the seckond, and avarice the third and last.

o_

Patience will tire out ennything but musketoes,

The chains of slavery are none the less gauling for
being made of gold.

Old age is covetous bekauze it haz larnt bi experi-

 

“Dearest, look up a moment. Do you remember

ence that the’best friend a man haz in this world iz
hiz pocket-book.

The love that aman gains by flattery is worth just
about az mutch az the flattery is.

“Happy as a king,” is a libel on happiness, and on
the king to.

Deference iz silent flattery.

If you will be familiar, you must expect tew lose
the confidence of phools, and the esteem oy the wise.

Learning is a good deal like strength—it requires
good hoss sense tew know how tew apply it.

Grate men are knot bi enny means the best of com-
panyuns; they seldum kan ever enjoy themnselfs,

Confess yure sins to the Lord, and yu will be for-
even confess them tew men and you will be laffed
at.

Impudence is nothing more than open hypockrasy.

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTIBUTORS

ce 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

Gipsy, Jersey City,—To make peach cakes, pick clean
and wash a quart of dried peaches, and let them stew all
night in as much clear water as will cover them. - In the
morning, drain off most of the water, leaving only as
much of it about the peaches as will suffice to prevent
them from burning after they are set over the fire, It
will be best to have them soaked in the vessel in which it
is intended to stir them. Keep them covered while
stewing, except when the lid is taken off to stir them up
from the bottom. When they are all quite soft, and can
be mashed into a smooth jam or marmalade, mix in

half a pound of brown sugar, and set the peaches to
cool. In the meantime, soften a quarter of a pound of
the best fresh butter in half a pintof warm milk, heated
on the stove, but not allowed to cometo asimmer. Sifta
pound of flour into a pan; pour in the warm milk and
butter (first stirring them well together), and a wine-
glass of stroug, fresh yeast. Mix the whole into a douch,
cover it, and set itin a warm place torise. When quite
light and cracked all over the surface, flour the paste-
board, put the dough upon it, mix in a small teaspoonful
of sub-earbonate of soda, and knead it well; then set it
again in a warm place half an hour. Then divide the
dough into equal portions, and make itup into round
cakes about the size 1n circumference of the top of a tum-
bler. Knead each cake. Then roll them out into athin
sheet. Have ready the peach jam mashed very smooth,
and with aportion of it cover thickly the half of each
cake. Fold over the other half so as to inelose the peach
jam in the form of a half-moon. Bring the two edges
close together and crimp them neatly. Lay the cakes in
buttered square pans, and bake them brown. When done
grate sugar over tbe top. These cakes are nice for chil-
dren, being very light, if properly made and baked, They
are by no means rich, and are good substitutes for tarts.
Similar cakes may be made with stewed apples, flavored
with lemon and sweetened, or any fruit stewed toa jam.

L. B. K., Newark, N. J.—Cardinal John Henry New-
man, who died recently at Edgboston, a suburb of Bir-
mingham, Eng., was the author of the poem referred to,
beginning:

“Lead, kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom,
Lead thou me on;
The night is dark and I am far from home,
Lead thou me on.
Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.”

Cecilia M., Augusta, Ga.—The original Topsy in “‘Uncle
Tom’s Cabin” was Mrs. George C. Howard, and the
original Eva was her daughter. Mr. Howard personated
St. Clair. The story was dramatized by George L. Aiken,
a cousin of Mrs. Howard. Mr. Howard was a native of
England, but removed to the United States in 1836, and
first appeared on the stage of the Chestnut Street Thea-
ter, Philadelphia, in 1838, as an amateur. He died in
Cambridge, Mass., on Jan. 18, 1887, aged 66.

M. J. M., Macon, Ga.—To have fried cauliflower, first
boil it in milk until thoroughly done; take it out, drain
it, and cutitup into very small pieces, adding a very
little salt and cayenne pepper. Have ready in a frying-
pan sufficient fresh butter, and when it comes to a boil
and is bubbling all over, put in the cauliflower and fry it,
but not until it becomes brown. Make a large slice of
toast, dip itin hot water, butter it, lay it on a dish, and
put the fried cauliflower upon it.

Harry D., Jersey City.—It isa question, whether the
locomotive was first successfully applied to passenger
cars on the Liverpool and Manchester Railroad, on the
Charleston, S. C., and Hamburg Railroad, or on the
Baltimore and Ohio Railroad, although it is
conceded that all three roads were thus operated for the
first time in 1830. The locomotive was in use in this
country in 1829, carrying coalon the Delaware and Hud-
son Canal Company’s road.

L. M. C., Philadelphia.—The Poughkeepsie Bridge is
3,094 feet from anchorage to anchorage; the lower chord
of its fixed spans is 130 feet above high water, while the
base of the railroad rail is 212 feet above high water. The
Brooklyn Bridge has a span of 1,59544 feet clear over the
river, and its total length from Park row to Sands street
is 6,537 feet; its clear height at the middle of the river
span is 135 feet above high water,

John F. Hay.—We will furnish the following books on
legerdemain for the prices stated: “Magic Made Easy,”
10 cents; ‘‘Parlor Tricks with Cards,” 30 cents; “Wizard
of the North,” 30 cents; ‘‘Fireside Magician,” 30 cents ;
“The Parlor Magician,” 30 cents; ‘““Herman’s Book of
Magic,” 30 cents; ‘“Magician’s Own Book,” $1.50. The
magic bottle will cost $1.50 for two wines; $2 for three
wines, and $3.50 for four wines.

Mrs. C. L. L., New Brunswick, N. J.—John Lloyd
Stephens, an author of note, was among those who were
active in establishing the first American line of transat-
lantic steamships. Ifheis the one referred to, he was
President of the Panama Railroad Company, and super-
intended the construction Of the road until his death. He
was born in Shrewsbury, N.J., Nov. 28, 1805. He died in
1852.

Pleasant Valley. ist. Not until the breaking out of
the American civil war did the trade in slaves cease to
be profitable. That war nearly put an end to the trade,
but the precise information you desire upon the subject
we are unable toimpart. 2d. The first numberof Good
News appeared on May 15, 1890, You can be supplied with
all the back numbers.

Mrs. H. McD., Pioneer, Montana.—ist. The tragedy of
“Oatiline” was written by Ben Jonson. 2d. The verses
on waltzing, to which you refer, are said to have appeared
early in this century, signed Sir H. E. Bart., and were
entitled in their earliest form, ‘“To a Pretty Waltzer.” The

“initials given stand for H. Engentield.

Alex. R. V., Flushing, N. Y.—A person born on Feb. 29
may keep the anniversary of his or her birth in the non-
leap years, either on March 1or Feb. 28.. We should say
that the latter date would be preferable, because in law
the year of age is completed the day before the anni-
versary of that of the actual birth,

Sidney G., Troy, N. Y.—James G. Blaine, the present
Secretary of State, at the age of 27, shortly after his re-
moval to Maine, about the time of his first entry into
political life, became a member of the Congregational
Church, with which religious body he still retains con-
nection.

L. OC. L., Newark, N. J.—1st. G. L. Fox, the comedian,
died at Cambridge, Mass., on Oct., 24, 1877, aged 52. 2d,
“Harry Leslie,” the tight-rope walker. died «ut Flatbush,
N. Y., on April 27, 1884. His real name was William
Wright. He was born i East Troy, N. Y., in 1837.

L. A. R., Omaha, Neb.—Charles Haddon Spurgeon, the
famous Baptist preacher, was born in Kelvedon, Essex,
Eng., on June 19, 1834. Before he was eighteen years of
age, he became pastor of a small congregation ab Water-
beach. He was called to London in 1853.

J. W.J., Brooklyn, N. ¥.—We believe there are free
classes for young ladies in stenography and type-writ-
ing at the Cooper Union, and at the Young Women’s
Christian Association, in Fifteenth street, near Fifth ave-
nue, this city.

Elvia, Buffalo, N. Y.,—‘‘Curfew Must Not Ring Tos
night,’ was written when the author, Mrs Rosa Hart-
wick Thorpe, was sixteen years old, That was in 1867,
but the poem was not published until 1870.

R. L. A., Jamaica, N. Y.—The corner-stone of the City
Hall, this city, was laid on Sept. 26, 1803, for which cere-
mony an appropriation of fifty dollars was made, It was
completed in 1812, at an expense ot $538,734.

Bolivia, New Orleans. The engines of the steamship
Great Eastern were designed to develop 10,000 horse-
power, driving the vessel at the rate of sixteen and a half
miles an hour.

William N. D., Annapolis, Md.—The day known in
Wall street, this city, as Black Friday, when the great
gold panic occurred, was Sept. 24, 1869.

New Reader.—The longest street in this city, running
frém river to river, is Fenrteenth street. It is nearly
two and a half miles long.

Mrs. G. H. A., Valley Falls.—The hole in the can is
made to let the gasses escape. Afterward it is soldered
as described.

B. W. B., Binghamton, N. Y.—The_corner-stone of the
statue of Liberty, on Bedlow’s Island, was laid on Aug,
5, 1884

Medham G., Massachusetts.—It is said that magicians
“to eat fire anoint the tongue with liquid storax.”

Nick of Mount Vernon,—We can only suggest that you
consult a New York business directory.

C. V.—The letters signify ‘Parting Call” or “Pay Part.

 

ing Call,

 

 

 

 

 
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vue, veces THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 3%

 

NORAH!

BY CECIL LORAINE.

Gray-eyed, ldughing, handsome Norah!
How you stole my heart from me,

And I wooed and won you, darling,
Soon my own true wife to be!

Every merry word you uttered,
Every witching glance you threw,

Made me more your slave than ever,
And I vowed to love but you.

In your own bright home I met you,
There I saw your beauty rare,

Flashing eyes, so gray and lustrous,
Dusky cheeks, and raven hair.

Norah! then I vowed to woo you,
To myself, for evermore.

Now you're mine, my promised darling,
And all doubting fears are o’er!

Darling! all my life I’ll love you,
Guarding you with fervent pride,
Thanking Heaven each day and hour,

For my gray-eyed little bride!

this try Wil Not he Pus in Ban Fom.

A QUEEN OF CRA.

_

By DUNCAN McGREGOR,

Author of “A Double Secret,” ‘‘From Deep to
Deep,” Etc.

 

(“A QUEEN OF CRAFT” was commenced in No. 48.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

CHAPTER X.—(CONTINUED).

“He does not think me good enough for Arundel!”
Laura cries, foaming and raging in her own room.
“Good! Who could be good, cast into such a life as
mine? Wasltoblame? Did I make myself? DidI
choose my lot? Icould be good enough if I were
once Countess of Loanby. Any one could be good if
one were a countess.”

All these paroxysms of passion reach their height,
and ebb away, and leave one to consideration.

Laura is no coward who dares not look matters in
the face. She must know her dangers, to defy them,
and to conquer them.

To aid her thoughts, as before, she sorts a winning
hand atcards. Butnow Laura lays aside the card,
“Saint Just Vicars;” she has lost that. Saint Just
does not now seem among her probable conquests,
but rather among her enemies. He will never ask
her to be the Lady of Vicars Hall; instead, he will
use all his influence to keep her from being Countess
of Loanby, and she has suddenly learned that he is
an opponent worth fearing. Miss Du Bois makes up
her mind to one thing—she will be revenged on Saint
Just Vicars—and here, quite ignorantly, she unites
her plans to those of Mr. Jaegars and the Butterfly.

If Laura could only separate Saint Just from Arun-
del, even for a little while; if she could get Arundel
into the lovely seclusion of Vicars Park—among the

roses and the daisies, and all the simple scenes
where love is wont to dwell, she was sure of bring-
ing him to an avowal. Once the offer of his hand
made, there would be no retreat, and speedily she
would be prospective Countess of Loanby.

Thinking of this, Laura for an instant was sure of
her prize—so sure that. she found herself consider-
ing what a bore it was that the earl was in the prime
of life, ard likely to keep his son out of the title for
many years. And what another bore it was that the
dowager countess was alive, and was so much de-
ferred to by her brother-in-law—the earl, and his
heir.

And now Laura turned to a third card—‘“the
squire.” Evidently the old man was charmed with
her. If she married him she could secure the fifty
thousand pounds under the Boothby will, and she
could secure settled on herself the squire’s savings,

vhich were said to reach a hundred and fifty thous-
and pounds.

Tf she could excite ill-will between old Mr. Vicars
and Saint Just, then marry the squire, and have him,
between love for her and spite against his heir,
settle upon her his accumulations, her avarice and
her revenge would both be gratified.

As arich, youthful widow, Laura might some day
gain atitle. Her mind was madeup. Arundel and
the Diamonds were one strong point; her main ef-
fort must be to secure the heir of Loanby. But the
next best thing would be to marry the old squire, to
whose house she was going.

Heigh, then, for Vicars'Park!

While Dinke packed Laura’s boxes, and Laura
lounged in a great, softly cushioned chair, making a
mental inventory of her possessions, and devising
charming country costumes for the destruction of
mankind; shealso mentally composed a letter, which
immediately after reaching the park she meant to
send to young Arundel. It should read in this wise:

“DEAR MR. ARUNDEL :—Pardon my intruding upon
your studies, but I am so alarmed about my dearest
friend, your aunt, that I must write. She is in
very delicate health, I think—much worse than she
or any one else suspects. I make sure, from what
she says, that she is longing to see you, and will not
send for you. But if this is her last wish in life, how
could I fail to secure its gratification? It seems to
me that yon and Mr. Vicars had better come separ-
ately—you first, and then Mr. Vicars—to avoid tiring
her.

“Dear Mr. Arundel, I am very unhappy. I hope
you will come and prove to me that I am alarming
myself needlessly, and thatI am not about to lose
my dearest, my only friend and protector.

**LAURA.”

This seemed to Miss Du Bois such a gem of a note,
and so exactly suited to secure her a few
days’ unhindered intercourse with Arundel in the
country, that she sprang from her lounging position,
and flew to her desk to write it, leaving it undated.

Congratulating herself on this happy inspiration,
she went to see the countess, who, revived at the
very thought of getting away from London, was
seated at her desk. writing an article on compulsory
education for one of the educational journals. She
gave Laura a seat at her side.

‘Laura wasin a plain, close-fitting black silk, and
‘was intent on getting liberty {9 go out alone, so that
she might visit Mr. Vennel and secure a further two
hundred pounds, which should cover her expenses
until autumn.

The countess dropped a sheet of manuscript, and
as Laura stooped to pick it up a gilt chain on the
table wrenched off a button from the bosom of her
dress, and a little fiat black velvet sac, like a per-
fume sachet, slipped into sight.

“What is this?” said the countess, playfully, tak-
ing it before Laura could securejit. ‘A charm—a
love philter? Some relic of a lover beyond the seas,
who will come and earry off the London belle?”

She held the velvet lightly on her hand, all uncon-
scious that she now had in her clasp two of those

recious stones whose loss was devouring her kind

eart with chagrin, and preying on her health.

Laura almost snatched the treasure from her
friend’s hand.

“It is the hairof my parents, each lock coiledina
little gold hoop,” she cried, tucking the booty out of
sight.

Then eatching the countess’ hand and kissing it,
she said:

“Oh, forgive me! How hasty and rude I must
seem! But do you know; it 1ushed on me that I
might have lost that in the street, and so forever
parted with the relic of my parents, and it overcame
me. My teachers in school always said that I was
wickedly impulsive.”

The countess had drawn back offended at the
hastiness of Laura’s manner, but the girl knelt beside
her, and said, caressingly:

“Please don’t be horrified at a poor stranger. I
will improve some time. If you will look pleased, I
will do penance by going to Lady Gray with the par-
cels you have arranged for the girls’ industrial
school; and [ will visit the institution with her, take
notes, and bring you a report.”

*T wish you would,” said the mollified countess.
“My dear, | long to have you interested in benevo-
lent enterprises. I cannot bear to see a young
woman leading a useless or selfish life. I knowif
you begin to visit these schools you will be charmed,
and continue to work for them.”

“Yes,” said Laura, ‘and in the country I can visit
the scliools, and compare them with those in London,
and I can spend pleasant hours there, under the
trees, making aprons and caps for the pupils, while
you knit.”

“So Harley shall order the coupe to take you to
her ladyship, and go at once, or you will miss-her.
You are dressed very suitably for the errand.”’

Thus Laura’s expedition was quickly planned to
her satisfaction, and by the time the little carriage
was at the door, Dinke had made her mistress ready,

 

and a small parcel with a linen circular, and’a thick
brown vail, lay among the other parcels in the
coupe.

Miss Du Bois entered her ladyship’s house—the
packages were handed to the footman, and her
coupe drove off,

“My lady is just gone to the schools,” said the
maid, coming to Laura in the drawing-room.

“Am I late?” cried Laura, who had taken especial
pains to be late, by ordering the coachman to go a
roundabout way. “I think, as the schools are not
far, I will call a cab and join her ladyship. The
countess is very anxious about the visit.”

A cab was called, and Laura entered it, carrying
one small parcel. Once in the cab, she donned the
circular and vail that were in this parcel, and or-
dered the cab-driver to take her to Finsbury Pave-
ment.

Once more Mr. Vennel was delighted to see his
fair client. Once more Laura pleaded for money ad-
vanced on her expectations.

Vennel, on the other hand, boldly asserted that she
had told him that the diamonds previously bought
were only a part of the rajah’s gift to her mother,
and that she had better leave the others with him.
Nowhere else could they be so safe.

Not that either Solicitor Vennel or his client was
deceived. Vennel felt a profound conviction that
these stones were a portion of the Loanby dia-
monds. He even knew what portion they were.
The cross pendant was composed of thirteen very
fine stones, and this he was sure was the jewel that
had been broken up. Five of the stones he already
had, and two more were this day given into his
keeping.

As he took them, a terrible temptation seized him
to go to the Earl of Loanby, put him on the track of
his treasure, and ask a large reward. He almost re-
on to do this. But, then, could he make himself
safe ?

His was a dangerous business that would not bear
ppveatingrers and investigation would perhaps fol-

ow.

Laura, on her part, knew that Vennel was shrewd—
too shrewd not to put together the facts of her living
with the countess, of her having fine gems to pledge,
and the countess’ loss of equally fine stones—and
put them together in such a way as to make a strong
chain of evidence—that she was consigning to him
the Loanby diamonds. Yet she argued that she
would hope, by silent acquiescence, to obtain, sooner
or later, all the diamonds, and that he would not
dare to bring himself and his business into public
notice.
se mutual danger, is our mutual safety,” said

aura.

And now there was Billy to be appeased.

“Mr. Vennel,”’ said Laura, ‘may your clerk take
me to an omnibus?”

And so Billy and Fanny were m the street together.
They entered a narrow alley. Said the girl:

“Billy, Lam going to the country. and you must
make no inquiry for me, until you hear from me. See,
Ihave brought you this locket, with a curl of my
hair. And, Billy, Miss Chick is my enemy, so I want
you to keep her good natured by being as nice to her
as euer youcan. Make love to her, Billy, to throw
her off our track.”

“I’m afraid she’ll nab me, if I do,” said Billy.

“No, indeed! You’re too sharp. You just make
love to her.”’

“Next week I’m going to Oxford. I’ve a crow to
pick with that Saint Just Vicars. I hate him,” said
Billy, wildly.

“Billy, if you'll get that man into trouble. I’ give
you twenty kisses !”’ said his “cousin,” fervently.

A fortnight later Mrs. Jaegers was sitting moodily
amid the pretty pastures of the Thames embankment.

Hovering amid the flowers came a Butterfly in
blue coat and brass buttons.

This gorgeous creature took a seat by the discon-
solate Jaegars.

“Stand treat!
of college !”

“What! What has he been doing?” Jaegars was
white with excitement.

“Doing? Something bad, no doubt.

Your blessed cousin is turned out

Marrying a

 

 

 

 

LAURA ALMOST SNATCHED THE TREASURE FROM
HER FRIEND’S HAND.
cook; cracking abank; forging a note; making aw-
ful debts; fighting a duel. Something prodigious I’ll
be bound. At all events, there’s the duse of a row!”

CHAPTER XI.
THE FACE OF TRUTH.

It was not the Durham prize bull which came snort-
ing and trampling early one summer morning—as
early as before breakfast—into Squire Vicar’s east
drawing-room. It might have been the bull, for the
noise, and general disturbance created; however, it
was the owner of the bull—a kindred spirit.

Stretched lazily on a blue satin sofa, was the long
slender figure of Gilbert Arundel, very much at his
ease, running his white ringed hand through his crest
of yellowcurls. Gilbert wassmiling pleasantly, inhal-
ing country air, rejoicing in the prospect of seeing
Laura, and monchalantly regarding acertain contre-
temps which had just befallen him.

In a large arm-chair, lounged also the more mus-
cular figure of Saint Just Vicars. Considerable vex-
ation was evidentin the keen, brown eyes, and in
the lines of the firm mouth and chin of which Laura
Du Bois was in positive fear.

At the blustering entrance of the squire, Arundel
gracefully waved a salute, but Saint Just dutifully
arose.

“What's this? Zounds, sirs, what’s this?) Whatdo
I hear?” bellowed the squire. ‘‘Disgraced! Dis-
missed from college! What are you here for?”

“Not so much disgrace; it frequently occurs,” said
Arundel, complacently. ‘‘I never did have the knack
of getting on at Oxford, and, really, Mr. Vicars, this
is a lovely place to drop into!”

“Tam here,” replied Saint Just, ‘‘because the gover-
nor told me to come home, and I came—and Gilbert
came because our aunt is here, and he expects her to
settle his matters with the earl.”

“Don’t blame Saint Just, sir.” said Gilbert per-
ceiving that the squire was very red in the face.
‘Weare only sent home because we had so many
absences—without leave, most of’em. But it is all
my fault. Saint Just wanted ine to keep at Oxford,
but I really couldn’t—London had so many attrac-
tions—and he came after ine to keep me out of mis-
chief. Fact is, they gave him leave to stay if he’d
made an apology, and promise to hereafter stick to
his studies better; but he couldn’t promise, as he had
me to 1ook after.”

“Yes, Arundel,” said Saint Just, laughing, ‘‘we al-
ways have sailed in one boat; [was bound to share
your fortunes.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” said the squire, looking more

benign. “Very well. I’m glad you hunt together.
But confound it all, why couldn’t you two stick to
your duties, and get properly through your univer-
sity. Do you never mean to finish? Your course
has held on longer than all those who started with
you.” ;
: “It’s my fault,” said Arundel; ‘but I could not
persevere inathing. I was obliged to make diver-
sions, and veer about here and there; and this time
again it is all my fault. There is a woman at the
bottom of the trouble now, sir—Miss Du Bois was so
enchanting——”

He stopped short, for through an open window
tripped Miss Du Bois, arrayed in dainty blue, float-
ing ribbons, shining curls, garden hat, swinging in
one hand, dancing in.

“Squire, here’s a bouquet for your button-hole!”

She, too, stopped short, beholding Arundel rising
before her, and her face flushed with joy, as in fancy
she saw ber most desired victim fairly within her
snares. hen ata step behind her, she turned her
head, and trinmph faded from her face, for there
stood Saint Just.

“Miss Du Bois,” saidthe squire, ‘frown on them
both; don’t countenance them; they are sent from
college like a pair of half-bred boobies,”

Laura looked reproach at Arundel.

*Ah! did [not warn you not to let Mr. Vicars
bring youup to Londonsomuch! I doubt but he
has a lady-love there. I heard that a certain curate
in the East End had a pair of nieces famous for
beauty, and for good works in the industrial schools.
Nodoubt he has fallen into their snares when he

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

waited on her ladyship to those same precious
schools!” :

The face of the listening squire grew black.

“Saint Just, if you fall into such folly you'll find
out who’s master. Zounds ¥let me catch you!”

“I’m too old to be spoken to like a child,” cried
Saint Just, indignantly, “many aman at my age is
married !”

“By Joye, I wish you were married!” roared the
squire.

“IT don’t—until I see a woman I can love,” retorted
his son, hotly.

“Love! love! what schoolboy nonsense !”’ bellowed
the Durham bull] on two legs. ‘There, Saint Just,
T’ll find you a wife, whose charms will wear well.”

Saint Just flushed purple, but Arundel promptly
answered:

“It’s not Saint Just who has the love-making to
answer for. I’m the culprit. Here is the fatal siren
who lured me from Oxford to the fairy isles of Lon-
don’s West End. Saint Just, like another Ulysses,
would have stopped my ears with wax, and tied him-
self to the mast, and so carried us clear, but I got the
better of him.”

The squire looked helplessly from one to another,
at these classic allusions, and Arundel, pitying his
dullness, said plainly :

‘You see, I was running after Miss Du Bois—my
escapades are her fault!’

 

 

 

 

“tT TOO CAME TO LONDON TO PAY MY HOMAGE AT
YOUR SHRINE.”

“Miss Du Bois!’’ cried Saint Just, resolved to
break the point of all these arrows of Arundel, ‘‘bear
me witness, I, too, am one of your most devoted. {,
too, came to London to pay my homage at your
shrine; do not slay me with jealousy by ignoring me
as an admirer!”

Laura pouted,

“Oh, T see, I see,” cried the brilliant squire, in high
glee, ‘‘the beauty is jealous! That’s why she talked
ofthe East End curate’s nieces! And now, Miss
Laura, you will be contented here by the Blackwater,
with two lovers at your feet. But see that. you give
them both fair play !”

The footman threw open the door, and the count-
essentered. She had improved so rapidly in health
since her coming to her childhood’s home, that Laura
had not dared to send her cunningly composed letter
to Arundel.

But now, Arundel was here. Only they were ham-
pered by the invincible Saint Just.

The squire hurried to give hls sister his arm.

“See, your ladyship. Here are two bad boys. I
had a letter late last night from the governor, com-
plaining of them. Scold them well, my lady. Scold
them well.”

“My dear boys,” said the countess, giving each
nephew a hand anda kiss, ‘I am sure you cannot
have been doing anything very wrong, and I am very
glad to see you. Isee that compulsory education is
not working satisfactorily in your case!’’

This was the countess’ scolding of her nephews—a
fair sample.

The five went to breakfast. Laura sat by Arun-
del, but that was small advantage, for opposite
them was Saint Just, and Miss Du Bois felt that
his dark eyes read her every action and look.

How should she secure Arundel for herself? How
separate him from Saint Just until he could make
brief work of his wooing.

“Sir,” said the Queen of Craft, to the squire, ‘‘when
naughty boys have played truant, the best punish-
ment is toset them at work. You and I will make
the lives of this pair of truants amisery. You shall
set your son revising all the steward’s accounts in
your office and I will take Mr. Arundel to the schools,
and make him hear all the little tow-heads drone
through their multiplication table and catechism.”

“So we will,” said the squire, who hated revising
the accounts, and generally cast the duty on his son.

“Saint Just, after breakfast come with me.”

“Now, father,” said Saint Just, briskly, ‘didn’t you
tell Miss Laura to give us two fair play? And don’t
you see sheis taking off Gilbert, and he’ll have a
chance to say no end of pretty things, while I’m tied
up at accounts? That’s not fair. I’m going to
school too, and when Arundel says she’s an angel,
I’ll say she’s a seraph; when he says her eyes are
like violets, ’l1l put.in sapphires. If he helps her
over one stile, I’ll help her over the next. If he pre-
sents adaisy, I'll follow suit with a buttercup; that
will be fair play.”

“So it will,” said the squire, “so it will!’

All that summer day, Laura framed mental male-
dictions against Saint Just.

Allthat day, this Queen of Craft maneuvered to
put the King—Gilbert—in check, and Knight Vicars
labored to defend him.

Each hour in the day gives us @ new scene. For
instance, under the trees, Saint Just, Arundel, Laura
embroidering a parrot; her ladyship knitting. Laura,
seated on a leopard skin, lovely, but leopard like her-
self. And now Squire Vicars came trotting toward
them, a letter in his hand.

“Read that, Saint Just.”

Saint Just read aloud:

“DEAR Cousin Vicars: I find my health suffering
in London, and am anxious to fly from thecity. I

 

ee ee
ae SS

 

 

 

‘BUT,’ BAWLED THE SQUIRE, ‘‘ WOULD IT BE GOOD
FOR ME? THAT’S WHAT I WANT TO KNOW!”

am unable to get such work as suits me here. Con-
gatant work at a desk is ruinous—nor can I endure a
hot climate. Hence, the clerkship offered to me by
the Earl of Loanby could not be accepted. Can you
not give a poor relation work at Vicars Park? I will
look over the accounts, go here and there at your bid-
ding, and spare you many annoying cares. As ad-
vertisements say, ‘Salary no object.’ A home wanted.
Jan you employ me? JAEGARS.”'

Arundel opened his mouth to say, “Oh! wants to
escape the duns or bailiff,” but the schoolboy maxim,
“Never hit a man when he isdown” occurred to him,
and he kept silent.

“Tt might be a good thing for him,” said Saint Just.

“He looked miserabie when I saw him last,” re-
marked the compassionate countess.

“But,” bawled the squire. ‘Would it be good for
me? That’s what I want to know.”

He looked from one to another—unashamed of
selfishness.

“He might save you a deal of little worries,” said
his sister.

‘‘He is interested in the good of the estate,” added
Arundel.

“Let him come, father,” said Saint Just, thus invit-
ing the cuckoo that wanted to edge him out of his
home nest.

“Very well; let him come,” said the squire. ‘But

I won't write the letter. Saint Just, you go up to the
house and write it now, before I change my mind.”

Saint Just rose slowly. Must Laura and Gilbert be
left alone?

Laura’s eyes lighted under shadowing lashes. But
Squire Vicars had seated himself by his sister, and
Laura felt that if she and Arundel staid within
reach of his voice, he would be shouting questions to
them every minute.

Instantaneously she laid her plan. She would get
Arundel to accompany her with Vicars to the house.
Then she would slowly turn off to walk by the lake.

Saint Just must write his letter.

Gilbert Arundel would follow her,

As Vicars rose, Laura rose.

Her arius were full of colored silk and wool, and
she had her embroidery frame, with the velvet and
the parrot.

_ She ran to Gilbert and saucily dropped her wool
into his arms.

“Carry them to the house for me, please!” and so,
frame in hand, she tripped off by Saint Just.

Arundel was beside her on the instant.

“All right now,” thought Laura.

At last craft had conquered. When at tea-time
her engagement to Arundel was announced, let
Vicars gnash his teeth in vain.

They reached the open door-way.

Saint Just reluctantly turned his face toward the
library.

The others paused.

Laura exclaimed with childish abandon:

“Oh, Mr. Arundel, I do love boating! Let us leave
the embroidery here, and you shall take me boating
on the lake!”

Saint Just half turned back ; but there was no need.
The nearest door opened.

The Earl of Loanby confronted his genial son.

The earl gave a friendly hand to Laura.

“Gilbert, I wish to see you in the library.”

Laura drooped into a seat, ready to die with pique.

“And you, too, Vicars, presently,” said the earl.

Laura hoping in vain that Arundel would soon be
released by the earl, sat down on the piazza with her
embroidery.

After a little time Saint Just went to the library,
and the sound of low, earnest voices continued to be
heard there until the countess, leaning on her
brother’sgarm, came slowly up the walk, for tea.
arene on one point must not vanquish Laura for
all,
The girl gan down to meet the squire, crying.

ne earlis here! Heislecturing the gentlemen
well!

“Serves ’em right,” growled the squire, offering his
disengaged arm to Laura, and looking at her admir-
ingly, as she tucked her pretty pink hand under his
elbow.

‘He'll take them off to prison somewhere!” cried
Laura, shaking back her curls, and lifting her bright
eyes. ‘‘And then we'll have alittle peace, won’t we?”

At tea the earl’s plans were disclosed. He had
been at Oxford and made terms with the authorities.
He discovered where these golden youths were defici-
ent. He had engaged a tutor to prepare them for
their final examination. The tutor was an East End
curate, Rev. Mr. Melton, exceptionally good in Greek
and mathematics.

“Seems to me I’ve heard that name before,” said
Saint Just.

Laura knew the name in a second. That of the
curate with the charming nieces.

“Some trouble with his throat stops his preaching.
When he cannot go to you, you will go to him,” said
the earl.

“And where are we to live?’ asked Gilbert
Arundel,

“My plan is to put you two and your valets in
apartments at Grey’s Inn, wherethere will be nothing
to distract you, and have Mr. Melton attend you four
or five hours daily.”

“Oh, gorgeous!” cried the vivacious Gilbert. “TI
shall feel as if I were on the road to the wool-sack
living in oneoftheinns of court! I always doted
onthem. That’s a rare good prospect. Bachelor’s
hall, Vicars, and all that sort of thing.”

 

 

 

 

A DOOR WAS THROWN OPEN, AND A GIRL SPRANG
UPON THE LANDING,

“And to-morrow we shall be off in the seven o’clock
train,” said the earl peremptorily.

“Let us sit up all night; we can’t rise so early,”
said his son.

However, instead, they retired earlier—and Laura
had not one minute alone with Arundel.

She was downin the loveliest of cashmere wrap-
pers, to see them off and stood on the steps waving a
fragment of lace, by courtesy called a pocket-hand-
kerchief.

But to what end? She saw the earl, Arundel, and
Saint Just together. She waved to themall. Then
she gave a sigh, and occupied her time to the best of
her ability, by going with the squire to give a break-
fast to the Durham bull, and to inquire into the
health of a young litter of pointers.

Evening found Arundel and Vicars installed in
handsome apartments overlooking Grey’s Inn gar-
den. Arundel’s valet was giving the sitting-room a
literary appearance, by filling up the bookcase, and
arranging the writing tables.

“Glorious!” said Arundel, popping his head, into
every department of their new dominion. ‘‘A
kitchen, Saint Just—with a stove! and a coffee mill!
We'll have the tutor stay to tea with us, and we’ll
order what we choose, and refresh our minds from
Greek roots by buying potatoes and such roots!
Nearly as nice as being wrecked on a desert island!
We’ll make father eat dinner here when he drops in,
and see how he likes it!”

Saint Just concluded that Gilbert was still bent on
merely gipping the sweets of life.

“Sit down here now,” he. said, “and plan out your
work. Remember we are both on honor to do our
best.”

The curate’s pupils got on famously, and the earl
concluded that the atmosphere of Inns of Court was
favorable to industry.

One day, after lessons, Arundel proposed to Saint
Just to escort Mr. Melton to his home, 8t. Leonard’s
road and Willow street.

Going happily along between his dear pupils, the
old man, almost at home, slipped on a curbstone, and
severely wrenched one of his legs.

He could not walk alone.

“Never mind, sir. we’ll carry you,’ said Arundel,
and the two picked up the protesting old man.

The good tutor’s home was a third story apartment,
or suite of rooms. As the steps of the young men
sounded on the stair, with the voice of Mr, Melton
lamenting the trouble he was giving them, a door
was thrown open, and a girl sprang upon the land-
ing. Possibly the pallor of her face, when she saw
her uncle being carried, set off the velvet softness of
her black eyes; probably two little white hands are
never so white as when relieved by a_ black silk
apron; no doubt crimped cambric ruffles are the
most entrancing finish for neck and sleeves; per-
haps shining black braids coiled and wound in intri-
cate masses on the most perfect of heads, are a net
to catch hearts. At all events, it is a historic fact,
that Arundel at once whispered to Saint Just:

“I say, I’m coming here for my lessons!”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

CURIOUS MARRIAGE CUSTOMS,

The marriage customsin some parts of Brittany
are very curious. In Cornouaille, for instance, the
village tailoris the most important personage to
whom the candidate for matrimony applies for a list
of eligible girls. Having selected one, the tailor at

once proceeds to the maiden’s father, carrying a
wand of broom, While the family chiefs are making
their arrangements, the lovers retire to the other end
of the house and discourse their own ‘‘sweet music.”
It is necessary that the engageu pair themselves
should put an endto the term of the negotiation.
They approach, holding each other by the hand, to
the table where their respective parents or relatives
are seated, when bread,wine, and brandy are brought
in. The young man and the maiden eat with the
same knife and drink out of the same cup; and the
day for union is then agreed upon.

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

 

 

THE WICKET-GATE,
BY CECIL LORRAINE,

The wicket-gate! I know it well,
And when the even’s nigh,

A couple stray and loiter there,
My bonnie lass and I!

Across the meadows from the farm,
She wends her dainty way,

While I have waited, longing sore
To hear the words she’ll say,

“Do I love you, Rob? You know,
As you stand and wait,
Sure, your heart the truth will tell,
At the wicket-gate!”

The dear old gate! ’tis lichen-grown,
And weather-beaten, too,

For it has swung while many a score
Of lovers came to woo.

It tells no tales of kisses stol’n,
Of vows beneath the moon,

Of hours of precious, fleeting joy,
And partings come too soon,

Do I love her? Ah, she knows,
While I stand and wait,

Sure, her heart the truth will tell,
At the wicket-gate!”

The Sisters of Torwood

By MRS. MAF AGNES FLEMING,

Author of ‘A Wonderful Woman,” “Guy Earlse
court’s Wife,” ‘*The Virginia Heiress,” “One
Night’s Mystery,” ‘‘A Little Queen,”

“Lost for a Woman,”’ etc., etc.

(“THE SISTERS OF TORWOOD” was commenced in No. 46.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XVI.—(CONTINUED).

Before noon the weather cleared, and the gentle-
men discovered they could go on their fishing excur-
sion after all—and went. Edith followed them to
the piazza, the chill feeling of presentiment returning
strangely again.

“You will be back to-morrow ?” she said, wistfully,
holding out her hand.

He lifted it to his lips.

“Could 1 stay away if I tried? Adieu, and au re-
vou |?

She stood on the piazza and watched them out of
sight, then strolled into the grounds for a walk.
Aimlessly she turned into the dark shrubbery, and as
she neared its darkest and loneliest part, she heard
voices among the trees.

“To-morrow, then,” said a low voice she did not
recognize.

“Yes, to-morrow; and, oh, dear me! I feel so nery-
ous about it,’ said a second voice, the voice of
Florence.

There was a rustling of bushes as she spoke, and
out from among the trees Florence herself came, and
stood face to face with Edith. There was nothing
very startling, one would think, in such an encounter;
certainly she was not parting with Mr. St. Leon this
time; but if ever any one showed guilt in every feat-
ure, that one was Florence. From scarlet she turned
white, and then scarlet again, shrinking away in
such visible affright that Edith looked at her in
utmost wonder. ;

“What is the matter with you ?” she asked.

“You—you startled me 80,” was the confused reply,
and, without looking up, she turned and walked
rapidly away. j

“Who could her companion have been?’ thought
Edith. “This is allrather mysterious. It certainly
was not the voice of a man.” <

She parted the bushes and looked in, but no one
was visible. The flutter of a black skirt on the
distant beach caught her eye, but it was only Madge,
singing one of her odd snatches of song:

“Bind the sea to slumber stilly,
Bind its odor to the lily,
Bind the aspen ne’er to quiver,
Then bind love to last forever !”

That cold, chilling presentiment once more! What
was there in Madge’s gay voice to awaken it?

‘*Pshaw !” Edith said to herself, impatiently, “what
a simpleton I am!”

And so she wandered up and down for over an
hour, trying to think she was happy and satisfied,
and her mutinous heart giving her the lie all the
time. What was Florence going to do to-morrow?
to whom had she been talking? and why that guilty
look? Edith went back to the house without finding
an answer to her own questions, and dressed for
dinner.

As she descended to the dining-room, Madge came
behind her, singing again, this time the fag-end of an
old French ballad:

“To-day for me,
To-morrow for thee,
But will that to-morrow ever be?’

“To-morrow! to-morrow!” repeated Edith, men-
tally; “why does that word haunt me so? Who
knows what to-morrow may bring forth ?”’

Who, indeed? Well for her she did not know; as
her appetite for dinner would have been as poor as
at breakfast. It haunted her all the evening, haunt-
ed her to her room, haunted her at her prayers,
haunted her to her pillow.

“To-morrow ! to-morrow !” she kept inwardly reit-
erating, and with that momentous little word stillin
her heart and on her lips, Edith fell asleep.

CHAPTER XVII.
WHAT CAME,

Tn the staid and prim parlor of that staid and prim
house adjoining that staid and prim building, the
Presbyterian meeting-house, the Rey. Alexander
McPherson sat at dinner. The reverend gentleman
kept early hours, as you know, and though the hands
of the town clock had not yet touched ten, Mr. Mc-
Pherson’s appetite was six hours old, and in excel-
lent order. He had just sat down, gone through a
brief grace, spread his napkin, and was seizing vig-
orously the carving-knife and fork, when an author-
itative knock sounded at the hall door.

Mr. McPherson paused, with the carving knife
brandished over the smoking joint, and presently the
old housekeeper made her appearance ushering in a
visitor. The minister, from the loudness of the
knock, had been expecting Miss Madge Torwood ;
but it was a gentleman this time, a tall, young, and
gracious gentleman.

“Oh, it’s only you!’ exclaimed the clergyman, look-
ing relieved, and beginning to carve. ‘I expected a
lady. Find a chair, will you, and draw it over—my
old lady will find another plate and knife and fork.”

“Thank you,’ said Dr. Stuart. who chanced to be
the visitor, removing his gloves. “So you have
ladies to visit you, do you? Young or old?”

“Both. Madge Torwood comes sometimes, What
brings Dr, Stuart to town this morning ?”

“You never would guess what! I am trying my
hand as an amateur detective, and am on the trail
of two certain people. I missed what I came for,
though.”

“What was that ?”

“A wedding! ITll tell you ail aboutit by and by.
Iam too hungry to talk at present. It’s luhcheon
hour over at the Towers, and ‘my lady’ and pretty
Mistress Lucy, not to speak of the other angels re-
siding there, will wonder what has become of me.”

‘It won’t take away their appetite, I hope. Is it
any harm to ask how you are progressing ?”’

“In what way ?”’

“Have you proposed for any of the Misses Torwood
yet 2”

: “Not yet. Iamafraid Iam bashful. Proposing is
an awful piece of business to a timid fellow like my-
self.”

The laughing face and roguish blue eyes confront-
ing the divine certainly showed little evidence of
bashfulness. Mr. McPherson grunted expressively :

“Time 1s on the wing, young man, and other suitors
may not be so dilatory. There’s that St. Leon—he is
going to carry off one; here am I bent on carrying off
another; so only two will be left. You'll put your
foot in it, my young friend, if you are not careful.”

“And lose that grand fortune the late Judge Tor-
wood—rest his soul !—left me. That would never do,
I must screw my courage to the sticking point some-
how before long. It’s a fearful trial, though.”

“And what does Lucy Torwood say ?’

“Lots of things. The fact is, she is getting tired of
saying, and is beginning to give me up in despair.
Oh, it’s of no use; I must be up and doing! I think
I shall begin at the eldest, and go through the four
with the same question ; surely, one out of so many
will accept.”

“Youhad better notask Lucy. IThaveaprior claim,
remember.”

“Should be happy to oblige you, my dear sir, but in
this matter you must excuse me. Lucy is so much
at home in Torwood Towers it would ve a pity to take
her out of it.”

“Look here, Stuart,” said Mr. McPherson, changing

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 46—No., 1.

 

his tone suddenly, and leaning across the table; ‘is
it true that Angus Torwood has left?”

“Quite true.”

“And that he and St. Leon fought a duel before
et about—about a certain young lady?’

“¥ 68.7"

“You were out fishing with St. Leon yesterday,
weren’t you?” :

“T was.”

“You are very great friends, I suppose ?”

“Very—thick as pickpockets.”

“Might one venture to ask your opinion of the
young gentleman ?”’

“Yes, and take your answer in two words—unmiti-
gated scoundrel.”

“Help yourself to potatoes!
scoundrel!
Stuart?”

“Giaccomo St. Leon is an unmitigated scoundrel,”
Dr. Stuart repeated, ‘and he knows it himself, and
knows that I know it!”

“And yet you are friends ?”

“Are we? I wish you had heard us yesterday over
our hooks and lines. ‘I know I am acting like a vil-
lain, for whom hanging would be a thousand times
too good,’ owned Mr. St. Leon, with charming frank-
ness; ‘but itis my destiny, and I must goon.’ You
see, the fellow is a fatalist, and believes that what is
to be will be.” , ‘

“And you? Are you a fatalist, too?”

Dr. Stuart’s face deepened in its gravity.

“Tam a Christian, Mr. McPherson, as I hope you
know ;_and believe in Providence, not in fate.”

There was silence for a moment, both looked seri-
ous, and Dr. Stuart had dropped for once his mock-
ing tone and doubtful smile.

“Knowing all this,’’ said Mr. McPherson, “I do not
see how you can reconcile it with your conscience to
be his friend.”

“My dear sir, I never said I was his friend. It was
yourself. I should he sorry to be a friend of his.”

“You are often with him, then.” .

“Oh, to besure! He interests me as something
new and piquant, and I have been before now in the
society of the most notorious blacklegs of New York,
and enjoyed it much. I have a low taste,” I am

' afraid, for such yulgar studies from nature.”” -

“Dr. Paul Stuart.” said Mr. McPherson, laying
down his knife and fork with emphasis, ‘tyou are not
a good man, you are not a conscientious man, or you
never would let Edith Torwood become his wife.”

“My very dear sir,” said the doctor, a smile break-
ing the stern gravity of his face, “how could I help
it?’

“You could tell her what you have told me.”

“She would not listen ; she would not believe.”

“She might; she is a sensible girl.”

“Fearfully so, on every point but this.”

“Tt is your duty to try.”

“And be laughed at for my pains.”

“Be it so; a laugh will not hurt you, and you will
have done your duty.” ..

«But Mr. St. Leon told me in confidence that he was
a Villain,” said the young doctor, looking amused ;
“would it be honorable ?”’

“Honor among thieves! I have only one thing to
say to you, Dr. Stuart—you are as great a villain as
he, if you do not try your best to prevent this mar-
riage.”

“My good friend,” said Dr. Stuart, rising from the
table, “be easy; this marriage will never take
place!”

“No? and why ?”

“For the very best reason in the world.”

“What is it?”

“Will you promise not to faint if I tell you?”

“Pll do my best—go on!”

“Then, Giaccomo St. Leon will not marry Edith
Torwood, because he is married already.” x
- “What?” cried the minister, in shrill consterna-
tion.

“There you go! I told you to keep cool! Yes, sir,
Mr. St. Leon was married this morning, in the Epis-
copal Church, and by the Episcopal clergyman of
Torwoodtown.”

“To whom?’ Mr. McPherson was just able to

An unmitigated
Dear me! are you not alittle severe, Dr.

sp.
arts Florence Torwood, third daughter of the late
Judge Torwood, of Torwood Towers.”

Mr. MePherson did not speak: he could not; he
sat perfectly duinb, only staring in hopeless con-
sternation at the composed speaker.

Dr. Stuart laughed at his horror-struck face.

“Don’t look so utterly dazed, my dear sir! Did
you never before hear of a gentleman being engaged
to one lady and marrying another? Besides, you
might have foreseen this.”

Mr. McPherson, finding breath at last, took out
his snuff-box, drew up about twice the usual supply,
and, fortified by its pungency, was able to speak
once more.

«And how many know of this?” he demanded.

“Let me see,” sald the doctor, beginning to reckon
on his fingers, “one, two, three, four, five, six. Six
people, [ believe.”

“Ts Edith Torwood one of the six?”

“No, indeed. Mr. and Mrs. St. Leon make two (or
did before they were made one), I am three, you are
four, the clergyman five, and one other person, six!”

“Don’t be mysterious. Who is the other person ?”’

“Never mind,” said Dr. Stuart, the doubtful smile
dawning on his face again; ‘‘perhaps_you may learn |
that one day. But, you see, Miss Edith is never
likely to be St. Leon’s wife, since he has taken to his

He lifted her from the saddle, and, only too glad to
escape, Florence ran up the piazza steps. There
another disagreeable encounter awaited her. Edith
stood on the piazza, in dinner costume, a book in her
hand, waiting—waiting for one who would not come
—who never would come again. But Florence did
not wait to be addressed; she scarcely looked at her
as she hurried by and entered the house. Dr. Stuart
might have been more polite, but Edith’s eyes
dropped on her book at his approach, and never lifted,
as she bent her head at his greeting. Rather dis-
couraging, perhaps, for a man who had announced
his tention of marrying her; but Dr., Stuart was
not easily discouraged, and went into the dining room
whistling a tune.

All the rest of the afternoon the doctor covertly
watched Edith, and Edith watched openly for some
one who did not come. Lamp-light hour came, and
Edith was at the piano, her restless fingers wander-
ing aimlessly over the keys, a feverish tire of expecta-
tion burning in her eyes and cheeks. Florence was
there, too, holding a book in which she seemed utterly
absorbed, quite unconscious of the fact that she was
holding it upside down. So, while Edith played, and
Florence read, and Dr. Stuart watched, all were
thinking of the same individual, who probably at that
very time was serencly smoking his cheroots, and
eee what his destiny had in store for him
next. -

Eleven struck from the hall clock. Susie, the
eolored chambermaid, came in with a tray of bed-
room candlesticks, good-night was said, and the
family at Torwood Towers separated for the night.

Twelve struck, and all were, or should have been,
in bed; butin one rooma girl was walking up and
down, up and down, with a wild, strange fire burning
in her dark eyes; in another room a fairer girl,
shawled and hooded, sat, watch in hand, counting
the minutes; while a third figure, not at all girlish,
was out on the piazza, watching the stars, and wait-
ing for what was to come.

The night was clear, and still, and bright; the
sounds of silence—the slipping of a snake, the crack-
ing of a dry branch, the chirping of the birds in their
nests, the dull, regular plash of the waves on the
shore, the slow murmur of the night air in the trees,
the ticking of the old hall clock—all were distinctly
audible to the figure standing in the shadow of the
piazza pillars—waiting—waiting. One o’chock—two
o'clock, and then his vigil was over. He had heard
something—the sound of wheels; he had seen some-
thing—a shawled and hooded figure flit like a guilty
ghost out of the front door, down the stairs, and dis-
appear into the night, and then he came in.

The hall lamp shone for a moment on a pale face—
pale with watching in the night air, perhaps; but he
was half-smiling, half-talking to himself for all.

“So the second act of the drama is over,” he was
soliloquizing—‘‘first, marriage—then elopement. The
third, the last, the great denowement, is to come yet.
ome there be the dickens to pay to-morrow morn-
ing ?”

Three, four, five, six! The old clock, with its
sonorous voice, tolled the hours, as it had tolled them
for i years, and a new day had dawned on the
world.

Dr. Stuart was up with the sun, scarcely wearing
so fresh and florid a complexion as that luminary,
though. As he paced up and down the court-yard,
he cast occasional glances up at the windows of the
sleeping chambers occupied by the young ladies.
The blinds were down in the rooms of Edith and
Florence, but while he looked Lucy’s window
opened, and Luey’s pretty face smiled good-morn-
ing. Five minutes after there Was a merry shout on
the piazza, and Madge came bounding down, with
Sancho, as usual, gamboling furiously around her.

“Where now, Donna Quixote?’ he asked.

“Everywhere. I think Fllrun over to Torwood-
town, and blow up Mr, Jackeymo St. Leon for not
being here yesterday. Anybody could see Edith was
fidgeting to death about it. Oh. what anice thing it
must beto get in love! Come along, Sancho.”

Madge was out of sight directly, but she did not go
all the way to Torwoodtown, for she was back at the
breakfast hour, with her spirits and appetite greatly
improved—neither, for that matter, standing much
in need of improvement. The doctor escorted her to
the dining-room, where Edith sat alone; and a mo-
ment after Lucy entered, with a servant behind her,
bearing coffee and toast.

“Have any of you good people seen Florence this
morning?’ she asked. ‘She is nof in the house, and
it is the first time since her return she has been out
of it before breakfast. I have been to her room, and
she is not there.”

“Did you look in the pantry, Lucy?’ demanded
pert Madge, and the doctor smiled at her character-
istic remark.

“For shaine, Madge!
night, Edith ?”’

NG,

“Tt’s very odd! Well, Susie, what do you want?”

“Please, Miss Lucy,” said the chambermaid, pre-
senting a letter, “Miss Floy gave me this yer last
night, and told me to give it to you this morning at
breakfast.” ;

Was it some presentiment of what it contained that
made Luey turn suddenly white?) Madge and Edith
stared, and the doctor drew a long breath, as if
bracing himself for the scene to come.

“Gave you this last night?’ faltered Lucy. ‘At
what time? What did she say ?”’

Did she sleep with you last

 

bosom the fair, the fat, the fascinating Florence,”

The minister took snuff a second time.

“Bless my soul! I never was so amazed. And
what a scene there will be when that hot-blooded
Edith hears it.” x

“No, [ think not. Edith Torwood might make a
seene about other things, not about this. She is by
far too proud to wear her heart on her sleeve for
daws to peck at.” y

“You begin to admire her a little, I think.”

“JT admire her more than a little.”

“Tt has lately come to you, then.”

“By no means. I admired her from the first, but
did not quite understand her.”

“You understand her now ?”’

“I think so. She is what you said she was one
evening at the. Towers—a fine girl.”

“Dr. Stuart!" exclaimed Mr. McPherson, “you
have made your choice among the sisters !”

“T have,” replied Dr. Stuart, serenely.

“And it is not Lucey ?”’

“No; it is Edith.”

Mr. McPherson leaned back in his chair, and took
snuff for the third time.

“The very last one of all,’ he murmured, help- |
lessly, ‘‘I should have suspected.”

“Of course. We always do marry the very last
person our friends would have expected.”

“But she won't have you!” cried Mr. McPherson,
triumphantly.

“Won't she? Don’t be too sure of that. Time
works wonders.” ; }

“Besides, she will be sick of all mankind after this.
You take a.very poor time for proposing.”

“That shows how little you know of human hearts!
Hearts, like balls, are to be caught ou the rebound.”

“What will she say when she finds out that you
have deceived her ?’

“T have not deceived her.”

“Yes, you have. You knew of St. Leon's false-
hood, and yet kept it secret.”

“She will thank me for it some day when she
awakes from her delusions, and comes to her right
senses.”

“That is, when she is Mrs. 8. !” ‘

“Very likely; better be that than Madame 8t.
Leon! Besides. my dear fellow, what good would
come of my telling? It would have prevented noth-
ing that has occurred. I helped nothing on—I merely
stood still, and let events take their course.”

“And a sweet course they have taken. What is to
be the next move in the game?’’ i

“My next move must be for Torwood Towers,” said
Dr. Stuart, pulling out his watch; ‘‘that of Mr. and
Mrs. St. Leon will probably be to absquatulate.”

“And Florence forfeits her share of her father’s
money. That will be a loss.”

“It might be to common mortals, but they will
never think of it, youknow. They will live on love,
and all that sort of thing!”

“Humph ! we have a proverb in Scotland: ‘A kiss
and a drink of water make but a Piet breakfast !’
Love is very unsubstantial diet—Florence will get
thin on it, Iam afraid.”

Dr. Stuart laughed, and put on his hat.

“When are we to see your reverence at the
Towers ?”

“Not until the gale blows over, I think. Torwood
Towers will be a home of discord only for awhile, I
dare say.”

“To one, perhaps. Well, good-morning.”

“One parting question,” said Mr. McPherson, pro-
ducing his snuff-box for the fourth time; ‘‘when do
you propose for Edith?”

Dr. Stuart had his hand on the door-knob, but he
turned round again. :

“Did you see the new moon last night?” was his
seemingly irrelevant question.

“J don’t know. Was there a new moon ?”’

“Yes; and before that new moon wanes Edith Tor-
wood either shall say yes or no. Good-morning,
sir.”

After which Dr. Stuart rode home, his conscience
relieved by an open confession, As he rode up the
front avenue, he overtook an equestrienne riding
even more slowly than himself. Not Madgé—Madge
never rode a white horse—never rode any horse,
black or white, at that funeral pace, and did not affect
bright blue riding-habits. The equestrienne turned
round, and under the brim of a white straw hat,
shaded by plumes of white and azure, he saw a lovely
young face, fresh, re and blooming as another

ebe’s; all the tinseled gold ringlets, braided, and
twisted, and knotted back, seeing that curls under a
riding-habit was an abomination ; the plump, rounded
form set off by the blue habit, the pretty hands
adorned with buff gauntlets—a picture altogether
bright as a poet's vision. Dr. Stuart lifted his hat,
and bent to his saddle bow.

“Good-morning, Miss Florence—it is something
new to find you on horseback. Been to town ?’

“Yes,” said Florence, and up to her temples rose the
guilty blood again. |

“A delightful morning for such a canter.

Permit
me to assist you.” i

“After all you was to bed, Miss Floy she rung her
bell, and I went up, and then she gave me this letter,
and told-me I was to hand it to you, Miss Lucy, at
breakfast, and then she shut her door, and I don’t
know nothin’ more ’tall about it.”

“Open it, Lucy! open it!’ cried Madge, quite
curiously. ‘Clear out, Susie! What on earth has
Florence been up to now ?”

Luey did open the letter, but her hands shook
while doing it. Two minutes after it had dropped on
the floor, and with a shrill scream her hands flew up
and covered her white face.

“Lal” eried Madge, her black eyes starting to that
degree ir her astonishment that there seemed some
danger of their dropping out on the carpet. “What
is the matter? May [ read this, Lucy?”

But Lucy did not, seemingly could not, speak, so
great was the first shock. She had sunk into a chair,
her face still hidden in her hands, and Madge, taking
silence for assent, picked up the fallen doctunent. It
was short, sharp, and decisive, a model of sensible
composition.

“My DEAR Lucy:—“I address you, being the
elder, and the only one under the circumstances I
can very well address. I was married yesterday to
Mr. St. Leon, and will leave here with him to-night
to avoid a fuss. I beg you will not make a time
about this, and Edith may as well take it quietly, be-
cause being angry and scolding will do no good now.
I could not help being prettier than she is, and hav-
ing Mr. 8t. Leon like me better, and so you may tell
her. Of course I must leave my trunks and things
behind for the present, but when Giaccomo and I get
settled [ will send you my address and you can for-

turning until night. Dr. Stuart accompanied her,
and Luey was left alone in a state of miserable
anxiety not to be described. Once during the course
of the day she ventured ip to Edith’s room, and list-
ened at the door, but thé silence of the grave reigned
within. She had even ventured in her terror to turn
the handle and look in; yes, Edith was there, sitting
by the window, her hands tightly locked together in
her Jap, and the letter clasped between them, her face
turned to the sea. Lucy could not see it, and not
daring to speak, she stole out again, and left the
ionely watcher to keep her vigil undisturbed.

Next morning, in passing from her own chamber
down stairs, Lucy ventured to lookin again. The
pale shadow in black sat by the window still, as if
she had never once moved—as if she had sat there
through the livelong night.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE INVALID.

Dr. Paul Stuart, according to custom, standing on
the piazza before breakfast that morning, felt him-
self touched lightly on the arm, and looking round
saw the anxious face of Lucy Torwood.

“Dr. Stuart,” she hurriedly began, “what shall I
do about Edith? I have nobody to advise me, and I
declare I am worried nearly to death about this
wretched business.”

She looked it; a more troubled and distressed
countenance than that uplifted pleadingly to his the
young doctor had seldom seen.

“It is a wretched business indeed,” he gravely
said. “In what way can I be of service to you, Miss
Torwood ?”

“T don’t know what to do about Edith. She satin
her room all yesterday, and never ate a mouthful.
She sat up all night withoutionce going asleep, I am
sure; and who is to tell she may not do the same to-
day? She will kill herself if she keeps on, and I don’t
know what to do.” :

Lucy was twisting her fingers and. looking as if
about to ery, and the heartless young doctor had
some difficulty to repress asmile at her distress.

“Why do you not go and speak to her, then?”

“Dr. Stuart, Iam afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Of her; she is so—so passionate; and I know she
feels so deeply on this point.”

. ie is probable she does. Still I see nothing for it
ut to

‘Beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall,’

and Miss Edithin her room. Suppose you step up
and ask her to come down to breakfast.”

There was no way to avoid it, Lucy saw, and with
that same air of hopeless distress, she turned away
and went slowly up stairs to her unwelcome task.
At the door she haa to pause, unable for some time
to summon courage to knock; then, in sheer desper-
ation, and with a fast beating heart, she rapped. She
did not expect an answer, but to her surprise the
door opened and Edith stood before her.

The girl was wrapped in a large shawl, and was
shivering under it, though the morning was sultry;
her face was set and stony, herlarge black eyes looked
unnaturally large and luminous, with dark circles
under them, and the compressed lips and bent brow
told their own tale of bitterendurance. It was plain
to see the first shock was over, and thatin the long
and lonely watch of that dreary last night she had
formed some resolution, whether of forgiveness or
revenge she best knew. Wrapped in the shawl, and
holding the door handle, she stood looking at her
ee out of those weird, spectral eyes, solemn and
silent.

Lucey, in a violent tremor, essayed once or twice to
speak, faltered, and broke down. Naturally timid
and shrinking, Lucy had always felt a dread of this
dark, fierce Creole, and now, in her bereavement, she
stood before her as.she might have before a half-
tamed tigress robbed of her young.

“You-will not be angry, Edith, bat I—”

Edith suddenly lifted her hand, and interrupted:

“One moment, if you please. Ido not know what
you are going to say; but I give you warning before-
hand, not to say one word of whatis past and gone.
More—I never want to hear those names from you or
any one in this house; if I do,I shall leave it five
minutes after, and forever. Now, go on with what
you caine to say.”

“T had no intention of saying one word about—
about——” Lucy broke down. “I only came to ask
you to take some breakfast. If you will not come
down, I will fetch it up here.”

“You need not. I will go down. Have you any-
thing more to say to me?”

There were a thousand things Lucy would like to
have said, but she dared not utter one. Sorrowfully
she turned away.

“TI will go down,” Edith repeated, closing the door,
“as soon as the bell rings.”

Whatever Lucy had looked for from Edith, she had
not expected this ominous calm, and it filled her with
more foreboding than any violence could have done.
Madge had joined Dr. Stuart in the dining-room, and
Lucy related the short interview that had taken
place, and repeated Edith’s warning.

“La!” cried Madge, with an impatient jerk of her
shoulders, “she might have spared herself the
trouble! I am sure we’ll be hard up for something
to say when we want to talk about that disgraceful,
misbehaved pair, Mr. and Mrs. 8t. Leon.

The breakfast bell rang during this outburst, and
before its last sound died away Edith quietly walked
into the room. Her toilet was as carefully made, her
hair as daintily arranged, her manner as composed
as they had ever seen it; but there was that in her
face that would have warned them not to trust too
far to this quietude, even if her own lips had not
done so already. Except that théy were all very
still and silent, saying what was said in very low
voices, everything was just the same as ever. Just
the same as ever, too, Edith sat down at the sweet-
toned old parlor organ when it was over, and played
the airs she loyed so well, from Beethoven, so sweet,
so solemn, so sad. Then, still the same as ever, she
selected a book, put on her straw hat, and went out
into the grounds for a morning walk.

And so it was all over, the worst had arrived, and
nothing was to come of it, after all. Madge felt
cheated, and made no secret of her disappointment.

“To think!” resentfully broke out the youngest
Miss Torwood, “that she should take that inean Flor-
ence at her word, and make no fuss afterall. If she
were made of milk and water. like Lucy now, nobody
would wonder; but such a fire-eater as we all took
her to be. Oh! if I were in her place, what a jolly
row there would have been!”

“What would you have done?’ inquired Dr.
Stuart. .

‘ah! you would like to know, wouldn’t you?”
said Madge, with a shower of mysterious nods; “just
you try the same dodge with me, and you'll find out!
How 1 should admire to have Jackeymo St. Leon’s
beautiful face within reach of my nails for about ten

 

ward them. Don’t let Madge get at my dresses or
she will spoil them, she is so rough; and tell Dr. |
Stuart that I hope he will not be mean enough to |
keep my share of the legacy because 1 could not |
marry him. I declare I am real glad to get away |
from Torwood Towers. for it’s the most dismal old |
place I eversaw. Good-by, my dear Lucy; I will
write to you again as soon as possible, and be sure
you send me everything.
‘Your affectionate sister,
“FLORENCE ST. LEON. |

“Pp, 8.—Is not the name pretty? I entreat%ou will |
not let Madge in my room, as she is sure to spoil |
everything she lays her hands on.”

Madge read the letter over twice—at first incredu- |
lously, then with a horrible sense of its truth. Before |
she came to the end the second time her honest face |!
was absolutely purple with suppressed rage. Of all
her presentiments of impending danger, she had |
dreamed of nothing so bad as this, and she crumpled |
the missive up in her hand, and glared vindictively |
around her.

“If LT only had a hold of her !” said Madge, clawing
the air viciously with her other hand, ‘‘I’d_ teach her |
whether I spoiled everything [ laid my hands on! |
The mean, treacherous, deceitful——”

“Madge!”’ Edith suddenly said, rising, ‘‘what has |
Florence done? what is that letter about?” |

Madge had forgotten Edith. Lucy had not, and |
she arose too, white with dismay.

“Oh, Edith! how shall we tell you ? how shall we
tell you ?”’

The tire that intense excitement lighted in Edith’s
eyes was burning there now, as she resolutely held
out her hand.

“Give me the letter?”

Madge looked appealingly at Lucy; but Lucy,
wringing her hands, could offer no suggestion.

“Take it then,” exclaimed Madge in desperation ;
“and if I could choke the pair of them I would do it
with the greatest pleasure.”

With the lettér in her hand, Edith crossed sover to
one of the windows, and Dr, Stuart, leoking very
grave, arose to quit the room. Lucy turned implor-
ingly to him her white and frightened face.

“T think we had all better leave ber alone for a
while,” he said in passing, and Lucey, beckoning to
Madge, followed him out on the piazza. But Madge’s
curiosity prompted her to linger at the door, and she
saw the letter read once. twice, three times, while
the dark figure at the window stood as still asif
earved in stone.

“Madge,” Lucy said, “come away And Madge
came over to where Lucy stood, trembling and pale,
and, holding on by the railing, began, from sheer in-
ability to keép quiet, a little hornpipe of anxiety. So
half an hour passed in total silence, then Madge
could holdin no longer. :

“Look here, Lucy! are we to stand here all day, I
want to know ?”

“Oh, Madge! we can’t go in while Edith is there. I
am afraid.”

Madge went over on tiptoe and peeped through
the dining-room window.

“She isn’t there, she’s gone? The coast’s clear—
come along !”’

Yes, Edith had gone, and the three sat down'to break-
fast and rose again, with everything almost untasted.
Madge started off immediately, and announced her

"9

 

minutes—that’s all! But, then, I always knew how
it would be. What good could be expected from a
man with such a name as that?’

“Her quiemess is the strangest thing of all,’ said
Lucy, uneasily; “she can’t have cared so much for
Mr. St. Leon as we would have thought.”

Dr. Stuart smiled to himself at his own thoughts,
but said nothing.

“Tt isn’t that,” said Madge, who was ever ready
with her own opinion, “but she’s a Torwood, and con-
sequently too plucky to wear her heart on her sleeve.
Even you, Lucy, though you do appear as meek as a
new-born kitten, if you were jilted, would feel the
Torwood spirit burning within you; and, as for me—

| but the English language is too weak to express what

I would do in such a case!”

So Lucy, and Madge, and Dr. Stuart, each with her
or his own thoughts of Edith, went about their daily
occupations, and Edith, proud as a Spartan, kept her
thoughts to herself. In one thing Madge was right,
Edith was not one to wear her heart on her sleeve; she
would rather have been struck in the face than pitied.
But she suffered physically and mentally; they all
could see that.

During the days that followed, and many did fol-
low, in one of her late evening rambles among the
rank herbage of the shrubbery, some breath of
miasma, lurkingin the low swampy meadows, had
entered her lungs, and from that time her veins were
filled with alow consuming fever that was slowly
burning her life away. All the life, all the spirit, all
the energy she had ever possessed was eaten away
by the low fire’ of fever. Languid of step, dull of
eye, listless of motion, faint of voice, she wandered
from room to room of the old house, the shadow. of
her former self. Another fever came with it, a des-
perate longing for home, for her sunny Cuba, that
tortured her day andnight. Ifshe could only wan-
der under the orange trees, and feel their scented
breath on her wan cheek; if she could only sit in the
tropical sunshine once more, she felt she might be
well. But she was too weak to have gone, were it
even in her power, so the listless days and sleepless
nights were wearing on, and, with them, Edith was
wearing away like the waning moon.

They were all very kindand gentle with her now ;
even Madame Torwood was tender with the pale,
weak girl, who never complained. Lucy was the
most devoted of nurses, anticipating her every wish.
Madge did what she could, did her best, and, alas for
poor madcap Madge, that best was not much.

“T wish I eould do something, you know,” she said,
patheticaliy in confidence to Dr. Stuart, ‘but I can’t.
I try not to bounce and slam doors, and not talk in a
voice pitched at the top of the octave; but law! what
good Nees that do Edith? I don’t believe there ever
was such another rough, boisterous, hateful creature
as | am.”’

But of all who were kind to the Creole none did so
much as Dr. Stuart. The rare bouquets that every
day found their way to her room, the numberless
magazines. books, music, delicate fruit, and count-
less trifles, small in themselves, but all by some
strange magnetism the very things she had been
wishing for, came from him. She did not know this
at first; but one day when Madge came upstairs,
with an unusually gorgeous bouquet of hot-house
flowers, Edith, lying wearily ona lounge, rose up on
her elbow, her dull eyes sparkling with some of their
old luster.

 

intention of dining with Mr. McPherson, and not re-

.

“How beautiful! how fragrant! I was just wish-

| here.

 

ing for violets! Madge,” impetuously, ‘where do all :

these lovely flowers come from ?”’

Madge placed them in a porcelain vase with care,
and stepped back to see the effect.

“From my castle in Spain; there’s a patch of
ground at the back of the castle where such trifles
grow of themselves. Perfectly mag, ain’t they ?’—
this being short for magnificent.

“Madge, I half suspect, but I want to be sure—who
sends them ?”

“Wouldn’t tell for a kingdom! Promised him, on
the honor of a Torwood, [ wouldn’t.”

That little tell-tale pronoun! Edith’s eyes turned
resolutely away from the flowers, and hér brows con-
tracted a little as she rose up. Madge had flashed
outas she had floated in, and Edith went slowly
down stairs, through the hall, and out on the piazza.
As she stood there, the person of whom she was
thinking, Dr. Stuart himself, came up, and made her
in passing a courtly bow.

“Are you better this afternoon, Miss Edith? you
hardly look as well as yesterday, I think.”

There was something so genial and kindly in his
voice, such real solicitude in his face, so much that
was good in his frank blue eyes, that Edith could
not repel him. The mocking smile and derisive
glance were no longer there, were never there when
he spoke to her, and Edith was remembering all he
ete done for her, so delicately and unobtrusively of

ate.

**T do not feel any better,” she said, ‘‘and I’—thank
you for your flowers, she wanted to say, but she
could not, somehow, and stopped short.

“I am very sorry,” and he looked as thongh he
meantit. ‘The afternoon is lovely, and a walk on
the beach would do you good, I think. Or, if you
feel too weak, and would ride or sail with Madge and
me——”

“Thank you, I ain quite strong enough to walk.”

“T saw Father Peterson in Torwoodtown just now,
and he bade me tell you he would call to see you to-
morrow, and fetch you the book you wanted.”

She bent her head only, and Dr. Stuart went in,
and Edith’s memory was haunted by a hundred little
kind things he had done for her comfort of late,
making up in number what they wanted in weight,
all in such a retiring, secret way, too.

“T don’t want to like that man,” she said, speaking
unconsciously aloud; ‘‘and yet——”

“And yet one can’t help it,’ said a voice behind
her; ‘‘my case exactly.”

It was Madge, of course. Edith only smiled, and
turned to go down the piazza steps.

“What are you going to do?” Madge asked.

The faint smile was still on Edith’s lips.

“To obey Dr. Stuart, my dear. He has prescribed
a walk on the beach, and I am going to take it.”

“Shall I go with you?”

“You_had better not. I walk so very slowly I

would tire you to death.”

“Allright,” said Madge, throwing up her hat and
catching it dextrously ; *‘I despise slow walking be-
yond everything, and, besides, I find my constitution
requires a sail; so good-by to you.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Ohi Story Will Not be Published in Book-Poru,

 

\ Vietin 0 tit aces
THE RICH MAN'S SECRET.

By FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE,
Author of “His Lawful Wife,” ‘‘Carmeline.”
**Fontelroy,” ‘*Ida’s Hidden Sin,” etc.

(‘A VICTIM OF CIRCUMSTANCES” was commenced in No.
51. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER IX.
DEATH.

NE year after the events re-

corded in our last chapter, a

woman, clad in a faded black

silk dress, with worn shoes, a

shabby cloak thrown over her

shoulders, and a baby in her

arms, was clinging to the iron

gate-way which fenced the

garden surrounding Glen-

wood Villa. There was a cast-

iron plate just above the lock

of the gate, which bore, in

raised letters, the name of ‘‘Rosevelt,” but the eyes

of the wayfarer were so dim or wandering that she

eould not read it. There was a bell-pull on the

right of the gate, but the stranger did notring. She

stood, with one hand clinging to the bars, looking
wistfully through.

At last a smart, middle-aged woman, with red rib-
bons in her cap, who had been gathering roses in the
garden, noticing the white face at the entrance, came
up, and sharply demanded:

“Well, good woman, what do you want?”

“T wish to see Mr. Rothwell for a moment.”

“Mr. Rothwell! Can’t you read? He doesn’t live
He’s been away these many months.”

“T did not know it,” replied the applicant, meekly.
“Can you tell me where he lives ?”’

‘No,” rephed the woman with the red ribbons,

“Can you give me acup of milk and water and a
erust of bread ?’ asked the wayfarer, humbly.

“No—it’s against orders. Mr. Rosevelt is very
strict. No beggars or tramps are fed here. You'll
have to go to some other shop.”

And the flaunting woman with red ribbons turned
away from the gate. So, too, did the poor wayfarer,
hugging her baby to her withered breast. Yet this
poor tramp was once the honored mistress of the
magnificent country-seat—Bella Rothwell, with her
infant daughter.

* * *

* *

Thirteen years from the date of the duel and the
disappearance of the millionaire have passed away.
When we resume the thread of our narrative, a Mrs.
Stanley, said to be a widow, with her’ daughter,
Florence, was living in the third story of a lodging-
house of humble appearance, near the Bowery. Now
this lady was no other than the injured and aban-
doned wife of Sidney Rothwell, who, leading a pain-
ful and laborious existence, had hidden her identity
under an assumed name. Plying her needle night
and day with unceasing industry, she and her child
might have been comfortable but for the wretched
health of the poor mother, which frequently 1nter-
rupted her exertions and those of her child, who, as
she advanced in years, shared her mother’s labors.

This lonely pair often knew what it was to lack |

food and fire in the depth of winter; yet no coim-

plaint ever passed their lips; no thought of asking |

public or private assistance ever occurred to them.

Never, in the direst emergency, would the forsaken

woman resort to her husband’s attorney for relief.
Florence, who grew upin total ignorance of her

history, became, in spite of her privations, a beauti-

ful girl, with soft golden hair and sweet blue eyes,
who, on the other hand, would never have recog-

nized, in the white-haired, wrinkled, withered and |
stooping woman who had given her birth, the once |

brilliant belle of New York. She mighteasily have
passed for the child’s grandmother, though scarcely
past the age when many women are still attractive
and beautiful.

The unhappy pair were very reserved and retiring,
and were scarcely known to the other inmates of
the house.

paid, even when her tenants were suffering for lack
of the necessaries of life; but there the intercourse
ended. When Florence passed in or out of the house,
carrying out or bringing home work, she was always
closely vailed. Stillno one ventured to call them
“stuck up,” for both mother and daughter were
courteous to their humblest neighbors when chance
brought them in contact.

Little Florence, however, had something more than
amere acquaintance with an honest German car-
penter, Karl Steinfurt by name, who had a room on
the same floor. Sometimes he would happen to
leave the house at the same time with her, and then
he always insisted on carrying her bundle, often a
heavy one, for her. The child would probably have
never tasted candy or any other luxury but for the
gifts of the good-hearted mechanic. He was aman
of middle age, and worked in a ship-yard on the East
River.

One day, as he was going ont early in the morning,
he found little Florence waiting for him in the hall-
way, erying.

“What is the matter with you, sis?” asked the Ger-
man.

“Oh, sir,” replied Florence, ‘‘my poor mamma is
very ill. Inever knew her so ill before. I should
like to have her see a doctor, but—but mother
says—’

Here the child stopped and blushed deeply,

“Says what?” asked the carpenter.

“That we are too poor to pay for the doctor and
apothecary. You know, sir, sickness is very ex-
pensive. Mother has not been able to work for
many days, norI either, for I have had to wait on
her, and so all our money is gone, except what we’ve
put by for the rent, which we can’t touch, you
know.”

“May I see your mother for a moment?” asked
honest Karl.

-stances, but [ can truly say—God’s will be done!

 

Mrs. Williams, the landlady, exchanged
a few words with them once a month, when she |
ealled for her rent, which was always punctually

 

The child hesitated, but, without waiting for per-
mission, the carpenter stepped into the room, fol-
lowed by Florence. He had never been in the place
before, and its miserable appointments astounded
him. The grate was cold and empty; there was no
carpet on the floor. The entire furniture consisted
ofa miserable bed with insufficient coverings, three
pine chairs and a pine table, an old chest, a wooden
clock, a few cooking utensils, plates, knives and
forks on a dresser, and a bit of broken looking-glass.
A wash-tub stood in a curner. Ba

Karl’s own room was poorly furnished, but it was
a palatial saloon to this.

The good fellow approached the wasted form that
lay on the bed, and took the withered hand that was
extended to him in welcome.

“Tm sorry to hear you are ill, ma’am,” said the
carpenter. /

“T shal) be better by and by,” replied the invalid,
faintly. “It was very kind of you to call—very
neighborly.”

“If I can do anything to help you, I shall be glad,”
said the carpenter. “I’mina great hurry now—but
I shall be back before long. Good-by, ma’am—good-
by, little Florence.”

And he hurried away to hide the tears that were
fast filling his eyes.

His first step was to call on a German physician,
Dr. Waldemar, who lived next door, and to send him
to Mrs. Stanley. Next he made a variety of purchases
—coal, kindling stuff, candles, cooked meat, bread,
oranges, jellies, wine and tea, and ordered them sent
to his fellow-lodger’s room forthwith. Then he hur-
ried down to the shipyard and informed his employer
that he would be obliged to be absent for two or three
days, and, lastly, he hastened home as fast as his solid
legs could carry him.

He met Dr. Waldemar coming from the house.

‘What do you think of your patient, doctor?”

. The doctor shook his head.

“No hope, Karl. The end is not far off. The only
thing now is to give her stimulants; and, if she has
anything on her mind, encourage her to speak. I
tried to soothe her and give her hope—but she knows
her situation. She already beholds the finger of
death beckoning her to a better world.”

With a heavy heart Karl Steinfurt went up stairs
and entered the sick-room.

The invalid was propped up on her pillows, and her
cheeks were tinted with a slight flush. There was a
fire in the grate, and the remains of breakfast on the
table showed that little Florence had partaken of
some food.

‘“‘Dear friend,” said the sick woman, extending her
hand. ‘“Efhank you for your bounties! It is the first
time I have accepted charity in all my life.’’

“Charity !” cried the carpenter. ‘A little friendly
token. You would have done the same for a neigh-
bor yourself.”

“Mother is so much better!’ said little Florence.
“Tam so glad. I could almost dance with joy.”

Mrs. Stanley forced a smile, and said: “If Mr.
Steinfurt can remain with me for half an hour, I
should like you to take a run in the fresh air.”

“T haveno work for to-day,” said the carpenter.
eer your mother bids you,” he added to the
child.

Florence put on her bonnet and shawl and left the
pair alone.

“Friend,” said the invalid, solemnly, “I know that
my hours or perhaps minutes, are numbered. I am
dying. This world has been a weary world to me,
and I could welcome death as a happy release, but
that I leave behind me a child unprovided for.”

“Madam,” said the carpenter, in a low voice, ‘‘if
that be all that troubles you, you can close your eyes
in peace. I have learned to love your little child,
and, in case your worst fears be realized, I promise
to be a father to her. The labor of my hands gives
me more than a sufficiency, and to share my earnings
with her will be a pleasure.”

“Heaven will reward you, my friend!’ said the
sufferer, after a moment’s pause. “To your hands,
then, [commit her with her mother’s blessing. It
may not be that she will always be a burden to you,
for, if she had her rights, she would be heiress to a
princely fortune.”

Astonishment and incredulity were depicted in the
mechanie’s face. For a moment he thought that the
invalid’s mind was wandering, butit appeared after-
wards that it became clearer as the closing hour
approached. :

She spoke again after another pause: “You have
won aricht to learn my painful secret, and I cannot
go without confiding it to you—but promise you will
not prematvrely reveal it to Florence.”

Karl Steinfurt gave the required pledge, and then
the dying woman poured into his ear the details of
the sorrowful tale related in the preceding chapters.

She then gave into his hands a sealed package a4-
dressed to Sidney Rothwell.

“Whether my husband be dead or alive,’ she said,
“T know not. He certainly has disappeared, and I
have lost all traces of him. Even his attorney, Mr.
Gray, is not now to be found. Something whispers
to me, however, that iy husbandis still living, and
that my poor, lost Imogene is with him. The pack-
age I have entrusted to your care contains what I
would call my confession—if I had any guilt to con-
fess. Itis, however, only my sad, truthtul story. He
would not hear me when I implored him to listen to
me, years ago; but he will trust my written words,
when he knows that I have ceased to exist. In that
ease Florence will tind a father and a fortune. Iti
terrible to think that I die the victim of circum-
[
go to that better world where sorrow exists not, and
where, as I firmly believe, wrong will be made right,
and bliss indescribable atone for every earthly suf-
fering. Farewell! noble and true friend.”

At this moment Florence returned flushed with ex-
ercise. Her mother kissed her, laid her hand on her
fair hair in benediction, and then closed her eyes.

“Take her away,’ she whispered faintly, as Karl
put his ear to her lips. “lam at peace.”

The good German took the child to his room, and
gave her an illustrated book to amuse her. Then he
stole back to the death-chamber, but its tenant was
already beyond the reach of his care... Her pure
spirit had passed away during his brief absence.

Gently—oh, how gently, did that hard-handed but
kind-hearted man breathe to Florence the intelli-
gence that her dear mother bad gone to heaven.
Tenderly did he nurse her in his arms during her
first paroxysms of grief, until, wearied out with
the sorrow that had fallen on her young heart, she
dropped asleep. and he laid her on his bed, and pro-
ceeded to the discharge of the other duties that de-
volved on him.

He notified the landlady and the doctor of the
death; he went to the savings bank and drew outa
considerable sui of money, and to the undertaker’s
and made all arrangements forthefuneral. Then he
repaired to the agent of a rural cemetery, and pur-
chased a lot for the remains. His day was fully oe-
cupied, but he felt a glow of satisfaction mingling
with heart-felt sorrow when, at alate hour, he re-
tired to rest.

On the second day thereafter the last rites had
been paid to the departed, and poor little Florence
was alone inthe world with her new protector.

CHAPTER X.
FLORENCE GOES TO THE SKOWLS.

It was only after a day or two that our friend Karl
Steinfurt realized the responsibility that he had as-
sumed. He had signed articles binding himself to
sail on board the Hamburg ship “Allemania,” bound
on a voyage round the world, as ship-carpenter.
Clearly it was impossible for him to take Florence
with him, and yet he had bound himself to her dying
mother to take care of her. In this emergency he
bethought himself of two friends of his, who kept a
kind of variety store in Chatham street, Mr. and Mrs.
Sampson Skowl.

Their ostensible business was the sale of ready-
made clothing, gentlemen’s linen and wearing ap-
parel, jewelry, ete. But, underhand, they advanced
money on pledged articles, charging usurious inter-
est, and looking out for Number Ohne with unrewit-
ting assiduity.

Karl Steinfurt had had some dealings with them,
and had had no reason to complain of ill-treatment
at their hands. It occurred to him, therefore, that
they might be willing to take charge of little Flor-
ence, during his absence, which might be protracted
two or three years, particularly as he was willing to
deposit a sum of money which would cover the child’s
necessary expenses for two or three years.

He called on the Skowls, broached his business,
and was very cordially received.

Mr. Skowl, a bald-headed, toothless, sinister-looking
specimen of humanity, professed himself delighted
with the proposition, and his better half was equally
yleased. She did her best to appear amiable, as she
favened to the solicitations of the honest ship car-
penter.

‘We hain’t got no children of our own,” she said,
‘cand it would jist liven up our old shanty to have a
leetle gal trottin’’round here. So fetch her round,
Karl, jest as soon as you please.”

Steinfurt said he should keep the child until the
very day of his sailing, but he would bring her round
to spend the evening.

He was as good as his word, and the visitors were
shown into a little back parlor on the second floor,
commanding a fine view of the rear of two tenement
houses and a distillery. This agreeable landscape
was now, however, shut out by a calico curtain. .

The tea table was set out with a neat china service,
and there was no lack of good things on the festal
board; yet little Florence’s heart sank within her at
the aspect of her host and hostess, for children are
intuitive readers of character through the external
mask, Even beauty of face and form cannot dis-
guise moral deformity from their observation.

Yet there was nothing in the words or manner of
the Skowls to justify a prejudice against them.
Sampson, at least on this occasion, wore a perpetual
grin, and his wife vied with him in smiles.

“Come here, my dear,” said the old woman. ‘Give
aunty asweet kiss. Why, I declare, you're as pooty
as a-pictur. Sainpson, she’s as pooty as a pictur.
Now, what a nice black frock you’ve got on! And
sech shoes onto your feet! Sampson, jest look at
’eni—they’re worth twenty shillin’ at the least. But
come—set down—supper’s all ready.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

VOL, 46—No. 1 .

They took their places, and Sampson Skowl, drop- |

ping his lids over his eyes, aud folding his wrinkled
and vulture-like claws, asked a blessing. ;

“I’m afraid you’ve put yourself out to entertain
us,” said the honest and plain-spoken carpenter, as
he glanced round at the buttered toast, cold tongue,
Dutch cheese, jellies, cakes, aud other dainties that
loaded the table.

“No—no—our ordinary fare!’ said Mr. Skowl, but
he sboveled in his food as if he had been on short
rations for a month. }

The carpenter followed his example heartily, but
Florence could eat but little. She had enough to do
to keep down her swelling heart, and force back her
rebellious tears to their source. Not for the world
would she let her mother’s friend and her own
benefactor guess that she doubted the fairness of
the prospect that lay before her.

After tea Mr. Sawpson Skowl produced a bottle of
spirits, and, as the carpenter declined to take his

lass, he treated himself to an extra allowance, un-
re the influence of which he became very convivial
and volunteered a song. He further contributed to
the entertainment of the company and the purifica-
tion of the atmosphere by smoking six pipes of rank
tobacco, and laughed till the tears ran down his
cheeks when Florence coughed as the poison entered
her lungs.

At last the evening came to a close, and Steinfurt
left with his little charge—he to sleep soundly, con-
vinéed that he had provided a comfortable home for
the little darling; she to sob and bewail her hard
fortune. E

At last the day of parting came, and the child
heroically conquered her grief lest her friend should

ro to Sea With a heavy heart. He promised to write

o her as often as he could, and charged her to love

and obey the good people who would henceforth
stand in the light of parents to her during his long
absence.

Mrs. Skowl, according to promise, took the child to
the Battery to see the Allemania sail from port.
Many years ago her mother had stood on the same
spot watching the lessening sails of the Conqueror
as she sailed out toward the Narrows on her way to
the Atlantic.

“There! There’s nothing more to see!” snarled
Mrs. Skowl. ‘Come along!”

And giving Florence’s hand a twitch, she hurried
through the crowded thoroughfares until they
reached the den in Chatham street. She took the
chil up to a wretched garret-room, which was
assigned to the orphan, and there ordered her to
take off her frock and shoes. For her neat mourning
dress, she substituted a filthy and ill-smelling calico
gown, and for her snug-fitting shoes a pairof old
slippers down at the heel. Her good clothes were
immediately exposed for sale in the shop window.

Then she carried the child to the kitchen and set
her her first task, which was to clean a lot of kettles,
pots, saucepans, and tins, and wash all the crockery
on the dresser.

“Tf them things isn’t as clean as a whistle by
twelve o’clock I’ll know the reason why,” said the
hag. “If you do your work properly you'll have
enough to eat, and escape lickin’s; otherwise——”

She left the sentence incomplete, shook her fist,
and flounced out of the room.

Florence had known cold, hunger, and the bitter-
est privations, but she had never yet had a harsh or
cruel word addressed to her. She sat down and
eried bitterly, then, fearing to be detected in her
sorrowful idleness, and recalling the threats of the
vile old hag, she began her rude task with the de-
termination to accomplish it within the time allowed
her.

CHAPTER XI.
TRAVELING ACQUAINTANCES,

~ We must leave poor little Florence in the hands of
the amiable pair, and introduce the reader to far dis-
tant scenes and other characters. ;

On a summer afternoon, the railway train from
Liverpool, England, to Glasgow, Scotland, halted for
five minutes in the station at Carlisle, on the border,
to take in passengers. One of the compartments, the
second class, was occupied by an elderly gentleman
and a young lady, his daughter. The gentleman was
very distinguished-looking, but white-haired and care
worn, while the young lady was one of those rare
beauties in whom the eye of an artist fails to find a
single defect. Her commanding and faultless figure,
her regular features, fresh color, brilliant black eyes,
and shining raven tresses, owed nothing to the luxury
of dress, for she wore only a plain traveling suit of
grey poplin, a grey straw hat, with a white feather
and a thick vail, which she now drew down over ner
face with a pettish action, as she noticed a young
man, with a florid complexion, blue eyes, ight hair,
dressed in a tweed-suit, and carrying several parcels,
standing on the platform, and glancing at the coim-
Pent with an evident intention of taking a seat

t.

. “How vexatious!” said the young lady to her
father. “I hoped we should have this compartment
_to ourselves for the rest of the journey, which would
have been awful jolly, but here comes a wretched
Englishman—looks like a commercial traveler—to in:
trude upon our privacy.”
*To take a seat which he has paid for in a public
conveyance,” replied her father, dryly.
“T don’t care—it’s very annoyiug,” said the yeung
lady.
The door opened; the young man got in, bowed to
the previous oceupants of the compartment. as he
assed them, disposed of his parcels, and then estab-
fished himself in the further corner of the carriage,
folded his arms and looked out of the window. The
engine shrieked and the long train moved out of the
station.
A dead silence of a few minutes followed. Then the
young lady whispered to her father :
“This is horrid slow. Trot the fellow out. Break
the ice—say something to him.”
“Fine weather, sir,” said the old gentleman.
“Very,” replied the young man.
“What an interesting remark! What conversational
powers !” thought the young lady.
“Going to Glasgow, sir?” asks the elderly man.
“Yes, sir,’ replied the young man.
“Yaas!—haw!” muttered the youn®@ lady to her-
self. ‘How I do hate those Englishmen !”
“Perhaps you are acquainted with the road ?’
“T have been up and down frequently,” replied the
young iman ‘And you, sir!”
“Though [ have traveled extensively in the East,
this is the first time I have crossed the Scottish bor-

“Indeed? Very well, sir, as I have the advantage
of you, it will afford me great pleasure to point out
the objects of interest as they appear.”

“You are very kind.”

Here the young man changed his seat,
self opposite the father and daughter, an
the conversation.

“A semi-civilized islander at least,” thought the
young lady, as she glanced in the face of the speaker.
“And not so utterly hideous a monster after all.”

“These carriages, as they call them,” said the
young man, “do not begin to compare for comfort
with our American railroad cars.”

“What!” said the elderly man.
American, sir?’

“T have that honor, sir.’’

“Shake hands on that,” said the elderly man. ‘““‘We
are fellow-countrymen.”

Here the young man handed his card to his travel-
ing companion. On it was engraved “Clarence
Ware, Artist, New York, U.S. A. In return he re-
ceived one with the inscription ‘‘Dudley Knighton,
New York, U. 8. A.”

“My daughter Victoria,” said Mr. Knighton.

As she extended her gloved right hand, Miss
Knighton threw up her veil with her left hand, and
the full glory of her imperial charms burst on the daz-
zled eyes of the young New Yorker.

Victoria Knighton had often tried their effect be-
fore in this way aud never failed toachieve atriumph,
as on this occasion. She was not one of that very
limited number of women who are unconscious of
their personal attractions.

“IT left New York when I was a child—oh, ever so
many years ago,” she said—‘‘there must have been
many changes there since.”

“You would hardly recognize it,’ replied Ware,
and he rapidly described the transformations the
city had undergone.

She listened to him attentively, and then, glancing
out of the window, asked abruptly :

“Are those the Cheviot hills ?”

“No,” he replied, “these are the Pentlands.”

“The Pentlands !” she rejoined, and then she burst
into the Scotch song:

laced him-
continued

“Are you an

eee are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond the

orth,
If ven lgirds in the lowlands, there’s chiefs in the
orth.’

The young artist completed the verse:

“There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,
Willery ‘Hoigh!!’ for the bonnet of bonny Dundee !”

And both together sang the chorus:

“Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle your horses and call up your men ;
Come open your doors and let me go free,

For its up with the bonnets of bonny Dundee.”

By this time, it is necessary to add, our travelers,
especially the young people, were on terms of inti-
macy.

“Look yonder, Miss Knighton,” said the artist.
“Do you see that little building on the left?”

“Yes—a very commonplace affair. What about it?”

“Why, that is where the blacksmith used to marry
runaway couples from England.” |,

“What! is that Gretna Green ?”

“Nothing else. Oh, the old fellow used to do a
thriving business. Horses shod and fugitive lovers
united at the shortest notice! Along the road which
runs parallel to the rail, many a post-chaise has rat-
tled at breakueck pace, while an angry father
was pelting in the rear as fast as feed postilions could
urge their reeking steed. Often, I have heard, the
brief ceremony was hurried through while paterfam-
ilias was rapping his knuckles raw on the door of the

smithy.”

thundered on. Night was settling down when Miss
Knighton suddenly exclaimed:

‘Pray tell me, Mr. Ware, what is the meaning of
those lights that are flaming so luridly on the hori-
zon?”

“We are entering the iren district,’ he replied,
‘and the lights you behold are from the blast-fur-
naces of Gartsherrie. The cotton lords of Glasgow,
which we are approaching, have yielded the ‘crown
of the causeway’ to the iron lords.”

It was nearly ten o’clock when our travelers
reached Glasgow, and were driven to the George Ho-
tel. Supper and bed followedin rapid succession.
We will not say what dreams visited Victoria Knigh-
ton, but it was quite certain that her lovely face
played witchwork with the slumbers of Clarence
Ware, and this fair countrywoman was uppermost
in his thoughts when he rose next morning.

As for Dudley Knighton. he paced his chamber
floor for hours after he had retired, as was now his
wont, and it was not till morning, when the first
carts began to rattle through the stony streets, that
he closed his eyes.

After breakfast the next morning, our three travel-
ers sallied forth to see the city. They strolled
along the Broomielaw, stood im the center of the
splendid bridge that spans the silver Clyde, and
gazed with delight on the map of shipping congre-
gated in the harbor, rising in importance from the
bulky Indiaman, and interspersed with many of
those splendid steamers, the building of which has
made the fame and fortune of the capitalists and
citizens of the great Scotch city.

As they wandered along the paths of the City
Park, the “Green,” Clarence Ware pointed out to
his fair companion, in the misty distance, Castle-
mith, where the hapless Mary, Queen of Scots,
passed the night before the battle of Langside, and
the ramparts of Cathcart Castle, from which she be-
held her royal banner trailed in the dust of defeat,
never to rise again.

“A large portion of Glasgow,” said Ware, ‘is, as
you see, new, bright, beautiful, and attractive, but
the police have told me terrible stories of other parts,
fully equal in filth and horror to St. Gile’s, Loudon,
and the Five Points of our own New York. In what
is called the ‘New Vennel,’ a room in the upper
story of a house is pointed out where a man was
drugged, robbed, and then pitched headforemost
from a fourth-story window sheer down upon the
cruel pavement below, two old women with rheumy
eyes, and a child, young in years, but old in iniquity,
laughing obstreperously at the fun of the transac-
tion. But from the hideous. jest. to the gallows in
this case was but astep. Buti beg your pardon. I
was hurried into speaking of these things; they are
unfit for the ears of a lady.”

“Go on!” replied Victoria, with a strange laugh.
“T have no nerves—and I crave excitement. Shall I
make a confession?) When I was in Spain I did so
dearly love a bull-fight.”

‘Victoria!’ said her father, reproachfully.

“You know it’s true; darling papa. And when we
were attacked by Bedouins in the desert, did I show
the white feather? I rather think more than one of
the robbers had reason to reyzret that I learned,
years ago, how to handle a pistol.”

Ware hardly knew what to make of this strange
and unconventional girl, so marvelously beautiful,
so gentle and winning at one moment, so unfeminine
and repellant at another.

‘“‘You were picturing the night side of Glasgow,”
she resumed. ‘‘Pray goon. I like to learn all the
phases of the foreign cities I visit.”

“The detectives,” said Ware, ‘tell many a thrilling
story of adventure in the dismal deus I have been
alluding to. In some of the narrow. ‘closes’ (court-
yards without issue) slender poles extend from house
to house on the level of the fourth story for the ac-
commodation of the lodgers who hang their clothes
upon them to dry. Thieves, when hard-pressed by
the officers of the law, have been known to escape
arrest by clambering across these air-hung bridges.
In oneof these ‘closes,’ outside a more than sus-
pected house, a man was found, one cold gray morn-
ing, hanging by the neck, stark and stiff, a few hours
dead. The officer who discovered him was so horror-
stricken that he fell like a stone and was never fit
for duty afterwards. Queer old places these dark
and dismal ‘wynds’ (alleys) and ‘eloses’ of Glasgow
are.

So they rambled about the Scotch city, visited the
cathedral, the college, the public squares, and other
places of interest, but Victoria was impatient to see
the Scotch highlands, and the next day found the
little party embarked in a large boat pulled by eight
stalwart oarsmen over the placid surface of Loch
Lomond, the queen of the Scottish lakes.

CHAPTER XII.
PARTING AND MEETING.

As they rowed past the islets, Victoria’s memory
ealled up the various legends connected with them,
and when her souvenirs failed her, the steersman, a
very intelligent Highlander, supplied the gap.

As they swept by the ruins of Banacher and the
gorge of Glen Fruin, this man came to her aid.

“Tt was in the Castle of Banacher,” he said, ‘“‘that
one of the Macfarlanes murdered the chief of the
Colquhouns, iu the year 1640. Glen Fruin (the Vale
of Sorrow) was the scene of a bloody clan-battle be-
tween the McGregors and Colquhouns in 1602, result-
ing in the defeat of the latter with a loss of two hun-
dred men and many taken prisoners. What appears
almost incredible was that the victorious party lost
only twomen. It was charged upon the chief of the
MeGregors that he put to death, in cold blood,. after
the battle, eighty youths of the Colquhoun family
who were present at the engagement merely as
lookers-on. Be this as it may, the victory was one of
those which are more disastrous than a defeat, for it
cost the McGregors dearly in the end. The widows
of the Colquhouns, sixty in number, went to the king
at Stirling, and demanded vengeance. James VI.
granted their prayer, and hunted down the Mce-
Gregors with fire and sword.”

Oh! how grand and beautiful were the mountain
shores along which our travelers swiftly glided.
How Ben Lomond, rising into the clouds, dominated
all the magnificent scenery ! :

At Inversnaid they dismissed their boatmen With a
munificent gratuity.

Mr. Knighton had gone up to the little hotel and
left Ware and his daughter standing on the extremity
of the steamboat pier. As the young lady was listen-
ing to the artist, playing with a diamond ring, which
she alternately pulled on and off her slender finger,
she suddeuly uttered a shriek.

“My ring!” she cried. “One Iset such store by!
Itislost! There! I dropped it in the deep water at
my feet! Itis gone forever !”

Most young men would have joined the young lady
in bewailing her loss, but Clarence Ware was more
romantic and more.daring than most young men.

Without a moment’s hesitation, without a word of
explanation to his fair companion, he plunged into
the lake.

‘*Will the fool lose his life ?” was the girl’s thought.
“TJ little thought he would accept the challenge.”

But the bold diver rose to the surface, climbed to
the level of the pier, and placed the sparkling gem
on the finger of the owner, who thanked him with a
beaming smile.

“T thought the age of chivalry had passed!” she
said. ‘It is long since a knight sprang iuto the
arena where lions were contending, merely to re-
cover the fallen glove of his lady, but you——”

“Have braved uo wild beasts—only run the risk of
a cold,” replied Ware, laughing. “I am more than
repaid by your pleasure at receiving yourring. And
now I must pay my respects to the kitchen fire of
the hotel.”

Those were enchanted days which our travelers
passed in Scotland, their only regret being that they
could devote so brief a space to the land of lake and
mountain, history and legend. How delightful was
their sail down Loch Katrine! How they enjoyed
the passage of the Tropachs! What enchanted hours
they passed at Stirling, at Linlithgow, at Edinburg,
at Melrose, at Abbotsford, at Dryburgh! With what
regret they crossed the border for a second time, and
found themselves again in England!

In London Clarence Ware parted from his travel-
ing companions, for he had engagements in Paris.
During his journey to the capital he thought often of
his chance acquaintance, and the image of the lovely
Victoria dwelt in his memory. He had rarely met so
fascinating a girl, in spite of her eccentricities, butas
yet her character was a perfect enigma to him.

r ‘Shall we ever meet again?’ he thought.

As Paris was perfectly familiar to the young man,
he was exempt from the drudgery of sight-seeing,
and so resumed his professional labors at once. He
set up. his easel in his old quarters in the Abbey of
St. Germain, where several other artists had rooms,
and began tu put some of his water-color sketches of
Scotch scenery in oil, working with a wonderful fa-
cility acquired by long practice. A portion of each
day, however, was devoted to copying in the Louvre,
as he had orders from home to reproduce some of
the smaller celebrated pictures.

The copyists in the Louvre are a distinctive feature
of its magnificeut galleries. In the Square Saloon
and other rooms you see young and old men and
women, some of them perched on terribly high step-
ladders, s0 as to bring them on a level with those
pictures which are hung at a great elevation, busily
plying their vocation.

One day, several weeks after his return to Paris,
Clarence Ware was busily at work copying a favorite
group by Boucher, utterly heedless of the busy
crowds that circulated round him, when a musical
voice exclaimed:

“Well done, Mr. Ware!”

The artist looked up and recognized the bright,
mischievous face of Victoria Knighton.

“This is a most unexpected pleasure!” he said, tak-
ing her offered hand. ‘tHow long have you been in
Paris?”

“An age—upwards of a fortnight.
at a two-forty gait.”

“Where are you stopping?’

“Hotel du Rhin, Place Vendome.”

“Had I known you were in town, I should have
called of course, and offered my services.”

“As guide, philospher, and friend? Thanks. We

We're doing it

 

-

Chatting thus. the time passed swiftly as the train

 

 

lost your address.

Here Mr. Knighton came up and greeted the artist
kindly. He was accompanied by a tall, very hand-
some Man, with bright black eyes and hair, dressed
rather flashily, and wearing too much jewelry for a
gentleman.

“Papa!” said Miss Knighton. ‘‘You have forgotten
to introduce our friend. Mr. Ware, Count Angelo
Castello.”

The young men shook hands very politely, but very
eoldly. As there is such a thing as love at first sight,
so there is such a thing as dislike at first sight, and
Ware’s dislike of the stranger came so near hatred
that it narrowly missed it. He was a firm believer
in the science of Lavater, and his professional study
of faces had made him an accomplished physiogno-
mist. There was, perhaps, also, ashade of uncon-
scious jealousy in the suspicious view he took of the
stranger’s character.

“Come and dine with us and spend the evening, if
you have no other engagement,” said Miss Knighton.
“No ceremony, quite en famille, you know—only the
count, and he is one of us, The count has promised
to take us this evening to the Bal Mabille. You'll
go, won't yout”

“To what place?” inquired the artist.

“To Mabille. They say it is awful fast and jolly.”

cout my dear Miss Knighton, it is hardly respect-
able.”

“Much I care for that,’ replied Miss Knighton,
saucily. ‘‘I wasn’t born in the woods to be scared by
aunowl. I’m an American girl and I choose to see
everything that is to be seen. But you haven’t
answered ine. Will you dine with us?”

“With pleasure.”

“Thank you. And now, asitis getting late, I for-
bid you to paint another stroke. Join us in a stroll in
the Tuileries gardens,”

Clarence Ware summoned an attendant, gave his
painting materials into his charge, and followed Mr.
and Miss Knighton out of the gallery.. As they de-
scended the staircase, the count aud the artist were
some paces behind the former couple. The Italian
was switching his cane and humming an opera air.

“Count Castello, one word with you,” said the
young American in a low tone.

“Twenty if you like, mio caro,” replied the count,
superciliously.

They halted a little, and permitted Mr. and Miss
Knighton to get yet further in advance of them.

“Permit me to ask,” said Ware, “if this invitation
to Mabille originated with you or was suggested by
Miss Knighton ?’

“The proposition was mine,’ replied the count,
coolly. ‘What have you to say about it ?”

“That you can hardly be acquainted with the cus-
toms to the city, with its social proprietiss, if you
propose to take arespectable young lady to that in-
famous resort.”’

“T am probably as thoroughly acquainted with
Paris, mio caro, as you are yourself.”

; oe you deliberately propose to compromise a
ady ?

“I deliberately propose to take a lady to a public
ball which she is very desirous of attending.”

“T forbid it,” answered Ware, warmly. ‘I defy you
to carry out your plan.”

“A sure way to make me persevere,” replied the
count. ‘The time is far distant when Count Angelo
Castello will stop to take lessons from an American
plebian.”

“The time is not far distant-when Count Angelo
Castello will be compelled to receive a lesson from an
American gentleman which he will not soon be likely
to forget.”

As Mr. and Miss Knighton had halted for the dis-
putants to rejoin them. the angry conversation was
brought to a sudden close, and the party chatted on
indifferent subjects as they strolled in the gardens of
the Tuileries, until Ware was forced to take leave of
them, and go and dress for dinner.

“The fellow is a scoundrel and an adventurer, I am
certain,’ said Ware, as he tied his white cravat, “but
in me he has found his master.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
(0 ee

THE INSTINCT OF THE BLIND.

By some singular instinct, a man who was born
blind can tell when he is opposite an object, and can
perceive whether it is tall or short, slender or bulky.
He can also determine whether it be a solitary ob-

ject or a continuous fence; whether a close fence or
an open one, and sometimes whether a wooden fence,
a stone wall, ora hedge. None ofthe five senses has
anything to do with this perceptive power, but the
impressions are made on the skin of the face, and by
it transmitted to the brain. He therefore names this
unrecognized sense ‘‘facial err ree The pres-
ence of afog interferes with facial perception and
makes the impressions faint and untrustworthy, but
darkness 1s noimpediment. A noise which distracts
the attention interferes with the impressions. In
passing along the street he can distinguish shops
from private houses, and doors from windows if the
windows consist of a number of panes, and not of a
single sheet of glass.

A ROMANCE OF THE RAMBLE,

BY NATHAN D. URNER.

Certainly no portion of Central Park is more ad-
mirably adapted for love-making than the irregular
labyrinth of sinuous paths, secluded bowers, and
cozy, romantic summer-houses known as the
‘“Ramble.”

Cool, shady grots, forget-me-nots
Of many a happy meeting,

Where lovers kissed, and vows were lisped,
And merry time was fleeting ;

Sweet shaded walks for gentle talks,
And benches still more shady,

And bowers apart, to please the heart
Of amorous swain or lady ;

Ah, how could Love his arrows prove,
As Hymen’s sweet preamble,

Were’t not for these cool greeneries
That mark our merry Ramble.

The gentle tale of jealous fire and maddening love,
which I am about to tell, is a true story of the
Ramble, the particulars of which came to me from
one of the gentlemen concerned.

Mr. Archibald Grafton, was a respectable book-

keeper, and the possessor of a wife—the latter young
and beautiful, and .blindly worshiped and trusted in
everything by her doting Archie. Her lovely coun-
tenance floated like adream through his day-book,
lingered jauntily in his journal, and spoke like the
Sibyl of his destiny from the black and red array of
his ledger columns,

In other words, he was fond of her to uxoriousness,
and jealous of her to distraction.

One day he was sént away by the firm employing
him to a distant city, on business. His principal
anxiety was that attending upon leaving his pretty
wife alone. Before departing, he entertained -her
with a long and instructive lecture upon the duties
of a pretty wife during the absence of herlord. He
painted in vivid hues the dangers of the great city;
the snares and pitfalls that were ever gaping for the
feet of the unwary; the temptations that were ever
glittering to the unsophisticated, both married and
single; and exhorted her to be prudent and circum-
spect, when he was far away.

She listened to him very meekly, and in some sur-
prise, for she was so artless and innocent that she
had never dreamed of the existence of perils until
apprised of them by himself.

Archie, being satisfied with her promises and ex-
pressions of devotion, made her a present of a new
dress, which he had just obtained at his store at cost
price, and went away rejoicing in leaving among his
household. gods such a budding Penelope as his
adored Sophonisba.

His chief delight, in the.distant city, was the daily
receipt of her charming letters. Fraught with the
perfume of a loving heart, ht’ hived the bee-like me@s-
sengers in his heaving heart, and almost lived upon
the honey which he stored away.

But there passed a cloud over his sunshine.

The bower he had chosen for his love was a little
cottage in the neighborhood of Central Park. It sat
in a garden of roses, and had for a near neighbor an-
other cottage, inhabited by a maiden lady, of uncer-
tain summers, who chiefly beguiled the fleeting mo-
ments of her pure life with meddling with other
people’s business.

In this*respect, she had honored the Graftons, es-
pecially, to the great disgust of Sophonisba, but—to

is shame be it mentioned—to the secret satisfaction
of the jealous Archibald.

The peace of mind of the latter was now suddenly
disturbed by receiving from this disinterested
maiden lady a brief missive, mysteriously hinting
that all was notright in his domestic affairs, and
that he would be better at home than abroad.

This intelligence fell like a blighting frost among
those bee-like expressions from his wife, which he
still daily treasured in his heart of hearts.

He grew vexed and unhappy, and at once tele-
graphed to his employers, asking if he might come
home; receiving, in reply, thathe might do no such
thing before his business was completed, unless he
desired to forfeit his situation.

This the wretched man could not afford to do, so
he wrote to the disinterested maiden lady, demand-
ing further and minute particulars,

While awaiting her reply, his breast was the
theater of dark and harassing thoughts. He could
scarcely yet accuse his wife of being false to him—
and yet, if she should so prove, what a monster of
deceit and perfidy she must be?%—for daily still,
through the mail, were- breathed to him the pro-
fessions of her gentle love and devotion,

should have called on you, but had unfortunately

He chafed and tortured himself with a thousand
doubts andfears. He lost his temper and his appe-
tite with anxiety and suspense.

At length came the longed-for explanations from
the maiden of virtue and uncertain years. His
worst fears were realized.

His Sophonisba had a lover. According tothe in-
formant, he was young and handsome. Archie
ground his teeth, for he, poor fellow, was neither.
Furthermore, the beautiful deceiver had visited the
rose-bowered cottage every day for many days. Fur-
thermore, the guilty pair visited the park on sunny
afternoons, and had more than once been marked in
the Ramble, arm in arm, and evidently in loving
converse.

The infuriated Archibald could read no more. A
multitude of conflicting emotions took possession of
him. Now he would rave and rear, like a charger on
the battle-field. Then he would shed tears of morti-
fication, and quiver helplessly.

In the midst of this tumult of his soul, came an-
other missive from hig wife, instinct with nothing
but tenderness and love.

“Viper! hypocrite!” he shrieked, in his agony; and
the letter was in fragments.

He again telegraphed, asking permission to return ;
was again refused, and concluded to return on his
own responsibility.

His mission was of vengeance; and, after packing
his valise, he proceeded to arm himself for the ter-
rible deed in store for him. The destroyer of his
peace might be a fighting man; Archie was not, in
any sense of the word, but he concluded to counter-
balance the disadvantage by going armed to the
teeth, and attacking his enemy unprepared.

He had a friend who sold deadly weapons for a
livelihood, and to his shop he repaired. When he
came out, he was a perambulating arsenal. <A loaded
revolver rested in each breast-pocket of his coat, and
he had a bowie-knife in the rear pocket of his
trousers. He was soon in the cars, speeding home-
ward—no; speeding to the city which was no longer
home to him.

He put up at a down-town hotel, bought a slouch
hat, to disguise, in a measure, his noble features,
and sprang into an Eighth avenue car.

The rose-bowered cottage was closed—bolted and
barred—when he reached it. A cold perspiration
suffused his forehead, as he staggered back against a
hen-coop.

Perhaps they had already eloped !

He hurried to the cottage of the disinterested
maiden.

She greeted him with tearful sympathy, and in-
formed him that his heartless wife and her lover had
gone upon their usual walk to the Ramble.

Through the park he hurried. It was late in the
afternoon, but the beautiful walks and drives were
still thronged, and many of the happy pleasure-
seekers gazed at him with wonder, as he made a
bee-line for the Ramble.

Reaching this, his shrewder judgment came to his
aid, and he proceeded cautiously ; for he resolved to
take his enemy unawares.

At length, having attained a little eminence, he
perceived them, and, to all appearances, his wildest
suspicions were confirmed. His wife, with a gentle-
man—tall and decidedly handsome—occupied a
bench at the foot of a secluded path.

The gentleman kissed the lady, and the lady
smiled.

The wronged and outraged husband could bear no
mere.

With a pistolin one hand, and a bowie-knife in the
other, he rushed down the pathway.

Ere he reached the object of his vengeance, he
stuinbled upon a pebble, and fell at the foot of the
bench, his weapons clattering in his descent.

His wife was the first to assist him to rise.

“Why, Archie, dear, how you startled me!” she ex-
claimed. ‘See, here is my brother, Dick, returned
from the East Indies. He grew out of my recollec-
tion while there, so that you must have forgotten
him too.”

“Your—your brother, Dick!’ stammered Archie.
“T thought—that is—yes—but why the devil didn’t
you write me of his arrival?”

“We concluded to give you a surprise on your re-
return, old fellow, that was all,” said the gentleman,
smiling. ‘But what’s the meaning of these warlike
demonstrations ?”

“Well, you see,” cried poor Archie, overwhelmed
with mortification, ‘‘you see they told me, that is—
confound it! I was given to understand that you
were some fellow making love to my wife.”

They laughed heartily, explanations followed, and
the three proceeded home in high good humor.

On their way, they gave the disinterested maiden
lady a quiet call. What transpired my informant of
the foregoing particulars—Mrs. Grafton’s brother
himself—did not vouchsafe to tell me; but two or
three days thereafter, there was a conspicuous sign
of ‘‘House to Let,” on the disinterested cottage.

Archie did not lose his situation, after all; and as
his brother-in law turned out to bea good fellow,
besides a fast friend, none of the party ever had oc-
casion to regret their little Romance of the Ramble.

HINTS ABOUT WATER AND SALT.

Salt is an absolute essential to the diet of man,
says a. Boston physician. It promotes health in
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om THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. Sse=>

VOL. 46—No, 1,

 

THE STARS.

BY L. H. BRINDLEY.

What are their years? The night’s unfathomed deep
Rings back no answer, gives no glimmering key ;
And still unknown, and beautiful, they keep
The silent courses of Eternity.

What are their memories of Creation’s days,

When startled Chaos from its kingdom hurled,
First knew its Master, and with glad amaze

They sang the birth-song of our trembling world?

What have they looked on since, with patient eyes,
While million years uncounted rolled away ?

Who claims antiquity for man, that dies,
Before such records of the Past as they ?

Can they to man his mystery explain,

The why, the whence of his uncertain state?
Unlock the riddle that he reads in vain,

And clear the tangled problem of his fate?

Can they a fashion to the future give,

And tell the whither of man’s anxious quest?
Make life a less than weariness to live?

Or stay the hazard of his wild unrest?

Oh, Stars! what midnight message do ye bear
To minds grown weary with the years’ increase ?
The wistful eyes that watch you shining there,
Look out of troubled hearts that know not peace,

The Billberry Papers.

BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.
Author of “The Grinder Papers.”

(“THE BILLBERRY PAPERS” were commenced in No.
39, Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

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“JY HAVEN'T A PENNY EITHAW,” SAID I, TAKING
OUT MY SMELLING BOTTLE. “IT’S WEALLY A
TWAGEDY!”

No. 15.—-MR. BILLBERRY’S FAREWELL TO
THE PUBLIC.

It’s not any fault of mine, weally. I’ve been
dwiven toit. It’s the old lady whois to blame—be-
sides Fate. She died at the most inopportune time—
went off like a flash—and hadn’t put by anything. If
there’s anything a gwandpawent is to blame for, it’s
not putting anything by. When I knew it couldn’t
be helped I collected the boarders’ bills and sold the
furniture and good-will to an elderly party who
wanted it, and I said to myself, “Now, my good fel-
law, seize the opportunity ; stwike while the iwon is
DOS 7:

I am aware that it was a vewy vulgar blacksmithy
way of putting it, but I was excited.

As soon as I’d got all there was to get, I went off
in a hack to a tip-top hotel, and wrote my name on the
pooks, Guillaume Billberry. I took a good suite of
rooms, and let it be known, soon as possible, that I
was in mouwning for a gwandpawent whv had left
me evewything (so she had, you know), and the gals
looked very sweet on me—vewy_ sweet indeed. I’m
accustomed to admiwation, and it didn’t turn my
head. But, said T to myself, choose the wichest, my
dear fellaw, while your money lasts.

Who was the wichest was vewy hard to find out,
where evewybody dwessed so; but pwetty soon I
noticed the gal who had the most wings on her fin-
gers, and was vewy pwetty, vewy, and had no wich
welations to ask questions about a fellaw’s pwoperty.
A gal don’t know anything about those things, you
know, unless she’s an old gal.

She seemed to keep by herself generally, and had
an old party ina lace cap as a kind of chapawone,
you know; and so, one day meeting in the hall, I
ventuwed to bow. She smiled and bowed again, and
aftew that we were vewy good fwiends. A vewy
jolly gal, didn't care how much you kissed her when
nobody was looking. 5

I told her about the old lady leaving me evewy-
thing, and wepwesented that she had wesided on her
estate in the countwy, and she told me that she also
was an awphan, and that she was wicher than she
knew hawself. ; s

“My man of business collects everything for me,
she said, “‘and I never ask questions. I don’t care
about money.” __ :

So I said I didn’t either,
fwiends.

Aftaw a while I proposed and was accepted, and
we were to be mawwiedin a month. The money was

wetty well used up, and I couldn’t hold out neuch

onger, so I said [was afwaid some one would steal
her from me if we were engaged long, and she set the
day. She didn’t mind it’s being so early, she said.

Tt was vewy nice. A bwother who would inquire
into a fellaw’s sacumstances, Or a papa anxious
about settlements, would have been in the way.

T had to give her a wing, you know, and it was a
confounded expense; 8o I stole one of hers one day—
slipped into her apartments when she was out and
changed it at an old Jew’s for anothew. The old fel-
law cheated me, [ know, and the chambawmaid was
awested on suspicion; but something must be
sacwificed, you know. The wing I bought was old-
fashioned, so I told her it was an heir-loom in our
family, and had belonged to an aunt of mine who
mawwied an English nobleman,

1 was glad the wedding was so neaw, for the gal
wanted more wides and more ice cweams, and more
expense genewally than any gal I evew met with. I
T was vewy pwoud of her society, howevew, for she
Was vewy awistocwatic, and nevew associated with
the other ladies in the house, which she told me was
her mamma’s last wequest. |

“Nevaw know everybody—it is vulgaw,” was what
her mamma had said. _ ’ J

They used to show their spite by looking contempt-
uously at us, and turning their backs, which might
have been expected after Georgianna’s conduct.

Well, time went, and so did money, you know, and
when I stepped into the cawwiage to go to church I
had just twenty dollars left. We went through the
cewemony splendidly, and the old pawty—her aunt,
you know—gave her away, and we wode back to the
hotel and had our wedding dinna. If I hadn’t been
mawwried whenI was, who would have paid for
this? was what I asked myself, and I congwatulated
myself on my success.

Aftaw dinna I went into the pawla to let myself be
seen, and was looking out of the window when the
landlord walked in. ‘

“May I speak to you amoment ?” said he.

So I went out, supposing he was going to ask some

uestions about our apawtments, for I had decided
that when we were mawwied to engage tlfe hand-
somest in the hotel; but, by Jove, he put a gweat
bill into my hand—Miss Georgianna Cheatum’s ex-
penses for six months. i

“Weally,” I said, ‘does she let her bills run up so
long? She’s a careless little soul—I’ll speak to her.”

“You know about it, of course ?” gaid he,

“No,” said I. ‘How should L?”’

“The person who calls herself the lady’s aunt men-
tioned to me that you desired the bill to stand until
you were married,” said the landlord, “because it
would look better. She brought me a message from
yourself.” ;

““Vewy well,” said I; “it can’t make any difference
to such a wealthy pawson as my wife if her bills
stood ten years,” and I went up stairs.

Georgianna was fanning herself on a sofa.

and we were gweat

“My love,” said I.

‘““My dear,” said she.

“That troublesome landlord has just sent in a bill,”
said I. “I haven’t any change about me—have
you?”

“Dear me, no,” said she.
world.”

‘What !” said I.

“Not a penny,” said she; “I supposed an explana-
tion would be necessary soon. I haven’t a penny.
I’ve lost all ever had. I put up here to—settle, you
know. Imade up my mind I must marry. You'll
have to foot the bills, love.”

“Tt’s a joke,” said I.

“T wish it was,” said she. “But now we’re married,
you must make the best of it. You are sorich, you
know, it can’t matter.”

I took out my smelling-bottle and sat down on the

ofa.
“What did your father do with his millions?” I

“T haven’t a cent in the

asked.

“I don’t know; I never say him,” said she, fanning
herself. ‘I invented him and the millions. The first
IT can remember I was an imp——”

“A what?” asked I.

“An imp in Christmas pantomime,” said she, ‘‘and
the comedy man’s wife had adopted me. I was al-
ways onthe stage after that as a dancer; but six
months agoI made up my mind that a ballet-girl
can’t last long, to be worth anything, after thirty, so
I came here, left the stage, and pretended to be an
heiress. I had alittle money at first, you know, and
a friend of mine—my aunt—agreed to give me coun-
tenance. Of course I'm desperately in leve with
you; but you know I couldn’t have accepted you un-
less you’d had money. When I offered myself as a
ballet-girl at the Casino ”

‘As a ballet-girl !” I gasped.

“Yes,” said she. “When I offered to dance there,
the manager said I’d gone off in looks dreadfully the
last year, and I think that started me in this little
comedy.”

“Tt’s a twagedy,” said I, and I felt vewy faint. “I
suppose you know I’ve been twying the same thing ?”

“Kh ?” says she.

ae jhaven’t a penny, eithaw, it’s weally a twa-
gedy.

“You are plaguing me, love,” said she. “‘You are
joking.”

I?’ said I. And then
hystewics.
* Lealled the chambawmaids, and they put her to
bed; and aftaw she was safe there, I collected my
gawments and her watch and jewelwy, and sent them
off. I told the landlawd I would settle with him be-
faw I took my wife away, and sol will. Then I
escaped from the_establishment, and I had made a
vewy gweat mistake. The watch and the most valu-
able wings were the old pawty’s, not Georgianna’s,
and she had me aw.wested for lawceny.

It’s a dweadful thing. The wetches have sent me
to pwison. I explained that I thought they were
my wife’s, but they wouldn’t believe me, and here I
am. It’s not wy fault, it’s the old lady’s, for going
off and leaving mein such a stwait. But when I get
out I mean to go to Califownia and change my name
(I nevew liked it, and now it’s been in vulgaw police
weports, I hate it); and as no one need to know I
have one wife, I mean to twy to find another heiwess
—this time a weal one, for I’ll see the money befaw
I propose.

Yours, for the last time.
GUILLAUME BILLBERRY,

P. S.—If anybody would like to send me jellies, or
wine, or anything nice, or if any lady is intewested
enough in my sad histowy to want to see me, I shall
be found in the Tombs.

P. 8.—If any one has lost her heart to me, why, I
suppose, I could get a divowce, if the lady who had
lost her heart would pay for it; and I don’t care so
much as I did about the gal’s looks. An old galor a
widow would do, if she has a fine income and weal
weal estate. The editaw will favaw me by letting
the public know this, and oblige

she went off into

BILLBERRY,.
(THE END.)

{Another humorous series, entitled ‘“‘The BACcK-
SNAPPER PAPERS,’ by DANIEL BARBERRY, Will be
begun next week. ]

8 St

Pleasant Paragraphs,
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

A Thoughtful Parent.

Petted Daughter—“‘Papa, what has come over you?
I never had a wish you were not anxious to gratify,
and you even anticipated my wants, and handed me
money for all sorts of things I hadn’t even thought
of. But now I have to ask you for every cent I need,
and you growl and grumble, and ask if I think you
are made of money, and you rail at women’s extray-
agance and invariably ask me what on earth I did
with the last check, or dollar, or dime you gave me,
Don’t you love me any more ?”

Papa—‘“‘My darling, I love you as much as ever,
but you are soon to be married, and I am trying to
gradually prepare you for the change.”

Bound to Have an Audience.
Dramatist—‘‘Seen the Clemenceau Case ?”
Manager—“Yes. Big thing. Drawing like a plas-

ter. Crowded houses every night. Say, I want you
to get me up a new play right off.”

Dramatist—“All right. What sort?’
Manager—“Oh, any sort; only I want the first act
in the life class of an art academy, the second ina
swimming-school, and the third in a Turkish bath.”
Street Smells.

The odors of Broadway afte
Why don’t you have

Citizen—“‘Phew !
enough to knock any one over.
it cleaned ?”’
Official—“The street is all right, sir. What you
smell is the winter wraps which have been packed
away all summer in moth paper.”

The Season Opened.

Mrs. De Style-—‘‘Dear me! What a lot of society
news you've got hold of—even to a full description
of Miss Tiptop’s Paris trousseau! Where did you
hear it all?”

Miss De Style—‘‘At the symphony concert.”

Gave Her a Good Time.

Returned Daughter—‘‘Oh, ma, everybody was s0
kind to me when I was in the city. They took me to
balls, and parties, and theaters, and operas, and all
sorts of places.”

Shrewd Ma—‘I knew they would. You told every-
body, didn’t you, that your pa had bought a cottage
at Newport, and we expected to entertain all our
friends and relatives there next summer, that is, if
they would come?”

Daughter—*Yes, indeed, ma; and they said of
course they’d come. Newportis the capital of Rhode
Island, isn’t it ?”

Shrewd Ma—“The Newport we are going to is in
Pennsylvania.”

Afraid of Fire.

Average Man—“‘My Goodness! The insurance on
this house ran out to-day, and I forgot to renew it.
Where do you keep your kerosene?”

Wite—‘“In the kitchen closet.”

“Have it carefully carried outdoors at once. What
sort of matches are we using ?”’

“Parlor matches,”

“Burn every one up and bring down your great-
grandmother’s tinder box from up stairs. Then send
the servants to bed before the moon stops shining,
and make sure that the kitchen range is fixed right.
Tl attend to the furnace myself.”

Every-Day History.

Winkle—“‘I wonder what becomes of all the boys
who leave the country and enter the great struggle
of life in the city.” :

Kinkle—“‘They make big fortunes, and then lie
back in their easy-chairs and advise country boys to
stick to the farm,”

Made Him Sick.

Doctor (on ocean steamer)—‘Your turn has come,
I see, sir. Allow me to——”

Sea-Sick Passenger (an old bachelor)—‘‘N-o, n-o,
doctor. It—it will soon pass off. It isn’t sea—sea-
sickness. I looked too long at those—those bridal
couples.”

A Silver Lining.

Wife—“Horrors! Husband, I’ve just heard there
is a case of smali-pox in the flat above us.”

Husband—“Yes, I know aboutit. That’s all right.
It’s the young man who plays the flute.”

A Blighted Career.

Prison Missionary—*‘My friend, what brought you
to this condition? Rum?”

Prisoner—“No, sir. It all come through my
mother.”

 

Missionary—“What? Your mother!”

I Prisoner—‘‘Yessir. When I was a boy, she’d never
let me pitch buttons er play marbles for keeps, er
snake cookies, er anything.”
Missionary—‘‘What has that te do with it?”
Prisoner—“ You see, when I growed up I was so
darned innocent and conscientious that I couldn’t
earn a honest living, and I had ter steal.”

Bearing the Market.

Wibbles—“‘See here, Wobbles, what are you doing
on the street with a linen duster and a fan this time
of year?”

Wobbles—“I am going to order some coal, and I
don’t want the dealer to slap up prices on me,”

Managing Tramps.

Mistress—“‘Did any one call while I was out?’

Servant—‘No one, ma’am, exceptin’a tramp. He
wanted somethin’ to eat; but I told him there was
nothin ready, an’ he’d have to wait till th’ leddy of
the house got back from the cooking-school, an’
mebby she’d make him something.”

Mistress—“Of all things! Did he wait?’

Servant—“No, ma’am. He runned.”

Evolution.

Miss De Fashion (a few years hence)—‘‘Pa, I'd like
to walk down the avenue with you a little way to see
a friend.”

Pa—“All right, my dear. Get your cane and over-
coat, and plug hat, and come along.”

A Good Man, But—
New Spirit—‘‘Was that a very bad man you just
turned away ?’
St. Peter—‘No; his record is good enough; but
he’s been the head man in a small town all his life,
and I know there’ll be no living with him.”

Wine Works Wonders.

Wine Dealer—‘‘Did you see vat Beesmarck say?
He say champagne give courage.”

Customer—“‘I presume thatisso. After I’ve gulped
down one glass, l’m brave enough to drink a whole
bottle without wondering what sort of chemicals it’s
made of.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

A FLANNEL CHRISTIAN.—Two Episcopal clergy-
men were one day taiking of a prominent divine who
was noted for his filthy appearance and evident fear
of water.

“What does he remind you of any way ?’ asked
one.

‘-Of flannel,” was the reply.

“How so?’ asked the first.

“Oh,” answered the second, “because he shrinks
so from washing.’’—N. Y. Tribune.

A CAPITAL JOKE.—“Let me illustrate the differ-
ence bétween capital and labor,” said the rich uncle
to the impecunious nephew. “Suppose I give you
$100, and——”’

“That’s capital!” replied the nephew, extending
his hand for the money.—The Bostonian.

PREMATURELY CONDEMNED. — Philanthropist —
“You asked me for a nickel to get something to eat
with. I gave it to you, and here you are drinking a
glass of beer.”

Tramp—‘Yes; but wait till you see me get at the
lunch counter.”—Chatier.

Dipn’t KNow Him.—“‘Simpson is a curious fellow ;
I never knew him to laugh at a joke.”

“Then it’s evident you never heard him tell one
himself.”—N. Y. Herald.

HE COULDN’T UNDERSTAND IT.—Small Boy (in in-
fant class of Sunday-school)—‘‘Wasn’t Peter and
James and John fishermen ?”

Teacher—“‘They were, Johnny.”

Small Boy—“Didn’t they use to go round tellin’
what they’d caught ?”

Teacher—‘‘I suppose they did sometimes.”

Small Boy—‘‘Then what’ do they call ’em saints
for ?’—Chicago Tribune.

MUTTON ENOUGH.

Mary had a little lamb,
Its fleece was white as snow,
But most of_us have heard of it,
All that we want to know.
American Journal,

A FatR WARNING.—Mr. Tangle—‘Tommy, your
mother tells me that you are falling into the evil
habit of talking slang.”

Tommy Tangle—‘‘Yes, pa, but I'll try not to.”

Mr. Tangle— Well, you’d better not let me catch
you using slang. I'd teach you! I’d pound you for
a home run, young fellow, and just everlastingly
knock the stuffing out of you! Vll have no slang in
this house !”—Light.

TALE OF A BLOTTER.—Beware of new blotters.
Here is what a lady, not a hundred miles from
Bryan, found upon a fresh blotter when she
dropped in at her husband’s office the other day:
“eno gnilrad nwo yM” Having received no such
communication from him.for a period of twenty
years or more, a question arose which has not yet
been satisfactorily answered.—Brooklyn Citizen.

EXTREMELY DOUBTFUL.—First Rector—“Is your
congregation going to raise your salary this coming
year ?”’

Second Rector—‘Well, I don’t know; they haven’t
finished raising my last year’s salary yet.”

Smith, Gray & Co’s Monthly.

irs EXPEDIENT.—Whitley (to small boy)—‘‘Here,
sonny, if you collect me a lot of insects, I'll give you
a quarter.”

Small Boy—‘‘Insects !
fer ?”’

Whitley—“I want to put them on my wife’s plants.
She won’t let me smoke in the house except to kill
insects on the plants.”’— West Shore.

What do yer want ’em

QUITE A DIFFERENCE.—‘Isn’t Jones a Christian
scientist—a believer in the faith cure ?”’

“He is.”

“Ts it true that he wouldn’t have a doctor for his
wife the other day when she was sick ?’

“Tt is quite true.”

“Why, I saw a doctor go into his house just now ?”

“Oh, that’s allright. He’s sick now himself.”

Cape Cod Item.

Judge—‘And you saw the prisoner strike the com-
plainant?” Witness—‘*‘Yes, your honor.” Judge—
“And had he given him any provocation?’ Witness
—“Why, you see, he pulled out a roll of bills.” Judge
—‘“And you mean to say the prisoner struck him for
that?’ Witness—‘Well, he struck him for some of
it.’—Binghamton Leader.

Clara—‘‘You say Emily married a Southern farm-
er?’ Cora—‘I said nothing of the kind.” ‘Well,
you said he was a planter from Louisiana.” “So I
did. But he’s not a farmer; he’s an undertaker.”

Yonkers Statesman.

An infirm old man, who is dependent upon his
little boy, a bootblack, for support, says that rainy
days are always dark and dreary to him, because the
son doesn’t shine.—Binghamton Leader.

The asp that Mme. Bernhardt has procured for her
fatal scene in “Cleopatra” has become fond of pie,
as is the great actress—an illustration of mutual asp
pie rations.—Philadelphia Ledger.

Johnny Greyneck—“Oh, mamma, May’s @ cow-
ard!” Mamma—Why, Johnny, what makes you say
so?’ Johnny—‘Because she is; she's afraid of
dirt.”—Boston Times.

“Do you have much excitement down here on the
beach?’ “Oh, yes. With a good glass I can see sea-
serpents almost any day.” ‘A good glass of what?’

St. Paul Pioneer Press.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood,

FASHION’S FANCIES.

Soft kid shoes match cloth dresses in color.

The number of long cloaks is limited.

Small capes, pelerines, and carricks are shown in great
variety.

Ostrich feather bands will be used on dresses as well as
hats.

Appliques of cloth or kid are promised for corsage
trimming, the edges being finished with fine metallic
cord,

Silver cord, as large round as a clothes-line rope, is
twisted with black velvet for the trimming of a jaunty
toque.

Rough shaggy plaids and stripes, and plain materials
with large, shaggy dots, are among the new imported
goods.

Thick, soft camel’s-hair goods, shaggy Scotch home-
spun plaids, and rough tweeds in fancy diagonal stripes,
are the most stylish cloths imported by tailors for street
gowns. There are also many smooth tweeds from the
westof England, which come in fine checks and line
stripes, and in a medley of subdued colors, while plain
English faced cloths are also shown in a variety of tones
of color.

There is no special change in hosiery. Black is the
color most often worn, although cashmere stockings of

 

 

exquisite soft quality are imported in cloth colors to
wear with gowns of the same color; and there are even
Scotch plaid stockings, to match tailor gowns.

The best tailors do not make any street gowns to lie on
the ground, except to order. They insist that the street-
gown shall clear the sidewalk in spite of the edict which
has gone forthfrom Parisian dressmakers that it shall lie
on the ground an inch and a half, necessitating the use of
a skirt supporter in walking.

The new fall jackets are several inches longer than
they have been. They are fitted often without a wrinkle
or plait smoothly around the hips in cuirass style; but in
other cases the group of plaits so long used over the
tournure at the seam in the center of the back is still re-
tained. The new jackets are made of plain, heavy faced
cloths, of scouring cloths, and other plain English goods,
and are elaborately braided. An exquisite coat of cream
white Isle of Wight serge is elaborately braided with
cream and gold braid covering the seams, while it is
further ornamented with two-inch bands of golden otter,
jaid 7% like braid, and curving down either side of the
ront.

Mrs. Florence M.—Winter dresses for girls from six to
twelve years of age are madein a simple fashion, with
round or slightly pointed bodices of natural length, made
full enough to drape, large sleeves, set high on the
shoulders, and full straight skirts gathered to the corded
edge of the waist. There seems to be a preference for
high waists with long sleeves, though low-necked bodices
with guimpes are also popular and stylish. Skirts must
be sufficiently wide to hang in full folds all around, as
scantiness destroys their graceful effect, and they are
made of medium length, reaching a short distance below
the knees, instead of in the extremely long English
fashion, while a hem, four or five inches wide, is sufficient
finish for the nicest skirts. If the fabric is reversible
the hem is turned up on the outside and stitched twice,
or else piped with braid, or with a narrow fold of velvet
or silk, while velvet ribbon is also used in the narrow
widths called baby-ribbon, black serving on dresses of
any color, and wider ribbons form graduated . borders, or
are sewed on in diamond shapes. Felt hats for girls are
in the shapes lately worn, with low crowns and soft
brims, widest in front, and trimmed with many black
ostrich tips.

A. R., Chicago, Iil.—ist. The blue cloak would be very
suitable for a girl of sixteen. 2d. Four yards of fifty-
fourinch wide material would probably be enough to
make the cloak. 3d. We can furnish a practical guide for
“Dyeing and Scouring” for fifty cents. 4th. A practical
guide for house and sign painting, kalsomining, paper-
hanging, etc., entitled the “Painter’s Manual,” will cost
fifty cents.

Alice T., Rochester, N. Y.—It is fashionable to have
velvet, silk, plaid, or striped goods combined with plain
material, as collar, cuffs, sleeves, yoke, V-shaped belt,
soft girdle, panels, flat or draped front, ora border to the
skirt. When using plaid goods, cut it on the bias, to
bring the squares diamond-wise, while stripes may be
cut bias or straight, and cut velvet so that the nap will
run up.

Mollie W.—ist. In making over your dress, do not buy
too nice a material, or trimming, to go with it, or it will
show the age of the foundation. 2d. Velveteen wears far
better than cheap velvet, but it isnot as fashionable. 3d.
Full taille Francaise sleeves would look well, but are not
as popular as those of velvet. 4th, Black may be used
with any color or material.

Mamie B., Brooklyn, N. Y.— Many ladies prefer
knickerbocker trousers for outdoor sports, to the ordinary
undergarment, and they are made of flannel, fitted with
cloths at the waist-line, lapped at the sides, and gathered
into bands below the knees, where they are fastened with
a pointed end and buckle. A pattern for this design will
cost twenty cents.

Miss Julia R., Austin, Tex.—We can furnish a practical
guide to the manufacture of candy for fifty cents.

MR. BODKINS’ SILVER WEDDING.

BY MRS. M. A. KIDDER,.

John Bodkins was a journeyman silver-plater by
trade, and his back was bent, aud his shoulders
rounded by the thirty-five years of hard labor at his
calling.

But John and-his wife, both being sociable bodies,
had hosts of friends, and so had pretty Margery,
their fair and only daughter.

“Then you think we had better have the silver
wedding, wife ?” said John one night, as he sat down
to his cozy supper-table, presided over by sweet
Margery.

“T think so, John. Our friends urge it, and it
would be nice to have a few pieces of real silver in-
stead of so much plated trumpery. Then how nice,
too, to commemorate our twenty-five years of happy
married life. A quarter of a century—just to think
of it!’ ‘

“Yes,” said John, turning his tea into his saucer
in true unconventional style; ‘and it has passed
quickly and happily, too.”

So it was forthwith settled that the silver wedding

of John Bodkins and wife should come off on the
following Thursday, June 25.

Mrs. Bodkins went to work with true New England
thriftiness to set her house in order for the reception
of her dear friends.

Black Jane was called in, and such a baking, and
broiling, and stewing—such a compounding of
sweets, such a chopping of savory messes, was never
known before in the Bodkins cottage; and more de-
lightful odors than stole from the doorsand windows
of that envied abode never before greeted the olfac-
tory organs of the passer-by.

Margery, though the acknowledged beauty of the
little town, was simple, artless, and modest. Her
task now was to sweep, dust, and arrange the plain
parlor, as well as superintend the making of the new
white fnuslin dress and blue overskirt with bretelles
that was to grace her person on the night of the sil-
ver wedding.

“T hope our friends won’t impoverish themselves,
John,” said Mrs. Bodkins, as in a flutter she dressed
herself in her best and only black silk. ‘None of
them are rich, you know, and some little article, if of
no more value than a silver thimble, will be accept-
ale tae each, I’m sure, as long as they’re the real
stuff.

“T don’t much care, Nancy, whether they bring
anything or not, as long as you and Madge enjoy
yourselves. As for me I am as happy as a lark, silver
or no silver, with a good prospect of having my
wages raised, for’”—and here John turned squarely
round from his task of shaving himself, razor in
hand, to give force to his words—‘the boss tells
me that business is looking up; there was a perfect
rush yesterday and to-day for plated ware, especially

‘table ware, and if this keeps on we'll soon make a

‘corner in castors.’ ”

“Don’t mention castors, John. I hope, in mercy,
our friends will omit themintheir donations to-
night, we’ve got six treble-plated ones, and four
commoner ones; a surfeit anyhow; although I
shouldn’t mind a pair of real silver beauties !”’

“Mother, I’m ready,’ said Margery, as she pre-
sented herself at the door of her mother’s room, and
a prettier picture one might travel miles to see. Her
rippling blonde hair fell in waves down her fair
shoulders and her violet eyes, the wells of perfect
innocence, brimmed over with merry mischief.

“Peter, the boss’ son, is coming over to-night,
Midget,” (John’s pet name for his darling.)

Margery blushed rosy red.

“T wonder at your inviting one so far above us in
station, papa.”

“1 didn’t invite him. He invited himself. He said
it was proper he should adda his mite, and in return
he should expect achance at one of Dame Bodkin’s
famous suppers, anda first turn in the dance with
my pretty Margery !” 2 : ‘

Margery disappeared below stairs witha bright
flush in her cheeks, and a happy beating at her heart
that she had never felt before. Peter Downing was
her beau ideal of what a man shoulda be.  Hand-
some, and polished, as well as noble and manly.

He had ealled at the cottage at times, on errands
for his father, but never had entered the house as a
visitor.

“To-night,” whispered Margery, softly to her
kitten. “‘he will be our guest.”

The evening of the eventful day came at last, and
brought with it the rush of expected friends, each
bringing with him, or her, a mysterious parcel, care-
fully wrapped up out of sight, which was deposited
on a long table, covered with a white cloth, in the
back sitting-room, for the reception of said articles.

After the two or three simple dances, a great
amount of laughing and chatting, and a supper fit

# for aking, came the “unveiling.”

To Deacon Prior’s wife and Aunt Jane Bodkins was
accorded the honor of unpinuing or untying the
wrappers, while at a given signal each article was to
greet the light and shine forth in all its refulgent
splendor.

At this important crisis the company, which was a
large one, was arranged in groups about the rooms,
the Bodkins family holding the place of honor under
the looking glass in the front parlor, much after the
fashion at funerals.

Mrs. B’s. tell-tale eyes and fidgety ways denoted de-
lighted expectancy! Bodkins, on the contrary, was
calm and unrufiled, with a half-born smile on his lips.
A knowing smile, in fact, as it he felt himself to be
wiser than his guests. Margery, pretty Margery, was
happy in the company of Peter, who paid her as
much attention as if she had been a highborn lady.
Had he not looked lovingly into her eyes? Had he
not pressed her hand gently in the dance, and sighed
when she bestowed a look upon another ?

Aunt Bodkins rapped three times upon the table
with her cane to enforce silence, and, presto!
change! the white wrappers fell to the floor with a
rustle.

Every eye was fixed upon the table; each guest

«

anxious to see what the other had brought ; and said
eyes were greeted with a dazzling stream of silvery
brightness.

“John,” whispered Mrs. Bodkins, as she, pale as a
sheet, held on to his arm with a grip; “they’ve all
brought castors.” ,

“Yes, Nancy, and plated ones at that,” his smile
bursting into an audible laugh.

“How do you know, John?” said Mrs. B., between
her tightly closed teeth.

“Because they all came from our place, and a better
finished article never went out of a shop door.”

Yes, there they stood in a row, thirty-seven cas-
tors; seven ladles, and twenty-five saltspoons, with
two sets of real silver spoons, and a daintily-carved
silver jewel box, the gift of Peter!

Surprise and mortification reigned supreme among
the assembled guests.

“Talk of coincidences,” mused they, “did everany-
thing beat this?”

They were thinking where to hide their diminished
heads, when Mr. Peter Downing rose to address the
assembly ! :

"My dear host and hostess, and fellow-citizens in
general—I can truly say this is the happiest evening
of my life. Not only am I here to confer an honor on
an honorable and trustworthy man (Mr. Bodkins),
but to humbly ask a favor of him, the answer to
which will effect my whole life for joy or sorrow.
To-morrow my aged father retires from business and
I am to take his place, and, at his request, install our
worthy host, Mr. Bodkins, in my place as partner!
And I am glad to see,” pointing to the table,“that ny
future partner has some stock of his own to begin
business with.

“Now, to be serious, I would humbly ask you, Mr.
and Mrs. Bodkins, for the haud of your charming
daughter, Margery. I have loved her many years,
and have reason to think my love isreciprocated. I
await the verdict!’

*“All’s well that ends well?’

The surprised and grateful Bodkins, entered on his
new duties humbly but with dignity.

Mrs.* Bodkins forgot her disappointment, in the
thought that she was the wife of aman in business
for himself,” and mother-in-law in prospect to
another, and that one, the owner of half the real
estate in the village.

Margery was happy because she was about to
marry the man she loved with all her heart,
at Christmas, and as the Christinas bells have long
ago stopped ringing we know the bride is sheltered
and happy.

_
<i

Items of Interest,

<i>
—>

An exciting scene on the London Strand drew the
attention of hundreds of pedestrians. A hansom cab,
driven rapidly, had two passengers, who were apparently
engaged in deadly conflict. It was evident that murder
was about to be committed, and the spectators madly
shouted as they ran after the vehicle. In a few minutes
one bold fellow svized the horse’s bit and brought the an-
imal to a halt, while another quickly opened the door of
the cab. Then out stepped the two gentlemen who a few
moments before seemed intent upon taking each other’s
life, and coolly went through the crowd distributing hand-
bills descriptive of a theatrical performance then on the
boards of a London play-house.

During the Hungarian revolution in 1849, forty
prisoners of war were thrown into a deep pool near Her:
mannstadt. A few weeks ago the bodies were recoyv-
ered, after an immersion of forty-one years, and they
were in a perfect state of preServation, their organs un-
changed in form, color, or consistence. It is supposed
that the minerals in the water passed in solution through
the pores and had a preservative effect upon the internal
organs, as well as upon the entire body. This explains
the theory of scientists as to the beneficial effects of min-
eral baths upon the entire human system.

A painless death for criminals is suggested by a
physician of the Pennsylvania Hospital. He says that
“if one grain of morphia be injected into the arm of any
ordinary man, and the dose be repeated an hour after-
ward, the man would drop off into a delicious slumber,
and from this painless sleep there would be no waking.
Prussic acid is another poison that might be utilized in
this way, as it is probably the most rapid of poisons. Ac-
onite, if administered hypodermically, would cause death
in less than @ minute.”

Christian Conrad, who dwells on a farm near Man-
chester, Iowa, has just celebrated his one hundred and
tenth birthday. He served in the war of 1812, and took
part in the battle on Lake Erie, Sept. 10, 1813, which re-

enthusiastically sent to Gen. Harrison his historic dis-
patch, ‘We have met the enemy, and they are ours!”
Conrad is the father of eleven children, who are all alive,
and range in age from thirty to fifty-eight years.

One of the soldiers of this land of freedom, who is
stationed at Fort Preble, Me., had almost completed his
term of service when he thought he would anticipate his
discharge from the army and celebrate the event in ad-
vance. He got gloriously fuddled, and while on a ferry-
boat whooped like a wild Indian, and commenced throw-
ing his money overboard. A lot of silver was followed by
@ number of bills, and he had cast over forty dollars in the
water when he was arrested.

A large city, with magnificent buildings, and en-
tirely peopled by a race sinilar to the ancient Aztecs, and
which has never yet been visited by white men, exists in
the interior of Mexico. This statement is made on the
authority of a Philadelphia engineer, who, during a recent
visit to that country, learned of the great city from seve-
ral Mexican Indians. The buildings, his informants said,
are miracles of grand and quaint architecture.

The city council of Williamstown, Mass., authorized
that two licenses be issued for the sale of liquors in that
town. The gentlemen in that vicinity who like an occa-
sional ‘nip’ were perplexed to note that although the
licenses had been granted, no saloons had been opened.
Inquiry developed the fact that President Carter, of
Williams College, had bought the two licenses, and thus
prevented the sale of liquor in the town.

A clergyman who has considerable respect for the
truth, and a due regard for his pocket, tried to ride with
his seven-year-old boy in a Springfield street-car for one
fare. The conductor asked him if the boy were not over
seven years old. The divine silently and reluctantly drew
forth another nickel, and then gave the conductor a lec.
ture on the wickedness of such questions, because of their
likelihood to tempt persons to lie.

Housekeepers will appreciate a recent invention
for shelling peas. In this machine green peas in the pod
may be introduced in quantities, and the peas are cleaned
and expeditiously separated from the pods, irrespective
of size. The machine is provided with a means for dis-
charging the pods and the shelled peas separately into
convenient receptacles.

The living descendants of Queen Victoria already
number half a hundred. They include sons and daugh-
ters, grandsons and granddaughters, great grandsons and
great granddaughters. Besides these she has four sons-
in-law, four daughters-in-law, five grandsons-in-law, and
one granddaughter-in-law.

A well in Williamston, Mich., became dry, and the
owner was puzzled to give a cause for it. He discovered,
after long investigation, that the roots of a willow had
grown a distance of twenty-four feet, coiled up on the
bottom in a solid mass, and were carrying all the water
into the foliage.

A child in the family of a farmer near Atlanta, Ga.,
«was thought to be fatally ill, and the forehanded father
bought a coffin for it. To his delight, the child recovered.
For a time the man knew not what to do with the coffin,
but he placed four legs under it, and now uses it asa

water-trough. %

There are some people who interpret the Scriptures
to suit themselves, and among them isa combative darky
in Georgia, who says that a certain passage should be thus
rendered, “If your brother smote you on one side of the
jaw, turn the other side to be smoted, and the third blow
is yourn,”

An alarming sensation was experienced by Wm.
Turner, of Morgan County, Ga. He was driving a horse
during & thunder-storm, and lightning struck the harness
andtraveled along the reins until it reached his hands,
slightly benumbing them.

A waterfall in Trente, Austria, is used to generate
electricity, under the direction of the town authorities.
The electric light is therefore furnished to the residents
at cheap rates—about twenty cents 2 year per candle
power. ;

Just for a joke, two prisoners in the Council Bluffs
jail almost drowned a fellow-convict by turning the hose
on him. To continue the pleasantry, the police justice
added ten days to the sentence of each of the jokers.

In Victoria, Australia, habitual drunkenness is @
cause for divorce.

There are 120 female physicians in New York city.

 

 

 

 

sulted in such a complete victory for Perry that the latter_.—+--+