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Fi estcithtidienchiteninaain teepnteabinitianaainemmmmneanetacage

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“SHADDECK LIGHT,” by Mrs. May Agnes Fleming, in this

 

 

‘his Story Wil Mot be Polished jp Bol For

     

e
Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year

 

Vol. 46.

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

 

 

 

 

 

 

New York,

1891. vy Streer dé Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O

 

 

 

G00D TEMPER,

 

BY CHARLES SWAIN.

 

There’s not a cheaper thing on earth,
Nor yet one half so dear;

*Tis worth more than distinguished birth,
Or thousands gained a year ;

It lends the day a new delight;
*Tis virtue’s firmest shield ;

And adds more beauty to the night
Than all the stars may yield.

It maketh poverty content,
To sorrow whispers peace;

itis a gift from Heaven sent
For mortals to increase ;

It meets you with a smile at morn;
It lulls you to repose ;

A flower for peer and peasant born,
An everlasting rose.

A charm to banish grief away,
To snatch the frown from care;
Turn tears to smiles, make dullness gay—
Spread gladness everywhere ;
And yet ‘tis cheap as summer dew,
That gems the lily’s breast ;
A talisman for love, as true
As ever man possessed.

As smiles the rainbow through the cloud
When threatening storm begins—

As music ’mid the tempest loud,
That still its sweet way wins—

As spring an arch across the tide,
Where waves conflicting foam,

So comes this seraph to our side,
This angel of our home.

 

What may this wondrous spirit be,
With power unheard before—
This charm, this bright divinity!
Good temper—nothing more!
Good temper !—’tis the choicest gift
That woman homeward brings,
And can the poorest peasant lift
To bliss unknown to kings.

 

Through Dark Days;

ELSIE'S DEVOTION,
A Story of New England Life.

By GRACE TERRF.

 

{‘“* THROUGH DaRK DAYs” was commenced last week.]

 

CHAPTER IV.

Enierea at the Post Office,

NBN BS.
i)

 

 

Yew York, as Second Class Mater.

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

August 1, 1891.

 

 

 

“IT IS A CRUEL

AND COWARDLY

“ANGEL OF MY LIFE !’7)

THE LETTER TO |!
HIS LIPS’SHE y

THING FOR YOU TO ATTACK

a | \ oto
et.

i a ne .
cd

 

HE CRIED. HOLDINC. |!

) LOVES ME |i
i Wf

STILL!" ifs
Dm il /

1

i

Hi
Hit}

“SHE SHALL BE MINE YET! HE GROUNDO
BETWEEN HIS SET TEETH.

A DEFENSELESS MAN!”

 

THUS

 

 

 

 

**¥ WILL STAND BY HIM AGAINST ALL THE |
WORLD.” |

“T wish that I could have some word from
Robert,” said Elsie the next day, rousing her- |
self from a reverie in which it was easy to
perceive where her thoughts had wandered.
“Tt is strange that he has not written to me.”

Mrs. Atkins was silent for a few moments,
and then said:

‘*You told me yesterday that Robert had not
an enemy in the world. Can you think of no
exception to this?”

“TIT know of whom you are thinking,” said
Elsie, frankly, after a moment’s thought.

?

 

“Uncle Silas never liked Robert, and for some
reason Robert always distrusted him. I can
remember that it was so when my cousin was |
a mere boy, and when he attained manhood |
matters did not grow better. I know that |
uncle did all he could to turn my poor father’s
heart against him, and that it was at his in-
stigation that he withdrew the ready sanction |
that he at first gave to our engagement, and
which was the beginning of all these unhappy |
troubles. I know that he is feeling very bit-
ter toward Robert, and yet I cannot bring my-
self to believe that he is an enemy, capable of
doing him a wanton ae Considering him
guilty, the strong feeling he evinces is not
perhaps altogether unnatural.”

Mr. Harding is your nearest living relative,
ar as a matter of course you are very fond of

im?”

“Mrs. Atkins said this with the look and tone
of one asking a question rather than announc-
ing a fact, and the clear, truthful eyes, fixed
upon hers, clouded with an expression of pain
and uneasiness,

 

 

“As you say, he is my nearest relative, and
has always been very kind to me; and yet I|
am ashamed to say I have never been able to |
give him the affection he deserves. I never |
seem to feel at ease in his presence, and there
is at times almost a feeling of repulsion in my
heart that I am unable to account for. I know
how strangely this must sound to you, how
ungrateful it is in me to feel so, and yet strive
as I will I cannot entirely crush it out.”

Mrs. Atkins listened to this with an air of
grave attention.

“My dear Miss Elsie, I am one of those who
have great faith in the instincts of a pure-
minded woman. Is not this feeling a warning
that you would do well to heed?”

Elsie looked surprised; she had evidently
expected to see some sign of disapproval of a
feeling which had seemed to her gentle, consci-
entious spirit like a want of gratitude and
natural affection.

“But would not this be unjust toward one
who seems to take such a strong and unselfish
interest in my welfare? My uncle is general]
esteemed throughout the community as a goo
and worthy man, and has filled many places

 

of public trust and honor.”
True,” was the quiet reply, “and I do not

say that he is not worthy of it ajl, and more.
Though I repeat that the warning instincts
that rise up in your heart at his approach are
something that should not be lightly heeded.”

After a moment’s pause Mrs. Atkins re-
sumed :

‘‘Mr. Harding requested me to give to him all
the letters that came to you during your ill-
ness.”

Elsie lifted her head proudly, and something
of the old flash came back to her eye.

“ And you obeyed him?”

Mrs. Atkins smiled.

“In spirit I did; as he assured me that his
object was to spare you the agitation that you
were too weak to safely endure, I kept them
until you were stronger.”

Elsie seized with trembling eagerness the
two letters extended to her.

With a delicacy hardly to be expected from
one in her station, Mrs. Atkins left the room,
feeling that the emotion so clearly visible in

|the flushed cheeks and glistening eyes was

something too holy for even her sympathizing
heart to witness.

The letter, with the earliest date, was as
follows:

“DEAREST :—My heart is torn with anguish; it
seems every moment that I must awake and find this
some horrible dream. All seem to distrust and avoid
me. Oh, my darling! do not you lose faith in me!
The cold looks. the ill-repressed horror, of all who
approach mine show too plainly in what light I am re-
garded. Do you share in that feeling? Can yon be-
lieve me guilty of such a crime? And yet, what right
have I toblame you for crediting your father’s dying
accusation ? Alas! what strange delusions possessed
my poor uncle, to bring against me such a charge!

“IT do not, cannot ask you to come to this shameful
place; but write to me, if only a line, to say that you
will not condemn me unheard, that you will think as
kindly as you ‘an of the wretched

“ROBERT ARMSTRONG.”

The other note was of a recent date, and read
thus:

“DARLING:—I was wondering why you did not
write to me, and feeling almost hard at the seeming
neglect, when [ learned that you had been very ill. I
do not wonder atit. It is moreof a marvel to me
that the two-fold blow that descended on your gentle,
loving heartdid not quite kill you. Heavenismy wit-
ness how much more I feel your anguish than my
own.

“T need not say how much a line, a word from you
would comfort the troubled heart of your own

‘*ROBERT,”

Elsie’s tears fell fast over these letters, yet
paey were such tears as relieve the burdened
heart.

Her first impulse was to go to him at once,
then she reflected that she was not yet strong
enough to support the agitation of such an in-
terview;: that she could best serve him, for
whom she would so willingly lay down her life
by regaining her health and strength. So
she decided to write, which she did as follows:

“DEAR, DEAR ROBERT:—I have just this moment
received your letters.

“*T have indeed been ill, or I would have visited, or
at least have written you ere this, The assurance
you give me of your innocence has lifted a heavy
weight from my heart. Not that I did or could be-
lieve you guilty of deliberately doing so crnel a deed ;
but there was a time when I feared that in the heat of
altercation, in anger or in self-defense, you might
have given him the fatal blow. To be relieved of this

 

horrible fear makes me more happy than I ever
thought I could be again.

“Now be hopeful, my beloved, and strong! Though
all the world believes you guilty, yet will not I.
Whatever happens,remember this: J love you, [ have
faith in you; if you no longer have faith in man, have
faithin yourself and in the Ruler of all.
I believe in His existencedo I believe that he will
throw light on this dark and terrible mystery; that
the innocent will be cleared and the guilty punished.

“T am not well enough to go out yet, but am grow-
ing stronger every day. and will see you very soon.

“The bearer of thisis Mrs. Atkins, the nurse who
took care of me during my illness; a most kind and
excellent woinan. Aly message that you send to me
through her will be safely delivered. Be sure and

let me know if there is anything that you would like |

to have me send, or do for you.
“Your own loving ELSIE.”

Mrs. Atkins was surprised on her return to
see the change that had come over Elsie; the
pale cheeks were flushed, and her eyes had all
the brightness of other days. Yet though she
feared that it was but the feverish strength of
excitement springing as it did from the death-
less love, “that many waters cannot quench,”
it was easy to perceive that it was of no tran-
sient nature.

**T am anxious that you should give this let-
ter to Robert with your own hand,” said Elsie,
as soon as she perceived Mrs. Atkins, “and
with as little delay as possible. Poor fellow!
what lonely and sorrowful days he must have
had, with no one to give him a kind word or
look. And do, my dear Mrs. Atkins, notice
how he looks, and remember every word he
says, so as to be able to tell me. I shall be so
impatient until your return.”

Mrs, Atkins readily agreed totake charge
of the letter.

“TI suppose you know that it will probably
be examined,” she remarked as she took it
from Elsie’s hand, “and have written nothing
that you are not willing should be known?”

Elsie’s cheek flushed, and for a moment she
hesitated ; her sensitive nature shrank at the
thought of the outpourings of her loving heart
being read by cold and curious eyes. Then she
raised her head proudly.

“T did not know it, but it does not matter.
Why should I fear to have it known that I be-
lieve him innocent, and will stand by him
against all the world?”

As Elsie had taken the precaution of writin
a line to the jailer, Mrs. Atkins found no dif-
ficulty in gaining admittance.

Prepared as she was to see a great change in
the prisoner, she was surprised at the alter-
ation that the last few weeks had made in the
stalwart form, once so strong and full of en-
ergy. She had expected to find him pale and
worn, but there was a dejection in his coun-
tenance as well as a nervous agitation about
him that she had not thought to see in one of
his bright and buoyant nature.

He had evidently hoped to see some one else,
for his countenance fell at her approach, But
stretching out his hand through the grated
door he greeted her very kindly.

“Tt is pleasant to see the face of a friend,”
he said, with a smile far more mournful than
tears.

Not being able to trust her voice to speak,
Mrs. Atkins gave him Elsie’s letter in silence.

Robert tore it open, and read its contents
with eager eyes.

As surely as |

It was wonderful to mark the change that
came over him as he perused it; the heavy
weight that had crushed him to the earth was

removed, he held his head erect, while a tri-
| umphant smile broke over his face.

“Good angel of my life !” he cried, holding
}it to his lips and heart, as though there was
(healing in its touch, as, indeed, there was.
| “She believes me innocent! she loves me still!

What can dismay or trouble me now?”

Then turning upon Mrs. Atkins a look. so

| different from the one with which he had
| greeted her that it did not seem like the same
|face, he added:
“Miss Harding assures me that I may regard
|}you as a kind and faithful friend. I send her
|a thousand thanks and blessings for the dear
|and precious assurance you have brought to
ime. It gives me new life and strength. It
| was the terrible thought that she believed me
guilty that took the ‘strength from my heart
and arm, but now I shall be as strong and
hopeful as even she could wish. Tell her this
from me.”

It was not simply these words, eloquent as
they were, but the look and tone that accom-
panied them which made such a strong im-
pression on Mrs. Atkins’ mind, and she left
the jail with a lighter heart. than she entered

 

it.

As for Robert, so long as the light permitted
he read over and over again the words that
{had given him so much life and hope. And
when the shadows of night fell around him in
his lonely cell he held it lovingly in his hand
as he lay down to rest. “Though all the world
forsake thee yet will not I!” he repeated, as he
fell into the first refreshing sleep he had had
since his incarceration.

Even his dreams comforted him. The look
that his uncle had last turned upon him, so
full of horror and reproach, had often been
present in his dreams when it did not drive
sleep from his pillows.

But now the scene changed. He dreamed
that his uncle came and stood beside the bed,
where helay. There was no stain of blood
upon his garments or agony on his brow, but
instead a look of joy and peace, such as he had
never seen there in life. He gazed upon him
with compassionate and loving eyes, and then
laying his hands as if in blessing upon his
head, vanished.

The touch aroused the dreamer, and he
awoke to the sad and stern realities that the
gray dawn revealed as it fell upon the blank
walls of his cell; but there was a joy, a peace
in his heart, of which nothing could deprive
him,

 

CHAPTER V.
“SHE SHALL BE MINE!’

Mr. Harding had called several times to see
Elsie, but she had excused herself on various

leas.
' Her heart was still sore from the recollec-
tion of the harsh words he had spoken at their
last interview; and then she realized how lit-
tle aid or sympathy she could expect from him
in regard to the heavy task that oy Nene her.

But one morning his office boy brought her
the following note:

“My DEAR ELSIE :—Why do you so strangely deny

 

No. 40.

 

 

' yourself to one who certainly ought to be, and is,
your best friend ?

“T have called three times to see you, and been de-
i nied on the score that you were not strong enough.
| And yet Ilearn (withgvhat shame and sorrow I can-
| not tell) that you have been twice to see him, who has
| brought such bitter anguish to us both.
| ‘ft have something to communicate to you of the
| utmost importance, and beg that you will come to my
| private office this afternoon.
| “I will send my carriage for you immediately after
dinner.
| “Affectionately, SILAS HARDING.”
A feeling, almost amounting to remorse,
/ smote Elsie’s heart as she read this. She re-
| called the various instances of kindness that
ishe had received at her uncle’s hands, and as
|she had many times before accused herself of
| ingratitude that she was unable to give any
| fitting response to the regard in which he evi-

dently held her.

Was. thisa time for her to be at variance
with her nearest living relative? True, she
had considered him harsh and severe with one
so inexpressibly dear to her—his kinsman as
well as hers—but might he not be conscienti-
ous in this? And might she not be able to in-
fluence him to take another and a juster view?
| She could not but know how much weight his
favorable opinion would have in a community
in whose estimation he stood so high; how
much aid he could give her. She knew that
he was strong in his opinions and prejudices,
but there were those who spoke warmly of the
kindness and benevolence of his heart, Per-
haps if she had approached it in the right way,
if she had not stood so aloof from him he
would have felt and acted differently. It
might not be too late to repair her error.

These thoughts were busy in Elsie’s heart as
she rode to her uncle’s office,

She had not been there since her father’s
death, and many eyes from adjacent buildings
were fixed curiously upon her as she alighted
from the carriage.

She found Mr. Harding alone, and even her
gee a mind could not but see that he had

estowed unusual attention upon his personal
appearance.

He must have been handsome in his youth,
and now though past the prime of life was
what most people, especially women, would
call a fine looking man, Some who looked
deeper might have seen, or rather felt, that
| there was something hard and‘ cruei in his eye
and treacherous in his smilie, but the majority
saw only that the smile was bland and the eye
clear and. bright.

Advancing to meet her, Mr. Harding greeted
Elsie with affectionate cordiality.

The portrait of James Harding hung above
his brother’s desk, and as Elsie raised her eyes
from her uncle’s countenance, they met the
loving gaze of the father, of whom she had
been so cruelly bereft.

A thousand tender recollections rushed over
the mind of the desolate orphan, and obeying
a sudden impulse she turned and flung herself
weeping on Mr. Harding’s breast.

It could not have been the weight of her
slight form which made that strong man
tremble like a reed in the tempest, neither did
there seem to be anything in that simple and
touching act to call forth the sudden emotion
that followed, Clasping her almost fiercely in
his arms he rained a shower of: passionate
kisses upon cheek and lips that almost took
away her breath.

“Don’t, pray don’t, uncle; you hurt me!”
said Elsie, faintly, releasing herself, not with-
out an effort, from his arms.

As if suddenly made aware of his singular
behavior, Mr. Harding conducted Elsie to the
sofa, and then walked up and down the room
with flushed and disturbed face, evidently
making a strong effort to regain the calmness
and self-possession that rarely forsook him.

Yet still his eye sought Elsie’s with a look
from which she instinctively shrank. Like
every pure-minded woman, she felt the pres-
ence of the evil that she could not define, but
from which all the holiest instincts of her na-
ture rose up to: guard her.

“T pray you to excuse me,” she said, with
gentle dignity. “I did not mean to give way
thus, but I find that I am not so strong as I
thought.”

“It is for you to excuse me,” said Mr. Hard-
ing, speaking in his most bland and winning
tone. “I have alarmed, I fear, offended you.
I forgot how impossible it is for you to under-
stand, much less sympathize with feelings
which, in the very nature of things, you must
regard as strange and unnatural. I can only
hope when you know all that I do that you
will be able to make allowance for me, if no
more.”

Elsie gazed intently upon the countenance of
the man whom she had never before seen so
moved from his self-possession. His words
were as incomprehensible as his conduct, and
she waited with no little interest for him to
explain.

But this seemed to be no easy thing for Mr,
Harding to do.

“T fear that I shall pain, perhaps shock you,”
he resumed ; “but remember that the very act
that I am compelled to reveal brings you nearer,
dearer you could not possibly be, to my heart
than before.”

“IT know not what fresh sorrow is before me,”
said Elsie, with a mournful smile, “but it
does not seem as if anything could greatly
shock me now. I can bear it whatever it may
be, only do not keep me in suspense.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty, yesterday,” returned Elsie, rather
surprised at this abrupt inquiry.

“Twenty, and about three months.”

“Father always said that I was born the
tenth of April.”

“That was the day on which he first. saw
you, but you had then the appearance of being
all of three months old. For though as dear
to my brother’s heart as any child could be
there is not a drop of his blood in your veins.

“Twenty years ago yesterday,” resumed Mr.
Harding, as Elsie gazed at him in speechless
astonishment, “Kimball, who is always the
first one here, found you in a little basket on
my brother’s desk. ou were as lovely in in-
fancy as in womanhood, and my brother hay-
ing no children, adopted you, bestowing upon

e most tender and watch-

you from that hour t
ful care.”

“He did! he did!” burst from Elsie’s quiver-
ing lips. ‘And, indeed, I cannot believe that
he was not my own father.”

 

ing room, where an elderly man sat

 

Mr. Harding opened the door into an adjoin-
perched

Paper.

La 1

Of

  

 

 

 
 
 
  
       
       
     
       
             
         
           
           
   

 
      

          
    
  
   
 
    
    
   
     
     
  
  
   
  
  
   
    
    
   
 
    
   
   
  
  
   
    
   
 
   
 
   
  
     
    
   
    
  
 
 
   
      
   
    
   
 
     
       
    
  
 
   
 
 
   
   
 
 
    
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
     
 
   
   
  
  
  
  
     
  
    
   
    
   
   
   
  
   
  
 
  
   
   
  
    
    
   
   
   
  
  
    
 
    
 
 
   
   
 
   
    
       
     
   
   
       
     
            
 
     
     
           
     
       
     
     

 

 

 

 

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2

«4 THE NEW Work

WEEKLY. #2=-

“VOL. 46—No. 40,

 

upon a stool adding up long rows of figures,
which had been his daily employment for a
quarter of a century.

“Kimball !”

Jumping down with more alertness than
could be expected from his years the old man
obeyed the somewhat imperious gesture that
accompanied his name.

“I was explaining to Miss Elsie the circum-
stance of your finding her on my brother’s
desk twenty years ago; you doubtless remem-
ber it?”

“Certainly, certainly, sir; as if it had been
only yesterday. It seems as if I could see her
layin’ there now, fast asleep, an’ lookin’ so
sweet an’ innocent. Twenty years ago, did
you say, sir? Ay, to be sure; so it is. How
time does go! It makes me feel like an old
man to see Miss Elsie sittin’ there, a tall an’
beautiful young lady.”

“Thank you; that will do, Kimball,” said
Mr. Harding, cutting short with an impatient
gesture the usually taciturn old clerk, and
who seemed glad to be released from the em-
bargo that had been laid on his lips so many
years.

Kimball retreated as quickly as he came,
but not without casting a look ‘of: respectful
sympathy upon Elsie’s pale, tearful face.

“Have you any idea who my parents were?”

“Not the slightest. There was a lady stop-
ping at a hotel from the South, I think, who
had a child about your age. As she disap-
peared very suddenly my brother thought it
might be hers; but as he conceived a strong
affection for you from the first he made no in-
quiries. My own opinion is that it was some
one nearer by—-some operator, perhaps. In a

lace like this it is not arare thing. for chil-
Beh to be born whose parentage it is neces-
sary to conceal.”

Elsie’s cheek flushed. Was she then the
child of parents who would blush to own her.”

Mr. Harding seated himself beside Hlsie,
taking the little hand that lay listlessly in her

ap.

Ey dear Elsie, why should this pain you
so? Could my brother have loved you better
had you been his own child? and to my heart
you are—oh! how inexpressibly dearer |”

Elsie’s mind was too much preoccupied by
this strange and startling disclosure to take
in the meaning of these words, though if she
had raised her eyes to those bent so earnestly
upon her face it might have been made clear
to her.

As it was, she only understood that he was
trying to comfort her.

“Thank you; you could not have been kinder
to me, I know, had you been my own uncle,
and he was one of the tenderest of fathers.
Still I cannot but wish that I had known this
before, or not at all.”

““T¢ was my brother’s intention to have re-
vealed it to you on the very next morning that
followed that fatal night, and with the view
of securing my happiness, and he hoped—we
both hoped—yours. It cannot be considered
strange that I, who have watched you blossom
from a lovely child into a still more lovely
woman, and knowing that there was no dro
of kindred blood in our veins, should regar
i with far different feelings than those you

ave been taught to bestow on me; that I
should, as I certainly do, love you with a most
intense and absorbing passion——”

Here Elsie, whose eyes had been fixed upon
the speaker, with a half wondering, half
startled look, withdrew her hand, while the
blood rushed back so suddenly to the pale face
that it crimsoned the temples.

“Enough! Mr. Harding, do not, I beseech
you, say more. Do not utter words which may
—nay, which must—rise up as a barrier be-
tween us for all time. Consider the relation
in which I have always held you. Consider——”

Here Elsie paused, unable to proceed further,
but the distress and agitation in her counte-
nance and manner spoke more plainly than any
words could.

“T have considered all you urge, and more,”
said Mr. Harding, in the calm, resolute tone
of a man who had fully determined on his |
course. “This fetling is a natural, but it
will wear away, and you will learn to regard
me in another and a dearer light.”

“Never! Since you force me to be thus ex-
plicit I must tell you that such a thing is not
even possible. Aside from this and the differ-
ence in ovr ages and feelings, you cannot but
know that I am not free, that my hand and
heart are pledged to another.”

“T am aware that prior to my poor brother's
death, and contrary to his later and better
judgment, you engaged to marry Robert Arm-
strong, but has nothing occurred since then tc
change allthis? Is it possible that you still
regard in the light of an accepted suitor the
wretch, whose hands arered with his blood,
whose memory should be so dear to you?”

Elsie turned her eyes full upon the face of
eae speaker, and this time her voice did not

alter,

“I believe him to be innocent, and until
proved otherwise you have no right tocall him
guilty. Itis a cruel and cowardly thing for
you to attack thus a defenseless man.”

Elsie arose to her feet as she said this; ex-
citement had flushed the cheeks to crimson
and given an almost startling brilliancy to her
dark eyes. Never had she looked so gloriously
beautiful; and it heightened to madness the
passion that burned in the bosom of the man
who stood drinking in its every detail with
such eager eyes.

What would he not give to win her love or
to make her his—for he was selfish, even in his
love—on any condition?

“Let that pass,” he said, almost humbly; “I
leave him to Heaven and the law which will
doubtless deal justly with him, I love you,
Elsie, as man never before loved woman.
With a love that has grown with your growth,
and strengthened with every budding grace
and beauty, until it has become the one ab-
sorbing: passion of my life. Do not lightly
treat this declaration; it surely deserves some
consideration at your hands. romise me that
you will reserve your decision; that you will
a the matter over. Idonot ask more than
this.”

The imploring tone in which this was spoken
touched Elsie’s heart, and she paused as she
turned toward the door. She had never
thought that shat haughty nature could be
so subdued. It was easy tosee that he was
strangely, terribly in earnest.

“JT don’t see what good that could possibly
do you, Mr. Harding,” she said, in a softer
voice. “Indeed, I think it far kinder to tell
you that reflection could only serve to confirm
mein a decision that must be considered as
final.”

Mr. Harding watched the departing carriage
with the rival passions of love and hate strug-
gling for the. mastery in his heart; love for the
beautiful girl whose refusal had made him
tenfold more resolute on possessing her, and
ae for the man who had won her from

im.

“She shall be mine, mine yet!” he ground
out between his set teeth. “The evidence is
overwhelming; it cannot fail to convict him—
and then——”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
_ er oo
CURE FOR SLEEPLESSNESS.

 

 

A gentleman who for years had been afflicted
with sleeplessness was informed of a simple
remedy, and it acted like a charm:

“TI took hot water, a pint, comfortably hot,
one good hour before each of my three meals,
and one the last thing at night, naturally un-
mixed with anything else. The very first
night I slept for three hours on one side,
turned around and slept again till morning. I
have faithfully and regularly continued the
hot water, and have never had one_ bad night
since. Pain gradually lessened and went, the
shattered nerves became calm and strong, and
instead of each a being one long misery
spent in wearying for the morning they are all
too short for the sweet, refreshing sleep I now

BRAIN AND BRAWN,

 

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

 

He was a sturdy yeoman,

She was a maiden fair;
Yet as they walked together
They were a handsome pair.

He was a noble Saxon,
Ruddy, like all his race;

She in her homely duties
Carried herself with grace.

He at his daily labor
Plodded with might and main;
She in her quiet corner,
Ever with busy brain,
Saw, as it were in a vision,
Paths that they might pursue;
She had the wit to counsel,
He had the strength to do.

Many a one had whispered,
“Strange that the men of brawn
Always prefer to marry
Maidens as fair as the dawn!
This isan error, surely.
One of the freaks of Love;
Why shouid the mighty eagle
Mate with the gentle dove?”

He with muacle and sinew
Fought the battles of life:
She with her love and pity
Soothed the fevers of strife;
He with the nerve of a stoic,
She with her tender heart—
Better were they together
Than journeying far apart.

His was the arm to lean on

When weakness a prop required;
Hers was the hand to comfort

And bless you when sick and tired.
He was a sturdy yeoman,

She was a maiden fair,
Yet, oh, there was no denying

They were a handsome pair! j

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Porm.

NAMELESS DELL

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘Mona,’ ‘Sister Angela,” ‘‘Brownie's

Triumph,” “‘Trixy.” ‘‘Stella Rosevelt,’’
“The Forsakcn Bride,” etc.

 

 

(“NAMELESS DELL” was commenced in No. 38. Back
numbers cau be obtained of all News Agents.)

 

CHAPTER V.
DELL SAVES EDITH FROM A FRIGHTFUL FATE.

Edith walked gravely out of the pantry, and
going directly up to her room she put on a
pretty light flannel sack, which effectually con-
cealed the lines left by the lash on her arms.

Then taking a popular magazine for young
folks, she went back to her hammock on the
veranda, where, instead of reading as she had
intended, she soon fell asleep, overcome by the
excitement of the previous half hour.

She did not awake until lunch time, when
she went to the table with her father as usual,
but she looked pale and could not eat, circum-
stances which made Mr. Lancaster ask if she
were ill. :

She quietly told him no, but she did not feel
hungry. :

After lunch she wens up to her mother’s
room, and as Mrs.Lancaster was feeling better
than she had felt for several days, and could

occurrence of the morning, and spent a happy
hour with her. | F

She wondered if Dell would come to her as
usual that afternoon for her reading lesson. -
She feared not, after the discovery of the
morning, although nothing had been said
about Edith’s efforts to teach the unfortunate
child.

But madam evidently had her suspicions re-

garding the matter, and before going to market
she set’ Dell a heavier task than usual, while
in case this should not prove enough to occupy
all her time, she also left some dish towels to
be hemmed.

finally went up to Edith’s room, and told her
of this interruption to her study, showing the
coarse towels with arueful face, for she dis-
liked to sew almost as much as she disliked to
hoe potatoes.

“Never mind,” said the kind-hearted child,
“T will set you a copy on the board, and you
shall learn to write the words while I sew the
towels,” and she patiently toiled on the coarse
rough things, while Dell labored no less assid-
uously over the perplexing symbols that stood
for “Tom’s dog ran off with his ball.”

Thus several weeks passed, and Edith man-
aged to keep up the lessons pretty well during
the time. It was but a pastime to teach one
so eager to learn as Dell, for her memory was
something wonderful, and she seldom forgot
anything that was told to her.

The weather was unusually warm, even for
that warm climate, and Edith delighted to
spend a great deal of the time out of doors.
The grounds about Madame Papineau’s resi-
dence were very tastefully laid out with nu-
merous shady and cozy nooks, while ham-
mocks were hung all about for the accommo-
dation of her guests.

Into one of these hammocks, which had been
swung from the limb of a great tulip tree,
Edith curled herself one afternoon, with a new
book which her father had brought to her from
town that morning.

She made a very pretty picture in her white
dress, lying upon a gay-colored afghan, with
a great downy pillow covered with blue silk
under her golden head, and Mr. Lancaster,
sitting upon the veranda, where he could just
catch a glimpse of this lovely vision through
the swaying foliage, felt a thrill of pride and
joy that this sweet child was all his own.

Several other gentlemen and ladies were
lounging about, and all regarded Edith with
peculiar tenderness, for aside from her own
natural sweetness it was but too patent that
she would ere long be motherless. a

Half an hour passed, and, overcome by the
heat and the drowsy hum of insect life all
about her, the pretty maid had fallen asleep
in her cozy nest.

But,.oh! who was to know or warn her of
the greedy, vigilant eyes that were ceaselessly
watching her from the limb above? Who was
to know of or save her from the loathsome rep-
tile coiled among the dense foliage and biding
its opportunity to do its deadly work? At
length, with sinuous and frightfully graceful
movements, the dark, repulsive head was
slowly raised, the body began to loosen itself
from the limb, fold after fold was silently un-
wound, but never for an instant did the hid-
eous reptile remove its eyes from its beautiful
and unconscious prey beneath.

It was a frightful object, and calculated to
strike terror to the stoutest heart, but the

lovely child did not dream of her danger, and
slept as soundly and peacefully as if she were
resting safely in her own bed.

Lower and lower drooped that repulsive
head, swaying out over the air sleeper, first to
the right, then to the left, with gently undula-
ting movements, as if calculating its chances
before swooping down upon her and winding
her about in its deadly embrace.

But suddenly a shrill cry of ny and fear
trang out on the ‘still air; then there was the

 

chat with her, Edith forgot the unpleasant |

Poor Dell’s face was very long when she/h

sound of bare feet rushing down the walk, and
of panting as of some one in mortal terror.
The next instant a small figure darted past the
veranda and down the path toward the ham-
mock where Edith was lying—the moment
after something hard and round hit the reptile
full on the head with stinging force.

It made a quick upward spring as if in pain.
At the same time Edith, awakened by that
shrill cry, sat up in the hammock. and looked
sleepily about her, to find Dell standing near,
her face distorted, her eyes wild with fear,
her arm upraised as if about to throw some-
thing into the tree aboye, a huge potato
clutched in her brawny hand.

“Git out—git out the hammock, and run !—
run!” the girl cried, hoarsely.

Instinctively realizing that danger of some
nature menaced her, Edith, without a word or
look, leaped tothe ground, and darted away
toward the house.

But the reptile, angered to see its prey es-
caping, and enraged with pain from the furi-
ous blow he had received, made a vicious dart
downward, only to receive another potato with
stunning force squarely on the head from
Dell’s unerring hand.

The next instant there was a sharp report,
and the loathsome creature’s head dropped
nerveless, while its body hung a writhing,
struggling mass upon the tree.

Dell hastily looked behind her, and saw Mr.
Lancaster, his face as white as the. bosom of
his shirt, in the act of cocking his revolver for
a second shot in case the first one had not
proved effectual, then she dropped like a log
to the ground,

The first intimation Mr. Lancaster had re-
ceived that danger menaced his darling was
Dell’s wild seream and furious rush toward
the tulip tree.

The girl had been washing potatoes for din-
ner in the back yard, which was separated
from the other grounds by a. lattice covered
with vines,

While thus engaged, and with an eye al-
ways on the alert for anything of an interest-
ing nature, she had seen Edith go to the ham-
mock, and had thought no more about the mat-
ter until her task completed she was gathering
up her potatoes to take them to the kitchen to
be cooked,

Then, glancing again toward the pretty occu-
pant of the hammock for an instant, she was
almost paralyzed with horror as she saw a
huge snake waving his repulsive head over the
sleeping child. ;

The next, thinking only of her idolized little
friend’s danger, Dell snatched up half a dozen
of her vareres potatoes, dropped them into her
apron, and with a wild scream sprang to the
rescue.

Mr. -Laneaster started to his feet, leaped
from the veranda to the ground, and took in
the situation with one horrified glance.

He followed Dell with all possible speed,
pulling his revolver from his pocket as he
went, and the rest we know.

When Edith saw her father coming toward
her the fright which Dell’s excited command
had aroused began to subside.

“ What is it, papa?” she inquired; then see-
ing his white face she thought that something
dreadful must be the matter, and began to
tremble afresh : to cry.

“Go directly to the house,” he authoritatively
commanded, without slackening his pace until
he reached Dell’s side, when he instantly fired
upon the reptile, as already described.

He could not be satised, however, until he
had put yet another shot into the creature,
shattering its head beyond the possibility of
life, then lifting the poor girl, who had so
bravely come to Edith’s aid, he bore her to the
house, and laid her gently upon the veranda,
where she 1 to recover consciousness al-
most immediately. |

A number of the boarders had been attra¢ted
to the spot by rr sound of the shot, and now

tra about to inquire what had called it
orth. i

But Mr. Lanckster, now that the need of
action was past, was nearly overcome by the
narrow escapt his idol d ter, and
drawing her izf@fbis arms hé held her close to
his breast whilq he lifted his heart in silent
gratitude for her preservation.

Recovering himself after a few moments, he
briefly related what had happened, and the re-
cital eee er x i ener of ap-
prehension among the guests of the house, an
madam, who nek so been drawn to the
hte began to fear that her house would be

“It is very unusual for such snakes to come
so near habitations,” she said. “I never knew
of one being found in my grounds before. But
now that this one has been killed here its mate
will come to seek it,” she added, anxiously,
‘nn we must have a thorough search made

‘or. it.” :

Then seeing Dell lying on the veranda, she
said, irritably:

“Get up; you've lain there long enough.”
The girl sat up and stared stupidly about
er.

She had not come to her senses enough yet
to fully realize how she happened to be there.”

“Get up and go back to your work,” the
woman reiterated, with a threatening glance.

Mr. Lancaster flushed hotly at this manifes-
tation of heartlessness, and an angry rebuke
leaped to his tongue..

But controlling himself, he turned to her,
with what courteousness he could command,
and said :

“Madame Papineau, the girl has probably
saved my child’s life, and at the cost of a
severe shock to her nervous system. I ask, as
a personal favor. that she be allowed to rest
for the remainder of the day.”

Madam turned with a beaming smile to her

uest.

“Certainly, sir, if it will be any satisfaction
to you,” she said, graciously, thinking it
would be unwise torefuse his request, then
turning to Dell she concluded in a good-natured
tone: “Go along, child, and do what you please
for the rest of the day.”

The girl was still pale and termbling from
the shock she had sustained, but she slipped
away with a sigh of relief over this short re-
_— from her customary tasks, but casting as
she went an adoring glance at Edith, who still
reclined in her father’s arms.

An hour later Edith found her curled up on
a rustic seat in a secluded corner of the ver-
anda, and looking mene and miserable.

She had never fainted before, and the deathly
sickness which followed the return of con-
sciousness had so prostrated her that she felt
scarcely able to move, while every time she
shut her eyes she seemed to see that horrible,
writhing reptile hovering with deadly intent
over the only friend she had in the world. It
seemed as if the sight would haunt her forever,
and shudder after shudder shook her from
head to foot every few minutes.

“ Are you ill, Dell?” Edith asked, with gentle
solicitude.

“No, missy, but I’m shivering all over—
ugh!” and another shudder set all her teeth
chattering noisily.

_ Edith wondered that any one could be so
cold on such a warm day.

“Comeup to my room, and lie on the lounge,”
she said, kindly.

“May I?” Dell eagerly asked.
ie Yes, and I will find something nice to read

you.”

Edith was perhaps the least frightened of
any one on the premises over the affair of the
afternoon, for she had not seen the serpent at
all; neither had she realized her danger as
others had, thus she was prepared to comfort
Dell, who needed it sadly enough.

So the two children went up stairs and spent
the remainder of the day together.

Edith read story after story, and Dell, lying
upon the comfortable lounge, listened and lux-
uriated in her unaccustomed leisure, until her
fright began to wear away, and finally she
peaen to be allowed to have her lesson as
usua

 

     
 

 
 

She was a very eager student, and under
Edith’s childish training, which was very
ereditably.copied from her own teacher, she
was learning rapidly.

Her memory was remarkable both for words
and figures, while as Edith taught the modern

 

d | such rude violence an

methods—by sight renee and writing—the
child, though clumsy with her fingers, was
learning to write quite legibly.

Mr. Lancaster had charged Edith and every
;one else not to tell Mrs. Lancaster what had
|occurred under the tulip tree, and so the deli-
'cate lady remained in happy ignorance of the
rer escape of her daughter from a terrible
| fate.

A keen search was instituted the next day
for the mate of the slain serpent, and it, to-
gether with their nest, was finally discovered
in an adjacent patch of marshy land. The
second snake was dispatched, the nest de-
stroyed, and over yaaa was relieved, and felt
reasonably sure that they would have no more
such unwelcome visitors that season.

Another month passed, and nothing of im-
portance occurred. ~

Mrs. Lancaster had appeared to be improving
during this time. She had been able to ride
out several times; her appetite was more nat-
ural and she particularly enjoyed the luscious
Southern fruits, of which there was a great
variety and abundance.

But her cough did not leave her, it was per-
sistent and racking, and one night, after an
unusually severe paroxysm, she uttered a low
ery of terror to find the red blood spurting
ron her mouth and deluging everything about

er, C

Mr. Lancaster was also very much fright-
ened, and a feeling of despair took possession
of him, for he realized but too well that the
end was near.

Martha was called, a physician summoned,
and. everything possible done for the failing

woman.

But the bleeding could not be checked, and
when morning broke every one in the house
knew that the fair and gentle lady had but a
very few hours to live.

She died the next day, just as the sun was
going down, and sweet Edith Lancaster was
motherless.

The child was inconsolable, and wept and
sobbed until she made herself ill.

She was so Sores that Mr. Lancaster
dared not have her accompany him North with
the body of his wife. The physician in attend-
ance assured him that there were no alarming
symptoms about her condition—she was simply
worn out with grief, and slightly feverish from
a cold. So her father arranged to have her
remain where she was with Martha, while he
took the precious remains to their last resting-
place, but promised to return at the earliest
possible moment. :

But it was a very sad and lonely journey for
the bereaved gentleman.

He was absent over a week, and then re-
turned to find Edith not much better than
when he had left. ; :

There did not seem to be any special disease
about her; she was merely nervously pros-
trated, with a slow fever hanging about her
which tended to make her languid and indif-
ferent to all that was going on around her.
The only thing in which she betrayed any
real interest or pleasure was the presence of
Dell, who stole in to see her at every possible
Cpe eit and rehearse every bit of news
which she could glean at home or abroad.

One day Madame Papineau caught her steal-
ing forth from Edith’s room after one of these
sly visits. “

he had returned earlier than usual from
market, and missing her from the kitchen, at
once instituted a search for her.

She flushed an angry crimson as she came
upon her just as she closed the door seized her
by the shoulder with her powerful hand, and
shook her all the way down the hall until she
reached her own room, into which she dragged
the offender, and locked the door.

Then she ed the child so that she could
not scream to disturb the boarders, and beat
her with a shawl strap, until great welts were
raised all over Dell's neck and arms, and she
was so exhausted herself that she could beat
her no more. ioe

 

ok, CRAPTER. WA, ;
j DELL BECOMES A WAITING-MAID.. _
- Mr. Lancaster had been an unsuspected wit-
ness of a portion of this sce
He was just coming in
anda, where he had _ bee ing,
seen madam as she poneeen upon Dell with
‘dragged her down the

hall to her own room, : ;

      
    

phe,
from the upper ver-
and

SS

Mr. Lancaster, gravely ; “are you not afraid
she will give you another whipping?” Aa

“IT don’t care ’fshe does,” was the sullen, —
desperate retort. “Miss Edith allers makes
one feel good, and—and I reckon I'd die with: ¢
the ache in here ’f I couldn’t see her.” ©
_ She clasped her hands across her breast, and
tocked back and forth, her full heart almost
ready to burst with a sense of utter desolation
and the memory of the recent eruel treatment
she had received. i wae

“Oh, papa, I wish we could go away from
this horrid place and take Dell with us,” Edith
sighed, as she sorrowfully regarded her un-
happy protegee. f

ell fairly gasped for breath at this unex-

pected suggestion, and it also set a new train
of thought at work in Mr. Laneaster’s brain.

“Did you know that Madame Papineau had
forbidden Dell to come here to see you?” he
eevee asked, without making any reply to

er exclamation. ae

 

“No, papa; Dell never has told me that she
had, but-——” She ‘stopped suddenly and
flushed uneasily. .

“But what?”

“T—I heard her tell Dell that she must not
borrow books of me——”

“And have you loaned her books since she
told her so?” (

“No, not—not really—but——” ey

She stopped again, looking perplexed and
distressed. :
_ “Edith,” said her father, bending to look
into her flushed faee, “you know that you need
not fear to be candid with me.” fo:

“Well, papa,” the child returned, with a

away, but I have let her use mine here in my —
ee Ihave been helping her to learn to
read,
“Can’t the child read!” exclaimed the man,
astonished. :
“She couldn’t when we came here; madam |
would never let her go to school, but she can
read and write a little now. I—I knew that |
—madam didn’t want her to learn,” the child |
went on, flushing guiltily, but determined to_
make a full confession, “and I—I hope I haven’t_
ay very naughty, but I was so sorry for
ell.
An expression of deep tenderness flitted over
Mr. Lancaster’s face. Evidently he did not

forgiveness.

“What did you mean by saying that Madame
Papineau ‘promised not to whip Dell again?’”
he asked, abruptly changing the subject. “How
did you happen to know anything about it?”

Edith flushed more hotly than ever at these
questions. She had given her word that she
would not tell of that scene in the pantry, and
she could not break it. . :
j stag a moment of hesitation she said, falter- .
ingly: .

& —I pone that I would not tell, papa.”

“To whom did you promise?”

“Madame Papineau.”

It was now Mr. Lancaster’s turn to flush,
oan a frown of displeasure settled upon his

row.

He considered it very dishonorable on the
part of madam to extort a pledge from his
daughter to conceal anything from her parents,
for such a proceeding would be liable to foster

But he would not ask her to break her word
—he would prefer never to know what had oe-
curred. ,

“I didn*t promise. I will tell,” Dell here in-
terposed, with sullen triumph, only too glad
to show madam up in her true colors, if by so_
doing there would be any hope of her being re-
leased from her cruel power.

Oh, it would be like going to heaven, she
thought, if she could go North with Mr. Lan-
caster and her idolized Miss Edith. “8

ee Lancaster thought a moment, then h
said:

“Yes, I think you may tell me about it,” and
Dell gave a graphic description of the scene in
the pantry, while the gentleman’s face grew _
Sar eng store as he eee ey iises Sips

“And that woman left the mar. al i
my daughtef?" he said, in a tone that mas

stern words. | Le bi RS
“She could not help it, papa,” she hastened to
say, not wishing to make Madame Papineau

 

-He had upon several occasions previous to
this overheard the woman scolding and threat-
ening the girl, but had not supposed that she
ever reso: to such open abuse as this.

He stood listening for a moment, after she
had locked the door, and could distinctly hear
the blows from the strap as they fell upon the
child’s naked flesh. ‘

“What a heartless vixen!” he indignantly
muttered, while his face grew dark and stern.
“Can it be possible that such things are per-
mitted in these days of freedom? It is abom-
inable !”

He was even more shocked and angry when,
a couple of hours later, he saw the results of
this beating.

He was reading to Edith, with whom, since
her mother’s death, he spent a great deal of
time, and while thus engaged there came a
timid knock upon the door. He arose, and
opened it. to find Dell standing outside with a
swollen and tear-stained face.

She shrank back, with a look of mingled
fear and shame as she saw Mr, Lancaster, but
Edith, having caught sight of her, cried out,
with a smile of welcome:

“Come in, Dell, and you shall hear the rest
of this lovely story that papa is reading to me.”

“Yes, come in, child, and tell us what is the
matter,” Mr. Lancaster said, sympathetically.

The girl slunk into the room with a falter-
ing step, and, going to the lounge on which
Edith was lying, crouched down like a beaten
dog beside it, and buried her face in the soft
shaw! that covered the child's feet.

Mr. Lancaster started and ‘quickly repressed
an exclamation of anger as he saw her condi-
tion.

Her arms and neck were amass of seams
and welts, and the girl appeared to be suffer-
ing greatly.

“Why, what is the matter, Dell?” inquired
Edith, who from her position could not see her
very distinctly.

“Wish I could die and be done with it,” she
sobbed. “She’s been lickin’ me again.” —

“With the whip!” cried Edith, starting u
excitedly, and then catching sight of Dell’s
disfigured neck and arms, she exclaimed, in a
tone of pain, “Oh! she has! she has! and she

romised that she wouldn't. pein , isn’t
it dreadful! Poor, poor Dell!” and tears of
Sere streamed over the gentle child’s
ace.

“Get up, Dell, and sit in this chair,” said
Mr. Lancaster, drawing a comfortable rocker
toward the lounge.

The girl obeyed, and shrank into the chair
trying to hide her scars, from his grave eyes.

She had not expected to find Mr. Lancaster
there, and she’ experienced a keen sense of
shame that he should be a witness of her hu-
miliation.

Usually, after a beating, madam would make
her puton a long sleeved and high necked
apron to cover the scars, She had bidden her
do so to-day, but Dell had crept away to her
attic, where she could only throw herself upon
her rude bed and groan from pain both physi-
cal and mental.

Later, when she heard madam drive away
upon some errand, feeling that she must have
sympathy or her heart would break, she stole
down to Edith’s room, entirely forgetful of
madam’s command to put on an apron.

“Now tell me,” Mr. Lancaster said, when
she was seated, “why Madame Papineau has
so severely punished you.”

“ ’Cause she caught me coming to see Miss
Edith,” Dell responded.

“Has she forbidden you to come to see Miss
Edith?” inquired the gentleman.

“Yes, sah, unless she’s asked ’special to let
me: but I allers do come when she’s gone to
market,” and Dell gave a little defiant toss of
her head. “She came home earlier to-day, and
caught me.” ‘

“But you have disobeyed her again,” said

 

appear worse than she really was. “I threw
myself in front of Dell, to keep her from being
struck, and the whip came down upon me be-
fore she could prevent it.”
But this explanation did not serve to remove

be using a lash like a cruel slave-driver, and
he then and there resolved to see what he
could do to improve poor Dell’s condition, al-
though he did not-say anything about it at
that time.
He continued to question her closely about
her life in the past, and learned all that she
knew regarding her history, which was com-
paratively little. ;
She had always lived with Madame Papineau
ever since she could remember, she told him,
and she did not know anything about either
her father or mother. " °

it,” Dell stoutly affirmed, as she gave an extra
smooth to her sleek hair that brought a gleam
of amusement to the gentleman’s eyes.

“No, I do not think that you have any negro
blood in your veins,” he quietly observed.

“Oh, sah! don’t you—don’t you?” breathless-
ly exclaimed tbe girl, with quivering lips. His ©
assertion had been sweeter than any music to
her ears.

“No; you are certainly very dark—even
swarthy, but,” bending a scrutinizing look
upon her, “I believe that fact is owing more to
the life you lead and the food you eat than ‘to
any hereditary cause.”

“Does eatin’ make any difference with the
color?” '

“Yes, a great deal,” replied Mr. Lancaster,
“such fat meat and such heavy bread as I saw
you eating the other day are very unhealthy,
especially in such a climate as this; no one
could have a good complexion to live so. Then

ou always run out with your face and arms

are, and the sun has burned and tanned you>
to the shade of leather. If you would cover
your arms and wear a sun-bonnet
soon see a difference.” . - ;

“But she never’d let me have a sun-bonnet,”
said Dell, “and she sw’ars I’m a nigger.”

Mr. Laricaster began to have a suspicion that

made Madame Papineau anxious to conceal
her identity from her and from the world in
general, and that she also had selfish motives
in wishing it to appear that there was colored
blood in her veins.

He did not give utterance to any of these
thoughts, but his friendly interest in the child.
was greatly strengthe by the discoveries he
had made that day, and he resolved to strive
to improve her condition. She had saved his
child’s life, he believed, and he owed her a
great debt for that, and besides he felt sure
that there was much natural ability in her |
composition that would develop and result in»
a useful womanhood if she could be brought
under the right kind of training. — as

A step toward the carrying out of these
minke intentions was achieved within a few

ays. : :

artha stumbled and fell on the stairs one
morning, and sprained her left wrist very bad-
ly—so badly that it had to be bandaged and
carried in a sling. ie

This interfe so serious with her duties
and made her so nearly ill that Mr. Lancaster

if Hot Weather

Makes you tired and weak,
Restore your strength by taking

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ill, .»,.
8

sigh, “I haven’t loanea Dell any books to take |-

a tendency to caper in many children. 1

  

h ;
both ehftdred regard him with awe, and Edith |-
had never before seen such a wrathful look ‘|
had | Upon his face as when he uttered those low, —

the unpleasant impression that Mr. Lancaster |
had received. The woman had no business to |

“She says I’m a nigger, but I don't b’lieve “at ;

you would. |

there was some mystery about the child which

Hood's Sarsaparilla

consider that his daughter had’sinned beyond _| —

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upon Edith.

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nsisted that she must not attempt to do a j
thing until she was better, and said he would

in the meantime obtain another maid to wait

“Tf 1 could only have Dell, papa,” Edith
, in answer to the suggestion
of another maid. fi

“Could you get along with Dell?” Mr. Lan-

caster ced, glancing somewhat doubtfully
from her to Martha.

“She is very handy and willing, sir,” Martha
replied, “and being so fond of Miss Edith I
think she might do better thana strange girl.”

“Please, papa, I would so much rather have
her than astrange girl, and Iam sure Dell
would like it,” Edith urged.

“Very well, I will see what. I can do about
it,” her father returned, as he left the room to
seek Madame Papineau.

He found her in one of the rooms below, and

7 immediately broached the subject on his mind.

“ 5

have come to solicit a favor from you,
madam,” he remarked, in his most courteous
tones.
Madam smiled with all the graciousness of
which she was mistress.
She_had been very attentive to the wealthy
New Yorker and his daughter ever since the
death of the gentleman’s wife.
“T shall be most happy. What can I do for
monsieur?”
When madam wished to be particularly im-
ressive she always brought her boasted
rench into use.
“As you know, Martha is disabled by her
accident,” Mr. Lancaster began.
“Yes, yes; it is very unfortunate,” answered

x
.

am.
“And we must have some one to take her
place for a while; could you suggest some
one?” the gentleman adroitly asked, hoping
she would herself propose Dell.
But it did not occur to her that the child
would be thought competent toact as waiting-
maid. She could not spare either of the table
_ girls, nor the chambermaid without sadly in-
terfering with her domestic arrangements.
“Perhaps I can find some one in town when
I go to market,” she said, refiectively.
Mr. Lancaster looked grave.
_“T dislike very much to have a strange girl
about,” he remarked. “Could you—would you
be willing to spare Dell for a week or fort-
ht, «oft es longer, if she is needed?”
Madam keenly glanced into her companion’s
ace, but he met her eye frankly, and was ap-

parently intent only upon providing for the

needs of his petted daughter.

- Still she hesitated, for she well knew that
Dell was very fond of the fair Northern girl,
and never so happy as when with her, and her
habitual antagonism to ever snes. that gave
pleasure to Dell made her very loath to accede
to Mr. Lancaster’s request.

“IT am willing to pay you handsomely for her
services rather than have a stranger,” he has-
tened to add, as he saw that she did not ex-
actly favor the proposition.

This was atemptation, for madam dearly
oe the glitter of gold or the rustle of green-

cks,

She could get along well enough without
Dell by adding to the duties of the other girls,
Sn ee Pete scour knives and run of er-
rands.

“Yes—perhaps, if you can make Dell do,”
she said, after considering the matter. “At
any rate you can try her for a week or so.”

“Thank you, Madame Papineau,” said Mr.

Lancaster so politely that she fluttered and

simpered, and told him that he was “quite wel-
come—it was always a pleasure to oblige
- such a gentleman.”
So poor, much-abused Dell temporarily be-
came Edith Lancaster’s waiting-maid, and
was thus entirely relieved from her disagree-
able duties in the kitchen and as errand girl.
She felt almost as if she had been suddenly
transferred to another and a brighter sphere,
where everything was delightful and harmoni-
ous,,and she would have regarded no service

| however hard or menial too heavy to be per- | Pe
| formed for the girl whom she so dearly loved.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

{| his try Wi Not be Poised in Eo Fom

=

their glance of languid pride; at the square,
determined outline of cheek and chin; at the
curve of the chiseled lips and the statuesque
beauty of the graceful throat and stately head.
How long was it—how many days, and
weeks, and years—since those violet eyes had
looked lovingly into her own, since she had
felt the long, close pressure of those perfect
lips upon her hand? How long since that
sweet, clear, tenor voice had murmured pet
names and words of love in her too willing
ear? How wide and deep must be the gulf
that separated them now, and was to separate
them forever—that gulf on whose bitter side
she sat, lonely and despairing, while he, bright,
beautiful, and happy, was all unconscious of
her presence or her grief.
She had seen her lover in evening dréss very
often, but on this night there was somethin
in his appearance which she had never notice
there before. His dress, as usual, was studi-
ously plain, but in the button-hole of his coat
was acostly hot-house flower. He had never
worn such a flower when with her. And where
was the r rose which she had gathered with
her own hand, and in her own garden, for him
that very day? He had sworn to wear it this
evening “at his office work,” and to bring it
back to her upon the morrow, faded but price-
less, as the token of his constant love.
Where was the flower now? And whose
hand had placed the waxen camellia, with its
snowy petals and dark-green leaves, where the
garden rose ought by right to be?
[It was a little thing—a trifle only. But
trifles make the sum of human life, after all.
And at the thought of this her heart sank
heavily, and she felt, without knowing why,
that all was over, and that her titled rival had
won the prize.
She laid down the glass, and leaned back in
her seat.
Chanwell took the glass, and swept the op-
posite box.
“He is a very handsome man,” she said,
quietly. “Do you not think so?”
Victorine said nothing.

“ Are you satisfied as to the truth of what I
told you now?” .
“Is that the Countess of Montpelier?” said
Victorine, in a low voice.

“ee iis’

“And her daughter?”

“That is Lady Mary.”
“Well, then, I am satisfied. I know well
that no poor lawyer’s clerk could be sitting in
yonder box so much at his ease in the society
of great and titled ladies. I therefore believe
ou when you tell me that yonder gentleman
is not Mr. Strongway, but the Marquis of
Powerscourt.”
Chanwell gave her quite a friendly glance.
“Come. Iam glad to see that you are com-
ing to your senses at last. And believe me, I
am as sorry for you in this wretched business
as I can possibly be. Only my first duty is, of
course, to Lady Mary.”
“Of course.”

“ And, for her sake, it is important that the
thing should be set right.”
“T know. I am willing that it should be set
right if it can be. But before I give him up
finally you must give me more proof of his
falsehood. I see him there, it is true, on
familiar terms with the lady. But she is his
cousin.”

“Oh, if that is all, you shall have proof
enough,” began Chanwell, indignantly.

Victorine, who was sapinls at the opposite
box, started suddenly to her feet. She had
seen, as the cousins bent over the play-bill,
that Lord Powerscourt held Lady Mary’s
hand a moment beneath its friendly cover.

“What is it?” asked Chanwell.

“Let us go,” said Victorine. |

“Where?”

“Anywhere! Anywhere! So we only get out
of this!” and flinging the door open she rushed
wildly from the box.

“It seems to be my fate to have to run after
ople in theaters, and keep them from mak-
ing public spectacles and scandals of them-
selves,” thought Chanwell, with a smile, as
she followed the quicker movements of Vic-

She was, perhaps, a thought too unsympa-
bs os :

But life at fifty is a very different thing from
life at twenty, and the sorrow that sprin

 

| VIGTORINE;

The Star of the Ballet.

By MARGARET BLOUNT.

Author of “Isora’s Bridal Vow,” ‘Strangely
Won,” ‘The Linden Farm Bride,”
“Heir of Balfour Hall,” Etc.

 

[ VICTORINE” was commenced in No. 33. Back num-
- vers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

f CHAPTER XIII.
UNDER ONE ROOF.

“The: first act is over. The orchestra is
tuning up, and we have ten minutes’ time to
look about and criticise our neighbors,” said
Chanwell. “Have you a glass?”

“ No.”

_ “Here’s one. But whatever you may see
don’t drop it on the head of some unfortunate
wretch below, as Lady Mary did when I took
her to Drury Lane to see you upon the stage,
and Lord Powerscourt devouring you with his
eyes from his private box.” .
“When did you do that?”
“Not long ago.”
+. “And why?”
“My dear, she was as hard to be convinced
of certain things as you are. There was no
other way than to let her see with her own
-eyes, aS you are going to see with yours to-
night. And the consequence was that she im-
periled the life of some wretch beneath our
box, and lost an elegant opera-glass. I beg
that you will hold this one more carefully.”

“You took Lady Mary to Drury Lane to see
Lord Powerscourt devoting himself to me,”
said Victorine, turning pale. “Are you bring-
ing me here to the opera to show me Lord
Powerscourt devoting himself to her?”

“Yes, since I can convince you in no other
way.”

“Where are they.”

“Opposite box. Lower tier.”

Victorine turned her glass that way, and
saw the party as plainly as if she had been
seated close beside them. ;

A well preserved and very handsome matron,
stately, dark-haired and dark-eyed, with dia-

-monds gleaming on her neck and arms and
row. Beside her a tall and stately girl, who
bore no likeness to her, but who possessed a
certain beauty of her own, though of a quiet
moonlight kind. Her face, regularly featured,
- was calm and pale and clear, and her bright
brown hair was drawn in heavy masses away
from her broad, full brow. Her lips closed
ae and her rounded, dimpled chin bore
out he character and promise of the deter-
mined energetic face above it. The eyes were
large and soft and clear, of a deep dark-gray,
shaded by long black lashes that gave a won-
derful sweetness to their lightest glance.

By the side of this lady sat. a gentleman in
full evening dress, who was glancing over the
libretto with her, and Smiling now and then at
her animated and apparently witty remarks.

A gentleman in the bloom of health, and
youth, and beauty, such as is seldom seen in a
masculine face.

_ Victorine aneed with an achin,
broad, massive brow, shaded

heart at the
y the silky,

 

 
 

   

 

 

from a slighted love looks but a “trifle light
as air” to the mature eyes that peers at the
world and all its follies and troubles, from be-
hind the glassy screen of a pair of spectacles.
Chanwell had been young, and had “had her
day,” like other women whose fate it is to love
and to be loved, and to know the bliss of for-
getting, or the misery of being forgotten. She
ad loved, and had been deceived, and had
fancied that the earth ought to stand still, and
the heavens bend down to attend to her sor-
row, which was unlike and above all other
sorrows—exactly as Victorine was fancying
now. But, alas! she had learned the lessons
of wisdom which come upon us all with the
rowing years, She remembered that the grief
had been borne, sharp though it was, that it
had been outlived, and forgotten. She was no
blighted, heart-broken being in consequence of
those early pangs; she was a well-to-do, sen-
sible, comfortable woman, with a keen ap-
preciation of a good dinner, a heavy balance
at the banker’s, and divers other good things
of this world. The day would probably come
when this passionate, headstrong girl would
be also like her. Meanwhile let her think
that life had nothing left to offer, since love
had failed her.

all?
ge Chanwell reasoned soberly with her-
self.
of consolation when she stood once more be-
side the young actress in the bustling street.
Victorine glanced at her, as if mutely im-

within herself at sight of the hard, unsympa-
thetic face.
“Where do we go next?” she asked.
“That is for you to say,” replied Chanwell,
uietly.
“What do you mean?”
own proper person, as the Marquis of Powers-

belongs. You say you wish further proof that
he cares for his cousin. I can give itif you
will go with me. Or wecan part here at the
stage door, as you prefer.”

“Can you give me that proof to-night?” asked
Victorine. o :

“Then take me with you.”

“Come, then.”

- Chanwell led her down the long line of car-
riages till she found their own.

Getting into it, she leaned from the window,
ee the coachman to drive to Regent

ark.

“Where are we going?” asked Victorine, as
aL eroes away.

“Have patience. Ask me no questions at
present, but trust to my guidance,” said Chan-
well. “I am taking you to find your proof.”

Victorine said no more, but leaning back in
her own corner gave way to her bitter thoughts.

The carriage stopped at last.

“Wait here for your mistress,” said Chan-
well to the coachman.

Then giving her arm to Victorine she turned
from the shaded avenue through which they
had been driving, and led her down along and
narrow lane.

On one side this lane was bounded by a pri-
vate hedge, whose white blossoms and glisten-
ing green leaves gave out a refreshing fra-
grance to the cool night air.

On the other side rose a line of high garden
walls, over whose flat tops laburnum trees
drooped gracefully here and there.

Green doors occurring in this wall, at regu-
lar intervals defined the gardens of the in-
closed habitations, and gave a romantic air to
the secluded place. From afar off came the
roar and rattle of distant London, and the
lights went twinkling in long wavering lines
to the right and to the left, while overhead
the moon shone solemnly in a blue and star-
less sky.

 

chestnut hair; at the violet-blue eyes, with |

She would get over it in due
time, and finally learn to laugh at the folly of
her early dream. What did it matter after

And this was why she offered no word

ploring help and comfort, but shrank back

“JT have shown you Mr. Strongway_ in his

court and in the society to which he of right

Victorine glanced around esously,
“Tt is much like our own” lane—Brompton
lane,” she said at last.
“Yes, I was reminded of this’ place when I
came out to visit you,” replied Chanwell.
“But this is in Regent’s Park.”

Chanwell unlocked the green gate which
they had just reached, and ushered her com-

panion into a small but exquisitely kept gar-
den, redolent of perfume and beautified with
statues, gleaming whitely in the moonlight,
and a fountain that threw its silvery spray
caressingly about their marble limbs.
*Moonlight,* music, love, and flowers,”
uoted Chanwell as she secured the garden
oor behind them. “Is not this a lovely spot,
Miss Pelwyn? Would you think such a green
and flowery solitude possible within an easy
walk of the gay and fashionable West End of
London?”
_ “Brompton is as quiet, I think, and quite as
‘near to the city or the parks,” said Victorine,
gazing round with troubled, jealous glances.
“Tell me, in whose——”

“No, not a single question for a few minutes
more,” was the reply. “Follow me. You will
see noone. Noone will molest you or ever
know that you are here.”

She led the way up through the garden and
into a tiny conservatory, stocked with the
most costly exotics.

Through the conservatory, they gained a
noble drawing-room, to whose size and height
much of the comfort and beauty of the rest of
the house had been sacrificed.

Victorine’s quick eye roved around the mag-
nificently furnished but empty room.

The lights in the chandelier burned soft and
low through their shades of ground glass and
silver network. The furniture and the hang-
ings were of silken damask, of that soft, un-
certain, delicate shade that you see upon the
breast of the wood dove. A kind of silvery
luster interpenetrated this peculiarly grave
and pleasing hue, and gave a subdued bright-
ness to the aspect of the room that was pecu-
liarly soothing to the harassed brain and
weary nerves of the poor little actress.

She sank down in one of the silvery hued
easy-chairs, and clasped her small hands above
her head with a long sigh.

“T am tired—so very tired—in body, and
heart, and soul, that I must take the liberty
of sitting down to rest if you have no objec-
tion,” she said, half apologetically, to her at-
tendant.

“Certainly, Miss Pel . We are alone
here, and shall be for an hour or more. Rest
by all means while you can and may. 1 will
tell you when it is time for us to go.’

Victorine’s gaze wandered from the snowy
carpet of velvet pile, with its chains of roses
meeting in a medallion of massed flowers in
the center of the room; to the marble statues
in the corners and the costly pictures upon the
walls. Luxury, governed by a delicate, re-
fined, and fastidious taste, was everywhere
visible around her. Softly toned colors, light,
warmth, and perfume; beauty and elegance
displayed even in the most trifling article, and
wealth and culture manifest in the slightest
detail of the beautiful and home-like room.

Yes, it was like a scene from fairy-land rather
than an actual home in this prosaic work-a-
day world. -

Whose home?

Her eyes fell upon a picture over the mantel-
piece as she asked herself that question.

The picture of a slender “slip of a girl” per-
haps twelve ex of age and of a tall and
handsome lad some months her senior, who
looked back at her with a merry smile in his
large blue eyes as he guided her little rough
maned Shetland pony safely over the rough-
stones of a wayside brook which they had es-
sayed to cross in See The dainty boots
and the silken stocki of the lad were
thrown carelessly upon the bank of the stream
in company with his nat and gloves, and his

were plainly visible beneath the tucked up
trousers, and the running stream. His blue
jacket was unbuttoned, and his silken necktie
streamed wildly in the air, and his chestnut
curls were tossed capriciov ly back in wild
confusion from a brow al too broad and
massive for a face so youngy while the very
spirit of fun and mischief leaped and sparkled
in his blue eyes as he urged the unwilling pony
farther and farther into the stream.

The small lady on the pony’s back sat firmly
in the saddle, with her slippered feet lifted
daintily away from the waves, and her little
gloved hands resting lightly on the shoulder
of the boy. But her face was graver than his,
and the large, dark-gray eyes gave token even
at that early age, of the dangerous passion
that now slumbered in their depths as they
rested with a strange, unchild-like expression
of devotion upon the beaming face of her hand-
some cavalier.

Long and earnestly did poor Victorine look
at this graceful picture of a youthful escape.

She sighed heavily as she turned ot at
last. And Chanwell or watched her long
study of the picture was able to interpret the
meaning of that sigh.

“Those two look there as if they were made
for each other, do they not?” she observed.

“Yes,” replied Victorine, with another sigh.

“Having seen that picture, you must, of
course, know where you are?” the woman went
on.

“T can guess only too well.”

“Here is the place—the only place—where I
can offer you the — I spoke of. You are in
the home of Lady Mary Royallieu, and no-
where, except in her own home, would you see
that show of affection for her cousin, which
she is continually drawn into here.” ~

A hopeless sigh from Victorine.

“She has all, and I nothing,” was her bitter
remark as she glanced again around the lux-
urious room.

“Nay, Miss Pelwyn, when it comes to mere
luxury like this, I won’t say but you are as
well able as my lady to possess it. It was not
to show you fine furniture that I brought you
here. . But I did want you to see that picture,
I confess.”

“T have seen it,” said Victorine, coldly.
“What then?”

“Ah, my dear Miss Pelwyn, does it not
make it seem more easy and right for you to
give him up?”

“T cannot see why.”

“Just look at them there together—mere boy
and girl—as I have seen them at the old cha-
teau a hundred times or more. That was the
way with them always; he would plan the
mischief, and she was never far behind in
helping him to execute it. Never shall I for-
get the day that they took that ride. My lord
stole the pony from the stables when the head
groom was away, and the stable lads were too
proud and pleased at her spirit and roguery to
tell of him. And so no one knew where the
two had gone, for Lady Mary jumped from her
school-room window when her governess had
left her for a few moments, and so joined him
on the lawn. My heart was in my mouth
when the governess came to me, half an hour
later, and said that Lady Mary and my lord
were both gone. Forno one ever knew what
danger they might not brave when they were
together. And then we watched and waited
all day long, and well into the evening. And
then the head groom found them trying to
ford the river like that. And the countess had
the picture painted after she had got over her
fright, just by way of reminding them how
naughty and disobedient they were.”

Victorine listened to this story in silence,
her eyes dwelling sadly and fondly the while
on the fair, proud face of the noble boy. How
handsome he was, even at thatearlyage! How
well that air of unconscious command became
him! And what a laugh of perfect glee was
that ve the depths of those wondrous violet
eyes

Her heart grew sadder and heavier with every
lingering glance. What had she to do with
those two happy children? What cared the
handsome ‘boy for her as he led his cousin’s
pony through the foaming water, and_ took
care, with bovish courtesy, that his fair charge
should not fall? It was for Lady Mary that
the rare, sweet smile dawned about those per-
fect lips, it was toward Lady Mary that those
violet eyes turned with a glance of protecting

 

naked high-arched foot and well turned leg}.

other, and she, an alien and a stranger, stood
afar off, in the shadow, and gazed upon them
use eyes that were growing dim with
ears,

“Thou art so near, and yet so far,”

she sang beneath her breath as she turned
from the picture and covered her face with
her hand.

“Boy and girl they were ever together,” said
Chanwell, in a low voice. “As young man
and young woman they cared for each other.
But for you they may yet be man and wife.”
“But for me?” said Victorine, sadly. “Alas!
Ihave little to do with it, and no power to
prevent it.”

“You cannot wish to prevent it!” said Chan-
well, vehemently. “ You ought not to wish it.
Oh, be warned by me. See your own danger,
and avoid it, and let him goto her, whose
rightful love he is!”

Victorine looked up wearily, and was about
to answer, when a loud knock came suddenly
at the hall door.

Chanwell stood aghast.

_“My lady, and home an hour before her
time. You must not be found here. This
way! quick, and be silent!”

She caught Victorine by the arm, hurried
her into the conservatory, and shut the glass
doors that led into the drawing-room just as
the Countess of Montpelier entered, followed
by Lady Mary, who still leaned upon her
cousin’s arm.

CHAPTER XIV.
“Is IT BEST FOR HIM?”

Victorine, seeing these figures, and realiz-
ing for the first time that evening her own
peculiar position in that house, shrank back
aghast.

ut presently her strength and courage came
back to her, and with them the necessity for
indignant protest of some kind.
She turned to Chanwell with a look toe
fierce and angry to come from such blue eyes.
“Why did you bring me here, to this house
of all others!” she said under her breath.
“What is yonder man to Me now that I know
his real name and his true rank in life? . I ask
no more proof, at least not here. Open the
door, and let me go.”

Chanwell looked horrified.

“We cannot go out through the drawing-
room, of course, while then are there,” she
said, in a whisper.

eee conservatory then, as we entered,”
said Victorine, ee ne
“Nor there either without making some
noise that they will be sure to hear. Pray
stay, Miss Pelwyn, and end it all to-night.”

“End it! What do you mean?”

Chanwell was silent.

And, ah, poor Victorine had no need to ask.

Too well she felt the real import of that am-
biguous speech. She was to stay here, and
watch the young pair in the sweet and sacred
familiarity of home, and so stab herself to the
heart with a wound of distrust, for which
there could possibly be no cure!

And it was the unconscious dread that some-
steng Taher she might hear or see would thus
stab her that made her so earnest in her wish
for instant departure.

“We cannot get out now without being
heard,” repeated Chanwell, anxiously.

“Very well, then. I will stay.”

And she did stay. Through the glass doors,
behind the shadow of an orange tree, she
watched the happy woman who had a right to
claim the notice and the thoughts of the man
who was plighted lover and promised husband
to the two. °

Lady Mary looked to greater advantage in
the quiet of herown home circle than else-
where. At opera, concert, or ball there were
too many bright and radiant beauties who
threw her completely in the shade. But now
that there was no one younger or prettier than
herself in the room—now that she was happy
in the presence of the man she loved, she
joohads bright, animated, and almost beauti-

ul. ae

Lord Powerscourt glanced at her often, and
each time with an expression of more kindly
interest. This unexpected return to the society
and the ways most familiar and dear to him
from his earliest youth, shook. his allegiance
to the absent more than he really knew.

Once married to Victorine, how could he
spend such tranquil, happy hours as_ these?

ith Victorine for bis wife and Lady Mary
for a dear and tender friend, life would, in-
deed, be a “little heaven below.” But when
aman is married society expects of him that
he shall have no dear and tender friends of an
opposite sex outside the precincts of his own
home. Not to mention that the wife herself
would object most. strenuously to, such an in-
timacy however innocent and. platonic its
nature might be.

No, there was no possible way of reconciling
the two attachments. Either the friendship
or the love must be resigned. There was, of
course, no choice in the young man’s mind.
And yet, as he thought of this he looked at
Lad ary with a sigh that Victorine very
likely might not have liked to hear.

Meanwhile Lady Mary was making the most
of the happiness that had been so unexpect-
edly vouchsafed to her. She talked gayly, and
rallied her mother and her cousin on their un-
usual silence and dullness. Finally she seated
herself at the piano, and glancing over her
shoulder at Lord Powerscourt, began to sing.
She had chosen Tom Moore’s melody, “Those
Evening Bells,” and her deep contralto voice
was well suited to the mournful minor key.”

“ And so ’twill be, when I am gone!
That tuneful peal will still ring on,
While other bards will walk these dels,
And sing your praise, Sweet Evening Bells!”

It is certainly the saddest and _ sweetest
strain that ever yet was wedded to the pathos
of mournful human words. The last notes fell
upon the air as if a sound of tears was in the
voice of the singer, and Lord Powerscourt,
impatient of the melancholy that possessed
him, started up, and went to the piano.

“Dear Mary, sing no more like that!” he
said, bending down over her. “Life is dull and
sad enough without the help of music that
makes one’s very heart ache.”

She leaned back and looked up into his
beautiful face with a sad.smile.

“What do you know of the nature of a
heart-ache?” she asked.

“T have had more than one in my time.”

“You!”

“Why not?” ;

“TI never supposed it possible that you could
be sad, even for a single moment.”

“Am I not human?”

“TI suppose so,” she said, dreamily, and they
both laughed at the answer.

“Being human—that is, if you allow that I
am so, I must expect to bear the usual burden
of humanity, and be sad now and then, even
if no worse thing befall me.”

“But what can you possibly have to grieve
you, Ellis?” she asked. “From my point of
view your life seems as absolutely perfect as
any human life can be.”

“Possibly. From mine, I confess that it
sometimes seems little more than profound
weariness and vexation of spirit.”

= ae mused for a few moments.

“ 1; is  .*

She leaned back till her head rested lightly
against his breast.

And he bent down over her in a devoted kind
of way, and with a look and smile that made
the unseen watcher in the conservatory turn
sick with jealous pain.

“Well, ma belle! What is it?”

“T want to ask you a question.”

“ Ask it.”

“Tell me all your troubles as they come to
you day after day. Will you? I may be able
to help you in some, and to give you advice in
others. Will you promise?”

He hesitated.

“Promise!” she urged. “I used to be your

’

 

sister in the days gone by.’
At that moment Chanwell unfastened the

care and love. They were all in all to each |

 

glass door of the conservatory with a noiseless
touch, and set it a trifie ajar. . Victorine, ab-
sorbed in her own thoughts, did not notice
this movement, but presently found that she
was hearing as well as seeing all that was
most calculated to give her pain.
The first words that fell upon her ear
startled her.
“You are not my sister now,” said the voice
that had been and must always be the dearest
of any on this earth to her.
“Tam as much your sister now as I ever
was, dear Ellis,” said Lady Mary, with a sad
glance at him. “Why should you turn away
from your early friends just because you have
grown to be a man?”
Tears came into her soft gray eyes as she
gBo kh. though she did her best to keep them
ack.

Lord Powerscourt glanced hastily round.
The countess had been sitting dozing in her
easy-chair when he went to the piano. Now
she had left the room. He was alone with
Lady Mary. At least he thought he was, and
that did quite as well.

So, with all the natural heedlessness of a
young man, he wiped those tears away and
kissed the eyes from which they fell.

“Don’t, Ellis!” said Lady Mary, blushing.
“What will mamma think of you?”

“Mamma is not here. She has left the room.
No one will know, except you and I, Mary.
And where isthe harm in my kissing you,
since you are my sister as much as ever, ac-
cording to your own account?”

Lady Mary smiled.

“T used to kiss you often enough in those
days of old, which we both remember; you
never objected then, and so——”

“And so you will please be quiet, Ellis, and
behave yourself, or I must leave. you and go
to mamma,” said Lady Mary, withdrawing
herself a little more decidedly from this sec-
ond embrace, though she did not look particu-
larly angry because it had been given. “Be
good enough to sit down here beside me, and
let us have a good long cousinly talk about
these troubles of yours.”

He took the seat she gave him. He took her
hand also, and she did not withdraw it.

Victorine gazed upon them, sitting there
side by side, happy, affectionate, and well
matched in birth and station. ;

“Ought I to give him up to her?” she sighed,
“He certainly cares for her, and she worships
him. I can see it in her face. If he had never
met me these two might have been happy to-
gether, and but for me they might be so now.
Oh, I wish I knew what to do! I want my
happiness! I havearight toit. But not if it
is to be given tome at the expense of his.
am not bound to consider her in this matter.
I, too, am a woman, and I shall suffer if I lose
him, as much as she could suffer, though she
is better born and bred than I. But is it best
for him to keep his word to me or to pledge it
to her, and let me go my way? He would for-
get me before long. Men always forget. And
he would be happy with her, while I was far
away, sad and lonely, and thinking always of
him. But I could bear to leave him and be
forgotten, I could bear to know that she was
his wife, and that he was happy with her, bet-
ter, far better, than I could bear to have him
marry me, and see in his eyes one day that he
repented it, and remembered this evening with
her, and grieved because it could never come
back to him again.”

Chanwell touched her on the shoulder.

“Have you the proof now?” she asked, in a
whisper.

“Why?”

“My lady has left the room, and will want
me, And Lady Mary would never forgive me
if she knew that I staid here to watch and

listen. If you have seen and heard enough we
had better go.”
“You said you could not ‘go without dis-

turbing them.’
“That was when the countess was in the
room, They will not hear us, no matter how
much noise we make,” said Chanwell, with a
low laugh.

Victorine glanced back into the room.

Lord Powerscourt had abandoned the low
seat he had taken. He was kneeling on one
knee beside his cousin, holding her hand, and
looking up into her face with a glance that
“told the whole story,” as poor Victorine
thought.

And Lady Mary was bending down to lis-
ten, with a look of the deepest. interest on her
fair face.

He spoke in so lowa voice that Victorine
could not distinguish the words.

Only the murmur reached her ears, and that
was tender, passionate, imploring in its tone.

What was he saying that he need speak in a
voice like that? :

She turned to Chanwell with a weary sigh.

“Yes, let us go. It is more than time. I
ong wish I had never seen this house.”

Chanwell oe the garden door silently,
and ushered her out into the moonlight once
more.

Not a word was spoken by either as they
threaded the garden paths. The gate clicked,
and Victorine stood, like an outcast, outside
the walls of Lady May’s home.

Then Chanwell spoke for the first time.

“ You won’t be hard on me, or bear malice
against me because of this?”

“Why should I?” said Victorine, glaring
drearily through the toe to the carriage
in waiting for her at the end of the lane.

“You know I feel sorry for you. All. the
more that I’ve had to go through with some-
thing of the same orn my day.”

Victorine looked up at her with suddenly
awakened interest.

“You? Tell me about it?”

“It was my master’s son, and my master
was the Squire of Harwich, an overbearing,
haughty man as ever you saw in all your life.
And Mr. Ernest he loved me, and told me so,
and I was as happy as the day was long till
his father found it out, and sent him abroad.
I almost broke my heart about it, Miss Pel-
wyn, though you wouldn’t think it to see
me now.”

“And he—did he remember you—love you?”
asked Victorine, breathlessly.

Chanwell shook her head.

“He was a gentleman, and very far above
me, miss. He went abroad, and married a
grand lady, and I have never seen him from
that day to this.. He is the Squire of Harwich
himself now, and he would laugh if he knew
that I ever spoke of those days, lady’s maid as

am.”

“And you are contented to live on without
him. How can you be?”

“What else can Ido, Miss Pelwyn? If I
had been a lady born and bred, and as pretty
and young as I was then, I dare say I should
have been his wife to-day. But there it is,
you see, miss!”

“Yes, I see!’ said Victorine, sadly. “And
perhaps I shall have to do what you did, and
suffer as you suffered, I would do it now this
moment if I were quite sure that it was best
for him.”

“How can you help being sure of that!” said
Chanwell, with a stare. “Be ruled by me, my
dear, and give him up at once. No good ever
yet came of a mixed marriage.”

“Perhaps not. Well, come to me _ to-mor-
row, and I will tell you my decision.”

“To-morrow ?”

“To-morrow,” repeated Victorine, decidedly.
“As early as you please.”

“By ten o’clock, miss?”

“Yes. Good-night.”

Victorine walked swiftly away toward her
carriage.

Chanwell locked the
house by the servants’
the countess’ room.

Her mistress lounged in an easy-chair be-
side a small table, on which was set a delicate
repast. She looked eagerly up from the book
she was reading as Chanwell entered.

“Well?” she said.

“Tt is well, my lady,” the woman answered,
with a smile. “She has heard enough and
seen enough, and has gone home to think it
over. So far as she’s concerned Lord Powers-
court will soon be free.”

ate, and entering the
oor, went straight to

 

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
 

 

 

xs THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

VOL. 46—No, 40,

 

 

 

NEW YORK, AUGUST 1, 1891.

 

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

A LUCKY MAN,

BY HAREKLEY HARKER,

eeee
ees se
coef ef

eeeee

 

 

 

 

“They call me a lucky man, do they?”

“Yes. The idea of most of your acquaint-
ances and competitors is that you have suc-
ceeded so wonderfully and so suddenly. by a
sort of luck that has betided you,” I answered.

“Of course they decry my abilities.”

“Yes. They relieve their own inner con-
sciousness, smarting under the contrast of
your progress, by the easy reflection that no
man can command the golden favors of Luck,
which are dispensed by caprice, and generally
with a flagrant disregard of real merit.”

“And they prophesy my downfall as sudden,
one of these days, as my elevation.”

“Exactly. Those who believe in luck always
embrace that fickle ending—except when they
themselves happen to be in luck, as they say;
in which case they either abandon their creed,
protesting that it was merit which was in
their affairs, or trust most stoutly that their
luck will endure.”

I had been sitting for a pleasant hour in the
office of an old school friend whom I had not
met for years, in the city of B——. He was
rich, influential, on the high road to great
social eminence, and not yet forty years away
from the cradle which his poor shoemaker
father provided him, as also to his six brothers.
His career was a brilliant success.

As my last words fell upon his ear he grew
silent. He covered his ample brow with both
his long, thin hands, rubbed the wrinkles of
the day’s care out of his face with a forefinger,
and, turning to me, said, impressively:

“Everything I have and am I first confess I
owe to God. I started into life with good and
sensible parents, if they were poor. I early
found myself in possession of a sound body,
and, pardon me for saying it, reasonably good
mental faculties, and have had good friends
along the way. Butit has not been luck—
hard, faithful toil rather—that has made me
what Tam. If a man has a strong body to
begin with he can easily break it down. If he
drinks, works to excess, disregards regularity
in eating and sleeping, shall he lay it to luck
that he sinks exhausted at forty years of age?
I watch my health as carefully as I do my cap-
italin business. I have stood by my health,
and my health, therefore, has stood by me.

“What would the most brilliant mental abil-
ities amount to without practical schooling
in my business? I never told you that after
we left college I came to this very mill; stood
in this very office just about there,” and he
sprang eagerly upon his feet, stepping to the
middle of the room and turning like a marti-
net, “and asked for work. I dreamed of a mere
book-keeper’s place in the office. I was ad-
vised to take off my coat and learn the business
in the mill. Within an hour I was at work in
the weighing-room, where the cotton came in,
shaggy as a bobbin boy. For two long years
I worked with the common operatives, who
were as good as I in God’s sight, indeed, and
learned it all. There is not an operation per-
formed under that old roof that I cannot do
with these hands. Is that so very much luck
to my success as a cotton weaver?

“T have friends. Well, thank Heaven. But
he who would have friends must show himself
friendly. I have only three friends, among all
who deserve the name, whom I have not served
with as costly service as they have given to
me, and many with a costlier. Friends are
made by friendly service. It is give and take;
I know it, and am any instant, day or night,
at the command of a few true men whom I call
my friends. Hence I can command them.
We stand together; we. should fall together.
The three exceptions are.only such because
they are above my reach of help or its need;
yet ae know my heart. Itis my aim to de-
serve the absolute confidence of these men all.
Is there any luck about this?

“T have a faithful corps of employees. Every
man of them was selected with these thoughts,
among others, in mind. Is that man agree-
able to me as a companion near my person, in
this office, where I spend so many hours of my
life? Are we congenial? Is his mental make-
up such as to correspond with mine? Iam
pita to hear, to work, to decide; full.of hope.

could never live with asad face or a sour
spirit near me. I could not endure a hopeless
mind, or a laggard, or atimid man. Of course,
in moral qualities I would have none but pure
and honorable men. In short, every man
here,” and the offices had a score at various
desks, ‘is like me. They are my kind. I am
their kind. We know it, though I am not, of
course, intimate overmuch. They are like my
brain multiplied twenty times—and one or two
of them, I believe, have more brains than I—
my hands, feet, eyes, ears, reduplicated. We
walk like one man. It would be a misfortune
to spare these men picked out of the millions.
I asked myself one other question as I hired
each man, namely, Would cordially rejoice
to see such amanrise to a place of power in
the world, be thoroughly glad to have him
grow out of my employ by developed abilities?
Glad, save the privation of his going. There
is not a man here kept down. I have adu-
ated four in these fifteen years. This office is
like a French clock; you can’t hear a tick of
the machinery; only the stroke of cathedral
chimes at the golden hours of results for which
we all toil. Is there any luck about this?

“What is luck anyway? It is an excuse to
the careless, a complaint to the weak, a growl

 

to the guilty, a thankless laugh to the im-
ious. A careful, strong, guiltless, pious man
as no use for the word.

‘« ‘He leadeth me, oh, blessed thought,
Oh, words with heavenly wisdom fraught;
Where’er I go, whate’er [ be,
Still ’tis God’s hand that leadeth me.’

“T am willing to grant that there are corners
of the street where the winds so blow, and swirl,
and circle in, that in that spot leaves will pile
and dust heaps gather; willing to acknowledge
that there are pools in the stream where fish
can live and where it is best to cast the line.
But who made the fence and brick wall that
give the wind their swirl? Not chance, but
mind. And mind can find the pool wherein
are concealed the trout; there cast your line.
I confess to a mystery in the occurrences of
human opportunity; but it is the mystery of
laws pepe our reaching. Everywhere is the
reign of law.

“T tell you, old friend, that there is a Great
Architect slowly building in this earth the
structure of Society Redeemed. He drew the

lans; He furnishes all the material; He has
ashioned the tools; He employs the workmen,
for He created them with the breath of His
nostrils; and whatsoever is right such shall
receive wages. By His command some toil to-
day amid the newer foundations, for even these
are not yet laid in all their vastness; by His
command some fashion finials and fretwork of
a high and sunny gable. If it serves Him best
to send down a finished artisan from the flores-
cent arches to instruct and teach. the toilers
digging in the mud, shall the workmen mur-
mur? If the apprentice is promoted for merit,
or for reasons hid from sight, shall others pro-
test? Is it not His own? If the workmen
must make cement for.some rare and costly
finish, from the tears and beady drops of. sor-
row, or paint betimes in flashing colors of a
martyr’s blood, is it not all in the plan? And
we shall have our reward.

“JT tell you that the only one hard reality in
all this talk about the lucky man which you
have heard of me, is that to be successful in
the world is to be disliked. But if I live I’ll
kill the critics by my kindness.”

We shut the office door, entered the carriage,
and drove home to dine at a hospitable board,
phen. God had furnished to an honest, hard
worker.

 

BOOT-BUTTONS,

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

Why will not some of the numerous inven-
tive geniuses in the world, with the good of
the public, especially the feminine public, at
heart, invent something to banish boot-buttons
from the face of the earth?

Somebody says there are elastic gore boots,
and laced boots, and suggests that there is no
law to compel us to wear buttoned boots.

Very true; but congress boots are an abom-
ination in the sight of man; and as for laced
ones, why, who can wear apair of them a
week before the eyelets will come out and the

ragged edges make their appearance, and the
lacings wear rough and “fraggy,” and then
they are continually untying, and streaming
out their dirty tin-tipped length from under
rn and flutings and making us a spec-
acle.

Poets and novelists have said so much about
our feet that we must be dunces if we did not
know that our feet are a very important item
in our general make-up. BPS

Shoemakers, urged on by the dictates of
fashion, have given us narrow soles, which
Whey us almost beyond endurance, and ys

eels which make us walk wpon our toes like
a barn-yard fowl on an icy morning, and we
submit gracefully; but boot-buttons are to us
a source of never-ceasing annoyance.

Whenever anybody goes to dress in a hurry,
then the boot-buttons fly. Who can dress
without losing one or more of these necessa
little pests? i is impossible to be calm, an
use the button-hook properly, when one expects
every moment to hear the whistle of the ap-
proaching train which is to take her to town
after fresh ribbons and other things.

Who can button her boots with a hair-pin,
on a cold morning, with the mercury below
zero, and her button hook mislaid, as it has
the happy habit of being on just such morn-

Half the ladies whose feet we have inspected
have buttons missing from their boots, and
one-third of the others have their boots but-
toned wrong, and the button-holes fringed and
ragged.

Gentlemen of inventive talents, to you we
 « Oige Give us something gs and dur-
able, and convenient in the way of boot fasten-
ings, and we will support you for Congress,
at least hold you forever in grateful remem-

rance.

 

BURIED IN A MINE,

BY EMERSON BENNETT.

 

 

Was I ever down in a coal mine? Yes, once.
I will tell you the story.

I had some friends living in the coal-mining
region of Pennsylvania, and I was induced to
pay them a visit.

While there I was asked if I would like to
descend into one of the most famous mines and
see how the hard, black fuel, which affords us
such grateful sensations on a cold winter
night, is procured from the bowels of the earth.

Now I have a strong natural desire to see
everything new and strange; but then I am
also very cautious, and do not care to put my
life in peril merely to gratify my curiosity, so
I hesitated and reflected a little before I an-
swered :

“TI should like to see the miners at work, if
it could be done without risk of life.”

A pretty, bright, blue-eyed young lady who
was present, and to whom I had taken a great
fancy, burst out with a pnaing laugh. 7

“Surely you are not afraid, Mr. Maples?” she
exclaimed, with a mischievous twinkle of her
blue eyes that did more to urge me on than all
the arguments of all her relations could have
done in a month, for no man likes to be thought
a coward in the presence of beauty.

“T certainly would not like to be considered
afraid, Miss Stuart, merely because I have a
repelling sense of danger,” I replied. “Surely
you do not think it roa for a man to be
fool hardy in order to prove that he is not a pol-
troon? I believe every one isin some degree
afraid when he sees danger, but some people
are gifted with the faculty of seeing danger
where others do not.”

“And sometimes where it does not exist.”

“Tt may be.”

“And you possess that gift largely,” she
laughed.

“Nay, Miss Stuart, you hardly do me justice.
I at least claim to be reasonable. In the case
of mining coal, neither you nor any one else
who is familiar with past occurrences in the
mines can truthfully declare that there. is not
all the time danger in those dark and awful
depths, and that every one who descends
thither, be it for a minute or a month, carries
his life in his hands.” §

“Well, I at least. am not afraid,” she re-
joined, somewhat boastingly; “and I at least
have been down there as many times as I am
years old.”

“A matter of nineteen,” I observed-

“Exactly nineteen,” she smiled.

“Well, then, make it twenty, and I will ac-
company you,” I said.

“ Agreed,” was her prompt response.

The instant she said this I experienced a
strange sensation, like a presentiment of evil,
and I would gladly have had my promise un-

 

 

 

 

changing my dect&ration, even had the danger
been a thousand times more apparent, for I am
one of those stubbornly firm individuals who
always live up to my given word, let the con-
sequences be what they may; and so we pre-
pared ourselves and went down into the mine
—a party of four of us—two gentlemen besides
myself and the lady I have mentioned.

he descent for the first two hundred feet
was in a large bucket, lowered by a windlass;
and I do not think that any one for the first
time ever yet took that plunge into the awful
abyss of darkness and mystery without an in-
ward sinking akin to horror, however careless
and indifferent may have been his outward as-
sumption. '

One of our party, who was connected with
the mines, and was to act as our guide on the

resent occasion, carried a Davy lamp fastened

o his cap, and by this: feeble light we could
dimly see each other’s faces and the black,
damp walls which surrounded us, as down,
down, ever down we kept aoe deeper and
deeper into the bowels of the black pit, well
knowing that the slightest accident might land
us suddenly on the shores of eternity.

The two gentlemen and myself looked grave,
as became the place and the occasion; but
pretty Sibyl Stuart was full of talk and anima-
tion, rattling on from one thing to another,
never seeming to care forareply, but apparent-
a nia to hear the sound of her own voice.

as she really heedless of any possible danger,
or was this light chatter done: to cover serious
fancies and misgivings? I could not believe
the words came from. a heart as light and free
as they seemed to represent.

Reaching our first landing we began our ex-
ploration through long, dark galleries, where
every here and there a heavy prop sapere
the rocky roof, with the thin layer of founda-
tion suppers in turn in the same manner,
still below us, tier on tier, so that the yieeie
of any weak spot, far down in those awfu
depths, might precipitate thousands of cubic
feet into one shapeless mass, and bury us for-
ever from human sight.

Still, as there was no more danger apparently
of this occurring now than at any time within
the past twenty years, there was no good rea-
son for my taking the subject into considera-
tion, except that of my being still haunted by
that presentiment of evil, of which I have
spoken.

Our guide led the way to some moving lights,
which we could see sparkling in the profound
darkness, and we soon found ourselves at the
“ of another shaft, where another descent of
a hundred and fifty feet was made in a bucket,
after which followed some rough climbing
over rocks and fissures, with here and there a
descent by ladders, which proved both perilous
and tiresome, till, at last, we stood upon a
ledge, from which, a hundred feet still below
us, we beheld a hundred moving lights, and
heard the peculiar sound of the miners at their
Ceery. toil of digging out and breaking the
black lumps of coal that were intended to find
their way to the bright world above.

“There they are,” exclaimed our fair com-
ee vivaciously, “looking with their red,

obbing lights and shadowy forms, like so
many fiends of pandemonium! Would you like
to go down among them, Mr. Maples?”

“If you are satisfied where you are, Miss
Stuart, I will venture to say I have seen
enough,” was my reply, with a kind of shud-

er.

“Oh, for that matter, I am willing to let you
have your own way now,” she rejoined, with a
light, careless laugh. “You have braved the
danger so far like a gallant soldier, and now
are entitled to your discharge.”

“T see that in your thoughtless way you are
still disposed to make sport of my natural cau-
tion,” I replied, a little severely; “but I would
very much like you to comprehend that reason-
able caution is not cowardice, nor in any de-
gree allied to it’ iua, to prove it in my own
person, I now throw down the gage to dare
anything that either you or any ambitious
friend of yours may have the courage to try.”

Even in the dim light I could see that my
sharp words had sent a deep color into her
pretty face; and, after a momentary hesitation,
she faltered out:

“T crave your pardon, Mr, Maples, if my
light, flippant remarks have wounded your
eee ae

“All is’ already forgotten,” I cordially re-
plied, extending my hand, which was accepted
in token of amity.

An exclamation from one.of our two compan-
ions at this moment drew our attention to
him. He was looking down at the miners
through a field-glass, and his words were:

“Ha! what culpable imprudence! Oneof the
miners has struck a match to light his pipe!”

“Which one?” demanded his companion, in a

uick, excited tone. “Show me the man, and
will have him discharged forthwith.”

Just as he spoke, and while he was in the
act of reaching out his hand for the glass, a
blinding sheet of flame was seen to envelop all
below; arush of foul, heated airthrew us down
upon the rocks; and a crashing explosion, like
a.thousand thunders, completely stunned us,
and shook down the rocks around us like a ter-
rible earthquake.

When I came to my senses, all. in the black-
ness of that rayless abyss, I heard a low, wail-
ing moan of terror and despair, accompanied
with the words:

“Oh, my God! my God! what has happened,
and where am I?”

It was the plaintive voice of Sibyl Stuart,
= I was grateful to God that she was still
alive.

I knew where we were, and what awful aie
had happened, for my recollection came wit.
my consciousness,

eaching out my hand I touched her, and, in
a soothing tone, said:

“There has been a terrible explosion, Miss
Sibyl, and I fear that many lives have been
lost; but, thank God, we still survive, and I
hope you have coon gage § es

“Oh, merciful Heaven, comprehend all
now!” she moaned. “Forgive me, dear friend!
forgive me!”

“Hor what?”

“Making light of your forebodings and bring-
ing you here to your doom.”

“All is forgiven and forgotten, dear girl; I
shall think of nothing now but how to get you
out of this horror alive. The foul air here is
almost suffocating. Where are our com-
panions?”

She hurriedly called them by name, but re-
ceived no reply.

I thought they might still be unconscious on
the ground, and began to feel out for them.

They were only a few feet from us when the
explosion occurred; but as I reached out for
them now in the darkness my hands came in
contact with a huge rock, on the very spot
where they had been standing.

In a moment I comprehended the horrid
truth; they had both been crushed to death
under it.

“TJ hurriedly made known to my fair com-
panion the startling fact, and added:

“It may be that we two, of all within the
mine, are the only ones that Providence has
spared.”

“Oh, Heaven !” she groaned ; “spared, perhaps
for amore terrible death! For how can we
ever find our way up through this awful dark-
ness to the world above?”

“We will try at all events, and while there
is life there is hope ” | rejoined, in a cheerful
tone, though with no cheerful feelings, for I
thought the chances were all against our ever
seeing the light of heaven again.

baer: ghd hand of my fair companion, that
we might not become separated in the awful
darkness, I began to carefully grope in the di-
rection which I-supposed would retrace our
steps.

The air was very foul with poisonous gases,
and at times it seemed as if it would paralyze
our lungs to inhale it.

We soon came toa broad chasm; and had I
not been carefully feeling my way inch by inch,
so to speak, I should have plunged headlong
into a death-pit and dragged Miss Stuart down
with me.

I could not tell the width of this fissure in
the darkness, but evidently we could not cross

} spoken. But it gas too late for me to think of’ it, for when I lay down on the edge and

stretched forth my
other side.

“Alas! we are doomed to payin here, and it
is all my wicked doing!” said the self-accusing
girl, when I announced to her the reason that
we could advance no farther in that direction.

“Nay, dear Miss Sibyl; I will not hear you
blame yourself for our being here,” I replied.
“You simply did not see the danger in the
same light that I did—or perhaps I should
oer say that you did not see the danger at
a ”

ands, I could not touch the

“Only as we see danger in a flash of light-
ning,” she responded; “we know we may
struck, but we can scarcely be said to fear it.
Oh, Mr. Maples, if there is any way by which

ou can save your life do not give a thought

ome, but make the effort alone, and I will
pray for your success.”

“Ah! now you do indéed wrong me, and
wound my sensitive nature by assuming in all
seriousness that Iam a coward!” said I, re-
proachfully.

“Oh, no! no! I meant not that,” she pro-
tested. “It was only that, if there is but one
life to be saved, I would have it yours instead
of mine.” '

“Oh, dear Miss Sibyl, dare I understand that
you moma save my life at the sacrifice of your
own?”

“Yes,” she faintly sighed, after a momentary
pause.

I quickly drew back from the verge of the
dread abyss, and there, in that rayless dark-
ness and that awful tomb of death, I caught
her in my arms and pressed her to my heart.

“You love me, then, Sibyl—dear, dearest
Sibyl—you love me?” I exclaimed, as I passion-
ate ~ kissed her sweet, tremulous lips.

es; here, in the presence of death, I frank-
ly confess that I love you, dear Henry!” she
faintly murmured.

“Heaven bless you, darling!” I returned; “it
makes me happy to hear these sweet words,
even. thoagh eath be near us both! What is
death, darling, if we are loved by our beloved
and know we shall die with our love? for death
here is only life hereafter. But we will not die
now if any effort of our own can save us, and
so let us work together for life!”

With this, keeping a firm hold of the dear
girl, I began to feel my way in another direc-
tion; and so we wandered about in the dark-
ness hour after hour, seeing nothing, and know-
ing nothing of our course, whether it were right

I said all Icould to cheer my sweet com-
panion, but at length she began to despair,
and I, to tell the truth, lost all hope of ever
leaving our nica alive.

If we could have known that We were going
in the right direction there would have been
some little encouragement to persevere; but
when we considered that the chances were
equal of or getting still farther away from the
point we wished to reach, there seemed no rea-
son for this exertion, and we sat down com-
pletely disheartened.

“Well, darling, it will be as God wills!” I
sighed. “T have no other consolation to offer.”

“And I am to be punished for my boastful

resumption, in the suffering of one whose life
is dearer to me than my own.”

“Oh, Sibyl, darling, you must not accuse

ourself, for that tortures me!” cried I. “Our

eing here is one of those misfortunes which
were to be. We have reached a point where
the air seems less poisonous, and we may pos-
sibly exist here for days; and who knows what
time may do, when there are so many anxious
souls above who will not rest day or night till
they shall have explored the mine in search of
the living and the dead?”

In that rayless darkness we could not make
a note of time, nor tell whether it were day or
night in the world above. We only knew that,
after a long period, we began to feel the pangs
of hunger and thirst; that we gradually grew
weaker; that weslept at times; and that at
last we began to have strange sensations in our
brains, and see dancing lights and phantoms,
and wonder, in a vague sort of way whether we
were tenants of this world or the other.

 

That is the last I remember till I found my-
self in aroom, on a bed, weak as an infant,
and numbers of anxious friends standing
around me. Even then my first thought was
of my dear companion, and my first words were
an inquiry for her.

When assured that she was safe I remember
feeling as if I were in heaven, and at once fell
off into a dreamless sleep.

I Sateegucrels learned that we both had been
found, after a three days’ search, in an uncon-
scious state; and that, of all the parties as far
down in the mine as ourselves, we were the
only ones brought to the surface alive. One
hundred and nine persons had perished in that
awful explosion, and the whole village was in
mourning.

I have only to add that my dear Sibyl and I
both recovered, and in time regaineckour health,
and that she is now my loving wife.

THE MUSK-RAT.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

 

 

 

The musk-rat iz bigger than a squirrell, and
smaller than a woodchuk, and iz az unlike
them aza Rokaway klam and a lobster are
different from each other.

He iz amphibiuss, and kan liv on the land
a good deal longer than he kan liv under the
water.

He feeds upon roots, herbs, and soft klams,
and smells like the wake of 4 fashionable
woman out on parade.

He bilds houses in the winter, about az big
az flour barrels, all over the marshes, and
enters them from the cellar.

Hiz phur is worth just about 25 cents, and
ain’t lively in market at that.

Yu kan ketch them in allmoste enny kind
ov a trap that haz got a way tew git into it.

re are not kunning, and ain’t diffikult tew
suit.

When i waz a boy i trapped every winter for
musk-rats, and bought the fust pare ov skates
i ever owned with their skins.

I hay seen them in winter setting up on end
on the ice, cluss beside their holes, az stiff az
an exklamashun point, and when they see me
they change ends and point down dike a semi-
colon, and that waz the last ov them.

The musk-rat haz a flat tale, with no more
phur on it than a file has.

I don’t dispize musk-rat—oh, no!—but i
don’t worship him.

He haz but phew sins tew answer for; the
chief one iz digging holes in the bank of the
Erie kanal, and letting the water break out.
He will hav tew answer for this sumtime.

I luv all the animals, all the bugs, all the
beasts, all the insex, all the katterpillars, be-
kauze they are so natral. They are az mutch,
if not more, an evidence tew me ov the exist-
ance, the power, and the luv ov an overruling
Providence, aS man iz.

I kan see az mutch fust klass natur in an
angleworm, akordirg tew the square inch, as
i kan see in an elephant.

I luv tew go phooling around amung the
animiles ov all kinds in a warm day; i had
rather set down bi the side ov an ant-hill and
see the whole swarm pitch onto a lazy kuss
who won’t work, and run him out ov the
diggins, than tew set six hours at the opera
and applaud what i don’t understand, and
weep atthe spot whare the rest do, and pay
3 dollars for the privilege ov doing it.

 

HEAR BotH Sirpres.—Never condemn your
neighbor unheard, however many the accusa-
tions which may be preferred against him.

Every story has two ways of being told, and
justice requires that you should hear the de-
fense as well as the accusation; and remember

 

that the malignity of enemies may place you
in a similar predicament, ~

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

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

 

A. N. S., Lexington, Mass.—ist. The coral fishery is
carried on at the mouth of the Adriatic Sea, along the
coast of Sicily, in the strait between Sardinia and Corsica,
and off the coast of Algeria, In some places, it is said, the
fishers dive down and gather the coral by hand, but gen-
erally a drag and netare used. The drag is made of two
pieces of wood put together in the form of a cross, to the
four ends of which is fastened a strong net. The middle
of the net is looped up to the middle of the cross, where
there is. a heavy stone by which the drag is sunk and kept
on the bottom. It is let down from a beat, which is slowly
rowed along over the places where the coral grows, and
the pieces broken off get tangled in the net and are drawn

we into the boat. 2d. Coral jewelry is made chiefly in
aples and Marseilles. The coral used for this purpose
comes err: from the Mediterranean and the Red Seas.
The dark red is brought from the African coast of the
Mediterranean and from the Red Sea, the pink from the
coast of Italy, the yellow from the coast of Sardinia, and
the black from the Red Sea. 3d.‘‘Coral,” as described by a
writer on the subject, “is the bony frame of the coral ani-
mal, which 1s rightly called a rs yp. It is not made, as
was formerly supposed, by the labor of this little animal,
but itisa growth caused by the food which it takes in
just as the skeleton is in Jand animals. Indeed, cora'
may properly be called the skeleton of the coral animals,
Coral animals look like small jelly-like substances, some
of which are no wider than the head of a pin; although
others are muchlarger. They are fixed tight to the bot-
tom of the sea, anc
where they were born. From their food, and from the
sea-water which they swallow, they are always taking in
carbonate of lime, which passes through them and_ goes
to build up the skeleton to which they are fastened, and
which grows until they reach the top of the water, when
they die, for coral animals cannot work out of water. In
this way a column of carbonate of lime is built up from
the bottom of the sea to the surface.”

Alexandra, Troy, N.Y.—The Army of Dahomey, the
kingdom on the west coast of Africa, and second only to
Ashantee in power and importance, was formerly held in
high repute, but its prowess, it is now thought, was much
overrated. The Amazons form the flower of the army.
They are marshaled ip regiments, each with its distinc-
tive uniform and badges. and they take the post of honor

on the flanks of the battle line. In regard to their num-
ber, it has been variously stated. One writer saw the
army marching out of Janaon an expedition in 1862, and
he com puted the whole force of women troops at 2,500, of
whom one-third were unarmed, or only half armed. Their
weapons, he says, were blunderbusses, muskets, and
bows and arrows. Thereisa difference of opinion as to
the latter being poisoned. A more recent writer esti-
mates the number of Amazons at 1,000 to 1,200, and the
male soldiers at 10,000 to 12,000. The Amazons are more
masculine in appearance than the male soldiers. They
are tall and muscular, courageous and cruel. rock are
permitted to take the scalp of aslain enemy and exhibit
it as a trophy on reviews and like public occasions. Their
ordinary costume, we are told, is a sleeveless tunic of
blue and white native cloth, terminating in a long fringe
a little below the waist. From this depends a skirt falling
below the knee, and beneath that a pair of short linen
trousers. In addition to the weapons before mentioned,
some are armed with swords and clubs.

Saucy Siz.—The silvering of looking-glasses is often
done by coating the glass with an amalgam. For this
purpose a large, perfectly flat stone is provided ; upon it is
evenly spread a sheet of tin-foil without a crack or flaw;
this is covered uniformly to the depth of one-eighth of an

inch with clean mercury. The plate of glass, perfectly
cleansed from all grease and impurity, is floated on to the
mercury carefully, so as to exclude all air bubbles. it is
then pressed down by loading it with weights, in order to
press out all the mercury which remains fluid, which is
received in a gutter around the stone.-After about
twenty-four hours it is raised gently upon its edge, and in
a few weeks it is ready tofraine. It is said to be desir-
able to have the lower end of the glass from which the
mercury was drained at the bottomof the frame. To con-
vex and concave looking-glasses the amalgamated foil is
applied by means of accurately fitting plastic molds. The
interior of globes is silvered by introducing a liquid amal-
gam, and turning about the globe until every part is cov-
ered with it.

W.S. L., Williams Centre, Ohio.—In answer to your
query, “When did man first receive his speech ?’ we state
that according to the Mosaic cosmography, man was
endowed with the power of speech, or vocal language, at
the time of his creation. But this theory is rejected by

the most advanced philologists of the present day. ‘The
evolutionist believes that vocal language was a natural
acquirement, developed by the impulse for social com-
munication, and that there was undoubtedly a long period,
probably ages, when our progenitors communicated by
signs, gestures, and grimaces, supplemented by inarticu-
late sounds. In proof of this, there are now existing
specimens, to all appearance human, and not deaf and

 

dumb, who cannot nutter any neperentir coherent lan-
guage. At what particular perioc

quired the power of distinct vocal language still remains
a matter of conjecture.

M.S. B., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The maiden name of the lady
referred to was Agatha Gaynor. As an operatic singer
and prima-donna she was known by her stage name,
“Madame Agatha States.” She died in this city on Sept.
2, 1874. She was borh in Dublin, butcame in childhood
with her parents to the United States, and settled in San
Francisco. There she evinced such remarkable talents
as a vocalist that she was sent to Italy, where she com-
pleted her musical education, and made her debut in
opera. She achieved fair success in Europe, and was
favorably received in this country and in South America
and Australia. She married, when quite young, a Mr.
States, from whom she obtained a divorce, and about two
years before her death she married the baritone Signor
Orlandini. It was while on her way from San Francisco
© guts city that she contracted the pleurisy of which she

ied. @

Student, Nashville, Tenn.—ist. The Ghauts, a term
applied originally to the narrow and difficult passes in
the mountains of Central Hindostan, but which has been
gradually extended to the mountains themselves, consist
of two great chains extending along the east and west
coasts of the Deccan, parallel to each other, or rather
diverging, and leaving between them and the seaonly a
plain of forty or fifty miles in breadth. The precise alti-
tude of these mountains has not been ascertained, but
their general elevation is from 3,000 to 4,000 feet; and while
the extent of the Eastern Ghauts has been limited to a
line of three hundred miles, the chain of Western Ghauts
is said to extend without interruption nearly one thou-
sand miles. 2d. Ghaut is pronounced as if spelled gawt.

An Old Keader, Port Chester, N. Y.—ist. We can fur-
nish an ‘“‘Artists’ Manual” for 50 cents. 2d. We are not

aware that vegetables shoul be avoided for the reason
stated, if fresh and well cooked. It is a matter of
taste. You write quite a plain, legible hand. 4th. Mis
cellaneous reading will help to make you ready in conver-
sation in general society.

J. L. K., Liscomb, lowa.—The language of the Dakotas
has been thought to be more like the Mongolian than any
other American language. Their traditions assert that
they came eastward from the Pacific Ocean. Encounter.
ing the Algonquins near the Mississippi River, they were
there held in check.

Young Reader.—It was John Hecker who in 1857 dis-
tributed large quantities of bread to the poor of this city,
repeating this aet of charity several winters subse-
quently. He was of German ancestry, and was born in
this city in 1812. He died in this city on May 7, 1874.

Mrs. C. R. W., Poughkeepsie.—The poem to which yeu
refer, which we recognize by the first line quoted, is en-
titled “Thy Will Be Done,” and was written by Mrs.
McCord, of South Carolina, danghter of the distinguished
Langdon Cheves. She lost her only son in the civil war.
She died in 1879.

O. P. A., Omaha, Neb.—Castile soap and the fine soaps
made for toilet use are chiefly made with olive oils and
soda. The purest and best soaps are said to be white,
thongh very excellent colored soaps are also made,
especially in this country.

M. C.D.; Allentown, Pa.—Verdigris is a rank poison,
and as it often forms in copper kettles in which anything
sour is cooked, great care should be taken in cleaning
such vessels. All copper vessels should be tinned.

S. A. C., Palmer, Mass.—ist. T. D. Riee died in this city
on Sept. 19, 1860. He sangand jumped “Jim Crow” for the
first time in this city at the Bowery Theater, Nov. 12,
1832. 2d and 3d. Unable to inform you.

John Wesley. You committed a blunder and will have
to abide by it, unless you can persuade some mutual
friend to intercede for you and: help to correct the bad
impression you made upon the lady.

R. V. W.—The Isabella Home referred to is in 191st
street, corner of Tenth avenue. It was founded by Oswald

and gentlemen of German birth.

Amanda, Brooklyn, N. Y.—There is an institution for

blind children from eight Pine of age upward in Ninth
avenue, corner of Thirty-fourth street, this city. Apply
to the superintendent. -

C. Rk. F.. Augusta Me.—Champagne got its name from

the old provinceof Champagne, France, where it was first
made Dry champagne means that it has no taste of
sugar in it,

Mrs. L. G. S.—We can only aid you by suggesting that
you consult alawerin your own vicinity; one familiar
with the laws of your State, and to whom you could apply
in person.

M. W. O.—The New York office of the trustees of
“Sailors’ Snug Harbor, Staten Island, is 74 Wall street.”

Miss..A. M. J., Port Townsend, Washington._We can
send you “The Language of Flowers” for 15 cents.

Thomas L. D., Amherst, Mass.—The green turtle is
named from its green fat. a

Onoma, Irvington, N. J.—Write to the Conservatory of
Music, this city.

 

 

— 83

 

 

never move away from the place.

the race or races ac-*

Ottendorfer, in memory of his wife, and is for old ladies

 

 

 

 

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a

 

 

OL

 

 

 

 

 

 

nee

eno wos THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

sR

 

 

_ trees.

 

  

 

Thou must be true thyself, |
If thou the truth wouldst teach ;

Thy soul must overflow, if thou
Another’s soul wouldst reach!

It needs the overfiow of heart
To give the lips full speech.

BONNER.

Think truly, and thy thoughts
Shall the world’s famine feed;

Speak truly, and each word of thine
Shall be a fruitful seed ;

Live truly, and thy life shall be
A great and noble creed.

—<ors+

SHADDECK LIGHT.

 

By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming,
Author of “‘ Wedded, Yet No Wife,” ‘‘Lost for a Woman,” **A Little Queen,”
‘© A Wonderful Woman,” ‘‘ Norine’s Revenge,” Etc.

 

{“SHADDECK LIGHT’ was commenced in No. 36. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER X.
THE END OF THE FAIRY TALE.

Gloom has fallen upon the Charlton house-
hold. It is so dark at half-past six, the dinner
hour, that they are forced to light the gas.
Miss Charlton has a headache, and does not
appear. Captain Ffrench comes in late, and
manfully does his best to seem as usual, but
the effort is not the success it deserves to be.
Vera’s eyes in their wistful brown beauty rest
on him, full of mingled admiration and com-
passion. She thinks of the Spartan boy and
his cloak, and the wolf gnawing at his vitals—
or was it a fox? The race of Spartans, is not
extinct, for here is Captain Dick essaying
cheerful commonplaces, and sipping verve
cliquet as though he liked both, bearing him-
self as bravely as though his heart had not
just been broken. Dora shines with abnormal
brilliancy, her blue eyes flash, her delicate
cheeks flush, her shrill laugh rings out; she
rallies Captain Dick until he burns to shy his
dinner-plate at her. She is a social meteor,
quite dazzling, in fact, and Mr, Charlton,
looking and listening admiringly, wonders
what the house will be like when she is gone.

After dinner Vera goes to the piano. She is
fond of music, and the evening is the only

time cool enough for so much exertion. Me-
chanically Dick follows her, and leans with
folded arms upon the instrument, staring in a
blank sort of way at a paws on the wall
above it. It is Cenci; and the dusk prophetic
face, with its aan wistful eyes, reminds
him somehow of Vera herself. He is glad to

et away from Dora; her covert innuendoes
cs been stabbing him like knives.

“What alittle devil’s doll she is!” he thinks,
with very unusual savagery. “How does she
come to know anything about it so soon?”

Vera’s music soothes him. A dreary sense
of loss and pain oppresses him. If he were
only free to go with the expedition—if the gov-
ernor had not wrung that half promise from

 

him. For the present he must go away some-
where, it would be horribly uncomfortable for
Eleanor to have him in the house. How nobly
she spoke, how lovely she looked, with great

_ tears in her eyes, and divine pity in her face.

{ he never deserved such a prize, great
rough fellow that he is, and yet if she could
have cared for him——

“The moon’s on the lake, and the mist’s on the brae,
And the clan has a name that is nameless by day,”

Vera’s sweet, strong voice rings out spiritedly
the stirring Scotch ballad. ;

It is oppressively close. Sheet lightning is
blazing in continual. zig-zags all along the
horizon—paling the yellow gleam of the lamps,
Now and then, a great drop plashes audibly
outside; from the sea comes at intervals a low,
weird moaning, as of a sentient thing in pain.
The trees writhe and toss wildly in the dark-
ness—all nature feels the coming convulsion,
and shrinks.

“The storm is very near,” says Mr. Charlton,
lifting his white head. “We will have it to-

night.’

They do not talk much this evening, the op-
ression of the atmospheric change is upon
hem all. But Dora keeps brilliant and spark-

ling to the last; plays a game of chess with
her host, and going to the piano afterward,
sings at his request, the old time love ditty of
Barbara Allan. Captain Ffrench does not
leave his post, and the malice in the sparkling
eyes of the singer, gleams laughingly out as
ahs looks up at him.

“Then slowly, slowly, came she up,
And slowly came she nigh him,
And all she said, when there she came,
‘Young wan, I think you’re dying!”

“Tt is curious,” she says, and laughs, “but
Nelly always puts me in mind of cruel Barbara
Allan. I can fancy her walking up to the
death-bed of some love-lorn swain, and calm]
saying, ‘Young man, I think you’re dying!’

erther’s Charlotte must have been of that
type, pale, passionless—don’t you think so?

ou remember Thackeray’s funny version of
the tragedy—‘ Charlotte, when she saw his body
borne past her on a shutter, like a_well-con-
ducted person, went on cutting bread and but-
ter.’ Nelly would goon cutting bread and
butter, too. What do you think about it,
Captain Ffrench?”
he is laughing immoderately at the young
man’s disgusted face, and without waiting
for a reply returns to the chess table, and chal-
lenges Mar. Charlton to another game. With
the streaming light of .the chandelier full
upon her, her gleaming prettiness looks un-
canny. Mrs. Charlton watches her sourly for
a while, then, complaining of the heat, gets
up and goes.

“Tell poor, dear Nelly how much we have
missed her,” calls Dora, with her mocking
smile; “I do so hope her headache is better.
To-morrow, you know, Captain Ffrench and
Mr. Fred Howell are to take us over to the
Pine Barren. It would be such a pity if she
could not go.”

A malevolent glance is the elder lady’s an-
swer. Notaspark of Dora’s demoniacal malice
is lost upon her. All evening she has been
uncomfortable. Eleanor’s absence and head-
ache—she is not subject to headache; Dick |
Ffrench’s moody silence—these are alarming
tokens. Can it be—in the sultriness of the

 

airless night her blood chills at the thought— |

can it be that Eleanor has carried out her reck-
less threat, and refused him? Refused Charl-
ton! refused the finest fortune in the State.

Her hands clench, her hard eyes flash. If she li

has——
* * * * * *

The gloom deepens with the morning both

within and without. All night long the rain
has poured in torrents, is pouring still, when |
Vera comes down stairs. It hardly waits to |
pour, it drives in white blinding sheets of |
water over land and sea, it drifts furiously
against the glass, it beats down flowers and
high wind is blowin outside.
Where she stands, Vera can hear the thunder
of the surf on the shore; it is no child’s play
down among the white capsethis August
morning. How those white sea-horses must
toss their foamy manes, and churn, and break,
and roar about Shaddeck Light. She hopes
Daddy is not nervous alone there on that
lonely rock in this shrill: whistling storm.
How good of Captain Dick to have rescued
that poor half witted lad, the butt of the
town, half starved, wholly beaten, and given
him a home in the little island house.

She wonders how Captain Dick feels this
morning, if he slept last night. People crossed
in love do not as a rule sleep over well, Vera
has understood. Who would have thought
Eleanor could be so cold hearted, so cruel, so

 

 

 

 

 

 

blind to so much perfection. But perhaps she
likes some one eise; it seems impossible
though that any woman could be faithful to
any man, after seeing this king among men.
Surely infidelity in such a case wouid bea
positive virtue. There must be some reason.
Nosane human being could do so extraordi-
nary a thing without a powerful motive.

Perhaps Eleanor has a clandestine husband
already down there in Louisiana—she has
read of such things in novels. Vera’s ideas
are thrown, so to speak, on their hind legs;
she is trying with all her might to account for
Eleanor’s folly. She finds upon consideration
that she cannot hate her, that she is disposed
this morning to look upon her more in sorrow
than in anger, but the reason that is strong
enough to make her say no to Captain Dick is
beyond all surmise of hers.

As she thus muses Eleanor comes down.
Her face is startlingly pale, her eyes have a
wild, hunted, frightenea look, all the sweet
and gracious calm that makes her greatest
charm is gone. She looks as though she had
not slept, her lips tremble as she says good-
morning.

“You are sick!” Vera exclaims. “You look
as if you had been sick a week. Were you
awake all night? Was it the storm?”

She makes a gesture of assent, and coming
close to the window, lays her forehead against
the glass with a sort of low moan. era’s
ve fill with a great compassion, Can it be
that she loves Captain Dick after all, that
some reason obliges her to refuse him, and
that she is suffering all this anguish on his
account? She softens, the last remnant of her
indignation fades away. Miss Charlton is not
wholly hardened then, after all.

“Does your head ache still?” she softly asks,
coming close. “Poor, dear Nelly! I am so
sorry.”

Eleanor passes her arm around the girl’s
slender waist, but does not otherwise reply.
In her cate there is such hopeless Goble,

such dark terror, that it frightens Vera.

How is the child to know of the horrible
scene enacted in Eleanor’s room last night—

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THE MALICE IN THE EYES OF THE SINGER GLEAMS
LAUGHINGLY OUT AS SHE LOOKS UP AT HIM,

of the bitter storm of reproaches, of vulgar
vituperation, of fierce threats, under which
she shrank and cowered? She turns sick at
heart now assherecallsit. Inall her mother’s
furious rages she has never seen the fury of
last night equaled. She has not slept at all;
her head aches, her body aches, her heart
aches, she seems one sickening ache from head
to foot. And it is to goon forever, day after
day, month after month, the same miserable,
ceaseless scold, scold, scold, to the bitter end.

Mrs. Charlton does not appear at breakfast.
The truth is, she has raged herself i, and
into a fitof blackest sulks. EHleanor is for-
bidden to enter her room, whether she lives
or, dies is told not to speak to her again, un-
til she comes to her senses. One of the maids
fetches her up tea and buttered toast; her
daughter knows her too well to dare to dis-

bey.

Gavia Ffrench is absent also. Late last
night, it seems, after the family had retired,
he went to St. Ann’s, and now, of course, is
storm-bound. Dora ae down, the sparkle
of last night scarcely dimmed. Not all the
sweeping tempest of wind and rain is able to
blur one jot of her gay brightness. Mr. Charlton
comes, but less debonaire than usual]. In point
of fact, his old enemy, rheumatic gout, has
been shooting warning tinges for the past two
or three days, and this morning he is barely
able to hobble to breakfast. He knows what
is in store for him, doubly trying now, with
a houseful of fair guests, but it is one of the
things no fine old gentleman of his years and
habits can hope to eseape, and he puts the
best possible face on his affliction.

Dora is full of sweetest commiseration,
Eleanor has a far-away frightened look still
in her eyes, and eats nothing at all.. Vera
feels that in common sympathy she, too,
should eat nothing, with the whole family so
to say in extremis ; but her appetite remains
a painful and powerful fact, and will not be
said nay. She is ashamed of herself, and
consumes muffins and fresh eggs in a sneaky,
apologetic fashion, and is relieved when the
ordeal is over.

And now the long day begins. Rain, rain,
ain—oh! how it pours—it looks as if it might
come down for a week. Mr. Charlton is forced
to return to his study, leaning on Dora’s arm,
which she insists on his taking. They look so
absurd—the tal] elderly invalid, and the mite
of a woman, hobbling away together, that
Vera’s gravity is nearly upset. Certainly she
is an unfeeling little wretch to be able to
laugh with everybody else so miserable, so
she sternly represses a small grin, and heaves
a sigh instead.

What shall she do with herself all this long
wet day! Dora does not return, Eleanor goes
up stairs: she is all alone in the big silent
house. What a dismal change two days have
made. Perhaps Captain Dick will come back
no more. It is not the rain that detains him
in St. Ann’s—ah! no, he is neither sugar nor
salt, to care for a drenching. He has been
crossed in love, and is dying hard over there
at the St. Ann’s Hotel. Perhaps he will
start for Central America, and never even
come back to say good-by.

Vera is absurd, but she is none the less un-
happy; she has unutterable sympathy for Cap-

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

| tain Dick, she has a mild regret for Eleanor. |

She gazes forlornly atethe rain, life’s troubles
are so much easier to bear; when the weather
is propitious. And then there is sickness in
the house, and it will seem unfeeling to sit
down and practice. If one could only sleep
all day! Butone cannot, so with another vast
sigh, Vera gets up, goes for a book, and pre-
pares to devote the long hours to literature.
Evening tomes, and brings little change. It
still rains, the sky looks sullen, the black
surcharged clouds good for two days more of
it. Mrs. Charlton descends to dinner, but
Lot’s wife, changed to a basaltic column, was
never more frigid, more awful. Their host is
unable to appear—he has been suffering mar-
oon all day; even Dora, ministering angel
that she is, can do little to assuage his an-
Eyiny- The absent heir cometh not, but just
efore dinner Daddy comes with a note. It is
for Mr. Charlton, and is of the briefest——

“My DEAR GOVERNOR:—Englehart came to-day,
and is atthe St. Ann’s. He means to stay a week or

two, to recruit, having been laid up lately. Knowing
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“GO WITH YOUR FRIEND, AND AS MY SON I RE-
NOUNCE YOU 34

your prejudice, I will not, of course, bring him to
Charlton, but shall remain with him here instead.
Make my apologies to the ladies.

“Ever yours, R. C, F.”

Mr. Charlton’s face darkens heavily as he
reads this. Naturally he is choleric, he hates
to be thwarted, by temper he is imperious,
oy as yet his step-son has seen little of
this. man may be good-humored and hot-
tempered easily enough atthe same time. He
has never very strongly moors himself to
Richard Ffrench as yet, he has been compar-
atively a poor man until of late, and never felt
justified in coming between the lad and his
whims. But now:it is different. If Dick pre-
fers this wandering Dr. Englehart to him,
why, then, Dick must take the consequences.
Dora has hinted something to him to-day,
which he finds it difficult to believe—that
Eleanor Charlton has refused him. Is the girl
mad? He hardly knows how, but Dora’s talk
has irritated him to a most unusual degree
against Richard. His illness, too, has made
him nervous and excitable. The line must be
drawn somewhere; he is prepared to take his
stand here. Dick must pay some deference to
his wishes; all he has he is willing, nay,
anxious to give to the ae It is a noble inher-
itance. He loves him as he loves nothing else
on earth, he wants him with him, and he must
have him. He is growing old; it is only fair
his son should stay with him, that there
should be some return for so much lavish gen-
renee — pee as a ee mono-

ogue, partly engendere i’ ‘ritatin, ain,
partly by Gite words of , That MG a
charming little girl, he thinks—on the whole
he begins to prefer her to Eleanor. He does
not fancy young people under a cloud—then
Eleanor has a mother, and as a permanence
Mrs. Charlton is not to be desired.

Outside the rain pours steadily and mo-
notonously—inside there are silent rooms, and
some gloomy faces. Dora’s spirits never flag
through the whole of it. She appoints herself
sick-nurse, she writes letters, she reads aloud,
her touch is soft and soothing, she never
wearies, she manufactures her own sunshine,
and brings it with her into the dim chamber
of torture. If any earthly thing or creature
could alleviate the agony of rheumatic gout—
which they cannot—it would be Dora, and her
doings.

Night falls wet and starless—another morn-
ing dawns. Still the rain comes down persis-
tently, doggedly, still the sky is lowering,
still the surf roars and breaks over sand and
shingle. Another long day for Vera to yawn
through, and stare blankly out of blurred win-
dow-panes, to wander aimlessly about the
house. She visits Eleanor in her chamber,
but her visit is a dreary one. Dot is taken up
with the sick seignior, Mrs. Charlton is like
a gorgon these days, and the girl flies at her
approach. Vera has heard of the evil eye, and
ponders whether Eleanor’s awful mother has
not got it—a pair of them, indeed. And where
is Captain Dick? Oh! where. in all this world

Cue

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“MY DEAR LITTLE VERA! WHY, MY PET, ARE YOU
SO SORRY AS THIS!”

of rain, and wind, and mist, and misery, and
love-sickness, and gout, is Captain Dick!

Another night, another day, and then her
hero comes,

He comes after breakfast, none the worse
for wear. His heart may be_ broken, but he
has neither lost vigor nor good looks. On the
contrary, he is brighter than when he left,
and he greets Vera with the old pleasant, half
mischievous smile,

Vera is glad, but a trifle disappointed all
the same; it is better for him to vake it this
way, but it is not the way the gentleman in
Locksley Hall took it, or that other poetical
party in Lady Vere de Vere. They scowled
and gloomed, and abused their young women
(in hexameters) for years after. If Dick is a
hero it is his duty to behave as such,

Captain Ffrench has come to see his step-
father, and is ushered by Dora into that dusk
temple of pain, of which she has elected her-
self priestess. Mr. Charlton lifts a face all
drawn and haggard with two days of torment.

“My dear governor,” the young man says,

 

 

leaning over the back of his sofa, “this is too

 

bad. You soseldom have an attack of this |

kind in summer weather. How did you rest last
night? I trust the pain was not altogther un-
bearable.”

“Rheumatic gout is always unbearable,” an-
swers Mr. Charlton, angrily. “You need not
ask how I rested, I never rested atall. I have
not slept for three nights. Why don’t you
come home? what are you doing over there at
St. Ann’s? Is it not enough that I must be
laid up by the legs, but you must desert our
guests, too?”

“T explained all that, you know, governor, in
my note. Englehart is there——”

“Englehart be hanged! What have you to
do with that wandering Ishmaelite? Send
nie to the dogs, and return home to your

uty.

“That hardly sounds like you, sir—I don’t
think +o quite mean it. He is partly on the
invalid list, too, and only able to hobble with
a stick. Asto his being a wandering Ishmael-
ite, that is true enough, but unfortunately I
am of the Ishmaelite tribe as well.”

“Have been, you mean. We have changed
all that, if you remember.”

“Governor,” says Dick, in his most concili-
ating voice, “that is what I have come espe-
cially to speak to you about. I gave no prom-
ise, that evening, you know, I only said I
would try. I have tried—and it cannot be

one.
Mr. Charlton half rises, and singoes angrily
at the young man. Pain and sleeplessness
hav: almost changed his nature; he is mor-
bidly irritable, and Dora’s hints are rankling
poisonously in his mind.

“What do you mean?” he demands.

“Don’t be angry, governor. I am going with
the expedition.”

Mr. Charlton is staring at him—a glassy
stare of amaze and anger. He cannot for a
moment take this in. e has made so sure of
Richard—that half promise extorted, seems to
have made his stay acertainty. And now to
come and tell him deliberately that he is go-
ing——

“Don’t be angry,” Dick deprecatingly re-
peats. “I hate to offend you—on my honor I
do, sir. You are so uncommonly good to me—
always have been—I cannot forget it, I never
will forget it. But all the same, I want you
to let me go. Say yes, this once, sir,” he leans
over him coaxingly, “and it shall be the last
time. I promise you that.”

“You will do precisely as you please,” Mr,
Charlton answers, suppressed passion in every
tone. “I withdraw all claim upon you from
this hour. You are eight-and-twenty—you are
your own master. Only do not let us have any
talk of goodness or gratitude; protestations
don’t count for much when every action of
your life gives them the lie.”

Dick shuts up, his face flushes dark red. He
walks away, and begins pacing up and down.

“This is rather hard,” he says, after a mo-
ment, “what am I todo? I wrote to Engle-
hart resigning my commission, and he and the
rest of the scientific corps refuse to accept.
That is why he is here. He holds me to my
pledge. What am Ito do? I ask you, gov-
eee in honor I stand bound. I have prom-
ised.”

There is no reply. Mr. Charlton is so in-
tensely angry that he is afraid to allow him-
self to speak.

“T cannot go from my word,” Dick goes on,

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“HOW DO YOU KNOW I AM CRYING FOR—FOR HIM 4
VMNOT! GO, AND LEAVE ME ALONE.”

“they cannot fill my pace at a moment’s
notice, and the expedition cannot afford the
inevitable delay. Come, sir!” he stops before
him, and looks down, distressed, pleading in
his frank, honest eyes, “be reasonable. Tha.
sent to my going—it will be but for a year or
two at most, and then I bind myself to devote
the whole remainder of my life to you.”

“You ave exceedingly kind; I am sixty-four
years of age, and can count so confidently on
many future years of life. No, sir, I refuse
my consent. ou must choose between Dr.
Englehart and me, between Honduras and
Charlton, and you must abide by your choice.
Both you cannot have. Choose which you
please, but remember your choice is for life.”

The calm roca eyes look steadily down into
the fiery old ones.

“Does that mean, sir, that when I say good-
by it is for good and all? That I am to return
here no more?”

“Exactly!” Mr. Charlton answers, and the
fiery glance never flinches.

Dick draws a hard breath, turns, and re-
sumes his walk. He is sincerely attached to
his step-father, and feels this blow exceed-

ingly.
arf you go with Dr. Englehart,” Mr. Charl-
ton says, his voice harsh with pain, “it will

be because you prefer him to me; prefer your
own roving fancy to my happiness or wishes.
I make no claim upon you, you are free to go
if you see fit. I have never thwarted you be-
fore—I am resolute now. If you go, in every
way in which I can forget you, I will forget
you—in every way in which I can blot your
memory out, it shall be blotted out. You.un-
derstand me, sir—in every way.”

“You talk plainly, go ernor—I would bea
blockhead, indeed, if I did not understand.”

“As to your promise to the scientific corps,
that is rubbish. There are men who can fill
your place, not only sons, whose duty calls
them at home. It is not your promise, but

our inclination, that is taking you, and you
Laan The

Silence. Dick walks up and down, his hands
in his pockets, with downcast and disturbed
face. The elder man watches him keenly.

“And there is Miss Charlton,” he resumes,
“it strikes me your honor—this extremely nice
and touchy honor of yours, Dick—is at fault
there. You have paid Ser very marked atten-
tion, you have led her and her_ mother to be-
lieve you meant to marry her. Is it in accord
with your high code to pay such attention,
and then desert the lady at the last moment?
Or have you spoken and_been rejected?”

Here is a quandary! What is he to say? If
the truth, he compromises Eleanor irretriev-
ably as far as his father’s testamentary inten-
tions are concerned, and she is so poor, so
poor. He takes his hands out of his pockets,
and rumples up his hair in a perfect fever of
embarrassment and distress.

“Tt seems a difficult question to answer,”
says Mr. Charlton, sarcastically. “Well, don’t
perjure yourself, my lad. I know all about it.
You asked and she refused—the jade!”

“Who told you that?”

“Never mind who. She is a fool, and must

ay for her folly. Butif you are leaving on
fay account——”

“Governor,” says Dick, anxiously, “do not—

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

do not, I beg, let this influence you against
Miss Charlton. From first to last she never
gare me the slightest encouragement. Do not

old her accountable for hér mother’s rash
promises, for her mercenary hopes. Miss
Charlton is the truest, noblest woman I have
ever met, and—and you know her life—one
‘demnition grind,’ the year round. Do not
punish her for what she could not help. Be
generous, sir, to this young lady.”

“Miss Charlton has made her choice,” Mr.
Charlton answers, coldly; “she, too, shall
abide by it. Wewill not talk of this poor
young lady, if you please—we will settle your
affair. hen does Dr. Englehart propose leay-
ing St. Ann’s?”

“In a few days—next week at the furthest.”

“And you go with him?”

“I must. The expedition starts the twenty-
fourth.”

“You go with the expedition?”

“It is inevitable. Be merciful, sir! I would
rather cut off my right hand than deliberately
offend you, but I stand pledged. My word has
been given. I cannot retract.”

“Very well. How much money do you
want?”

“Sir!” Dick reddens through his brown skin.

“How much money do you want? I presume
the scientific corps will not supply all your
wants. Hand me my check-book, if you please
—I will give you a blank check which you can
fill 4 at your leisure. And with it you will
kindly consider our connection at anend, Any
intentions I may have announced regarding
the disposal’of my property so far as you are
concerned are from this moment withdrawn.”

The flush fades from Dick’s face, his lips
set, his eyes flash, he stopsin his walk, and
regards the older man steadily.

“That taunt was not necessary, sir. What-
ever opinion you may have held of me in the
past I do not think you ever believed the con-
sideration of your fortune influenced any action
of mine. And jit never will, Bestow it upoa
whom you please—no one in the world has less
right to it than I, Ihave but one parting
favor to ask—that you will permit meto re-
turn once more to Charlton, and say a friendly
farewell to you.”

He takes his hat. He is very pale, and his
rr have a pleading look. He holds out his

and.

“Come, governor,” he says, “we cannot part
like this. I am afraid I look like an ungrate-
ful dog, but—but I know how Ifeel. A fel-
low can’t put that sort of thing into words,
but by Jove! I am sorry——”

He breaks off, and draws nearer. But Mr.
Charlton, quite ghastly, between bodily pain
and mental emotion, waves him away.

“Such a parting would be a farce. Come
home to stay, and you know what sort of wel-
come awaits you. Go with your friend, and
as my son I renounce you. There can be no
half way course.”

“Then good-by, since it must be so,”

He turns, opens the door, lingers yet one
moment, in hope of some sign of relenting,
but the invalid lies with closed eyes, spent
and exhausted. And so Dick leaves him.

Is it fancy, or does he hear therustle of skirts
away from the door? He is too perturbed to
tell, but a second after, Dora’s smiling little
face looks out at him through another half
open door.

“Going again, Captain Ffrench? Will you
not stay to luncheon? No? How unkind of
you! How long is your tiresome friend going
to keep you over in St. Ann’s? Send him
back to New York, and come home. We all
miss you so much.”

Dick smiles at the plaintive tone, and runs
down stairs. He distrusts this little woman
—he knows she does not mean a word she is
saying—he knows she dislikes him.

“Where is Miss Vera?” he asks.

“Waiting for you somewhere, The child has
been Lats gy, avaaree to death in your absence.
In common humanity to her, you really Cbght
to return. Do come back, Captain Ffrench !”

She waves her little white hand gayly, and
trips away to the sick-room. The smile fades
from Dick’s face, he sighs impatiently as he
strides down the hall, and takes a last look
at everything.

“It’s uncommonly hard, by George!” he
thinks, moodily. “I hate like the duse to row
with the governor, but ‘what am Ito do?
Englehart claims me, and he claims. me, and
whose claim is best? It’s a muddle. Ah, my
little Vera! I was just going in search of you.
Let me look at you. Why, you are actually
looking pale. hat is the matter?”

“Nothing,” the girl says, all her great glad-
ness in her shining eyes, “since you have
come! How long you have been away, Cap-
tain Dick.”

He smiles down into the artless child’s eyes,
pleased and soothed.

“Has it seemed long! It was the weather,
and not my absence, I’ll wager a ducat. You
would never have missed me if the sun had
shone.”

“Ah! you know better than that,” Vera an-
swers, heaving a sigh of vast content. How
good, how pleasant, how comfortable it seems
to have Captain Dick at home—to hear his
deep tones, to see his lofty stature in this
household of women. It gives the last touch
to the perfection of her paradise. “If the sun,
and moon, and stars, all shone together, I
would miss you just the same.”

“By Jove!” he says, and laughs, “how flat-
tering. I thought my vanity had received its
death-blow the other day, but——”

“T know what you mean,” Vera interrupts,
hastily. “Oh, Captain Dick,” clasping her
hands, “what will you think of me! I was
there, I overheard all! At least I heard you
—and Miss Charlton said—oh! don’t be vexed,
please!” imploringly. “I was asleep on the
sofa, and the room was so dark, and you both
came in while I was lying there, and didn’t
see me, and when I awoke you were talking,

an
A light breaks upon Dick. His face grows

ave.

“And you told the gov—Mr. Charlton, Vera?”

“Oh, no, no! I told Dot—no, I didn’t tell
her—she found me sitting in the hall, and
seemed to know all about it. I have wanted
to tell you ever since. I never said a word to
any one; I would not do anything so mean.”

“Not even to Miss Charlton?”

“No. I think Eleanor is horrid—I can’t bear
her ever since. At least, I don’t quite mean
ee you know, I think she is just lovely,
on y——”

Captain Ffrench smiles again, The out-
spoken honesty and simplicity of this little girl
have amused him from the first; her uncon-
cealed fondness and admiration for himself,
flatter him as a matter of course. Captain Dick
is eminently mortal, and in no interesting
little weakness, above his sex.

“My dear little Vera! you are the stanchest
of friends, and the dearest little woman, with-
out ners in the world. I wonder now if
you would write to me when I am down there
among the silver mines—I am sure you write
charming letters—and tell me all about your-
self and—yes—about Dot!”

Vera’s eyes dilate—she stands still and looks
up at him in blank, sudden terror.

“Down among the silver mines! What sil-
ver mines? You are not going away, Captain
Ffrench !”

“Ah! but Iam, and-you will be a tall, fas-
cinating young lady long before I come back,
But you are not to forget me, mind. I shall
spor ae those letters—— Why, Vera, my

ear!”

She has turned away from him, and covered
her face with her hands. The blow is so sud-
den, so sharp.

“Vera,” he says, “my dear little Vera!” But
she does not look up. “Why, my pet, are you
so sorry as this! I did not think—Vera!” He
tries to take her hands away, but she strug-
gles, and resists. : t

“Oh! don’t.” she says, in a stifled voice, “let
me be. It—it isn’t that!” atrugeling bravely,
“TI think Iam nervous. It is the weather——”

“Of course it is the weather,” he returns,
promptly; “being shut up in the house so
much is enough to give any one the horrors,
And it isa little—just a little—that you are
sorry, too?”

“Oh! I am sorry! Iam sorry! I am sorry!”

 

28

 

 

 
 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

she says, and breaks down. The last barrier
gives way, and she sobs with all her heart.

There is only_one sort of consolation for
trouble of this kind, that Captain Dick knows
of, and that is to take her in his arms, and |
give her a kiss. Words are failures. He is
pleased, he is touched, he is embarrassed, he
feels inclined to laugh. She is such a child,
such a simpleton—not that he thinks her
such—not at all. Such a tall child, too, to
his shoulder, now that they stand in this deli-
cate proximity.

“Don’t, Vera,” he says, “please don’t. If
anybody came. There! let me wipe them
away,” he takes out his handkerchief, and
performs this needful office, “Don’t ery any
more. And you'll promise to write tome when
I am gone?

“Oh! yes, yes.”

“ And you won’t forget me?”

“Oh! no, no,” a fresh flood.

“And you will let Daddy take you out in the
Nixie? It will do both you and the Nixie
good.”

“No!” Veracries, “no! I will never set foot in
the Nixie again! Oh! what must you think
of me for crying like this. But it is so horrid
to have p—p—people you like go away to hate-
ful places, and n—n—never come back !”

“But Iam coming back, my dear, in two
years.”

Two years! why not two centuries—in the
eyes of sixteen are they not the same? Vera
battles heroically, it does not become her to
ery, though to do her justice, the, real concern
she sees in Captain Dick’s face is the more
powerful motive. And yet that questionable
smile of his lingers in his eyes.

“Well, now, Vera, it is all right again, isn’t
it? I am going. No, it is not good-by ‘for
good’ this time—I shall be back. Get up early
to-morrow—the rain is over for the present,
and I and the Nixie will be waiting in the old
place. Weshall have half a dozen matutinal
sails yet before we say adieu.”

Then he goes, and Vera is alone with her
desolation. What will Charlton be without
Captain Dick? Allits green beauty will be
but a fleeting show, for her. illusion given.
The Nixie, the island, the piano, the basket-
earriage—all are filled with poignant mem-
ories. Why—why must he go? Why did this
hateful man at the hotel ever come down?
Why does not the earth open and swallow
Wonduras and all the silver mines ‘in the
world?

She goes slowly back to the house. The
trail of the serpent is over everything; all—
all recalls the lost one. In the hall she meets
Eleanor, who starts to see the pale, tear-blot-
ted cheeks, and reddened eyes of the bright
little house fairy.

“Why, Vera,” she says, and puts her arm
about her, “my dear child, what is the mat-
ter?”

But Vera strikes down the caressing hand
in a very fury of sudden passion,

“Do not touch me!” she cries, her black eyes
blazing, “I hate you. He is going, and only
for you he wouldn’t have gone. I never want
to speak to you again as long as I live.”

She dashes away and up to her room, flings
herself on her bed, and cries passionately.

Her great hero is going—after that the del-
tage. She will never see him again. Years
from now he may return, but where will she
be. He will have forgotten her, and she likes
him—oh! she likes him! she likes him——

“T wouldn’t cry, if J were you,” says the
placid voice of Dora. She has entered un-
heard, drawn by the sound of vehement sob-
bing; “there is not a man on earth worth
blearing one’s eyes for, and not one of them
all was ever won yet by crying. He will come
back, my dear, and then, if you really are so
fond of ——”

Vera starts up, goaded beyond endurance.

“What do you want here? Get out of my

room, Dot! How doyou know I am crying
for—for him? I’m not! Go, and leave me
alone.”

And Dora, laughing to herself, goes. Vera
is alone. And this is the end of her fairy tale.
It keeps saying itself over and over in her
mind—* And the prince went away to seek his
fortune, and never, never, never came back,”

Between Two Hearts

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of “Fair, But Faithless,” ‘‘Marjorie
Deane,” “Violet Lisle,” *‘For Another's
Sin,” “‘Put Asunder,” Thrown on
the World,” Etc.

 

{‘ BETWEEN TWO HEARTS” was commenced in No. 31.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.j

 

CHAPTER XX.—(CONTINUED.)

The Duke of Warminster spoke from his
heart. At that moment Madge Raeburn was
to him the ideal woman, and he rejoiced that
his plan had failed, since it had shown him
such a feat of skil] and courage.

Madge turned her head and smiled in re-
sponse to the compliment. He would have
given his soul to perdition then if it would
have brought him the love of that woman.

“Ease him a little,” he said, hoarsely. “You
are too fast for that jump. I know it well.
That’s better. You won’t fail it, will you?
Not you. By Heaven, not you.”

His excitement transformea nim, and Madge
looked at him with a positive pleasure in his
strength and splendid appearance: He noted
the kindness of her glance, and his heart
leaped with joy. His plan had failed, but
perhaps he had not.

They rushed at the wall together, not a
head’s difference between them, and together
they rose at it and cleared the sheet of water
beyond, coming down side by:side.

“What wine intoxicates like this?” he cried,
his blue eyes flashing like a viking’s.

Her brown eyes answered him; she did not
speak. Never had woman looked like this one
to him! Never should Percy have her for his!
Fair means or foul! Fair means or foul!

“That horse is mine,” said he, suddenly.

“Yours?” she cried.

“Mine,” he answered, his passion in full
eontrol of him. “Do you see yonder brook?
Nineteen feet of water there. My horse that
you ride against your riding glove that I reach
the other side before you.”

The blood was rushing in mad waves of ex-
citement through Madge’s veins. Never be-
fore had she raced in this way, and ail the in-
toxication of it was on her. It was likea
fever, and reason would not quell it.

“Come, then!” she answered.

She touched Tangent with her whip, for he
had not yet learned to know her words, and
he leaped forward like a rocket. The roan
seemed to understand in an instant. It*was
not the first time they had raced: but never
before had Tangent borne such arider. Quaker
girl though she was, Madge understood the
art of getting speed from a horse; and master
of the art as Guy of Warminster was he saw
that for once Tangent was going to beat the
roan.

How he gloried in Madge! How he thrilled
with a fierce purpose to have her for himself!
to let nothing stand between him and her! |
Fatal, fatal gift of beauty!

Neck and neck they sped over the springy
turf, Tangent straining every muscle, as if he
understood that the time had come at last
when he was to beat the big-boned hunter that
had always before shown him the way. The
color burned like flame in the fair, round
cheeks of his rider, and her eyes sparkled like

 

diamonds. 7

Tangent’s ears were pointing straight ahead,
his wide nostrils were distended and crimson,
his eyes starting out of his head, and he leaped
over the yreen-carpeted meadow, as if con-
scious of his glorious burden, each bound
carrying him a space in front of the roan.

And Guy of Warminster was not trying to
pay Madge the poor compliment of letting her
beat him; he was racing with all his skill
that he might claim as his that dainty glove
that incased the white hand that had yet had
the strength to check the horse that few men
could have mastered.

But Tangent steadily forged ahead, and at
the brink of the stream wasa length in ad-
vance. One triumphant, radiant glance Madge
shot at her companion, and then Tangent rose
and cleared the glassy surface of the brook as
a skimming swallow might, seeming to take
those nineteen feet of width in his very stride,
and shooting on, his great heart swollen with
the triumph of beating the hitherto invincible
roan.

Madge drew rein within fifty yards, and
waited for her companion, Tangent as obedient
to her will as ever he had been to that of his
master. Lord Warminster was by her side in
a moment, devouring her with eyes that, how-
ever charged with consuming passion, yet
looked on woman for the first time with re-
spect.

“Tt was worth a life-time to see that done,”
he said, eagerly. “You have accomplished
the impossible in beating Tartar with Tan-

ent,”

* “His name is Tangent, is it?” said Madge,
her habitual self-control gradually resuming
its sway. “A good name for him,” and she
patted his neck with her little hand. “You
carry forty pounds—nearly three stone, as you
would say—more than I. That makes the dif-
ference. But never mind, Tangent! it is some-
thing to win, even with the odds in your
favor, and your master must never forget that
you led him once.”

“His master will never forget this day,” an-
swered the duke, with a passion of admiration
that made his voice tremble. “But we forget
that 1am no longer his master. He is yours
now.”

“Mine!” said Madge, with -.a startled look.

“So the bet ran,” answered he, joyous to
think that Madge would ride his horse. “It
was Tangent against your riding glove.”

“My lord,” exclaimed Madge, hastily, “the
bet cannot stand. I remember now that I did
accept the bet, but I was intoxicated with the
excitement and did not know what I was do-
ing. It is always so with me; I am mad with
the joy of freedom and motion. But, my lord,
I do not bet, and I beg of you to absolve me.”

She had begun hastily and in distress, but
she had regained her composure in a moment,
and had spoken with that witching confidence
of being yielded to that noone could resist.
She ended with asmile into the devouring
eyes of the nobleman that stirred his whole
being, and made his breath come and go pant-
ingly.

“What you ask I must grant,” he said, ina
low voice. :

“T was sure you would,” she responded.

“But,” he ventured, hesitatingly, “is there
any reason why you may not accept Tangent
from me? It would give me a great pleasure
to know that he would have a mistress such
as you.” :

“T am_ sorry, my lord,” answered Madge,
gents “but I cannot accept him from you, as

am sure you will understand if you reflect.”

“I do not need to reflect,” said Guy of War-
minster. “It is enough that you say so.”

Madge shot a quick glance at the averted
face of the man, of whom such stories had
been told. Surely a profligate, a brute, a
scoundrel could not wear that expression!
Ah, Madge! did you forget that Love is a
magician who in the same wave of his wand
humbles and exalts. Guy of Warminster at
that moment loved you in all truth and hon-
esty.

She understood something of that, and it

ained her, even while it disposed her to judge
nim kindly. She looked back and was re-
lieved to see the others pressing up to the
water jump. '

“They are coming,” she said, and wheeled
her horse to watch them essay the stream.

He did the same, saying nothing. He could
not understand the turmoil in his soul. Never
before had he been stirred like this; never be-
fore had he yielded an advantage without
some compensation for it. But, as he casta

assionate, burning glance at the woman by
his side, he knew that at that moment there
was nothing good or bad that he would not
have done at her bidding.

One after another the horses took the jump,
some clearing it in good style, some sending
the water in fountains as they fell short, and
some ignominiously refusing, and then walk-
ing through to the other side.

“This is not the first time you have swept
hedges and ditches, Miss Raeburn,” said Lady
Gladys, her admiration for the moment con-
quering her envy.

“T thought for an instant that
had gotten away with you,” said
low tone.

“For an instant,” answered Madge, with a
bright smile. ‘He is like a lamb now.”

“T think,” said Lord Rockwold, who had
an inspired moment, and was in haste lest it
should leave him, “that Miss Raeburn is a
new Admirable Crichton, who can do any-
thing, by Jove! don’t you know,”

Madge smiled. Lord Warminster looked at
the young nobleman, and pulled his mustache
as he said to him:

“You are quite right, Rockwold. Miss Rae-
burn took the wall and the ditch back there,
without a tremor. Anybody else do it?”

“No one,” answered Percy.

“Then,” said the duke, “she beat my roan
by a length in a fair race; the first time Tar-
tar was beaten across country.”

“She has a magnificent animal,” said Lady
Gladys.

“Mine,” answered he, curtly, “and has been
beaten fifty times by Tartar with equal odds
in his favor. I rode fairly.. Shall we go on?”

He wheeled impetuously, and drove the
spurs into Tartar’s flanks, making the fiery
animal leap madly into the air and start off
at a furious pace, only to be checked with an
iron hand. Guy of Warminster had caught an
exchange of glances between Madge and
Percy, and, with an uttered oath he had told
himself that. all her love was given to Percy
Mortimert That was why he had dug the
spurs into Tartar. .

Not again during the ride to the farm did he
go near Madge, though with gripping hands
and grinding teeth he had watched the two
lovers cantering side by side, taking hedges
and ditches together, she checking the impa-
tience of Tangent to =e him back with the
poorer animal ridden by Percy.

“She loves him, she loves him,” he kept
muttering. “But shall I give her up for that?
shall I? shall I? But she is not the sort I
have been used to. I cannot win her as I have
the others. She is mistress of herself. By
Heaven! she ,is mistress of me! Why, I did
her will as if I had been a child, and she ex-
pected it. To see how she brought Tangent
under! To see how she brought me under!”

He was the first to greet the party at the
Two Bears, and without waiting for all of his
own party he took his place by the side of
Mabel, to her intense delight, and rode the re-
mainder of the way with her, talking of any-
thing she would, and thinking only of Madge.

At the farm Spider came skulking up to him
to hold his horse, casting his eyes uneasily
about and searching the approaching party.
The duke greeted him with a wondering oath,
and then burst into a harsh laugh, They were
apart from the others, and could not be over-
heard.

“How came ynu here?” demanded the duke.

“Couldn't stay home nohow,” answered

your horse
ercy, ina

with a look

 

 

<< THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

ofgrelief and of admiration at
once. °

“She raced me across country, and beat me
a length in five hundred yards,” said the duke.

“Beat Tartar?” cried Spider.

“By good riding, Spider. There she is now!
Go hold her horse. After that go back to the
castle, and tell Denby that I am going to Lon-
don to-night fora day or two. Tell him to
have everything ready.” :

“Yes, yer ae ” answered Spider, with
a pull at his short hair,

The duke dismounted and called one of the
other men to take Tartar, giving him particu-
lar directions how to treat him, watching
meanwhile how Percy assisted Madge to
alight from Tangent.

“Yes,” he muttered, when he stood alone,
“she loves him; but she shall be mine, I
swear. I will see what Van Schuyler has to
say. I know him. His letter means more
than it tells.”

 

CHAPTER XXI.
IN THE NAME OF LOVE.

Harry Van Schuyler knew London too well
not to be able to make himself comfortable
there. Indeed, he was a Sybarite by nature
and education, and when he settled down in
any place he surrounded himself with all ap-
pliances of luxury attainable. In London
money obtains anything. Van Schuyler had
money because he had not paid his debts in
New York, consequently he lived luxuriously
in London.

He had been there several days, and had
found what pleasure there was to be had in
London in the autumn, when society had de-
serted it, He had heard nothing from the
Worthingtons, but that did not surprise him,
because he had not expected to do so as Soon as
this. But it did surprise and somewhat dis-

uiet him that he had heard nothing from the
uke of Warminster.

He had counted on spending part of the sea-
son in the society of that boon companion, who
was so free with his hospitality and his money.
Moreover, he had counted a great deal in get-
ting the duke interested in Madge, knowing
the nobleman, and fancying he could discern
how Madge could be wounded through him.
Harry Van Schuyler was sometimes astonished
at himself in these days to discover what a
capacity for far-seeing and thoughtful villainy
he possessed.

“Tf would write again to Warminster,” he
murmured one morning as he reclined lazily in
an easy-chair, smoking his cigar, “only I don’t
“i to seem too anxious. He isso infernally

een.”

It was hardly singular that the Duke of
Warminster at that very moment was on his
way from the club to Van Schuyler’s apart-
ments, for if he had been on his way there at
any time during the past few days he would
have been most likely to surprise Van Schuy-
ler in the midst of thoughts of him.

He was not quite the Warminster that Van
Schuyler knew; not quite the man he had
known himself, that lay back in the cab and
pondered the object of his visit to the Ameri-
can. Somehow he was reluctant to go to Van
Schuyler on this errand, and he found himself
eesti him for a cold-blooded scoundrel, a
thing he had not thought of before.

But, indeed, while there was little difference
between the two men in the matter of wicked-
ness done, there was just the difference that
the one was cold and calculating in his worst
acts, whereas the other rushed into vice and
debauchery with hot blood.

“Hello, Warminster! where did you drop
from?” cried Van Schuyler as the nobleman
was ushered into his apartments.

“Not from heaven “anyhow,” answered his
lordship, grimly. ¢ ~* #7: » :

“T’d have taken any odds on that,” laughed
Yan Schuyler. “Perhaps I should have said,
when did you come up?” :

“Last night, then, would have been my
answer.” 5

“From Warminster?” inquired Van Schuy-
ler, singing for gs valet and ordering brandy
and soda. ; :

‘ poe Gilhurst,” answered the duke, laconi-
cally. A

“Phe duse!” ejaculated Van Schuyler, look-
ing at his visitor. ;

“You are quite right; it is the duse,” re-
torted the nobleman.

“You kave seen Madge Raeburn, then?” de-
manded Van Schuyler, eying his visitor nar-
rowly. : :

“And am here in consequence.” answered
the duke, who, whatever his faults, did not
count deception among them. His friends
sometimes complained that he was brutally
honest, in fact. * “

“Did I say too much in my letter?” inquired
Van Schuyler. He

“Not half enough, and hence this visit.”

“You never saw her egual, did you?”

“Never.”

“And what do you wish to know about her?
Why do you come to me?” ‘

“Why do I come to you? Why should. I not
come to you? You wrote me about her, and
unless Iam very much mistaken in Harry
Van Schuyler, you had an object in doing it.
I don’t imagine pure philanthropy had a great
deal to do with it.”

“Hardly. It is not in my line, laughed Van
Schuyler. “And yet I was not as selfisi in
the matter as youmay think. Iam in love
with the cousin, who isn’t as beautiful and
hasn’t as many millions, but who will have
to do, since the other isn’t available.”

“In love!” repeated the nobleman, scruti-
nizing the other incredulously.

“A figure of speech,” laughed Van Schuyler.

“But what good,” said Warminster, revert-
ing to the topic of most interest to him, “will
the beauty or the millions of Miss Raeburn do
me? She’s in love with Percy Mortimer, and
not as a figure of speech either, if Iam any

judge.

“In love with Percy Mortimer!” sneered Van
Schuyler. “And does Guy of Warminster re-
treat before an obstacle like that? It seems to
me that if I were the Duke of Warminster I
could make some head against Percy Mortimer.

“Don’t deceive yourself, or try to deceive
me,” said Warminster, steadily. “I had that
notion when I first saw her; I know better
now.”

“Tried and failed?” demanded Van Schuyler.

“Yes, but made a good retreat. No harm is
done. Come, Van Schuyler! let us be frank.
I want that woman to be the Duchess of War-
minster. Can you help me?”

Van Schuyler’s face darkened, and a sneer
curled his lip.

“Be frank!’ Why, yes, let us be frank. Do
ou begin. Are you actually in love with her?
Yot as a figure of speech, mind you, but in

dead, sober earnest. In the orthodox, blush-
ing, palpitating sort of way. Guy of Warmin-
ster in love! Say it, you who pretend not to
fear the truth!”

The lines of the handsome but dissipated
face of the nobleman grew stern and forbid-
ding during this badinage, but he held his
temper in hand, and answered calmly enough:

“Guy of Warminster in love, I believe, and
not disposed to have the matter treated in
this way.”

Van Schuyler flashed an angry look at the

roud nobleman, but subdued it almost before
it was born, and without any semblance of
acting, threw himself back in his chair, and
laughed as at the veriest jest in the world.

The nobleman watchea him coldly until his
mirth seemed exhausted, and then said,
curtly:

“Tf you have had your laugh, Van Schuyler,
let us to the subject again. I confess it is one
I do not like discussing with you; but I know
you have ee oe you can tell me about the
affair that may help me. Come! be honest if
you can.”

“Upon my soul!” exclaimed Van Schuyler,

Spider, sulkily. “Took a horse an’ cut across.” | “it knocks all my calculations to have you

“Well,” said his master, with asingular ex-
pression on his handsome face as he looked

down at the averted face of his groom, “there | thinking of matrimony.

she comes on Tangent.
as easily as ever I did.
“She must be a rare un,” ejaculated Spider

J Pp ’

Mastered him, Spider,

 

take it like this. Duse take it, man! I never
thought of you falling. seriously in love and
Oh, you must give
that up, you know. It simply won’t do.”

“TI suppose you are coming to it in your own
roundabout way,” said the duke, coldly.

“Yes, I'm coming to it,” said Van Schuyler,
“Ha, ha! I’m coming to it. Pshaw! don’t get
angry, Warminster! You'll laugh yourself
when I tell you about it. Ah! sheis a beauty,
and any man might go mad over her. But,
Duchess of Warminster! No, no! not that.”

“By Heaven, Van Schuyler!” said the duke
between his set teeth, “I will not stand this
sort of thing from you. Speak out, and have
done with your infernal innuendo. What have
you to say?”

“T have to say,” answered Van Schuyler, in a
provokingly flippant way, “that I was actually
in the same state over the girl myself once.” °

“Pah!” said the duke, with a contempt he
made no effort to conceal.

Van Schuyler smiled with the malice of a}

fiend,

“And, incredible as it may seem to you, my
dear fellow, she was in the same state as to
me—me—Harry Van Schuyler. Ha, ha, ha!”

“Do you mean to say that you were loyers?”

“As well call it that as anything,” answered
Van Schuyler, enjoying the pain he was caus-
ing the other.

“In the name of Heaven, Van Schuyler!”
cried the duke, with a sudden outburst of feel-
ing, “will you tell me what you have to say
with some sort of directness? You know
cannot have the patience to follow your deyvi-
ous ways. I never did have.”

“Anything you wish, Warminster. But do
be reasonable. Fancy anybody like the sea-
soned rake you are coming to oe and gravely
confessing himself in love and ready for mar-
riage with—— Pshaw! What do I mean to
tell you? In a few words, my dear fellow.
Between Madge Raeburn and me there only
lacked a ring and a clergyman to make a mar-
riggs.

“You false hound! you liar! you whelp!
Take back those infamous words, or by the
Heaven above us I will choke the life out of

ou!”

Whatever good there was in Guy of War-
minster was all alive, warmed by the real love
he bore for Madge, and his passionate nature,
already roused.to the end of forbearance, was
lashed into fury by the foul insinuation of his
one-time friend, and he had caught him b
the throat, and was shaking him as a masti
might a terrier.

owerless in the sinewy hands of the noble-
man, and knowing the folly of resistance, it
was then that the cold, snake-like temper of
Harry Van Schuyler stood him in good stead.
He simply grasped the wrists of the other and
waited, storing venom in his heart, for the
duke to desist.

“Ah!” he a, oe at last as Warminster
threw him from him. “Are you mad?”

“Retract that calumny, or you shall know
how mad I am.”

“Look you, my lord!” said Van Schuyler,
with a very good assumption of haughtiness,
“T can understand something of the passion
you are in; but only an apology can open any
further communication between us.”

“An apology !” repeated the duke, with
withering scorn. ,

“An apology,” said Van Schuyler. “I am
willing to ee conclusively, and to your sat-
isfaction, the statement I have made, but only
on condition of an apology being rendered in
that event.

The nobleman stared at him, then awed
his mustache and walked abruptly to the win-
dow and looked out, seein em

“Tt is shameful,” he said, suddenly turning,
“but I will listen. Prove without a shadow
of doubt the truth of what you have insinu-
ated, and I will make an Ramey: ”

Alas! it was. easier for
to believe evil than good. His whole life had
been passed under the sway of the worst ea
sions, and in contact with all that was bad
and degrading. The good that must have
lain dormant in his nature had been aroused
into life by the purifying influence of Madge’s
rare personality, and it could never die again;
but it was not possible for him to remain
under its influence, and almost before Harry
Van Schuyler had nto fabricate his in-

ious story he felt ashamed of his anger in

the cause of wirtue.

The most datpening letters Van Schuyler had
already given to . Worthington, but he
told his story with a fiendish ingenuity, show-
ing one letter after another, and finally pro-
Serene copies of the ones he had given to Mrs.
Worthington. >

“Now,” he said in conclusion, “all you need
to do to convince aes that these letters
are genuine is to obtain a scrap of her hand-
writing. As for these copies, which are the
most eee I can get you the originals if
you wish, for they are in the possession of
some one at Gilhurst.”

“Gilhurst !”

“Not Percy Mortimer, you may be sure,
though if you will believe me, he knows what
Madge has been to me.”

“And intends marrying her?”

“He is mad with love.

“Ah! and she loves him. B
Schuyler! when I think of her
what you tell me.”

“Have you never heard of such a case be-
fore?” dernanded Van Schuyler, with his ugly
sneer.

Guy of Warminster paced the floor without
answering. He could believe this foul thing
when Percy Mortimer could not. The reason
lay in the difference of their natures .and
courses of life. He believed it, and yet he
loved Madge still. . :

“You have told me this,” he said, “and ‘I
believe you; therefore I’ apologize. Now tell
me where your interest in all this lies, for I
am not mistaken in believing that you have an
interest somewhere.”

Heaven, Van
cannot credit

“Never mind the apology,” answered Van} m

Schuyler. “I understood your feelings. My
interest? You are right; I have an interest.
She grew tired of me, in favor of Mortimer,
and threw me over; and yet, when I made
love to the cousin, Mabel Worthington, and
was accepted by her, Madge payee me a trick
whereby she induced the father to break the
engagement. I grant that I didn’t do quite
the right thing by Madge; but I owe her more
than I can ever repay; and, if I can help it,
she shall never marry Percy Mortimer, whom
I er There is my interest; I hate them
both.”

“And what part am I to play in your scheme
of revenge?”

Van Schuyler bit his lip.

“You may put it that way if you choose,” he
answered.

“How would you put it?”

“JT would say that I will help you to possess
the woman’ you—love, say, in return for your
help in gaining me my revenge.” |

“To possess her?” repeated the nobleman,
slowly.

“To possess her. JI suppose you do not in-
tend to talk of marriage.

“You think the thing is possible?” asked the
duke, in a low tone.

“T do not doubt it.”

“And your plan for bringing it about?”

“Do you think you cando anything to get
Mortimer out of the country?”

ie do not .know. Whatare you thinking
oO 2”

“You must have some interest with the
Foreign Office. Could you not have him sent
away on some diplomatic mission? Something
imperative. I don’t care if it keeps him away
no more than a month.”

“If there is anything of the sort on hand
perhaps I could have him appointed. I might
even have the thing gotten up.”

“I thought so. Do it, and I can almost prom-
ise you that if you will work with me she shall
be yours.”

“The plan?”

Hy Brietly this: Get rid of him; let her think
he left purposely to free himself of her; com-
promise her, accumulate proofs of her immo-
rality. Then you come along and play the
champion, offer marriage.”

“ Marriage?” ;

“Runaway—hasty marriage by a bogus
clergyman. You can arrange all that easily
enough.” ‘

“And

“I wil

ou will undertake the rest?”

 

undertake the rest,” answered Van
Schuyler. :

 

uy of Warminster |

VOL. 46—No. 40.

“When shall I have him sent away?” asked
the duke, ,
“To-morrow if youcan. As soon as possible.”

—_—

CHAPTER x XII.
“ALI08 PAIR . EN. LOVES

“Cowardly, contemptible scoundrel!” mut-
tered the nobleman, as he threw himself back
in the cab. “I would like nothing better than
to strangle him. But all's fair in love, and I
will use dirty instruments orclean to have
her for my own. What has come over me that
I have any qualms? Ah, my beauty! you shall
be mine!’ é

The cab stopped at the Foreign Office, and
the duke got out. There were a great man
men of all ranks waiting for an audience wit
the all powerful chief of the Foreign Office,
but the Duke of Warminster was not one to
be kept waiting. He gave his card to an at-
tendant, who became exceedingly polite in an
instant; and after the shortest possible space
of time the duke was ushered into a chamber
where Lord Kenniston, the chief, awaited him
with smiling face and outstretched hand.

“My dear Lord Warminster! What lucky
wind blows you this way?”

“Oh, I’m like all the rest of them that come
here,” he answered; “I wish for one of the
plums.”

“And what plum can possibly tempt you?”
asked Lord Kenniston, going over in his
mind the first class missions which,:by any
diplomatic juggling, could be made vacant to

ain so powerful a nobleman as the Duke of
yarminster.” '

“Tt’s not a big one, and I don’t wish it for
myself; but it will be the same as if given to
me.

“You know our willingness, my lord.”
The duke laughed sardonically.

“I would never make a diplomat, my lord,”
he said. “ When you say willingness I imme-
diately translate it to mean that you will ex-
change service for service. Do som wish my
ere and that of those dependent on me?”

“Dear me! what a bold way to express it!”
laughed Lord Kenniston. ut I suppose I
must humor you. Yes, we would like your
support.”

“And you will comply with my request?”
“If possible. Please state it.’

“Percy Mortimer, home just now from the
American mission—attache, or something of
wre sort, I believe.”

“No fault to find with him, is there?”

“One of our very best young men. Are you

in his interest?”

“Precisely his. Can you do anything for

him? Something in the way of pretty good

promotion?”

ese any doubt. Any preference for
ace?”

? “T believe not; but, between ourselves, m

lord, there happens to be a most decided pref-

erence for time.”

“Ah! no scandal, I hope?” said the secretary.

“Heavens! no. Percy is one of the exem-

play ones. No, no! no scandal in his case.
ut circumstances, needless to explain, make

it desirable for him to leave Eng and and re-

main away for a month at least.’

Lord Kenniston pursed his lips in thought.

“There is the special embassy to Burmah.
It would be avery rapid promotion, but I
don’t know that it would matter. Fulling-
ham has the appointment, but does not care
for it, and would take something else. How
would Burmah do?” f

“Just the thing. When would it start?”

“Set for next week; but could be expedited.
Would to-morrow be too soon?”

“I think not,” answered the duke, who .
could not be rid of Percy too soon. _

“Then I will write to him to-day. I will
send by special messenger.”

“T would rather not have it known just yet
that, I am his sponsor,” said the duke. “Is it
necessary that he should be told?”

Lord Kenniston hesitated. He did not like
doing anything in the dark; but it did not
seem as if there could be anything greatly out
of the way in this. Percy was receiving a
een much to be coveted, and was being

nefited in every way so far as he could see.
“No,” he said, “he need not be told who his
friend is.” m if

“Thank you,” said the duke, rising; “you
may count onme. Let me know when you
need me; I will not forget my obligation.” —

He returned to Van Schuyler with a report
of his success, made arrangements for a meet-
ing near Gilhurst as soon as it was certain
that Percy had sailed, and then hurried to the
station to catch the train for Gilhurst.

Madge and Percy meanwhile, unconscious
of the plots against their peace and happineds,
were taking advantage of a golden opportu:
nity to see more of each other than had been
possible for some time. The ball was to take —
place that evening, and nearly everybody was .
in more or less of a flutter in consequence. To >
Madge, who left all details of dress to Nanette,
it brought no extra flurry, and she and Percy
had wandered away through the autumn
woods together, drinking in great draughts of
happiness. ‘
hey had not noticed Warminster’s absence
from the’ castle, though they had discussed
him somewhat. .

“T have always believed he was a great deal
maligned,” Percy had said.

“And I am tempted to believe it, too,”
Madge had answered. “I saw something of
him on the ride yesterday; and although I be-
lieve his to be an ungoverned and reckless —
nature, I find it difficult to believe him the
abandoned wretch he has been described to

 

 

e.

Who talks of premonition? Why was there
no ‘such thing to startle these two faithful
lovers then, when almost as they talked of
him the Duke of Warminster was taking the |
first step in the series that was intended to-
separate them and to bring infamy and shame
on Madge?

And later in the afternoon he met them on
the lawn as they canie home from a ramble in
the woods. Both of them noted something
strange in his manner; but it was nothing to
give offense, nor to rouse any suspicion, and
they both greeted him cordially. ;

“Do you dance, Miss Raeburn?” he asked,
after the exchange of a few commonplaces.

“I should not, being a Quaker,” she an-
swered, laughingly, “but as a fact, I do.”

“Then may I a little premature, Percy
not objecting, and ask the favor of a waltz
with you this evening? I amso shy,” he went
on, with a sardonic curl of his lip, “that I
might not have the courage to fight my way
through the armies that will be sure to sur-
round you this evening.”

“Give him the waltz, Madge,” laughed
Percy, “on the score of his shyness.”
au will remember you and put it down,” said
wa e.

“Shall we say the third waltz?” he asked. .

“The third waltz. But I forget; Ido not
dance in the English fashion, which I bel
keeps you turning in one way all the while.”

“Tt will not matter,” answered the duke, “I
dance in the American way which I believe is
full of reverses.”

Madge laughed. ; j =
“That is true, but you must remember t

your partner follows you through all your re- |
verses.” wee

She smiled at Percy when she said that, and
he returned her smile, as understanding her
deeper meaning under her jest.

“Fortunate partner!” was all the duke said,
and turned away toward the stables.

“Not quite himself,” commented Percy.
“Something gone ee he with him.”

Madge remembered his expression during
the ride of the previous day, and said noth-—
ing. But a woman always feels sorry for a
hopeless lover, and Madge thought pityingly 4
of Guy of Warminster when she was in her
dressing-room, submitting to the manipula-
tions of Nanette. R S SREB

“What jewels shall you wear?” asked Nan-
ette, “the diamond necklace?” 2 ay

“No, but you may take that out and put it
on the table. Give me the sapphires and dia-
monds. Somebody isat the door. If it should

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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VOL, 46—No. 40.

_ ghe would be here when she was dressed.

- thought, because of her modest belief that she
_ from that, and Madge wondered if there were

- old fellow who would, I dare say, die in de-

 

  

 

 

~ = =

 

=» THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32

 

 

be Miss Grayson, ask her in here; she Said j

looking very sweet and lovely

It was Sibyl, :
. and not the less loyely, Madge

in a pink sil

was plain. Butshe was, in fact, far enough
no way by which she could bring the Duke of
Warminster to a realizing sense that Sibyl
was precisely the wife he should choose.
There is something fascinating to every woman
in the thought of making a marriage.

“How beautiful you are!” cried Sibyl, ina
burst of admiration.

“I know. I ought to pretend not to believe
that,” langhed ae: “but really Ido believe
it, and am glad of it.”

“How odd you are!” said Sibyl. “Are you
not going to wear the diamonds? I had
counted on seeing you with them.”

“No, Isha’n’t wear them,” answered Madge;
“but [ have a fancy to see how they really do
look, so if you don’t mind I am going to try
them on you. What a lovely neck you have!
Now stand still. There!”

She stood off and looked at. Sibyl, around
whose neck she had fastened the necklace.

“Look at yourself, and tell me how you like
the effect,” she said to Sibyl.

And Sibvl, with alittle gasp of pleasure,
moved so that she could see her reflection in

‘the cheval-glass.

“Beautiful, beautiful!” she exclaimed; “but
let me take them off quickly lest I should
covet my at goods.”

“Oh!” said Madge, restraining her hand;
“but you are not to take them off. You are
to wear them.”

. “Please,” pleaded Sibyl, “I do not like to
— what is not. my own. You are so good;

nth"

“Well, I don’t wish you to wear what is not
your own. I wish you to wear what is your
own, and that is why I insist. Sibyl, dear,
you these.” .

“Giving them! Oh, Miss Raeburn !”

“Couldn’t you call me, Madge, please.”

“Glad to; but, oh, you must not ask me to
take these. They are so valuable.”

“Now, Sibyl, dear,” said Madge, coaxingly,
“you might as well understand at once that
no one ever thinks of holding out against me.
I’ve set my heart on rdeed having these, and
you really must take them and wear them.”

So Sibyl yielded, and when Madge kissed
her, she thought, “Now she looks fit to bea
royal duchess, and it ought to be easy for any
man to tove her.”

That night when the music of the first waltz
struck up Madge smiled with joy to see Sibyl
resting on the armof the Duke of Warminster.

“Why do you smile?” asked Percy, who was
her partner.

“Look at Sibyl.
beautiful?”

“Never saw her look half as well. Do you
lay it to the diamonds?”

““No: to the fact that she is dancing with
the Duke of Warminster.”
Percy laughed. :
“You are a true woman, Madge,” he said.
“And do you really believe you can bring those
two together? Lam afraid even your wit is
not equal to that.”

“Wait,” answered Madge, and away they
whirled in the waltz.

The music stopped, the flushed dancers sep-
arated, and stood or walked. Madge and
Percy withdrew into the hall to walk more at
ease. A footman stepped up to Percy and
said, respectfully: :

“A messenger, sir, from London, waiting to
see you in the library.”

_ “Very well,” answered Percy, wondering
but unconcerned.

He looked around for some one to escort
Madge back to the drawing-room. Guy of
Warminster at that moment came from the
room.

“T say, Warminster,” he said, “will you
take care of Miss Raeburn until I come back?”

“T will do my utmost,” answered the noble-

Did you ever see her more

don’t. deprive me of the happiness of giving | pape

ishment.

“My dear boy, I must ask i one thing. If
I leave all the statements of the case just as
they were told to your father, and upon which
he pronounced favorably, and just add the
ae does that alter the right or wrong for
ou?”

“Certainly not, sir.”

“Well, then, Ned, the man who keeps me
away from those papers of mine is your father
himself. ‘the place where we are to operate is
in that very counting-room, and what you are
to do is to get him to open the safe, and give
you opportunity to seize an obscure bundle
marked, ‘Papers in the case of Henry Arnold.’
That in my hands, the longed for sum of
money is putein yours.”

Ned’s eyesgdilated with the surprise of the
announcement, and it took him a few moments
to digest the intelligence communicated.

Guy Clitheroe watched him nervously.

“Well, Ned?” he said at length.

“T should like to understand a little better.
Has my father kept any papers from you?”

“Not maliciously; but forall that just as
cectainly kept them. You know your father’s
obstinate faithfulness, Ned. He is set to keep
the safe from all intruding fingers. You
know, and I have come to see that though I
offered him half my fortune ~he would not al-
low me to put my hand inside that safe though
he stood by my side to see I worked no wrong.
He would say he was failing in his trust, and
I suppose he would be. Well, we are not go-
ing to ask him to do it. We are going to
manage it for ourselves, backed by his approval
and wishes for our success.”

His renewed. laugh dispersed Ned’s last
doubt, and he joined with it.

“To be sure, sir. I see the joke now. He
navy blame me, can he, even if harm comes of
i ”

“No harm will come to him or to you. The
rs are simply the proofs used on an old
trial that is done with long ago. The former
owner probably put the papers inthe safe. I
know where ae are kept, for in alluding to
the trial your father himself told me they were
there still. We will take them out.”

“But how?” questioned Ned, anxiously. “It
is very certain that my father will not help us,
and no one but himself, and the two members
of the firm, understand that combination lock.”

“The plan came to me while I was in the
counting-room, so you will not need to puzzle
your wits over it,” heanswered. “See! I shall
give you one-quarter of your promised sum to-
morrow morning, when you meet me again in
your father’s little counting-room, whose cur-
tain over the window looking into the ware-
room you must have down before we go in.
You will beg him to put it into the safe for
you. Perhaps I shall be required to grow curi-
ous about combination locks.”

“And what then? You don’t think we can
cheat his keen eyes, do you?”

“Let me tell you the rest as we goon. And
by the way, I want you tosee his physician,
and inquire if there can be any injurious re-
sult to his constitution. That is, if he has
shown any signs of heart disease, in which
case our plan must needs be withdrawn.”

And Ned was made acquainted with the
whole plan before the ee

“Tt looks very simple if we only have steady
nerves. And the best of it is that if he finds
out what we have done he cannot have a word
of blame, since we act under his own sanction.”

“ And better still, perhaps. he may never dis-
cover what we accomplish,” returned Guy, “if
intruders will only keep out of that place for
half an hour.”

“They will be likely to. It is understood
that my father is to be undisturbed in that
room, except by the firm and his own visitors.”

“All the better for us. Remember about the
curtain, and have fresh water at hand; and
keep a brave heart in remembrance of the
eee sum which will be yoursso speedily,
my lad.”

“Yes, sir. You need not fear my failing
you. I only wish it was to be done immedi-

 

 

man, a gleam lighting up his eyes.
; (T0 BE CONTINUED.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

DRAGGING. HIM DOWN

ANNABEL’S SECRET.

By CHARLES T. MANNERS,
Author of “Octavia’s Pride,” **The Lord of Lyle,”
: “A Silver Brand,” ‘“The Blenkarne
Emeralds,” “Reaping as Was
Sown,” Etc.

[DRAGGING HIM DOWN” was commenced in No. 29.

Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }
CHAPTER XVII.—(CONTINUED.)

Guy smiled so innocently into the old
book-keeper’s face that the latter felt heartily
ashamed of his scruples, and said, promptly:

“It certainly seems rather right than wrong.
But where are they kept?”

“Where 1 am not allowed to go, but where
Ned will be readily admitted as entirely free
from suspicion. I confess ‘that they are
guarded, not by my enemy, but by a stubborn

fense of them rather than give them up, al-
though he considers them mere rubbish and
- trash.”

“What, are they only valuable to you?”

“Only to me. They are not worth a dime
to any one else; especially are they of no ac-
count to him who guards them.”

“How absurd! Of course, then, you ought to
have them. Why, I would almost take hold
myself,” answered Dawes, warmly.

‘Then you consent for Ned to undertake an

ately—that I had not to sleep upon it.”

this Story Wil Not be Pasi in Baok-Fom, |

’t fail to inquire of the physician.
And now good-by until we meet again to-mor-
row.” 2

senses, and stared into his face in utter aston-

 

 

 

Ww. :

In the morning, quite early, before either of
the firm had thought of making their appear-
ance at the place, Mr. Clitheroe looked in
again upon Dawes, who was figuring away
furiously at his desk, a frown on his forehead.
He did not see Clitheroe, or imagined it to be
Ned, who was sitting quietly by the locked
safe, for he went on muttering:

“They had better take care. These are dan-

gerous operations! What: what! worse and
worse! It’s enough to make the old master
wan from his grave.”

n

then he figured de again, and stopped
to brush his hand across his f
he declared:

“It does seem as if there was some eyil spell
on all their undertakings. That’s a fact. I
declare I’m frightened.”

Then he sighed heavily, and laid down his
pen, and started at discovering his visitor.

“Good-morning, Dawes. I am out early,
you see. Ned and I have to settle the further
arrangements for our little plot. Ah, and
here he is. Bright and early—eh, Ned? That
promises well for our business. By the way,
was the investigation you were to make satis-
factory for our purpose?”

“Yes, sir; entirely. No fear of harm—not
the slightest,” answered Ned, and a laugh
ee in his eyes as they glanced toward

is father.

“Excellent,” responded Clitheroe, drawing
forth some crisp new bank-notes from his
pocket and putting them into the lad’s hand.

‘And there’s the first installment of the pur-
chase money.”

Ned smoothed out the notes,
pean to his father:

“Oh, father, father! does it seem as if it
could be true? I am almost afraid to carry so

much money?”
you would not try it. Put

“T should ho
it into the bank at once. But I don’t quite

orehead, while

and turned

is accomplished.
“Ah! but that is thé retaining fee. He is
going to set about his work immediately.”
ee Why can’t you put the money in the safe

 

innocent stratagem?”
“Of course I do—that is, if he does not vio-
a the law. He will not force any locks, will
e ”
“No, he will simply take my papers from
the receptacle whose doors will be wide open
_to him,” returned Guy, still smiling tranquilly.
“Good, then, I consent, of course, and wish
him good luck. What a stupid fellow that
. must be, to guard from its rightful owner what
_is trash to himself,” pronounced Dawes.
\ “Oh, how happy Tam!” cried Ned, jubilantly,
“it is so much better than if you had given it
to me. Now tell me what I am to do? where
am I to go?” :
‘Supposing you come out for a little walk
with me; I see plainly that your father is ach-
_ ing to be rid of us, and return to his work.
We shall only hinder him with our talk.”

Dawes laughed and dipped his pen again into

the inkstand, as he replied:
“That's another sensible remark of yours,
Mr. Clitheroe. I have always noticed that you
_ never detain me long, which proves you have
the first qua a good business man should
possess. Good-day, and success to your plans.”

Ned was a little astonished when his com-
panion burst into a long mellow laugh the
moment they were out in the street.

“Why, sir,” he stammered.

“It isso rich a joke, Ned. You shall have
your turnat the laugh presently. But first I
don’t think\I need to ask you again if you are
Sent in your desire to serve me in this mat-
1) oy MO \

“Indeed, sin; you need not. I am only too
anxious to be at it.”
me, And oe haye your father’s assurance that
itis right?” — \
« “Certainly.” \
“He wishes Sgood luck?”
1S “Yes, sir.” \
_ And again the gentlemen went off in an ex-
_plosion of laugh

 

\ guage
. Ned began to fear he had taken leave of his

 

 

there until I come back?” asked Ned, his voice
sounding strange and husky to his own ears,
although Dawes did not observe it.

“Of course I can; and if you are going out
into the street it will be the wisestthing. I’ll
put it in an envelope and mark it in my name.”

The pair watched him do it, and Clitheroe

uietly passed to Ned’s trembling hand a bot-
tle containing some colorless liquid.

Perhaps there was a pang of self-reproach in
each heart as the unsuspecting book-keeper
passed toward the safe, but neither for a mo-
ment wavered in their determination.

“There cannot be any harm,” repeated Ned
fiercely, to his quaking heart. “If he at-
tempts to touch anything valuable I have but
to call—to touch the bell and bring half a
dozen clerks here. And he does not mean
wrong—I know he does not. Is he not a prince
of wealth?”

And he followed quietly behind his father,
and saw him turn the silver knob of the safe
with the few dextrous initiated movements re-
quisite, and open the massive door.

“Don’t put it with the firm’s money, will
you, father? I feel so worried over my wealth,

can’t trust it out of my sight. Shall you
put it in that drawer? Oh, take care!”

The last exclamation of alarm came as the
movement of his father’s elbow seemed to dis-
lodge something lying on the safe. A bottle
whizzed before the old book-keeper’s face, and
broke against the safe door. A pungent, sick-
ening, stifling odor rose up before him. He
saw his son spring to his side with a drenched
handkerchief; he heard him say while he
wiped his face.

“Oh, father, how pale you are! You are
sick. Mr. Clitheroe, help me.”

But the last words sounded dreary and far
off. He himself seemed to be whirling round
and round, and being carried down, down, into
some dizzy abyss. Then all things faded from
him, and he sank into the seat, toward which
Clitheroe’s arm guided him. :

 

 

“You know where I told you, Ned, and how j

the bundle is marked,” said his principal,
quietly, and the youthful accomplice, not dar-
ing to trust another glance at his insensible
father, hurried to his task.
“T have it,” he said, gaspingly, the next in-
stant.
A “All ‘right. Bring the water and open that
oor. ”

And Dawes revived the next instant, enough
“ be aware that the pair were working over

im.

He was alittle dazed, but speedily recov-
oon speech. “What is the matter? Did I
all?”

“It was my fault!” exclaimed Clitheroe, rue-
fully. “I set down that bottle of chloroform
on the top of your safe when I camein. You
knocked it down, and broke it. It was very
strong, for I got it to kill my dog with it. No
wonder you were overpowered, and Ned, too,
is white as a ghost. Try a little more water.”

“It is fortunate you were here,” said poor
Dawes, gratefully. “There is that safe open.
an how easily it might have been rob-

ed !

Ned’s laugh was as hysterical as a woman’s.

“And my money gone. Oh, father, do lock
it up, aS soon as you can.”

“T am much better, but still giddy and sick.
Steady me, Ned, and I will doit. It is a very
strange accident.”

“A remarkable one. Fortunately it. soon
evaporates,” remarked Clitheroe. “My poor
Fide willbe the gainer, unless I go back for
another bottle, which 1 am hardly inclined to

“You might raise the window, Ned. There,
now I am oe fast. There’s nothing
like fresh air. I am quite myself again, except
for this nausea, so you neédn’t be concerned to
leave me.” ee

Clitheroe set open the office door, and slip-
ed the curtain over its rod with a noiseless

and before he said:

“Then perhaps Ned and I had better go about
our business.”

i as To be sure, and as I said before, good luck

70 it!” ;

Neither spoke a word until they were out of
sight of that office window, when Clitheroe
said, quietly:

“Well, then, Ned, my boy, if you have made
no mistake, the momentous affair is accom-
plished.”

“Oh, sir, I am so relieved. Will you take
the packet now?”

“Not yet. You will come in with me before
my confidential man, and take notice of what
its contents are before you deliver it up.”

“Yes, sir, and if you please, sir——”

“Well, my lad,” he said, smiling at the
hesitating, rueful tone, “what’s wrong now?”

“T want to ask your pardon, sir. Just for
one minute there before you threw the bottle I
mistrusted you, and was ey frightened.
I asked myself if you were not cheating me,
too—if you did not mean to overmaster me
also, when my father was helpless, and have
the whole safe at your may I kept my hand
close by the bell rope till I saw you waitin
upon him, with your handon his pulse. An
now Iam more ashamed than ever that you
will not take the package without my know-
ing what is in it.”

“Why, Ned, my lad, that is the very way
you earn the thousand dollars. You insure my
taking my own in honorable fashion. I would
not have had a villain’s help if he had offered
it gratuitously. I keep my own hands clean
by the gloves of judicious management, even
when handling pitch. Don’t you see?”

' And he led the way into his luxurious suite
of rooms, called Morris into the inner parlor,
and locked the door.

“Now, then, Ned, open your budget. Spread
it out on the table,” commanded the young
master. “Behold, Morris, we have accom-
plished the great feat without your valuable
assistance.”

And Guy Clitheroe came to the table, and
folding his arms looked on with re eyes
with mingled gloom and exultation, while Ned
slowly untied the little bundle, and let the
i dusty papers fall apaly upon the marble
table.

A newspaper report, several half sheets of
writing paper covered with idle scribblings,
most of them the name of the old firm, “ Al-
pheus Kent & Co.,” and then the fatal forged
note.

“That is all,” said Ned, startled at the pale
face had fiery eyes with which Clitheroe came
forward.

“It isenough!” said the latter; “it is enough
to avenge adeadly wrong. It was enough once
to blight a promising life, and break a lovin
heart. You have earned your money, Ned.
would have given it twice over to lay my
hand on these. There!”

He dashed off a check, flung it toward the
lad, and seizing the papers rushed away.

 

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MYSTERIOUS BLACK BOOK.

“Dear father,” said Nelly, softly, as she rose
from her seat beside Charles Clitheroe’s chair,
and folded up the newspapers in her hand,
“are you going to spend the hour after reading

 

approve your socepeing anything till the task | fa

.| even that.

is over by yourself, pouring over those papers,
and that queer black book you keep locked up
in the box?”

“T suppose I shall, sly little puss. How have
you found out about it?” answered the invalid,
reaching down his hand to pat the soft little
fingers that rested lightly on his arm.

“Oh, I have watched you every day from the
corner of the room, where I sat down to be still
a mouse and not disturb you. And
father——”

“Well, Miss Clitheroe—Miss Nellie Clitheroe
I—am all attention.”

“IT wish you wouldn’t; I don’t believe it is
good for you. I don’t believe you think pleas-
ant thoughts. Your eyes shine so fiercely, and
your lips set together so grimly. And—and—
after it you are——”

He was exceedingly amused a the struggle
of earnestness and timidity on the ingenuous

ce.
“Out with it. I am what?—an ogre, or a
villain, or what?”
“You are different somehow—sterner—not so
ood, and noble, and tender. Oh, please,
ather, let me burn that black book; I detest

it. I know it is wicked, uncanny, cruel!”
And she finished with a soft little rain of
tears.

“Why, Nelly, Nelly! my sunny-faced little

Nell!” was all Clitheroe couldsay. “You have
worked yourself into quite a passion. What
does it mean?”
y “Something evil to you, dear, dear father—
you who have been so generous and tender
to us friendless girls; and that is why I dare
to speak,” faltered Nelly.

“T don’t see. I don’t understand,” he said.

“Nor I. But I have watched gen and your
face changes—oh, how dreadfully it changes
from the kind, pleasant face that we have
learned to love so dearly.”

The smile of amusement faded out; a graver
look came over his countenance.

“Tell me what gm see in my face, child.
You need not be afraid I shall be angry. Tell
me everything.”

“If I could only put my thoughts into fitting
words,” she said, regretfully, “I think*I might
show you a great deal; for I watched. you yes-
terday until a blur came all around me, and I
seemed all eyes with only your face before me.
It seemed to be seized upon by something like
a wild beast’s ee Oh, how stern, how
fierce, how implacable it grew! I should no
more have dared to kiss it than I skould ven-
ture to put_ my hand into a lion’s open jaws.
You seemed bent upon some cruel thing. You
looked like a destroying fiend ready to leap
down and thrust some trembling soul into per-
dition. And, oh, that was not the worst—not

You looked as if you were been,"
to be dragged down yourself even, if you coul
only accomplish some desperate deed. And as
you turned over the leaves there came a gloat-
ing, raging, evil triumph to your eyes that
made me shudder from head to foot. I longed
to rush to you, to snatch away that book
whose evil spell had such effect, but I dared

| understand how a plant must feel when taken

Her voice was low, seared, yet full of tremu-
lous tenderness. Before it and the pure, eager
face, Charles Clitheroe’s gray head bent low.

“You saw all that, Nelly?’ questioned he,
drearily. “Well, what will you say to, me if
I tell you that I felt it all?” ‘

“I will say that I will not have it,” she an-
swered, almost fiercely. “I would give my life
any time to save yours, for you have been the
first to give me a generous, trusting affection,
and my starved heart knows only too well the
value of it. And shall I be less daring to
fight against the evil: spirit that tempts you
to your moral destruction? Father, the only
loving, generous father I have known, listen
to me! Let Lulie come and read from the
beautiful Book that teaches forgiveness and
not revenge, and put away that black volume,
whatever it may be.”

He started nervously.

“Revenge! What do you mean? How did
you find out?”

“I know nothing. I only heard you mutter
the word in your sleep, with just the fierce
knitting of your forehead that comes when
you are working through this solitary hour
you take every day.”

He had her hand in his again, stroking it
affectionately.

“Such a fierce little creature as she
And she does love me—that I confess.’ ‘
“And you will have Lulie read, and the
black book shall lose its influence?” coaxed
Eleanor.

“A willful little puss!” repeated he, smiling
ts

“Am I? Well, perhaps so. It is a new
character though. But, indeed, this brief time
here has changed me wonderfully. I seem to

can be!

out of some dark cellar and put into the air
and sunlight. I wonder do roses know when
they blossom? I feel as if my poor little
cramped life had come somewhere near its
blooming hour.”

“You are happy here, Nelly?” he asserted.

A thoughtful haze crept into her eyes.

“Yes, lam very happy with you and Lulie,
happier than I have ever been. So happy that
I almost forget.”

“Forget sorrow and troubles that you have
known? Yes, those can be forgotten, girl,
but when you are cruelly wronged you will
find it another thing.”

The drooping, lids raised swiftly, the clear,
soft, dark eyes looked fearlessly into his.

“T think I do know something of undeserved
wrong. I am sure Ido. And yet it is my
daily prayer that I may live to do some loving
and helpful work for the hand that was raised
against me, that cast me off. It is the rising
hope of that blissful consummation that makes
me so happy here. Your kindness is fittin
me to accomplish it. Oh, no, no! I woul
never give myself up to a revengeful spirit. I
would fling it off as I would the touch of the
most loathsome, the deadliest serpent.”

He sighed heavily, and was silent.

In the midst of the silence the musical
chimes of the clock rang out.

They both started. Eleanor bent over to kiss
his forehead. —

“Dear father,” asked she again, “shall I call
Lulie to read to us in the sweet, saintly fash-
ion of that dear Mrs. Conant she tells so much
about?”

“By and by, dear. Letme have my old ways
a little longer, Nelly.”

She stood irresolute, hardly knowing how
much further it would do to venture. Then
taking new courage she caught his hand and
cried, imploringly:

“J cannot give it up.
for Guy’s sake!”

He smiled triumphantly.

“Guy would set me to my task. You could
not have said a worse thing for your cause.
Nelly, Guy is working with me.”

“Guy working on a cruel scheme of venge-
ance!” repeated she, in a tone of utter horror.
“T cannot believe it. Oh, I cannot believe it!
Guy, so grand, so nobie—the noblest being I
ever knew——”

“You have made a hero of him, little Nell.
I have discovered that. Now you must exon-
erate me. You must be lenient to the poor
old cripple because of Guy.”

How her eyes shone! What fierce determin-
ation looked forth from the brave young face!
She flung both arms around his neck, while
she cried:

“No, no. I will save you both. I will yield
neither of you to such evil influences.”

“Go and call Lulie,” spoke up the old man,
huskily. ;

And with eyes shining with something of
the light we may imagine on angels’ faces,
Eleanor obeyed. She found Lulie, and herself
selected the texts and chapters, and placed the
great Bible for the reader, then sat down at
Mr. Clitheroe’s feet with both her small hands
clasping his.

Lulie had learned to read with touching rey-
erence of look and tone, and her slow, meas-
ured accents seemed to come from out the
great Book itself, as she bent over it, the long,
fair hair drooping in a sunny cloud about her
face.

He listened quietly, but when at last the
softly modulated accents ceased he sighed rest-
lessly.

“A beautiful creed! a beautiful creed!” he
said; “for saints and angels. ‘Love your en-
emies,’ ‘do good to them that hate you,’ ‘pray
for them that despitefully use you and per-
secute you.’ But hardly fit for mortal suf-
ferers.”

“That so ye may be the children of your
Father who is in heaven,” echoed Eleanor,
softly. “As we all may be—as we all must
be ”

Please, oh, please,

Another sigh, but softer and without the
cynical curl of the lip-

“Tt is my turn now,” said Eleanor. “Oh,
how thankful I am for my one gift! The
teacher says my progvess is something won-
derful. He does not guess what glad eager-
ness spurs me on. You may go back to your

ainting, Lulie darling. I would not have
Piaturbed you only no one can read the Bible
just as youdo. My dear, good father, there
is your black-book and the tablet, and pencil,
and even the stock reports. Iam going to
leave you with them, but I shall call a sweet
spirit to help me exorcise their baleful influ-
ences.”

And dropping a tender kiss upon each hand
of his, she relinquished them, and flitted over
to the other end of the room, where a cabinet
piano had been newly fitted—not a grand in-
strument like the costly one down stairs, on
which she took her lessons, but a tuneful little
thing, which gave just the pleasant accom-
paniment needed for a girl’s voice.

She settled down to the instrument with the
happy smile of one who goes to congenial em-
ployment. She laid her outspread fingers on
the keys with a loving, dainty touch, and sent
the low, sweet murmur-of harmony stealing
through the room.

Already had Charles Clitheroe stretched out
his hand toward the well-thumbed memoran-
dum-book, within whose black covers he had
day by day matured the deadly scheme; upon
whose pages he had jotted down his malig-
nant triumphs one by one; in whose black ac-
count only the debts were entered. Again
was he yielding his thoughts to that morbid,
bitter spell, when the sweet, clear voice
chanted forth:

“T will lift oS mine eyes unto the hills from
whence cometh my help. My help cometh
from the Lord,”

His hand fell back, limp and nerveless; his
head drooped low; his heart could not shut
out the sweet, softening influence.

She played on unweariedly, and sang as tire-
lessly as a bird, passing from chant to hymn,
from hymn to every touching, tender ballad
she could remember. And he listened dream-
ily, now with atear in his eye, now witha
smile on his lip. She finished with a grand,
jubilant, triumphant march, and came flying
to him, flushed and glad. ;

“You have not touched the book! I have
exorcised the evil genii! And your hour is
past. And now you must see the doctor, and
the cashier, and all the tradesmen. And then
it is lunch-time. And after that the nap.

hour, and I warn you I will always sing that
away.

“You are a witch; a naughty, willful witch.
Away with jou, for there comes the doctor.
Write your letter to Guy while I am busy,
and the moment I am free come back to me
instantly, for I shall want you.”

And Eleanor flitted away, stopping to look
a moment at Lulie, where she was working
industriously at her painting lesson.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

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Sometimes the tongue cuts off the head.

 

 

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«<aesa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

WHERE SHE LIES DEAD.
BY ELLA HIGGINSON.

The sun comes up and mocks me with its light,

The clouds lean white breasts to the sleepless sea;
I hear the lark’s call, tremulous with delight,

To his sweetheart, across the new-grassed lea;
The rose-blue mists before the sun have fled,
The whole dear world is glad—though she lies dead.

Out in her well-loved garden spots the flowers
Lift dreaming heads, and half unfold their leaves,
All wet and sweet with dew; the sparkling hours
Go slowly, as if pitying him who grieves ;
Her one white rose leans slender throat and head
Against the window-sill—where she lies dead.

About the pond her frogs are all astir,

Their mellow, clamorous voices fill the air—
Their tender voices so beloved of her!

That night I kissed the violets in her hair,
When on my happy breast she laid her head,
To hear their murmuring—now, she lies dead.

The locust blossoms sift, like dim, pale stars,
On purple air shot through and through with gold,
Like dust blown off the wine-flushed grapes; and bars
Of warmth lie on the grass beneath. But cold
And still is she whose heart they always said,
Was strong and warm as fire—for she lies dead.

Oh, Love! Love! Love! itis too great to bear!

That this glad world should still pulse strong with life,
And thrill with mellow song; and all the air

With joy of bird and flower love be rife—
While from thy breast thought, love, and life, have fled:
My God! My God, help me /—while she lies dead.

MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS,

BY W. W. CARTNER.

 

{“ MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS” was commenced in No. 15.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

.

Z
c x
ad

fe

Wve yy g
A EWA i
SUNY

THE BALL STRUCK WILSON IN THE STOMACH AND

HE GASPED FOR BREATH LIKE A CHOKED
CHICKEN.

NUMBER TWENTY-SIX.
Wilson Tries his Hand at Base-ball.

“Henry, what under the sunis the matter
with your hands?” inquired Mrs. Wilson, as
her husband was carefully bandaging a thumb

on one hand and a finger on the other.
_ “Base-ball. Fats and Leans play a match
game to-morrow. Been out practicing. We
are going to whitewash the Fats, and make
them hunt leather; you ‘are safe to bet on
that,” he replied. .

“How do you know you will?” she asked.

“We have the best fielders, and a darling
battery. That’s how I know.” ‘

“What is the battery, Henry? The men that
knock the balls?”

“It is the pitcher and catcher. Did you ever
see a game of ball, Anna?” asked Wilson.

“Yes, once; but they made such a show of
themselves that I never want to see another.”

“What was the matter?) Did you lose some
gloves on a wager?” he asked. |

“Who is the man that says, ‘Foul,’ and,
‘Out on afiy?’ Is that the captain?” she in-
quired, totally ignoring his question.

“That’s the umpire. Did. you have trouble
with him? What was the trouble, anyway?”
was his next query, as he saturated the cloth
on his hand with liniment,

“Well, it was like this. A man picked up a
club and pounded the iron——”

“What iron?” he interrupted.

“Why, the one ri § jump on when they yell,
‘Tally!’ ” she replied.

“Why not say home-plate?” he suggested.

“T don’t know whether it was home plate or

foreign plate, and I donot care. I know he
hit the ball, and the umpire yelled, ‘Foul!’
Some said, ‘Good!’ and others said it was ‘Too
‘bad!’ He came back and hit it again, knock-
ing it to aman way down behind, The um-
pire said, ‘Out on a fly!’ Another man said,
It was no such thing, for I saw him pick it
off the ground.’ Then they all crowded around
the umpire and yelled just ha ig One man
threatened if he did not reverse his decision
they would leave the grounds, and the other
said they would leave if he did. Then they all
shook their fists at the umpire, and I thought
they would kill him sure. The crowd yelled,
‘Hang him!’ ‘Shoot him!’ ‘He ought to have
died years ago!’ ‘He was never any good, any-
way |’ and then they raised their hands threat-
eningly, and yelled again. At this point the
crowd joined their voices to the tumult, and
wanted some one to lynch the unfortunate um-
pire. What kind of men are they? What did
they want to kill him for?” _

“Umpires are a very peculiar race of people,
and not very satisfactory. They are furnished
by the government, and are supposed to thor-
oughly understand base-ball, from a white-
wash toa home-run. They are a year in ad-
vance of the public, or the public is a year
ahead of them. The two never agree, not even
in isolated cases. A few of them are dead,
and now they are spoken of as good umpires.
There are none living at the present time that
the pobite pronounce good,” he asserted.

“ Are = umpire for your club, Henry?” —

“No, I am not. What put that idea into
your head?”

“Oh, nothing; only I thought by your de-
scription you would be a good one,” she replied.

“Tf I had the faculty of talking with as little

sense as you do I would apply for the position
at once,” he growled.

“Henry, what do they mean by foul?”

“A foul ball is one that is batted outside the
foul line, or——” :

“Oh, yes, I see. Now, the foul line might
be the fence, or the incorporation line of the
city. You are so explicit that it is a pleasure
to ask you for information,” she quietly re-
marked.

“Mrs. Wilson, all you need is a mask and
some spikes in your shoes to be a whole base-
ball nine,” he sarcastically said.

“T will soon learn it now. I know a foul
ball, the umpire, and when a man says ‘Tally’
I know that means one for his side, There is

ir 4°

vl Te. NN /

i Wee
iS NS

SY

 

=

 

 

not much more to learn,” she cheerfully re-
sponded.

“Yes, you have got it down pat. You al-
ways were quick to learn. You would make
an excellent detective, or a fish peddler.”

“A ring at the door put an end to the con-
versation, and Wilson went tothe entrance.
A tall, broad-shouldered negro stood on the
stoop, with his hat in his hand.

“Be you Mr. Wilson?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. What can I do for you?” said
Wilson.

“Hank Brace, he sent me up to frow a half
dollar’s worf of ball fo’ ye,” was the reply.

“He promised to send a man up this even-
ing. Can you curve them?” Wilson asked.

“TI spec I makes de widest curves in de city.
I does de pitchin’ fo’ de Snowball Nine, and
dey’s no slouches. Can you hol’ dem pretty
good, boss?” inquired the negro, as he threw
off his coat.

“Send them through lively now,” commanded
Wilson.

“Look out fo’ a in-curve,” and the darky
twisted the ball into his hand, and wound one
leg around the other, and then straightened
out like a steel spring, shooting out one leg,
his arm, and the ball, all at the same time.

Wilson made a grab at it, but missed it.

“Did yer cotch it?” asked the negro.

“No. To tell you the truth, I thought you
were coming with it,” Wilson replied.

“Look out for a up-curve,” the darky re-
marked, and winding himself up he straight-
ened himself, and the ball went through Wil-
son’s hands and lodged against his stomach.

Wilson gasped for breath like a choked
chicken, but contrived to clutch the ball.

“Ye done it dat time, boss. Now watch out
for ‘a drop.’ ”

Wilson made a grab into the grass, but
caught a stick of stove-wood instead of the
ball. This he hurled at the negro with all his

strength.

“Hol’ on dar, boss! I’s hired to do dis frow-
in’, an’ I jest calculate I’s a competent pusson
to do it.”

“Throw the ball up where you ought to then.
It is not necessary torun your arms into the
tsa to your elbows to throw a ball,” he
yelled.

“Wha’ you want dat ball, guv’nor?”

“Right at my head,” was the reply.

“Took car’ of yo’ head,” the negro said as he
twisted himself into position. Again he un-
coiled like aspring. The ball went through
Wilson’s hands like a swallow through fog,
and rested for an instant on his temple.

Wilson caught his head in both hands, and
ran in a circle like a dazed hen, until he
brought up 3 ae the house.

He passed his hands over the boards and
looked at it in a surprised way, as though he
thought it had just dropped down in front of

him.

“It’s all right, dear,” said Mrs. Wilson.

“It's our house. I guess you are not used to
catching a ball thrown by a person of as dark
a complexion as that individual.” :
“Where is the black imp? I will give fifty
dollars to set eyes on that gentleman for just
six minutes,” Wilson roared. “Mrs. Wilson,
will you please answer my question?”
“He went by meon a dead run, sayin
thing about getting fifty cents for three t
Did you pay him to throw for you?”
“Pay him! If I could get my hands on the
black-and-tan nigger—the wide curver—the
long-legged ape, I’d pay him,” and Wilson
stood first on one foot and then on the other.
“Why didn’t you stand against the barn, and
when the ball struck it you could have picked
it up and thrown it back? Then you would
not get hurt,” she suggested. |
“Now, you have it. Every player must have
a barn, and when a ball is thrown you run in-
side and wait until you hear the ball strike
the barn, and then run out and throw it at an-
other barn. Great Scott! What a mind there
is turned loose in the twelve-rod lot. I would
give one hundred dollars for a running shot at
that nigger, alive or dead!” he howled as he
kicked the saw-buck and then stood on one
foot, and painfully rubbed the other, which
had been injured by the collision. Then he
silently contemplated Mrs. Wilson, too full
for utterance.
“T see you have learned the style of League
playing. That is, to throw three balls and
then want to fight. If you can bat as well as
you can catch all you would need would be a
red belt, a long-billed cap, and have your pic-
ture taken, to be a professional,” she said, as
she flounced into the house.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

some-
ws.

eal a a

Phe: Lailies’ “Work-Box’

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

FASHION’S FANCIES.
Both boys and girls wear the man-o’-war suits,
Cravat pins are seen in the form of tiny birds.
China crape fans are embroidered with gold thread.

Dragon flies, and many other insects, are shown in
carved mother-of-pearl.

Feather fans are tipped with marabou, and have pearl
sticks inlaid with silver.

Outing belts have silver buckles designed to accompany
special suits. a
The newest bracelets are in fine light cable work, or
consist of tiny rings held by a gold thread.

The suits shown at present for street wear display large
sleeves, a closely clinging skirt, wide at the hem and loug
at the back, and with soft folds at the top on one or both
sides of the waist, or with deep yokes of a combination
fabric, and a wide corselet of the same.

Ladies are wearing a kind of bodice called distinctively
an evening bodice, just-as they also wear what are called
morning bodices and indoor bodices, each one differing in
style, and being of a character which enables the wearer
to use such a waist with two or three different kinds of
skirt, the only proviso being that the color and trimming
of the skirt shall be of a kind to harmonize or contrast
effectively with the skirt. :

The best summer shoe is without doubt a’plain, black,
low shoe, laced or buttoned, with high vamp patent
leather anda kid upper. Whether it be round or square
toed, with a slender high heel, medium high or low com-
mon sense, the taste of the individual will decide, though
it is safe to say that it is becoming more common for
women to choose both styles—the common sense for gen-
eral common, out-of-door wear ; the medium high heel for
more dressy occasions. This is often necessary, as many
of the very prettiest low shoes are not found at all in the
common sense make, While this is a safe choice, the
undressed tan will be worn more than any other shoe, but
fashion decrees this summer that stockings must match
shoes, and both match costume, if in colors, so that one
needs many pairs of each, while the black set may be
worn with any snit, thick or thin, plainor dressy. Russet
suede shoes, russet lisle or silk stockings, russet suede
gloves, are the fashionable accompaniments of a’ russet
suit, or gray shoes, stockings, and gloves for the gray suit,
which means many different pairs of all these articles.

Nothing in furnishing has changed more than window
draperies. The heavy lambreqnin at the top loaded with
embroidery, edged with heavy fringe and finished at sides
with cords and tassels, with a still heavier carved cornice
above and lined curtains below, held back to ornate brass
fixtures with still other ropes and tassels, isa thing of.
the past and only found in homes where no changes are
made from one year’s end to another. In the most con-
ventional arrangements now shown, the draperies are
caught only in natural folds, while in far the greater
number of cases light fabrics are simply draped over
poles. Most housewives content themselves with only
two sets—the very light, delicate lace shades, hanging
straight and close to the glass and then the lace curtains
proper, festooned back on either side. If stuff curtains
outside of these are still considered indispensable they
are attached to a simple, modern cornice at the of the
window casement, and then arranged in aseries of jabots
on either side to the floor.

Miss Ruby W., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The most popular sea-.
side and mountain dresses this season have the skirt and
jacket of serge, with a shirt waist of percale, wash silk,
or foulard. Blue remains the favorite color for such suits,
but there are also many of white serge or dark red, while
others choose the lilac and white striped cordurettes, or
the pale green or yellow homespun striped with white.
Simple serge dresses have a well-shaped skirt of very
light weight, and a blazer to match, with large square
collar opening on a full gathered shirt front of aike-
dotted bine fonlard, with a turn-over collar, and a double
rufiie down the front. The newest shirt waists for such
skirts are of shot surah, with or without polka dots, while
other dainty blouses are of white India silk with flowered

the top of the corselet, and also finishes a fold or hem
turned up on the outside of the skirt, at the foot.

Gertie C.—Dust cloaks. for traveling are of the figured
mohairs or glossy alpacas, with smooth, dust-shedding

patterns. An edge of gold braid is sometimes added to |*

a

——

pemeny shape, are preferred
n

these circulars, with shirred
the waist line in the back.

silks make charming dresses for girls of all ages.
skirt and a baby waist, with puffs for sleeves, The

make rows of tiny parallel ruffles.
the neck, sleeves, and waist, and forms a pretty finish.

colors, are the goods usually selected, for tennis
which are made almost always with a blouse an
full skirt. A pretty effect is often obtained by makin

white flannel.

 

Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.
Social Aspirations.

the Four Hundred, isn’t he?”
Binks—‘“‘I don’t know. Why do you think so?’

living on his wife’s money.”
Identity Disclosed.

guise.”
De Club—“‘How do you know?”
De Poker—‘‘1 caught him cheating at cards.”

Had to Quit.

cipal-State-National-International Reform Club ?”
Resident—‘‘It has disbanded.”
“What happened ?”
“The president, treasurer, secretary, and board of
directors eloped with the funds.”
' Knew Thelr Traits.
Old Gentleman (in the park)—“‘What are you doing,
my little dear?’ :
Little Girl (with doll—“‘T am giving Dolly a
drink.” :
“Giving Dolly a drink, eh? But the water is run-
ning down all over her pretty dress.”
“Yes, she slobbers a good deal. All babies do.”
: Worthy of Support.
Mr. Greathead—“I shall run for re-election again
this fall, and I presume I will have your vote.”
Citizen (dubiously)—‘‘Well—I—dunno.”
“What! You don’t know? Why, sir, I saved the
tax-payers $500,000 this year.”
“Eh? How?’
“By not stealing it, of course.”
A Cheap Cow.
Stranger—“What do you value your white cow
at 9”
Farmer Furrow—‘She ain’t worth over $10. Taxing
cows this year?” ;
Stranger—‘“‘I am not the assessor. I am an official
of the Quick Time Railroad. Your cow was killed
this morning. Here's the $10. Good-day.”
Plenty of Water.
Thirsty Lady—Is there any water aboard ?”’
Captain (excursion boat)—“Only ’bout four feet,
mum; but please don't tell anybody.” —
A Dreary Prospect.
First Tramp (glancing over a bit of paper)—‘‘Say,
Mike, here’s a new socierty a startin’ up, ter furnish
work fer th’ idle.” n
Second Tramp—“Things is gettin’ so there ain’t no
comfort fer a gentleman nowhere.”
How They Act—Some of Them.
Guest—“T am amazed to hear you say that that
delicate and refined young lady is Miss Pert! I met
her at Fashion Groys#last summer, and thought her
the loudest, coarsest, commonest, most vulgarly
hoidenish creature I ever saw in my life.”
Hostess—‘“‘But that was in the country, you
know.” SL BR :
Did Him Injustice.
Mrs. Highup—“I donot believe that that gentle-
man whois so attentive to you is an English noble-
man at all.. He has a shrewd, wary look, which
seems to indicate that he has been in trade.”
Miss Highup—“‘Oh! you do him injustice.
comes from playing baccarat with the prince.”
A Use for Greenies.
First Reporter—‘‘How did the Daily Getthere ob-
tain a report of the Highup-Tiptop wedding? No re-
porters were admitted.”
Second Reporter—“They senta new man there,
and he looked so seared that all the attendants mis-
took him for the groom.” i :
A Neighborly Call.
Neighborly Caller—“How many children have you,
Mrs. Newcomer ?”
Mrs. Newcomer (just moved in)—“T wo.”
Neighborly Caller—“Only twot Dear me!
thought I heard about a dozen.”
Only Three.
Friend—“The gossips have formulated a regular
indictment against your character. They say you
were a terrible flirt while abroad. Do you plead

Zo

That

I

guilty ?” -

American Girl—“Y-e-s; to three counts.’’
Hard Lines.

Whiffers—‘“You look all worn out.”
Riffers—“I’m most dead. Had about forty letters
to write this afternoon.”
“Why didn’t you dictate them ?”’
“No typé-writer.”
“‘What’s become of her?”
“T married her.”’
“Get another.”
“Can't.”
“Why not?”
“Costs too much to live now.” —

The Latest Fad.
Mrs. Forundred—‘‘Marie, I see by the Society Weekly
that the latest fad among fashionable people is to be
domestic, and appear on the avenue in matronly
garb, behind baby carriages.”
Maid—‘‘Yes’m.”’
Mrs. Forundred—*Go at once to Pinkferns and
order me a costume suitable for that purpose. Then
stop at Spokeshave’s and order the most expensive
baby carriage they have. Next stopin at Madame
Makeuppe’s and tell her to send me an appropriate
complexion and suitable hair.”
Maid—“‘Yes’m, but the baby——”
Mrs. Forundred—“Order one.”

: All One.

He—“I never saw clothing so cheap as it is now.
Any man can dress like a gentleman.”
She—‘“‘Yes, indeed. So can the ladies.”

Methods and Results,
Traveler—‘‘When the grip spread through China,
the Chinese doctors marched through the streets
with drums and trumpets, trying to stop it.”
American Physician—“‘Ha, ha, ha! What hope-
lessly ignorant barbarians those Chinese are! Ha,
ha, ha!—ho, ho, ho! Funniest thing I’ve heard in a
long time.”

“Did you have the grip in this country ?”

“Yes, indeed. Everybody had it.”

“What did you do?”

“Everything that the profoundest researches and

latest discoveries of modern science could suggest.”
“Did that stop it %”

“N—o.”
“Neither did the drums and trumpets.”

s Heard in Boston. | : .
Mrs. De Hubb—“You say you paid only fifty cents

for those shirts. You shouldn’t have purchased them.

 

 

 

surface. They are made full, and are shirred into shape

You should not encourage those manufacturers.”
Mr. De Hubb—“Why not?’

?
by many gathered tucks around the neck, and cords or T
simple gathers at the waist line. The sleeves are very

large, with full frill at the wrists, or turned back cufts,
and there isa deep frilled collar. Full round cloaks, in
by some ladies, and pongees
gray and ecru, and dark blue surah, are employed for
yoke and rows of shirring at

Mrs. B. §., Birmingham, Ala,—Figured china and India
A very
attractive little dress, for a girl of six years, has a plain

ar-
niture is a species of ruching, about two inches wide,
made of the silk, laid in tucks, and gathered closely to
This is put on around

Madge, Portland, Ind._Summer serge and light-weight

flannels in white, blue, red, pink, and stripes of all these

owns,
plain

the dress of white, with a band on the skirt, and the col.
lar, cuffs, and belt of striped red and white or blue and

Jinks—“‘That fellow Winkers is trying to get into
Jinks—“‘He has given up business, and. has begun

De Poker—“‘That stranger is an English lord in dis-

Returned Traveler—‘‘What has become ef the Muni-

 

 

nae an
nee

they are a product of the perspiring system.”

cee

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

Two PICTURES.—Observant Son—“Papa, what a
splendid car! Look at the silver service and the
p met and velvet and curtains. Who are the men in

Papa—That’s the directors’ car, and the occupants
are having a regular jamboree.”
. 8.—And who’s that seedy old fellow eating hard-
boiled eggs and crackers in that emigrant car?”
Papa—“Oh! that’s only one of the heavy stock-
holders on his way to see why he doesn’t get any divi-
dends.”—Pitisburgh Bulletin.

A HORSE OF ANOTHER KIND.—“‘And Jones is
ruined ?”

“He is.”

“Betting on fast horses, I suppose ?”

“No; betting on slow ones.”—N. Y. Press.

THE TIRED WOMAN’S EPITAPH.

Here lies a poor woman who always was tired,
Who lived in a house where help was not hired.
Her pao words on earth were: ‘Dear friends, I am
oin

Where washing ain’t done, nor sweeping nor sewing;
But everything there is exact to my wishes,
For when they don’t eat there’sno washing of dishes.
I'll be where loud anthems will always be ringing,
But having no voice, I’ll get clear of the singing.
Don’t mourn for me now, don’t mourn for me never—
I’m going to do nothing forever and ever.”

N. ¥. Advertiser.

MERELY A SLIGHT DIFFERENCE OF OPINION.—“I
don’t meet you at Miss Svelte’s any more.”

“No; she and I have had a difference of opinion.”

“Nothing serious, I pope e

“Oh, no; only I thought I was the man she
to marry and she thought I wasn’t.”—Life.

THE SMALL Boy’s IDEA.—Two small boys on a
Pennsylvania avenue car were watching everything
and talking, as small boys do, when the conductor’s
whistle attracted them.

“Get on to the whistle,” said one.

“Yep,” said the other; “but what’s he got it tied
to a string for ?”

This was a poser fora minute, and then the little
one chirped:

“I know what for. It’s to keep hisself from swal-
lerin’ it."— Washingion Star.

A FarIR SHAKER,—Sageman.—“A remarkable girl is
that Miss Snapper. You know her pretty well; has
she any leaning in the direction of any particular
creed ?” ;
Bluntly.—“‘I can’t say definitely, but from the way
in which she disposed of my marital aspirations last
evening, [should say she was a re

ought

a Courier.
A Hasty ReEMARK.—He—“No; my music isn’t
good enough to publish.’ :
She—“But they publish a great deal of wretched
trash, you know.”—Harvard Lampoon. ae

OUT OF THE REACH OF ANNOYANCE.—Summer
Boarder—‘‘You told me last spring that you were
never annoyed by musquitoes here.” *

Mr. Haicede—‘‘ Wal, we hain’t. We’re used to ’em.”
Indianapolis Journal.

Mrs. Squiggs—‘‘Henry, that scarecrow down in that
field is so monotonous that it worries me, standing
still.” Mr. Squiggs—“Scarecrow! Maria, that’s the
hired man !’’—Detroit Free Press.
Early rising isn’t what itis credited with being.
Who or what rises earlier than the fly? And yet see
the confounded nuisance he makes of himself.”
Philadelphia Times.
“That actor is pretty prominent on the bill boards,”
remarked the guest at the hotel. “Yes, but very ob-
scure on the board bills,” replied the landlord.
Washington Post.
ou prefer charges
o, sir; I ee cash,
ht here for.” :
onkers Statesman.
De Beere—‘Your picture has one quality at least,
that of innocence.” De Smeere—“Innocence?”’ De
Beere—“Yes, it is so art-less.’”,—New York Telegram.
The reason some people “love at first sight” is be-
cause they don’t know each other then.
Columbus Post.

HE KEPT SCHOOL.

BY CALIFORNIE NED.

Judge—“I. understand that
against this man?’ Grocer—‘‘
and that’s what I had him brou

 

| “Mister! no ‘doubt you have all the larnin’
that’s required in a school-teacher. But it
wants more than larnin’ to make a chap able
to keep school in Cranberry Gulch! You'll
soon find that out if you try. We've had three
who tried it on. One lies there in the grave-
yard; another one lost an eye and left; the
last one opened school and left before noon-
time for the good of his health. He hasn’t
been back since. Now you’re of a slender
build, and all your larnin’ will only make it
the worse, for our young folks are rough, and
don’t stand no nonsense!”

This was what the trustee of that district
said to my friend Harry Flotee, when he made
application for the vacant position of teacher.

_ “Let me try. I know I am slender, but I am
tough, and I’ve a strong will!” said Harry.

“Jest as you like! There’s the school-house,
and I’ll have notice given if you want it done!”
at dor” r alll: ERaDky “And I'll t

ie o!” said H nee ‘ll open nex
Monday at 9 A. M.” ur

The notice was given, and there was a great
deal of excitement in the gulch, and all along
the Yuba flats. More than fifty young poone
of both sexes made an excuse to aca into the
tavern to get a sight of the fellow who thought
he could keep school in that district, and many
a eee glance fell on the slender form
and youthful face of the would-be teacher.

Eight o’clock Monday morning came, and
Harry Flotee went down to the school-house
oo the key in one hand anda yalise in the
other.

“All ready to slope if he finds we’re too much
for him!” said a cross-eyed, broad-shouldered
fellow of eighteen.

The school-house was unlocked and the new

folks went in to see what he was
though school was not called. ;
opened his valise and took out a 1
belt. Then, after buckling it around his
waist, he put three Colt’s navy revolvers there,
each of six barrels, and a bowie-knife eighteen
inches in the blade.
“Thunder! He means business!” muttered
the cross-eyed chap.
The new teacher now took out a square card,
about four inches each way, walked to the
other end of the school-house, and tacked it up
against the wall. Returning to his desk he
drew arevolver from his belt, and quick as
thought sent ball after ball in the card, till
there were six holes in a spot not much larger
than a silver dollar. - ‘Ns
By this time the school-house was half full
of large boys and girls. The little ones were
afraid to come in.
Then the teacher walked half way down the
room with the bowie knife in his hand, and
threw it with so true a hand that it stuck
quivering in the very center of the card.
He left it there, and put two more knives of
the same kind in his belt, and quietly reloaded
his yet smokin, pistol. '
“Ring the bell! I am about to o school !”
He spoke to the cross-eyed boy, the bully of
the or and that boy rang the bell without
a word.
“The scholars will take their seats.
school with
minutes later.
: The scholars sat down, silent, almost breath-
ess.
‘After the prayer the teacher cocked a revol-
ver, and walked down on the floor.
. “We will arrange the classes,” he said. “All
who can read, write, and spell will rise. Of
up. He escorted them to upper

them we will form the first class.”

Only six gt
seats. And then he began to examine the rest.
A whisper was heard bebind him. In a second
he wheeled, revolver in hand.
“No whispering allowed here!” he thundered
and for an instant his revolver lay on a level
with the cross-eyed boy’s head.
“T’ll not do so any more,” the bully.

going to do,

I open
prayer!” he said, sternly, five

 

Mrs. De Hubb—“You must know by the price that

teacher went to the desk. Some of the young},

wheh done they were well organized. Then
came recess. The teacher vent out, too, for
the room was crowded andclose. A
was _ circling overhead high in the air. The
teacher drew a revolver and the next second
that hawk came tumbling down the
wondering scholars. ‘ \ Sr
From that day on Harry kept'school for two
ears in Cran Gulch. His salary was dou-
led after the first quarter. Apd‘his pupils
learned to love as well as respect him, and the
revolvers went out of sight inside , month.
They had found a man at last who could

EXERCISE IS NECESSARY.
\ ie
‘Man and woman need exercise, aid if a
proper amount of exercise is not taken nit only ©
do the muscles become weak and flabby, but
the functions of every organ and the soundness
of every tissue must suffer. There is impe-fect

limination of waste matters, the muscles and
nternal or become ineumbered with sutfer-
fluous fat, the heart becomes weak, the lu1
are never thoroughly emptied, and gradually
lose their elasticity, appetite dwindles to van-
ishing point, digestion es imperfect,
often causin, yspepsia, and the joy an
brightness of health give p to incapacity fo
either work or “Pleasure, irritability, and \
“leaden-eyed despair.” particu- \
larly exercise is ne
for physical health. In violent movement in
the open air their superabundant ens finds
free vent; if pent up it is too likely to force a
way out in wrong directions. .

In the young

ite

Items of Interest,

An advertisement for a wife brought several an-
swers to the advertiser, a young gentleman of Tarentum,
Pa, Among them was one signed “Cora,” of Springdale:
The writer’s sentiments and chirography seemed to indi-
cate a young lady of refinement, regular correspondence
followed, and then the young man agreed to go to Spring-
dale and meet his ideal. They met at the railroad station
and started off together. Then a procession of two hun-
dred wags of the place followed the couple, and paralyzed
the young Lothario by stepping up in turn and inquiring
about the health of the bewitching “Cora.” It should
here be stated that “Cora” was personated by a smooth. |
faced young man, arrayed in his mother’s toggery. Lo-
thario soon realized that he was a victim of a practical
joke, and deserting the giggling “Cora,” he hurried to
the trainand started homeward. A telegraph operator
had prepared for his reception in Tarentum by sending a —
telegram thither; and when Lothario arrived there the
whole town had turned out in a body, to make exasperat-
ing inquiries about his conquest of ‘‘Cora.” / 4

After six months’ dickering about a: flat-house in
Ninety-seventh street, the owner and the prospective
purchaser could not come to terms; the owner wanted

floors became vacant, and the party who moved in|
ehanced to be a lover of the trombone. He played about
six hours a day. Two of the other tenants moved out,
and no one seemed fond enough of music to movein. The
owner was wild, and one day told the prospective pur-
chaser that he could have-the house at his figure. Sud.
denly the trombone playing ceased, and there are people
who suspect that the musician was an agent of the man
who subsequently bought the house. eee

Six young ladies, graduates of Rosemary Hall Sem-
inary, Wallingford, Conn., were contestants in a horse-
harnessing match, this being one of the commencement
exercises. The prize was a silver-mounted whip. The
harness lay on the ground, and the horses were led out
with nothing on them but halters. At the word “Start!’
the girls leaped forward and hurriedly began to harness
the animals. Miss Marion Hazard, of Providence, proved
herself the most expeditious; she harnessed her horse in
four minutes and a half. eis BA ts ae :
The danger of drinking in the dark is now well
understood by Benjamin Gilbert, of Garrison, N.Y. While
walking home at night, after a lodge meeting, he stopped
at a brook for a drink. The cooling beverage was passing
down his throat, causing a refreshing sensation, when
suddenly he felt something alive in his mouth. Before he

it is still alive in his stomach, as he can feel*it jumping
around. He thinks itis either afrogera snake. ©
Scientific French dairymen, who are too honest to”
water their milk after it comes from the cow, have hit
upon an expedient which enables the animal to perform
the adulteration. Their experiments have demonstrated
that when the cows drink warm water the yield of milk
is one-third greater than when the animals drink only _
cold water. The warmth most effectual is secured by _
combining equal parts of boiling and cold water. __

The Lick telescope reveals stars so small that at
least 30,000 of them would have to be in a cluster to make
them visible to the naked eye. Altogether, 10,000,000 of —

and each star, it is likely, is an immense sun, giving light
and heat toits own planets.

While Albert Wilcox, an aged resident of Bristol,
Conn., was pleasantly sleeping the other night, he was
aroused by a touch on his face. He saw on his pillow a
huge rat, which instantaneously sprang at his cheek and
sank its teeth so deeply in the flesh that the old man
fainted from fright. ‘

Several beautiful singing birds, which the seller |
called “Australian warblers,” were sold for one dollar
each, by alady in College Point, N. Y. After the lady had
left town the discovery was made that the warblers were
English sparrows, which had been artistically painted in
resplendent hues.

The sermon that was preached on a recent Sab-
bath in a Danielsonville (Conn.) church made William
Brown so tired and drowsy that he committed a breach of
decorum by opening his mouth to give utterance to a four- —
inch yawn. Instant punishment came to him; he dislo-
cated his jaw. :

The largest steel cannon ever made in this country _
has arrived at Sandy Hook, from the Watervliet Arsenal,
Troy, where it was forged. It is 440 inches long, weighs
fifty-two tons, and has a bore of twelve inches. It throws
a projectile weighing 1,000 pounds, and each charge will
cost $260. :

with a gas-meter, in some of the tenement houses of Bir.
mingham, England, secures a flow of gas for an hour:
and then the light {goes out. Another penny turns on
the gas again. - :

Washington, and for ten minutes securely held its occu-
pant ina tight embrace, standing on his head. When his —
screams brought assistance, he was almost unconscious.

Fifty ladies and gentlemen, and about two hundred
boys, attended the funeral of a favorite shepherd dog, —
named Frank, belonging to Col. J. B. Dodge, of Warsaw,
Ind. The dog met his death in a railroad accident. _
In 1868, Robert T. Barker, of New Bedford, Mass.,
read the Bible through. for the first time. Since that date
he has read it ninety-nine times. It usually takes him
two months to read it from beginning to end. i
A Connecticut man won a five-dollar wager by a
trick. He boasted that he could eat one hundred eggs in
an hour. When the money was staked, he ordered and
ate anicely cooked shad-roe. ,

near New Hartford, Iowa, are the parents of twenty-nine _
living children. The eldest is forty-nine, and the young.
est sixteen years of age. ie os

Theater-goers-in Berlin lately witnessed a tank
drama. On learning that the tank was filled with water,
they almost unanimously condemned the play. They
don’t like water. na Le $i)

A beard seven feet two inches long adorns the face
of Henry C. Cook, a tailor, of Norwich, Conn. It has been |
growing thirty years. His height is five feet six inches.

Telephones are put in the houses of Stockholm,
Sweden, at a rent of $2.75 a year each. For each call, how-
ever, there is a charge of 21-2 centsextra. _ oa

Mrs. Ellen Moore, of Williamsport, Pa., has been
an undertaker for over forty years, and during that time

 

 

“See you do not. Inever give a second warn-
ing,’ said the teacher, and the revolver fell.
t took two hours to organize the classes, but

It is said that the ape and the camel are

has buried 5,338 persons. : :
the only
quadrupeds which cannot swim. ~ ea oil

y

 

 

VOI, 46—No. 40,

hawk

keep school there. This isa fact. — ce

for moral as well as |

$5,000 more than the other would give. Then one ofthe |

could arrest its progress it had passed down, and he says |

stars are perceptible through this immense instrument; ‘

s

x

A penny, dropped in a slot machine connected |

A folding-bed closed with a snap the other night, in — :

Mr. and Mrs. Robert Packard, who resideonafarm _