* @erwt

~~ Read “SHE TRUSTED HIM,” in Book-Form, Sea and Shore Series No, 82, For Sale by all Newsdealers, -

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

USEPU

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1891. oy Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D, 0.

Enierea at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.

 

 

Vol. 46.

 

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

New York, June 20, 1891.

Three Dollars

Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

Per Year, No. 34,

 

 

OUR DECORATION DAY. !

 

BY FANNY J. CROSBY.

 

Again, with muffled drum and martial tread,
Where sleep the relics of the warrior dead,

Our hearts subdued as in the past, we bring

Sweet blushing flowers, the children of the spring;
Fair, innocent, and beautiful are they,

The purest tributes that our hearts can pay.

But hark, the memory bells with low, sad chime,
Now softly blending with the bells of time,

Awake in all the bitterness of woe

The stirring scenes of thirty years ago,

When Sumter’s fall with lightning speed was heard
Throughout the land, and every soul was stirred ;
When homes, were lonely, hearts were rent in twain,
When ranks went forth that ne’er returned again.
The clouds are gone, its thunders roll no more,
Peace, love, and union crown our happy shore ;
With all its stars the dear old flag we view,

And in the bonds of friendship strong and true
The boys in gray shake hands with those in blue.
Of our Grand Army few are here to-day ;

Oh! the many that have passed away—

Our veteran chieftains, where, oh? where are they ?
McClelland. Hancock, Sherman, Sheridan,
Garfield, and Grant, your fame was nobly won;
Never on earth shall set the golden sun

That flashes forth in clear, refulgent rays

Your peerless virtues and your well-earned praise.
Rest, heroes, rest, comrades, Chieftains brave,
Where summer winds the willow branches wave;
Rest calmly, rest amid the flowers that bloom
Like faithful watchers o’er each hallowed tomb;
Beyond the river whose dark billows hide

From us the glory of the other side,

To that great roll-call in the fields on high,

We trust you all have answered—here am I.

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Porm

 

 

VICTORINE;

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 last week.]

 

CHAPTER III.
“THE ROSERY.”

The working world of London is always up
and dressed, has even breakfasted and dined,
before the fashionable world of that great city
deigns to open its countless aristocratic eyes,
and acknowledge that its “morning” has be-
gun. To be visible before two or three P. M. |
is to write yourself down at once a member of
the governed rather than of the governing
class. To be sure the queen “walks on the
slopes” at Windsor or at Buckingham Palace,
as the case may be, each morning at six pre-
cisely ; and the dandy officers attached to the
Household Corps are obliged to turn out and
stand at the head of their regiments on “par-
ade” mornings when her majesty is in town at
what they must consider a most unearthly
hour; but as a general thing you will find
lords and ladies sleeping the sleep of the just
long after twelve meridian, and coming out at
five, six, and seven P. M. in their &arriages, or
on their thoroughbreds, looking most serenely

unconscious that half the rest of the world
have been toiling for their daily bread while
they have slumbered peacefully beneath cover-
lets of satin and eider-down, and dreamed of
the conquests, the sorrows, or the pleasures of
the night before.

The Marquis of Powerscourt was no exception
to this almost universal rule.

When alad at home, and a “Fourth form”
boy at Eton, he had had enough of early rising
to last him a life-time, he was wont to say,
with a merry laugh. He still shuddered at the
memory of the early “chapels” at Christ Church
College, Oxford, and was wont to lie luxuri-
ously on his pillow, and bless his stars that
the days of such discipline for him were forever
over. He could retire at any one of the “small
hours” that he thought proper now, and there
was nothing worse than a headache from the
aoe night’s champagne to rouse him the next

ay.
Consequently, on the night of the Star’s
debut, he went home late to his luxurious town
house, and gave his valet strict orders not to
wake him in the morning or come near him
till he rang.

It was half-past four, and the afternoon was
bright and ee as only an afternoon in June
can be, when the young marquis opened his
eyes after a long and. apparently sound slum-
ber, which had lasted for many hours—appa-
rently sound, I say; for, in fact, it had been
disturbed by some of those teasing and inex-

licable dreams which it seems mere childish

olly to notice seriously, yet which have the
power to take the pleasure and enjoyment
entirely out of the succeeding day.

The marquis yawned lazily, and seemed half
inclined to slumber again, as his violet blue
eyes turned, for a moment, toward the win-
dow, where the rays of the afternoon sun were
earefully excluded by blinds of rose-colored
silk. The silken hangings of his bed were of
the same bright hue, softened by clouds of
foam-like lace that were caught up above the
tent-shaped bed by an alJabaster hand—a
woman’s hand, fair, on und tinged with a
rosy shade by the waves of rosy silk it held.

Those violet blue eyes, looking carelessly up-
ward, rested on the lovely hand, And then a
deep blush stained the clear, pale face, and the

oung man leaned forward, and rang the bell
dealt that was to summon his valet.

He had just remembered his appointment at

\

MH,

dou

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

STAR, HIS HEAD UNCOVERED, HIS HEART IN HIS EYES!

 

 

to his mind, and dissipated his drowsiness as
with an electric touch.

Half an hour later he entered the tidy break-
fast-room, where a tempting repast was spread
out in readiness for his coming, and the morn-
ing papers and his letters were laid beside his

ate.

r Fresh from the perfumed bath and a careful
toilet, he looked radiantly handsome; his
chestnut hair brushed away in bright waves
from his square, massive forehead, and his
blue eyes all alight with the fire of expectation.

“Order my horse. I shall not require the at-
tendance of the groom. The horse at the door
in fifteen minutes,” he said to the valet, as he
glanced at his letters, drank a cup of coffee,
and dispatched a slice of toast.

He was too eager and too happy to eat. In
twenty minutes’ time he was mounted, and
dashing away in hot haste toward the modest
little house in Chelsea, where the fortunate and
famous manager lived.

Mr. Maxwell Moore was at home, and would
be very happy to receive the fame of Pow-
erscourt. So said the footman at t
thereupon the marquis, throwing his _horse’s
bridle to a street urchin, rushed up_ the steps
three at a time, and found his friend placidly
smoking his cigar in a little room at the top of
the house all strewed with books and papers—
a room that commanded an uninterrupted view
of the chimney pots of Brompton, Kensington,
and Chelsea for more than a mile.

“Good-day, my lord,” said the manager, ris-
ing and offering him a chair. “May I ask you
to join me in a cigar?”

“Thanks, no. I came to—to go with you to
The Rosery,” said the marquis, looking with
some surprise at the cigar and at the manager’s
free and easy costume of dressing gown and
slippers.

t was now Mr. Moore’s turn to stare.

“T beg your pardon, my lord,” he said, look-
ing as if he wished to laugh heartily, but dared
not. “LI really thought you had forgotten the
appointment or did not care to. keep it.”

“Pray what reason had you to think that?”
asked the young man, coldly.

“Why, Il waited for you two hours, my lord
—a thing I would have done for no other man
on earth, for time is money to me, and I can
afford to waste little of it. Two mortal hours,
my lord, did I sit here this morning waiting
and watching for you. You did not come, anc
so I went to The Rosery alone.”

The marquis laughed good-naturedly.

“My dear fellow, it is my turn to apologize.
When I said morning I meant now.”

“T see, my lord. But I am a working-man, as
you know. And my morning begins when—
when it ought to begin—if your lordship will
pardon the remark.”

The marquis laughed again. He had the
sunniest of tempers, and could take a joke as
freely as it was,given, even if it came from a
man who bore no “handle” to his name.

“And so you have already been to The Rosery,
while I was sleeping soundly.”

“That is just it, my lord. I was obliged to
go, co see, and my business could not be put
off for any man or woman either. I got there
at twelve exactly, and had the honor of taking
lunch with our fair debutante.”

 

 

 

The Rosery. The lovely little hand recalled it

“And I was asleep the while, like a besotted

1e door, and | ]
|of their pretty faces, and their little

 

owl, as Iam!” groaned the marquis. “How
did she look? Does she know the hit she has
made? I see the papers are full of it this morn-
ing, though I did not stop to read the articles
lest I should keep you waiting.”

“The papers are with her to a man,” cried
the manager, waving his cigar enthusiastically
in the air. “There has not been such a debut
since the days of Taglioni. I knew that moon-
light scene would fix them. And bless you,
when I got to The Rosery, my lord, of course I
found her pretty nose buried in the journals,
and she waved them above her head in this
way, and called out, ‘Raise my salary, sir,
upon the spot, or never approach me more!’
I’ve no doubt the little puss meant it, too,
though she called it all a jest. The best of
women are aS mercenary as Jews—bless them!
And with two nights more of such success I
shall have my lady down upon me as sharp as
you please, and there will be no peace between
us, till her salary is raised, I suppose. Well,
I can afford it, and perhaps ’tis any fair, after
all. But it is funny, my lord, to see how keen
they all are after the main chance, in spite

white hands that ought never to clutch
and grasp as they do after the yellow gold. If
women were not so stingy, and so covetous,
and so mercenary, my lord, what angels they
would be!”

The marquis listened, with a frown on his
fair, smooth brow. That careless speech dim-
med the fair presence of his idol in his mind,
although he knew it not, and laid the founda-
tion of a vague uneasiness and distrust, on
which he reared a fearful structure of guilt and
shame in after days.

The Star, then, was mercenary! Now, the
man or woman who is mercenary has a price,
and can be bought!

This was the evil thought that crossed the
young nobleman’s mind as he listened to his
Hient He put it from him with a shudder the
next instant. But the thought had been im-
planted in his mind, therefore he was doomed
to remember it with bitter anguish in future
and more unhappy days.

“ 7 - > ” g

You look serious, my lord,” said the man-
ager, after a long pause. “Sad, I should say,
if you were not just the most fortunate man in
her majesty’s dominions. But how can you
be sad? How can you have a single care?”

“True,” said the marquis, with a bitter smile.
“To be born to a coronet is to inherit with it a
certain privilege and immunity from all the
sorrows and evils that untitled humanity is
heir to.”

Mr. Moore shoved back his chair, laid down
his cigar, and looked at him earnestly.

“T beg your lordship’s pardon if I have said
anything wrong. I suppose a peer of the realm
may have his private griefs and worries as well
as a poor commoner like me. But your own
life seems to me so exactly like the realization
of the fairy tales I used to read in my “child-
hood that I may be forgiven if I thought it im-
possible that there should be even a crumpling
of the rose leaves on which you appear to lie.”

“The rose leaves are smooth enough, my good
fellow, for aught I know,” said the marquis,
hastily. “I have no sorrow, or care, no wish
unfulfilled, no hope destroyed. Even to myself
my life seems as it must seem to you and to all

 

who notice it—brilliant, beautiful, and well
worth the living in every conceivable way.
And yet you will laugh at me if I say that
there is a heavy weight upon my heart just
now. I do not know whence it comes or what
it means, but it is there. It is like a presenti-
ment of evil, and I feel that it will be ful-
filled !”

He stood beside the open window as he
spoke. and his deep blue eyes wandered over
the countless city roofs with a vague and mel-
ancholy gaze. he manager sat silent, regard-
ing him with a look of the most intense aston-
ishment. The marquis saw that look as he
turned, and smiled.

“Are you thinking me utterly mad, and won-
dene how you can best advise me to ride
quietly on to Hanwell or Colney Hatch, and
give myself up to the keepers there?” he asked.

a my lord,” said the manager, thought-

ully.

“What then?”

“IT was wondering what peculiar sympathy
could exist between a man in my position and
one in yours, that, under such different cir-
cumstances, the thoughts of the two should be
so precisely alike.”

The blue eyes of the marquis seemed to look
him through and through.

“You, too, have a presentiment of some com-
ing evil, Maxwell Moore.”

“T have, my lord.”

“Since when?”

The manager rose to his feet. He, too, was
a handsome man—tall, stately, blue-eyed, and
fair-haired. But he was more than forty years
of age. The or a was as yet a long way on
the sunny side of thirty, and beautiful as a
statue.

The two men looked at each other in silence.

A slight flush colored the pale cheek of the
marquis, and his blue eyes grew strangely
bright.

“Since when have you felt this singular pre-
sentiment?” he asked again.

And Maxwell Moore looked him straight in
the eyes without flinching, as he said, firmly:

“Since last evening, my lord.”

The marquis bent his head.

“We understand each other, I see.”

“T think so, my lord.”

“This feeling is connected in your mind with
a certain person?”

“Tt is, my lord ”

“A woman?”

“Yes, my lord.

“The Star!”

“The Star!”

Both were silent for afew moments. Then
the marquis said, gently:

“Tell me—let i Be perfectly frank with each
other in this business—tell me what first gave
rise to this feeling in your mind?”

“T cannot tell, my lord. So far as money is
concerned the Star is sure to prove a mine of
wealth to me. I do not mind owning this
frankly between ourselves, for I intend her to
have her share of the good fortune. And if I
didn’t the little gipsy would see that she had
her dues.”

Again the fair open brow of the marquis was
clouded over with a frown. Again an evil
voice seemed whispering in his ear that the
woman who was mercenary had a price and

{could be bought. And in London, among his
| own friends, there were so many who would be

willing to pay the price, however high it might
' be fixed, in her thirst and greed for gold.

“Maxwell Moore,” he said, suddenly, “I be-
lieve that we both have the same thought, as
well as the same eee in our minds.
May I trust you? May I speak frankly to you?
And will you trust me, and speak candidly to
me in return?”

The manager held out his hand.

“My lord, I have no title save that of an hon-
est man,” he said, simply. “I try to deserve
that title. Be candid as you please. I will re-
aha ina confidence, and give you mine in re-

urn.

The small white hand of the marquis closed
over his own with a fervent pressure, and the
two men felt that they were friends.

“You say that this feeling first rose in your
mind last evening?” said the young nobleman.
“What caused it? Think! You must be able
to give a reason if you try.”

“Well, my lord, till I met you I was full of
triumph and elation. For it really was a grand
success, and of course as a practical man I
looked forward to the results, and knew that I
should be all the richer for the romance of the
Shepherd and the Star. She is young and
beautiful, and her character is without a stain.
And I am a single man, my lord.”

“So in your dream of the future the Star
shone on you always, and on the Shepherd no
more,” said the marquis, quietly.

“Exactly, my lord. I thought when the for-
tune was realized by her help that she should
share it if she would. Of course, I meant all
that was honorable and right by her. I wanted
her for my wife, my lord,” and he looked at the
young man, with a grave and piercing glance.

“We may not beso far apart even there,
Moore. But go on.”

“Well, my lord, when we met, and I found
that it was you who had rescued the Star from
danger in the past, and when, at your request,
I gave up the supper party, and introduced
none of your friends to her, I did it all with-
out a thought, as I may say. I had to go back,
and put her into her carriage, and pay her com-
pliments on her success, and then I had to give
an eye to the after-piece—altogether it was
nearly three im the morning before I could look

uietly baek, and see what it all meant. And
‘then; tiny lord, niy “Heart Keemed to sink just
like a lump of lead.”

He paused. The marquis said nothing, but
looked steadily at the floor.

“T have not been the manager of a London
theater all these years for nothing, my lord.
I’ve seen the loveliest women go upon the stage
—lovely in character as well as in looks. And
I have seen some of them go quietly on in their

rofession, and make it the business of their

ives to do it honor rather than discredit. Such

women have married from the stage, my lord;
married into families as noble as your own,
and have made as good wives and mothers as a
man could wish to see. While others——”

He paused.

“Never mind them,” said the marquis. “But
answer me one question here, as man to man,
friend to friend, if you will! To which of these
two classes of women do you believe the Star
will in future belong?”

“My lord, it is for you tosay,” replied the
manager, and his voice was sadder than he
knew.

“For me!”

“She has talked of you so much, and so often,
since you rescued her from that furious horse,
in the park. I need not remind you, my lord,
that you are asingularly handsome man. Your
mirror and the eyes of women, high and low,
must have told you that long ago. if, as a sim-
ple gentleman, you have made so deep an im-
abt e upon that girl’s fancy—perhaps upon

er heart—what will the result be when you
visit her in your own proper character as a peer
of the realm, whom the highest lady in the
land might well be proud to win?”

Again he paused. But the marquis said
nothing.

“She is young and simple, and innocent, as I
believe,” Mr. Moore went on. “If you feel and
show an interest in her it is more than prob-
able that she may learn to love you. That
then, my lord?”

“Ay—what then?’. muttered the marquis,
with a moody air.

There was a long silence.

“Who is the girl?” asked the marquis at last.
“Be frank with me, Moore, and I will keep the
secret. I have heard all the gossips of the
town. But I want the truth.”

Again their eyes met.

“Tf she comes of an honest and respectable
family,” continued the marquis, “if she is good
and pure, if she remains so, in spite of all the
temptations that will assail her, then I will
make her Marchioness of Powerscourt, if she
will accept the title.”

The young man’s face lit up as he spoke.
The manager’s brow grew dark, and a sigh es-
caped from his lips.

“Then it’s all over with me, my lord, and I
may as well know it,” he said, frankly. “No
mortal woman could resist an offer of that
kind.”

“Nay—unless she loved me, I would not
make her my wife for a kingdom,” cried the
young man, earnestly.

“That is the worst of being a nobleman,” said
Mr. Moore, almost savagely. “As you have all
the good things of life with your title you
must be content to endure a little drawback of
this kind now and then without a murmur.”

The marquis looked at him a moment, and
then laid his hand upon his shoulder with a
friendly smile.

“Now, my dear Moore, we must not quarrel
over this business, let what will happen. We
seem to be strangely mixed up in it, but that
is the work of destiny, I fancy, and not our
own. I'll tell you how we can settle it fairly,
honorably to all concerned.”

“T listen, my lord.”

“No, you must first answer my questions.
Who is the girl? Is her family respectable,
and is she herself innocent and guileless?”

“My lord, she is the orphan child of a brick-
layer and his wife. She has been brought up
from infancy by her grandmother, who lives
with her now, who dotes on her, and who, I
suppose, has scarcely lost sight of her since she
was born. That fact answers your last ques-
tion. I believe her to be pure as the unsunned
lily, else I would not covet her for my wife, as
I most surely do.”

“Thanks, my dear friend. That we both love

 

 

 

 

 

=e

e

 
 

  

 

 

 

 

 

and would gladly marry her need not affect the

friendship that I hope will always exist be-
tween us.” ;

The manager shook his head, with a sigh. |

“My lord, when you come to my age you will
know and feel, as I do now, that two men who
love the same woman never yet were and never
can be friends.” ‘

“Nonsense! We will prove an exception to
the general rule: And now ,listen. . He who
wins the raee is the best fellow. We will both
do our best; and we will start fair.”

“That can never be, my lord, while you have
youth, and wealth, and beauty, and a coronet,
on your side.” | S

The marquis laughed and blushed like a girl.

“My dear fellow, the, léss said about the
beauty the better, and women rarely admire
youth for its own sake till they are growing
old themselves.” ;

“How do you Know that, my lord?”

“At least I have heard so.”

“And the coronet?”

“Hide it out of sight.”

“The fortune?”

“Let it be as if it were not.”

“T do not understand your meaning, my lord.”

“Introduce me to—by the..way, is her real
name Pelwyn?”

“Victorine Pelwyn, my lord.”

“Call me, then, by my mother’smame. °Call
me Mr. Strongway, and let her think me noth-
ing more than a merchant’s—no, a lawyer’s
clerk. Tell her I. am _ poor, and of humble
birth. Then, at JTast, the prestige of wealth
and position will be with you.”

Was there any unspoken thought in his-own
mind.as he made this proposition? Did he say
to himself that if the lovely Victorine was in-
deed “mercenary” she would not hesitate in
choosing the wealthy and powerful manager
rather than the poor and obscure clerk, who
could only offer his heart and hand, and the
humblest. of homes for her acceptance? Did
the evil voice still whisper in his ear that if
that fair creature was, indeed, to be bought it
was better that another man should pay the
price,.and reap the reward than he?

If so, and if he listened to his evil voice, and
was guided by its teachings in the days and
weeks that ensued, then was he false alike to
his friend and to his love; and justly did he
deserve any punishment that might befall the
heart whose passion was not pure enough for
perfect faith and trust.

The manager stood by the window silently
considering this strange proposal.

“Is it a bargain between. us?” asked the mar-
quis, with a smile.

“Tf you say so, my lord. But I dislike the
plan,”

“ Wh g””

“In the first place, if you will pardon me for
saying so, I disapprove of all attempts to turn
life—real life—into a three-volume novel.”

“Oh! you go in then for this ‘Life is real, life
is earnest,’ style of business,” replied the mar-
quis, gayly.

The manager looked grave.

“The ‘Lord of Burleigh’ business never did
answer yet somehow, my lord.”

“Not in the poem, my good fellow?” t

“No, my leit If you remember, the humbly
born Lady of Burleigh found the weight of that
honor which was thrust upon her far too heavy
to be borne, and so she died.”

“That showed that she was really not worthy
of the place. My lovely Victorine will have
more good sense. But stay, she is not my Vic-
torine yet.”

“No, my lord.”

“Nor yours either, my dear boy,” was the
mischievous reply. “Well, will you go with
me to The Rosery?”

The manager. hesitated, and glanced at his
watch.

“T have very little time to spare, my lord.
Still, to oblige you-——”

“Stay,” cried the marquis. “Is there no
errand on which you can send me? My appear-
ance will not seem premeditated then.”

“A lawyer’s clerk would scarcely spare the
time to do the bidding of the manager of a
theater,” was the reply.

“Hang it, man; what éan I be, then?” cried
the marquis, impatiently.

“Take my advice, ay lord, and be nothing
more nor less than the Marquis of Powerscourt.”

“And win a wife by my fortune and my
rank! I might do that any day in society, my
dear fellow. No; 1. will meet her as a poor
man or not at all. And if you do not give me
an errand I will manufacture one, and credit it
to you.”

“Very well, my lord. If willful must, will-
ful may, as the old proverb has it. You will
oblige me by giving this to Miss Pelwyn. Ib
is the cast of a,new play; adapted from the
French, which I promised to take to her. to-
morrow. I suppose I may as well give it to
you, and with it resign all my hopes of the
bright future she was to share with me.”

““Nay—who knows? You may prove the vic-
tor yet. I am a thousand times obliged to you.
Remember I am only Ellis Strongway in future
to you and to her. Au revoir,” and with a
merry laugh the marquis having gained his
point, ran down the stairs, vaulted into the
saddle, and rewarding his temporary groom
with the gift of half a crown, rode at full
s ond in the direction of the Old Brompton

oad.

The manager glanced after him through the
open window with a sigh as he turned his
horse’s head that way.

“There goes my last chance of winning a for-
tune in a wife!” he said, aloud. “As if any
woman could resist those eyes, that voice!
Plague take the fellow! Why couldn’t he stick
to his legitimate prey among the petted dar-
lings of Wa own class, and leave the Star to
me? Well, it is all over in that quarter now.
And so I'll dress and run into town, and get
the theater open, and stick to, business in
future, and let all women, whether stars or
seraphs, go!”

While the poor manager was thus philoso-
phizing the young marquis rode at a _ gallo
down the long green lane, ornamented wit
high brick walls and drooping trees on either
side, that is known to the denizens of the West
End by the name of the Old Brompton Road.

His heart beat high with expectation. For
the moment all doubt and suspicion were put
away. He was simply an eager-hearted youth,
going to seek his lady love, and never dream-
ing but that he should. find in her that ideal
wife, toward whom his loving fancy had so
often turned in his hour of solitude.

“She shall love and marry me as Ellis
Strongway only if at all,” he mused, as his
black horse fled along the dusty road. “Max-
well Moore will keep the secret, and I will even
take her on our honeymoon journey as a poor
man. We will spend a week or two in some
humble country inn, or cottage, and live as
poor people really do. And then we will go
abroad. I’ll take my darling to France——”

He checked his horse so suddenly as to throw
him on his haunches.

To France!

The bright color fled from his cheek, anda
cold hand seemed laid upon the eager pulses of
his happy heart.

To France! Who lived in France? Whom
would he meet there?

Well might he pause and reflect, his horse
walking slowly, but champing proudly at the
bit the while.

Well might the fair head of his noble master
sink upon his breast and the violet blue eyes
seek the ground in unwelcome and uneasy
thought !

Who. lived in France? ~

Far away, among the sunny hills of Lan-
guedoc, where the vintage was fast purpling
now in the hot rays of the summer sun, rose
the steep, pointed roofs of the Chateau Mont-
pelier, where his infancy and babyhood and
youth had been spent. He was aman now,
and many years seemed to have passed over his
head since the gray old. chateau had been his
home. And yet was it six months or only
three since he had paid a flying visit there—
since he had strayed through the ancient gar-
den, with. a little white hand, ungloved and
glittering with gems, resting on'his arm? How
long was. it. since in that moonlit glade he had
lingered to listen to the nightingale and looked
fondly the while on the beautiful, proud face of
the stately girl who listened, too? What mem-

as ws a a? e “'
; 7 ‘

ory of a kiss was that, which ‘burned upon his
lips? Only a cousin’s’ kiss, given at parting
beneath the porch of the old chateau, Nays
had it not been to the nobly born and carefully
bred lady who gave it a tacit pledge of her be-
trothal to the man she loved? Never would
the lips of the Lady Mary Royallieu have rested
on his own had she not believed him to be
really hers, and true as she was true.

No. word: of.-betrothal had passed between
them. So far as any written or spoken pledge
existed, hé was free as air. But what of the
chain which honor and the duty and allegiance
owed to one of his own proud house had east
about him? What of the life-long hope which
his aunt, whe had been a mother to him, when
left motherless, had cherished and almost
openly avowed-—the hope that her daughter
might one day dwell in her dead sister’s home,
anh fill that sister’s place?

Lastly, what of the love which, with all her

| pride; they Lady Mary had been unable to con-

ceal? It had looked upon him from _ every
xlance of her dark-gray eyes, it had brightened
1is daily life in a thousand little graceful,
thoughtful ways, it had thrilled him to the
heart in thatone remembered kiss. He had
gloried in that. knowledge till now. He had
looked forward calmly, yet happily, to the.hour
which should unite him to his cousin forever—
till this day!

And now what was he about to do?

To cast aside, it may be, forever, that pure
and placid love; to enter another woman’s
home, under a false seeming and a disguised
name; to?/win that woman’s heart also, if he
could, and then——

What then?

Could he be false to Lady Mary, and break
her heart, and disappoint the earnest love of
years? Was he prepared to sacrifice every fam-
ily tie that now brightened his existence for
the sake of this fatal stranger, whom he had
seen but twice? Was the daughter of a brick-
layer to usurp the place which no one except
the Lady Mary Royallieu ought by right to fill?

These were searching questions, indeed. The
young man knew not how to answer them. He

ung his head upon his breast, and let the
bridle rein fall upon his horse’s neck,

“Ought I to turn back even now?” he said to
himself.

And all the while the black horse drew nearer
and nearer an arched gate set deep in a high
garden wall. Over the gate was painted the
name of the house.

“The Rosery.” :

The marquis said the two words. He saw
the heavy wooden gate, with its wire wicket
for letters and parcels; he saw the roses climb-
ing over the wall, and the gable roof of the
cottage peeping out beneath the trees.

“Tt is not too late to turn back even yet,” he
murmured to himself.

And, oh, the strength of the decrees of Fate!

Who can resist them—who would care to try?

“Tt is not too late,” said the young man.

And all the while his violet ep eyes turned
eagerly toward the garden and the house, all
the while the black horse: drew nearer and
nearer to the gate.

The steed stopped.

Was it of his own accord? Or had the impa-
tient hand lying on the loose rein given the
impulse which the docile animal obeyed.

Who shall say?

For, at that moment, a lady came walking
slowly down the lane toward the house, and a
little King Charles spaniel came barking and
leaping around her feet—a lady fair and young,
with golden hair.and deep.blue eyes, and a
face as lovely as a poet’s dream.

She glanced up with a wondering look at the
black steed and its rider. ~

In an instant the young man was out of the
saddle, his head uncovered in reverence before
the Star.

“My name is Strongway, madam,” he said,
with a deep blush. “I call on the part of Mr.
Maxwell Moore, who desired me to place this
packet in your hands.”

A tiny hand, cased in a gray kid glove, took
the book, and the blue eyes rested on its pages.
He looked at her with his heart in his eyes.

She wore a gray silk dress and a mantie of
black lace. Her hat was of black lace also, and
on its brim rested a bewildering little knot of
violets—artificial flowers, of course, but look-
ing as fresh and sweet as if just gathered from
their meadow bed. Simple and grave as was
the attire it suited her, and enhanced her fair
Saxon beauty in the most wonderful way.

“Will youcome in, Mr. Strongway? I should
like to send a note to Mr. Moore, as I may not
see him at the theater to-night. Ring, if you
pica ong. and the servant will take charge of your

orse.”

So spoke the sweet, clear, youthful voice.

The marquis rang. A gruff-looking, elderly
servant came to the gate, and at a word from
his young mistress stepped out to hold the
horse.

“Enter, sir,” said the Star.

And searcely knowing if he was on earth or
not the marquis obeyed.

The gate closed behind them.

The surly looking servant and the little Kin
Charles remained in the lane with the blac
horse.

And then a strange thing happened. An
elderly woman, plainly dressed, with sharp,
black eyes and a thin, sallow face, came out
from an angle of the lane, and passed down by
The Rosery gate.

“A beautiful horse, sir!” she said, with a
friendly nod to the servant. “Who owns it?”

“A. Mr. Strongway,” was the surly reply.
And then the man turned his back on her, as
if to signify his distaste for further conversa-
ion.

The woman walked away.

“Mr. Strongway!” she murmured to _ herself,
with asneer. ‘“ Yes; I had better wait here a
little, and see what ‘Mr. Strongway’ happens
to be about.”

There was a baker’s shop near the head of
the lane. The woman went in there, and
ordering abun sat down to eat it. But. she
never turned her eyes away from the door by
which “Mr. SNE We must pass on his re-
turn to Powerscourt Hall.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
eo

THE SURINAM TOAD. .

 

 

The toad of Surinam is very remarkable in
one respect. It first awakes to life while on its
mother’s back. When the eggs are laid the
male takes them in his broad paws and con-
trives to place them on the back of its mate,

where they adhere by means of a glutinous se-
cretion, and by degrees become imbedded in a
series of curious cells formed for them in the
skin. When the process is completed the cells
are closed by a kind of membrane, and the
back of the female toad bears a strong resem-
blance to a piece of dark honeycomb, when the
cells are filled and closed. ere the eggs are
hatched, and in these strange receptacles the
young pass through their first stages of life,
not emerging until they have attained their
limbs and can move about on the ground.
Over one hundred and twenty eggs have been
en upon the back of a single Surinam
toad.

These toads, although quite clegusving in ap-

earance, are used as food by the natives of

urinam, a,

—> or

AN UNDERGROUND CANAL.

 

There is a remarkable canal between Worsley
and St. Helen’s in the north of England. It is

sixteen miles long, and underground from end
to end. In Lancashire the coal mines are very
extensive, half the country being undermined.
Many years ago the managers of the mines
thereabout thought they could save Bory by
transporting the coal underground instead of
on the surface; therefore the canal was con-
structed, and the mines connected and drained
at the same time. Ordinary canal boats are
used, the power being furnished by men. The
tunnel arch over the canal is provided with
cross-pieces, and the men who do the work of
propulsion. lie on their backs on. the loads of

 

coal, and push with their feet against the
cross-bars of the roof.

. ae in

‘

a
os

THE LITTLE WINTER GRAVE.

 

BY SHELDON CHADWICK.

 

Our baby lies under the snow, sweet wife,
Our baby lies under the snow,

Outin the dark with the night,

~ While the winds so loudly blow.

Asa dead saint thou art pale;sweet. wife,
And the eross is o1 thy breast ;

Oh, the snow ho more gan chill,
hat little dove in its nest,

Shall we shut the baby out, sweet wife,
While the chilling winds do blow?

Oh, the grave is now its bed,
And its coverlid is snow.

Oh, our merry bird is snared, sweet wife;
That a rain of musi¢ gave,

And the snow falls on 6ur hearts,
And our hearts are each a grave,

Oh, it was the lamp of our lifé, sweet wife,
Blown out in anight of gloom ;

A leaf from our flower of love,
Nipped in its fresh spring bloom,

But the lamp will shine above, sweet wife,
And the leaf agnin shall grow,

Where there are no bitter winds,
And 10 dreary, dreary snow.

—_—_— 8S

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

PRAGEING HME DOW

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,” Ete.

 

i

 

 

 

 

 

(‘‘ DRAGGING HIM DOWN” was commenced in No, 29.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents, ]

CHAPTER VIII.—ConrTiInvEpb.

“Tt is you, Jim?” she said, listlessly, as she
closed the door behind her. “What is it you
want of me now?”

“He has come back, Lu. And he wants you
to leave here at once. He said you could give
any excuse you have a mind to only not to lisp
a word about him.”

“To leave here! When—how?” gasped Iu,
catching hold of the door-knob to steady her-
self.

“This yery week. We're going off, all of
us, toa new place. <A great deal better times
than we’ve ever known are before us. You’ll
be a lady, Lu.”

“T don’t want to be a lady; I don’t want to
leave this place, Jim Darke. You both know
it,” she cried, passionately.

“But you must. He’ll be awful fierce if you
make any fuss, Lu. Now, don’t you, there’s a
dear! Why, Lu, I’ll be as good as the day is
long, and I tell yea I'll make a lady of. you.
We'll all be grand people, and have a splendid
house, and i our carriage. We'll have new

names, too, and drop all this that troubles you.
You hadn’t thought of that now, had you,

 

sweetheart?” . <e
“He sends for me to fulfill his
marry you—is that it? S$ the truth, Jim

Darke; it is the best way for you to deal with
me.”

“Why, yes, of course, that is one reason.
How fierce you can be for such a gentle little
thing!” ; a. ;

“ft must see him myself. I must talk with
him before I make any move about leaving
these good friends,” she said, slowly, with that
stern, decisive tone of voice she almost always
used in speaking of Jim Darke.

“IT told him Iknew you’d insist on. that.
He’s around the corner there. I'll ‘just call

im,

And he darted away, returning in a moment
with another figure, which swung itself. along
with angry strides.

“Yes, it is he. Heis not dead—I knew it
couldn’t be,” muttered Lu, pressing both hands
against her heart.

“What is all this folly?” demanded the sar-
castic, well-known voice. “How long since it
was the rule for a daughter to refuse to hear
her father’s commands?”

“My father is reported dead. He has always
been dead toa father’s affection,” said Lu,
sternly. “I want to hear from your own lips
what you have laid out for me.”

“To come into a brilliant fortune for one
thing, miss. Have you any objection to that?”

“T would rather be a slave here with these
good people, and share only a crust and cup of
water with -them,’” was the _ fierce retort.
“That much for the fortune. What else?”

“A saucy minx! it is time, indeed, you left
this place. What else? Why, you are to marry
Jim, as I promised him, and a much better
husband he’ll make than you deserve.”

She clutched her hand upon his arm, while
she pleaded with him in a new voice of piteous
entreaty.

“Father, hear me this once. I have risked
everything for you. I have patiently handed
over my earnings to you. Have I not some
claim on your compassion? I abhor, I detest
Jim Darke. It makes my flesh creep and my
heart stand still only to feel his eyes upon me.
I am afraid of him. I almost think I would
kill myself before I would marry him. AndI
am not old enough to marry. Why, father, if
I were your authority would end. I am only
sixteen, and a poor little creature at my best.
Hear me, father; give up this plan, and I
will work for you. Oh, how patiently I will
work——”

And here a great sob choked off the words.

The hard heart of the man never thrilled be-
neath this touching appeal.

“A parcel of trash!” he muttered, angrily;
“you don’t know what you are talking about.
I have promised Jim, and Ishall keep my word.
You must leave this place to-morrow.”

She drew herself up slowly, despairingly,
conscious of the uselessness of seeking to soften
his Paapere-

“And what if I refuse? What if I appeal to
them to protect me against you?”

He ground out a wicked oath.

“The law gives you to my control. You im-

udent hussy, do you think to begin now at
a atiihe: me?”

“T think the law knows no such man as you.
It has annulled. all your claims. You would
not dare appeal to it, because it would take

ou back there to the prison,” she cried,

oarsely.

“As it would take you, too, my dainty miss!
What penalty does it offer, do you think, for
helping a prisoner to escape? How would your
psalm-singing friends look at you if they knew
it? Besides there is another count against
you. Have you forgotten the counterfeit bill
you passed?’

“Cruel ! cruel !’ she cried, passionately.
“You cheated me into believing it good. I was
innocent of all wrong.”

“Who would believe it if Jim and I told our

you but to obey me

“Woe is me!” burst from poor Lu.

“Some one is coming down the alley,” whis-
pered Jim.

“Quick!” hissed Nicholas Grimme, seizing
her arm with such a vise-like grasp that the
blood settled under his fingers. ‘Promise that
you will obey me.”

“Yes,” cried Lu, hoarsely.
to leave them.”

“To-morrow ?”

“Yes; to-morrow,” she

And as he released his
fled back into the house.

When Mrs. Conant came to look in upon her

“T will promise

oaned.
old she turned, and

 

story? I tell you, girl, there is no choice for|n

sd = : ant

pA, Aw 7 t "Tee

«04 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =>

she found Lulie kneeling beside her bed with

her arms flung up over the plilow. The white,

ieee face that turned at her call startled
e

¥,
“My dear child, such rey does not calm
ou. Go to your bed and try to sleep. I must
elieve it is physical exhaustion, after all, that
so strangely affects you.”

“Mrs. Conant, are the Commandments all
binding? Must we obey them all, every one?”
asked the girl, wildly. .

“A strange question, Of course they must,”
answered Mrs. Conant, not in the least sus-
pecting the intense earnestness of the question.

The weary head eee low again.

“IT will go to bed. Don’t stay any ‘longer,
Mrs. Conant,” she said, faintly.

And Mrs. Conant, believing it wisest to, leave
her to calm down in solitude, laid her hand in
silent benediction upon the bowed head, and
said, “Good-night, my child, I will pray for
you,” and left her.

In the morning the room was empty, the bed
unpressed. Lulie was gone!

 

CHAPTER IX.
COMPANIONS IN SORROW.

While one child was planning a desperaté
escape from an unnatural father’s clutches, an-
other was stealthily plotting to return to hers.

All the silent repressed passion of her morbid
nature had fed upon the one hope.of winning
her father’s love and respect, and it was very
hard for Eleanor Wellington to relinquish the
idea. Itseemed very cruel for her to be torn
away from the only opportunity for success.
And no other achievement, however dazzling,
had any interest or attraction in her eyes.

Her devotion to her father—and such a father
—was very perplexing and incomprehensible to
Mrs. Pendexter.

“There,” said that lady, in a tone of quiet au-
thority, after they returned from their unsuc-
cessful visit, “I hope this will cure you, El-
eanor, of any false hopes, and that you will try

to be happy in the far nobler lot appointed to
you. At all events let us hear no more about
that man.”

Eleanor sighed, but kept meek silence. She
could not have explained to any one, had she
desired it, the true state of her yearnings, nor
the cause of her deep-seated, vague, perhaps,
and yet strong loyalty to the father who was
her hero still.

Dorothy might have done better had she only
been permitted to enlighten Mrs. Pendexter.

“Bless her little heart. I understand just
how she feels,” said that worthy, when she
was relating the circumstances of Eleanor’s
visit to her own people. “Folks as don’t know
the master’s ways, nor Nellie’s little tender
heart, may make it out strange. But it’s all
plain enough tome. For itis true enough that
the master always does put on grand ways, and
judging by his own manners, you’d think him
the great Mogul. Why, I jump and run my-
self when he calls, as ifhe had the right to
order me around like a bound slave. e al-
ways did have a smart way of talking. You’d
think he knew more’n the priests ancl bishops
themselves, and deserved a_ better living.
Eleanor believes every word of it. She thinks
he’s the best, and knowingest, and most abused
gentleman about. Now that’s the truth of the
whole.”

It was something near it, certainly.

Eleanor had learned from the eartibat dawn
of intelligence to look upon her father as a be-
ing of singularly rare endowments, of profound
wisdom, of superlative importance, and what
more closely touched the child’s sympathy, and
roused a morbid hero-worshiping spirit, as a
creature who was cruelly marked by fate. The
prizes he deserved and fairly earned were con-
stantly being snatched from his reach; his
dearest hopes were inevitably defeated. His

and success was forever thwarted by some
jealous enemy. How often she had brightened
the somber dullness of her life by the air cas-
tles she had built, into whose golden doors it
was to be her blessed privilege to lead him at
last, crowned with the proud fruition of his
hopes. How often she had portrayed his as-
tonished delight*when the useless little Eleanor
had, in some fairy-dream vision, laid a golden
fortune at his feet, and declared it had ‘only
been won for love of him.

He’d think that it was her hand that had
snatched away the real, tangible prosperity
that would have accompanied Fairslope.

No, Eleanor did not blame her father as Mrs.
Pendexter did. She made a dozen extenuating
pleas for him, and said them over and over
again. She assured herself that it was natural
for him to blame her and that he would forgive
her, if he could only be able to understand how
grieved she was, and how determined to have
nothing to do with the fortune which ought to
have been his or Dick’s. It amounted to the
=e thing, for whatever he had he gave to
Dick.

And so Eleanor made her plans anew. She
watched her chance, and soon found it, for her
new friends were entirely unsuspicious of her
design, it being a tolerably rare occurrence
that an heiress runs away from a fine fortune.

Mrs. Pendexter had a severe headache, and
retired early a short time after the girl’s mind
had fixed upon its plan, and the occasion was
promptly improved. Eleanor offered such at-
tentions as that lady needed, and then quietly
withdrew to her own apartment, saying to the
maid that she did. not wish her services any
more that night.

Once safe from observing eyes, she hastily
dressed herself in the plainest, simplest cos-
tume provided for her, glided into the corridor,
down the wide staircase, through the private

Wirt uty at ft

How nimbly she crossed the dirty flagstones,
and set her feet triumphantly upon the ricket
steps, and pushed open the door, on the late
for its numberless lodgers, and went up, steady-
ing her basket carefully, until at the top she

met the broad, stumpy figure.
“You needn’t Box Dorot iy... l’vegot the milk

and the supper.” | Shéspoke quié¢kly,; marveling
at the calmness of her-own voice. :

~ The hon saints! Miss—Nell—is it you?”
ejaculated Dorothy, turning her head around
with a frightened gesture that plainly betrayed
who was there already on the other side of the
wall,

Eleanor’s heart gaye one great thump, and
then all her being seemed steadied beneath the
great deteymination of her brave hope. She

ushed by Dorothy gently. She went into the

itchen door, but passed. through to the other
room, basket in hand. He was poring over a
newspaper by an ill-trimmed lamp. Gas had
grown too costly.” He never Wend up, taking
it for granted it wapilbtroths =. ae, \

Eleanor stood ‘arr instant ‘hesitating. How
dingy and forlorn the place looked, far worse
than it used to, she was sure. Poor Dorothy
had never the faculty of brightening anything
by afew womanly touches of taste or tact.

ad her- father missed) anything? She fancied
he looked worn and haggard.

Her mind swiftly settled upon its plan. She
set down the basket, and threw off her hat
and jacket. She opened the leaves of the table,
found the cloth, spread the table carefully, set
her pie into a place of honor, and the oysters
before it. Then she slipped out into the kitchen
with the muffins, and toasted them, carefully
and poured the water upon the tea, and carri
all to the table. Still he had not looked up.

Where was Dick? Eleanor stole softly out to
ead who was waitin tremblingly outside,

“Is Dick coming home, Dorothy?” she asked,
in a whisper. “Will he be here to supper?”

“I can’t say. You poor thing, what pos-
sesses you to come back to this miserable
house? Mr. Dick is getting into bad ways,
I’m afraid, and I know it worries the master.

night.” HAD

“Go and call him to supper; it is all ready,”
commanded Eleanor, and sat down outside the
kitchen door, while the bewildered Dorothy
obeyed.

She heard him rise, fling down the paper,
and with a dreary sigh cross the room, How
familiar it sounded, that firm, strong step!

“What extravagance is this? Dorothy, have
you lost your senses?” he cried, angrily, the
next moment.

“It is a present, sir; it was all sent in,”
stammered Dorothy. Pa

“Humph! that makes a difference. A very
acceptable present. You couldn’t set out a
eer eae every night from the same source,
could you?”

How bitter his laugh sounded !

Presently he spoke again, and in a softer
voice.

“Be sure you save some of these rolls and
oysters for Dick, and we won’t touch the pie
at all to-night. You know how fond he is of
cranberry pie. Poor Dick!”

Would he ever say r Eleanor in that ten-
der, doting tone?: The tears came stealin
down her face at the simple question asked
mentally. Her high courage was oozing anny
she feared. She longed for the supper to be
ended, but she would not interrupt it. He
should enjoy that without being fretted by the
knowledge that she had brought it. He lin-
gered unusually long. He was a man of nat-
urally fastidious taste. Perhaps he enjoyed
the neatness and order of the table as much as
the little luxuries of the food. But it wasa
welcome sound to Eleanor when she heard the
chair pushed back. A match was already in
her clammy fingers. She rose swiftly, that her
courage might not give out before retreat was
made impossible, and was in the room before
he had fairly risen,

 

 

 

 

 

entrance out under the starlight, into the flar-
ing lights and shadows of the lighted streets.
A earriage stood at the corner, a_ public con-
veyance as she had taken note. She put her
fare into the man’s hand, gave her directions,
and stepped in, trying to assume an indiffer-
ent, dignified manner, while her heart was
throbbing suffocatingly.

He could not see her face, for the thick vail
she had thrown over it, and he happened to be
a stolid, matter-of-fact fellow, with very little
curiosity and no imagination. His’ business
was to obtain fares, and he was glad to obtain
one so late for the day, and so early for the
night. He drove the horses briskly, and
|promptly drew up when the check-rein di-

rected.

“Tf you please, I will stop here at the cor-
ner,” said an eager, tremulous voice. “I don’t
care to drive to the door, for I mean to surprise
them,”

“Yes’m, certainly,” returned the honest Jehu,
and thought nothing strange of the request.

And his passenger slipped down, crossed
hastily to the sidewalk, and disappeared. He
turned about and drove back to his stand.

Eleanor, all eager expectation—for, singularly
enough, she had worked herself into such an
ecstatic confidence in the effect of her volun-
tary return free from any of the Fairslope ap-
pendages, that she had no fear of failure—trip-
ped lightly along the pavement, and went in
finally to the little bread shop where Dorothy
bought the rolls and the milk.

She threw up her vail carelessly, and smiled
pleasantly at the old woman’s start of surprise.

“Bless my heart, Nel—Miss Wellington !” ex-
claimed the latter, for, of course, the wonder-
ful story of poor, neglected, little Nelly comin
into a great fortune had not failed to reach al
the old neighbors. “Have you come back?”

“Yes, Mrs. Noggin, I’ve come back for good,

I hope. Has Dorothy been for the milk to-
night?”
“No, miss. There’s her pint now.”

oo wonder was she going to have muffins to-
ight?”

ey doubt it. They haven’t had muffins for a
long time.”

“They shall to-night. Let. me see; it would
be father’s late night, and their supper won’t
be for half an hour yet. Give me some muffins,
Mrs. Noggin, and—let me see—a quart of oys-
ters, and one of the best cranberry pies. And
pack them all in a basket, please, and I’ll take
them. before Dorothy comes.”

How glad and eager her voice was? Her
hands trembled with joyous anticipation as she
grasped the basket and set forth, dodging the
eee of urchins that were always there, she

lieved, day and night, playing marbles or
jackstones.

 

“Here is a match, father, anda cigar instead
of a pipe, if you will have it.”

What a livid hue came rushing into his face!
How his. eyes flamed out of the previous pas-
sive satisfaction into fiery rage. & Wore 23

“What! what!” he said, sternly; “you here
again? Dorothy, how dare you disobey my
commands in this fashion?” |

“It is not Dorothy’s fault, father... She knew
nothing about it. Iran away from them. I
have come back to live with you. Oh, father,
believe me I would give everything to you if I
could ; and, since I can’t, I will have none of

“What sorry farce is this, miss? Take your-
self away before I put you out with my own
hands.” cm

“Father, father! don’t you hear what I say?
T have left them. I will have note of their for-
tune. I have come back to live with you. Let
er love you—let me work for you; it is all I
as ”

“Pretty work you have already accomplished,
he sneered. “You have blasted your brother’s
fondest hopes; you have ruined his life and
mine. Do you think wecan eyer endure the
sight of you?”

“Oh, father! how’ am I to blame?” she im-
plored. “Is it right to punish me for what I
cannot help? I want only to be taken back
here. I do not care for anything else.”

“A likely story: But we do not care for your
company. It is hard enough work for me to
find our daily food now. o you think I am
going to stint Dick to supply another mouth,
and that one yours? I tell you I will have
nothing to do with you. I cast you off entirely.
I do not. care whether you go back to flourish
there in silks and satins, or whether you wan-
der in these streets a beggar, if you will only
take yourself out of my sight.”

She wrung her hands despairingly.

“Have you never loved me? have you never
loved me at all?’ she moaned. “Oh, father!
when I would renounce fortune and even life
itself for your sake for a single kind word.”

His lip curled in an angry sneer.

“Such sentimental talk is quite thrown
away upon me. It was a poor nea part you
played before; a helpless, insigni
you were ae a dead weight on my hands.
I should have been thankful to be rid of an in-
cubus then; now—now—that you have made
yourself our curse, do you think I will endure

ou for a moment? ; your shallow talk
as no effect. I believe none of your sophistry.
You will go back there and prate of my hard-
heartedness, while you dress yourself in shin-
ing ornaments, and ride in luxurious coaches,
and sit down to dainties day by day, and en-
joy life, while poor Dick——’
ere his rage, which had ebbed away into
stern contempt, came surging back.

He saw her jacket and hat lying on the
chair, and seizing them flung them to her, and
then striding forward, he clutched her arm
and hurried her out of the room, down the
three flights of stairs, and opening the door
thrust her out without another word, and
slamming the door locked it upon her.

Out alone in the night! Eleanor Wellington
realized now something of the hopelessness of
her attempt, not its folly, as Mrs. Pendexter
sharply pronounced it. No, still down deep
within the earnest soul of the little devotee
was the solemn resolve to accomplish some-
thing yet that should melt her father’s heart,
should win his respect, should compel his love.

She looked around her blandly for a moment
or two. Simple-minded as she was, she knew
the street was no place for a girl in these fast-
approaching night hours. Mechanically she
arranged her jacket, and tied her hat-strings,
and stiffly she descended the steps, and walked

Hood’s

Sarsaparilla
Purifies the blood and

Makes The

 

 

 

 

 

Weak Strong

 

He doesn’t come home now till far into the

cant girl,

 

 

 

 

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STURN) IM RRA OR EE BON OTANI DAUD sts HY

TL Ee, OE DN TC EO BRET

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

  

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VOL. 46—No, 34,

 

<<aesa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3>

 

 

up, but a light shone through the door.

An inspiration came to her. She had still
plenty of money in her pocket, and she had re-
fused to take the change due when she had
paid for the supper.

“She will let me stay all night, and I shall
have time to think,” was her inward sugges-
tion, and she obeyed it promptly.

The woman was only too pleased to accom-
modate her. She had not failed to admire the
grand coach and the elegant-looking woman
who had accompanied Nelly before. It was
something to have an heiress with her over
night.

PY ou, don’t wish to be going back to the
hotel so late, I suppose?” she said, when Elea-
nor had made known her wishes.

“No, for I came without asking
They said it was no use,” answered the girl,
wearily. “Oh, Mrs. Noggin, my father is very
angry with me, and I don’t deserve it.”

“IT should think not. He’s an unnatural
creetur. Anybody can see you’re worth a
dozen of that lazy, selfish boy of his. Dorothy
knows you are, too. She’s said it, lots of
times, since you went away. But, la sakes!
deary, men allers will be fools about their
sons, and never’ll know till they’ve seen the
reaping that it’s just as good a thing for the
world, mebbe not for the poor girl, when it
isn’t ‘a man born unto the world,’ but a daugh-
ter. Dear, dear! well, I wouldn’t fret any
more about him. I’ make you up a comfort-
able bed, side of mine, so you won’t be lone-
some.”

And she hoped the girl was sleeping, because
she was lying so quietly through the night,
and did not guess that the wide eyes were
staring into blankness, trying to see a way to
open before the wanderer’s feet.

For the child never, for one instant, con-
templated. a return to Mrs. Pendexter’s care
and the luxuries of Fairslope. Not that she
did not appreciate that lady’s goodness; not
that she could not enjoy the beautiful home
thrust upon her, and not craftily won. But
she said to herself steadily, and with some-
thing of his own grimness: i

“He says I shall go back there, and enjoy
Se iry chen and forget his troubles. He shall
see that I can keep my word as wellas he. I
told him I would have none of it, and I will
not. I will not enjoy the fortune he claims
for Dick, even phe I have the right.”

Toward morning sleep came mercifully, and
soitened with its tender, refreshing dew the
dry, fevered eyes. But nevertheless she was
on her feet the moment Mrs. Noggin arose from
her bed. She assisted in righting the shop,
and partook of the breakfast, and then drew
out her purse, and quietly put down a gener-
ous equivalent for the kindness received.

“T suppose I must go now. Thank you,
Mrs. Noggin, for your kindness. Tell Dorothy
I beg her to take good care of father.”

“La me, dear, you’d better let me get youa
carriage. They won’t like you to be walking
around here.”

“T can find one, if I need it,” she said, hurry-
ing toward the door, as she remembered that
very shortly her absence would be discovered
at the hotel.

Before she could open it, howevver, it was
unclosed from the other side, and a slender-
figured woman, shawled and bonneted in el-
derly fashion, with a thick brown vail over
her face, came in quietly.

“Ts this Mrs. Noggin’s, where Dan Burgess,
the milk boy, stops for cans?” asked a very
sweet, but as Eleanor thought, a very sad
voice.

“Yes, to be sure. He left the cans outside,
and I’ve emptied them, ready for him. He
isn’t. generally along before half-past eight,
and it’s only eight now.”

“He told me to wait for him here. I am to
ride out into the country with him: I'll sit
down, and wait for him, if you’ve no objec-

tion.”
“Sakes alive! I don’t begrudge a body a
Sit right down.”

“T would like a few buns, too, if you please,’
and she extended a coin, and taking the buns,
began to eat one, to do which, she threw up
one end of her vail, revealing to Eleanor a
glimpse of her face.

The latter was astonished to find it belonged
to a girl scarcely older than herself, and such
a face. It fascinated her, as had the words:

“T am to ride out into the country with him.”

She dropped her hold of the door, and turned
back a step or two, and when Mrs. Noggin
went out into the rear a moment, she said to
the stranger:

“T wish I could go out into the country, too.
Do you think the milkman would let me go
with you?”

“T suppose so. I think there is room,” was
answered listlessly.

“Please ask him for me,” whispered Eleanor,
“please ask him when he comes. I have money
to pay him, and, oh! I want to get away from
this place so very much.”

At which the beautiful blue eyes turned
upon her with their first look of interest.

“Dear, dear. I hope you have nothing
dreadful to run away from,” said the sweet,
sorrowful voice. /

“But I have,” persisted Eleanor. “I want to
hide myself from everybody’s search—as if—I
were dead.”

“How strange!” murmured Lulie Grimme.

“Yes, I know,” answered Eleanor, depre-
catingly, “but it is not my fault, it is my mis-
fortune.”

“Stranger yet!” continued Lulie, “but I was
not thinking to blame you, only wondering we
should meet so, for 1am going with just such
a Pua:

rmission.

?

And Eleanor caught a long breath, and then
two hands that had never met before were
stretched out to the first clasp of a friendship
that-was to endure with their lives.

“We will go together!” said Lulie, solemnly.

“Oh, how kind and good in you,” mur-
mured Eleanor, feeling as much at rest as if
all future good were assured to her.

“T think it will bea help to both, should
there be pursuit, as I know there will in my
case,” said Lu, thoughtfully. “We will be
sisters,” .

“Oh, how beautiful!” echoed Eleanor, again.

_“There is the milkman, marm,” called Mrs.

on aimlessly. The bread-shop had the shutters | swiftly in the opposite direction from where

the little station held up its broad, white sign.

But when once Dan’s wagon disappeared
from sight, to Hleanor’s astonishment her guide
whirled about promptly.

“Now we'll hurry down to that station, and
take the first train that’s going anywhere away
from this town, and not back to the city. Have
you much money?”

“Tt seems a good deal,” answered Eleanor,

fast enough.
any more?”

“T have been thinking. It is almost too good
luck to hope we may find a place together to
do housework. But still it may happen, and
we'll try. It would be easier to go to some
factory town, and learn that work. However,
we needn’t worry about that yet. Our first
business is to cover up our track. Put down
your vail, dear sister.”

“How lucky it is that I have met you!”
sighed Eleanor.

“T hope so—for us both. We’ll begin new
lives,” answered Lu, resolutely. “Some time
we will tell each other our troubles, but not
yet. We'll put the past all behind us now,”
said Lulie, again, when they were seated in a
train, and whizzing away—to everything un-
known and untried.

“T feel sure we shall be safe and happy,”
whispered Eleanor, brightening up with chil-
dish enjoyment of romance and novelty.

“T only ask to be safe,” answered Lulie, more
gravely.

She never dreamed that an eye had already
had a glimpse of her face as she flung up the
vail for a moment to catch the fresh air, and
had recognized it as that of Nicholas Grimme’s
daughter.

“Come,” she said, eagerly, as just before
sundown they emerged from the dusty car, and
walked off upon a peaceful country street.
“How beautiful it looks yonder, I do believe
you are right, that something delightful waits
for us.”

A hand touched her shoulder. It was not
we new sister’s, for Eleanor was on the other
side.

“Lu—Lu Grimme,” said a voice in her ear.

With a little cry of horror Lulie turned.

ot she found another chapter must de-
scribe.

What can we ever do to earn

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

) (ned the Jonels?
E } | J i
By Mrs. M. V. VICTOR,
Author of “Born to Betray,” ‘Back to Life,”

‘The Enemy of the House,” ‘A Father’s
Sin,” Etc.

PT:

 

 

 

 

(“WHO OWNED THE JEWEIS?’ was commenced in No.
15. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER XXXV.—ConTINUED.

Slowly Oliver rose and walked across the
street. With steps eager and yet reluctant, he
entered the house, went up stairs, and knocked
at the door of the quiet parlor.

Leora’s voice bade him come in, rather
faintly. He saw at a glance that she had
been crying, though she smiled brightly enough
now. A paper lay on the table beside her work.

“You have read the bad news?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said,quietly; “I suppose I know
what you have come totell me. Our fairy-
dream has vanished. It is alittle hard on poor
Will,” she continued, taking up her sewing
and bending over it to hide her quivering lips.

“Will isaman and can fight his way. It
j}seems tome it is hardest on you, my poor
| child.”
| “You mistake,” she said, quickly; “I am con-
(tented. So long as fam young and healthy I
{do not dread work. But my brother is so

roud! He is talented too—he deserves the

est education possible. Oh! if I knew how to
accomplish it, I should be willing to double
my tasks!”

“Leora, Will shall not be disappointed. I
will appeal to Mr. Scranton.”

“Perhaps it will be best, Mr. Grey.”

“Leora, I wish you would call me Oliver.”

He had drawn his chair to the opposite side
of the little table where she sat sewing, and
as he said this he touched the bit of silk em-
broidery over which she bent. She drew a lit-
tle away; her voice was cold and reserved as
she answered:

“You are not Oliver tome. You are Mr.

 

 

 

 

Grey.”

“Oh,” he said, in an injured tone.

“T am very sorry for your friends, the Cath-
erwoods,” she said, presently, pie that she
had wounded his feelings, yet warned by fem-
inine instinct that her safety lay in doing so.

“Tam _ not half so sorry for them as for you
and Will.”

“Perhaps Mrs. Lytton may be taught sympa-
thy,” continued Leora, hardly knowing what
she did say. “Misfortunes may soften her
haughty spirit. It may be that she will no
longer hold aloof from you, who have loved her
so long and truly. Oh, Mr. Grey, what if you
should be very, very happy after all?”

“T think I shall be. intend to be the hap-

iest and the richest man in the world, Leora.
should be sure of it—only for one thing.”

The young girl looked up at him in wonder.
Shrhstihine in his flushed face and glowin
eyes troubled her, and her glance fell. She ha
never seen that expréssion on Mr. Grey’s face
before.

“Ido not appreciate your extreme willing-
ness to bestow upon me Mrs. Lytton,” he con-
tinued, petulantly.

“Why, I thought you loved her!”

“Does it please you to think such is the case?”

Again she looked up in surprise. She did
not understand her friend in his present mood,
and was not over well pleased with him. He
spoke more seriously :

“TIT am wiser than I was a year agu, my little
sister. Camilla Lytton is a beautiful, a superb
woman, but her heart is as hollow as—as yours

 

one
“Run along alone to_ the corner, dear; we'll |
take you up there,” whispered Lu, taught in a |
harsh school to be quick-witted in eluding sus-
picion.

And Eleanor, whose simple, unsophisticated
ideas would never have suggested the need of
covering up the trail from Mrs. Noggin, obeyed
implicitly.

he walked on to the corner, and from thence
another square, in answer to her new friend’s
signal. Then she was taken up, and trans-
ferred to Lulie’s side, on the rear seat of the
heavy, covered wagon.

Another close pressure of slender young
hands, but no talk whatever, until they were
some time off the city pavements.

Then Lulie asked, quietly:

“How far out did you say you went, Dan?”

“Thirteen good miles. It’s a pretty good
trip to take every morning, ain’t it?”

“Can’t you send the cans by cars? Are there
no cars near you?”

“Not worth our while to have to tote ’em
two miles to a train, and then take ’em up
again in town. Get up, Dol!”

“Oh, then you live beyond the village, or not
quite up to it?”

“Beyond, sartain.”

“Then you drive through it?”

“To be sure. We don’t go under, nor around,
when it’s as easy taking a straight cut.”

The questioner gave a little sigh of relief,
while the boy was laughing at his own witti-
cism,

She was ready and prompt then when they
drove through the little thriving, manufactur-
ng village to spy out the railroad and its sta-

ion.

“There, Dan. I guess we'll get out here.
Come, Susan. We are very much obliged for
the ride since you won't take any other pay-
ment, Dan.”

And holding fast to Eleanor’s hand, when

is full and deep, little one. I amas indifferent
to her as to any woman living. With your
permission, Baroness Duleth, I propose to spend
my days as near to you and Will Duleth as I
am now. You are the only friends I have on
earth.”

It was one of his jests, calling her baroness;
but his tone was very earnest; something in
it quickened the beating of her heart—her
thread tangled, she picked at it nervously.

“You will not drive me away from you?”

“T do not want to be selfish but you know
a happy it will make us to have you stay

ere.”

“As your brother, Leora?”

The blue eyes, just a little sad, very earnest,
very clear, met his.

Oliver saw something in them, as if he had
carelessly looked up into blue space and beheld
an angel. Her love for him was looking out of
them, and that was what he saw—the doors of
heaven open. -

“You have been a true little friend to me—
most faithful, most kind. There is only one
ane more I ask of you, who have done so
much.”

“What is that, Mr. Grey?”

“To forget that I once loved another less
worthy, and to be my wife.”

“Your wife!”

She said that because the surprise was so
complete—the happiness so sudden that she
knew not what she said.

“Yes, little Leora, I am as selfish as you are
generous. I shal] never, never again be content
with the title of brother. If you cannot give
me a dearer one, I shall have to go away.”

“T should not like you to goaway, Mr. Grey!”

With what a dazzling smile, with what
pretty archness, she said that; blushing as red
as the rose at herown daring. Perhaps she
thought the table a sufficient obstacle to the
young man taking advantage of this confes-

 

they were standing safely on the ground, she
nodded good-by, and turning, walked very

sion; if so, she was mistaken. In an instant
he had taken her embroidery away from her,

pa
wistfully, “but [I suppose it will melt away

had turned her sweet, sad face up,
kissed her in daring triumph.

When Will came home, shortly after, with a
moody cloud on his brow, expecting full sym-
pathy from his sister, he found her sitting be-
side Mr. Grey on the sofa, radiant from top to
toe with happiness, and not only oblivious of
his disappointment, but, yes, of his dinner.

He frowned a terrible frown on the guilty

ir.

“Why, I have forgotten to put on the coffee-
pot!” exclaimed Leora, her face pink as a rose.
“T must go, this moment.”

Oliver, who saw all the wrath and reproach
in the boy’s face, retained her hand as she was
about to run away.

“Brother Will,” he said, gayly earnest, “I
will write to Mr. Scranton by the next mail,
the very next mail, I assure you. You shall go
to the Boller and as Leora cannot Sei
keep house alone, she has consented to allow
me to remain, after certain short but necessary
ceremonies shall have given me the right.
Congratulate us, dear ill, for we are as
pee. as angels!”

“And I am as hun asa bear!” answered
wei, coming down from his tower of wrath by

egrees,

he next minute he was ashamed of himself.

“Ts it really and truly so?” he asked. “Then
I am as heartily glad as if we had got our ten
thousand dollars! It is better to‘be happy than
to be rich, and I don’t believe sister Leora
would ever have been quite so contented with
you as a brother.”

“Dear me!” she interrupted. “I dare say
the roast is done to a cinder,” and she hurried
out.

The roast was a little over-done; but not one
of the trio was aware of it. They ate their
beef and browned potatoes as if they had been
ambrosia, and drank their coffee as if it had
been nectar.

Ten thousand dollars had melted into air
that day like a smoke-wreath dissolving in the
sky; they had watched it disappear, and after
one sigh of regret, began to laugh, and hope;
and to build new cankine inthe air on the ruins
of the old, for they were young, and healthy,
and happy, and loved each other. With these
blessings they defied misfortune.

Oliver, so tardy in winning his treasure, was
eager enough in keeping it. He would give
Leora but a month’s grace. As she had no
money to spend in wedding finery, it stood to
reason there was no necessity for waiting to
“make up things.” Thereneed be no change in
the outward aspect of their quiet lives. Some
bright sunny day in October they would walk
around to the old church on the avenue and
be married.

The sooner the better, now_ that they under-
stood one another,’ and considering the circum-
stances surrounding them.

Meantime the letter to Mr. Scranton was de-
layed by the fact that Mrs. Lytton, to whom
her father had communicated the story of the
qos had sent Will Duleth five hundred dol-

ars out of her private purse, to enable him to
enter school, promising more in cqurse of time.

“T feel like waiting a little before we write—
I hardly know why,” Leora had said, and they
concluded to wait.

Mr. Grey received an order for two pictures,
which he Knew would be handsomely paid for.
Under the stimulus of his sweet hopes, he
painted better and with more care than he had
ever done. .

That unhappy ambition after power — the
power of money and Do ahaa had al-
ways tormented him, died away. To be loved
by one pure, single-hearted woman, and to

aint on canvas the beautiful which lived in

is soul—this contented him.

His studio on Locust Place was dearer to him
than Italian palaces under Italian skies. There
was a goddess who haunted it fairer than the
marble goddesses of those old palaces.

Leora had golden-brown, wavy hair, ivory
complexion, rounded. limbs, a magnificent
form, fine features, tender curving lips—and
; Leora was alive, and loved him! Leora would
soon be his wife!

 

5
CHAPTER XXXVI.

A FLIRT’S REWARD.

Mr. Grey had not been at the Poplars since
Mr. Catherwood’s failure. He met George
several times, and expressed his sympathy;
but he had adread of meeting Camilla, now
that he occupied the relation which he did to-
ward Leora. Not that he feared the power of
the woman he had once loved so madly; but
there had been something in her manner to-
ward him, of late, which had repelled him.

He was repelled by the encouragement which
once would have filled him with such ecstasy!

The very morning of the day preceding the
one set for his marriage, he received a note
from Mrs. Lytton, written the previous even-
ing, aay ie that she would like to see him,
and consult with him about the Duleths, and
asking him if he would not come over to the
Poplars that afternoon. Oliver was busy, and
thought, at first, that he would send an ex-
cuse; but as this would appear rude, consider-
ing how long it had been since he had paid his
respects to the Catherwood ladies, he made
time to go.

He was very happy, as the little steamer
bore him over the dancing blue waves of the
bay, with the secret of to-morrow’s joy locked
in his breast; happy, not because Camilla
awaited him at the end of the little journey,
but because another sweeter woman would to-
morrow become his wife.

When he reached the house, the servant at
the door told him that Mrs. Lytton: was walk-
ing in the garden, and had left word, would
he please join her there.

Camilla understood the art of an effective
tableau. As Oliver wandered out into the

arden, he saw her standing by the fountain,

abbling a rose up and down in the water,
precisely as she had once stood when his pas-
sion for her had broken the bounds of prudence,
and rushed into speech.

Now, no pulse of his being stirred respon-
sively, when she looked up at him with the
old smile in the glorious dark eyes.

“It is very kind of you_to come,” she said,
as meekly and prettily as Leora herself could
have said it. “You have slighted us of late.”

“Yes; I must beg pardon for seeming neg-
lect. I have been extremely occupied.”

“With your painting?”

“Yes, Mrs. Lytton. I received a liberal com-
mission a few weeks since, and have been try-
ing to execute it to the best of my ability.”

“T knew you would be appreciated in time,
Mr. Grey,” with another of those winning
smiles, which once would have been such de-
licious flattery. “The hardest struggle is over
with you, I think.”

“T believe it.”

“While ours has but just begun,” patheti-
cally. ‘Poor papa! at his time of life, is it not
cruel? He bears it so much better than I ex-
pected !”

“But he will not really be reduced to—to
poverty, Mrs. Lytton!”

But he

“No, not poverty, to some people.
will never resume business. Aye have had to
give up our city house—or will have to, if I do
not buy it in, which I think of doing, since
ee papa is so much attached to it. e will

ave asmall income—about what he used to
allow me for pocket-money; but it is not so
bad as it might be! Mr. Lytton, his father-
‘in-law, has already offered George a partner-
ship with him—I have means of my own, and
Ethelda is situated most prosperously. I think
I shall always live with papa, and take care of
him,” darting a swift look from under droop-
ing lashes at her companion. “But what I
wanted to see you about was this: Papa takes
quite an interest in these Duleths. I think it
really worries him that he has been the inno-
cent means of defrauding them. By the way,
the whole affair is most romantic, isn’t it? It
roves, too, that ‘blood will tell.” I saw good
ylood in the young lady the first time I met
her. French barons for ancestors! I declare,
I take quite an interest in her’—dipping the
hot-house rose which she had brought with her
deeper into the basin, and watching it reflec-
tively.

“Had you any particular communication to

 

 

make in their interest?”
“YT thought I would like to know how the

and j

‘have pitied you less and not loved

 

 

entering college with the sum I sent him. |
Besides, Mr. Grey,” quickly and: passionately,
“T wanted to see you!”

“On business?” asked Oliver, slightly em-

barrassed.
“No!” with a decided, petulant, willful air,
very charming to see—‘I wanted to see you.

You ought to consider that I am lonely, shut
out from society as I am, at present—not that
I crave society! alas! no. The world has very
much changed to me, within a year, Oliver!”

“And to me, Mrs. Lytton.”

She looked up, vexed and doubting. Could
it be that he meant to have her understand
that she no longer had influence with him?
Her slender foot partat the gravel; she plucked
the petals from the poor rose, strewing them
over the water.

“You do not say anything; you are not sorry
for me!”

“Oh, but Lam! If word of mine could bring
back your dead to your side, you should no
longer mourn.”

“Oliver!” she cried, urged beyond her inten-
tion by his refusal to understand her, “that is
perk and gone! I do not wish it back. You

now that I never loved Mr. Lytton. I
thought I should be happy to marry the man
who was my equal rather ahah the man I loved!
I was mistaken. I could not make that fatal
mistake a second time. In saying this I mean
no disrespect. to the memory of one who was
ever fond and true to me—who treated me bet-
ter than I deserved—who lost his life, striving
to protect me! Mr. Lytton was worthy ofa
wife’s tenderest love. It was my fate not to
regard him before any other man in the world,
as I should have done when I married him.
You, yourself, told me, Oliver, that. my heart
was yours, and would ever remain so—you
taunted me with my love for you, for you knew
me better than I knew myself. Is it, then,
unwomanly in me——?”

“My dear Mrs. Lytton, I beg of you——”

“Don’t call me by that name, Oliver. Call
me ‘Camilla,’ as twice before you have done
when we stood by this fountain. Oliver, if

ou despise me for what I have said, it will

<ill me!”

Trembling, humble, the proud Camilla stood
before him, reaching out her hands to hold him
as he turned to go away. She would not be-
lieve that she was humiliating herself in vain.

“You cannot have forgotten me so soon !”

She had forced the interview upon him.
There was nothing to do but to.tell her the
truth, as gently as poseihie. but firmly.. He
pitied her as she stood there, pale and red by
turns, willful as ever, bound to have her own
way, even at the expense of womanly delicacy.

“From the hour that you became the wife of
another man it was my duty to forget you,” he
said. “I was very ill—the effort cost me my
life, within a hair’s breadth; but when I arose
from that miserable illness, brought on by
your Soanetyies, I rejoiced to find that I was
changed in mind as well as body. I no longer
desired the love of a woman wedded to another.
Still, I was not so certain of myself when that
dreadful news of your affliction came, and I
thought of you mourning, desolate. I pitied

ou almost as deeply as I had once loved you.

‘o make sure, however, that I knew my own
heart, I was anxious to meet you. We have
met often. At every succeeding interview I
you more,
for Il saw that you were willing to forget the
young husband in his watery grave, to renew
your relations with me. Your heart must be
nS shallow, Mrs. Lytton, to permit you to

o it.”

“Oh, don’t say that! You are cruel to me—
unmanly! You know that it is only because
I always loved you—before—since—always—
that I turned to you in my loneliness.”

She began to sob, in her disappointment and
mortification.

“Camilla, I would have prevented this.
Bear me witness, I have done nothing to bring
this upon you.”

“You have not!” she cried, bitterly.
quit you of all weakness. I know who has
wrought this change. You are false to me be-
cause you have found another to love! Miss
Duleth has taught you that your old dream
was but a fancy!”

“She has, Mrs, Lytton. We are to be married
to-morrow.”

“To-morrow !”

Her Hip were white as she repeated the
words; she clung to the basin with her hands,
and stared at him with a biank face.

And thus he left her, saying “farewell,”
kindly, but nothing more, for there was noth-
ing more to be said.

liver was too generous to want this re-
venge, but it came to him.

The next worning there was a quiet wedding
at the old stone church, not far from Locust
Place. The bride wore a delicate-colored silk
dress—the first silk dress she had ever had, by
the wae bonnet to match. Her Uncle
James, hearing of the proposed marriage, had |
given her the outfit, an
the privilege of giving her away. A few of
the neighbors around Locust Place were in-
formed of the hour at which the ceremony was
to take place, and took care to be present.
Will had sent special word to his two rough
friends, down at the Battery, and the oid
sailor and his son came all the way up to see
the “pretty creature” married.

The clergyman, who had united so many
“happy couples,” marrying from all sorts of
motives, had no difficulty in understanding
that this was a pair of lovers who stood before
him now. There was a light, the glow of
spirit, on those young and ‘beautiful faces,
which there was no mistaking.

Well, they went back to the house and en-
joyed a handsome little wedding breakfast
with Uncle James, the only guest.

“Supposing,” said the bride, inspired to
make the suggestion, we must believe, from
what followed, laughingly to her uncle, after
all the healths were drank—‘supposing that
the barons jewels should some time appear,
dear uncle. Are you willing to sign off all

“T.ac-

now insisted upon

wedding present to me?”
“Willingly, my dear—and consider that I
et off very cheaply, indeed,” answered James
Huleth, chuckling; except that such a tradi-
tion existed in the family, he regarded them
as a myth.

“Bring paper and ink,” cried Leora.

Will brought them, and, amid much jesting,
the writing was drawn up and signed.

“Now I shall hold you to this,” said Leora,
seriously, “if they ever should turn up, for you
have mouey enough, uncle, and we are poor as
church-mice.”

“You are heartily welcome to all the buried
treasure Pa will ever find,” said Uncle James,
and, shaking hands with the newly married
pair, he went away.

The day being clear and sunny, a bridal
trip was proposed. Where, think you, did Mr.
and Mrs.-Oliver Grey propose to go on this
joyous oceasion? To the lunatic asylum.

t may appear a strange ee cay to
others; but Leora, whose heart was so full of
happiness, longed to see her father—and, since
it had not been deemed prudent to have him
present at the church, to go to him, tell him
that she was a wife, and obtain his blessing,
if possible.

Gliver procured a carriage, and, leaving
Will to keep house, the two, shut up with
each other in a little world of bliss, were
whirled out of the city, along a pleasant road,
the blue river shining, the blue heaven smiling,
until the shadow of the great building fell a
little cold on their hearts.

Still this was a sorrow to which they had ac-
customed themselves; it could not interfere too
gloomily with the joy of this day.

Presently they were permitted to see their
father.

Although strict watch was kept over Mr.
Duleth, he was allowed many privileges, his
intelligence, refinement, and agreeable man-
ners making him liked by the officers. He
had never done anything the least violent since
he was admitted; but his insanity was evi-
dent, and it seemed likely that his was an in-
curable case.

young man was prospering—if he thought of |

| she was content to abide in Locust Place.

 

As it was only on certain subjects that he
betrayed his condition, one might converse with

 

him some time without suspecting his dis-

ease. é

He was walking up and down a long hall,
reading a book, when his visitors entered. He
was always glad to see Leora, especially as she
never came without bringing him some lux-
ury. She had with her now a little basket,
containing a portion of the wedding feast.

He welcomed them with easy courtesy, call-
ing Mr. Grey by name.

“Father,” said Leora, smiling, and inclined
to weep at the same time, “we are married. I
am Mr. Grey’s wife, now. We came out to
tell you of it—to tell you how happy we are,
and to ask your blessing. Will you give it,
father?”

“Certainly, my children. May God guide
and keep you,” stretching his trembling hands
above their heads. “You could not have made
a better choice, Leora. I think a great deal of
Mr. Grey; I like his pictures; although he was
the robber,” he sited, with a sudden change of
manner, “who stole the chest with the baron’s
jewels... Ha, ha, ha,” laughing softly, and
rubbing his hands together. “I circumvented
him there—nicely! I robbed the robber! Leora,
if you are a bride, you should have a bridal

ift. You have been a good girl. You made

ne coffee when we were in the cave. I don’t
forget that. I’ve a mind to make you a hand-
some present. Come closer, and I will whisper
a secret in your ear.”

Mr. Grey looked anxious, and the attendant,
standing far away on secret guard, as ever, ex-
changed a glance with him and drew nearer.

However, on this occasion, the poor insane

entleman plotted no treachery. As his
daughter came closer he stooped and whispered
in her ear:
_ “You shall have the chest and all there is in
it. I bestow it on you, as a bridal gift, with
my blessing.”

“But where is it, dear father?” she whispered
back, more to humor him than because she
placed confidence in what he said.

“It is in the sand at the entrance to the
cave—the identical spot in which it was placed
a century ago. Look for it there and you will
find it. The ruby is in it—the gold, too.”

“Thankyou, dear father. How good you are.
I have brought you some of the wedding-cake.
Will you eat it now?”

He took the basket with the: pleasure of a
child, nibbling at the dainties, and talking
with them until the hour of their visit was
over.

As they shook hands with him, in saying
good-by, John Duleth began to laugh again,
and to make mysterious signs to his daughter
ae he had another private communication to
make.

“What is it, father?” she asked, whispering
mysteriously, also, to please him.

“The key,” he answered; “you can never,
never, never get into the chest without the key

?

of gold!

“And you have it, I suppose,” she said,
coaxingly.

“You're right there, Leora. What good
sense you possess fora woman! He has never
discovered it,” with a swift gesture toward his
attendant—“nor they—no, not one of them.
Ha! I’ve hidden it in my mouth, in my hair,
in my _ shoe—everywhere. I was keeping it
until I got out; but you shall have it, my |
daughter. It is the key to ‘happiness. With
this you can haye everything on earth for
which you wish. I made it myself. It exactly
fits the sandal-wood chest.”

He put his hand in his breast and drew
forth a medium-seized key, made of solid gold,
the handle of which was wrought with all the
skill of an accomplished goldsmith; it had
doubtless been the work of hours and days in
that sea-chamber.

Leora received it with almost mute astonish-
ment, kissing the cunning but, alas! unre-
liable hand which gave it to her. _

Then they said good-by, and were driven
back as the crimson of sunset was converting
the rinples of the river into roses. Leora, like
a dutiful wife, told Oliver of the secret com-
munication made by her father, adding:

“I believe he has, at last, betrayed the
truth.”

“It may be only another of his fancies, my
darling. Wemust not build our castles too
quickly this time.”

“No, Oliver; I shall not build the lightest
fabric of a dream. But I shall ask you and
Will to go to-morrow, to the cave, and settle
the question. This key has a tangible look, at
all events.”

When the two men did start on their excur-
sion, next: day, they took Leora along, half-
persuading themselves that they went only for
the pleasure of a row on the water, and not at
all with any expectation of verifying their
father’s words. They made a picnic of it,
taking their lunch with them.

At high noon they entered the cave.
ingly asserting that it was only to get an ap-
petite for their dinners, they took up the
spades which they had brought with them,
and began digging merrily in the sand at the
spot where, once before, Oliver had dug to
such good purpose.

In about fifteen minutes Will’s spade struck
something hard. In one more minute the cor-
ner of the brass-bound chest was.yvisible.

“So far, so good,” he said, turning rather
pale.

Leora, sitting out of reach of the sand and
water, with her skirts drawn up about her
pretty feet, changed color also.

They hoped, yet were afraid to hope, their
disappointments had been so many.

“Why, Will, you have lost all your strength,”
cried Oliver, and gayly, with the power of an
inspired giant, he freed the chest from incum-
brance, and turned to his bride. :

“Dear children, our fortunes are made!”

Leora sprang up at that. With her own
trembling fingers she unlocked the box. Three
eager heads bent over the buried treasures.
There was the gold—melted and run into in-
gots, but good gold yet, worth its weight in
coin. And there, in an old tin cup, glittering,

Laugh-

| glimmering, lay the mass of peerless jewels,
right to your share in the inheritance, as a |

smiling into their wistful eyes.

Leora must have been an inmate of the cave
at the time the chest was brought back; it
was only another instance of the strength, and
silence, and subtlety with which John Duleth
had carried out his insane projects.

They took the marvelous chest home, rewarded
the curiosity dealer for its loss, sold the gold
to the jewelers, and some of the gems, The
finest were sent abroad for sale,

For a while they hardly, knew what to do
with their wealth, Mrs. Grey declared that
But
Mr. Grey had other tastes, which asserted
themselves pretty strongly about this time.
He bought a house on Fifth avenue, furnished
it in an exquisite manner, and persuaded his
beautiful wife to dress in accordance with their
new circumstances; the result of which was
that he suddenly found his genius appreciated,
and himself mentioned among the “rising ar-
tists.” As John Duleth, wise in his madness,
had said, the Golden Key unlocked all the
pleasures of this world to the young couple.

His wife’s beauty became one of the marvels
of New York.

Mr. and Mrs. Grey sometimes met Mrs.
Lytton in society. After her term of mourning
had expired, she resumed her gay life, soon
gaining the reputation of a young widow on
the lookout for a second husband Really,
Camilla did not care to marry. But her ex-
perience had made her a more heartless and
more dangerous flirt than ever. Perhaps if
the painter had accepted her long withheld
love, she might have been'a faithful wife and
better woman. But after that last scene at
the fountain she never again permitted senti-
ment to embarrass her. After a few years she
married a titled foreigner, and: went to reside
in Europe.

John Duleth lingered on for some years,
harmless, and not unhappy—his every want
and fancy attended to by iis children. He is
dead. now—his death is the only grief which
has thus far befallen Leora. Of all the Duleth
jewels, Oliver thinks her the most peerless;
while to both it seems as if their romance had
just begun. They intend it to last to the end
of their days.

(THE END.)

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, JUNE 20, 1891.
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LARGE WORDS.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

 

Said a friend to us yesterday:

“T have no doubt that Mr. B. is an estimable
man, and everybody says he is a sincere Chris-
tian; yet I am almost ashamed to confess that
I absolutely dread to see him come to my
house! I never feel at ease with him, and I
am always relieved when he is gone! He uses
such large words, that one needs a dictionary
at hand to comprehend him!”

Mr. B. is a popular and well-known clergy-
man in one of our large cities, and he receives
a handsome salary, and preaches every Sab-
bath to a numerous audience, and that audi-
ence is composed of people of, at least, average
intelligence; and yet we venture to say that
not seventy-five per cent. of them understand
his discourses.

Mr. B. is what we call an educated man. He
graduated with honor from Harvard, and after-
ward he received a degree at a famous German
university, and he has traveled, and read, and
cultivated himself for twice a decade, and yet
he lacks the fundamental principle in the
character of his Master—simplicity.

His sermons are full of large words. - His
every-day conversation abounds in them. He
would find it_ difficult to speak to a dog trot-
ting along the street, without quoting some
Latin or Greek.

It is not likely that Mr. B. at all realizes
how much like enigmas to the most of his
hearers many of his expressions are. He
knows that his large words are sonorous—that
they. heip round out his sentences—that his
rich, manly voice are them musical power
and sweetness, and he does not pause to in-
quire if his congregation takes in their mean-

ing.

Two weeks ago the reverend gentleman, in
finishing a sentence, made use of this some-
what remarkable expression :

“My friends, when the final beatitude shall
arrive, and you shall behold the concatenated
galaxy of bright seraphims around the throne,
then will all earthly grossness be absorbed in
the deluge of supernal glory which shall burst
upon your raptured vision!”

We noted down the sentence, and on our

way home we asked Mr. J. what he under-
stood by it. Now, Mr. J. is not a college grad-

uate by any means, but a plain, honest, com-
mon-sense individual, and quite as well edu-
cated as are the majority of our people. He
looked at us thoughtfully, rubbed his forehead,
and said he:

“Well, ma’am, the fact of it is, Mr. B. goes
beyond my depth pretty often! And when he
was saying over what you have just repeated,
I couldn’t seem to get the hang of it, anyway;
but Tl tell you what I concluded. con-
cluded that he wanted to say a word for the
new musical instruments that his son Thomas
is agent for, and so he spoke of the bright sera-
phims, but I must say it was a leetle out of
taste.”

And we said nothing to cause Mr. J. to
change his opinion.

Now, large words are well enough—in a
dictionary; but the simplest language is the
best. Pure, concise, unadulterated English
for us plain Americans is better than bad
French and garbled Latin; and as for the big
words, the fewer of them we indulge in the
more intelligible we shall be to ourselves, and
to everybody else.

Young people are, perhaps, more likely to
fall into the habit of using large words to ex-

ress simple things, than we of riper years.

here is always a charm for the young in nov-
elty, and some of the recently coined words are
certainly novelties.

To all our young friends we would say, in
all kindness: Let your language be simple and
to the point. Avoid verbiage and repetition.
If you use a word of four or more syllables, be
sure you know its exact meaning before you
meddle with it, and then be sure that you use
it in the right place.

Doubtless you have all heard the anecdote of
the man who could not write, and who wanted
a letter written to his sweetheart. When the
person employed by him to indite the tender
missive inquired what he wished written, he
replied that it was not of so much consequence
a was written, so long as there were some
nice sounding words put in. And he suggested
the word “congregation” as being about the
biggest sounding word he knew of, though he
didn’t exactly know just how it was to be got

in.

This tendency toward the use of large words
seems to be increasing. From the preacher in
the pulpit, the lawyer atthe bar, the statesman
in the public forum at Washington, down
to the boot black who polishes your boots, and
the barber who recommends his Patent Excel-
sior Capillary Renovator—we as a people re-
joice in the use of large words

Inventors adopt them, and we are urged to
buy plows, and horse-rakes, and churns, and
washing machines, with long strings of unpro-
nouncable names.

The soap with which we wash our hands is
labeled Eureka Incomparable Detergent.

Our teas and coffees are afflicted with such
an array of complimentary titles that it is diffi-
cult to distinguish the genuine thing, even
after it is brought smoking hot to our break-
fast table.

Our wearing apparel has not escaped. Our
boots and shoes are sold to us under French
names, which is very appropriate, for we ob-
serve they usually take French leave.

Even our flower seeds have to suffer, and
pink seed is sold to us under the aed
title of Dianthus hybridus atropurpureus; an
our old-fashioned snapdragon is metamorphosed
into Antirrhinum caryophiiloides. Bachelor’s
button has been cultivated in every country
garden since the flood, but who among our
grandmothers would have recognized its famil-
lar presence if it had been offered to them
under the name of Centaurea Cyanus?

 

But fashion is supreme, and who shall gain-

oT its power?
arge words to express very little things are

the order of the day, and we must submit.

Nevertheless we enter our protest, feeble
though it be—which is all we cando. And
when we meet the man of large words in so-
ciety, we always try to avoid him; and if we
have enemies, and we trust we have, our worst
wish upon them is that they may be compelled
to pass their lives with some one who has made
the use of large words a study and a daily
practice,

 

 

STOP THE LEAK.

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

 

 

A few men engaged on the Hudson River
Tunnel suddenly perceived that the flow of
water from above had become threatening, and
fled, unwillingly leaving a score of comrades
to a terrible death. They reported that the
leak was known, and they did their best to
stop it, but it was too late. These leaks were
common enough, indeed, were every-day occur-
rences. Two workmen were always detailed
to watch for the well-known tell-tale hiss,
which death was kind enough to give by way
of warning. Taken in time the escaping vital
air could. be checked, the dreadful flood pre-
vented. But some one blundered, and then,
handfuls of mud, garments whipped from off
their toiling bodies, Titian mouthfuls to the
hungry man, were sucked up all in vain, and
the monster could not be appeased without his
human sacrifice.

It is an old story. Toseealad of ten ora
dozen years beginning to smoke is to be
tempted to cry, “Stop the leak!’ We are not
talking to old smokers; they would not heed
us. But if the boy knew how vitality is being
sapped, how muscle, and nerve, and brain, and
soul are being injured at this unripe period of
life; knew that he is surely wasting the ener-
gies needed for growth and development of a
manly estate, he might conclude to stop the
leak. It is a fact, we believe, that ninety per
cent. of smokers are forced, sooner or later, to
break off their habit. They must choose be-
tween the weed and the ear, or eye, or stom-
ach, or throat, or some noble nerve threatened
with paralysis! But to stop when one has the
custom of a score of years! Oh, misery, tor-
ture! Why should not these growing boys

spare themselves the struggle, which is often
hen simply terrific.

A given article of diet always injures you.
Others can drink coffee; you know full well

ou cannot; and yet you are repeatedly, if not
habitanliy, indulging in the forbidden phing.
at the peril of headaches and heart-flutters. If
you know the articles of food which are al-
ways your friends, patronize them; if you
know the practices through which health and
strength always ebb away, leaving you miser-
able, begin in time to stanch the flow. Say
no, once and forever.
to you that another man seems to be able to
endure five nights in a week with only four
hours sleep; that he seems to come freshly to
the bank-desk at your side; that carousal,
late suppers, and strong drink do not seem to
shake his nerves. You, at least, are beginning
to cripple under these abuses. You have head-
aches, dizziness, fatigues, fits of Coane sor
duliness of attention, and generally failing
powers. Stop the leak! The truth is, nearly
all your friends can see that to which you seem
so blind. They observe your lassitude, the pal-
lor and flush of a fevered spendthrift, wasting
nature’s splendid patrimony of youth, the
heavy tread instead of that nameless ease of
carriage and elasticity with which eee crea-
tures besa life’s journey. Friends would like
to warn you, but they dare not. You, at least,
must stop this expense or die, whatever other
men may do.

“What has gone wrong?” asks the watchful
wife at arte

“Nothing. ou are constantly repeating
that question of late.”

Yes, and with good reason. A man ma
work very hard, go his daily rounds faithfully,
knit up his resolution and wear a fireside smile
which he whips out like a mask from a pocket
of the coat Be lays off in the front hall; but
worry is a leak which soon begins to tell its
tale. You are worrying, worrying about some-
thing these three months. Can you let me into
the secret? Can a wife’s hand help? Shall we
economize, move into a less expensive house,
dress more plainly or give up the horses? At
all events, stop this waste! Nothing kills like
useless anxiety. Having done your best, trust
God. Remember the holy words that, at least,
are above a woman’s reason and a woman’s
wit, inspired with more than a woman’s love.
“Be careful—over-anxious for nothing, but in
everything, by prayer and supplication, with
thanksgiving, let your requests be made known
unto God.” And we thanked the woman for
her gentle ministry.

The habit of exaggeration is a leak. We
hear young girls in conversation speak of a
thing as pee splendid,” as “the most
magnificent possible,” “gorgeous,” and “sub-
lime.” When one has abused her mother-
tongue by such misapplication of grand words,
what words are left to apply to things and
deeds that deserve them? In the Yosemite the
poor child would be bankrupt; for to say
“perfectly splendid” of El Capitan, when one
has been using the phrase of a new hat or the
airs of a young gentleman, seems absurd. But
the worst effect of this silly habit is the moral
bluntings of the perception of truth. Swollen
statements betoken careless observation and
unreliability. She knows people discount her
testimony, and this consciousness reacts upon
the speaker’s self-respect. If you know the
family habitually disbelieve one-half you say,
you will ey easily care as little yourself
about one-half you say. After a time there
must be a heroic effort at reform, or be known
as a confirmed liar, if we may write down the
real word.

The first decided infringement of the law of
conscience, say upon some major dictate like
that against theft, is a dreadful leak. We
knew a messenger boy who was overpaid at
the bank window. He kept the paltry sum of
a dollar. The devil bought him very cheap.
Being out of a good home, with pious rearing,
he could not use and forget, as a matter of
course. He thought of it by day, and dreamed
of it by night. The fatal thing about it all
was that he observed the possibility of sin
going undiscovered, and hence apparently
unpunished. He afterward said he was sur-
prised to notice how blind people were, how
many chances there were to escape detection.
He had always thought, too, that the way of a
transgressor was hard, that the great God
seoule see to it that no man Hater while
doing wrong; but surely, like a house built upon
the sand, a life-time, a month, a week, with
bad clay at the foundation, would most. cer-
tainly crumble down. But instead of this he
seemed to be as highly valued at the store as
ever, and was promoted within a month.

All this widened the leak. The boy’s moral
nature was disintegrating. A thief will lie.
Stolen money goes for bad ends. Whoso has
stolen a dollar will soon find need to steal a
hundred of them. The wrong comes to light.
In the prison it was pitiful to see him. It was
then too late to stop the leak, for he still be-
lieved his detection was an accident, angrily
accused this one and that one—would be more
shrewd the next time.

In this Christian country it is remarkable
how few children, out of any class of society,
were never eee the prayers of childhood.
Without regard to creeds, all infancy goes
as upon its knees before it sleeps. It isa
sad leak when the growing youth begins to

It ought not to matter,

poe his prayers. It is a leak when the
Sabbath-day, heretofore regarded as_ sacred, is
beginning to be employed by the young clerk
in noisy recreation, or even in quiet loungings
away from the church aisles his parents loved,
or in pernicious reading. It is a leak when
one finds his intimate friend seductively, per-
haps unintentionally, leading him into relig-
ious doubts.

There is a leak somewhere when a young
person is oe cynical, bitter, is becomin
a man-hater, full of suspicions. Youth shoul
be full of faith. ;

Stop the leak! For life is not very full, at
best. Believe in God, in man, in your own
high destiny. Remember that you were born
rich in every opportunity. Waste not the por-
tion of goods that falleth to you.

A NIGHT ON THE PRAIRIE.

 

 

 

BY MAURICE SILINGSBY.

During a visit to the West, happening to be
in St. Cloud, Minnesota, I remembered a very
pressing invitation I had not long before re-
ceived from an old friend, a Mr. Westerveldt,
who lived only fifteen miles from St. Cloud,
in one of the infant settlements of the Pepin
Valley, and I determined upon paying him a
visit. :

I accordingly hired a carriage, and drove out
to his residence, where I received a most cor-
dial welcome from my old friend and his fam-
ily, consisting of two daughters, whom I had
last seen when only six and eight years old re-
spectively, but now developed into full-grown,
beautiful women.

The days flew by with extreme pleasantness
amid a round of amusements.

Although it was unusually cold even for Jan-
uary, no snow had yet fallen—or, at least, not
any worth mentioning—and we were anxiously
awaiting the first fall which might prove suffi-
ciently abundant to awaken the inspiring jingle
of the sleigh-bells.

Helen and Mabel had contemplated a visit to

some friends in St. Cloud on the occasion of
the first fall of snow which might yield them
sleighing, and I had promised to serve them
in the enviable capacity of escort.

I shall never forget. the. sparkling eyes and
looks of pleasure that animated the counte-
nances of the two young ladies when their father
entered just before sunset one evening, and de-
clared that there would be snow—and he reck-
oned a pretty good quantity of it before morn-
ing; and his long residence in the Territory had
ably qualified him to judge with correctness.

elen é¢xpressed the satisfaction she felt in
her usual quiet way, while Mabel, more san-
ae and demonstrative than her elder sister,

airly shouted and danced about’ the room in
delightful anticipation of the long wished-for
event. And, to our united gratification, the
next morning showed us that the statement of
Mr. Westerveldt had been prophetic, for six
inches of snow had fallen during the night.

All were now joyous, and after breakfast the
cutter was gotten out and filled with buffalo
robes, for the thermometer was below zero,
with a fair prospect of its being even colder.

A span of beautiful grays—the especial pride
of Mr. Westerveldt—were attached to the pole;
and cloaked, hooded, muffled, and mittened for
the occasion, we—Helen, Mabel, and myself—
took our places in the double-seated cutter.
With a taut rein, and an encouraging chirrup
to the horses, we were off like the wind, cleay-
ing through the frosty air like an arrow winged
from a bow.

In twenty minutes we had passed the only
house on the road, and one of the young ladies
mentioned the mame of the owner—Mr. Jag-

ers. His ranch, or farm, was extensive, and

is attention, I afterward learned, was chiefly
directed to cattle growing. He had but one
child—a daughter—and she, the girls informed
me, had but recently been married to Gilbert
Lyon, one of her father’s hired men. He was
a smart young, fellow, they said, and it was
considered a good match.

After passing the house of Mr. Jaggers we
saw, at a considerable distance ahead of us, an
ox-sled loaded with hay, and the oxen, a large
and well-kept pair, driven by a young man in
a farmer’s frock.. As we passed the load,
which was evidently on its way to St. Cloud,
Helen Westerveldt informed me that the driver
was the Gilbert Lyon who had married Sophia
Jaggers.

e was a stout, good-looking young fellow,
with ruddy cheeks, and ack heer eyes. He
walked with a quick, elastic step, which, added
to his otherwise prepossessing appearance, gave
han alook of conscious power and indepen-

ence.

We reached St. Cloud about ten o’clock in
the forenoon, and remained at the Kamptons’,
whom we were visiting, until after tea. They
tried to persuade us to remain over night, as-
suring us we should freeze before we could get
half way across the prairie. But with the
abundance of furs and buffalo robes at our
command we were confident that no such dis-
aster could happen to us.

We accordingly started on our return just as
the round, full moon came palely blushing into
view. It was intensely cold—I never knew it to
be colder during my sojourn there. Our:breath
froze as it left our nostrils, and hung in pen-
dant icicles from our chilled noses.

I was beginning to regret that we had not
accepted the advice of our friends, and re-
mained over night in St. Cloud, when our ears
were startled by a dismal howl at no great dis-
tance, which was quickly answered by similar
sounds farther off.

I turned to the girls for an explanation, for
the sounds were new to me, when I noticed
with alarm that they were trembling violently,
and what could beseen of their faces was dead-
ly pale. It was evident from their scared and
startled appearance that they were terribly
frightened.

“For Heaven’s sake, Helen—Mabel—what is
the matter? Was there anything in what we
just eer to alarm you thus?” I anxiously in-
quired.

“God help us!” answered Helen, with a shud-
der; “the wolves are on our track!”

I had never before heard the how! of those
prairie demons, which are cowardly enough,
except when driven by hunger, or raiding to-
gether in large packs.

On this occasion it was evident, from the re-
eated howls in all directions, that we were
iterally surrounded. What was to be done

more than we werealready doing? The horses,
already frightened by the dismal sounds, were
leaping over the crisp snow in flying bounds,
with nostrils distended, and manes and tails
coursing through the frosty air like streamers.
The howls grew nearer, more numerous, more
distinct and threatening every moment.

Fortunately I had a revolver in my pocket,
though I seldom carried one on an occasion like
this. Every chamber I knew was loaded, and
I thanked my lucky stars that it was so. If
they overtook us some of them would suffer.
We were all as silent—as mute as death, from
the force of our great terror.* The blood ting-
led through my veins to my finger-ends—neu-
tralizing and speedily dissipating the benumb-
ing sensation of eight-and-twenty degrees _ be-
low zero.

The horses required no urging. Terror was a
sufficient spur. They sped on like the rushing
wind, snorting in fear as they heard our pur-
suers. The circle was momentarily narrowing.
Already a hundred gleaming eyes shot lurid
fire out of the darkness. They were all around,
and their long baying howls rang out on the
frosty air like the peal of doom.

Some were pursuing—some heading us off
and more pressing in upon our sides. e were
literally surrounded—hemmed in—cut off from
all outward succor, with nothing but our own
hands, and a single revolver for defense. The
approached us with flying leaps, their disma
howls terminating in sharp, short, angry

 

| and wrappers that covere

 

.

the aay, of their rage.

I felt the full measure of our peril, and was
determined not to waste ashot. As near as I
could judge we had made a little less than one
half of the distance we were to go, and were
perhaps within two or three miles of Mr. Jag-
gers’ residence. If we could only reach here
we would be safe, but that was impossible, un-
less we could fight or cut our way through the
hungry, ravenous pack.

I waited with all the coolness and deliber-
ation I coukd muster, until the foremost of the

ack—a long, gaunt monster—was within three

eet of the cutter. Then I fired, taking accur-
ate aim between the two flaring green orbs.

The bullet went crashing through the skull
of the maddened brute, Sere him as though
he never meditated mischief. Another leaped
over his prostrate carcass, and received a sim-
ilar gratuity. Twoshots were expended, and
but four left. They were pressing in upon all
sides. How could I husband them longer?

‘I fired as fast as they came, and quicker than
I can tell it, the four remaining shots were ex-
pended, and four more of the savage brutes
were left behind, kicking and writhing in the
snow. When my last shot was fired, I
turned a despairing look upon my two trem-
bling companions.

They were locked in each other’s arms, and
their faces ‘were as white as ashes. One of the
fiercest of the pack had fastened to the side of
the cutter, and was tearing away at the shawls
the shrinking form
of Helen. I turned, shoving my left foot under
the seat as I did so, to add tothe force and
momentum of the movement, and struck a ter-
rific blow at the head of the ravenous brute.

He loosened his hold upon the cutter, and
dropped behind; but his place was filled in a
twinkling by others of the hungry pack. My
foot, in striking at the brute, had come in con-
tact with something underneath the seat, and
with the desperation of a drowning person I
reached under and clutched it.

I drew it out quickly, with some weak, faint
thrill akin to hope. It was a handle to some-
thing I had grasped. There was a steel-like
glimmer in the dim, white light of the wintr
moon. Great Heaven! how my heart leaped.
held in my grasp a sharp, strong hatchet. I
dealt my blows right and left—sometimes with
precision, oftener at random; and in five min-
utes more I had hewed my way clear of the
ravenous Pa

On rushed the noble ys at the rate of
twenty miles an hour. elen and Mabel saw
that we had escaped danger, and in the sudden
reaction from despair to hope both sank faint-
ing in the bottom of the cutter. There was no
helt for it. I could not stop to look after them
in the midst of the freezing cold, and the dan-
ger of our Pea but resolving to stop
when we reached the house of Jaggers, I drew
the buffalo robes more closely around them,
and held firmly to the straining ribbons.

A few minutes after this we passed Gilbert
Lyon, seated on his ox-sled. We soon left hirh
far behind, and five minutes after we drew rein
in front of Mr. Jaggers’ house.

The family came out and assisted me in get-
ting the cone ladies into the warm and com-
fortable kitchen, where at least a quarter of a
cord of wood was blazing in the ample fire-place.

The horses were driven into an aoe
shed, and warmly blanketed. Helen and Mabe
were soon restored to a consciousness of warmth
and safety, after the terrible cold and fright
they had experienced.

When we were all seated around the fire I
related, to their amazement, our perilous en-
counter with the wolves.

The young wife shuddered as I concluded,
and wondered if Gilbert would be thoughtless
enough to start that night from St. Cloud? I
told her that we had passed him a mile or two
i seated on his sled, but did not speak to

im.

About twenty minutes later we heard ‘the
oxen stepping briskly over the crisp snow, and
all rose and went to the window. When the
team came opposite the door it stopped, but the
driver, sitting bolt upright on the cross-beams
of the sled, did not offer to rise.

Mr. Jaggers went out with a lantern, and we
heard him utter an exclamation of surprise.
We all rushed out and gazed upon the man.
There he sat, immovable as a stone. He was
frozen to death.

We will not attempt to describe the grief and
agony of the young wife when she fully realized
the situation, but we will draw a vail over that
great sorrow which so suddenly blighted her
‘young life. Our house of refuge was now con-
verted into one of mourning. At nine next
morning we reached home in safety.

 

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

A haff-bred man and a haff-learned one are
wuss oph than a clown or a phool.

 

It iz only the hily eddikated and the ve
best bred people that kan be familiar with
each other. “Familiarity breeds kontempt”
amung the haff breeds.

The wheel ov fortune iz alwuss on the move,
and we often lose to-morrow what we win to-

day. ,

tt iz az rare tew find a true friend az itiza
dimond that has no flaw, and isn’t oph culler.
- He who iz everyboddy’s friend hain’t got
no time tew be ennyboddy’s.

Thare iz no true friendship amung loafers
and skalawags; thare iz only intimicy.

Thare iz no man living now days that kan
tell the world enny thing new; the very best
that a modern writer kan do iz tew shine up
old things. ;

Solomon, seven thousand years ago, after
plundering from thoze who had written before

im, laments “that there iz nothing nu under
the sun.”

When I hear a man say that “he haz got no
friends,” I kum tew the konklusion, rite oph,
that he don’t deserve enny.

Don’t tri tew make a friend out ov a weak
man; it iz like trieing tew carry water in a
sieve.

One rezon whi happiness is so skarse in this
world iz bekause most people mistake plezzure
for happiness.

<>< - —

THE ORIGIN OF THE MAFIA.

 

Crime-stained as it is to-day, and ghastly
with murder every step of its tortuous secret
career, the “Mafia” sprang into being from an
inspiration of patriotism; but its very birth
was heralded by a libation of blood.

The “Mafia” society is over six hundred
years old, having its origin at the revolt of
Palermo, which took place during an Easter
ceremonial in the suburbs of that city in the
year 1282. A beautiful young girl and her be-
trothed, in accordance with the quaint and
primitive customs of that people, approached
the Church of the Holy Ghost to be united in
marriage at its altar; and while the lover
sought the venerable padre in the little room at
the rear of the building, his bride paused upon
its threshold. .

As she stood, expectant—graceful as a fawn,
fair as a dream, her innocent heart throbbing
with its new-born happiness—a drunken ser-
geant of the French garrison, Druet by name,
strode up behind her, and threw his arm about
her waist. With a cry of horror and fear the poor
child tore herself from his polluting grasp and
turned to fly, but the heel of her dainty slip-
per caught in the coping of the stone pavement
and she fell, striking her head against a sharp
projection of the church cornice.

At that instant the returning lover’s eyes
fell upon his beautiful fiancee—lying lifeless,
her white brow gaping with its cruel wound,
her long tresses dabbled with her blood. With
the savage fury of a wild beast he threw him-
self upon Druet, bore him to the earth, and
drove his stiletto to the wretch’s heart. crying,

 

“Morte alla Francia!” “Death to the French!”

snarls, as though they had bitten them off in;

«aesa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #92 wonn

 

There was a moment, a pause of silence, and
then that maddened cry became the roar of in-
furiated thousands. It swelled and deepened;
it took more solemn meaning—became nation-
alized—and then burst forth, “ Morte alla
Francia Italia anela!” “Death to the French
is Italy’s cry!” For seventy-two hours armed
bands, headed aA the father and betrothed of
the hapless girl, hunted down the hated French,
and their search was as the quest of the tiger
and blood-hound.

But retribution was to come after this car-
nival of blood, and in dread of the vengeance
of the French nation these unhappy people
formed themselves into secret organizations
with the password and name of the society
made up of the initial letters of the words
which compose that fateful death cry, thus
forming “Mafia.” Its object was resistance to
oppression, and as the lapse of years added to
its power and influence it stretched forth its
hands against the rich and mighty in behalf of
the poor and the downtrodden. To-day it is
but the hideous cloak of the creeping thug and
the assassin of the night.

OO Oo

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

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

 

Walter S., Athens, Ohio.—1st. The perforations between
postage stamps are effected by passing the sheets between
two cylinders provided with aseries of raised bands which
are adjusted to a distance apart equal to that required be-
tween the rows of perforations, Each ring on the upper
cylinder has a series of cylindrical projections which fit
corresponding depressions in the bands of the lower
cylinder. By these the perforations are punched out, and
by a simple contrivance, the sheet is detached from the
cylinders in which it has been conducted by an endless
band. The rows running longitudinally of the paper are
first made, and then by a similar machine the transverse
ones. The machine by which the perforating is done was

invented and patented, it is stated. by a Mr. Arthur, in
1852, and was purchased by the Government for Sn a
2a. Postage stamps were first introduced into the United
States in 1847. 3d. The printing of postage stamps is done
from steel plates, on which a certain number of stamps
are engraved, and the paper used is of a peculiar texture,
somewhat resembling that employed in bank-notes. Two
persons cover the plates with the colored inks and pass
them to two others, who print them with large rolling
hand-presses. The colors used in the inks are ultra-ma-
rine biue, Prussian blue, chromo yellow, green, vermilion,
and carmine. After the sheets of paper on which the
stamps are engraved have been dried, they are sent into
another room and gummed separately. They are placed
back upward upon a flat wooden support, the edges being
protected by a metallic frame, and the gum {applied with
a wide brush. The sheets are subsequently cut in halves
with shears and aregthen ready for perforating.

Schoolboy, Wheeling, W. Va.— Harrow is a famous gram.
mar-school in the town of the same name, in the county of
Middlesex, England. The school was founded by John
Lyon, a wealthy yeoman, in 1571. The town is finely

situated on the summit of a high hill, 10 miles by railroad
north-west of London. It is called Harrow-on-the-Hill.
It contains anumber of attractive houses, ancient ard
modern, and a picturesque old church. Harrow, as you
state. has often been referred to in works of fiction.
Among the celebrated men who have been educated there

Robert Peel.

P. N. C., Aberdeen, Miss.—The General Belknap re-
ferred to, who was appointed Secretary of War by Presi-
dent Grant in 1869, and who resigned his office on account
of charges made against him for receiving bribes for the
appointment ot post traders, was found dead ip his bed at
his apartments in Washington, D. C., Oct. 13, 1890. The
Senate before which he was tried acquitted him. Since
that period he had been acting as a claimagent. His full
name was William Worth Belknap. He was born in
Newburgh, N.Y., Sept. 22, !829. His military record during
the civil war was a good one. .

Almedia, Lexington, Ky.—The foundling hospital of
Moscow is called “immense” because it admits yearly

 

 

about 12,000 children. The inhabitants of a large village
near Moscow are entirely devoted to the bringing up of
the foundlings. About fifty per cent. of them die before
the age of one year, and only one quarter of those brought
to the institution reach maturity. The boys who display
great ability aré sent to the nniversity, and the givls may
become musicians, actresses, governesses, teachers, etc.
All can return to the hospital should they fall into distress
in after life. :

Christopher J. M., Dundee, N. Y.—We believe that
Longfellow positively denied the authorship of some dog-
grel verses about “Mr. Finnery and his Turnip.” It is
stated that his first production—at least one worthy to
be called a poem—was written and published when he
was 13 years of age. It is entitled, “The Battle of
Lovell’s Pond,” a place not far from Hiram, Me., and the
scene of a fight with the Indians. The poem was sent to
the Portland Gazette,and was printed on November 17,
1820. The signature was simply ‘‘ Henry.”

Albert, Brockfort, N.Y.—The term round robin is given
toa written petition or protest, signed by a number of
persons, in a circular form, so that it may not appear who
signed it first. Sometimes the names are written around
@ ring or circle inclosing the memorial or remonstrance,
and sometimes they are appended to it, arranged within
a circle of their own, from the center of which they radi-
ate as the spokes of a wheel do from the nave. |

M. L., Burlington, N. J.—The dragon-fly, or “‘devil’s

darning needle,” is sometimes called the musquito hawk
because it lives mostly on musquitoes, of which it kills
and eats great numbers. Its prey is always caught on
the wing, by means of its claws, and not with its mouth.
It gets its name of darning-needle from its long and slen-
der tapering body. Itis represented as entirely harm-
less, never biting nor stinging. :
R. W. G., Elizabeth, N. J.—1st. ‘The Commanider-in-
Chief of the Sons of Veterans,U. S. A., is Leland J.Webb,
Topeka, Kansas. 2d. The organization has about 125,000
members. 3d. The Commander-in-Chief of the Grand
Army of the Republic is Wheelock G. Veazey, Rutland,
Vt. Total membership 398,267. Total number in New
Jersey 7,707. Commander, A. M. Mathews, Orange.

R. E. B., New Orleans, La.—The Monitor, the iron-clad
steam vessel that had the famous battle with the Merri-
mac, was ordered to Savannah in 1862. She left Hampton
Roads on December 29 of that year in tow of the steamer
Rhode Island. When off Cape Hatteras, Dec. 30, she
sprung aleak and sunk with four officers anda crew of
twelve men.

Artist, Freneau, N. J.—Artists’ canvas is the material
on which most oil paintings are made. Before using itis
usually primed or covered with a preparation of chalk
and size or of white lead, which, when dry, is ground un-
til its surface is smooth. It is also generally stretched
on wooden frames of the size of the picture.

A, L. A., Staten Island.—Naval etiquette requires that
all vessels when entering the port of a friendly power
shall run up the flag of that power, and fire a salute as a
token of amity. This flag is run up the foremast, and the
flag of the vessel’s own nationality hangs from the main-
mast.

A, M.S., Trenton, N. J.—The American loss at the bat-
tle of Monmouth, Freehold, N. J., June 28, 1778, was 69
killed and 160 wounded; that of the British nearly 300
killed and 100 prisoners, including wounded. On both
sides many men died from heat alone.

L. M. B. P., Milledgeville, Ga.—The present ‘Secretary
of the Treasury, Charles Foster, was born in Seneca
County, Ohio, a few miles from Fostoria, his present
home, April 12, 1828. He was elected Governor of Ohio
in 1879 and re-elected in 1881.

Mrs. Henry Lee, Richmond, Ky.—A handy manual of
flower-gardening for ladies, entitled *‘ Every Woman Her
Own Flower Gardener,” can be furnished for $1. If you
wish it, write direct to the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchas-
ing Agency.

Alex. C. D., Minneapolis.—Stereotyping was introduced
into the United States in 1813 by David Bruce, of this
city. The first book produced by it was a New Testa-
ment. Date, 1814.

D. L. M., Lexington, Ky.—From $500 to $3,000, according
to merit, or the reputation of the writer. At present we
have a full supply of manuscripts of all kinds.

Madeline, Troy, N. Y.—The Treasurer of the National
Women’s Christian Temperance Union is Miss Esther
Pugh, 161 La Salle street, Chicago, I11.

C. R. E., Bangor. Me.—The canvas-back duck gets its
name from its white back, most of its other parts being
dusky red, black, or slate color. :

Young Reader, Augusta. Ga.—The frigate Constitution,
“ Old Ironsides,” is now at the Portsmouth, N. H., Navy
Yard. :

Amelia V. B. M., Staten Island.—Young ladies can
study architecture at the Pratt Institute, Brooklyn, N.Y.

G. F. S.—Write or apply in person to the Board of Com-
missioners of Pilots, No. 40 Burling Slip.

N. M. A., Angusta, Me.—Gen. William T. Sherman was
buried in Calvary Cemetery, St. Louis, Mo.

S. A., Jacksonville. Fla.—The estimated population of
London in 1889 was 4,350,000.

Old Reader, Harlem.—Dan Bryant, the negro minstrel,
died on April 10, 1875. ‘

A Subscriber, Caddo, Ky.—We cannot enlighten you.

 

N. A. W., Minneapolis.—Yes.

 

 

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ours wees THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 .

 

 

 

—_—_—_— :

BEAUTIFUL HANDS.

 

BY ELLEN H.- GATES.

 

The following poem was suggested to the author on see-
ing her aged mother’s wrinkled and worn hands lying in
her lap, as she sat by her side:

Such beautiful, beautiful hands,
They are neither white nor small,

And you, I know, would searcely think
That they were white at all.

I’ve looked on hands of form and hue—
A sculptor’s dream might be,

Yet are these aged wrinkled hands
Most beautiful to me.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
When her heart was weary and sad

These patient hands kept toiling on
That the children might be glad.

I often weep when looking back
To childhood’s distant day!

I think how these hands rested not
When mine were at their play.

Such beautiful, beautiful hands!
They are growing feeble now,

And time and toil have left their mark
On hand, and heart, and brow.

Alas! Alas! the nearing time—
The sad, sad day to me,

When ‘neath the daisies, out of sight,
These hands must folded be.

But, oh! beyond these shadowy lands,
Where all is bright and fair,

I know full well these dear old hands
Will palms of victory bear;

 

When crystal streams, through endless years,
Flow over golden sands,

And where the old grow young again,
T’ll clasp my mother’s hands.

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. }

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII.
A RENEWAL OF VOWS.
If there had been any doubt in Madge’s mind

And then those letters! Would she ever
have written them if she had not been in earn-
est and believed him to be so? He had not
looked at the letters since the first reading of
them, not even when he recalled them as a
means of coercing her to a better treatment of
him; but surely there was many a passionate
declaration of love. He would look.

And one day, when she had been so madden-
ingly, bewitchingly beautiful that he had near-
iy eet his self-control in her presence, while
she had only smiled in her mocking way and
sent him to Mabel, he wengto his rooms at
the hotel, and with an oath had taken the
packet of letters from his trunk. i

He opened and read them one by.one, and it
seemed to him that he was reading them for
the first time. When he had taken them from
their pidling pine in the oak tree he had care-
lessly torn them open and perused their con-
tents in an uninterested way; for then he had
the winsome writer of them to whisper the
words of love and admiration in his ears.

But now, when she seemed so far away from
him, he read the letters as if the Madge of to-
day, instead of the Madge of the country, had
written them. And, ah! what simplicity, fer-
vor, and love they all breathed! Yes, yes, she
had loved him at that time, and she must still
love him. Why, think! She knew he would
be there at Newport with Mabel, and if she
had wished to avoid him, as she would have
done had she hated him for what he had done,
she need only have remained away.

Oh, it was quite clear to him that she still
loved him, and was but holding aloof from him
to satisfy her pride. And did he love her?
What a blind fool he must have been that he
had not realized at the time how madly he did

love the peerless creature! Love her! He was
mad with love. And have her he would. Let
Mabel go. What wasshe to him, with her

ink-and-white skin and blue eyes, her grace-

1 languor, and affected good temper?

Yes, he would turn from Mabel with as easy
a conscience as he had before turned from
Madge, after ruthlessly searing her young and
trusting soul with his wounding insults. He
told himself that he loved Madge, and that
even if she did not love him, though he believed
she did, he could force her into an alliance

vent words of which his evil nature had. im-
mediately seen could be construed into mean-
ings beyond what had been intended by the
innocent writer.

He felt, as he stood by himself, with those
letters in his hand, as if she were completely
in his power, and that he would no longer have
any hesitation in forcing her to give him that
confidential talk to which he considered her
pledged by the promise she had made him on
the first night of their meeting at the ball.

But when, at the brilliant reception given in
her honor that night, he approached her, and
caught one glimpse of the mocking brown eyes
that flashed for one instant into his, he felt an
indefinable sense of powerlessness, as if trying

 

as to the impression she had made at the hall
it would have been dispelled when she sat
down to a late breakfast with the family the
following morning.

Besides the outspoken congratulations of her
aunt and cousin, which she received courteous-
ly enough, but with asmile of easy indiffer-
ence, there were scores of requests that she
would consider all invitations to her aunt and
cousin as if made to her also.

This meant that during the time of her visit
to Newport she would be in the center of a
whirl of gayety. There would be balls and
picnics and lawn tennis, and polo and yacht-
ing, and, in fact, every conceivable device for
bringing the fashionable and exclusive set of
the watering-place together.

Whatever of wonder the mother and daugh-
ter felt at the perfect composure with which
Madge received every attention that was paid
her they displayed only polite courtesy to Mr.
Worthington; and to their queries about Madge
he could only answer:

“T know no more than you. I supposed her a
simple country girl until she
precisely as she has done on you.”

But if Mr. Worthington did not know any-
thing he did suspect that Madge had a hidden
and ulterior purpose in what she was doing.
What that pu e was he was at a loss to de-
termine, though he could not rid himself of an
uneasy feeling that her action toward Harry
Van Schuyler on the night of the ball was in
some way connected with it.

This feeling led him, for the first few days
thereafter, to watch her closely. But watch
her as he might, she never betrayed anything
to justify any suspicion whatever. Her treat-
ment of Harry Van Schuyler, in particular, was
so natural and free from any sort of feeling,
that at last Mr. Worthington gave up the tas
of trying to understand Madge, determined to
take her on trust, as her father had said he

wae

arry Van Schuyler, on the other hand, was
driven to exasperation by what he called
Madge’s studied coldness toward him. Though
even he was forced to admit that whatever she
did was done in so natural a way as to seem
entirely the result of chance and circumstance.

There never came the opportunity for a confi-
dential talk, for which he at first looked as a
matter of course, and presentl
as the object for which he lived.

Madge, always surrounded by an eager, ad-
miring throng of cavaliers, acted toward him
in the half-friendly manner that seemed the
due of one who was her cousin’s betrothed, but
never in any way indicated, so that even he
might recognize it, that she had any more than
a few days’ acquaintance with him. While at
the same time she constantly put him aside for
all other say ean on the plea that she would
not keep him from Mabel.

And so he would go from her side time and
again, to take his place smilingly by Mabel,
and to entertain her with the small talk in
which he was such an adept. But though habit
made it possible for him to smile and to talk,
he was inwardly a prey to anger and chagrin.

He would watch her as she sat, the center of
an eager, enraptured group, holding her hear-
ers enthralled by her wit and fascinated by her
ravishing beauty, that never seemed the same;
and he would curse himself for the folly that
had lost to him, for even a time, such a peer-
less creature.

He could not believe that he had lost her

began to seek

_ forever, and he was continually casting about

for the means of regaining her. And Mabel,
who had seemed so fit by her beauty and her
wealth to be his bride, grew hateful to him, as
he compared her languid, lily fairness with
the sparkling, radiant beauty of Madge.

And thus it happened, whatever Madge’s
motive may have been in keeping Harry Van
Schuyler at a distance, that the wicked passion
of an idlesummer became converted into a mad
infatuation that would stop at nothing short of
possession. And he, who had been so calm and
masterful with the little country girl, became
moody and restless with the newly crowned
queen of society.

For every one but himself she had smiles and
witty repartee, and he knew that she was the
object of longing in many a heart, and that she
had but to choose did she wish a mate. And then
his eyes would darken and his teeth shut tight,
and he would swear that she should marry
none but him.

“T have her letters,” he said to himself, “and
while they are mine she can be no other’s.”

She never rebuffed him, never was distant or
cold with him; but so unconscious, so indiffer
ent! He asked himself over and over again if
those weeks when she had played the country
girl, and had permitted him to twine his arm
about her waist, or to press: the warm kisses
a oo red lips, could have been all forgotten

y her.

Could it be that she had never loved him?
Had she been merely acting a farce to pass the
dragging time? Then why had she permitted
him the liberties she had? No, no, he told
himself; she had loved him, perhaps loved him
still, but was oaety because he had done her
the wrong he had. She could not forgive him
that he had tried to trifle with her.

burst upon me |:

to grasp an elusive thing, which might yet at
any moment confront him suddenly, a hard,
immovable wall.

A singular quality of Madge’s was that she
could listen in such a way as to draw from
those about her all that was best and wittiest
in them; so that when her own musical voice
was hushed she was still the center of a gay
and witty throng. At such times she would sit

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

APOLOGIZING TO THOSE AROUND HER SHE TOOK
THE ARM OF THE MAN SHE HAD INFATUATED.

like a veritable queen, bestowing the precious

gift of a smile or a glance on the favored cour-

tier and so lifting him to the pinnacle of hap-
iness.

She was listening to-night, and, drawn as by
a siren’s spell, the crowds pressed closer about
her, most of them content only to look at her
and to sigh in secret.hopelessness. Harry Van
Schuyler saw how she held them all in thrall,
how she might play upon their hearts as ona
stringed instrument, bringing from each the
note she wished; and the same mad fever that
had swept over him so many times recently
possessed him again, and he knew that he
would have bartered his soul for the happiness
of once again Fala her nestle that round
cheek against his while she whispered in his
ear, as once she had done—“ Harry darling!”

The intention of forcing her to do anything
departed from his thoughts as ice will melt in
a summer’s sun; but desperation and sullen
determination took its place, and he urged his
way through the throng, intent to make her
see that the time had come when he could no
longer control himself. The look, indeed, was
in his eyes and written on his face, and she
saw it there; but there was no sign of sucha
knowledge in the manner in which she turned
to him and said:

“Where have you left my Cousin Mabel, Mr.
Van Schuyler?’ /

“In good hands,” he answered, with difficulty
repressing an inclination to grind his teeth;
“and she has deputed me to escort you to her,
to decide some important question of taste.
Will you take my arm?”

There was nothing in her smile to imply any
doubt of the genuineness of the message, and
with apologies to the gentlemen, surrounding
her, she took the arm offered her and went
away by the side of the man whose infatuation
had driven him to such astep in order to ob-
tain a few words with her.

“And what is this question of taste?” she
asked of him.

“You know there is no such question,” he
answered, half choking with the mad_ passion
which, once yielded to, had now complete pos-
session of him. “The message was a subter-
fuge to have a word with you—just a word,
Madge. Miss Raeburn, then. Do not refuse
me, lor I tell you I am mad—crazy. You have
held me away from you until I no longer have
the power to control myself.”

She knew that what he said was quite true,
but there was no sign of such a consciousness
in the wondering face that was turned up to

him.

“Why, Mr. Van Schuyler!” she said, “what
can you mean?”

It required all the self-control of which he
had always considered himself a master to en-
able him to reply to this question, without
making some demonstration of the passion that
possessed him.

“Will you not go out into the garden with
me—on the lawn, the porch—anywhere, so that
I may say what I must say wherever we are. I
must and will say it.”

“But,” answered Madge, still with the same
wondering composure, “ yon said you wére go-
ing to take me to Mabel, and it would excite
comment if we were not to go to her.”

“Are you marble?” he asked between his

 

 

 

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

with him by means of those letters, the fer- |

| ately torturing me.

afterward to the porch.”

“Tf you really wish it,” she answered, smil-
ing gently, as if he had uttered a jest of some
sort.

He knew that she understood him, and knew
the full force of the love and passion that
moved him, and it made him fear something
in her, when he saw how perfectly she re-
| act the faintest sign of consciousness, and

ow accurately she used the weapons at her
hand to defend herself against the least mis-
construction.

He took her to Mabel, and was forced to curb
his impatience while she leisurely sank into a
chair which was immediately offered to her.
He saw the crowds gathering to the center
again, heard her taking up the conversation
and shaping it with deft wit, saw her smile
upon every one but himself, and knew she was
deliberately torturing him. She did not seem
to avoid him, but rather seemed to have for-
gotten his existence.

“You said,” he interrupted, suddenly, and
his voice was noticeably hoarse, “that you

 

ars

\
‘

 

 

 

 

“HOW CAN I BE SURE THAT YOU ARE NOT AS
FALSE TO ME NOW ASI BELIEVED YOU THEN?”

wished to walk on the porch, Miss Raeburn.
Shall we go now?”

“Oh, thank you,” she answered. “How kind
of you to wait! Can you spare him, Mabel?”

“T shall be grateful to you,” answered Mabel,
with a languid smile.

Madge took his arm, and he led her out of
the heated drawing-room to the broad porch.
In the hall she had caught up her shawl—a
priceless fabric of lace—and when they stood
in the open air he took it from her and placed
it over her rounded, glowing shoulders.

“Shall we walk or sit?” he asked, in a low,
constrained voice.

“Let us sit,” she answered, and would have
seated herself in a chair near by.

He, however, restrained her, and led her to
a far corner, where there would be no chance
of being overheard.

“Here,” he said. “We shall be more alone.
You are not angry with me?”

“Angry !” she repeated, in a tone of surprise.
“Oh, no. Why should I be?”

“Will you never be sincere with me again?
he pleaded.

“What a surprising man you are, Mr. Van
Schuyler, ” she said, in her light, mocking way.
“Now, what, for example, do you mean by that
question? Really, I think I am a marvel of
sincerity.” +

_He turned his’ head toward where the myriad.
lights danced on the water, and she could hear
his foot tapping the floor of the porch. She
laughed softly, and the low music falling on
his ear drove him to say, caeenney 3

“You know all I mean, all I could say in the
way of explanation. You are not blind to what
is taking place within me. You are deliber-
You know that I am mad
with the love that is raging in me, and you
but mock me. Madge, Madge, you loved me
once; will you never love me again?”

“Mr. Van Schuyler!”

“No, no!” he cried, “you shall not stop me
with aword again. Tell me what it means.
Is there any atonement I can make? [I do not
care what it is; ask it of me——”

“Mr. Van Schuyler,” she interrupted, quietly,
“you surely labor under a strange misappre-
hension when you ask such a thing of me.
What do you mean by atonement? Why should
I ask anything of you? What interest have I
in asking anything?”

“No interest, Heaven knows,” he answered,
humbly. “The interest is all mine. It is for
you to forgive, if you can find it in te heart
to do so. Madge—Miss Raeburn, I demand
nothing on the score of what has been. I humble
myself in the dust at your feet. I beg of you
to give me a fair hearing; I beseech you do not
drive me mad.”

Her voice softened a little as her answer

came.

“A fair hearing, Mr. Van Schuyler! Fair to
whom?”

“Madge,” he cried, eagerly, “I know what

 

           
  

     
  

4 Ws 1 ANS \\\

 

 

 

“WILL YOU KEEP THAT KNOWLEDGE TO YOURSELF
UNTIL I GIVE YOU PERMISSION TO SPEAK OF IT?”

you mean. But Mabel will not care. She does
not love me any more than I love her. You—
only you have I ever loved. I loved you then,
and I love you now.”

She rose quickly out of her chair, and he
could see her bosom heaving with the emotion
that overcame her.

“You loved me, then?” she said, with a sort
of gasp. “Love! could love ever lead you to
say the ee you did? Will you tell me that
you supposed me a simple country girl? What
then! would that excuse you? Did I not give
you my love loyally and utterly? And now

ou ask me to give it again! Oh, Harry,
arry !” and she buried her face in her hands.

“Madge, my darling!” he cried, in an exul-
tant whisper, “I swear to you that my love was
as loyal as your own. I was eae base, what
you will, but I loved you; and so far as human
act could do I would have repaired the injury
I did you. I sought you again to tell you how
I despised myself for what I had said, but you
never came to the oak again.”

 

He dared make no demonstration of affec-
tion, but he leaned over her and caressed her

closed teeth. “Let us go to Mabel first, and

with his voice, murmurin:
contrition. And would she believe him now?
Would she put faith in him again?

“How,” she asked, falteringly, “can I be
sure that you are not as false to me now as I
believed you to be then?”

He could hardly trust himself to speak for
the triumph and joy of his renewed conquest.
His hot breath fanned her hair, and into his
heart there rushed the full tide of the old self-
confidence that for the nonce had deserted him.
He had recovered his hold upon that proud
heart—if, indeed, he had ever lost it. He knew
a she who ruled others was to be ruled by

im. ‘

“Put me to any test you will,” he answered
her after a pause, and she recognized so well
the old tones that had been so sweet to her
under the oak.

“And Mabel?” she faltered, her eyes never
once looking up into his.

“T have never loved her. She will not care.
Madge, darling, say you love me!”

“No, no,” she answered, hurriedly, and
seemed on the point of running from him, as if
afraid to trust herself. “Not now. Come! let
us return, or we shall be missed.”

“Just a word, Madge,” he whispered.
when we shall renew this talk.”

“No, no,” she repeated. “I will say nothing.
Let us return.”

“ Say

 

CHAPTER IX.
COMPLICATION.

Harry Van Schuyler made no further objec-
tion to returning to the drawing-room when he
saw how bent upon it Madge was. What did
it matter, indeed, whether she made promises
or not, so that he was sure that he had recov-
ered his empire over her. He gave her his arm
and looked down at her averted face, a smile
of ae and triumph playing on his lips.

She took his arm and permitted him to lead
her into the house. When they came again
into the blaze of light he looked once more at
the beautiful face, and somehow the master-
ful, triumphant feeling that had possessed him
left him of a sudden. The face that had been
averted in weakness was now erect and aglow
with that consciousness of power which is to
some extent the characteristic of every beauti-
ful woman, and which was peculiarly a quality
of hers. f

“T think we have not been missed,” he al-
most stammered.

“Oh, fie, Mr. Van Schuyler!” she answered,
looking up into his face, “what an uncompli-
mentary thing to say!”

There was the mocking look in her brown
eyes, and the faint smile on the red lips that
had greeted him ever since the night of the
ball; and, adept as he was in the petty decep-
tions of sags society, there was something so
inscrutable in this ravishing creature, who
seemed able to change her moods at will, that
the old baffled feeling returned to him, and he
felt as if what had happened was but a dream.

He had brought her away from the porch
serene in the knowledge of his renewed power
over her, and in a flash of time he was thrown
back into the uncertainty of the days past. The
wonder filled him; when is she real? Had she
been herself in those days now so far away,
when she had listened and answered to his
words of love, when she had permitted him to
clasp her in his arms and shower caresses on

 

    

a2
* v—

arbi
sas

“MADGE, YOU ARE DRIVING ME MAD. I MUST
HAVE A FEW WORDS WITH YOU.”

 

 

 

her? Was she herself now, when she was
serene as a queen, as inscrutable as a sphinx?
Had she been acting when on the porch she
had made him believe that she was still pliant
to his love? Or was she acting now?

“The sun has risen again,’”murmured a voice
by her side. “The gentlemen have been grep:
ing about in the darkness of your absence, Miss
Raeburn, and I have had all I could do to con-
vince them that you would return.”

Madge smiled. The speaker was Mrs. Wray,
her hostess. Madge turned toward her and
saw a gentleman pore en AE her side.

“Permit me,” continue rs. Wray, “to pre-
sent Mr. Mortimer. Mr. Van Schuyler and he
are acquainted, I believe. Come, Mr. Van

‘Schuyler, you must pay for the happiness you

have had by going with me.

“You add happiness to happiness,” said Van
Schuyler, ge y, but Madge knew there was
a tinge of hatred in his tone.

“Have we met before, Miss Raeburn?” asked
Mr. Mortimer.

She looked up into his eyes, a roguish smile
parting her lips and making her eyes dance.

A scene that seemed of long ago rose up be-
fore her mental vision. She answered, soberly:

“Was it at a buffalo hunt?’

Why, she wondered, did the frank, hearty
mirth that swept over his fine face, change
suddenly to a look of pain? Why did he meet
her eyes with that strange expression of sor-
row? The changes were rapid, but she had
noted them. And why had Harry Van Schuyler
yone so readily, and with»that peculiar tone,
rom the man he had so often told her was his
friend.

“Did you find the buffalo, Miss Raeburn?”
asked Percy Mortimer.

There was a smile on his lips as he asked the
question, but Madge saw that he was perfunc-
tory in his mirth, and wondered why. Had it
some connection with Harry Van Schuyler?
Had she any concern in it? She had taken his
arm and they were slowly walking across the
room.

“T owe you an apology for that encounter,”
she said, her smile showing none of the curi
osity that was within her.

“No,” he said, shaking his head and laugh-
ing slightly; “I felt that it was deserved by
my countrymen if not by me. Perhaps I was
that ignorant of your country once. Certainly
you did not enjoy your jest more than I. But,”
and he looked at her with an expression in
which there was as much admiration as won-
der, “may I satisfy my curiosity?”

“Certainly,” she answered.

“You were a Quakeress then, and a count
maiden,” he said,shesitatingly. “And Van——”
He stopped, and a flush suffused his face.

And in spite of her self-control a tinge of
deeper red colored her cheeks. She had not
thought of this; the one person who knew of
her previous acquaintance with Van Schuyler
was here, and with a careless word might be-
tray her. It wasa thing that must not hap-
pen. She formed her resolution quickly, and
acted on it.

“Mr. Van Schuyler,” she said, steadily, “you
were about to tell me had told you was a
country girl. Is it not so?”

“Yes,” he answered, in a low tone, “that is
what I was going to say.”

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Gastoria,

words of love and

 

“He thought so,” said Madge, slowly. “I
wished him to think so. Mr. Mortimer,” and
she looked into his eyes defiantly, he thought,
“you are ‘the only person, I believe, who has
any knowledge that Mr. Van Schuyler and I
have ever met before meeting here in Newport.
Will you keep that knowledge to yourself until
d. give you ee to speak of it?”

e bowed his head, unable to speak, his hon-
est blue eyes looking down on her beautiful
face with a sorrow and pity and agony that
puzzled her.

“T know,” she went on, “this must seem a
strange request to make of you, an almost total
stranger, but some day I will justify my re-
quest. And, believe me,” she added, with a
sudden pride, “I would not ask it of every one,
and only doof you, because I know you will
not misconstrue my meaning.”

“You dome a great honor, Miss Raeburn,”
he answered.

She thought he spoke coldly, and so he did;
but it was only because his heart was so wrung
with distress, and he feared to betray himself
if he did not put a severe constraint upon his
manner.

“T mean merely to do you justice,” she an-
swered, with a coldness equal to his own. “I
fully realize the enormity of forcing this confi-
dential relation upon you, and will relieve you
of it as soon as may he. I trust you will for-
give me. Thank you,” as he bent his head.
“Will you be good enough to take me to Miss
Worthington?

He wished to ask her to trust him com-
pletely, to beg her not to be displeased with

im; but the thought of the conversation be-
tween himself and Van Schuyler on the hotel
porch, and the terrible feeling that this present
confidence was in some measure a confirmation
of the scoundrel’s flippancy froze the words in
his throat, and made him sick at heart.

He led her silently to Mabel, made his ex-
cuses, and left them, going to the hostess and
taking leave of her on the plea of suddenly re-
membered letters of importance that must be
written. ‘

No one would have guessed that anythin
had disturbed the composure of the beautifu
favorite; no one could have known that she
had seen Van Schuyler jealously and desper-
ately watching the very motions of their lips
as she and Mortimer talked together; no one
could have supposed that the look of relief that

assed over Van Schuyler’s face as he saw
* fortimer take his leave had aught to do with

er.

She played her part during the long evening
as an actress might on the mimic stage; but
when she sat in her own room, after her maid
had been dismissed, she tried to make it all
out, the weariness of acting, more than any
want of rest, making the dainty head sink into
the lace of her slumber gown.

“Something there is,” she said to herself,
“between those two men and me. What it is
I must know. What did that look mean? Why
should Mr. Mortimer act so? Why should
Harry Van Schuyler watch him with such jeal-
ous scrutiny and hatred? Why should he be so
relieved to see him go from me? Shall I see
that Englishman no more?”

She assured herself that her only interest in
the Englishman was to set herself right with
him after having forced him into confidential
relations with her; but there was a half-angry
consciousness in the knowledge that she cared
so much to set herself right with him. And
her last waking wonder was: “Will he be at
the. garden party to-morrow?”

Yes, he was at the garden party, and so, of
course, was Henry Van Schuyler; and a singu-
lar fact impressed itselfon Madge. Both of
the men had come resolved and determined,
each to play a part. With her keen sensitive-
ness she realized it in the first moment of.
meeting them.

Mortimer looked pale and worn, as if he had |
had but little rest; but there was in his man-
ner asort of defiant disregard of something
within himself, which was inexplicable to
Madge, but which she understood to be a part
of the enigma. He sedulously sought her, and
if he said little she knew that he was con-
stantly studying her, for whenever she looked
ed ip 9 would catch his eye moving away from

er face.

Nothing passed between him and Van Schuy-
ler beyond the barest courtesies necessary in
the situation in which they were placed; and
Madge, on the alert for the slightest indica-
tion, noticed that whereas Van Schuyler hid
an undefined dread of Mortimer, the latter
scarcely concealed his disdain of the other.

Then Van Schuyler, unchecked by Madge’s
dextrous efforts te keep him at a distance,
urged himself on her, not merely like one who
would no longer be put away, but like one who
feared not to be always with her. And stranger
than all was the tacit recognition on the part
of Mortimer of Van Schuyler’s right to priority
of claim on her. And this was apparent even
after she had made it plain Bayban doubt that
Van Schuyler was engaged to Mabel; for her
first explanation had been that Mortimer had
been told by Van Schuyler, when at the hotel,
that he and she were lovers, and that Mortimer
was unaware of the relation between Yan
Schuyler and her cousin.

No one but Madge seemed cognizant of what
was going on, for all was hidden under a show
of naturalness that disarmed ordinary sus-

icion; and when Madge saw that Van Schuy-

er was determined to keep by her side she

ceased to try to prevent him, and only set her-
self to covering the fact, so that it should not
a ae except to one especially inter-
ested.

Mabel was the other one who was especially
interested, and she noticed the defection of her
lover when it became too marked for her to
avoid it. At first she did not give it any seri-
out thought, but pushed it aside as a matter
unworthy of reflection; but when during the
afternoon she found herself deserted by him,
and he always by the side of her cousin, a jeal-
ous pang shot through her breast.

There had always, from the first appearance
of Madge, been a feeling of chagrin at finding
herself dethroned, but she had found consola-
tion in the thought that in becoming betrothed
to Harry Van Schuyler, she had of her own act
descended from the throne, and she had told
herself that she was content.

Now, he, too, had joined the throng of wor-
shipers at the new shrine. And it was the
same the next day, and the next; and the fear

rew strong in Mabel’s breast that she was

eing deserted. She said nothing to her mother,
nor did her mother speak of it to her; but each
knew that the other saw, and their hatred of
Madge began to take shape and grow with the

wre

nd Madge knew it, though she never lost
her smiling composure, and never gave any sign
of being instrumental in causing a moment of
uneasiness to her cousin. Mr. Worthington
looked on in anxious silence, his first fears
being revived.

For more than a week this went on, Madge
to all appearance the only unconscious actor in
the drama. Excepting the actors, however, no
one was at all aware of what was going on,
and, indeed, Madge’s most strenuous exertions
were made tothis end. She saw that Van
Schuyler was not to be restrained, and she let
him have his way in all but one thing—he
wished and prayed her for afew minutes alone,
but she always refused him until at last he
whispered :

“Madge, you are driving me mad.
have a few words with you.”

She smiled as if he had whispered some trifle
to her, and answered:

“T dare not compromise myself. Your atten-
tions are beginning to attract attention, and I
dare not see you alone.”

“Will you let me write to you?” he asked.

“It would be better not to,” she answered.

“Will you answer if I do?”

“Yes,” she answered. “Now, go to Mabel,
Write what you will. You shall not wait long
for the answer, I cannot stand this suspense
and uncertainty any more than you. Go now,
please.”

Her tone and manner more than her words
thrilled him with rath ga and he left her feel-
ing that he understood her hidden thought.

(T0 BE. CONTINUED.)

I must

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sa Cd THLE NEW YORK WEEKLY, aa vo. i

 

it
oe pyre ey —prerrens . > pe ee

   

 

HOME.

 

BY JAMES MONTGOMERY.

 

 

There is a land, of every land the pride,

Beloved by heaven o’er all the world beside ;
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,

And milder moons emparadise the night;

A land of beauty, virtne, valor, truth,
YVine-tutored age, and love-exalted youth ;

The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,

Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.

In every clime the magnet of his soul,

Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole ;
For in this land of heaven’s peculiar grace,

The heritage of nature’s noblest race,

There is a spot of earth, supremely blest,

A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,

Where man, creation’s tyrant, casts aside

His sword and scepter, pageantry and pride ;
While in his softened looks benignly blend,

The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strews with fresh flowers the narrow path of life;
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye

An angel-guard of loves and graces lie.

Around her knees domestic duties meet,

And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.

Where shall that land, that spot of earth, be found?
Art thou a man ?—a patriot jlook around;

Oh, thou shalt find, howe’er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home.

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

MONA.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

[“MONA” was commenced in No. 12. Back numbers
can be obtained of all News Agents.] |

CHAPTER XLI.—(CONTINUED.)

Mrs. Montague’s fury was something start-
ling in its bitterness and intensity, and the
three gentlemen, witnessing it, could not help
feeling something of pity for the proud woman
in her humiliation, even though they were
disgusted with her vindictiveness and selfish-
ness.

“Defiance will avail you nothing, Mrs. Mon-
tague; an amicable spirit would conduce. far
more to your advantage,” Mr. Corbin remarked.
“And now I advise you,” he added, “to quietly
relinquish all right and title to this fortune,
excepting, of course, your third, and trust to
your husband’s daughter and her counsel to
make you such allowance as they may consider
right. If you refuse to do this we shall be ob-
liged to resort to the courts to settle the ques-
tion of inheritance.”

“Take the matter into the courts, then,” was
the passionate retort. “I will defy you all to
the bitter end. And you,” turning with blaz-
ing eyes and crimson cheeks to Ray, “I sup-
pose you imagined that you were to wina
princely inheritance with your promised | wife;

 

 

 

that when you found this piece of parchment |

you would thus enable Mona. Forester’s child
to triumph over the woman who hated her with
a deadly hatred. Not so, Lassure you, for my
vengeance is even more complete than I ever
dared to hope, and your ‘promised wife,’ my
fine young man, will never flaunt her colors in
triumph over me here in New York, for her
reputation has been irretrievably ruined, and
the city shall ring with the vile story ere an-
other twenty-four hours shall pass.”

“Don’t be too sure, madam; don’t be toosure
that you’re going to down that clever little
lady just yet,” were the words which suddenly
startled every one in the room, and the next
instant the door swung wide open to admit a
new actor in the drama.

A brisk, energetic little man entered the
room, and going directly to Mrs. Montague’s
side he laid his hand upon her shoulder.

“Madam, you are my prisoner,” he added, in
a more quiet but intensely satistied tone.

“What do you mean, sir?” haughtily de-
manded the woman as she shook herself free
from his touch. ‘“ Who are you, and how came
you here?”

“Well, we’ll take one question at a time, if
you please, madam,” the new-comer returned.
“First, what do I mean.
are my prisoner. I arrest you for obtaining
money under false pretenses—for theft, for ab-
duction. The proof of the first charge is right
here in my hand. Look!”

He opened his palm and disclosed to the hor-
rified woman’s gaze and to the amazement of
the other occupants of the room two beautiful
crescents of blazing diamonds.

“Heavens! where did you get them? Oh, I
know—I know!” shrieked the unhappy creat-
ure, cowering and shrinking from the sight as
if blinded by it, and sinking upon the nearest
chair.

“Yes, I reckon you do,” grimly remarked De-
tective Rider, for it was he, “and this clears
up the Bently affair of Chicago, for here, on
the back of the settings, is the very mark
which Mr. Arnold of that city put upon them
more than three years ago. Well, so much for
that charge. Now, if Mr. Palmer will just
step this way maybe he’ll recognize some of his
property, and we'll explain the second and
third charges.”

Ray looked astonished as he went forward,
but he was even more so when Mr. Rider held
up before him an elegant diamond cross, which
he instantly identified as one of the ornaments
which the beautiful Mrs. Vanderbeck had se-
lected on that never-to-be-forgotten day when
he was decoyed into Dr. Wesselhoff’s establish-
ment and left there a prisoner, while the
woman made off with her booty. —

“Where did you get it?” he exclaimed, while
Mrs. Montague fell back among the cushions
of her chair and coyered:her face with her
trembling hands, utterly unnerved.

“That remains to be explained, together with
some other things which are no less interesting
and startling,” the detective returned, with an
air of triumph. “And now,” raising his voice
a trifle, “if a certain little lady will show her-
self, I imagine we can entertain you with an-
other act in this strange comedy.”

As he spoke the drawing-room door, which
the man had left slightly ajar when he entered
was pushed open, and Mona made her appear-
ance with her arms full of clothing.

She glided straight to the detective’s side,
and handed him something which, with a dex-
trous movement, he clapped upon Mrs. Mon-
tague’s bowed head.

‘'t wasa wig of rich, dark-red hair which
fell in lovely rings about the woman’s fair
forehead and white neck.

She lifted her face with a cry of terror at Mr.
Rider’s act, and behold! the beautiful Mrs.
Vanderbeck was before them!

Ray knew at once now why Mrs. Montague
had looked so strangely to him as she arose to
greet him when he entered. '

Her face had been very artistically made up,
with certain applications of pencil and paint,
to give her the appearance of being consider-
ably older than she was. But he wondered
how she happened to be so made up that morn-

ing.

hat is not all,” Mr. Rider resumed, as he
took a costly tailor-made dress from Mona’s
arm and held it up before his speechless audi-
tors. “Here is the robe which was. so badly
rent at the time that Mrs. Vanderbeck escorted
Mr. Raymond Palmer to the great Dr. Wessel-
hoff for treatment, while the fragment that
was torn from it will exactly fit into the hole.
And here,” taking another garment from Mona,
“is a widow’s costume in which the fascinating
Mrs. Bently figured in Chicago, when she so
skillfully duped a certain Mr. Cutler, smiling
him out of a handsome sum of money, and giv-
ing him paste ornaments in exchange. No one
would ever imagine the elegant Mrs. Richmond

Just what I say; you! b

 

 

the same person, for they were entirely differ-
ent in figure as well as face, the former being
very slight, while the latter was inclined to be
decidedly portly, as was also Mrs. Vanderbeck.

“But, gentlemen, that is also easily ex-
plained, as you will see if you examine these
costumes, for there must be five pounds, more
or less, of cotton wadding used about each to
pad it out to the required dimensions. Clever!
very clever!” interposed Mr. Rider, bestowin
a glance of admiration upon the bowed an
shivering figure before him. “I think, during
all my experience, I have never had so compli-
cated and interesting a case. I do not wonder
that you look dazed, gentlemen,” he went on,
with asatisfied glance at his wide-eyed and
wondering listeners, “and I imagine could
have surprised you still more if I had had time
to examine a certain trunk which stands open
up stairs in the lady’s chamber. I think I
could find arate its contents a gray wig and
other garments belonging to a certain Mrs.
Walton, so called, and perhaps a miner’s ‘suit
that would fit Mr. Louis Hamblin, alias Jake
Walton, who in St. Louis recently tried to dis-
pose of costly diamonds, which he had brought
ali the way from Australia, for his rustic sweet-
heart—eh? Ha, ha, ha!” and the jubilant man
burst into a laugh of infinite amusement.

“Truly, Mr. Rider, your discoveries are some-
what remarkable; but will you allow me to ex-
amine that cross?” a new voice here remarked,
and Mr. Amos Palmer arose from a mammoth
chair at the other end of the drawing-room,
where he had been an unseen witness of and
listener to all that had occurred during the last
half-hour.

It was he who had rung the bell just as Mona
was about to enter Mrs. Montague’s boudoir in
search of her scissors, and who, upon bein
told that the lady was out, had said he woulc
wait for her. He had called to ask his fiancee
to go with him to select the hangings for the
private parlor which he was fitting up for her
in his own house.

His face, at this moment, was as colorless as
marble; his eyes gleamed with a relentless
purpose, and his manner was frigid from the
strong curb that he had put upon himself.

At the sound of his voice Mrs. Montague
lifted a face upon which utter despair, mingled
with abject terror, was written. She bent one
brief, searching glance upon the man, and then
shrank back again into the depths of her chair,
shivering as with a chill.

 

CHAPTER XLII.

TELLS HOW MR. RIDER HAPPENED TO APPEAR
UPON THE SCENE.

Mr. Rider passed Mr. Palmer the diamond
cross, which he took without a word, and ecare-
fully examined, turning it over and over and
scrutinizing both the stones and the settin
with the closest attention, though Roy eenit
see that his hands were trembling with excite-
ment, and knew that his heart was undergoing
the severest torture.

“Yes,” he said, after an oppressive silence,
during which every eye, except Mrs. Monta-
gue’s, was fixed upon him, “the cross is ours
—my own private mark is on the back of the
setting. And so,” turning sternly to the
wretched woman near him, “you were the
thief; you were the unprincipled character
who decoyed my son to that retreat for mani-
lacs, and nearly made one of me! Then, oh!
| what treachery! what duplicity! when you
| feared that the net was closing about you and
you would be brought to justice, you sought to
make a double dupe of me by a marriage with
me, imagining, I suppose, that I would suffer
in silence, if the theft was ever discovered,
rather than have my name tarnished by a pub-
lic scandal. So you have sailed under many
characters!” he went on in atone of biting
scorn. “You are the Mrs. Bently, of Chicago!
the Mrs. Bent, of Boston! Mrs. Vanderbeck
and Mrs. Walton, of New York! and the
woman in St. Louis, who gave bail for the
rascally miner, who tried to dispose of the un-
set Salta hea Fortunately those have been
proved to be mine.and returned to me; but
where are the rest of the stones? I will have
them, every one,” he concluded, in a tone so
stern and menacing that the woman shivered
afresh.

“They were altogether—they were all yours
except two; but the cross, we—we——”

Mrs. Montague proceeded thus far in muffled,
trembling tones, and then her voice utterly
failed her. ,

“You did not dare try to sell too many at
/one time, and so you reserved the cross for
| future use,” Mr. Palmer supplemented. “Per-
|haps you even intended to wear it under my
| very eyes, among your wedding finery. I ver-
| ily believe you are‘audacious enough to do so;
‘but, madam, it will be safe to say that there
| will be no wedding now, at least between you
and me.”

The man turned abruptly, as he ceased speak-
ing, and left the room, looking fully a dozen

ears older than when, an hour previous, he
nat come there, with hope in his heart, to plan
with his bride-elect how they could make their
future home most attractive for her reception.
Roy felt a profound pity for his father, in
this mortifying trial.and disappointment, and
he longed to follow him and express his sym-
pathy; but his judgment told him that it
would be better to leave him alone for a time;
that his wounded pride could ill-brook any
reference to his blighted hopes just then.

It may as well be related just here how De-
tective Rider happened to appear so oppor-
tunely, and how Mona found the robes in
which Mrs. Montague had so successfully mas-
queraded to carry out her various swindling
operations.

It will be remembered that Mona, after she
had gathered up the keepsakes belonging to
her mother and returned them _ to the table,
had found another box upon the floor of Mrs.
Montague’s boudoir.

When she had removed the rubber band
that held the cover in its place her astonished
eyes fell upon a pair of exquisite diamond
crescents for the ears, and a cross, which,
from the description which Roy had given her,
she knew must have been among the articles
stolen from Mr. Palmer.

Instantly it flashed across her what this dis-
covery meant.

She felt very sure that Mrs. Montague must
have been concerned in the swindling of Mr.
Cutler, more than three years previous, and
also of Mrs. Vanderheck in Boston, besides in
the more recent so-called Palmer robbery.

Still, there were circumstances connected
with these operations that puzzled her.

Mrs. Bently, the crafty widow of Chicago,
had been described to her as a stout woman
with red hair. Mrs. Vanderbeck had also been
somewhat portly, likewise Mrs. Walton, whom
she had seen in St. Louis, and these latter
were somewhat advanced in years also.

Mrs. Montague, on the contrary, was slight
and sylph-like in figure; a blonde of the purest
type, with light golden hair, a lovely complex-
ion, with hardly the sign of a wrinkle on her
handsome face.

But she did not speculate pang, upon these
matters, for, having made this discovery, she
was more anxious than before to be released
from her place of confinement. So she had

one into the adjoining room, and tried the

oor leading into the hail.

That, too, as we know, she had found locked,
and then as she turned to retrace her steps,
she was stricken spell-bound by something
which she saw upon the bed.

It was nothing less than a widow’s costume,
comprising a dress, bonnet, and vail, together
with a wig of short curling red hair!

Yes, Mrs. Montague was the “widow!” or
woman in black whom Detective Rider had
observed and followed only a little while pre-
vious. When she found that the man was on
her track she had slipped into the carriage and
ordered the driver to take her with all possible
speed to a certain store on Broadway. Arrivin
‘taba she had simply passed in at one door an
out of one opposite leading upona side street,
where she hailed a car, and, thoroughly
alarmed, went directly home instead of going
to the room where she usually made these
changes in her costume.

Upon reaching her own door she quietly let
herself in with her latch-key, and going di-

 

 

 

 

Montague and the lovely widow to be one and

 

rectly to her chamber tore off her widow’s
weeds and wig, and threw them hastily upon
the bed. he hapeiedty donned another dress,
and was about to remove the cleverly simulated
oie of age from her face when she heard the
bell ring, and went into the hall to ascertain
who had called. We know the rest, how she
recognized the lawyer, and imagined he had
come again to annoy her further upon the sub-
ject of Mona Forester’s child; how, almost at
the same moment, she discovered Mona’s pres-
ence in the house, and instantly resolved to
lock her up until she could decide what further
to do with her. And thus, laboring under so
much excitement, she entirely forgot about the
wrinkles and crow’s-feet upon her face, and
which so changed its expression.

The moment Mona saw the costume upon the
bed everything was made plain to her mind.
Mrs. Benely, of the Chicago and Boston cres-
cent swindle, was no other than Mrs. Monta-
gue in a most ingenious disguise.

Glancing about the room for further evidences
of the woman’s cunning, she espied a trunk
standing open at the foot of the bed, as if some
one had been hastily examining the contents
and forgotten to shut it afterward.

She approached it, and on top of the tra
there lay the very dress of gray ladies’-clot
which she had seen hanging in the closet of a
certain room in the Southern Hotel in St.
Louis. Then she knew, beyond a doubt, that
Mrs. Montague had also figured as Mrs. Wal-
ton, the mother of the miner, in that city.

But who was the miner?

Louis Hamblin, in all probability, although
she had not dreamed of such a thing until that
moment.

“Tt is very strange that I should not have
recognized Mrs. Montague, in spite of the
white hair and the spotted lace vail,” she mur-
mured, thoughtfully. But after reflecting and
recalling the fact that even the woman’s eye-
brows had been whitened and the whole ex-
pression of the face changed by pencil lines, to
simulate wrinkles and furrows, and then coy-
ered with a thickly spotted veil, she did not
wonder so much.

She was amazed and appalled by these dis-
coveries, and, trembling with excitement, she
resolved to learn more, if possible.

She lifted the lid of the hat-box, at one end
of the tray, and there lay the very bonnet and
vail that the woman had worn in St. Louis,
and also the wig of white hair.

“What a wretched creature!” she exclaimed,
in a horrified tone. Then wondering if Ray
might not have come, while she had been there,
she flew back to the window in the other room
to look for him.

Yes, his carriage was standing before the
door, and he would soon find means to release
her, she thought.

But moment after moment went by and no
one came, while the continuous murmur of
voices in the room below made her wonder
what was going on there.

Presently, however, her attention was at-
tracted to a man who was sauntering slowly
along the opposite sidewalk, and she was sure
she had seen him somewhere before, although,
just at first, she could not place him.

“Why!” she exclaimed, after studying his
face and figure a moment, “it is Mr. Rider.
Can it be possible that he suspects anything of
the mystery concealed in this house? At any
rate, he is just the man that is needed here at
this time.”

She tapped lightly on the pane to attract his
attention.

He stopped, glanced up, and instantly recog-
nized Mona, nodding and lifting his hat to in-
dicate that he did so.

She beckoned him to eross the street, and
then cautiously raised the window. He was
beneath it in a moment.

“Come in, Mr. Rider, and come directly up
stairs to me,” she said, in alow tone. “I have
been locked into this room, and I have made
an important discovery which you ought to
know immediately.”

He nodded again, his keen eyes full of fire,
turned, ascended the steps, and pulled the bell.
Mary sighed heawily as she nt her weary
steps, for the fifth time, up the basement stairs
to answer his imperative summons.

“Is your mistress at home?” Mr. Rider in-
quired, in a quick business-like tone.

“Yes, sir; but she is engaged with callers,”
the girl replied.

“So much the better,” returned the detective;
then, bending a stern look on her, he contin-
ued, “I am an officer, I have business in this
house; you are to let me in and say nothing to
any one. . Do you understand?”

Mary grew pale at this, and fell back a step
or two from the door, frightened at the term
“officer.”

Mr. Rider took instant advantage of the
situation and stepped within the hall.

“Don’t dare to mention that I am here until
I give you leave,” he commanded, authorita-
tively, and then ran nimbly and quietly up
stairs.

It was the work of but a moment to find the
room where Mona’ was confined, turn the key
and enter.

“What does this mean, Miss Richards?” he
asked, regarding her curiously. “How do you
DApPCR to be locked up like a naughty child?”

“T will explain that to you by and by; but

first let me show you these.”
She uncovered the box which contained the
crescents and cross, and held the gleaming dia-
monds before his astonished eyes.
The man was so utterly confounded by the
unexpected sight that for a moment he gazed
at them with a look of wonder on his face.
“Zounds! where did you get them?” he
cried, breathlessly.

Mona briefly explained regarding the acci-
dent to the table, which had resulted in her
discovering the secret compartment with its

| treasures.

“Olever!clever!” the man muttered, as his
eyes fastened upon the table and he compre-
hended the truth. “Well, well, young lady,
you’ve done a fine stroke of business this day,
and no mistake! These are the real articles,
no paste or sham to fool me this time,” he
added, as he lifted the crescents from the box.
“But— when! Mrs. Richmond Montague! —
who’d have thought it?”

“This isn’t all, Mr. Rider,” Mona continued,

 

 

in a whisper, for she feared Mrs. Montague
might catch the sound of their voices.

“What! more discoveries,” the man _ ex-
claimed, all alert again, as he shut the box
and slipped it into his pocket.

“Yes, step this way, if you please,” and lead-
ing him to the door of Mrs. Montague’s cham-
ber, she pointed at the costume lying upon the
bed f

ed.

The quick eyes took it all in at a glance, and
his face lighted ‘with a swift flash of triumph.

“The Bently affair—the Vanderheck swindle
—the Palmer robbery! Clever! clever!” he
muttered, as he seized the costume, shook out
its folds, discovered the thick layers of pad-
ding about the waist and hips, and eyed it
with intense satisfaction. Then he revealed
two rows of firm, white teeth in a broad smile,
as he snatched up and twirled that dainty
red wig upon his hand, examining it with a
crteieemrand admiring eye.

“And this also,” continued Mona, going to
the trunk and lifting from it the tailor-made
costume of gray ladies’-cloth.

“Aha! aha!” chuckled Mr. Rider. “Really,
Miss Richards, if you were only aman we
might make a right smart detective of you.
This is the very dress we have been wanting,
and here is the rent. Have you still the frag-
ment that you showed me in St. Louis?”

“Yes, it is here in my purse,” Mona an-
swered, drawing it from her pocket, and, tak-
ing the piece of cloth from it, she handed it to
him.

“Here, too, is the gray wig worn by Mrs.
Walton,” she went on, as she lifted the lid of
the hat-box and revealed its contents.

 

 

 

“Yes; true enough! and I’ll wager that this
trunk contains some other disguises which
we should recognize,” he responded. “But,”
he added, “we have enough for our purpose
just now, and we will defer further examina-
tion until later. Now, Miss Richards, I am
going down stairs to confront that woman

 

with this stolen pe erty. You follow me, but
remain in the hall until I give you a signal,
then come forward with these disguises. Have

|

 

you any idea who is below calling on her lady-
ship?” he asked, in conclusion.

“No; but I am very sure that Mr. Raymond
Palmer is somewhere in the house, for he was
to call for me, and his carriage is at the door.

“Tam glad to know that,” the man cried,
“and now I will make quick work of this busi-
ness.” ‘

He turned and left the room with a quick
step, and going directly below entered the
drawing-room, just as Mrs. Montague was
rudely taunting Ray about Mona.

The young gir’ gathered up the various ar-
ticles of clothing and followed him, and we
know what occurred after that.

(10 BE CONTINUED.)

this Story Will Not he Published in Book-Pom,

UNS MASTER

 

 

By Mrs, HELEN CORWIN PIERCE,
Author of ‘“‘Vashti’s Fate,” ‘‘Married in Jest,”
“The Unwelcome Guest,” ‘*The False
Champion,” “‘The Cheated Bride,” Etc.

 

(‘A WOMAN’S MASTER” was commenced in No. 23.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXXII.
“Y AM LADY KATHARINE AXTEL.”

Whatever more the woman may have to tell,
Olive does not stop to hear, All in a flash the
truth bursts upon her, In her wildest dreams
she has never imagined this. Whatever else
wild and improbable she may have suspected,
it has been nothing like this.

“Cecile,” she cries, turning her agitated and
transfigured face upon her, and extending her
slim, white hands, “will you swear that you
have told me the truth now? Will you swear
that I am Lord Axtel’s child?”

“Will you protect a me from him?” the
woman asks, cautiously.

But Olive does not hear her.

“To think,” she says, “that I have always
loved him so, and never knew what a right I
had. Cecile,” turning upon her sharply, “are
you deceiving me again?”

“Mademoiselle, I ’ave deceive you no more.
I will swear myself of anything to prove it to

u.

“T believe you have told me the truth,” Olive
says, looking at her thoughtfully. “I feel in
my heart it is true; and yet, Cecile, you are
such a confirmed liar.”

“Ah, yes, mademoiselle,” the woman says,
frankly. ‘But I tell you the truth now to ’ave
my avenge of him.”

er eyes glitter as she speaks, like some mad-
dened animal’s.

Again Olive has forgotten her. She does not
hear one word. The lofty, deer-like head has

allen upon her breast, her face is covered
with her hands. "

“Father, father, father!” she repeats, softly,
and with an accent of inexpressible tenderness.

Tears rain from her eyes, sobs shake her from
head to foot.

“Go,” she says, when Cecile ‘tries to speak

with her. ‘Leave me.* I must be alone.”
Cecile hesitates. Her crafty soul scents a
pean
“Mademoiselle Olive ——” she begins once
more.

The girl’s hands drop. She faces her with
flashing eyes.

“Don’t you ever dare to call me that again.
I am your mistress, Lady Katharine Axtel,”
she says, imperiously, “Leave me!”
Speechless and subdued, Cecile departs. She
is so stunned and bewildered that but for De-
force himself watching in the passage outside,
she would have forgotten to lock the door. He
springs forward and secures it, scowling mean-
while like a satyr.

When Deforce goes a few hours later to
Olive’s door—I beg pardon—to Lady Katharine
Axtel’s door, she is quite calm, self-possessed,
and lofty.

His prophetic soul tells him the truth. Ce-
cile has revealed all.
A change has come upon his prisoner. The

slim girl stands erect,
right of her wrongs.
he faces him like a statue of fate. She
never speaks but her looks say:

“I will die before you conquer me!”

“ And she will too,” he thinks, with a curse.
“T wish she were in Hades.”

She reads him like a book.

“Yes, ” she says, after a pause, “I know all
at last, and if I live you shall suffer some of
the torments you have inflicted on others.”

“T don’t know what you mean,” he says, con-
trolling himself with an effort. “Beso good as
to explain yourself, Olive.”

A white spasm crosses her face.

“Don’t you dare call me that name again,”
she says, “you vilest of the vile, you falsest and
most Ly biti of human beings! Are you even
human, I wonder?”

A sort of shudder goes over Deforce. His
hands drop to his side. He turns upon her a
more evil face than she has ever seen yet.

“Don’t try me too far, or you may find out,”
he says, hoarsely.

She grows whiter than before.

“Why,” she says, with such a look of loath-
ing as makes him creep from head to foot,
“do you imagine that I am afraid of you—that
I could be—you worm, you crawling reptile! I
feel as if I could almost summon Heaven’:
lightning to blast you! When I think of the
years of Tone of which you have defrauded me;

ignified—a woman by

 

WHICH WAS THE HEIRESS ?

 

She stands with folded arms, uplifted head,
and flashing eyes. She mocks him with her de-
fiant, ringing young voice.

“Death, then,” she says. “Oh, a thousand
times death !”

Deforce is almost bursting with rage.

“Laugh on,” he cries, shaking both his fists
at her in his fury, “your time is short!”

“Am I to understand by that that I shall
soon be relieved from the infliction of your so-
ciety?” she asks, cheerfully,

“Understand this! You shall never live to
be Countess of Axtel,” he says, brutally.

could after all.’

The beautiful eyes darken, the proud sweet
brow clouds, She had no strong affection for
Viva, but since she knows she is her cousin, a
curious warmth has sprung up in this large
and noble breast, for that misguided girl.

“T never had a sister,” she has thought. “I
eee like one, and she would be almost like

a ute

“Did she know you were going to play mae
this trick?” she ae Deforce. — nt

“She contrived it.”

“She?” incredulously.

“Why not? It is for her interest that you
should disappear from Lord Axtel. Who else
would be benefited by your death?”

“However much she would be benefited by
- death,” Lady Katherine says, indignantly,
“she would never plot for it as you insinuate.
I don’t love her, nor she me, but I will never
believe she could do that.”

“As you choose,” Deforce answers, insolently.

“Perhaps,“ she says, “you think—I do not
know everything—how you tempted, beguiled,
distorted the truth to that unhappy girl when
she was a baby as it were. Thank Heaven,
that much as you have wronged me, you had
never an opportunity to pervert my nature as’
you did hers. I pity my Cousin Viva this mo-
ment more than I pity myself. Whatever she
may have done against me, from this moment
I forgive her freely. It was you, you, you who
instig ted everything. Poor, poorchild! Poor
Viva! But if live she shall yet defy you.
She shall stand up happy, strong, independent
of, and despising you as I do!”

“Lord Axtel will never forgive her,” Deforce
says, with a sneer.

uch a fond, glorious light flashes into the
big black eyes.

“He will, if I ask him,” she says, confidently.
iY You never shall. You shall not live-to do
i ” .

“Do you mean to kill me, then?” she de-
mands, with such lightning looks as almost
scorch him. “I dare you to doit! I defy you,
coward! Oh, I know you! You never do your
own wickedness. You always employ some one
else. Twice within my knowledge your mur-
derous intentions have failed. ey will fail
this time.”

 

CHAPTER XXXIII.
“POOR GEOFF.”

Captain Lansdown pursued what he supposes
to be the carriage he is in search of one night
and part of a day, only to discover that it con-
tains a gouty and dropsical old gentleman, who
resents his questions as a personal affront, and
only for his disabilities would get out and
fight him on the spot.

Captain Lansdown retreats in disgust, and
makes his way back as swiftly as may be to
Strathley.

“Lady Viva knows where she is,” he says to
himself. “I donot deserve to win my darling
if I cannot wring the secret of her wicked hid-
ing: piape from that lily-faced girl.”

e enters the house without meeting Lord
Axtel. He learns from a servant that Miss
Olive Deforce has not returned.

He goes to one of the bela little reception-
rooms on the first floor, and sends to ask Lady
Viva if she will come to him for five minutes.

 

 

when I think of my father’s: desolated life; of
that lofty and kingly soul made barren by your
demoniac machinations, Icould myself almost
kill you, as you would have slain him but for
me.”

As she speaks, she produces from some con-
cealment about her the dagger she took from
Cecile that night at Axtel House.

Her small white teeth are clenched. She
looks so determined that he recoils, involun-
tarily, and retreats to the door.

“Oh, what a coward you are!” she says, bit-
terly. “How could you ever work so much
harm?”

As she speaks she tosses the dagger upon a
table behind her. ~

Deforce’s eyes begin to glitter. He comes
toward her softly, sweetly, insinuatingly. He
drops the corners of his mouth, he lowers his
pale-blue eyes, he looks the incarnation of a
repentant, remorseful sinner.

“Cecile has told you all,” he says. “Then
she has told you how, but for me, she would
have poisoned you. I suspected her, and mixed
a draught which I substituted for her
poisonous compound without her knowledge.”

As he says this, Mr. Montague Deforce, hav-
ing sidled along till he is near enough, reaches
out that slim, cruel hand of his to seize the

dagger.

uady Katharine has been watching him all

the time. As his hand steals toward the wea-
on, hers flashes out whitely and secures it be-
ore his eyes.

She laughs in his face, as she restores it to
its former concealment, and he falls back livid
with chagrin, but threatening as a thunder-
cloud with all the deviltry he would like to do.

Drawing his slight and elegant person to its
utmost height, he says, dramatically:

“Will you marry me or not?”

“Oh, not—decidedly not,” she answers, laugh-
ing again, such a long, silvery, mocking laugh.

The handsome face turns black. “You shall

 

 

 

 

 

 

marry me or die!” tragically this time.
Again Lady Katharine Axtel laughs at him.

 

Viva is at thismoment engaged with a previ-
ous visitor. An hour ago as she sat alone,
white, drooping, despondent, Cecile Desant
presented herself.

The Frenchwoman has altered much in the
few weeks since Viva saw her last. Her com-
plexion has chan to asort of mahogany
color. The skin looks thin and drawn like
parchment. Her eyes are sunk far in her head,
and-are so eek and wicked they almost burn
what they fall upon.

Viva puts her hand to her heart as she sees

er.

“Something dreadful has happeried. What
is it?” she demands, in a sinking voice.

“T ’ave come to, tell a you,” Cecile says,
fiercely. “You theenk he take Mees Olive to
France, that he make her “ApPy. He not atall.
He shut her up ina dissmal place. He try to
make her marry of him.”

“Marry?” Viva repeats, uncomprehendingly.

Cecile scowls in a horrible, malevolent man-

ner.

“Out. His marriages of me is no marriages
at all, he ’ave deceive me one more times.
Now, I will ’ave my revenge of him. He weesh
to marry Lady Katharine.” -

“To marry—her?” Viva says, in an almost
inarticulate voice.

“That is it. But she—mees—she fear of him
not. She laugh in the face of him. She flash
her eye so. e tell a him she will die before.
Monsieur he rave. Butit is no use of. Then
he tell a her she know too much; if she not
marry of him she shall be kill, she shall be
starve tillshe submit. After he come to me.
I rise sublime; I hate him, that bad, wicked
fellow! I arrange myself on the side of mees.
I say to him plain, “We defy ourselves of you;
we know everyt’ings of you.’ Well, he lock
me up, too. But I escape; I come to you; I
appeal myself of you. Save that child, you
’ave wrong her enough.”

Viva is whiter than snow.

“I knew he was capable of anything,” she
says, in a low, husky voice. “But I never
thought of this.”

She looks stupefied. Her eyes gaze despair-
ingly before her.

“W’at will a you do?” the Frenchwoman
asks. ‘She must be save.”

“T don’t know,” Viva answers, gloomily. “I
am trying to think of something. I suppose it
is too late for such a wicked woman 7 am to
a to do what is right.”

hat moment the messenger from Captain
Lansdown knocks and announces his errand.

Viva starts up, every delicate line of her face
suddenly grown rigid, her small lips tightly
drawn. ;

“W’at will you do?” Cecile demands, struck
by the change in her look.

“I will go to Captain Lansdown and tell him
where she is. He will save her.”

“It will be the destroy of you,” Cecile cries,
aghast, and thrusts herself insolently between
Viva and the door.

The girl looks at her sternly.

“Let it. I have made up my mind. I have
wronged that poor girl enough. I will never
lift my hand again to hurt her, or permit
others to do so, whatever it costs me.”

“That is all ver
self, mademoiselle,” the Frenchwoman says,
with one of her most sinister looks.
ane to ’elp a yourself?”

“{ will tell all. I will set her lover and her
father after her. They can rescue her from
that double-dyed villain.”

“Well,” the woman says, angrily, “perhaps
mademoiselle will tell me where she will send
these gentlemen to look for mees.”’

Viva stares at her.

“Do you mean to say you will not tell where
she is?” ;

Cecile casts down her eyes.

“T ave a secret. I will sell it to mademoi-
selle.”

“Oh!” Viva answers, with infinite scorn and
passion. “I wonder if you have anything you
would not sell—even your revenge on that man
who has mocked and fooled you so long.”

Cecile laughs in a way not pleasant to hear.

“Wait,” she says; “there is enough of time.”

“Then you refuse to tell me where my cousin
is without being paid for it?”

“JT do, until——”

“How much?” Viva demands, imperatively.

“Leesen to me,” Cecile says, with a dark and
cruel significance. “I ’ave no desire to injure
you. Give me enough of money and I will rid
you of him and her also,”

“How you

 

“Lady Viva will reward me better than you .

well if Ab can ’elp a your-

 

 

 

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SER SS

- eries, shrilly.

~ him t

 

 

VOL, 46—No. 4, | CGE THE é NEW YORK WEEKLY. Petes.

¢

 

 

Viva suddenly puts’ her hands upon the]

woman’s shoulders, and shakes her in a sort of
frenzy.

“You know Iam not so bad as that,” she
“How dare you?”

The Frenchwoman makes no resistance.

“Are you ready to give up all?” she asks.
“Will you stop being my lady? Will you con-
sent of you to be poor?”

“Poor!” Viva says after her, contemptuously.

“You know it was for none of these things I
consented to all that horrible infamy. I have
been in the power of two devils—you and him.
I have been possessed by you. When I would
have roeiatou tow you have forced evil upon
me. Yes, I tell you, I give up all.” J

“The Marquis of Kenward?” questions Cecile,
with such sinister and malevolent insolence as
—it is well for her—the marquis himself does
not witness.

Viva clasps her hands passionately together.
A look of agony crosses her perfect face. Then
she turns upon the woman like an embodied
tempest.

“Even him,” she cries. “Poor Geoff! But he
must have found me out soon.” — .
“Not so,” Cecile says, insinuatingly. “Trust

a = and he shall never find you out of your-
self.”
. “Trust. you!” Viva exclaims, passionately. “I
would sell myself to Satan first. No, I tell
you, from this hour forth, come what may, I
will do right. Thank Heaven Ihave strength
to do it at last! Now, your price to_tell me
oer to find my cousin, dy Katharine
Axtel.”

“Two hundred pounds,” Cecile says, promptly.

Viva goes instantly to her purse, and counts
the money in it.

There is exactly one hundred and forty-eight
pounds.” -

“Tt is not enough,” Cecile says, coldly,

“Tt is all I have, all I will give you. Lam

 

not compelled to do that. My uncle and Cap-
tain Lansdown would soon find her without
your help.”

“You think so? I will go away and let them

t .aF

or shall not!” Viva _ cries, ey,
“Do you think I will half do a thing like this?
Here!” tearing the bracelets from her arms,
“these will more than make up the difference.”

Cecile glances covetously at those glittering
ornaments, but shakes her head.

“T will not ’aveof them. You ’ave dislike of
me. You might say I ’ave steal them, and ’ave
me arrest.” f

Viva makes an angry gesture.

“But I have no more money.”

“You can borrow.”

“Of whom? Lady Ducrod has it not, I know.
She never keeps any money by her. My uncle
is not at home.”

“The Marquis of Kenward is here. I saw the
handsome bright face of him as Icame in. He
recognize me.

“He knew you,” Viva cries, despairingly,
and then shakes her head. “But it does not
matter now.”

“You will ask of him the money, chere

“Wy not? He ’ave great adoration of you.
He will do anything you wish. You ’ave not
of any other way.”

Viva stares at her a moment.

“T will ask him,” she says at last.
Geoff !”

She goes from the room with a desperately
composed face.

She knows where to look for her lover. There
is a galleried walk not far away, of which he
is very fond, and she is pretty sure of finding

ere now.

He is there. She sees him first. The hand-
some, true face a little downeast and sad. But
suddenly he sees her, and his looks are like a
burst of sunshine.

“My darling,” he cries, “I was longing for

you.”
“ Viva is very pale. She does not look like
herself. She has a subdued and meek expres-
sion not at all habitual to her. Her eyes after
the first glance are bent downward.

“Can you lend me fifty-two pounds, Geoff?”
she asks. ;

“Poor

 

 

Geoffrey’s dark eyes open wide.

~“Haven’t you the money? Oh, then, never
mind,” she says. “I thought you would be sure
to have it.” But she does not look at him; and
Geoffrey has seen Cecile, and recognized her.
His heart sinks; for, pure gold as he is, he is
only human, and he remembers that other time
when Cecile came. ‘

“Certainly I have it,” the young man says,
taking out his pocket-book and giving her fifty-
two pounds in Bank of England notes.

“Thanks. You are always good,” she says,
fon still without looking at him, and turns to

epart.

eoffrey sighs unconsciously, and Viva, hear-
ing it, trembles, but goes on.

“Will it kill him when he knows what an
infamous creature I am?” she wonders.

Cecile is waiting. She looks up with greedy,
avaricious eyes as Viva enters. |

“T have secured the money,” Vivasays. “You
shall have it when I have seen Captain Lans-
ad You will wait here till I return from

im.”

The Frenchwoman starts to her feet, angry
and suspicious at once.

“No, no, no!” she cries, energetically. “You
will "ave me arrest! Give me the money, and |
I will tell a you.”

But Viva draws back.

“Why should I trust you more than you trust
me? If I gave you the money now you would
go away perhaps, and warn that wretch. I
will not do it. You must go with Captain
Lansdown and show him the place, or I will
pay you nothing.”

ecile doubles up her long arms with asullen
scowl,

“T weel not. Give me one-half the money,
and I wait for the other till a you come back.”

Then seeing Viva’s indecision she adds, with
a sort of grimace:

“You weel lock a the door—eh? Then I shall
be safe of me, and the money also.”

Viva still hesitates. She knows Cecile, too,
but at last counts out half the money, gives it
to her, and leaves her.

 

‘ CHAPTER XXXIV,
THE LITTLE DOOR.

All this time Lansdown is waiting, pacing
the floor with angry and impatient strides.

He faces Viva as she enters like some wrath-
ful, yellow-haired Olympian god. His heart is
so full of bitterness, of suspicion which is al-
most conviction, that he can hardly speak to
her with the civility due a lady.

“Tf she were a man,” he thinks, “I would take
her by the throat, and compel her to speak.”

As she comes in he rises and bows very low.
Then he draws his lofty form erect and looks
at her as Jupiter might at some luckless mor-
tal who had offended him.

“You have taken your time, my lady. I had
only a word to say to you.”

“And that?” she asks, quickly. “Does it con-
cern Olive? I can tell you’'where she is. You
are brave, you are wise, you will save her.”

“Save her?” Lansdown cries, paler than death.
“Have you then put her in peril? I knew it! I
knew you were wronging her, false and cruel
woman !”

Viva closes her eyesamoment. A haughtier,
rouder woman does not live. His words are
ike a lash upon her bare flesh. She never

stops to wonder how he knows.

“Yes, I have wronged her,” she says, slowly,
“but I wish to right her now. Please to be pa-
tient with me, Captain Lansdown.”

The guardsman clenches his hands and folds

arms.

“Well, I will try.”

He cannot help seéing how she is altered
since he saw her last. Sorrow, shame, re-
morse, all the tortures with which a guilt
conscience besets its slave have wasted her, till
she looks as fragile and unreal as aspirit. Bit-
terly as he feels toward her, Lansdown cannot
help an emotion of pity now. ‘

“T am patient,” he says, “but be quick, I beg
ou.”
She tells him all in as few words as may be,

 

 

She does not spare herself. Nothing can be

‘thought of her worse than she thinks of herself.

she says, humbly, “but I had got my foot ina
bad road, and it was hard getting out. of it.
That man kept threatening me that if I told
the truth he would slander me so _ horribly to
Geoff. He said he would tell him that I delib-
erately plotted with him to murder my cousin.”

“Geoffrey Kenward would have knocked him
down for his pains,” Lansdown says, loftily.

“Yes, I think he would,” she answers, “but
I was such a coward! Since my father no one
had ever really loved me but Geoff. It was
horrible to me to think of being despised by
him. But I accept it allnow. It is my just
punishment. Nothing is too bad for me—not
even the loss of Geoff’s love. But, oh, if he
could be spared! I would die a thousand
deaths to save him from knowing how false
and wicked a creature is the woman he loves
sa believes in with all his true and honest
soul.”

“Tt is too late for that now,” Lansdown says,
coldly. “If you had trusted Geoff Kenward
at first he would have stood by you. I don’t
think he will now. He would be more than
mortal if he would.”

“Yes,” Viva says, humbly, “he would be
more than mortal.”

“Have you told Lord Axtel what you tell me
now?”

“My uncle is not at home, but there are two
constables waiting to see him. You might
speak with them. Perhaps they would go with
you.”

She rings and sends for them.

They are detectives from Scotland Yard, and
eagerly agree to accompany Captain Lansdown.

t remains only to summon Cecile.

Viva goes to do that, but returns almost in-
stantly.

“She has gone!” she says, despairingly, “after
all her promises, after the money I gave her.
She has gone, probably, to warn Deforce. She-
is utterly false and unprincipled, but I thought
it was for her interest to do this.”

“How long has she been gone? Pardon me,
my lady,” one of the detectives asks, looking
at his fellow.

“Possibly an hour,” Viva answers, glancing
at her watch. :

“Oh, then, we will soon trace her, if you will
permit us, my lady. Can wesee the room in
which you left her, and the door by which she
went away?”

“That is the mystery of it,” Viva says.
“There is no door leading outside, and the only
one connecting with the rest of the house I
locked.”

: aay you permit us to see the room, my
a 29

She leads the way instantly.

Lansdown grinds his teeth with impatience.
He is a soldier. But he is no sleuth-hound. In
an emergency like this he could fight like a
lion for the girl he loved, but this slow process
of tracking her capturers, like a North Ameri-
can Indian, is beyond his ken.

He goes with the detectives and Viva, think-
ing angrily all the time of Olive in some far
away dungeon, subjected to the persecutions of
that elegant scoundrel, Mr. Montague Deforce.

“Tf Lord Axtel were here,” he thinks, look-
ing at Viva’s rigid and despairing face with-
pu softening, “he would make short work with

er » 7

The room to which Viva conducts them all is
too high up for any one to easily reach the
und from it. There is a tiny conservatory
ae from it, but an examination of that
fully demonstrates the fact that Cecile is not
concealed behind any of these umbrageous
banks of ferns of which Viva. is so fond, or
lurking among the tubs which contain the
gorgeous tropical plants beyond.

e Then she must be upon the leads,” the man
who has before spoken says; “there is no other
way,” and opening a window quickly he
springs out upon the roof below, followed by
his companion.

In less than a minute they are back, with
Cecile between them.

The Frenchwoman’s eyes dart forked light-
ning, but she does not struggle.

“Why did you do that?” Viva asks, contemp-
tuously.

“T knew re would ’ave me arrest!” Cecile
answers, sullenly.

“Stuff! No one wants to arrest you. You
are to go with these men and show them where
that young lady is of whom you told me. That
is all that is wanted of you. You wili not be
interfered with when you have done that. The
rest of the money I have prom you I shall
aly to this gentleman for you. When you
aave shown him where the young lady is he
will give it to you.”

Olive—we beg her pardon—the Lady Kath- |
arine Axtel—has been a day and a half without
food, but she really looks none the worse.

The splendid dark face has abated none of its
rich coloring, the big black eyes have all the
clear, falcon radiance peculiar to them. There
is nothing of quailing or submission in her
looks, as Deforce presents himself at dark of
the second day of her immurement in the den.

He brings a lamp, which he sets down before
he looks at her.

“Really!” she says, sardonically, “a light!
Are you not afraid I will see you?’

Deforce is boiling over with rage. He has
but just missed Cecile. He knows his time is
short, and he feels desperate.

“Do you know what I have come for?” he
asks, Salng, Samar her with a face like ashes,
and eyes like coals.

“You look as if por had come to eat me,” she
answers, scornfully, and takes the dagger
which has served her before out of her bosom.

He stops short, showing his teeth, however,
as if he had, indeed, come thither carnivor-
ously disposed.

“T have come to give you one more chance.
You shall marry me or you shall die!”

“Indeed ? ave you obtained a special
license?”

“Neither. Give me your promise. I would
rather have that than clergyman or license.”

She smiles slightly.

“There is very little of the coward about me,
but I think I could die very much more easily
than I could present to my father, to the de-
scendant of a hundred earls, a base wretch like
you for a son-in-law!”

The man’s face turns scarlet, as if a hot iron
pom touched it, and then is more ashy than be-

ore.

“You are very foolish to say such things to
me,” he replies, in a slow, thick voice. “You
don’t know how desperate Iam or you would
not.”

“You cannot be desperate enough to make
me fear you,” she coolly answers.

“Don’t you know that I could kill you—that
I could shoot you from where I stand, and no
one be the wiser?”

She shakes her head.

“T don’t think you will. In the first. place,
you have not a steady enough aim. In the sec-
ond, you would never risk the sure and inevi-
table hanging that would follow my murder;
and in the third, I am rather hard to kill.
Don’t you think so?”

Deforce gives her a viperish look.

“Get ready to leave this place at once,” he
says, with a brutal intonation. “In half an
hour we must be upon the road.” ;

“He is afraid of a rescue,” Lady Katharine
thinks. ‘Something has happened.”

“This is a singular hour to start upon a jour-
ney,” she says.

il So it may be, but start we do in half an
our.”

“You may,” she mutters as he goes out with-
out waiting for her answer. “For my part I
prefer remaining where I am.”

It is a little more than half an hour when he
comes for her.

She sits just as ke left her. She has not
stirred apparently. She does not look at him
as he comes in.

He frowns slightly and looks about the room
for her cloak and hat, which he finds and flings
over his arm.

“Come,” he says, “all is ready,”

She turns her head and looks at him with
bright, unfearing eyes.

“T have decided not to go.”

The frown turns toa scowl as he comes

“T never meant to do such dreadful wrong,”

 

toward her.
“You must go! You shall go!”
The big shining black eyes never alter their

expression, never lower their uplifted radiance.
Only her delicate, haughty lips compress slight-
ly, and as she lifts her left hand with a warn-
int gesture the right brings into view a pistol.

“I know where Cecile is gone,” she says,
calmly. “She gave me this through that broken
aca yonder. It is loaded, and if you want to

now whether my aim is better than yours ask
Barth Folsom.

As she speaks she lifts the weapon, and
points it directly at him.

It is enough. Cloak and hat fall from the
coward’s arm.

He retreats cowering and looking over his
shoulder as he goes. .

Lady Katharine keeps her countenance so
long as he is within view; then an irrepres-
peti smile breaks over the dark, resplendent
ace.

Deforce goes straight to that bolder villain,
Barth Folsom.

“She is armed,” he says. “She has a pistol
as well asthe dagger. What are we to do
next? Thousands—tens of thousands—depend
upon our keeping possession of that girl.”

“On thou keeping possession of her,” the
coarser ruffian says. “Thou’s only promised
me a hundred pounds.” He laughs grimly. “I
knowed the lass had a spirit.”

“Spirit,” Deforce rumbles, with an oath.

“She’s got a devil in her.’

“She has a loaded pistol, and she’s not afraid
to use it. That’s about it,” Barth says, with
a grin. “Double what you’ve promised me,

and I'll fix her for ye.”

“Two hundred pounds, Barth, if we get her
away before any one comes.”

“Let me see the color of the money first, and
I’m your man.”

Deforce hesitates.

“T don’t stir a step without it,” Barth pro-
tests.

Deforce counts out the money reluctantly.

“There’s a little door at t’other end of the
room,” Barth says. “Perhaps she doesn’t
know’t. IT’ll go round and come in on her
from behind, while you keep her looking at
you in front. Then we’ll both pounce upon and
secure her.”

“All right,” Deforce says, “only you will
take the front, and I’ll go in by the little door.

Barth agrees to this with another grin, and
shows him a little door cunningly contrived in
the wall of the back part of Lady Katharine’s
room, where no one would ever think of look-
ie for it.

e leaves Deforce outside this, and goes back

to the other entrance himself.

(T0 BE CONTINUED)

—s

A STAGE GHOST.

In the course of thirty years’ experience as
an actor I have had some curious adventures,
but never one so utterly beyond my powers of
comprehension as an occurrence which took
place in the theater at Woolford, in the winter
of 1872. There were three persons in our com-
pany who excited my interest in an unusual
degree. The first was our leading lady, Miss
Helen Lattimer, a very handsome, clever
woman, who was as charming off the stage as
on it. She was.a good deal above the ordinary
run of actresses, and looked upon her work
with that fine enthusiasm which always tends

to success. It was a great thing for her chances
in the profession that. she had been exception-
ally well educated, and was thus able to give
effect to passages in the great dramatist’s
works which an ordinary mind would have
found it difficult to understand. She worked
very hard, and devoted several hours a day to
study, with the result that when she repre-
sented one of her favorite characters you quite
forgot Miss Helen Lattimer, and thought only
of Juliet or Desdemona or Perdita, as the case
might be. Miss Lattimer, in fact, had already
achieved the great distinction of submerging
herself in the character which she engaged to
present.

The second person who attracted my notice
was our leading tragedian, Mr. Edward Boville.
He had come into the company under somewhat
mysterious circumstances. None of us knew
him as an actor; he had certainly not gone
through the mill, as most of us had; and yet
he proved himself very speedily a most finished
artist, and rapidly rose from a minor position
to that of leading man. Our manager, if he
knew anything of Boville’s history, carefully
refrained from sharing the knowledge with us.
He had all the manners and tone of the society
which we usually call characteristic, and it
was nelpebly: evident that he had been well
educated. e was a tall, handsome man of
twenty-eight or thirty, and I often thought
that he and Miss Lattimer made a very fine
couple.

After he joined the company Miss Lattimer
and he struck up a friendship which, no doubt,
seemed to some of us likely to develop into af-
fection, They were a great deal together, and
they spent hours on the stage rehearsing scenes
from famous plays, just for the love of the
thing, I think. But in spite of all this, I never
saw anything which led me to suppose Boville
to be in love with Miss Lattimer. He was al-
ways as respectful to her, in asomewhat formal
and half-distant fashion, as he was tothe other
ladies, who, I believe, were haif afraid of his
‘swell’ manners.

There was one person, however, who thought
that Boville was making love to Miss Latti-
mer, and that was the third of the three people
who had excited my interest. Until Boville’s
sudden advent and rapid rise among us Mr.
Charles Melford had always been regarded as
our most promising man. e had a long ex-

erience, came of a family of actors, and might

e said to have been born on the stage. It was
only natural that he should very much resent
the way in which our manager passed Boville
over his head, and he did not hesitate to ex-
press his resentment, and to throw out hints
about amateurs and stage-struck swells, and
so on. To this, however, no one paid much at-
tention, for Boville was undoubtedly a very
fine and capable actor, and well worthy the es-
teem in which our manager held him.

I had often thought that Melford was in love
with Miss Lattimer. I had seen him watchin
her with an expression in his face which I di
not like; I had seen him try to gain speech of
her and fail, at which times the look would
turn to one of baffled anger. He was not a bad
fellow when you came to know him; but his
dark, somewhat sullen countenance did not in-
spire any one with feelings of liking. Then,
too, he was moody and taciturn, and some-
times had ugly fits, in which it was almost
dangerous to speak to him. I believe that our
manager would have got rid of him but for the
fact that Melford was a thoroughly trained
actor, and a very useful man in a traveling
company.

It was the first week in December when we
pperiad at Woolford, and we were to remain
there until the 20th. During the two or three
weeks preceding our arrival at Woolford mat-
ters seemed to have grown very strange be-

 

 

 

tween Boville and Melford, and more especially.

between Melford and Miss Latimer. n more
than one occasion I ren to come across
Miss Lattimer and Melford talking together,
and I fancied each time that she was in tears,
while I was quite certain that he was speaking
angrily and with a sort of peremptoriness that
he had no right to assume. One day I over-
heard these two talking in one of the dressing-
rooms, and caught the final words which were
spoken by Melford.

“T shall stand it no longer; I’ll give you
twenty-four hours, and if you don’t speak then,
I shall!”

Then he went eee away, and very soon
afterward I saw iss Latimer leave the
theater; and though she Rn thick vail on, it
was evident to me that she had been sheddin
tears. I wondered what it was that Melfor

wished her to speak about, but finally decided |

that it was nothing more than some grievance
in relation to business matters, of which Mel-
ford, mene a peevieh man, always had a stock,
And yet that hardly accounted for Miss Latti-
mer’s tears. However, it was no business of

 

mine, and I tried to dismiss it from my
thoughts.

Our play that night was “Romeoand Juliet,”
with Miss Lattimer and Boville as the two ill-
fated lovers, and Melford in the part of Tybalt.
The occasion was somewhat out of the ordinary,
and several of the dignitaries of the town were
to be present. When the curtain went up there
was a packed house; hardly standing room;
and by the time we had reached the ball-scene,
and Romeo saw Juliet for the first time, there
was not a seat to be had for love or money.

It seemed to me that Boville was somewhat

agitated that night. I had seen him early in
the evening in conversation with Miss Lattimer
at the wings. They were not long together;
but Melford saw them, and a fierce look came
over his face. He went away, muttering to
himself, and I thought that we should naan
trouble ere long. Little did I guess how it was
to come. ,
_ We reached the scene where Tybalt, return-
ing to the stage, is met and slain by Romeo. I
stood at the wings watching, others of the
company standing near me. Tybalt rushed on,
and was met by Romeo. I started to see how
real the thing looked. Both men, Boville and
Melford, glared at each other as if the quarrel
had been a real one affecting themselves. The
duel commenced; the fencing was superb, for
both men were accomplished swordsmen.

One of the men standing at my side remarked
how like a real fight it was. Suddenly, as in
the stage directions, Romeo ran Tybalt through
the heart, and_ the latter, with one wild glare
round, dropped. Boville stood motionless for a
second, gazing at his prostrate foe.

A long sigh broke upon the crowded house.
And then, all of a sudden, one of the: girls
standing at the wings shrieked aloud, and
pointed to a stain that was rapidly crimsoning
the boards. The duel had been no acting; it
was real, and Melford lay there dead.

I have only a confused recollection of what
followed. There was no more acting that night,
and the streets were soon full of a crowd talk-
ing of the awful mischance that had just taken
pee at the theater. For mischance it could

e, nothing else. By some dire mistake, Boville
had used a buttonless rapier. At the crucial
moment, he said, Melford slipped, and the
weapon, instead of passing between body and
arm, had penetrated his heart.

Of course there was an investigation and an
inquest, but everybody seemed agreed that the
whole thing was a terrible accident, and no
blame was attached to Boville. Melford was
interred, and in a day or two the matter was
treated like the proverbial nine days’ wonder.
But Boville went about looking very pale and
haggard—a great contrast to Miss Lattimer,
who somehow seemed to have recovered her
spirits.

For a week after the accident the theater was
closed, and when re-opened, Boville’s name
was not on the bills, the manager considering
it advisable that he should not appear for a
while. Consequently, the duties of leading
man devolved on me, and hard work I had dur-
ing the next fortnight. However, I acquitted
myself so much to the satisfaction of che man-
ager that he set apart the last night of our stay
at Woolford for my benefit.

Now, I had always from boyhood had a great
desire to play Romeo, and I was all the more
anxious to appear in that character on my ben-
efit night because Miss Lattimer was an incom-
parable Juliet. I talked the matter over with
the manager. We were both dubious about the
propriety of aoe the play again so soon
after the fatal accident; but we finally decided
upon doing so, and the bills were got out. I
was anxious that Boville should support me,
and. prevailed upon him to take the part of
Tybalt. He shivered slightly when I named
the part to him, but finally consented on con-
dition that an assumed name should go down
on the bills.

The night came; I hada full house and a
splendid reception, and Miss Lattimer was in
magnificent form. The early scenes went off
admirably, and after the balcony scene I felt
so elated with my own success as to have vis-
ions of a great career. Boville, on the other
hand, was gloomy and under a cloud.

“Tom,” he said, coming to me at the wings,
“something is going to happen to me to-night.”
Re I pe at him in amazement. Heshook his

ead.

“Something will happen to me to-night,” he
repeated. “I know it. I féel,” he said, ina
lower voice, and looking round him, “I feel
that something is haunting me.”

“Nonsense,” I answered. ‘“ You’re out of
sorts, Boville. The excitement of_the perform-
ance will put you all right.”

“You'll see,” he said, and turned away.

The scene soon came where I, as Romeo, en-
counter the fiery Tybalt and slay him. As I
stood waiting Boville’s ee I suddenly
became aware of a strange coldness that seemed
to spread itself all round me. The words:

“Here comes the fiery Tybalt back again,”

fell on my ears unheeded. I saw Boville ad-
vancing. And then—I felt a cold touch on my
hand, and a voice—Melford’s voice—whisper,
“Not you, Tom.” I felt myself held as ina
vise, and saw another Romeo glide past me
sword in hand. I caught a glimpse of his face.
Heavens! it was Melford come back!

I heard the rapiers clash together, and stood
spell-bound. I heard a voice behind me whis-
per, “Go on, Tom—go on,” and never moved. I
was watching something that no one in that
house saw except myself. There they stood,
the living man Boville and. the ghost Melford,
fighting. Suddenly Melford’s rapier went home,
and Boville fell.

I fainted and dropped on the stage.

When I came round it was to hear of a trag-
edy. They said that Boville advanced upon
the stage, and that I, for some unaccountable
reason, stood still as if transfixed. Boville’s
face suddenly assumed a horror-stricken ex-
pression; he threw up his arms and dropped—
dead. Heart disease, the doctors said.

I told my story afterward, and got laughed
at. But whatever the truth of the matter may
be, and whatever was the nature of that
strange secret shared by Miss Lattimer and the
two men, I know beyond a question that my
place as Romeo was assumed for a minute by
the spirit of Charles Melford in order that he
might wreak his vengeance on the man who
had murdered him three weeks before.

ADVICE TO THE GIRLS.

 

Girls talk and laugh about marriage as
though it were a jubilee, a jolly, gladsome
thing, a rose without a thorn. And so it is, if
it is all right, if they go about it as rational
beings, instead of merry-making children. It
is a serious thing to marry. It is a life busi-
ness, and that of heart and happiness. There-
fore never do it in haste; never run away to
get married; never marry for wealth, or stand-
ing, or fine person, or manners, but only for
character, for worth, for the qualities of mind
and heart which make an honorable man. Take
time, think long and well before you accept
oy proposal; consult your parents, then some
judicious friend, then your own judgment.

 

 

   
 
 
 
  
   

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casa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #32

 

VOL. 46—No. 34,

 

 

=

MY MOTHER’S VOICE.
BY JOHN HARRIS.

I hear it in the busy throng;
I hear it when alone;

I hear it in the rock-ribbed earth,
The same melodious tone.

I hear it when my heart is sad;
I hear it when I’m gay.

It floats around me everywhere,
The sweetest voice for aye!

It leads me back when life was new ;
Tells of those happy hours

I passed in childhood’s sunny vale,
Among the opening flowers.

‘Talks to me of my mountain home,
That home of homes to me,

Engraven on my heart of hearts,
Forever there to be.

The music of this voice I hear
Above the world’s rough roar, .

Like whispers from another sphere,
Some calm Elysian shore;

Sweet harp-notes from the lyre of Time,
Around me and within,

They gush with conquering ecstasy,
To lure my soul from sln.

MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS,

BY W. W. CARTNER.

{MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS” was commenced in No. 15.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

 

 

Lae — ——
SHE GAVE THE POLE A JERK, AND THE HAT CAME
FLYING INTO WILSON’S FACE.

NUMBER TWENTY.
Mr. Wilson Displays /His Skill as a Fisherman.

“Where are you going, Henry?” asked Mrs.
Wilson, as her husband came out from the
woodshed.

“Going a-fishing. They say the fish are bit-
ing with great eagerness,” was his reply.

“May I go, Henry?”

“Can you catch a fish, Mrs. Wilson?”

“Certainly I can. I have caught lots of
them.”

“All right; then we will have a boss time.”

Arriving at the pond, Wilson handed a pole
to her, saying:

“Here is your pole, and there is the bait.
Now, we will see who will catch the first fish.”

“Henry, please put on the bait. I do not
want to take off my gloves.”

“Pass the line this way, then, and be quick
about it.”

“My! that is a large hook. Can the fish get
it in their mouths?” she inquired.

“Mrs. Wilson, we are not fishing for win-
nows. A fish that cannot swallow that hook
we have no use for. There, throw the line,” he
said, as he flung the hook on the grass.

“She gave the poe a swing, as though she
was going to pound a snake. The hook caught
in roe hat, and it went sailing into the

ond.”

Pe My! Where did that come from?” she ex-
claimed.

“Tt came off my head,” he angrily ejaculated;
“and it is one of the greatest miracles in the
world that it was not an ear, ormy scalp. Why
don’t you pull it out? What are you soaking
my hat in the pond for?”

She gave the pole a jerk, and the hat came
fiying into Wilson’s face. a3

“That is right, Mrs. Wilson—slam it in my
face! tear an eye out! Do not let an opportu-
nity pass to kill me! That settles it, madam;

will move farther down the pond, out of
range. I always did like to fish with an ex-
pert,” he growled. ‘

Mrs. Wilson stood quietly watching the end
of the pole and singing softly to herself. All
at. once she dropped the pole and ran scream-
ing up the bank. é ;

“Henry, there is some horrid thing trying to
get the pole!” she cried.

“You are a dandy fisherman, you are! Drop

our pole and climb a tree as soon as you get a
bite! That is the proper thing to do!” he said,
he picked up the pole.

‘If you think I am going to cling to that
pole and be pulled into the pond you are very
much mistaken, that’s all,” she snapped.

“There is no doubt, Mrs. Wilson, that you
have had a very narrow escape from being
swallowed by a sunfish. I will show you the
size of the fish that was about. to crawl up the
pole and perform the Jonah act.”

Wilson gave the pole a _ jerk to land the fish.
The pole began to bend, and Wilson settled
down to his work. The fish went over his head
and struck Mrs. Wilson on the arm.

“TI have been bitten by a snake !—a vicious
snake! I feel the poison working. What shall
I do? Henry, I am a dead woman, if there is
not help here in a very few minutes,” she
yelled, as she danced around, holding his arm.

“Tt was a larger fish than I expected. What
is it, Anna?”

“Tt is a snake, that is what it is, and he has
bitten me on the arm! Stand there and grin!
That is all you care for me, anyway,” and she
began rubbing her eyes.

ilson raised the pole, and on the hook was
a small mud-pout.

“There is the snake that has been eating you.
I suppose one of those small horns struck you,
but you will iive through it all right, my dear!”

“Henry Wilson, I want you to understand
that you cannot throw fish against me to kill
them, and I want you to attend to your own
fishing after this, and let my pole alone, that’s
all.”

“Great guns! look at my pole! I have gota
bite of a fish of some size! Now, Anna, I will
show you how to land a five-pound bass.”

“How do you know it’s a five-pound bass?”
she asked, as she came tripping down the
bank to where he stood.

“I know it’s a bass by its general actions.
I know he weighs five pounds or over, by his
style of taking the bait. A person who cannot
tell the size and species of fish that is taking
the bait is not fit to catch fish,” he disdainfully
replied. “Now, Anna, you see I am giving

EZ

as
‘

him line. You always want to give a bass
lenty of line. Now will check and hook
a There he goes! Now is the critical mo-
ment. A mismove and he is lost. There, I
think he is conquered. You take the pole and
do exactly as I tell you. Swing him around so
I can reach the line. Steady! Steady! There
he goes for deep water! Give him line! Give
him line! Why don’t you give him line?
What are you making those lunatic motions
for? He cannot understand the deaf and dumb
alphabet!” he yelled at the top of his voice.
rs. Wilson was aftr gry the pole first to
the right, then to the left, and then pushing it
out over the water as far as she could reach.
In her frantic endeavor to make the line run
out her positions were not at all times as
gencerc as they would have been if she had
een posing for a picture.

“Great Scott! If a fish should see you it
would scare him so he would run under a rock
and shed his scales! Hand me that pole!” he
howled.

He threw it on the bank and pulled the line
in hand over hand. He safely landed a six-
inch perch on the sand at his feet.

Mrs. Wilson looked at the fish and then at
Wilson. He looked at the fish and then at Mrs.
Wilson.

The water fell over the dam with a soft,
dreamy monotone. The leaves rustled softly
in the trees over their heads, and the bright
spring sun shone down on the pair of silent
watchers, whose eyes saw not the beauties of
nature, neither did they hear her joyful music.

ot” it weigh five pounds?” she meekly in-
quired.

“Mrs. Wilson, when I gave you that le
there was a large bass on the hook; but when
he saw the positions you assumed, and the
motions you made, he dropped the hook and in
all probability went crazy, or butted his
brains out against a rock. All you need to be
fish-master-general is a pair of hip boots and a
rubber drinking-cup,” he snorted.

“How could he let go if he was hooked?” she
argued.

“You will have to ask the fish about that,
Mrs. Wilson; I am not gifted with second
sight or mind-reading. As far as I am con-
cerned, Iam going home. After the ridiculous
and strutting movements you have made over
the water, I am satisfied there is not a living
fish within four miles of this place,” he re-
torted.

“Well, go home, if you want to.
soon fish with a grizzly bear as with you,” she
said, as she rolled up her line.

Wilson undertook to draw his line out of
the water, but the hook caught on somethin
in the pond. He gave it a jerk, then a twitc
to one side, but it still refused to come. He
settled down fora straight pull, but his foot-
hold gave way, and he sat down on the sand.
“Oh, you won’t come out, eh?” he roared, as
he vigorously jerked the line.

What kind of a fish is it, Henry?” Mrs.
Wilson asked.

“You are running this fish business, are
you?” he yelled, not paying the least attention
to his wife’s question. “Come out of there, you
long-legged salamander. Won’t,eh? We will
see whether you will or not. Take that!* And
he threw his weight on the line, which broke
at his hands, rolling him in the sand.”

“All you need is a pair of moccasins with
chalk on the bottoms, and an old horse blan-
ket, to be a full-fledged circus,” laughed Mrs.
Wilson.

“What you want is a six-months’ diet on Mos-
quera’s brain food, so you will know enough to
go in when it rains,” he Se replied, and
throwing his pole over his shoulder started for
home, leaving his coat and hat on the bank.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

I would as

ls ital

.The Taian! Waktu.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

FASHION’S FANCIES.

Three-cornered Continental hats come in all the various
styles of straws, and are trimmed with ostrich tips.

Carrying a spray or branch of some flower in season, in
place of the formally arranged bouquet, is the latest
fashion for weddings and evening parties.

Soft ribbed silks, sugh as bengaline, faille, and so forth,
are much used for plastrons.

Corsages and corselets of contrasting velvet or silk are
worn with light-colored cloth skirts, while corsages of
suede kid are richly embroidered with gold or steel, but
are very costly.

Mauve and silver gray are becoming popular for even-
ing, in place of the tan shades so long in vogue.

Two-button gloves are finished with short stiff gaunt-
lets about two inches long, while the latest riding or
driving gloves are in imitation of white buckskin.

Sleeves for rich gowns are of soft yellow crepon, beaded
with garnet beads, and gray blue with copper beads,

The most fashionable garment of the season is the long
cape, perfectly square at the bottom, reaching below the
waist, high on the shoulders, and studded with jet.

The grotesque reigns in jewelry. A gigantic spider is
worn in the hair, and hasa yellow body, with diamond

legs, while lizards and serpents, blazing with diamonds
and emeralds, nestle in the folds of the dress or sparkle
against the neck.

Gold and silver braids, from one quarter to one half an
inch wide, are used for garniture on all materials.

Coiffures are moderately high for the street, and higher
for the house, while the favorite style with young ladies
is a twist of coiled hair almost at the crown, with a stray
curl or two escaping from the center.

The empire petticoat is a useful accompaniment to the
tea gown. It is made all in one, with a square neck gath-
ered in with pale baby ribbons, and is confined at the
waist only by a ribbon belt. The sleeve is a lace ruffle or
two lace rufiies shirred on the ribbon, and the effect is so
dainty and charming thatit seemsa shame to cover it
with the gown.

The latest cut in skirts has six pieces, which, sloping
sharply toward the belt. give the desired flare at the bot-
tom. A velvet binding on the edge of this skirt, run
through witha reed, does away with heavy facings, and
is sure to give the required outward sweep, and finally a
peculiar arrangement of silk frills makes the delicious
rustle dear to the feminine soul, and diffleult to attain in
any other way save by the wearing of many stiff under-
skirts, which is quite impossible with the present cling-
ing draperies.

Bonnets still continue to be studies in the natural his-
tory, one of the latest being of fine open straw, witha few
upstanding loops of black velvet at the back, against
which a lobster twines its long claws lovingly about the
crown. Serpents with realistic heads twine their sinuous
length about bonnet crowns, and toads, flashing with
many jewels, nestle among innocent masses of cowslip
blossoms.

Boating dresses of serge have skirts narrower and
plainer than ever were worn before, and jaunty jackets
with flap pockets and gauntlet cuffs. The shirt of silk or
linen disappears beneath a Swiss belt, which is a com-
fortable but not restricting support to the waist, while
shooting and mountain dresses are made of Harris home-
spun, with long, double-breasted coats of buckskin or
doeskin. Some waistcoats are buttoned up to the throat
and finished with a plain, round, buckskin collar. The
skirts in either case have no foundation, and are finished
with mackintosh casing around the edge and worn over
gaiters.

Sometimes it is hard to tell how to dress a boy excep-
tionally large for his age. Three is the youngest at which
kilts are discarded, and very many mothers keep these on
much longer. Kilts of light gray, with white frilled
blouses, are always pretty suits. he reefer seems to be
the most popular garment of the season for boys from
three to six years. Ina fine black English cheviot, fin-
ished with black silk braid and black buttons, it can be
worn With any colored kilt. Silver and brass buttons are
still preferred by many, however. There is a great variety
of hats for little boys, among which are the three-cor-
nered felt, light and soft, the middy cap of light weight
cloth, the two styles of sailor, both in serge and straw,
the military and the mgs check polo. The fine navy-blue
serge sailor, with white lettering, is much worn with
white pique suits. For best summer wear the white
pique kilt, white blouse with handsome embroidery col-
lar and cuffs and white pique jacket with short, sharp
fronts, is shown, while jersey suits, both for boys and
girls, are exceptionally dainty this season.

Lottie M., Denver, Cal.—Cheviot and camel’s-hair are
the favorite materials for traveling dresses, and the
bodices are made with provision for the use of silk skirts
or blouses in the place of waistcoats on a hot day, and

they are accompanied with tourists’ cloaks, round in
shape, or shirred in the form of aredingote. The skirt is
perfectly plain, or can. be’ trimmed with braid, while
plaids are made up with straight bias-cut skirts, and there
is a single or double-breasted basque, and some of the
new linens make very oer skirts to wear under these.
The sleeves are somewhat high, and the basque, if this be
worn instead of a blouse, is single breasted.

Ida Belie.—\st. The gentleman should present the lady
witha ring as soon as they are engaged. Almost any style
of ring may be used as the symbol of betrothal, but those
generally selected for this purpose are set with a dia-

 

mond, pearl, orruby. 2d. If the familes of the betrothed

couple have been previously strangers, itis proper for
the gentleman’s family to call first. 3d. The young lady
does not make ceremonious calls after the announcement
of her engagement, which is usually made but a shor,
time before the date fixed for her marriage. 4th, It is th
exclusive right of the mother to name the wedding-day
for her daughter. :

Charles E., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The tendency this season
is to lengthen all coat-skirts, though this is scarcely per-
ceptible in sack coats. Fancy vests are less used than
formerly, but vests of coarsely woven white duck, male
double-breasted, will be worn in the summer with various
suits. Trousers are cut straight and smaller, in medium
width, while striped trousers are preferred, though
checks are also worn. Walking shoes are high about the
ankle, and are laced or buttoned, as the wearer prefers.
Low shoes, laced on the instep, are entirely of patent-
leather, and, in fact, all very dressy shoes are of the glossy
patent-leather.

Dasie F.—Princess dresses of all kinds will be very
popular, and those who do not like the clinging cross-cut
dress will find many other styles, especially among the
dresses which are in princess shape only at the back, and
have the front made with the skirt and corsage separate.
Another fashion is that of draping the dress, overskirt,
or tunic, over an underskirt of another material. The
draperies are very slight, but are enough to raise the
skirt a little, so as to show the underskirt, on which the
trunmings are lavished.

Miss Bessie T.—1st. A corset waist is intended to take
the place of a corset, and is desirable for some women,
from the fact that it is easy of wear, is snug-fitting, and

sustained on the shoulders by straps. It can be made in
duck, drilling, or kid, and is becoming quite popular. We
can send you the pattern for twenty cents. 2d. You
will find a chapter on the use and abuse of the corset in
the little work entitled ‘‘Women’s Secrets,” which we
will mail you on receipt of twenty-five cents,

Mrs. F. L.—Wecan furnish a pattern for a little girl’s
guimpe for fifteen cents.

Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

Green Fields and Pastures New.

Mrs, Gotham—“The doctor says I must go to the
country for my health.”

Mr. Gotham (busily)—All right, my dear. Which
would you rather visit, your aunt in Brooklyn, or my
aunt in Jersey City.”

Astronomical Dangers.

First Astronomer—“I think that long straight line
we see in the moon, and which is usually called the
‘railroad,’ should be given another name. Let’s call
it the ‘highway,’ or the ‘aqueduct,’ or something of
that sort.”

Second Astronomer—‘‘But why not continue to call
it the ‘railroad? ”

First Astronomer (whispering)—“I’m afraid Jay
Gould will grab it.” .

A Choice Seat.

Theater-Goer (looking over diagram)—‘“I will take
this seat.”

Box Book-keeper—“One of the pillars is directly in
front of that seat, sir.”

Theater-Goer—“‘So I observed. I prefer a pillar to
a high hat.”

Satisfactory Explanation.

American Heiress—‘All is over between us, sir. I
heard General Knowall say you were no count.”
Count Dollarseek—“Ah, but yon haf made mees-
take. General Knowall not say I no count, he say I
was no account.”

American Heiress—‘Oh! Iam yours.”

An Imperfect Inventory.
Mother—“‘And so your friend Clara is soon to be
married ?” ’

Daughter (just returned from long absence)—“ Yes;
doesn’t it seem strange? I hadn’t heard a word
about it until I called to see her this morning. She
showed me her trousseau. It’s perfectly lovely, just
from Paris, and she has the handsomest ring I ever
saw, and she showed me the house she is to live in,
and the furniture she has selected. and the horses and
carriages she is tohave. She showed me everything
except the man she is going to marry. I guess she
forgot about him.”

The Engine of Civilization,
Brilliant City Editor—‘“‘What did you find out about

on Sundays. Are the card-rooms and billiard-rooms
open on Sunday?”

Husband—“Oh, no, my dear—no, indeed. We
wouldn’t think of such desecration. Everything is
closed but the bar.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

DONE BY A MH#AN MAN.—The meanest man on rec-
ord lives in Union County. He sold his son-in-law
one-half of a cow, and then he refused to divide the
milk, maintaining that he sold only the front half.
The son-in-law was also required to provide the feed
the cow consumed, and compelled to carry water to
her three times a day. Recently the cow hooked the
old man, and now he is suing his son-in-law for
damages.— Vandalia Gazelle.

THE RESULT OF TRAINING.—“This, ladies and gen-
tleien, is the celebrated trick mule, ‘Dot,’ ” said the
clown, as the beast was being led into the ring.
“After many years of effort am able to say I can
make him do anything that he wants to.”

Philadelphia Times.

PUMPS AND PIETY.—One of the earlier yeomen of
Bridgeton was a pump-maker,a good citizen, but
with “no religious preferences.” One day he was
waited upon by one of the church assessors, who
handed him a bill for the support of preaching.

“T hain’t heard no preaching,” said the old man,
somewhat surprised.

“Well, brother, it’s your own fault, then,” replied
the churchman. ‘It’s been accessible to all every
Sabbath for a year.”

He paid. Not long after the parish receiyed from
him a bill for a pump.

“We have bought no pump of you,” was the an-

swer.
“Well, then,” replied the old gentlemen, with a

twinkle in his eye, “it’s your own fault, for I have

been making them for years.”—Lewiston Journal.

CYCLONE CELLARS.—‘‘What are those holes for ?”
inquired the new-comer.

“For cyclones,” answered the Kansas man, briefly.

ar !” eried the tenderfoot; “do you plant
’em ”

“Yep; that’s how we raise the wind !"—Puck.

THE NATURE OF THE MEETING.—Wife—‘Abner,
what do you mean by rigging yourself up in that
style ? I thought you said you were going to meet-
ing.

Western Kansas Man (strapping a revolver about
his waist and putting a bowie-knife into each boot-
leg)—“So I am, Hester. It’s a meeting to discuss the
removal of the county seat. I’m going to take a few
arguments along.”—Chicago Tribune.

A SUCCESSFUL -OPERATION.—Yonng Doctor—‘I
performed my first surgical operation to-day. A man
shot himself and I attended him.”’

Old Doctor—“‘Ah! did you save him ?”

Young Doctor—“No, he died; I had to cut him all
to pieces, but I got the bullet.”— Yankee Blade.

“Uncle John,” said iittle Emily, “do you know that
a baby that was fed on elephant’s milk gained twent
pounds in one week?” “Nonsense!” exclaime
Uncle John. ‘‘Whose baby was it?” “It was the
elephant’s baby.”—Our Dumb Animals.

Professor—‘‘Name the bones of the skull.” Rattled
Student—‘‘Oh! indeed, sir, I’ve got them in my head,
but I just can’t think of their names, sir.”

Philadelphia Record.

Mr. Stayforever—“I admire Bullfinch; he has so
much ‘go’ to him.” Miss Smilax—‘Yes, I wish there
were more like him.”—Bosion Courier.

“What are you drinking so much milk for now ?”’
“For my teeth. Doctor told me powdered chalk was
the very best thing.—St, Joseph News. )
A New England hand-organ factory has just shut
down. It wouldn't be natural for them to shut up.
Yonkers Statesman.

If a man wants liquor he goes where it is for sale.
If he wants justice he goes where it is not for sale.

New Orleans Picayune.
‘‘Who was the author of the saying, ‘There’s always
room at the top?'” “The hotel clerk, I believe.”

Boston Gazette.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. So do pres-
ents.—Great Barrington News.

BACKBITING.

BY REV. A. M’ELROY, WYLIE.

 

Backbiting—that’s just the term exactly!
These blood-sucking insects which fasten them-
selves on the tenderest spot along the vertebral
column—you can neither see nor reach them,
and, like all cowardly and despicable enemies,

 

 

that alleged murder ?”’
Brilliant Reporter—“‘Nothing.”
“No facts at all?”
“Not a fact ”
“No rumors ?”’
“Not a rumor.”
“Then keep it down to two columns.”
A Long Wait.
St. Peter—“‘Let me see. You were Rey. Mr. Pug-
nacious, weren’t you ?”’
New Arrival—“‘Ignatius, your eminence.”
St. Peter—‘‘Ah, yes, I’ll look at your record as quick
as I can find the page. Ah, here it is. Heretic,
heretic, heretic——”
New Arrival—‘I was no heretic.”
St. Peter—“No. Ll was merely counting over the
number of times you called other people heretics.
The list is very long. I will summon an assistant.
He will read them, and when he has finished the
counting you may come in.” :
New Arrival—*‘How long will it take him ?”’
St. Peter—‘‘We are very leisurely up here. I think
likely he will get through in a thousand years or so.”
Feminine Inventive Genius.
Miss Van Nilla—“‘The Scientific News says ice-cream
freezers were invented by a woman.”
Mr. Promenod—‘‘I don’t believe it.’
Miss Van Nilla—‘Humph! Perhaps you think
women incapable of inyenting anything ?’
Mr. Promenod—‘‘N—o. Women doubtless invented
ice-cream saloons.” :
No Details Needed.
Mrs. Blank—‘‘The paper tells of a postmaster who
was appointed by John Quincy Adams, and has held
the position ever since. Was he an unusually good
man, do you think ?”
Mr. Blank (an experienced citizen)—‘‘Oh, not at all,
not at all. It was an unusually poor office.”
Simple Arithmetic.
Shoe Dealer—“Shoes should not be worn right
along,ma’am. They should be given a chance to
get back their shape. Buy two pairs, ma’am, and
wear one pair one day and the other the next.”
Fair Customer—‘‘Will shoes last longer that way ?”
Dealer (with confidence)—‘‘Yes, indeed, ma’am,
twice as long.”
An Expert Opinion.
New Owner (proudly showing horse)—‘Rather
high bred, don’t you think, eh ?’
Horse Expert—‘‘Y—e—s, rather hybrid, that’s a
fact.” ,
An Antidote Needed.
Miss Tremont (from Boston)—Have you a copy of
Emerson ?”
Mrs. Forundred (hostess)—“I believe so. Would you
like me to send for it ?”
Miss Tremont—‘Yes, if you please. I have been
spending the afternoon with some of your friends,
and I wish to get the taste out of my mouth.”
Uncle Sam Undisturbed.
Foreign Power—‘If you don’t try harder to please
us, we’ll shoot.”
Uncle Sam—*‘Costs money to shoot nowadays.”
Foreign Power—‘‘We’ll borrow it of the Roths-
childs.”
Uncle Sam—‘‘Not much you won't. The Roths-
childs have $50,000,000 invested in this country.”
A New Cure.
Mrs. Cribber—‘“What has become of all your Cleo-
patra jewelry—the asps, snakes, serpents, and
things ?”
Mrs. Bibber—‘Hush! Don’t let my husband hear
you. I have hidden them away.”
“Haven’t you worn them at all?’
“T wore them once, and the moment my husband
saw them he rushed off to a doctor. The next morn-
ing he took the pledge. I sha’n'’t wear them again
unless he backslides.” i

Sunday Observances.

 

Wife—“I'd like to know what you go to the club for

they always strike behind the back.

Call it not a fault, rather brand it as a crime.
You pick my pocket, and you take the earn-
ings of, perhaps, a week—you pick at my rep-
utation by the poisoned beak of slander, and
what do you do?—you take away my credit;
put thorns in my midnight pillow; cause every
man I meet to look upon me with suspicion;
you let loose an invisible, all-pervading taint
into the atmosphere, against which I cannot
defend myself. It produces something worse

than disease, for it can be checked by no skill
and can be reached by no medicine. Happiness
flies from the household before the breath of
the slanderer, and it is in his power to snatch
the very bread out of the mouth of hungry chil-
dren and turn the entire family out of ndien,
Of all the faults which taint and tarnish hu-
man nature this reveals the very worst phases
of spontaneous malice and wickedness.
I can look with charity upon the deeds of a
man who is occasionally swept away by his
assions. We can find a kindly spot in our
eart for the killer who, maddened by a pro-
tracted provocation, strikes the murderous blow
—we can pity the reeling drunkard, who has
been enticed and drawn down from his self-
control by thoughtless, convivial companions—
we can almost excuse the thief who has been
driven by the hunger-wolf to appropriate the
oods of his neighbor—for life is sweet; we can
rop a tear over yonder wretched creature, who
is making a trade of her charms in the street,
when we call to mind the want, the tempta-
tions, and Satan-like inducements which she so
long withstood in the very face of starvation.
But ransack, as we ‘may, our whole museum of
charity, and we cannot find a solitary patch
or rag wherewith to shade a solitary spot of
the moral loathsomeness of the slanderer. He
or she is an enemy to God, to man, and to so-
ay, and himself, and can serve no one but the
evil.
Calumny is a poisoned stream without a foun-
Eee for slanders have no starting point in
act.

There is no concealing the truth; it has its
entire origin ina bad heart. And then how
abomination is magnified when the oily tongued
defamer launches his poisonous insinuations
under the pretext of his jealousy for the honor
and purity ot the church and the of so-
ciety. If he were to come out and confess the
truth as to his real motives we might mitigate
the wished-for sentence when we long to see
him tied to a public post with tongue drawn
out and fastened (as once upon a time they did)
to a split-stick.

Why does he not say, it gives joy to his bad
heart to hear and to repeat, with unmeasured
additions, all the insinuations and suspicions
which are breathed against his neighbor? Why
does he not own that he feels relatively a little
higher if he can only depress the level upon
which his neighbor stands? Why can’t he ac-
knowledge that there is a malignant spirit in
him which loves to feast upon the despoiled
reputation of others?—compared with which
the cruelty of rude, untrained boys in stoning
frogs, cats, and dogs is a saintly pastime.

We wonder not that the honest and honor-
able of all a ee slander among the un-
convertible furies. omson calls it:

“The tongue that licks the dust,
But, when it safely dares, as prompt to sting.”

Pollock draws from his armory the whip of
scorpions and lays it on with fearful energy,
but withal a justifiable fury:

“His tongue was set on fire of hell; his heart
Was black as death; his legs were faint with haste
To propagate the lie his soul had framed;
His pillow was the peace of families,
Destroyed the sigh of innocence reproached;

‘ ~ ” . ¥ % He early rose,
And made most hellish meals of good men’s names.”

Sometimes the habit in the malignant slan-
derer is so established that it does something
to cure itself. The doses are so heavy that
they are rejected. The lying will not lie. We

 

once knew a man of this sort, and we made up

T
our minds to believe particularly well of all
the men he particularly slandered. Of all the
malicious backbiters he is generally the worst
who has once been of respectable position and
association, and who, through his own loss of
manhood, has fallen from his high estate. It
gives him pain to see any man still retainin
pe berbaee and homerable ponttion from which
e has fallen, and so he vents his spleen
all who are better than himself. : —

Far the greatest amount of evil, however, is
done in the community by those who can hard-
ly be classed orn: the deliberate and mali-
cious backbiters. The number of those who
morally throw stones over the garden wall and
boiling water out of the window without look-
ing to see what damage may be done below or
on the other side, is very great, Here, as

enial Artemus Ward used to say, “Most men

ave hindsight, but not foresight.” They can
see the mischief and sorrow they have occa-
sioned after it is done and cannot be undone;
but why could they not have taken a five min-
utes’ look through the conscience-lens before-
hand, and have anticipated, and so prevented,
the horrors which they were about to perpe-
trate? Want of thought here is not a whit bet-
ter than deliberate malice, when we consider
how seldom there is really any excuse for either
starting or repeating a slander. Scott, in his
usual happy style, puts it thus: f

“Oh! many a shaft at random sent,

Finds mark the archer little meant;

And many a word at random spoken,

May soothe or wound a heart that’s broken.”

We have had frequent occasion to trace man
a serious trouble to its source, and in well nig
every case we have found it originated in either
some wholly invented slander, or some thought-
lessly repeated defamation which, like the ever-
rolling snow-ball, gathered bulk and weight at
every turn, until it crushed the spirit of him
on whom it fell.
_ There is no cure for this all-ravaging disease
in the community except in the thorough
arousing of conscience, until the slanderer is
ranked among the thieves and robbers, unless
it be that listeners will refrain utterly from
evil-hearing, or tie up the two parties, the one
by the ears and the other by the tongue.

—_

Items of Interest.

o~

A Parisian sharper has developed a new bunco
game. He stops at a hotel and registers his name, which
strangely happens to be the same as that of the proprietor
ofthe house. This is so remarkable that the guest and
the host have a friendly chat about it. The guest re-
quests him to pay special attention to his mail, which is
daily handed to the guest's “valet.” Two or three pack-
ages come, and the “valet” takes them also. Then a small
package, neat-looking and evidently valuable, is passed
over the counter. When the “valet” gets this, he and
his master are seen no more. The next meeting is be-
tween the hotel proprietor and a jeweler, who presents
his bill for jewelry furnished to the value of—say twenty
thousand francs.

A goose with an artificial leg is the happiest fowl
in Alpharetta, Ga. It belongs to Mr. J. B. Broadwell,
and some weeks ago an accident deprived it of a foot.
Therefore, when the. goose traveled, it had to move
slowly with a comical hop, and could not keep up with
the rest of the geese. Mr. Broadwell took a joint of cane
and fitted the leg of the goose in the hollow of the cane,
bound it to the leg of the goose with a cord, and cut off
the lower end of the cane even with the uninjured foot.
The goose now walks with ease.

There is great fun in New Gloucester, Me., over the
discomfiture of the tax-collector of that place. He went
to arrest a young woman who had long neglected to pay
her taxes. She was walking along the road when he halted
her and explained his business, stating that she must go
with him. She deliberately sat down in the road and
said, “‘Well, take me if you can.” Her weight is 180
pounds, and as his is only 123, his efforts to budge her
were rather ludicrous. He went his way without her.

A Buffalonian, traveling in Bohemia, was the ob-

ject of annoying attentions from all sorts of people in
Carlsbad. Ata hotelin the town just named he regis-

 

tered as “James I. King, of Buffalo.” The local press an-
nounced the presence in their city of a noble gentleman,
“James the First, King of Buffalo,” and the unpreten-
tious Mr. King became so bothered by visits from trades- ©
men, civic magnates, and toadies generally, that he was

forced to hasten his exit from the place.

A strange pair of bird-hunters belong to Mr. Wil-
liams, of Mud Turtle Lake, Ga. They are a pointer dog
and a large brown cat. They ramble off on hunting ex-
peditions, and the dog points the birds and attracts their
attention, while the cat, with a strategic movement in
the rear, never fails tosecure a bird. They never banquet
until they have secured four birds, when each of them
dines on two birds.

Nearly everybody in New Orleans seems to relish
what is called “an oyster loaf.” This toothsome combi-
nation is a ten-cent double-pointed loaf of white bread. It
is split down one side, and then a part of its soft interior

 

is taken out and all the rest is toasted. After thata
dozen fried oysters are put in the loaf, and it is closed,
and has a wedge of toasted bread fitted into its open end.

Two residents of Grand Forks, Md., were arrested
for stealing a barn. About midnight these enterprising
gentlemen hitched four horses to the structure and drag-
ged it off the farm. The prisoners tried to excuse them-
selves by saying that as the owner of the barn had
neglected to satisfy a debt of long standing they thought
they were justified in seizing an equivalent.

Philadelphia may by outsiders be considered’slow
and quiet, but its residents laugh in their sleeves as they
say nothing but continue to vigorously saw wood. By
the new census we learn that the value of its annual
manufactures aggregates $700,000,000, exceeding those of
New York by $50,000,000. In 1880 Philadelphia had $326,
000.000 and New York $475,000,000.

Thinking that the conductor could not change a
$100 bill,'a note of that denomination was handed to him,
to deduct his fare, by a passenger on the Old Colony Road.
The conductor telegraphed to Boston, for which city the
passenger was bound, and on arriving there he was led to
the ticket office, where he received ninety-nine silver
dollars.

Nearly $100,000 have already been raised for the
founding of a home for indigent printers in Colorado
Springs. The fund was started by Mr. G. W. Childs and
Mr. Anthony Drexel, of Philadelphia, who each contrib.
uted $5,000. Eighty acres of land, within ten minutes’
drive of the city, have been donated as a site. :

Chicken-hatching on a large scale has been begun
by a man in Ukiah, Cal. He owns a three-story hop-
house, and this he converted intoa huge incubator, in
which he placed 6,000 eggs. Over 1,500 chickens came out
alive, and are doing well. He has set 24,000 eggs, and ex-
pects great results.

Quite a profitable business is done in some of the
large cities by renting turtles to restaurants. They are
permitted to remain on their backs a few days before the
restaurants, and are then whirled off to some other sec-
tion of the city as advertisements for other eating houses.

A great-grandmother at the age‘of forty-seven!
This is the record of Mrs. Henry K. Updegrave, of Tower
City, Pa. She was married in her fourteenth year; her
oldest daughter became a wife at fifteen; her grand-
daughter was married at sixteen, and is now a mother.

Cremation is very economically conducted in
Japan, and therefore it is quite popular. In Tokio there
are six crematories,in which one-third of the dead are
burned. The highest price for burning a body is $3.75,
and the lowest $1.

Five students of the California State University,
at Berkeley, caused a surprise to. the professors, the
other night, by hoisting a beer-barrel to the flag-staff.

A clever balancing act is performed by a man in
a Paris circus. He makes a tower of twenty champagne
bottles, and perches himself on the summit.

A perfume lamp,which burns cologne, and spreads
a delightful scent about the room, is the latest household
novelty.

‘““You kick the bucket and I do the rest.” heads the
advertisement of an undertaker in a St. Louis news-
paper. ‘

Two attorneys in St. Joseph, Mo., have been re-

 

tained in suits against their fathers. ‘