BEGINS TSE INE W YEAR
IN No. 11-N HiT WEEK.

if

Savage reek Mo OT AY’ Ss
NEW EMOTIONAL STORY,

FAIR, BUT FAITHLESS,”

@ in gan,

 

 

e

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1:90. vy Sireer & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. O.

 

Enierea ai the Post Office,

y 5 e

New York, as Second Class Matter.

 

 

Office

Vol. 46.

P.O. Box 2734, N.Y.

31 Rose St.

 

New York, Janiiary 3, 1891.

Three Dollars

 

Gaara

A CHRISTMAS NIGHT VISION.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.
Twas Christmas Eve—and Harry Hall,
His wife and children three,
Sat in their wretched little room
In abject misery.
They had no fire, they had no food,
Their frames were almost bare,
And the sad group a picture formed
Of hopeless, blank despair.

“T wish old Santa Claus would come, mamma,”
Cried little Sue, ;
“Fer I am as cold as I can be
And very hungry too,
But then you know he will not come
Till we are all in bed,
So let us go, and then perhaps
He’ll bring us clothes and bread.”

And so the wretched family
Went to their bed of straw,

And Harry Hall, at dead of night.
A blessed vision saw—

A vision of old Santa Claus
Replenishing the fire,

And loaded down with everything
His sad heart could desire.

Upon his shoulders, broad and strong,
Large packages he bore,

Containing wholesome bread and clothes—
And near him, on the floor,

A sack of coals was opened wide,
From which, with looks elate,

He filled, while puffing at his pipe,
A scuttle near the grate.

It was a blissful, blessed dream
That Harry Hall slept through,
And best of all, when morning broke,
He found the vision true.
A brother, who had years before
The ocean gone across,
Had just returned in time to be
Poor Harry’s Santa Claus.

And now a word to Santa Claus,
The generous and true,
And then I’ll have accomplished
The end I had in view.
Remember at this wintry time
That many girls and beys :
Want bread and meat, and clothes and fire,
As well as sweets and toys.

So don’t forget, old Santa Claus,
The picture drawn above;

And when you start on Christmas Eve
Upon your work of love,

If you would bring a throb of joy
To many an aching heart,

Put food, and clothes, and coals, as well
As candies, in your cart:

ARGUERITY'S VICTORY

By EDITH GLEN-ABRON,.

CHAPTER TI.
THE COUSIN’S CONFESSION.

It was alovely evening toward the close of Sep-
tember.

There was a spicy, delicious fragrance in the
wind, as it swayed gently the branches of the trees
around the fine old mansion of Beechwood.

Leaning against one of the tall Corinthian columns
of the back piazza, and gazing sadly upon the lovely
scene before her, stood a lady. somewhat past the
prime of life; yet, so gently had time dealt with her,
there was not one silver thread in her dark, abund-
ant hair. She was above the average height of
women, stately and elegantin form, and her features
were of classic beauty. I have never heard the
physique of the noble mother. of the Gracchi de-
seribed, but gazing upon this lady, I have fancied
the Roman matron stood before me.

There was nothing in the surroundings to give
birth to the sigh that trembled on her lips. Art,
wedded to Nature, had made this one of the most en-
chanting spots inthe country. To the right was.a

rand old park; silver fountains bubbling and spark-
ing in the rays of the setting sun, forming myriads
of tiny rainbows; tame deer and dark-eyed gazelles

layedin the leafy coverts; flowers of every hue
ficomed in richest profusion around her; the house
itself was a perfect gem of architectural elegance,
and furnished with every appointment which wealth
and a cultivated taste could suggest. Yet, amid all
this luxury, there was some inward emotion which
caused the traces of tears in her dark eyes, and
blanching her lips, so full of womanly sweetness and
purity. : :

Two years previous to this lovely evening her only
son had left his ancestral home to complete his
studies at a university in a distant city. He wasa
noble fellow, high-spirited, generous to a fault, and
a perfect specimen of manly beauty.. He had been
absent but a short period, when his mother received
a letter from the principal of the college, stating
that Philip, her idolized boy, the sole heir of the
princely estate of Beechwood, had married the
daughter of a poor tradesman, and left the city with-
out giving any one an idea of his future destination.

Fora time the stately woman was like one dis-
tracted. Pride and love struggled each for the as-
cendency in her gentle bosom, but the latter tri-
umphed. Even though he had outraged the nice
sense of propriety which always distinguished her
actions, and had broken faith with his cousin, to
whom he had been engaged since his boyhood, she
felt that he was yet her son, and she longed to fold
the prodigal to her heart and bid him and his young
wife welcome to the terraced walks and frescoed
halls of his childhood.

“But, oh, Philip, my darling boy !” she murmured;
“why could you not trust your mother ?”

She stood watching the fading tints of sapphire,
gold, and softest rose-color as they melted away at
the gentle touch of twilight, rapt in pensive medita-
tion, when a servant approached with a silver salver,
upon which lay a delicately embossed card.

She received it listlessly, but as she read the name,
“Mrs. Philip Norwood,” a mighty change came over
her; she clutched at the iron balustrade for sup-

ort, and pressed her hand. convulsively to her

eart.

“Thomas,” she said to the servant, who stood re-
spectfully awaiting ber command, ‘describe this
lady to me. How does she look? how is she
dressed ?”’

 

 

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KNEES BESIDE THE SOFA,

 

dark in the reception-hall, and she had ona thick
black vail; but I caught a glimpse of her hand, and
it was white and delicate as yours, ma’am, only it
was thin and wasted like. She walked every blessed
bit o’ the way from the depot, four good miles as
ever was measured, and she dropped down in the
chair like she was most spent,” said Thomas.

“Can she be my son’s wife?” exclaimed the lady,
as she’ moved toward the hall communicating with
the great drawing-room. ‘How I long, yet dread, to
meet her! What if she proves coarse and unrefined 2?
Ob, I can forgive everything if she is only womanly
and sweet!’

The great golden chandelier in the center of the
apartment was in a blaze of light as Mrs. Norwood
entered. Her eye sought the object of her anxious
thoughts,

Seated, or rather reclining; upon one of the rich
velvet divans was the figure of a lady, slight and
elegant in form, and, as Mrs. Norwood approached
her, she arose, threw back her heavy mourning vail,
and revealed a face of perfect beauty, but so sad, so
pitiably expressive of want and suffering, that the
elder lady's eyes grew humid with tears as she gazed
thereon.

“Forgive this intrusion,” she said, in a low, sweet
voice, ‘but he told ne—my Philip—that if I came to
you, he was confident that you would receive me
kindly, at least; and when he sailed for San Fran-
cisca, after he received that cold, cruel letter from
you, his last request was that I should seek you and
ask your protection until his return. But I felt that
IT could hope forno mercy from the mother who had
forgotten her son, It was a rash act, that hasty
marriage,” she added, with a touching pathos; “but,
oh! if suffering can retrieve an error, then I have
atoned—I have atoned !”

Mrs. Norwood’s cheek had blanched to a deathly
hue while the young wife was speaking. All the
pride of her haughty race was for once laid aside.
She saw before her a woman young, delicate, sweet,
and lady-like. There was an inborn refinement in
every, gesture, high-bred grace and ease in every
movement, and—she was her son’s wife.

All the sweet mother-love filled her bosom as she
gazed upon that sad, pure face; then, laying her
hand caressingly upon the soft golden tresses, she
said, while her voice trembled with emotion:

“The head which has reposed upon my Philip’s
breast shall find a sure resting-place on mine. But,
my dear child, you spoke of a letter; there is some
eruel mistake. The only intimation I ever received
of your marriage was through the president of the
college. I was astonished and mortified beyond ex-
pression. And to think that he has suffered for the
necessaries ot life,, while Ihave had such plenty!
Who could have received and answered his letter
pahens my knowledge? Can it be possible that
ivelyn

The heavy oaken doors dividing the grand draw-
ing-room from the library slid noiselessly back, and
a young girl entered. She wasrichly and tastefully
dressed, and bore a striking resemblance to the elder
Mrs. Norwood, There was the same fine contour of
form, the same beauty of feature; but there was
more of passionate fire in the slumbrous depths of
her dark eyes—less of that subtle attribute we call
soul, the presence of which we feel but can never
express. There was more of the animal than the
god in the impulses which swayed that proud, untu-
tored heart. She was voluptuously beautiful and
brilliant as Sappho herself, and doubtless quite as
undisciplined and impulsive as that famed young
lady of antiquity.”

She swept down the long apartment with the maj-
esty of a queen, her rich dinner-dress of crimson silk
trailing on the soft velvet carpet.

She caught the trembling and astonished young
wife by the wrist and dragged her toward the chan
delier, where the bright rays of the lamps fell direct-
ly upon the pale, sweet face, and the great, sad blue
eyes were lifted in prayerful entreaty to the cold,
proud face of her rival.

“Ah!” she exclaimed, in accents trembling. with
passion. ‘‘So you are here to establish your rights as

 

 

“T couldn’t see her face, ma’am; it was kind o’ | mistress of Beechwood Hall!

 

I bid you welcome—I, |
the cast-off betrothed of your noble husband! Iloved
him with all the fervor of my soul; I worshiped the
air he breathed, the ground he walked upon; and to
think he scorned such love as mine for that puny
baby face! Oh, how I loathe and despise you! With
my own hands [ could deprive you of life. You have
broken my heart. You. have blasted my life, for time
and eternity !”’

She flung the half-fainting girl from her, and leaned
against the marble mantel, pale and exhausted from
excitement.

“Evelyn!” said Mrs. Norwood, in tones of mild re-
proach; ‘‘this conduct is unlady-like and unkind in
the extreme. No one could regret the unfortunate
termination of your engagement with Philip more
than myself! but here is his wife. If we love him,
let us provgait by ministering to her suffering and
giving her a placein our hearts. She has suffered,
Evelyn, my dear niece ; in every feature she bears the
trace of poignant grief and physical as well as mental
distress. My boy may never return,” she added, her
voice tremulous with tears; ‘but in that case [ may
hope to spend the remainder of my daysin the sweet
society of his wife and one whom I have ever re-
garded as my own dear daughter.”

Evelyn stood, as cold and passive as one of the
marble statuettes near her: The only answer she
deigned to give to this affectionate address was a con-
temptuous curl of her haughty red lips.

“You were inquiring, my dear aunt,” she said, with
bitter scorn, ‘‘as to the author of the letter your son
received in answer to his own which apprised you of
his marriage. One August evening, last year, when
I was dreaming of the blissful future in reserve for
me as his bride, the postman entered and handed two
letters tome. I knew the beloved handwriting ata
glance. One was addressed to me, the other to your-
self. With eager haste I broke the seal, and read the
death-blow to my happiness. He informed me that
he had discovered that our temperaments were too
unlike for us to hope for a peaceful married state,
and that he had found one whom he could and did
love beyond expression. He did not approve of
cousinly intermarriages, and hoped that I would look
upon our engagement as childish folly. His wife was
all that he could wish for—loving, sweet-tempered,
aud her tastes perfectly congenial with hisown. He
ended by expressing the hope that T would break
the intelligence to you, if I received his letter before
you did, and that I would beg your forgiveness for
his hasty act; that all he needed to complete his
happiness was your blessing on his wedded life.

“Scarcely knowing what I did,” continued Evelyn,
“T broke open your letter also. IT had been in the
habit of reading your letters and answering them for
you, so there was nothing surreptitious in the act.
He inclosed his wife’s photograph and a lock of her
hair. At the sightof the face which had destroyed
my peace I felt murder in my heart. I resolved that
you should never see the letter, and hastily coneeal-
ing it, I penned a short, concise note dimissing him
from your presence, and forbidding any intercourse,
either personal or epistolary. The photograph and
hair were returned.

“What I have suffered since that night no mortal
tongue can relate. [loved him better than my life.
I would willingly have died for him; and knowing
this, you coolly invite me to remain under the same
roof with one who could never awaken any other
emotion in my heart than the deadliest hate. Never!
I would die a beggar rather than submit to such hu-
miliation !”

CHAPTER II.

“OH, WHAT AGONY TO LOVE, AND BE
UNLOVED !”

When Mrs. Norwood, astounded at this revelation,
turned toward the poor young wife, she discovered
that she had fainted. Hastily raising the slender
form in her arms, she placed her on a sofa and rang
for assistance.

‘“*T forgive you, Evelyn, for the sake of your
father,” she said, addressing her niece in tones of

 

HER FACE BECAME A SHADE

Hie pf sen
. S m

 

PALER.

nett

sternness unusual to her gentle life. .*‘I shall never
forget that you are my dead brother’s child. But I

must say thatyouhave been moreinsatiate than awild |
I congratulate |

beast in your desire for vengeance.
my son that he escaped marrying with sucha woman.”

Thomas, the. burly footman, entered in answer to |

the bell, and stood surveying the strange scene be-
fore him with surprise depicted on his ‘honest face.

“Remove this lady to the rose-chamber, Thomas,
and send thé housekeeper to me; and I wish you to
inform the servants that your young master’s wife
has come home to the Hall to reside permanently, and
that I shall expect the same deference to'be paid to
her wishes that you are in the habit of yielding to
mine.”

A» look of mingled rage and hate flashed from Eve-
lyn Dalton’s eyes as these words fell from her aunt’s
lips, but she only gathered her rich skirts about her,
and passed with her own proud grace to the adjoin-
ing library.

That night a soul went down to the very verge of
the dark’ Lake of Death, that another might be
ushered into life. When morning dawned Mrs. Nor-
wood andthe family physician stood by the white-
draped bed, the former pale’ and anxious, the latter
grave, and with much concern on his kind, benevo-
lent features.

By the fire-place, seated in @ large, velvet arm-
chair was Mrs. Wright, the housekeeper. A tiny in-
fant lay upon her ample lap in the sweet, unconscious
slumber of babyhood.

Nursing was Mrs. Wright’s forte, but since Philip
Norwood’s birth there had been no baby at the Hall;
it was, therefore, with proud satisfaction that she
regarded this new claimant of her time and atten-
tion.

“Everything, my dear madam, now depends upon
keeping her perfectly quiet. If she become excited,
fever will ensue, and in that case, 1n her present ex-
hausted condition, I shall entertain no hope of her
recovery. That four-mile walk did not result in
peculiar benefit—you were not expecting your
daughter’s arrival, madam, I presume,” said the doc-
tor, fixing his keen, gray eyes upon the lady.

Mrs. Norwood’s pale face flushed slightly, as she
replied :

“Oh, doctor, there is a sad story connected with
this marriage, which I willrelate to you sometime;
at present, I'can only assure you, that, however ap-
pearances may be against me, 1 am blameless. You
do not know how dear she has become to me in this
brief period. If unremitting care and tenderness
can save her, then will she live ?”

Excellent nursing and the best medical attention
soon wrought a decided change for the better in the
young mother’s condition. In two weeks she was
able to sit up, but she looked so. frail, so ethereal,
one almost feared to gaze upon her. There was a
settled melancholy inthe depths ‘of her violet eyes,
which none of the. delicate, motherly attentions of
Mrs. Norwood could dissipate.

One lovely morning in the early part of October,
she was sitting, propped up by snowy pillows in an
easy Chair, drawn in front of the white marble
hearth. A bright, cheerful fire threw its ruddy
beams on the delicate, rose-tinted furniture of the
apartment, for the air was crisp and sharp, with au-
tumn’searly frost. A bouquet of exquisite flowers
stood on a little inlaid table by her side, blending
their rich hues and fragrance with the most delight-
ful cluster of purple and. amber grapes. A temptin
breakfast had just been brought in by a servant, anc
Mrs. Norwood was trying to induce her to partake
of it.

“Try one of these nice French rolls, Marguerite,
my love, will you not?’ she inquired, tender!y, ‘and
taste this chocolate. You will never regain your
strength if you do not eat something, and you should
make the effort for the sake of your dear little bahe.
See the little fellow laugh in his sleep !”

A look of ineffable love swept over the mother’s
fair young face,as she glanced toward the hand-
some rosewood crib with its rich lace and satin
hangings where her first-born lay sleeping.

“You win me back to life, kindest, dearest of
mothers,” she said, sweetly, “and if I could forget

Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

Per Year,

No. 10.

| the est¥angement my presence has occasioned be-
tween yourself and Evelyn, I might be happy. But
I have been the cause of unspeakable anguish to her
heart at least. Oh, what agony, to love one like
Phélip, and be unloved in return !”

She clasped her hands before her eyes and the
bright tears trickled through her white fingers.

“Your sympathy for Evyelyn’s bereavement is en-
tirely unneeded, my child,” replied. Mrs, Norwood,
calmly. ‘Indeed, I doubt if she has bestowed a
thought upon him since that fiery outburst of tem-
per, Her pride has suffered severely, but I think she
will survive the shock. Philip acted most indiscreet-
ly, and really unmanly toward her; but he never
loved her, and the engagement was. always irksome
te him, indeed, he only consented to it tor my gratifi-
cation.

“And now cheer up, my dearest girl, for no one can
imagine how soon. he may be here. I have sent dis-
patches to San Francisco. I have inserted personals
in all of the papers he will be likely to see, and no
doubt he will hasten on the wings of love to his dar-
ling wife and littleson. How proud and happy he
will be.”

The days passed on, bringing no tidings of the ab-
sent one. Marguerite’s. step became more feeble,
and her cheek like the waxy petals of the lily, other-
wise she betrayed no emotion. Her heart had been
schooled to suffering.

Mrs. Norwood looked on in mute anguish, She
loved her son with a true mother’s love, and mourned
his absence with as much sincerity, as did the young
wife; but her temperament was entirely different—
shé did not easily succumb to sorrow.

Every art was resorted to for the purpose of direct-
ing Marguerite’s attention from the last object of her
heart’s idolatry. The friends of Mrs, Norwood both
in their immediate neighborhood and those from the
city, had called.and paid her every delicate attention
possible. The older ladies petted .and caressed her;
the younger ones praiscd her grace and sweetness;
and the gentlemen, young and old, yielded her the
homage due to: her beauty, youth, and intellectual
attractions.

Christmas, With itsmany pleasant associations,
drew near. Mrs, Norwood determined that the sea-
son should be a happy one to all around her. In
ministering nobly to the necessities of others, she
temporarily forgot her own troubles.

Provisions in abundance had been sent to the cot-
tages of the poor in her neighborhood, as well as
warm clothing and wine and delicacies for the sick
and infirm. She also issued invitations to her most
intimate friends to a private dinner party.

An invitation from the Hall was always regarded
by the recipients as a mark of distinction, for Mrs.
Norwood’s high position, added to her many noble
qualities of mind and heart, and the not unimportant
fact of her great wealth, caused her to be fully appre-
ciated: by those who were'so fortunate as to posséss
her friendship.

The huge hickory fires were blazing on the hearths,
fer Mrs. Norwood eschewed grates; and regarded an
open fire-place as one of the chief attractions of her
country residence. Wreathsof holly and mistletoe

 

gp sorned the walls, and a Christmas-tree stood in the

r*nter of the great drawing-reom, loaded) with pres-
ents for her guests, - ‘ *
By three o’clock the company began to.arrive.
From the large bay-window-in the upper hall,
Marguerite stood watching the carriages as they
drove up the broad avenue, leading to the mansion.
On the bed in her room was a costly’ dress of rich
white satin and misty lace. On her dressing-table
lay a set of rare old pearls, which Mrs. Norwood had
caused to be re-set ina new and fashionable style.
A little, trim-looking lady’s maid stood impatiently
waiting to employ her skillful fingers in arranging
her mistress’ long, golden tresses, but’ still she
lingered near the window, until the last carriage had
wheeled past, then as the sound of gay voices and
merry laughter fell on her ear from below, she
turned sadly from her post and entered her room.
“It seems almostlike sacrilege forme to*take off
mourning,” she said to her attendant; “it has been
such a short period since poor papa died, and black
is more in accordance with my feelings; but I would
be ungrateful.to refuse. to wear mamma’s gift. after
her kindness in having it prepared. How like a
| bridal robe it seems!” she added, surveying herself
in the tall, gilt mirror; then, clasping the pearls on
her arms.and neck, :she threw a crimson cashmere
shawl around. her shoulders, and passed lightly
down the wide, oak stair-way.

CHAPTER III.

AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL.—A MERRY
CHRISTMAS AT BEECHWOOD HALL.

The door of the library stood ajar; she entered,
and paused with clasped hands before a full-length
portrait of her husband.

The setting sun threw a shower of golden beams
over the nigh, white forehead with its wealth of
chestnut curls, the slightly aquiline nose and firm,
manly lips, darkened by a slight mustache. There
was a happy, debonair, irresistible expression per-
vading the countenance.

So absorbed was she in contemplating the beloved
features, she did not hear a footstep beside her; did
not turn until a voice said:

‘Marguerite, my beautiful, my pearl !”

She recognized the dear accents at once: there
was but one such voice for her. The rich, crimson
tide of joy dyed the pure snow of her brow and cheek
for a moment, then receding, left her pale as a white
lily. She fixed her blue eyes with a look of unspeak-
able love on the bronzed, bearded face of the wan-
derer, and her trembling lips murmured :

“Philip, my darling husband !”’

Overcome with surprise and joy, she fainted and
would have fallen to the floor had not his strong
arms caught her to his bosom.

He laid her on the sofa and chafed the still, pulse-
less hands, ealling her every endearing name, and
blaming himself for his reckless entrance.

“Fool that I was!” he exclaimed, passionately. ‘TI
might have known that the shock would be too sud-
den for her nervous temperament. My poor flower!
how thin are these precious hands, and how wasted
that fair cheek! Oh, Heaven! what madness pos-
sessed me to ever leave her!”

Seeing that, in spite or his efforts to rouse her, she
still lay inert and helpless, he became alarmed and
called loudly for assistance.

Mrs. Norwood was passing through the hall, and,
hearing the strange voice, she entered the library.

As she beheld her son on his knees before the sofa,
her face became a shade paler: but she laid her hand
gently on his bowed head and ‘stroked ths bright
hair caressingly. Her matchless self-control did not
desert her for a moment.

“My darling boy!” she cried, as Philip arose and
caught her in his arms with boyish ardor, “thank
Heaven that you are restored to us again! But this
poor child needs our attention; we have no time for
explanations now; remain with her until I obtain
restoratives.”’

When Marguerite’s blue eyes unclosed and rested
upon the face of her husband, as soon as her numbed
and bewildered senses could comprehend that he had
really returned, a marvelous change took place in
her appearance and Ggeportment. When she walked
down the long dining-room, leaning on his arm and
surrounded by the guests at the table, she looked the
impersonation of happiness. She chatted, and
laughea, and exchanged lively sallies with all.

Mrs. Norwood looked at her wonderingly. She had
never seen anything but the ghost of a smile on her
pale lips before. Now the transformation was com-
plete; her cheeks glowed like the heart of a damask
rose, and her eyes sparkled with the happiness surg-
ing in her bosom.

Truly, for the sick heart there is no medicine like
ove.

That was a merry dinner-party. The light from
many lamps fell softly on the long table, with its
rich gold and silver plate, crystal glass, and wealth
of hot-house flowers and fruit. The company was
select, the viands rare, and the weather just cold
enough to make dancing delightful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

t
VOL. 46—No. 10,

 

When the last carriage had rolled away and the
young couple had sought the privacy of their own
apartment, Marguerite drew a velvet cushion before
the arm-chair in whith her husband was seated and
placed herself in graceful abandonment at his feet.

“But there is one thing, Philip,” she said, regard-

ing him with a slightly troubled expression, ‘*which
Teanunot just approve. You did not treat Eyelvn
uite as generously as you should have done. Think
iow she loved you, and how numiliating your con-
duct must have been to her fond nature. And then
she is so glerieusly beautiful. I do not understand
how such @ beauty could be resisted.”

“My dear little snowdrop, that’s’ because you don’t
recognize one of the inimitable laws of nature ap-
vied to persons as well as things: Likes repel ; ‘wr-
likes attract. Eyelyu is beautiful, Pll confess, but the
ebain-lightning flash of lher dark eyes has little
charm for a voléani¢ organization like mine. I pre-
fer the quiet beauty of a moonlight scene, and the
hine-eyed forget-me-not is dearer to me than the
gaudy passion-flower. You see I have simple tastes.
There is also alittle incident Lhave torelate which.
I think, will cOlvince you that herlove for meis only
profound selfishness,

“One sultry day in August, before I left home for
college, I was dozing in a little summer-house in the
garden. The sound of feminine voices in the adjoin-
ing compartment, which was only separated from the
one I occupied by a ieafy screen of lattice-work, soon
arrested my attention. I recognized the soft, dulcet
tones of Evelyn and those of a young lady ‘visitor.

“-Then you do not consider it honorable to wed
one’s cousin simply for his money ? I heard Evelyn
say, laughingly, to her companion.

“<I consider that you would be disgracing your
womanhood irreparably by such an act, vesides de-
ceiving an honorable man. Moreover, I know that
you are engaged to Herbert Norton. What can you
say to him in excuse fer such conduct? Oh, Evelyn,
I beseech you ere-it is too late to think of the mis-
ery you are entailing upon yourseif and others by
this sordid; heartless step,’ said the. other, with

‘wuch warmth in her tones.

~ ‘Ag for Herbert,’ said Evelyn, scornfully, “I can
soon arrange that small affair of his. Idolove him
as well as [ am capable of loving anybody; but I
shall not permit his happiness, nor mine,to defeat
my desire of becoming the mistress of Beechwood
Hall. It is the finest estate in this section, and be-
longs tome rightfully. My father was the heir, but
the property became Aunt Norwood’s because he re-
fused to marry the woman his parents selected for
him. I am going to retrieve his error by becoming
the wife of the present owner—or usurper, I should
say. Herbert is agood fellow, but he has nothing
but his profession upon which to depend, and I can-
not afford to marry for love.’

**T did not tarry much longer, I assure you, after
this flattering tribute, but I went back to the house
a wiser man, I did notinform my mother of what I
had heard .ibecanse I kuew she loved Evelyn tenderly,
and I could not bear the thought of wounding her
gentile heart. [I would leave time to open her eyes to
the true character of the woman she designed for my
wife.

“Now, little one, do yon blame me for my subse-
quent conduct? I met your sweet blue eyes soon
after I entered college; their glances pierced my
heart. I came, T saw, and you conquered. What
could a fellow do under the circumstances but marry
his charmer in spite of allthe angry professors and
maneuvering cousins in the universe? Our troubles
are over now, my pearl, or, at least, we will share
them together, when they come. Ishall never seek for
golden honors again in that far-off land. Six months’
hard labor, without further remuneration than blis-
tered hands and sun-browned face, has cured me
effectually of glory in that line.

“Look up, dearest, and tell your truant husband that
you forgive him for those weary moments of toil, and
watching, and suffering his thoughtless imprudence
occasioned.”

She laid her soft, white hands trustingly in his, and
he felt that no other answer was needed.

(THE END.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

Marie and Made pile;

THE DAUGHTER'S SACRIFICE,

By LIEUTENANT MURRAY,
Author of ‘‘ Forced Apart,” “Tried for His Life,”
“Under a Curse,” etc.

(“MARIE AND MADELEINE,” was commenced in No. 6
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER IX.
THE’ TRIAL AND VERDICT

INALLY the force of evi-
dence appeared so strong
against Madeleine Guernic,
that she was charged with
the crime of poisoning her
sister, and was then arrested
and thrown into prison.

This was a terrible shock
to those of her former
friends who believed her in-
nocent, but the law officers

“ eould no longer disregard the

force of the circumstantial evidence before them.
Everybody felt the greatest sympathy for the
father, who appeared to have aged fearfully under
these combined afflictions. Pere Guernie not only
gave signs of the most violent grief, but he seemed

wretched and low in health from the great trial
which he had been called upon to endure. He even
took to his bed for a time after Madeleine’s imprison-
ment, and it was reported that the old man would
die of his grief.

All this but heightened the feelings of those who
thought Madeleine guilty, and prejudiced them still
more against one who had been the cause of break-
ing up that peaceable and happy household, by com-
mnitting so heinous a crime. ‘

There was no use in attempting to disguise the
fact. The sentiments, so to express it, of the com-
munity in which she lived were against her, and this
unfortunate fact, in spite of all rulesof law and
justice, would have an inevitable weight as to the
finding of the jury who should try her case in court.

Thus, in reality, while Madeleine Guernic lay in

rison, her case was on trial, without her being al-
owed one syllablein herown defense. We are all in-
fluenced more or less by the opinions of others, and
very few men and women in the world are sufficiently
independent to think for themselves. Soa few of
the leading gossips of Gaillon had pronounced
Madeleine guilty, and the majority acceded to the
correctness of the conclusion.

The great interest which this trial created is well
remembered by the people of the district. How
strangers came froin all directions and long distances
to attend it, and how intense the curiosity was to
geta sight of the accused. How people stood be-
fore the doors of the court-room for hours before
they were opened, in_ order to finally secure a posi-
tion where they could hear and see on the trial.

All the extravaganeces of such an experience
would hardly be believed if detailed.

Some looked upon Madeleine Guernic as a martyr.
To such people, ignorant and uneducated in any de-
gree, a superstitions feeling attached, and if they
could get a lock of her hair, or a piece of her dress,
they would ascribe peculiar virtuesto it. In this
country, where intelligence is so generally diffused,
we know little of the strange fancies of the ignorant
classes of the Old World, who still believe in witches
and sorcerers. }

One would have thought that Pere Guernic would
have visited Madeleine in prison, if not actuated by
asense of fatherly sympathy, at least for appear-
ance sake, But he did not. At first he took to his
bed, as we havg said, and was represented to be
quite seriously i But when he was well enough to
be out again he went not near his imprisoned child.
Indeed she was deserted by all save the good Abbe
Barrean, who came to her daily.

The abhbe had never had just such a. case to deal
with before, and, with all his knowledge of hu-
Iman nature, he was quite ata loss here. The quiet
and even dignified reserve of this young girl com-
manded his respect and surprise, and, without seem-
ing to endeavor to do so, she established a. barrier be-
tween them so lofty and so impenetrable that the

ood abbe made no progress in his well-meant en-

eavors to win her confidence; and yet she was ail
ace and attention to whatever he read or said
to her.

The young and beautiful girl sat calmly and alone
all through the long trial where she was arraigned
for her life, showing not the least fear or excitement.

She listened apparently with equal indifference to
the evidence, whether given for or against her, ply-
ing her needle without the least intermission during
all of those weary hours in the court.

Except that she had grown paler and thinner than
heretofore, those who knew her best could see no
change in Madeleine Guernic.

Not a tear had she shed, not one word to offer in
her-own vindication. The court, witnesses, jury, and
all were completely puzzled by this singular sto-
icism.

the prisoner was madly in love with Victor Mebe,
and, rather than see her sister marry him, she had
taken the decisive means of poisoning her. Numer-
ous witnesses bore circumstantial evidence of sucha
state of feeling. They had seen Victor kiss Made-
leine even in public, and various other evidences of
the possibility of such a feeling existing as jealousy
of Marie.

As Madeleine made no effort in her own defense,
that was taken also as prima facie evidence against

er.

Indeed, it would seem that opinion ran nearly all
one way,

Mariotte testified vigorously as far as she was al-
lowed to do so in her young mistress’ favor, but this
had little weight with the judges; it was the opinion
only ofan humble domestic.

There was one witness, calm and clear headed,
who made considerable stir in the court by his evi-
dence. He was the fatherof the young girl whom
Madeleine had saved from a watery grave on that
festal May Day. He detailed those circumstances,
and, though they were not exactly evidence, he
adroitly brought them in, and asked the judges if
that was the sort of person to commit such a deed as
the prisoner stood charged with. It was an eloquent
plea, and about the only voice that was raised for the
poor girl to any effect in the whole trial.

The crowning blow was given by him who should
have proved her protector.

At the closing hours of the long trial Pere Guernic
Was summoned into court to testify. He wus not
closely pressed, the court respecting the delicacy
and sadness of his situation. Few were the ques-
tions asked him upon the witness-stand, and only a
few words did he utter.

Those few words, however, were fatal ones, and
tended to confirm Madeleine’s guilt.

Many a shudder ran through the body of the spec-
tators at this unnatural experience. The father
seemed bowed to the very ground, and could hardly
speak above his breath. But his tongue should have
clove, to the roof of his mouth before he bore evi-
dence against the poor child yonder, be she guilty or
innocent.

They were subtle words, signifying more than they
expressed at first blush.

Still Madeleine never even raised her eyes. When
her father was first called, a careful observer might
have detected a slight hectic flush which crept into
the center of her cheeks, a sort of momentary glow,
but even that evidence of sensitiveness passed in-
stantly away.

Pere Guernic’s evidence closed the trial.

As the old man descended from the witness-stand,
leaning upon the arm of Damay, his overseer, every
eye was bent upon him. ere was the stillness of
death in the court-room, only his shuffling, unsteady
step as he was led away, broke the silence. He had
as effectually sealed his daughter’s doom by the

dead. All felt that instantly.

What the precise words of her father’s evidence
were, we know not, but they fell like a pall upon the
hearts of all there who had still some hopes of Made-
leine’s innocence, and of a verdict of acquittal.

As we have said, the trial closed with this witness.
The judges had heard all, and more than they de-
sired, for after all they were inclined to lean to the
side of mercy in this case. But there was no option
left to them.

Her father had spoken.

Undoubtedly the trial was fairly conducted, and
with as much wisdom as was granted unto those
presiding over the deliberations. They were but
human, and were, though all unconscious of the fact,
greatly influenced by force of cireumstances, all of
which went to prejudice the prisoner’s situation. As
we have intimidated, Madeleine had been prejudiced
before the trial commenced, whether justly or un-
justly the sequel must show. But the influence of
this common sentiment tinctured all that was said or
done upon the formal trial.

At last the judgment was.rendered, and Made-
leine Guernic was found guilty of the murder of her
sister Marie.

She received the verdict with perfect indifference,
and thus sentence of death was passed. upon the
lonely and beautiful girl, whom all had now deserted
and left to her fate. Madeleine was doomed to be be-
headed.

Searcely eighteen years of age; alas! in the very
years of budding life, when all should be of roseate
pin Poor Madeleine, what an awful fate awaits
thee!

Again and again the good Abbe Barreau. come to
her in prison—he was the only one who had a kind
word for the forsaken girl. He prayed with her most
earnestly, he besought her confidence, he gently
reasoned with her, and told her that he would listen
to her confession.

“T have none to make,” she answered, gently, with
hands folded before her.

“But your soul, my poor girl, you imperil your
soul by silence.”

“Heaven must judge me,” she replied, quietly and
a little wearily.

“Answer me, Madeleine,” said the abbe, ‘“‘are you
not guilty of this crime ?”’ .

“No.”

“Then why did you not try to convince the court
of the truth?”

“Tt would have been useless.”

‘Despair is never admissible,any poor chil. We
Should a6 our best to prove the truth. Who could
have done the deed?’ continued the priest after a
moment’s silence...

“T cannot say,’ was Madeleine’s answer, the same
she had always made when she was thus interro-
gated.

And then the Abbe Barreau would leave her,
amazed atthe self-reliance and quiet control of so
young a girl over her feelings—amazed at her unde-
monstrative manner, and wondering that death
seemed to have no terror for one so young.

On her part, she was glad to see the priest dally ;_ it
was the one connecting link she enjoyed with the
outer world. She always listened respectfully to
what he had to say to her, and exhibited all the
sweetness and tenderness of the little Madeleine who
had been the favorite of her schoolmates, but *‘con-
fession” she had none to make.

Save this one awful charge now brought against
her, she had never been held guilty of a wrong act in
the course of her entire life, or of having so much as
injured afiy. In childhood she had been the pet of
the household and of all who knew her, in blooming
youth the admiration of all. Her sweet and winning
beauty was only comparable with that of her lovely
sister, Marie. one year her senior, but whose form
and features were so similar that she might have
been her twin.

If Madeleine was guilty of this fearful crime, it was
the one and only wrong she had ever committed in
thought or in deed.

“Do you realize, my poor girl,” asked the abbe of
Madeleine one day, “what this sentence signifies
which has been pronounced against you ?”’

“Death, that is all,’ she replied, calmly, as she
looked into his face.

“True; and is not that awful—to be cut off from
life at your age ?”’

“T do not know,” she replied.
seem very attractive.”

‘Death is an awful reality, Madeleine.
do not sufficiently realize it.”

“Life and death, both are problems,” said the young
girl; ‘‘but we. are in the hands of God, I believe, all
the while.”

“True, very true,” said the abbe, regarding her in
surprise at the calm and thoughtful manner with
which she answered him.

“Do you feel prepared ?’ continued the abbe.

“T have tried to prepare my mind to meet whatever
Heaven may ¢all upon me to endure,” she replied, in
a tone so simple and touching as to draw tears from
the eyes of the good priest.

“This is not the language of the guilty,’ said he, to
himself. “If this child has done the terrible wrong
attributed to her, she must have been deranged, and
have committed the act when she was not in her nor-
mal condition.”

“T pray for you Madeleine, daily,” he said to her, as
he rose to go.

‘You are very good to me,” she replied, ‘‘the one
friend still left to me.”

een I could be of real service to you,” he said,
sadly.

“You have done your duty kindly, abbe,” she
answered, ‘‘that is all we can do in life; the conse-
quences we leave to God.”

He looked at her again in some surprise, at the
thoughtful and wise character of her remark coming
from lips so young and inexperienced. Then turned
thoughtfully away and left her in her stone cell.

The Abbe Barreau was more and more puzzled
about the young girl whom he had justleft. Im com-
mon with nine-tenths of the people of Gaillon, he
felt satisfied that her sister had lost her life at her
hands, for who else had the shadow of a motive for
such a crime ?

But yet Madeleine was so unlike any criminal
oe he had ever seen before, that he was mysti-

ed.

“Life does not to me

“JT fearyou

CHAPTER X.
THE DESERTER,

It was but a few days after the close of the trial of
Madeleine Guernic, that a stranger was seen in the
main street of Gaillon, who, with staff in hand, and
weary steps, was making his way over the road to
the outskirts of the village. He seemed quite ex-
hausted and foot-sore, but still he forced himself
along over the rough road, almost staggering with
"weakness.

Finally he was seen to sink to the ground ex-
hausted, and to lie unconscious upon the rough
earth.

Kind hands at once assisted him to the nearest
house, and wine and food were foreed upon him,
whieh, althoughin but a half conscious state, he de-
voured eagerly. His face was unshaven these many
days, and his clothes were in rags. He was too weak
for a long time to answer the questions addressed to
him, until finally he seemed as though coming out of
a trance.

He started up, looked about him, thanked. the hos-

 

Her neighbors one after another were called to
bear witness. The prosecution strove toshow that

pitable people who had given him food, and thus re-
freshed, he took his staff and plodded on once more

words he had spoken, as though he had shot her’

 

through the village toward and through that fatal
serove, in the direction of Farmer Meve’s house, which
at last he reached and entered.

It was Victor. ,

“Oh, my son,” said the loving mother, who knew
him in a moment through all his disguise, ‘“‘where do
you come from ?”

“From Algeria, mother.”

“Why, you had scarcely arrived there, my son.
What brings you back so quickly ?”

‘‘Answer me first.”

“What. Victor?”

“Has Madeleine’s trial taken place?”

““Yes, alas !”

‘You say, alas !””

“‘Vietor t”

“What is it, mother?’

“She is condemned to die.”

“Too late,’ said Victor, sinking back in his chair,
with a bitter sigh.

“You came to testify, Victor ?’

mm es.”

“What do you know ?’’

“Only that Madeleine is innocent.”

“Who, then, was the guilty one ?””

“That I know not.”

“Then your evidence would have been of no use in
her behalf,” said the mother, earnestly.

“But she could not have poisoned Marie.
impossible.” he réplied.

“So we all thought.”

“And she is convicted %”

“Yes, and sentenced.”

“Then [ have risked my life for nothing,” replied
her son, calmly.

“Risked your life ?””

AP?

“What do you mean, Victor.”

“Hush, mother, I deserted !”

“Oh, wy poor boy, what is to be done?”

“When [ heard of this charge against Madeleine, I
could not remain away. I could neither eat nor
sleep. I should havediied had I not tried atleast to
prove her innocence. Why, mother, the lives of those
two girls were like one. They never had a thought
butin common. For years [scarcely knew which I
loved best.”

“Ah, Victor, there was the trouble. Madeleine also
loved you, and when the day at last came that she
found she was to lose you, and Marie was to become
your bride, it proved too great a trial for her, and she
took thatfearfulstep, impelled by aburning jealousy.
All this has come out at the trial, and even Pere
Guernic, whom this accumulation of sorrows has
very nearly brought to his grave, bore evidence in a
pa sad and broken-hearted words to the well-known

act.”

“Pere Guernic!” said Victor, in the most undis-
guised surprise.

“Yes. It was wrungfrom him by the judges. He
could not help it.”’

“Ah, mother, I am weak and confused. I can
hardly understand all this.”

“You are indeed worn,out my poor boy. Sleep will
restore you. Come td yonr own little cot bedstead,
and let me bathe your feet.”

“T have eome a weary way,’ he answered, yielding
himself to his loving nurse.

“Were you seen in the village ?”’

“Yes, but not recognized,” he answered.

“Alas, Victor, you are a deserter !”’

“T aim.”

“And the penalty is——” ©

“Death !” he answered, wearily.

A shudder ran through the delicate frame of his
mother at the terrible word, but this was no time for
talking ; she saw her son ready to faint with fatigue.
A little gruel prepared with wine was quickly got
ready, and after partaking of the reviving potion,
Victor lay down upon the little cot bedstead of his
boyhood, and tired nature asserted her necessity.
He sleptlong and quietly.

We may briefly explain the presence of Victor
Mebe to the reader.

He had heard, far away where his regiment was
stationed, of the charge brought against Madeleine,
and, as he had told his mother, he could neither eat
nor sleep until he had started to bear evidence as to
her innocence. It was the prompting of a true and
tender heart, not the cool argument dictated by wis-
dom, that had influenced him; for he in reality had
no evidence of a decisive character to give in the
ease. In his own soul he felt so sure of her inno-
cence that he longed to say so in her behalf.

Yet it would anrount to nothing under the circum-
stances.

It was doubtful even if the case could legally be
opened again upon so simple a plea, especially as
Victor must acknowledge that he had no important
fact to substantiate his individual opinion. Then,
again, how came he here, away from his regiment?
That would be the first question asked by the author-
ities when he was announced.

Poor Victor! You have run a terrible risk, and all
to no good purpose. There*was war in Alferia, and
you deserted in the face of the enemy!

. ae penalty for desertion among all nations is
eath ! ;

No fear could have made Victor Mebe desert his

colors: He was brave as steel, but tenderness for
the sister of*Marie and a sense of justice were too
strong for him, and, disgujsjug himself, he started
for home. ‘ :
*¥ The family of Mebe thox good Abbe Barreau into
their confidence as to the return of Victor, but what
could the good priest do? He saw fresh trouble ac-
cumulating about the sad affair of Madeleine. It
was beyond his ability to advise in the case—he was
quite confounded.

Victor was determined to see the prisoner. He
eould not rest content until he had done so at any
and allrisk. This he begged the abbe to arrange for
him. He must let Madeleine know that he believed
her innocent, he must tell her so himself. He plead-
ed so earnestly with the good priest that he finally
succeeded, and a private and secret arrangement
was somehow effected so that he could be introduced
into her cell at night for a few moments.

It isnot known exactly how this was accomplished,
thoughitis said the abbe made it a personal matter
with the jailer, promising to be responsible for all
blame should it. ever be known, and also agreeing to
keep ita profound secret. To the cell of a condemned
criminal the priest alone could be legally admitted,
but the influence of the abbe with the jailer suc-
ceeded.

Victor entered that cold, damp ceil unannounced,
and stood for one moment gazing at the young girl,
who was now chained in the farther part of the
vault-like room. It was for one moment only, then
both recognized each other. Madeleine could not
move from the spot where she stood, but she instinc-
yey opened her arms, and Victor clasped her to his

osom.

“Madeleine!”

“Victor !" ‘

The young soldier could not speak more; his voice
was choked with tears, but Madeleine was calm
again instantly. No tear had ever relieved her ach-
ing bosom since that awful morning when Marie was
found dead in her bed. *

“Oh, Madeleine, I could not stay away while you
were 80 situated!’’ he said.

“You were always good, Victor.”

“And so I came, hoping to bear testimony in your
favor.”

“Tt would have accomplished nothing,” she replied.
“Heaven orders it otherwise.”’

“Now that Marie is gone, oh, Madeleine, I have
only you left,’’ he said, peeing y. as he pressed her
hand to his breast an looked into her soft blue
eyes.

Hush, Vietor!” she said, gently, while there
flashed across her face just the faintest blush; ‘‘we
could never have been aught but friends.”

He dropped her hand as though he felt that he had
been deservedly rebuked. His feelings were beyond
his control, while there was a marvelous calmness
and a serene beauty which hung like a halo over and
about the form and features of Madeleine Guernic.
Her calimness was inexplicable. Whence came this
wonderful strength, this sustaining force, to that
young girl, who had never before known a serious
trial in her whole life?

This was the question which puzzled the good
Abbe Barreau.

Victor sat down upon the stone bench by the pris-
oner's side, and they talked long and kindly together,
like brother and sister who had sustained a common
sorrow. Madeleine, as it regarded herself, was per-
fectly reconciled to her fate, but she thanked Victor
from her very heart for the brief ray of sunshine his
presence had brought to her.

At last the jailer came. He dared not leave them
longer together. He had transgressed all prison
rules in what he had already done, as he told Victor,
but the Abbe Barreau had overpersuaded him, he
said,

One more tender embrace. The kiss between them
lingered on the lips. Each felt that they were part-
ing never to meet again on this side of the grave.

“Oh, Madeleine! dear Madeleine!” said the soldier ;
“farewell !”

“Farewell, Victor, forever !”

Tt was forever. Those two loving souls were never
to see each other again upon earth.

Victor returned secretly to his home—very secretly,
for if the intelligence of his desertion from his regi-
ment had not already reached France, and orders
issued for his arfest, it must soon occur. There was
but one way open to him, and that was to make his
way to Havre and ship for some foreign country,
This his father and mother both urged upon him, but
he seemed greatly changed ever since his briet inter-
view with Madeleine. He cared not whether he were
to be arrested or not; he had lost all interest in his
own fate.

“Ah, mother,” he said, “you should see that poor
girl chained in prison. Calm, self-possessed, not one
word of complaint, it seemed to me almost as though
T could see a crown of heavenly glory hovering over
her head. Oh, Marie and Madeleine, I care not how
soon I am sent to join you,”

Madame Mebe told her husband that night that she
did not think Victor was quite himself. She did not
think his brain had been entirely right since the fear-
ful fever through which he had passed. She did not
know but he would make away with himself, he was

It was

 

in such a singular mental condition since he came
10l1e.

But the series of catastrophies which had charac-
terized the last twelve months in Gaillon were yet
to be augmented by the sacrifice of another victim,
and on the following day Victor Mebe was arrested
as a deserter.

Military law is peremptory. There was no delay. A
file of soldiers appeared, he was taken without a
word of warning, ahd conducted at once to the bar-
racks at Rouen. Of course. resistance would have
been unavailing, and was not to be thought of for a
single moment, so Victor gave himself up quietly,
= ‘hoi it was what he had anticipated all the
while.

Now it became his turn to exhibit calm purpose
and stern resolve.

He had said to his mother that he cared not how
soon he was sent to join Marie and Madeleine in an-
other world. He. meant exactly what he had said,
and he was astonished now, since he had soresolved, 4
how easily it was to face his coming fate. Life had
no further charm for him, then why fear death ?

“What an awful year of crime and punishment
this has been,” said Abbe Barreau to his associate in
the chapel. “To say nothing of petty thefts and
smaller crimes, there were the mail robberies twice,
the bank robbery, the murders of Le Moine and the
sailor Froude, the poisoning of Marie Guernic, the
sentence of her sister Madeleine, and now young Vic-
tor Mebe will surely be shot-for deserting from his
regiment in Algeria.”

“A terrible record, indeed,” was the reply.

“All within a twelvemonth,” said the abbe, “ and
in this sparse population.”

A court-martial is unlike the trials in civil courts.

Victor's case was hastened forward. Desertions
had been frequent of late, and when the officials se-
cured a deserter he was sacrificed promptly for the
benefit of the example upon his former eomrades.
An attempt was made by Farmer Mebe to show that
his son had not been in his right mind, and that when
he was recruited he was just off from a bed where he
had lain for weeks ina semi-unconscious state with
brain fever. But the same argument had often been
resorted to before, as the judge advocate said.

As regarded Victor himself, he appeared on his
brief trial much like Madeleine upon hers. He offered
no defense whatever. He was ready to die—too
ready. In spite of the hardships which he had lately
undergone, and the severe strain upon his mind as
well as body, he was still in fine. physical condition,
and of marked manly beauty. He stood up to receive
his sentence withont a shudder, calm and quiet, and
challenged the whispered admiration of the very of-
ficers who condemned him.

He was condemned to the usual fate of 4 deserter,
and wasto be shot by a file of soldiers on the day
eae mene that upon which his brief trial had been

1eld.

There was no appeal from this. The sentence and
finding of the court martial was final.

We will not dwell upon the distress of Farmer
Mebe and of his poor, agonized wife—it would be
painfnl and useless to do so. The good abbe,who was
called upon to share everybody’s sorrows and trials,
did. allin his power to alleviate the dreadful blow,
butits force was terrible to those parents. Victor was
their only child!

A file of twelve men was detailed, their guns were
loaded for them, and they were told that one musket
was Without ball, so that each one might hope that
his was not the hand that slew a fellow-soldier. They
were bidden to all aim at the heart, in order that
ss ella on the part of the condemned might be

rief.

Victor was led out upon the parade-ground and
placed thirty paces from the men who were to fire
upon him. His arms were tied, his eyes bandaged.
The sergeant led him to his place and left him there.
In a moment, by the exertion of his full strength, he
burst the bonds upon his arms, and tore the bandage
from his eyes.

Then opening the breast of his vest and baring his
chest, he said, calmly:

“Straight at my heart, comrades, fire !””

The men had already taken aim, and without wait-
ing for the word of their officer, they took the com-
mand from the brave victim himself.

In the next instant Victor Mebe was no more!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Another Womans Hushand

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

(“ANOTHER WOMAN’S HUSBAND” was commenced in No,
47, Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

CHAPTER XXXII. \ pat
UNTANGLING THE SNARL.

In the straits in which he had found Lady March-
mont, Ralph had considered that his first duty to
Edith lay in doing all he could for Evelyn. He had
therefore put all thought of Edith’s husband out of
his head for the first few hours, and had devoted
himself to Evelyn alone.

After that the march of events was so rapid, the
hours so few between the discovery of the murder
and the discovery of the whereabouts of Hugh, that
he was enabled to turn his mind to Edith’s affairs
without slighting Evelyn’s. It was by the assistance
of Mr. Simmons that he had been able to procure the
order for Evelyn to see her husband, and he had ar-
ranged for another interview with the busy lawyer,
to take place after he had done all he could for Lady
Marchmont.

Tfit had not been for the questions of the lawyer
at the first interview, he would not have thought of
taking him into his confidence at all; but since he
had already revealed to him so much of Edith’s af-
fairs it seemed very little to tell him all, and obtain

his advice on his future action. The second inter-
view, then, was in his own, orrather in Edith’s in-

terests.
A criminal lawyer would have seemed to him, a

few hours before, a singular adviser to him in such
circumstances; but he had learned, during his short
intercourse with Mr. Simmons, that his familiarity
with criminals and their methods was such that he
seemed to be able to comprehend the secret springs
of their actions. The fact had been suggested by his
statement that this case of Hugh’s was more difficult
of comprehension than if it had been that of an
habitual criminal, for the reason that there could be
no regular method of reasoning to follow; whereas,
with the habitual criminal, the process of thought
was certain to be on well defined lines.

And afterward he had said many things to show
how well acquainted he was, not merely with indi-
vidual criminals—for in that sort of acquaintance he
was probably in advance of any of the police—but
with their methods; so that he could almost point
out the criminal by the manner in which a murder
or arobbery had been committed.

At another time all this would have interested
Ralph as much as it did the lawyer himself; but
now he only listened, and applied everything to his
own needs, and so decided at last to take his troubles
to the great lawyer. Hence the interview. He had
told the lawyer that he wished to consult him on his
own affairs, and Mr. Simmons had fixed the time for
it, so that Ralph was admitted at once to see him.

“T hardly expected you on time,” said Mr. Sim-
mons, looking up from some papers spread out be-
fore him.

“Why not?’ demanded Ralph.

“Why.” answered Mr. Simmons, still dallying with
one of the documents, ‘‘you gentlemen of title and
fortune are not usually remarkable for punctuality.
I think your motto generally is that ‘time was
made for slaves,’ is it not?”

Ralph smiled.

“Title and fortune have not been mine long
enough to bring me to that yet,” he answered.

“Oh,” said the lawyer, looking at him curiously,
“not in the direct line, eh ?”

“Direct enough as to title,’ answered Ralph, “but
somewhat indirect as to fortune. My fortune de-
pended upon the marriage of the late Lord Glenden-
non’s widow.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Simmons, putting down the docu-
ment he had held in his hand, and sweeping the
others into a heap at one side, so that there should
be nothing to distract his attention from Ralph’s
story, which he fancied was going to be of interest.

“Oh,” said Ralph, noticing this sign of interest,
“that has very little to do with what I wish to ask
your advice about.”

“We never know what one thing has to do with
another,” said the lawyer, sententiously.

“Perhaps,” answered Ralph. “You will remem-
ber, possibly, what I told you about Lady Glenden-
non.’

“Married to an impostor called Prince Radislas—
loved by you,”

Ralph flushed, but assented.

“Yes. What I wish of you is advice as to the best
way to go about annulling the marriage.”

“Why my advice? [am acriminal lawyer. Why
not go to your regular solicitor ?”’

“The impostor is a criminal.”

“Ah! this is interesting. A criminal!
you know about him ?”’

“Very little. I teld you briefly that it was partly
through the machinations of Lady 'sohel Grantham
that the imposition was made possible.”

What do

 

: “Yes. Now tell me all you know about the mat-
er.”?

Ralph did as he was bidden, and presently the
lawyer was in possession of all the knowledge he
had, and perhaps more. He cogitated a few mo-
ments.

“I don’t know the man from your description,” he
said, finally, “and Lam inclined to believe that he is
safe from our laws. But he is evidently a very shady
character on the Continent, and a great deal may be
learned from a perusal of the pages of his book of
life. What you want, first of all, is his history. That
will be the key to the whole situation?’

“That will be difficult to get,” said Ralph.

“No; I think that will be very easy to get. You
say the manisa gambler, and that you saw him on
the verge of breaking the bank at Monaco ?”’

8

‘

“Then I'll bet a pound to a penny, and take your
penny nov, that the scamp is by this time trying his
infallible combination. Oh, I know such fellows.
Why, I have one client, the most expert and careful
forger in this eountry—these documents you see
here are in a case of his—who never takes a ghost of
a chance in his business—tha’s forging—but who
has implicit faith in his chances at gambling. It’s a
mania with him, and he no sooner gains a stake by a
clever forgery than he tests his always unlucky luck
with it. Yes, sir, our manis at it at. this minute.”

: $f oan see that. But does it help me to his his-
ory ?””

“Oh, that is the easiest part; only you must have
nothing to do with it. I will send you to a detective,
with a memorandum I will make. He will ask you
all that is necessary—mainly how mueh you will pay
for the service, which he will pretend to be a difficult
one—and then will take the boat for Calais, have a
good time in Paris at your expense for a couple of
weeks, and come back with all you wish to know.”

“Certainly that will not be difficult to do. ButI
Se how the knowledge will come to

1im.

“He stands in with the Paris detectives, my dear
sir. He will give one of them a share of his. profits—
a very small share—and the work will be better done
than he could do it. Oh, they keep track of their
rascals on the Continent. I don’t doubt that the
history is all written out now, ready tor use.”

“Then I can do nothing until the history comes ?”’
said Ralph.

“Oh, youcould do a great deal, but it would be
useless, unless you are willing to take all Great
Britain into your confidence. and ask for a divorce
for the lady. You could get it without any trouble,
under the circumstances.”

“That should be the last resource.”

“Sothink. You see Lady Glendennon is to-day
the famous beauty ; start your suit for divorce, and
not only Great Britain will know it; but every little
Yankee paper will have her picture and story, with
more details than you or I could together dream of.
No doubt the whole of her world knows that she has
been tricked into a marriage with an impostor. Your
class feeds on that sort of thing more greedily than
the commoners do, my lord, with all due respect. No,
keep your divorce for the last. You don’t know
what may develop out of his story to give a turn to
your plans.”’

“You anticipate something. Will you tell me what
itis?’ asked Ralph.

“Yes, but don’t build any hopes onit, Itis only a
chance.”

“T will be reasonable.”

“In my experience of criminals who are also
gamblers, I have found, almost without exception,
that they are more. susceptible to female influence
than any other class.. There is your man. I never
saw him, and you have given a very imperfect
description of him; but I will wager that T can
describe certain features of his as well as if I had
him beforeme. Listen! He has a nose with ever so
slight a hook in it, but a hook, nevertheless.”

“Yes, thatis true. A handsome nose, but with a
hook.”

“His mouth may be ugly or handsome, but in either
case the upper lip is short and the lower lip is very
full—what is usually called a sensual lip.”

“Yes, itis a very handsome mouth, but as you
say.

“His chin is full, rather square, and with a deep
dimple or cleft in it.”

“You are right.”

“Oh, of course, I must be right. Don’t you see he
is a bird of prey, witness his nose! He is sensual;
witness his mouth! Heis affectionate; witness his
chin! With his mouth and chin, he is certain to have
endless intrigues, and his code of morals being easy,
he would not,find a few marriages, more or leas, any
bar to his success. Suppose, then, that he has already
a wife living.”

“Ah, if that might be,” cried Ralph.

‘Don’t expect too much, my lord. Only speak of
that point to the detective. Here is his address, and
here is the memorandum,” and he wrote as he spoke.
“T would like to know the size of his neck and the
shape of his head behind his ears. I could make a
guess by them whether he is cruel or not. If he is,
you see it will be ten to one his wife will be so de-
voted to him that she will not do a thing against
him. Singular how the women love the men who
abuse them !”

“Women of that class,” said Ralph. j ;
“Any class,” said the laywer; ‘but there! T am
taking your valuable time with my disquisitions. If
you will go at once you are sure to find the detective
in. Come tome whenever you have anything to say.
Tam deeply interested in both cases,” and before
Ralph could get out of the room he was deep in his

forgery case.

Ralph found the detective willing to take the case,
and, as Mr. Simmons had intimated, disposed to
make the most of it; but Ralph did not show by any
word that the lawyer had cast any doubts on the
difficulty of the task, and agreed to the. man’s terms
so readily that the latter was ever afterward sorry
that he had not asked more.

After that Ralph wrote to Edith an account of what
had happened, smoothing over the affair of the mur-
der as much as he could, and using a more hopeful
tone altogether than he thought the facts justified.
Then in a few days an answer came from Edith, and
he could see that she’ was terribly distressed, and
castdown, Butit was aletter from her, and he read
it a@ great many times. It was the beginning of a
long correspondence between them. He might in-
deed have found the time to run up to the castle;
but he believed that it would be better not to see
Edith until he had heard from the detective.

At first it was plain that Edith was moping and
nursing her unhappiness; but one day she wrote that
she had been over to see the people in the hamlet he
had spoken to her about; and ‘after that she wrote
every day about them, and it was not long before
she waS as full of his humanitarian projects as he
wasshimself. And there was evidently some happi-
ness to be found in her labors; for her letters be-
came more cheerful.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
A SCENE IN COURT.

“Great Eeaven, madam! what have you done?”
whispered Mr. Simmons to Evelyn.

“Cleared my husband,” she replied, defiantly.
knew he did not do it.”

“Cleared him, yes,’ he groaned; “but at what
cost ?”’

“The cost is nothing.” she answered.

“Tell me,” he whispered, ‘“‘on your honor, were you
the visitor ?”

“Suppose I was, what of it ?”

“You will be charged with the murder.”’

“So I fancied,” she coolly answered. ‘Suppose I
was not the visitor ?”’

“Then we must show that you were not.”

“Suppose 1 can’t doit, will my husband still bein
peril?”

“Your husband will be out of peril the moment we
make it clear that he could not have committed the
murder. If the body really was cold when the man
reached it, your husband must be guiltless. Now
tell ne, were you the visitor ?”’

‘Let me see my husband cleared first.
your breath until then.”

“Whata woman!” he said, under his breath, and
turned from the rapid conversation to see what the
opposing counsel was about to do.

That gentleman was on his feet, suffering a greater
agitation than he wotild permit himself to show, and
was about to address the court. Mr. Simmons enjoyed
the situation as alawyer should. He knew that the
opposing counsel was in a serious dilemma. He
dared not discredit his own witness, as Parker was,
and yet to let the testimony go was to let the prisoner
escape, and he would not let that happen in the face
of the clearest evidence of his innocence,if he could
preventit. Itseems always to be a point of honor
with the prosecuting lawyer to convict, regardless of
guilt or innocence. 2

‘“‘My lord,” said the counsel, “I submit that the
evidence is not expert.”

“As to what, may Lask my learned friend ?” said
Mr. Simmons, with a smile that was gall and worm-
wood to the ‘learned friend.”

“As to the time the man had been dead,” was the
answer.

“Tf it please your lordship,” said Mr. Simmons,
“the witness is Pca [ suppose, on the subject
of cold and heat. There has been no question raised
by me as to the length of time of the victim’s death.
My learned brother has raised it, however, and I sup-
pose is eqnal to laying it. The witness has testified
that the body was cold, If my learned friend wishes,
he may call «a physician to testify as to how long
after death it is before a body becomes cold.”

“T need no instruction in my privileges,” snapped
the opposing counsel. .

*T ask your pardon for the trespass,” said Mr.
Simmons, blandly. ‘I saw you were in trouble over
this little matter, and desired to help you.”

The opposing counsel glared at his helpful friend,
and roared at the witness:

“You may go.”

“Yes, you may go,” said Mr. Simmons. “T think you
have done very well, indeed. My lord,’ he said,
growing suddenly very serious, which had a fine
effect after the flippant sarcasms he had been dealing
out to his learned friend, ‘I think that ‘in view of the

“Ty

You waste

i testimony of the witness for the prosecution, there

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 46—No. 10,

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

d

 

- ¥s. sufficient ground for quashing the indictment and j
. dismissing the case.” i
- The cownsel for the prosecution gave vent to an
unmelodious but expressive snort.
“7 think your lordship wiil need no argument on
that,”” he cried. . :

“Let the case proceed,” said his lordship, who

wasted as few words as possible. “Are there any
“more witnesses for the prosecution ?”

‘No more.” :

There had meanwhile been a hasty conversation
between Simmons and Ralph.

“Ralph Darnley, Marquis of Glendennon, will be
our first witness,” said Mr. Simmons.

Ralph was sworn.

“Where were you on the night of the murder, and
with whom?” asked Mr. Simmons.

“— was at Darnley Castle, and Lord “Marchmont
was with me, among others.” ;

“At what time of the night was this, Lord Glen-
dennon ?” inquired his lordship.

“f was in company with Lord Marchmont until
nearly ten o’clock.”

“You are sure of the time ?” 3 ‘ i

“Certain. There were many things to impress: it
onme. One particularly—that Lord Marchmont left
me to eatch the ten o’clock train.”

“Proceed, Mr. Simmons,” said the judge, in such a
benign tone that everybody was pretty well satisfied
of what his opinion was.

“My lord,” said. Mr. Simmons, with that cheerful
good nature which belongs to assured success “you
have traveled on the express between London and
Darnley ?”

“Many times.” ‘

“How long does it occupy in the passage ?”

“A little less than two hours.”

“So that any one leaving Darnley at ten o’clock at
night would reach London when ?” ¢

“Shortly before midnight.” f

“Do you know where the deceased lived?”

“Yes.”

“How long would it take to go from the station to
his apartments ?”’ > -

“Twenty minutes. perhaps, walking; from ten to
fifteen, riding in a hired vehicle.”

“You don’t think much of our cab system, it seeins,
my lord,” said Mr. Simmons, facetiously. ‘

Ralph was not expected to answer that, and did
not.

“Will you name some of those who were at Darn-
ley Castle and saw Lord Marchmont there ?”’

Ralph named the Duchess of Arlington and some
others that he remembered. é

“That will do, my lord,” said Mr. Simmons.

“Do you mean to pose for an expert in walkin
and cab driving?’ demanded the opposing counse
as savagely as if he intended the next moment to
strike the witness. d

**No,”’ was Ralph’s calm answer.

“Then what do you mean by testifying that it
would take such a time to walk and such another
time to ride?’ :

“~f was asked the question, and answered to the
best of my judgment,” was the calm answer.

“T suppose, your lordship,” said Mr. Simmons, ad-
dressing the court, “that it may be admitted that
any wan can form a judgment of that sort on the
basis of distance and the legal rate for cabs to go
at.”

“Proceed, proceed,” said the judge, as if the ques-
tion was not worthy of consideration. ‘Are there
any more questions ?” : }

“What were you and the prisoner doing at Darnley
Castle?’ demanded the opposing counsel, wrath-
fully.

hachoviet and immaterial, your lordship,’ ex-
claimed Mr. Simmons. ‘I object on those grounds.
Do not answer the question.” he added to Ralph.

“The witness need not answer,” said the judge.

“That is all,” said the opposing counsel. 5

During this while Evelyn had been searching the
ecourt-room. Nowshe leaned over and whispered to
Mr. Simmons: :

“Will you have a physician to testify as to the cold-
ness ?”

“We must have a good one,” he answered. “I have
sent for one; but hé may not come, and we may have
to adjourn.”
m<“Mr. Denton, the house surgeon at the hospital, is
in court. Why not ask him ?”’ ’

“My lord,” said Mr. Simmons, addressing the
judge, “I wish a physician to testify. Any reputable

yhysician will do. The gentleman I have subpoenaed

as not arrived in court yet, and I would ask for a
summons for Mr. Denton, of St. Paul’s Hospital. He
is present in court.” AG

he necessary formalities were disposed of, and
Mr. Denton presently stood in the dock and testified
to his profession. f

“Mr. Denton,” said Mr. Simmons, in his pleasant-
est manner—the one he always used with his own
witnesses—“‘is there any fixed time for the disap-

arance of warmth from the human body after

eath has ensued ?”’

tN ee

“The time varies, then?”

“Somewhat. It would hardly be less than two
hours. I suppose that is what you desire to know.”

“Will the witness,” roared the opposing counsel,
“eonfine himself to simple answers?” :

“Tf it please your lordship,” interposed Mr. Sim-
mons, with his bland smile, “let the learned coun-
sel look to his own witnesses for simple answers.
I prefer intelligent answers from my witnesses.”

he judge deigned to smile briefly at this, but did
not answer.

“You say, then,” said Mr. Simmons to the witness,
“that a body could not grow cold in less than two
hours ?”

‘Not in. this climate.” ;

“Thank you, Mr. Denton, for your intelligent an-
swers to my simple questions. I will hand you over
to my learned brother now for cross-examination.
The witness is yours.” ¢

The learned counsel girded up his loins, metaphor-
ically speaking, and endeavored to break down the
evidence of the physician, but without avail. The
most that he could do was to make him admit that
he was friendly toward the prisoner, and the force of
that admission the astute Mr. Simmons broke by say-
ing for the ears of the jury:

“Priendliness toward innocence seems very offen-
sive to my learned friend.” ;

“Any more witnesses?’ demanded the judge, per-
or a ’

“Not on this side, if it please your lordship,”
said Mr. Simmons; “but my iearned friend of the op-
posing side subpoenaed the physician who was first
calied to the deceased after the discovery of his
death, and I notice that the gentleman is present.
Perhaps my learned friend has forgotten him.”

“J think you will find,” snarled the opposing coun-
sel, “that IT have thought of some things that will
surprise you. I will not call the witness, your lord-
ship.”

hiee was no one there stupid enough not to see
thatit the failure to call the one man who could testify
expertly as to the condition of the body when found
was equal to a confession of failure on the part of
the counsel. The feeling had been growing that the
case was lost, and no one was surprised to hear the
judge say:

“Gentlemen of the jury, you have heard the evi-
dence in the case. It has assumed such a shape now
that is needless for you to hear the arguments of the
eounsel. I have to instruct you to bring in a verdict
of not guilty. It isthe only one possible under the
circumstances.”

Evelyn had expected nothing else than a favorable
verdict; but she had feared a prolongation of the
agony of doubt, and at the words of the judge she al-
most lost her self-control. A murmurran through
the court, too, and there would have been applause
had not the judge looked sternly around in time to
check it. 4 :

The jury, doubtful before of their proper course,
but certain of their verdict, lost no time in delibera-
tion, but, with a glance at the foreman, showed their
acquiescence in the judgment of the court. Though,
indeed, there was but one course open to them. Then
the foreman rose up and delivered his verdict, and
the judge made the formal announcement of the dis-
wmissal of the prisoner.

But Evelyn had not waited for that. She had al-
ready run to the side of Hugh, and had caught his
hard and whispered : :

“T knew you had not done it, my darling. Oh,
Heaven be thanked !”

He took her hand and fondled it, but there was a
strangeness in his expression—a singular pathos in
his tired eyes. f

“Oh, my darling, my darling !” he faltered.

She understood him.

“Do not fear for me, I am innocent.”

“You did not go there?’ he pe bate ie eagerly.

“How could you believe it, dear?”

“T did not believe evil,” he answered. ‘Hush!
What are they saying ?”

It was the prosecuting lawyer who was demanding
the attention of the judge.

“My lord, my lord!’

“Silence! I will have the court cleared if this un-
seemly noise is not hushed,” exclaimed the judge.

There was instant silence, imposed as much by the
dramatic manner of the counsel as by the words of
the judge. ’

“My lord,” said the counsel, “I ask for a warrant of
arrest, on the strength of the evidence given here. to-
day, against Lady Marchmont, on the charge of the
murder of Herbert, Lord Grassmere, I told you, sir,”
addressing Mr. Simmons, malignantly, “that I had
thought of some things that would surprise you.”

“Tt would have ore mé more,” retorted Mr.
Simmons, “if you had not made the blunder of doing
this. My lord, I protest against the issue of such a
warrant. The enly evidence that connects Lady
Marechmont with this affair is that of the man Parker.
He is still here. Let him make a deposition to your
lordship bearing on this point, and you will see how
poor a foundation’ there is for the slightest sus-

icion.”’

Reet the man depose!” said the sententious judge
and Parker, all trembling at the turn matters ha
taken, was brought before his lordship.

“Can you not prove where you were that night?”
demanded Mr. Simmons in a whisper of Evelyn.

“No,” she answered.

 

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

—————

———=—

KING CHRISTMAS.

BY T. H. 8.

A jolly old King is the Christmas King!
A right good friend is he.

He calls for mirth, he calls for fun,
And he brings his Christmas-tree.

Its branches are laden with treasures rare,
For he has ransacked earth and sea;

There’s nothing about that can compare

With the good King’s Christmas-tree.

With sweet surprise he gladdens the eyes
Of the young and old alike,

Ané friends and foes forget their woes
And much of their mutual dislike.

’Tis a season good when a kind word should
Put an end to the bitter past.

We can all shake hands and in many bands
Become firm friends at last. :

For who can withstand the generous hand
Of King Christmas at such a time?

He has smiles for us all, both great and small,
Anda present from every clime.

Then, here’s to the King, the Christmas King,
And long may his sovereignty last,

With peace and good will o’er the nations still,
When monarchy’s gone and past. »

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

BEAUTIFUL ALDINE:

SHACKLES OF GOLD.

By JULIA EDWARDS,

Author of “Beautiful, But Poor,” “Prettiest of
All,” “The Little Widow,” Etc.

(“BEAUTIFUL ALDINE” was commenced in No. 4. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XXI.
THE PACKAGE LEFT BY THE DETECTIVE.

A sharp report followed the words spoken by
Frank Champe, then a yell of agony, and ‘a shrill,
despairing cry. for little Beppo turned when he
heard the shot and saw his father fall headlong to
the earth.

Raving like a young tiger. the boy ran back to his
wounded father, and while scalding tears ran down
his dark cheeks he fought those off who came up to
seize the struggling man.

Father and son were soon lifted into the same
carriage, into which two officers accompanied them,
and then the entire party was hurried off to the
court-room. j

There two police surgeons examined the wound of
Giorno, and pronounced it very serious, if not fatal.
If internal hemorrhage set in there was no chance
for him.

The Justice, however, was ready for the examina-

tion, and glad to have such a ease of celebrity before
him, proposed to go on at once and take what proof
was to be had, so as to commit the party to prison.

The watelhman, with bandaged head, was barely
able to give his evidence; the other proofs found on
the schooner, showing that the abducted lady had
been there, were offered and accepted, and. the at-
tempted escape of the principal criminal added to
the weight of the charge.

The magistrate did not hesitate in committing the
whole crew.

And by request of Mr. Broke, backed by that
of the baronet, be ordered all the prisoners put in
separate cells, even keeping the father and son
apart, though the boy pleaded pitifully to be left
with his parent.

“Tf any of the prisoners weaken and show a desire
to confess, send for me at once.” said Mr. Broke,
giving his card to the warden. ‘I speak their lan-
guage, and if convinced that it will go less hard with
them, some of them may let light in upon the mys-
tery and name the hiding-place where they concealed
the lady.”

The party of Sir Brayton, now relieved from im-
mediate action, started up town, for Inspector
Byrnes had promised to send searching parties up
both banks of the river to look for the lady or find
some trace of her, and they could dono more than
wait and hope.

On Broadway, near Bond street, Sir Brayton was
astonished to hear his name called out by the voice
of a female, and to see the latter struggling to force
herself from a man whom he: instantly recognized as
Smoueh, Nottingham’s raseally valet.

“Let the woman go, you scoundrel!” cried the
baronet.. “Why, it is litthe Emma, my butler’s
daughter !”

“Yes, sir; itis I; and he wouldn’t let me speak to
you, when my heart is almost breaking about my
poor old father, whom T left because of his persua-
sion. And he and that wretch of a professor have
all of father’s money, and they want to set up a tav-
ern withit. Oh, dear! to think I should have run
away trom so good a father and be married to a
good-for-nothing robber!”

“It isn’t me, sir—it isn’t me as has got the money,”
whined Smouch. ‘It’s him, the professor.”

“Both of you come with me,’ said the baronet.
“Come to my brother’s rooms, and we will talk this
matter over. Smouch, if you can be honest and
truthful for once, it will be better for you, and better
for this poor unhappy little woman whom you have
coaxed away from a happy home. If IT can punish
that double-dyed villain, Nottingham, as he deserves,
I am willing, for poor Emuia’s sake, to be lenient
with you.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. I'll tell all I know—indeed I
will.’

“Then follow us to our rooms, and we will see what
can be done.”

Leaving Sir Brayton De Lancey to deal with
Smouch and his grieving wife, Mr. Broke went up to
Police Headquarters, with his new-found and useful
young friend, Frank Champe, to hear reports, if any
came, from the searching parties sent out.

At the officé they found Inspector Byrnes strangely
excited over a new revelation in criminal mystery.

A private detective, the right-hand man in the of-
fice of one Gabe Grinder, who had long been sus-
er of doing a good deal of very “crooked” work.

ad come to the central office to report his employer
as missing, without having given notice to him, and
he feared he had been put out of the way by some
of the criminals with whom he had been dealing.

The wife of Grinder was almost crazed with anxi-
ety, and had advised an application at Police Head-
quarters at once for help to discover her husband,
living or dead.

“There was a sealed package on his desk, not di-
rected, which I have brought along,” said Grinder’s
man.

“We'll open it, and see if it gives any clew,” said
Inspector Byrnes.

Breaking the seal, he read the contents of the pa-
per, and his face flushed darkly as he did so.

“Quick!” he said, turning to one of his best men--
asergeant. ‘Order out a squad of ten of your best
men. Go yourself—well-armed, all of you-—to the
spot named in this paper, aud arrest the men who
robbed and murderec or Drumont the osher day.
Most likely you will find the body of Gabe Grinder in
the vitinity, for it appears, when he left this paper,
that he mistrusted them, and feared they might kill
him; for he knew all about this crime, and others
that are down there.”

The sergeant glanced over the paper for his direc-
tiors, and at once hurried his preparations for the
risky expedition. He well knew that criminals of
their desperate character were not likely to be cap-
tured without a struggle.

Little did young Champe, the Bowery boy, know
how much his quick shot in front of the Academy of
Music had to do with the disappearance of Gabe
Grinder, or that his second shot had prevented the
Italian from giving these very ruffians a knowledge
that might have induced them to change their quar-
ters, since Gabe Grinder was unable to watch over
their safety.

“Tt seems wonderful, yet by just such chances,
rather than by any direct clew, do we reach and de-
tect half the mysterious murders that occur,” sald
Inspector Byrnes, after the squad had left on their
mission. “And if this Grinder is killed, I shall be
convinced that it is but a just retribution for his own
share in the matter, since he hints that he is gone to
the hiding-place of these men to collect a large share
of the money, In official parlance, I believe he ‘pnt
up the job,’ and knew all aboutit. And if he has
been put out of the way, it was because he wanted
more swag than they were willing to give him, and
gotugly about it.”

CHAPTER XXII.
A FLERCE FIGHT.

One of the police surgeons, by direction of the
captain, went home with Nathan Gripe in his ear-
riage from the Academy of Music.

 

After being carried in the old man appeated worse,
and the surgeon had him put to bed, and sent for his
regular physician.

Examination proved that several ribs had been
broken, and, pressing inward, produced terrible
agony. This, coupled with the old man’s age and
naturally feeble condition, brought on delirium, and
he raved so wildly about a woman that the surgeon
discovered potits that he deemed his captain should
be informed of. So he sent for the latter, on pre-
tense that the old gentleman's condition was such
ee his deposition as to the assault ought to be
taken. :

The captain did not hesitate, since he hoped to find
a clew to the abduction; but he put on citizen’s
clothes, so as not’to excite or terrify the old man by
a sight of his uniform.

“T’ve got her! she is mine—mine forever! bound to
me with shackles of gold—with shackles of gold!”
he screamed, in his delirium.

“Got who, Mr. Gripe?’ asked the captain, gently.

“The prettiest girl in all the world—blue eyes,
golden hair, rosy lips! Ah, ha! She is mine—mine, I
say! Gabe Grinder, you ras¢al, no fooling now! The
money is ready; I will pay you cash down! Sheis
mine—mine, Isay! Will I marry her? Yes; she is
niece to a baronet. I will marry her, and she shall
shine in diamonds and satin, pearls, rubies, and
silks! Ha, ha! who conquers now? She is mine—
bose to me with shackles of gold—shackles of
gold!”

‘‘Where is your pretty bird? I’d like to see if she
is as pretty as you say!” said the captain.

“You'd like to know, wouldn’t you? Wait till the
knotis tied! I and Gabe Grinder will fix that! Ha,
ha! We can cover up our tracks—— Oh, my ribs!
Cure me—doctor, cure me quickly. They wait for
me atthe Willow Clone! I cannot delay, or some
one may steal my pretty bird.” .

“The Willow Clone? I’ve heard of such aplace—I
think it is up the North River,” said the captain,
musingly.

Low as he spoke, the quick ear of the delirious
man caught his words.

“Yes—yes, she is up the river—safe till I come.
Gabe Grinder waits for his money, and will not let
her go.”

“Gabe Grinder, the private detective, is in this
game!” muttered the captain. ‘The treacherous
villain will get up the river far enough if we fix this
on him. And Mr. Nathan Gripe will find he has-a
hard road to travel for one of his age, if he ever re-
covers from his hurts !”

“Which is doubtful, if inflammation sets in, as is
now threatening,” said the surgeon. ‘The old knave
will find that his millions will do little more than to
bury him pompously. There is an undertaker’s job
close at hand, or I am a poor judge of symptoms.”

The captain now returned to his station, to order a
police guard on Gripe’s housgfar the old man’s de-
lirious admissions had contiected him with the ab-
duction, beyond a doupt.

The captain had not been at his desk three min-
utes, when a telegram announced that the central
office men were on a clew—the wounded driver and
a woman had been placed on a schooner that had
sailed up the river.

“Oh, if I only knew where Willow Clone is, how
quickly I’'d. be after that reward !’’ said the captain.
“For at such a place. Gabe Grinder has the girl in
hiding!’’

= * * * * * *

Within an hour from the time his squad was or-
dered out, the sergeant from Police Headquarters
had his men drawn up out of sight, but so near the
shanty where Matt the burglar and his pals were
piney that they could spring to his help in a mo-
ment.

Then, possessed, through the directions on the
paper, of the signal for opening, the sergeant gave
the treble knock, at proper intervals.

“Is that you, Gabe Grinder?” asked a gruff voice
from within. Aa

“Yes, Matt; open quick! ’minahurry. I sawa
cop down street just now,” was the answer, in a hur-
ried tone.

The chain rattled, the bar slid back. and the door
flew open just as the sergeant blew his whistle for
the squad to come up, himself springing bravely for-
ward, his club in his right hand, a pistol in his left.

“The cops, boys! We're sold out! Fight, tight to
the last!” yelled Matt, drawing a pistol and raising
it quick as thought.

But the club of the sergeant struck down pistol and
hand in a second more. With the lamp overturned,
and the room in semi-darkness, the police were
engaged in a deadly struggle with the murderous
gang. g
* Oaths and curses bitter and loud, pistol-shots and
crushing blows were heard, and then the police were
masters of the situation.

Matt, the burglar, with a mortal wound. lay gasp-
ing on the ground, two of his men, crippled and bleed-
ing, lay near. while a third, dead, with a hole through
the center of his forehead, sat with his back against
the rock.

The battle had been short but terrible*for the rob-
bers fought with the scaffold before them.

And even now all was not over for the police. The
rabble of Shantytown were on hand, aroused by the
yells and firing, and a hundred or more of men and
women, the toughest of their rough kind, with clubs,
stones, and even fire-arms, confronted the brave
squad, several of whom were bleeding from wounds
inflicted by the men they had conquerei.

The situation was desperate. In the face of sucha
mob, his prisoners not able to walk, the sergeant
could not retreat and carry them.

Calling his men to form solid front, he had the
three wounded burglars carried back to the rear of
the shanty, where he could vot be surrounded, then
he, with his men, pistols in hand, warned the yelling
mob back, while he waited for reinforcements which
he knew would come, for he had seen a mounted
policeman ride up in sight of the gang and then dash
away at full speed to give the alarm at the nearest
station.

‘Down wid the peelers!’”’ yelled a coarse-looking
virago, brandishing a huge club. “Down wid ’em,
and teach ’em the laws 0’ Shantytown!”’

The crowd, led by her and a huge ruffian, who was
mad with drink, rushed in upon the little force.

*‘Ready—pick the leaders and fire!” cried the ser-
geant, as a shower of stones and bricks came in upon
them, severely wounding several of his best men.

But the rioters learned that they had brave men
before them, as the virago and half a dozen of the
erent ruffians fell under a sharp, rattling vol-
ey.
“Clubs are trumps now !” shouted the sergeant,
leading a eharge on the crowd, which fell back just
as a force of twenty or thirty blue-coats came rush-
ing in, with several’ ambulances close following the
relief.

This ended the whole affray. A few arrests were
made, but the greater part of the motley horde fled
and disappeared almost as suddenly as they had
mustered to the attack.

“Did Gabe Grinder put up this job on us?’ asked
Matt. who was dying, as they laid him with his two
wounded pals in an ambulance.

“We got allthe points through Gabe,’ truthfully
answered the sergeant.

“The dastardly wretch. He holds half the money
we took from Drumont, the rest is in the leather
satchel back o’ the shanty in the rock.”

“Who killed poor Drumont?’ asked the sergeant.
a needn't fear to speak, for you will notlive an

our.”

“T did—and I’ve got my pay. I didn’t mean to hit
him so hard, but he struggled to hold the satchel, and
yelled for help, and I had to down him.”

“Who put up the job ?”’

“Gabe Grinder. Oh, if I had him here just one
second, I’d—I’d—~”

The dying burglar choked, even while he strove to
speak, and in a minute more was dead.

The sergeant now looked for the satchel of which
Matt had spoken, and found it. It was the same
which had been torn from the hand of poor Drumont,
and examination showed half the money still intact
in the original Lp meng be The other half, as the
reader kriows, bad been taken by Gabe Grinder.

The men had not intended to divide until ready to
go out from their place of refuge, which had so often
safely sheltered them before that they deemed it
secure.

The sergeant now hurried back to the central office
with his dead and living prisoners, and his own brave,
battered, and bruised squad.

CHAPTER XXIII.
GABE GRINDER’S LAST ACT.

As Mr. Broke had earnestly hoped, when he spoke
to the warden, there was a sign of weakening made
by two of the Italians, composing Giorno’s crew.

They asked, through an interpreter, for the gentle-
man who spoke Italian so well.

He atonce answered the telephonic summons of the
warden, being accompanied by both the De Lanceys
and his now inseparable ally, Frank Champe, who
said he was bound to see the whole thing through,
since he had got his hand in.

Arriving at the Tombs he saw Giacomo, who asked
to have Pietro Orsini brought to his cell, and together
they would deliver a message sent to Mr. Broke by a
lady who spoke Italian perfectly.

The two men were soon eo in company, and
then they told what the captive lady had asked them
to say to Mr. Broke, and what she had promised they
should receive if they carried her message,

They did not ask for thereward; they only prayed to
be freed from the terrors of a'prison.

Mr. Broke was ee from them the best descrip-
tion they could give of the place where they had left
the lady and a wounded friend of Giorno’s, when the
warden hurried in to tell the artist and his friends
that Giorno was worse, believed himself dying, and
wanted to see the artist.

The latter hurried to the cell, where Giorno, in the
blue pallor of fast approaching dissolution, lay
quivering with pain and terror.

“Let me have Beppo, my boy, here!” he gasped.
“T am going fast. If you let my boy come and sta
with me till I die, and see that no harm shall befall
him, I will tell vou all you want to know.”

The boy was at once seut fur. Weeping bitterly,

 

 

’ :
} r took the cold hand of his dying father, while the

atter told Mr. Broke how to find Willow Clone and
the lady and the wounded wretch who had lured
him into the path which was near an end for him,

“To Beppo I give my schooner and all I have,”
gasped Giorno, when the confession was complete.
“T hope the boy will lead a better life than I have
done. And if you, signor, will only aid him, you will
soften my last hour of agony.”

“T will do all I can for him,” said Mr. Broke,
muchsy by the intense love the father felt for his
child.

Already, scareely waiting for orders, the Bowery
boy was hurrying off to engage his cousin's tug for
another cruise, this timeone which promised a full
¢ubnination of their hop %s—the safe rescue of the
lost lady.

As soon as possible Giorno was placed in the hos-

pital pprsion of the prison, where all was done that
could be done to save his life. But his time was close
at hand, and while the chaplain of the prison offered
consolation his spirit passed away, poor Beppo al-
most crazed with bis loss.
_ Mr. Broke now saw the magistrate, and, represent-
ing, the. case as it stood, gained his consent not to
prosecute the crew, if the rescue of the lady was
effected through the confessions made.

This done, telling Beppo he would see his father
properly buried with Christian rites after he re-
turned from up the river, the artist and his friends
hastened away to join the Bowery boy and their po-
lice friends on the tug.

Pa an hour the Index was off, bound for Willow
Slone.

Standing up close along the west shore, they were
soon past Fort Lee and running up under the
shadowy cliffs known as the Palisades.

The two Italians—Giacomo and Pietro—free from
gues by Mr. Broeke’s influence, stood near the pilot-

ouse, and when in sight*of the cottage and the little
willow grove, pointed to the dock and said:

“Tt was there that Giorno lauded—iuto that house
we conducted the lady.”

Slacking speed as they neared the dock, the steamer
rau alongside, and before she was fast, Mr. Broke,
followed by the De Lanceys, Frank Champe, and the
squad of police, sprang on shore and rushed for the
house.

So sudden had been the landing, that the Danish
keeper of the place, who was cutting up some drift
wood a hundred yards or so above the house, could
not reach his door, fast as he ran, before Mr, Broke
was inside.

“Villain! Where is Miss De Lancey ?” shouted the
artist, hurling Gabe Grinder back against the wall,
as the latter tried to close and bar the door, inside.

““What do I know of your De Lanceys. Get out of
here!” cried the desperate wretch, trying to draw a
pistol, with his right hand, from his pistol pocket.
*‘Norse Herndon, defend your master’s property !’’

“Take care of your own biz, Mister Man!” said
Frank Champe, as he ‘kicked the pistol out of the
hand which had just drawn it.

‘**There’s no use—they’re too many! The womanis
there!” said the Dane, pointing to the locked door of
the chamber, whence a hysterical cry of joy now
came, é

For Aldine had recognized the voice of Mr. Broke,
and now her father was calling her name.

‘Unlock the door !” said the Dane to his wife, who
had stood stern and silent waiting his orders.

She did so, and Aldine, dressed as when she at-
tended the opera, rushed out to the fond embrace of
her dear and loving father.

Her uncle, weeping for joy, clasped her in his
arnys; and of all the men there, but one had dry
eyes.

This one—Gabe Grinder, with a scowl] of hate and
defiance on his face—stood between two stalwart
policemen, with shackles of steel on his wrists.

“You need not bite your lips or look so hateful,
Gabe Grinder!” said the police sergeant. ‘Your
game is closed. The hemp is spun that will swing
you, for putting up the Drumont robbery and murder.
Matt has given you all away; old Nathan Gripe, too,
has blabbed, and you have not a peg to hang a hope
upon. The whole gang in the shanty were taken red-
handed, with their half of the money hidden there—
we know what you got, and are aware of all the rest
of your work. The sooner you ‘cave’ and settle down
to what must be, the better.”

Gabe Grinder turned ashen gray. He had heard
enough to convince even him that his career was
near itsend. All his ill-gotten gains could not save
him from prison for life, if indéed he could escape
the gallows.

Sullen, silent, ferocious, he allowed his captors to
take him on board the tug;

There, seated near the bow, he looked his vindictive
hate upon the happy group astern, where Aldine,
now happy in her restoration, recounted the thrill-
ing adventure of her abduction.

Suddenly, when the police were sitting carelessly
near him, not thinking of such a wildly desperate
act, Gabe Grinder picked up a loose anchor of near a
hundred pound weight, and leaped overboard, cling-
ing to the weight.

He went down out of sightina second, and did
not rise again, though the tug wasinstantly stopped
and held near the spot for nearly half an hour.

Boldly and wickedly the raseally detective had
lived, and thus he died, cheating the lawyers of their
fees and saving tothe tax-payers the cost of his
prosecution.

The tug now steamed down to the last landing-
place, for the entire party and the sergeant in charge
of the squad had the happiness to report the notori-
ous Gabe Grinder among the permanently missing,
while the lady was rescued and the credit of the
“best force in the universe’ upheld, as well as a
munificent reward gained, which the baronet was
only too willing to distribute in a generous and just
way.

Mr. Broke was now pre-eminently happy. He had
told the uncle and the father of her whom he loved
so well, of his hopes and wishes, and they were but
too glad to give their cheerful assent to his desires.

He had only spoken to Aldine with his eyes, but
her glances and her blushes told him that when
words took their place he had nothing to fear.

* * * * * *

* *

Reaching the rooms in Bond street, where Mr. and
Mrs. Smouch waited to know if Sir Brayton would
take them back to his baronial home, Mrs. Biddy
O’Connor, laughing and’ crying in alternate par-
oxysms of joy, greeted her dear young mistress.

*Oh, hone! Dark was the hour when ye were lost,
and bright is the day of your return!” cried the
good-hearted little woman. ‘‘And bad luck be wid
me if ever I’m parted from you again. For Mr.
Broke has promised me and my ould man that he
shall go wid him wherever he goes.”

“What has Mr. Broke to do in the case?’ asked
Aldine, laughing.

“What, indeed? Hear the sweet little innocent!
An’ she knowin’ that the bridal wreath is made that’s
to go on her purty head—that she is as sure of bein
Missis Broke as that I’m the wedded wife of my oul
man, who stands there speechless wid the joy that’s
in him !””

“Oh, Biddy, how can you?”

“Oh, Miss Aldine, how can you? Mr. Broke, the
sooner you set the day the better plazed she'll be!”

CHAPTER XXIV.
A WEDDING AND A DEATH.

Mr. Smouch, on the promise that he should not be
punished, and that he might return with his forgiv-
ing wife, turned State’s evidence against his former
master, revealing a series of thefts and embezzle-
ments committed by the professor on Sir Brayton, in
addition to the three thousand pounds taken from
the old butler, which enabled legal action to be taken
at once against the mercenary wretch.

Incarcerated, he had to await extradition and a
trial in England which could endin but one way
—penal servitude for as long a term as he was likely
to live.

It was proven by Smouch that he had literally
driven Reginald De Lancey from his father’s love by

terward, until, harassed almost to death, he had left
England.

Then, when Reginald, in his distress, wrote to his
brother for help, the villain had intercepted and de-
stroyed the letters after reading them.

When all this was learned, it was decided to pur-
sue him as far as the law could reach, without the
least show of mercy.

Tt was asad day for him when he took it into his
head to follow Sir Brayton to America.

There was now but one important event to occur
to complete the happiness of the heroine of this
story.

It scon came off, for Mr. Broke was earnest and
persistent in his wooing, and he had encouragement
on every side.

The wedding was a grand one, for Mr. Broke was
too wealthy and too popular to permit of such an
event being quiet.

The baronet insisted on giving the bride away, and
her father was only too happy that he was there to
enjoy the privilege.

hen a bridal tour to California followed, and with
all his true friends in retinue except Frank Champe,
Mr. Broke filled a special palace car for the trip.

The Bowery boy, with a generous and unexpected
reward for his services from the baronet, started a
neat butcher’s shop on Stanton street, and was
made as happy as he could be.

He often went to a shooting-gallery near his place
of business to keep his hand in, for he said “Wing
shootin’ wasn’t common around there,” and he did
not want to forget how it was done.

Barnaby Bloke was unable to carry out his schemes,
for “Sandie Spence” got him into his faro den when
he was intoxicated and flush and cleaned him out to
the last dollar.

Nathan ore lingered on a few weeks in maudlin
insanity, and when he died his last words were—
“SHACKLES OF GOLD.”

[THE END. ]
{A story of concentrated interest,in BERTHA M.
CLAY’s unique style, will be commenced next week.
It_is suggesiively entitled “FAIR, BUT FAITHLESS.’’}

 

false representations, continued his persecution af- |:

 

CHRISTMAS EVE.

BY EDWARD GARDNER,

Hail to the Christmas chimes! their tale is ever new,

Unheeded still by some, thrice welcome to a few ;

They stir us up to think of what their tones unfold,

For, oh, their story is more precious far than gold

Hark! ’tis the lowly birth of Zion’s mighty King,

Now heralded on high by angels on the wing.

Welcome to old Christmas! thrice welcome Christmas
chimes!

Oh! spread the happy sound to near and distant climes.

Methinks that on this Eve our ears may catch the sound,

Of their soft wings aloft, while music floats around;

We listen to their song, as on the breeze ’tis borne,

“Glad tidings of great joy, to you a King is born.

To you He bringeth peace, from God to man “good will;”

Let gladness and great joy this night your bosom fill.”

Welcome to old Christmas! thrice welcome Christmas
chimes!

Oh! spread the happy sound to near and distant climes.

“Oh, babe, so lowly born! oh, King, from Heaven come

down,

That glorious. home, where thou didst lay aside Thy
crown

To walk with men below, to live, and love, and die,

Accept our homage, Lord, whilst at Thy feet we lie.

The shepherds and the sage their offerings brought to
Thee;

We bring to Thee ‘high praise,’ upon our bended knee.”

Thus we welcome Christmas, and hail its merry chimes,

And fain would spread the sound to near and distant
climes.

But here at home may we search out the starving poor,

Give them a happy day by spreading wide our store.

We'lldry the widow’s tear, the hungry orphan feed,

Spread kindly warmth around, and satisfy their need,

That all this Christmas Day may hail the Christ as King,

And songs from happy hearts with praise to Heaven shall
ring. C

Welcome then to Christmas! thrice welcome Christmas
chimes!

Still spread the blis*ful sound to nearand distant climes.

STRET & SMITH’S

NEW YORK WEEKLY
FOR 1891,

WHY IT IS POPULAR.

There are many reasons for the unrivaled popularity
of the NEw YORK WEEKLY.

The best authors are regularly engaged upon its
staff.

It has the most interesting stories, sketches, and
essays,

In variety and excellence, its contents surpass those
of any other paper of its kind.

In every departwent it is fresh, bright, and enter-
taining.

Its contents are more widely copied than those of
any other publication in the world.

The household is cheered by its presence, and its
genial tone is like sunshine in the home, banish-
ing gloom, and lightening the cares of life.

Every line in the paper may be read aloud in the fam-
ily, as no impure expression, thought, or sugges-
tion is ever permitted in its columns,

Several special novelties are already in hand, or in
preparation, for early presentation during the year
1891. ;

While the favorite contributors, who have so long
and successfully labored for the entertainment of
our readers, will be retained, we shall endeavor to
keep abreast of the times by also publishing the
works of several other writers of established reputa-
tion, and at the same time try to encourage new au-
thors who evince merit.

As in the past, the EssAYs and SKETCHES will be
prominent features of the NEW YORK WEEKLY.

The regular departments—ANSWERS TO CORRE-
SPONDENTS, WORK-BOX, PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS,
ITEMS OF INTEREST—Will be so conducted as to main-
tain their reputation for correctness, practicability,
vivacity, and brevity.

Every number will sparkle with sense, wit, thought,
suggestion ; so thatthe reader, whether old or young,
will always find the NEW YORK WEEKLY an instruc-
tive as well as an entertaining companion.

Among the prominent contributors whose produc-
tions will appear in our columns during the coming
year, we May mention the following:

Bertha M. Clay,
Mrs. Georgie Sheldon,
Mrs. M. V. Victor,
Annie Ashmore,
Margaret Blount,
P. Hamilton Myers,
Eugene T. Sawyer,
Virginia F., Townsend,
Helen Corwin Pierce,
Annie Lisle,
Francis A. Durivage,
Annie Clare,
Professor Wm. Henry Peck,
Emma Garrisou Jones,
Lieutenant Murray,
Helena Dixon,
Charles T, Manners,
Kate Thorn,
Harkley Harker,
Chas. W, Foster,

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<i THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 3

 

VOL. 46—No. 10.

 

 

NEW YORK, JANUARY 3, 1891.

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“MERRY CHRISTMAS!”

The seasonable literary feast spread before our
patrons this week is intended to revive the pleasant
recollections which should find a, welcome .in every
mind about Christmas time. Where is the man, no
matter how stern and selfish at other periods, whose
heart does notthrob with love and charity for
humanity when he thinks of the meek and gentle
Saviour, whose natal day all Christendom honors ?

In the light of Christmases past, gazing down the
vista of vanished years, we picture childhood’s home,
under the genial halo of Santa Claus’ mysterious
presence, and we see the dear, old faces gathered
around the well remembered fireside, where young
ambition first stirred the aspiring heart. Many. of
the loved ones, after life’s fitful fever, have passed
to their reward; but who shall say that, at this holi-
day season, they are not permitted to revisit the
earth in invisible forms, to be near those whose
youthful footsteps they once delighted in guiding?
Never are the dear ones so sadly missed as at Christ-
mas; and the hope animates the affectionate sur-
vivors that, through generosity, kindness and, recti-
tude, after the turmoils of life, they may be enabled
to rejoin them in the realms of eternal bliss.

The transitory nature of earthly happiness, the sin
of greed and selfishness, the meanness of hypocrisy,
the futility of an unceasing struggle to overreach our
neighbors, that we may shine to their disadvantage—
these are all subjects of deep consideration when the
music of Christmas bells is heard. Good resolutions
find welcome lodgment in the heart, and divine
charity rules. We determine to be less selfish, to
have friendship for all mankind, to find excuses for
their failings, to overlook their faults, to kindly reason
with the erring, to strive to reform rather than to
condemn.

Heaven pity the creature who is deaf to the teach-
ings of religion, and-nurses resentment at Christmas,
It is charity to suppose that the person who hardens
himself against forgiveness, and is not moved by
the command, “peace on earth—good-will to man !”
must be mentally diseased. He who sees no wrong
in himself, and who looks only for faults and frail-
ties in others, ignoring every good quality, is doomed
to a rude awakening. He needs self-examination,
the unbiased contemplation of his own disposition.
There is no better time for this mental introspection
than now, when even the atmosphere seems laden
with the divine influence of the Prince of Peace, and
the day we celebrate in reverence of His exemplary
life and teachings.

Let us banish all unkindness, and extend the hand
of assistance to those who needit. It.is not fair to
balance our own few virtues against the vices of
those whom we are inclined to criticise. We may
have vices a8 well as they, but aré more adroit in
concealing them. It is wise to weigh well theadvice
of \the Saviour: “Take heed to yourselves. If thy
brother trespass against thee, rebuke him; and if he
repent, forgive him.”

Christmas is the time for good deeds as well.as
friendly words ; and when the latter are backed by
generous acts, there can be no doubtof their sincerity.
Words may be very consoling, and mean much, but

© + o 2 2-6 @

- 2-2. - --. ee

 

 

if you would give them an eloquent and impressive |
There- |

signification, let kindly deeds go with them,
fore it behooves all who have the means at command
to strive to make Christmas a happy season for some
of the needy ones. There are few who cannot spare
a little to bestow upon the sick and destitute; and as
the poor are always with us, no one will ‘have to
wander far to find subjects deserving of his bounty.
The more wretched and humble, the more reason for
prompt assistance. The words of the Master are
prolific of meaning to all who choose to read them
aright: ‘Verily [say unto you, inasmuch as you
have done it unto one of the least of these my breth-
ren, ye have done it unto me.”

‘““MERRY CHRISTMAS!” Let the joyous wish echo
in every heart.
holidays will be delightful to all who come within
the range of our influence; let animosities be for-
gotten, and only charitable. thoughts prevail; let
each man act asif all humanity were his-brethren—
as if he felt his heart constantly stirred by the wish
so simply and earnestly expressed by the immortal
Tiny Tim, ‘‘GOD BLESS US EVERY ONE!”

<i> 2a

CHRISTMAS AT THE FARM.

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

There they hung, fastened by strings to the old
black crane swung out from the fire-place, three
stockings. It was Christmas Eve. The stockings in
question ‘were all» men’s foot-wear. There were
children in the old house that Eve, but it had been
agreed that their tiny socks should be hung by them-
selves in the other room. Three grown men of us,
all brothers of the old couple who yet lived on the
farm, were to hang our stockings precisely as we
used to years ago, and in the same place.

The stockings told their own story as they hung
there. One was silk, one was common lisle thread,
one was coarse woolen. One of us had grown rich,
one poor, one neither rich nor poor, but’ of vigorous
health—one banker, one preacher, one farmer.

When we were small, when our stockings were
small, our mother used to fill them evenly. Noone
got anything in excess of the others. Now that we
are larger grown, Life has put a great many things
into one that she has not into another. Life has not
been as kind as our mother. That was. my first
thought. But wait a moment. Life, like a fair god-
dess, delights in variety. It would not do to have all
men alike in this worla, Even our mother could not
prevent my brother from being a tall boy and mea
fat boy. Mother could not have changed the hue of
Ed’s red hair, while Tom and I have black. Life
made one of us satisfied with farming, but not me.
Life made one happy when he is making money, but
Tom (our clergyman) does not care a rush for money.
On the whole, Life, the goddess of destinies, has satis-
fied us, and evened things up pretty well.

Then, when we were ali small-footed, our mothers
governed us as to where we should put our feet each
day. The small feet had to ‘‘come in before dark,”
“go to school,” or “of errands,” or “up the stairs to
bed,” just when she said so. That was all right, for
she darned the stockings that-clothed the feet. But,
really, Life has given us some liberty. We have to
take the risk, but I can use my feet to go to Wall
street, New York, and my brothers use theirs to go
where they please. Wehave to darn our own stock-
ings, Life, but you give us some freedom. After all,
Life, you are not so bad a step-mother, since we can-
not have our own.

I still sat dreaming over those three dangling socks
in the ample fire-place. Being the only smoker in
the house, [ had begged the privilege of consuming
my good-night cigar there before the dear wizard,
our oldest sister, performed the part of Santa Claus.
I was alone, therefore,

Let us so conduct ourselves that the |

yes, that’s it. We three brothers
it takes but a breath to
The bond is there. We are brothers. The rich boy
acknowledges himself brother to the poor, the
preacher feels brotherly toward the banker brother.
But, underneath all, there’s a bit of jealousy. Let me
be careful not to boast of anything that I have or am.
We are brothers, oh, yes. But even brothers may
envy. Nota breath of boasting. Nota word of van-
ity. Let not the college-bred brother get off any. of
his learning. Don’t talk city sights and doings too
much before the farmer boy and his family, who live
here in the simple surroundings of this old home-
stead. Don’t show off city styles, don’t call any at-
tention to patentleather boots or cowhides. Don’t
talk “Europe and what I saw” unless you are asked.
Don’t refer to any disagreeable old memories. For
if you do——

There! The slight breath I used in exclaiming
tore off the silver cable tow of blue and floated it up
into Santa Claus’ very face in insult.

The stockings hung there sti]l and the embers had
burned low. There was much ash on the cigar and
much in the fire-place now. Still a lingering flicker
flashed up from the flaming butt of a hard maple
stick. In its flame the shadows grew. The three
stockings began again to creep along the brick tiling
and over the wood floor where the knots in the boards
stood up like polished knobs. Then I noticed thatin
shadow the silk and lisle thread and woolen texture
did now show. I noticed,in the shadow stockings,
that there was no difference in size or shape. How,
in the shadow, as in the shadow land to which we
hasten all, the differences of this life arelost to view.
The shadow of sorrow is the same to the rich son as
to the poor. In the shadow of Christmas memories,
mother and father gone, we all stand equal. The
shadow of our only brother away from us, passed be-
yond, made us equal sorrow. All, all our griefs were
common, and in them we were not divided.

And the shadowy feet moved on, till clean across
the room, like specters, the three stockings
seemed to stand at the further sitting-room door.
Gaunt and grim they stood, huge distorted things,
like the regrets that the years bring forth when one
stops to think. Who does not stop to think when he
goes back once more to the hours of his boyhood ?
These black hobgoblins began to terrorize me. I was
about to rise up in a trembling—my Christmas was
getting too sad—when suddenly, lamp in hand and
radiant in its glow, her gray hair whitened like a
corona, stood my oldest sister.

“Well, boy,” she exclaimed, “it is time little folks
were abed.”

IT laughed. T drew her to my chair and to my knee,
and kissed her. Much was lost. Much remained.
The shadows were flown.

A merry Christmas to you all, despite all shadows.

ROSA’S CHRISTMAS DINNER.

BY M. A. AVERY.

shake the bond.

 

It was the day before Christmas. The streets were
crowded with people in wagons, carriages, street-
cars, and omnibuses, as well as a much larger num-
a on foot; and everybody seemed to be in a great
1urry.

The windows: of the .shops were glittering with
jewelry, splendidly bound books, beautiful pictures,
rare articles in silver, and gold, bronze, alabaster,
and terra cotta, to please and tempt the rich and for-
tunate. Others were filled with luscious fruits, and
nuts, and candies, as well as delicious cakes, and
bread, and pastries. And others still, exhibited
splendid ‘turkeys, chickens, fish, and game, with all
other substantial meats and vegetables.

Fat cooks and housemaids, big men-servants, and
little boys and girls, were tugging great baskets
filled with good things... And squirrels’ tails, and tin
horses’ heads, and dolls’ legs protruded from papers
in gentlemen’s pockets.

Almost everybody seemed to be carrying home
something useful, rich, or rare, while their faces said
as plain as faces could speak :

“Tam going home to Christmas.”

*And everybody has somebody to eare for, some-
body to care for them; somebody whose eyes will
brighten, and cheeks glow, and lips wreathe with
smiles, as they cross the threshold of home, while
I have nobody to love, and nobody to care for me,
nobody whose eye will smile, or heart warm, as I go
to my little lowly room,” sighed beautiful, golden-
haired, blue-eyed Rosa Dorn, as with steps as light
as those of the fawn of her native Scottish hills, she
| made her way through the crowded streets.
| Her heart swelled with emotion, and her eyes
overflowed with tears,as she turned into a dirty
alley, walked toward a dingy old tenement-house,
and ran up two flights of rickety old stairs, to her
humble room.

It was small and low, with but one window, yet
the unsightly patches of broken plastering upon the
walls were covered with a cheap but pretty paper,
put on with herown hands. A little cooking-stove
and coal-box stood in one corner, and a neat, white-
draped bed in another, with a small table, with
folded leaves, between them. There were four
chairs; a shelf covered with books, and a few orna-
ments; a few cheap but pretty pictures upon the
walls, flowers in the window, a neat but faded car-
pet on the fioor. It was, indeed, in spite of its loca-
| tion and surroundings, a neat and comfortable little
room. And so she thought, as she went into it, threw
her bundle of materials for faney work upon the bed,
stirred up the fire, and sat down thoughtfully in her
low Boston rocker.

“Yes, I ought to be grateful for the blessings still
left to me,” she soliloquized—*that [am so much
better off than many around me. But these holiday
seasons always bring back the sweet memory of
other and happier days—the blessed days when we
had a happy and beautiful home’ in bonnie Dundee;
and father and mother were there, and poor Donald,
and Charlie, who went down in the cruel sea! And
now all are gone. Among a hundred thousand peso-
ple I am alone—all alone. But, after all, why need I
be alone? Lovers I. could have, but I do not want
them. They can never be dear Charlie Graham to
me. But are there not warm hearts all around me,
| pining just like mine, for love and sympathy? Are
| there not souls as tender, and loving, and true?
| Would they not gladly respond to all the love and
| tenderness I have to bestow? Surely. I have no
doubt of it. Thelot of most of them is harder and
bitterer than mine. I have youth and health, and
education, and talents that would coin gold, if I had
| any one to recommend me, while most of them have
| neither. By that beautiful fancy work, too, I can
earn more than any of them. Am TI not, then, much
richer than they? And therich should always help
and give pleasure to the poor, my mother said. But
what could I do to make for some of them a merry
Christmas? I have it!’ and she clapped her small,
| gloved hands, and the glow came back to her cheek,
| and the smiles to her eyes and rosy mouth, “I will
| give a little Christmas dinner! Let me see how
much I can afford to spend.” And she took out her
purse and poured its contents into herlap. “I have
coal, and vegetables, and decent clothing. My rent
is paid, and I can do without that striped shaw.”

And she looked down a little regretfully at the old,
but neat-fitting velveteen jacket, and plain and cheap
alpaca dress, and took off and surveyed approvingly
the dainty, though cheap drab felt hat, with its
pretty, white plume and blue trimmings that she had
bought that day.

“Ay, [shall do very well,” she continued,.as she
put it back upon her head. ‘Lean spend five dollars
without feeling it very.much, and I will for once.
That. will buy a chicken and aspare rib—— No, it
|} shallbea nice fat little Christmas turkey. Won’t
that be grand? And TI’ll have plenty of bread, and
vegetables. and pies, and cake, and apie. I’d like
nuts, and oranges, but I’m afraid the money
wouldn’t hold out. My table would hold four. No,
it must be six—two on each side, and one on each
end. Bnd there will be Mrs. Weston, and little Jim,
and Mattie next door, and Nellie Gray, and her blind
old grandmother; and pretty, brown-eyed, curly
haired Carrie Somers, who is stitching her life away
in the attic; and poor Uncle Ben Bolt at. the foot of
the stairs, for he is old and lame, and, though he
loves everybody, has none to love him. Let’s see,
how many does that make? Mrs. Weston and the
children, three; and Mrs. Gray and Nellie, five ; and
Carrie Somers, six, Uncle Ben, seven, and myself
eight. Oh, dear! and the table will hold but six. I
want themaill, if I have any. For there is Nellie
Gray, asaintly martyr, if there ever was one, and
her poor, blind grandma has so few pleasures. Carrie
Somers, poor child! hasn’t a friend in the world, but
one, Mrs. Weston is the best friend I have, if she is
@ washerwoiman; and she was so kind to us in poor
father’s illness, and so good afterward in finding me
this little room, that I feel asif all I can do for her or
the children, when she is away at her work, will
never repay her. Is she to blaine that intemperance
made a brute and a convict for life of her husband,
and wrecked all the bright hopes of her life? Not at
all, and I must have them, anyway. Then there is
Uncle Ben, always with a warm greeting, and a
‘Heaven bless you, little gal.’ How many things he
sent up to me when I was sick last summer! [ can’t
do without him, I am quite sure—and there will cer-
tainly be enough for eight.” pened vert “There!
I have it!” ¢with a delighted look.) “Little Jim and
Mattie will be tickled to take their dinner off the
cover of the coal box, and I ean draw my trunk out
from under the bed for them to sit upon. Won't that
be niece? Pll borrow two chairs, two knives and
forks, and a few eups and plates of Mrs. Weston, and
that will fix out my little table elegantly, with what
IT have. So, now it is all planned, I'll go out and get
the things I want, and invite my guests.”

 

 

To will was to do, with this energetic little Scotch |

woman; so before she went to bed on Christmas
Eve, everything was brought home, the nice turkey

The smoke-wreaths climbed | stuffed, the pies, and bread, and cakes, and apples
above my head and floated out toward the dangling

ranged on the closet shelves, the vegetables cleaned,

black throat of the chimney. My smoke curled round | and everything in order for the three o’clock Christ-

the stockings and passed between them.

and held its grip.
aloud, /
trembled, but finally got its grip again.

I noticed | mas dinner,
the smoke as it twined itself into a rope and wound
itself round the three stockings, tied them together,
“One we are?’ I cried, softly, but
My breath disturbed the rope, and it oe tant

,

For, brought up in Seotch strictness, it
would not do, Rosa thought, to neglect God’s house,
or refuse to give Him thanks for the gift of His Son,
our Saviour, upon the holy Christmas Day.

So she went to church in the morning, witn sweet
Carrie Somers, and then came home, put her turkey

 

 

are one, but! in the oven, and was ready to meet her guests with

smiles, and words of welcome when they began to
arrive, dressed in their best.

And we may be sure none of her Anvitations were
slighted by their humble recipients, and that they all
came, talked over their joys and sorrows, and had a
good, enjoyable visit. Nor were they at all dis-
turbed by the heat of the little room, ugien that cold
winter’s day, or by the smoke from the¥oasting tur-
key, or the steam of the vegetables, esteeming it
rather a precious privilege to watch the dainty little
maiden, as she set her table and performed her vari-
ous culinary operations so deftly.

The dinner was on the table at last, and was pro-
nounced a perfect success. The turkey was tender
and juicy, and done to a turn; the bread and pies
were delicious; the cake, though scarcely touched,
was very nice; and the apples. and the nuts, and
oranges, brought up by Uncle Ben and added to the
feast, were a rare treat to some of the company, and
especially the children. Uncle Ben asked the bless-
ing and carved the turkey, of which everybody had
enough and to spare, and when dinner was over he
told stories of the sea, and did his best to make him-
self agreeable.

Grandmother Gray, with her white full-bordered
cap, muslin kerchief, and faded black gown, looked,
as she was, like a grand old matron of the olden
time, and the dim eyes, that had seen their full
eighty odd years, brightened in the genial warmth
and good cheer to which they had long been stran-
gers, and her tongue, like most of the others, was
loosened to speak words of wisdom as she talked of
that olden time.

Every one, in fact, felt better, and happfer, and
more able to endure the winter’s coming struggle
with poverty and destitution by the renewed strength
and cheer imparted not only by the nice dinner, but
also by the pleasant social intercourse they enjoyed
at Rosa Dorn’s Christmas party.

But the short winter’s day drew toits close. Nellie
Gray led her aged grandmother up to her humble
attic, and helped her to bed. Mrs. Weston went home
with her delighted but sleepy youngsters, with their
hands full of nuts and candy; and Uncle Ben and
Carrie Somers alone remained to spend the evening
with Rosa Dorn.

The table had long been cleared away. The dishes
were now washed. the room set in order, and the
lamp lighted, and then the two girls sat down to talk
with and sing for Uncle Ben.

“How was it, uncle, that you got the hurt that
makes you so lame? Idon’t know as [I ever heard,”
said Rosa.

“Oh, it was done when T was shipwrecked the last
time off the coast of Brazil, five years ago last Sep-
tember.”

“How was it done?” she asked. faintly, with a start
and a shudder she could not repress, for it was just
five years in September-since Donald, her dear and
only brother, and Charlie Graham, her dearest friend,
went down on that same treacherous coast.

“This is the way it was done,” he said. ‘‘We were
overtaken bya frightful storm. Our masts were
snapped off like pipe-stems in the gale, and came
down, with our torn sails and broken cordage, upon
the deck; and I, who was climbing the rigging at the
time, was smashed beneath the ruins. I was stunned,
fearfully bruised, and had my leg broken at the
knee, though [ did not know it until some time after-
ward. The next I knew thestorm had spent its fury,
and E was alone upon the wreck in fearful pain and
peril.

“The ship was careened, and I waskept from fall-
ing off into the sea only by being tangled among tle
rigging. Pretty soon, however, a couple of sailor
lads, who, with a good many others, had been
swamped in one of the boats, came swimming back
to the wreck, and crawled up to where I was lying.
The poor fellows were half drowned and completely
exhausted, but they were thankful enough to get
back to the wreck. As soon as they were alittle
rested they fixed me in a more comfortable position,
and bound up my leg as well as they could with
splints of wood and strips cut from the sails and
their own scanty garments.

“We suffered dreadfully from thirst and hunger,
and from the burning tropical sun by day, and the
chill and damp at night; but the third day, thank
Heaven! we were discovered, and taken off in a
starving condition by an outward-bound vessel, and
earried into Rio Janeiro.

“They took me to a sailors’ hospital, where the
lads, Heaven bless ’em! took care of me till they got
a chance to ship for Australia. When I got well
enough, the American Consul paid my passage home,
and lucky enough was TI to find alittle shot in the
locker, in the shape of a legacy from a maiden aunt,
who had loved me onceas her own boy, and little
thought I should become such an old hulk at last.

“And now comes the strangest thing of all. I never

expected, when we parted, that I should ever set |

eyes on them lads again; but this very morning, as

I was down on the wharves as usual, looking all |

around, a fine young feller stepped up infront of
me, and for.a full minute looked steadily in my
weather-beattén face, as if he would look me through.
Then a smile broke like sunshine over his own face,
as he put out his hand, exclaiming:

“ ‘Ts it—ean it be dear old Uncle Ben, our quondam
shipmate, companion, and friend ?

* *3J’m Uncle Ben, sure enough,’ I replied ; ‘but who
the duse you are is more than I can fathom.’

“Then -he laughed, and the young fellow that was
with him laughed, and, as sure as you live, they
turned out to be the very chaps who swam back to
the wreck and saved my life five years ago. They’ve
changed so much and grown so much that I don’t
b’lieve their own mothers will know’em, if they’ve
got any; and they told me they’d been looking all
round in vain to find theirfriends or anybody they
knew. That made’ém glad to see old Uncle Ben, I
suppose, and they’re comin’ up to see me forthwith.
I hope they won’t come up to-night, though; but if
they do, my landlady knows where I be, and will tell
’em to go away and wait till morning, for Uncie Ben’s
gone to visit with the ladies.”

The old man laughed merrily at the idea, and Car-
rie Somers laughed, but Rosa was very grave, think-
ing of a strange possibility, stirred by a sudden and
wild hope, that it could not be possible would ever
be realized. At this moment heavy steps were heard
ascending the stairs. They entered the dimly lighted
passage, and stopped before Rosa Dorn’s door, There
was a boy’s voice exclaiming:

“This, sir, is the place;” and then there was a ring-
ing knock.

Rosa went to the door, and opened it with tremu-
lous fingers. A tall, stately young man, bearded,
and bronzed by the Southern sun, stood before her,
while another, whom she did not see, stood behind
him in the entry.

“Good evening, sir; will you walk in?’ she said,
in tremulous tones, sure, from his looks, that this
must be one of Uncle Ben’s visitors.

‘No, madam,” he returned, politely, “I called to
see if Mr. Ben—” Hestopped short there, gazing
with startled eyes into Rosa’s beautiful face, framed,
as it was, in a wealth of golden curls. Then he
stepped forward, and impulsively extended both
hands, as he exclaimed in thrilling tones :

*Rosa! Rosa Dorn! Do you not know me?—your
long-lost brother Donald !’”

For a moment Rosa looked up into his face with a
startled, searching gaze, then she impulsively threw
herself into his arms, as she cried in joyful tones:

“Oh, it is, it is my Donald, come: back to me, as
from the dead!” rd

He pressed her to his heart, and his tears mingled
with hers as she sobbed passionately for very joy,
until he said, as he raised her flushed face from his
bosom:

“Have you no word of welcome for another friend
of your youthful days, my dear Rosa? Charlie
Graham is here waiting to be recognized.”

Rosa raised herself in an instant, just as Charlie, at
a signal from Donald, entered the little room. She
looked up into his handsome, manly face for an in-
stant, and then the bright color flushed over her own.
To the eyes of youthful affection there was no mis-
taking that noble brow, wavy brown hair, and beau-
tiful black eyes, for any others, even though the
smooth chin was bearded now, and the slender form
far taller, broader; and manlier.

It was Chariie Graham, and no mistake; and she
could not refuse the loving embrace and kiss with
which he sealed their reunion.

The meeting was indeed a joyful one, the only
drawback being the news of the dear father’s death,
which came to both young men like a heavy blow.

They were duly introduced to pretty Carrie Som-
ers, and they rejoiced to meet Uncle Ben once more,
and talk over the events of the unfortunate voyage
they had made together.. They had been to the gold
mines of Australia, it seemed—been unsuccessful,
and suffered a great deal for two whole years; but
had eventually made handsome fortunes.

They had written a good many times, and at last
sent money, but from many causes none of their let-
ters or messages had ever reached Rosaor her poor
father, who died in the belief of his son’s death, and
with the hope of meeting him and his lost wife in
heaven.

The two young men had for days and weeks been
seeking every where in vain, for Rosa and her father.
Having lost all trace of them they came at last to the
conclusion that they had, as they had often talked ot
doing, returned to Scotland. Full of this new idea,
they had decided that day to follow them upon the
outward-bound steamer that was to sail in a few
days.

This decision had hurried their call upon Uncle
Ben—as they had little time to spare—and finding
him absent from his quarters they were directed up
to Rosa’s room. And there, as we have seen, they
had found the dear girl herself, who, but for her gen-
erous Christmas dinner and invitation to her sailor
friend, might neveron earth have seen them more.

All thoughts of going back to Scotland to live
were now discarded—even though it was still dear to
them—as America, with its free institutions and
equal laws, offered greater inducements for founding
beautiful and happy homes.

Charlie Graham and Rosa had loved each other
always, and now their affection was purer, and
stronger, and nobler for the long separation, hope
deferred, and baptism of suffering they had both
undergone.

Donald, too, found out that pretty Carrie Somers,

 

who needed home, and love, and sympathy so much,

Was just the one, out of all the world, whom he

would have chosen as his soul’s mate; and as she re-

ee favorably it was arranged that so it should
€.

So two beautiful mansions were bought and fur-
nished, a few miles from the city, and two pairs of
os souls were wedded very quietly and moved into
them.

And there, to-day, in one you might find good old
Uncle Ben smoking his pipe, telling stories, or sing-
ing sea songs to smiling youngsters; while in the
other, the home of Rosa Graham, Mrs. Weston acts
the role of housekeeper, and Nellie Gray that of
seamstress, friend, and companion. Before she
came there, however, dear old grandmother had
passed from the humble attic to a higher, fairer, and
more glorious home in heaven. ,

Every one, indeed, who had ever been kind to
Rosa, was sought out and provided for in some
way; andit is the delight of Donald and Charlie
Graham to make sunshine in many darkened homes,
and do all the good they can with the wealth Heaven
has given them.

ini

MARTIN’S CHRISTMAS GIFT,

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES,

A gray December twilight; the leafless woods half
hidden in the whirling clouds of snow that had be-
gun to flutter through the chill air as the sun went
down; a melancholy wind sighing sadly down the
valley, where rocky hills rose up on each side of the
steely gleaming river, and only the red light from
Farmer Carey's kitchen window seemed to brighten
up the somber scene. For’the great log fire that
blazed in the cheery throatof the huge: stone, chim-
ney was sufficient of itself to light up the gloomiest
winter gloaming that ever closed over our bleak New
England hills.

It was a large, low room, with newly whitewashed
walls, and solid wainscoting extending half way up

to the ceiling; a room with small paned windows, |

which oddly distorted everything you iooked at
through their medium, and chairs and tables which
were evidently manufactured in the days when wood
was cheap, and people didn’t mind a little extra
bulk to lift around. A bright-striped rag carpet.cov-
ered the floor. and the shelves of the wooden ecup-
board beyond the chimney were decorated with lay-
ers of newspapers, cut in fanciful shells and scollops,
while divers and sundry implements of gleaming tin,
hung on the walls, flashed back the brightness of the
fire like so many eyes.

“Well?” said Mrs. Carey, setting down on a round
pine stand the fat tallow candle she had just lighted,
as her husband came in, shaking the light snow from
his pepper-and-salt-covered overcoat, as if he interd-
ed to have a good storm within dvors, on his own ac-
count,

“Well,” answered Stephen Carey, composedly, “it’s
a-goin’ to snow all night like furiation, an’ the wind’s

them mufflers you knit last month, my ears would ha’
been clean froze off my head.”’

They were acuriously contrasting couple. She,
rosy and fresh-colored, with bright black eyes, and a
quick, fluttering way with her, like a bird; while he
was tall, and slow, and ponderous, with leather-brown
skin, and an expressionless, fossilized face. .Yet
they had beena singularly happy couple. all their
lives long.

“Did you get any letters ?”’

“Yes,”

“From Martin?’

“No, not from Martin.
pany to Christmas.
night.”

Mrs. Carey elevated both hands in a sort of spas-
modic despair.

‘For the land’s sake!” was her exclamation (which
Stephen Carey facetiously termed ‘‘mother’sswear !”)
‘““what are we goin’ to do with Vivia Grey? We hain’t
nothin’ like what she’s been used to, and I don’t see
how on airth we’re to make her anyways comfort-
able. We hain’t no velvet carpets, nor silk sofys.
like they have to her uncle’s, and I don’t know what
should send her here.”

“Because she wants to see us, I s’pose,” observed
Stephen, composedly. ‘‘There, there, wife, don’t fret.
Blood is thicker than water, and she’s our foster cou-
sin, you know. It'll make it pleasant for Martin,
when he comes.”

But Mrs. Carey could not take matters so easily as
did her more phlegmatic spouse.

“T didn’t put no icin’ on that cake,” she fretted,
‘and there wasn’t a raisin left for the pies, arter I’d
mixed up the puddin’. I might have sent for some
by Deacon Beardsley’s boys, if I’d only knowed in
time. And then the floorin the front bedroom—I
hain’t no carpet for it, and——”

“Oh, bother the carpet, mother. If Vivia can’t put
up with what we’ve got, she must go elsewhere; but
Tll risk her. Where’s the paper ?”’

The snow lay white and pure, like ridges of pearl,
over all the fallen logs and unsightly stone walls,
fringing the solemn old cedar trees and turning the
woods to cathedral arches carved in dazzling marble
and alabaster, when Farmer Carey’s old box-sleigh,
cosily lined with buffalo robes, jingled up to the door,
just about dusk, and Vivia Grey ran into the kitchen,
like a little fur-robed fairy, to Mrs. Carey’s no small
astonishment.

There was nothing so very terrible about this city
visitant, after all—a delicate girl in a blue merino
dress, and gold brown hair falling in a rippled cloud
above her oval face—a girl whose shy brown eyes
looked at you as.pleading for love, and whose month
was as pert and lovely as a rosébud! Mrs. Carey
felt her fears being gradually dissipated, as Vivia
threw off her wrappings in front of the huge fire-
lace.

’ “We've got a fire in the front room,” began Mrs.
Carey, but Vivia did not allow her to finish the sen-
tence.

“Oh, never mind the front room,” she. said, coax-
ingly, “it’s so bright and snug and cheery here.
You'll let me stay, won’t you ?”

And Vivia had her way.

She was the brightest little sunbeam that night
that ever illuminated the quiet old farm-house. At
least so thought Farmer Carey anda his wife, as Vivia
ran about, helping to clear away the ‘table, and
sweeping up the hearth and wiping the dishes as
deftly as if she had been brought up to the trade,
and finally settling down on a little cricket close to
Mrs. Carey’s side, where every gleam of the blazing
fire turned her bright hair to shimmering gold and
mirrored: itself in the limpid depths of her hazel
eyes.

“It’s a little dull for you to-ni
the farmer, glancing lovingly at

We're goin’ to have com-
Vivia Grey is coming to-morrow

ght, my dear,” said
Q er, as he smoked
his evening pipe, ‘‘but Martin will be here to-morrow

night, to spend Christmas. That’s your cousin, my
dear.”

‘*My Cousin Martin!” repeated Vivia, softly.

“You'll hke him, I’m sure—he’s as fine a fellow as
ever breathed, if he is my son,’ went on the old man.
“And—now this is a great secret, my girl, remem-
ber—and I guess likely Martin means to surprise me
with it, for I only heard on it through Deacon Beards-
ley’s daughter-in-law, who came up last week—I
shouldn’t wonder if Martin should bring a wife here,
one of these days, to get the old folks’ blessing !’’

The farmer's face was radiant as he spoke. Viyia
listened with her fair head slightly turned.

“Would you like it?”

“Like it! I guess we should !’’

“But you might not find his bride——”

“My Martin would never bring home a ‘bride that
we shouldn’t love—of that I’m sartin,’’ answered the
farmer, conclusively.

“Unele Carey,” said Vivia, earnestly, ‘‘will§ you
promise me one thing ?”’

“Half a dozen, if you choose.”

Vivia laughed.

“J shall be satisfied with one. Promise me that
you will not tell your son Iam here. He—he may be
vexed to think that the quiet of his home Christmas
should be disturbed by the presence of a stranger.”

“’Tain’t like Martin to feelso. He'll make you as
welcome as flowers in May.”

“Yes, but promise me! It’s only my whim !”

And she looked so pleadingly into Farmer Carey’s
eyes that he could not but promise.

The orange sunset of Christmas Eve streamed
athwart the sunny fields like a beacon of promise—
the woods, all hung with silver-pearled icicles, shone
and glittered like enchanted palaces, as Farmer
Carey drove up to the old red store at the cross-roads
when the daily stage from the nearest railroad sta-
tion discharged its human freight, and peered over
the fur wrappings with which the careful hands of
his wife and Vivia had completely muffled him.

“There he is now, walkin’ up and down, with his
hands in his pockets,” cried the farmer, his brown
face lighting up at the sight of his only son. ‘‘Mar-
tin! Martin, my lad! Why Ido believe old White-
face knows him!”

And the next moment Martin Carey was seated be-
side his father in the box sleigh, cheerily answering
the torrent of questions which the old man eagerly
poured forth.

‘‘And my mother is well?” he asked, when he could
get a chance to speak.

“Yes, and——’”

But here Farmer Carey bethought himself of his
promise to brown-eyed little Vivia, and awkwardly
turned the current of his words.

‘And she’ll be glad to see you, my boy! But, Mar-
tin, you don’t look as hearty as you did last Septem-
ber. You are pale!”

“Am I?”

The young man was evidently a little embarrassed.

Farmer Carey dropped the reins aghast.

“There’s nothing wrong, Martin? You haven’t
been getting in debt? Because if you have, my boy,
we aren’t rich folks, but there is the farm, and if a
mortgage, or——”’

“Nay, nay, father,” answered Martin, pressing the
old man’s hand and gathering up the fallen reins
with a sad smile; “I am in no such difficulty as
that; thank you all thesame. Nor did I mean to
cast a shadow over your quiet life with the reflec-
tion of my own sorrows. But since you haye ques-

 

tioned me, I will confide in you freely. I havefallen
in love.

‘That's nothing to look 3ad about,’ the farmer
answered. ‘Why, it’s what I did myself, son Mar-
tin!”

“It was a pleasant, brief dream, father,’ went on
Martin, “but it was soon over. I’m only a working-
man, father, with just enough to live on——”

“A workingman!” broke in Stephen Carey. “And
what ofthat? Ain’t they the bone and sinew of the
jland# Why, boy, you ought to be proud of the title!”

‘Hear me ont, father. I loved a girl who would
grace the home of any man, and Thad reason to be-
lieve that she returned my love. A trifling difference
somehow made a coolness between us. I was in the
wrong. Being made aware that I had misjudged her,
i was about to seek a reconciliation, when I learned
that she had fallen heiress to a fortune which lifted
her far above my humbié sphere. I have always
said that I never would marry an heiress. Still less
would I lay myself open to misconception now, when
the world would say that her wealth aione brought
about our reconciliation. I shall never see her
again.”

“But, Martin——”

‘Oh, father, I am very miserable!”

One moment Martin Carey’s head drooped on the
kindly shoulder of the old man; then he straightened
up again, crect and stately as a young pine tree.

“If you piease, sir, you will not speak of it again.
Let it die into the past. You would have liked her, I
think, She is a distant relation of my mother’s
family.”

“?-Twan’t Ruth Ann Wilcox, who went to York,
teachin’ school, last fall?”

“No, sir; it was not Ruth Ann Wilcox.”

And with this Mr. Carey was forced to be con-
tented. Evidently, Martin did not like to be ques-
tioned; so, in his inmost mind, the old man came to
the conclusion that it must have been ‘‘Deacon ’Siah
Parson’s step-daughter, that was half-sister to moth-
er’s cousin, Job Allways.”

“But, Martin,” he ventured to say, after they had
skimmed along over the hard, frozen ground for some
minutes in silence, “do you believe you young folks
could have kissed and made friends if it hadn’t been
for the money she’s fell heir to %”

“IT do, father.”

“There, I swow!” cried Farmer Carey, brandishing
his whip-handle. ‘’Tain’t doin’ justice to her to let
this consarned money part you both! Martin, boy,
think twice about it.”

“IT have thought, sir, and my mind is unalterably
decided. Could I bear to be called afortune-hunter?
Fatber, say no more; it only re-opens the old wounds,
and, although I feel your kindness from the bottom
of my heart, indeed, indeed, it can do us no good.”

From the uncurtained windows the red firelight
streamed out across the gathering darkness of the
fast-closing night, as the sleigh drew tingling up in
front of the door, and Martin Carey sprang out.

His mother was at the door to receive him in true
motherly fashion, and the next instant he entered
the cheery ola kitchen, whose walls were all fes-
tooned with wreaths of hemlock, ivy, and shining

uri | laurel leaves, woven in with glowing scarlet berries.
settin’ round to the east, and if it hadn’t.a’ been for

“Why, mother!” he cried, ‘‘this is a genuine Christ-
mas decoration! Who would have dreamed of there
being so much skill left in your fingers !”

“?*Tain’t me!” eried Mrs. Carey, looking triumph-
antly round. ‘Dear me! I never ‘could ha’ twisted
ea nenes together so cunningly—it was Vivia.”

“Vivia!”?

Martin Carey’s handsome Greek face grew pale as
marble, as he repeated the word. At the same mo-
ment a light, graceful little tigure glided into the
room, and came to his side.

“Yes, Martin, it was I. You’ll let me wish youa
merry Christmas, won’t you? And, Martin——”

“Well?”

She stole her little hand softly into his.

“T’ve got a Christmas gift for you, if you will ac-
cept it—myself.”

**Vivia—stop a minute, Vivia!’’ he exclaimed. ‘Is
this a dream, orare you really standing here under
the shadow of the old roof-tree, lifting the weight
from my heart? Vivia, my love, my darling ”

“Your wife,” she interposed, gently. “Oh, Martin,
would you have allowed a barrier of gold to separate
us? Heiress though IT am,I should have been the
poorest woman in all Christendom if I had lost your
love. And you need never fear the world’s careless
imputation of being a fortune-hunter. You did not
come after me; J came after you.”

And when Mrs. Carey came in, with the best dam-
ask table-cloth.on her arm, Martin and Vivia were
still standing in front of the firelight, rapt in one
another’s low, caressing words. The old lady stopped
short.

“Martin—I didn’t know——”

“But I know, mother!” cried out the genial voice
of the farmer, close behind her. ‘‘Martin, say, lad,
it’s all right at last. Mother, we’re goin’ to have a
dear little daughter, and her name is Vivia Grey !”

And when the clear, cold light of the blessed
Christmas Day dawned radiantly over the glistening,
snow-covered earth, and the red fingers of sunset
wrote across the orient sky the sweet old words,
“Peace on earth, good will to man,” Martin Carey
walked with Vivia to the village church, and there
received the sweetest Christmas gift that earth could
have in store for him.

He had married an heiress in spite of all his prot-
estations—and that is the end of most of men’s_res-
olutions.

er

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTIBUTORS

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

Constant Reader, Schenectady, N. Y.—The, most noted
of the ancient white marbles were the Parian, named
from the island of Paros. The most noted colored marbies
are those called by the Italians nero antico (black ensiane
rosso antico (red antique), giallo antico (yellow antique),
and verde antico (green antique). Nero antico is the
blackest of all marbles. It is not known where it was
quarried. Rosso antico is supposed, to have come from
Greece. Verde antico was quarried in Thessaly. Where
the giallo antico came from is not positively known. Some
think it was discovered in North Africa. Fine colored
marbles are found in the United States.

8. C., Charleston. William C. Bryant, the first Ameri-
can poet of celebrity, took great care of hishealth. At
the age of eighty he could outwalk most men of middie
age, and he practised daily other modes of exercise. Milk,
cereals, and fruit were his preferred and principal food
for a number of years. Hishabits were very regular. He
translated Homer at a late period of his life. He was
born in 1794, and died in 1878.

Lydia A., Staten Island.—ist. All soups should be made
with fresh uncooked meat on account of its flavor and
juices. Itis better to hash your cold meat and buy fresh
forsoup. Lean meat is better than fat. 2d. Soup may
be kept until the next day. Before it is heated over
again skim off the cake of fat which congeals on the top.

M. P. M., Annapolis, Md.—ist. Edward McPherson, of
Gettysburgh, Pa., was Clerk of the House of Representa-
tives in December, 1863. 2d. President Lincoln issued his
Proclamation of Emancipation on Jan. 1, 1863. 3d. The
great draft riot in this city began on July 13, 1863, and
ended on July 16,

G. L. N., Augusta, Me.—George Denison Prentice was
editor of the Louisville, Ky., Journal from 1831 to 1870, the
year of his death. He was a native of Preston, Conn.,
and atone ang edited the New England Weekly Review,
One of his latest poems is ‘‘Lookout Mountain.”

W. H. S., Staten Island.—1st. To clean gloves, use ben-
zine. %d. The City Chamberlain receives the largest sal-
ary—$25,000 per annum. 3d: The drum corps of the Seventh
Regiment, National Guard, numbers about 30. 4th, Critics
differ as to the best.

Boy Inquirer.—The European walnut, also called in
this . country English walnut, grows abundsntly
throughout Europe, but in this country it rarely ripens its
fruit; so we apprehend you will have your labor for your
pains,

Adelaide, Nashville, Tenn.—“Bill and Joe” was written
by Oliver Wendell’ Holmes; the “Old Arm-Chair’ by
Eliza Cook, and “Behind The Mask,” by Adeline Dutton
Train Whitney. She married Mr. Seth D. Whitney in
1843,

R.L. J., Carrollton, Ohio.—Mrs. Henry Wood, the Eng-
lish novelist, was the daughter of Mr. Thomas Price, and
the wife of a gentleman connected with the shipping
trade. Her Christian name was Ellen.

Cc. J. W., Rawsonville, Vt.—The localities of the offices
referred to are changed from time to time. A letter ad-
dressed to the War Department, Washington, D. C,, will
elicit the desired information.

J.M.L., Bay City, Mich.—Revolving stereoscopes can
be obtained for from $15 to $75, according to size, finish of
views, etc. Address direct the NEW YORK WEEKLY Pur:
chasing Agency.

J. G@., Buffalo, N, Y¥.—In this State an absolute divorce
can be obtained only on the ground of infidelity. For
abandonment or desertion a limited divorce or separation
is allowed.

Theodore F. B., Boston, Mass.—Sir Edwin Landseer, the
distinguished English painter, died on Oct. 1, 1873. The
funeral took place at St. Paul’s Cathedral, London, Oct. 11.

J.B. @., Indianapolis.—Joseph P. Bradley, of New Jer-
sey, was appointed Associate Justice of the United
States Supreme Court in 1870.

A Working Woman, Brooklyn, N. Y.—The mills referred
to are in Connecticut. <A letter written to either address
will reach its destination.

A. M.C., New Orleans.—Levi P. Morton, the present
Vice-President of the United States, was appointed Min.
ister to France in 1881,

L. &. ., Montpelier, Vt.—Letters are answered in this
department in the order in which they are received.

W. L. A., Baltimore, Md.—It was Thomas Carlyle, who
was called in England ‘The Prince of Scolds.”

M. L. M., Brooklyn, N. Y.—ist. Dec. 12, 1862, fell on
Friday. 2d. Unable to enlighten you.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

—

 

 

 

CHRISTMAS MORNING.

BY BUXTON WEST.

What other day from year to year
So fills the souls of men with cheer;
What memories are half so sweet
As those that in devotion meet,

On Christmas morning?

The dawn upon the world’s long night
Of him God sent to give it light,
Hath spring of joy and blessedness,
That faileth not nor groweth less,

On Christinas morning.

I cannot hear the Christmas chimes,

Or list to Christmas singers’ rhymes,

But tenderer my: spirit grows,

And gladness all my speech o’erflows,
On Christmas morning.

I cannot greet the young or old,

But merry wishes manifold

Return to me; for, like my own,

All hearts appear wide-open thrown
On Christmas morning.

Our Christmas days on earth may be

How few God knoweth—only He;

Yet may our lives so Christ-like grow

Each day our hearts shall feel the glow
Of Christmas morning.

With Christmas cheer for all the year,

A heart set free from care and fear——

Our souls may ripe for Advent grow,

And thus each year more gladness know
On Christmas morning.

MY WIFE'S HUSBAND

By W. CLARK RUSSELL,

Author of “The Wreck of the Grosvenor,” “A
Sailor's Sweetheart,” “The Lady Maud,” etc.

 

(“My WIFE’s HUSBAND” was commenced last week.]

CHAPTER ITI.

“VOU SEEM LIKE ONE THAT I HAVE MET
AGAIN AND AGAIN IN DREAMS?!”

We got a breeze from the westward that morning,
seme while before it was daybreak, and the Lady
Charlotte, under main-royal and flying-jib, was
thrusting through it brilliantly when the sun rose;
ali te windward, as I saw through my scuttle, being
a dazzle of blue and frothing ridges under the risen
sun, with a frequent leap of froth to the glass of the
window that made it blind with weeping, and such
a siope of the deck that it was like the roof of a
house for shaving on.

I knocked at the girl’s door, and obtaining no an-
swer, entered and found her sitting in her bunk with
her feet on the deck seemingly counting her fingers.

She instantly smiled on seeing me and extended
her hand.

I was no doctor, but I could tell the difference be-
tween a febrile and a composed pulse, and on press-
ing her wrist I found her heart beating a little
swiftly, but with regularity.

It was impossible to know whether she had slept;
or, if she had obtained rest, to guess whether it had
benefited her or not. Her eyes shone bright with
the sparkle of madness, and the swift manifold
changes in the expression of her face conveyed her
condition with startling emphasis.

I sent the captain’s servant for some warm water.
and fetched from my own cabin such toilet conveni-

ences as she might require. I then bathed her feet,
which I clothed in a pair of slippers of my own, and
gave her a comb and brush, believing she would ad-
just her own hair, but she merely looked at them
without attempting to apply them.

On this [ got her onto a little locker rear the door
and brushed her hair and coiled the glowing heap of
it away under the comb as best I could. It was very
lovely silken hair, soft as swans’-down to the touch.

Tn other ways I sought to infuse a sense of com-
fert and refreshment in her, and I noticed that I
never moved away from her but that she followed
me eaverly with her burning eyes, and that our gaze
never met but that a smile of sweetness and beauty,
with a sort of dim intelligence in it too, liglited up
her pallid, hollow face.

She would occasionally speak to me. Her remarks
were without meaning or relevancy. I answered
them, nevertheless, to humor her, and when I had
made an end of her toilet, such as it was, I begged
her to lie down, motioning to the bunk, and saying
that she would be better presently, that she had
come through a frightful time of privation and
mental anguish, that she must go on resting and
being nursed until her strength returned to her, and
the like; but*she understood nothing of all this
saving my gestures, which she obeyed with a tender
and pathetic alacrity, laying herself down and re-
garding me with a singular kind of wistfulness as
though she would ask for my approval.

I thanked Heaven that her madness left her tract-
able, or at all events, if not to others to me at least,
for it rendered my task of looking after her compara-
tively easy.

I cannot express how much I was touched by her
loneliness, by her friendlessness, that was the wilder
and more defined because of the intellectual darkness
into which her being had been plunged by the horror
and suffering of shipwreck, and by the many signs
of girlish beauty which shone forth in her shape
through the comparative squalor of her attire, and
through her face that was bloodless with hardship,
and mocking and hollow-eyed with the hours of an-
guish that had worked in her.

I fetched some breakfast with my own hands from
theeabin table. She drank feverishly of the tea, but
Ihad some trouble to persuade her to eat. I then
bade her lie still and take thorough rest, and asked
if she understood me.

She closed her eyes, as a child might do, as though
it was the best possible sign she could give-me, and
then [ shut the door upon her and joined the captain
at the breakfast-table, impressed and rendered hope-
ful for the poor girl by the sudden infantile gleam,
80 to speak, of rationality.

Mr. Marling and the skipper were at the table, and
all our talk was about the stranger. I told them what
I had done, how I had washed her feet, brushed her
hair, and so forth, and the captain, gmothering a
laugh that rose purple to his face, told me to mind
my eye, for there were the makings of a handsome
woman in her, and he fancied he could not satisfy
a that I was not of a highly romantic turn of
mind,

“Pooh !’ said T, flushing up, “it’s hard that aman
should not be able to minister to a poor, helpless
ba = ag in distress without standing to lose his

eart.”

“She’s got a fine eye,” said Mr. Marling; “it seems
to enter a man’s face and come out of the_back of his
head; and’ I tell ye what, Mr. Furlong, you may bet
all you’re likely to die worth that the like of her hair
isn’t tobe matched in a week’s walk, starting from
London town and heading as you list.”

*How about dressing her, captain?’ said T.

“Let her get well first,” he answered. “Supposing
she dies?”

‘‘What’s her clothes now ?” said Mr. Marling.

“A dressing-gown,” said I, “hastily slipped over a
little underwear.”

“Let her get well and we’ll manage,” exclaimed
the captain. “We'll rig her out in the ship’s num-
ber. The answering pennant’ll do fora scarf, and,
if she looks handsome in a dressing-gown, how will
she show, think ye, in the glorification of many-
colored bunting?’

Shortly after this we took the first of the south-
east trades. The weather grew cooler; along blue
sea came brinmingin foam to. the port bow of the
Lady Charlotte; the flying-fish whisked in the flashes
of mother-of-pearl from the ruddy shadow of her
metal sheathing; the universe of heayen and waters
was filled with life by the singing ot the gay wind
that came musical from the far distance with the
fountain-like murmurs of the rolling horizon.

Most of my time was devoted to the girl,
who was as yet nameless among us. The change
from the frizzling atmosphere of the stagnant par-
allels to the frésh and pouring sweetness of the
south-east trade gale helped her, as I was able to see.
She was too weak to leave her cabin, but the little
room was filled with the sweep of the wind through
the open scuttle, to which ber hair danced like fire-
flies, and to which her bosom rose and fell as though
' to an emotion of exhilaration.

Yet shé continued without her mind; her eyes re-
tained their startling glow of insanity, her speech
was incoherent, and, struggle as I might, I could in-
terpret nothing out of her confused, irrational utter-
anecé that shed the least faintness of light upon her

past.

She looked to me to bea girlof a little less than
twenty; her skin was very delicate, her profile with
something of fairy daintiness in the molding of it,

her ears small and of great beauty, her eyes a soft,
melting brown, which, brilliant as they now were
with distempered reason, contrasted formidably with
her pale hair. Her shape was faultless. Her utter-
ance was cultivated, but it was impossible to note
any special qualities of breeding or refinement in her
senseless prattle.

I would notice that her.gaze followed me wherever
Imoved. She was perfectly obedient to my wishes
and from no other hand would she take drink or
food. I asked the captain’s servant once to carry
her dinner in to her, and when I looked in upon her
an hour later, I found she had not taken a bite or
sup; yet ou my putting the plate upon her knee she
ate atonce. Maybe it was my rea] sympathy with
her that had penetrated to her woman’s heart
through the shell, so to speak, of her madness.

Captain Christian sometimes looked in upon her,
but after taking a peep at him she would turn her
face to the ship’s wall and sing to herself, as if
vexed.

“Well, well,” he would say, laughing, “take my
word for it, Mr. Furlong, she’s not so daft as you
think her. She’s quick to signal an ugly face and to
show her feelings. Now, if she had clean lost her
mind, how would she see that my nose was broke, or
for the matter of that know the difference ’twixt you
and me?”

Well, it was two days past a fortnight since we had
first fallen in with her. It was a wildish day, blow-
ing strong, the sea a huddle of pea-gfeen_hills,
shouldering one another as they came creaming to
our side, and dissolving in broad dazzlesof snow
away to leeward.

Thad smoked out my pipe under the lee of the
weather bulwarks, swinging in a coil of gear from a
belaying pin, while I chatted with the second mate,
inside of whose sheep-faced head there was crowded
a deal of marine matter that gathered a true oceanic
flavor from his hoarse delivery of it, and from a
plentiful use of seafaring terms. : :

The wet in the wind put an edge of cold into it, and
I stepped below mainly to see how my patient did.
When I had last looked in upon her, about two hours
before, she was asleep, with one white arm over-
hanging the edge of the bunk, and her hair flooding
the pillow, and her cheek like a space of sunshine.

It was seldom my practice to knock, simply be-
cause she never gave any answer to that sort of in-
quiry. I turned the handle softly, and found her
sitting up in her bunk with her hands clasped, and
her feet on the deck, and an extraordinary expres-
sion of puzzlement and astonishment on her face.

The instant I got a sight of her eyes I knew that
her mind had returned to her. The feverish light
was gone; there was a new intelligence, but filled
with dismay and amazement, in her regard. No un-
meaning smile made her face pitiful to the encounter
of our gaze.

She said in asort of breathless way, “‘where am I?”

“Ha!” cried I, ‘‘you shall learn all presently. Thank
God, the ugliest feature of your illness has vanished.”

“Do not [know you?” she exclaimed, looking at
me earnestly. ‘‘You seem like one that I have
dreamed of, that I have met again and again in
dreams.” wd ,

She pressed her hand to her forehead, still staring
at me. Her manner was fullof agitation, though
her voice was peculiarly sweet and gentle. I saw
her run her glance over her dress, then at her feet,
and then lift her hands to look at them. :

Her astonishment was really a kind of terror in
her, and I judged it would be wise in me to relate
her story to her, since she had now her senses and
might gather something soothing in perceiving how
matter-of-fact, after all, was the incident of our
falling in with her, and taking her on beard.

There was little enough to relate, and I had soon
made an end. .

She listened to me with a surprising look of bewil-
derment, her eyebrows lifted, her lips parted, her
hands as restless as if she were in physical pain.

“That’s the story,” said I. ‘Your sufferings occa-
sioned a little eclipse of the mind; but you are now
well again, and will be better and stronger yet after
a bit. :

“You found me in an open boat with a dead
sailor?” she inquired, breathing with an almost hys-
terical swiftness; “how was that? Where did I
come from? Who put me into the boat?’

 

 

 

 

 

SHE SAID, IN A SOKT OF BREATHLESS WAY
“WHERE AM I?”

“Do not you remember ?”

“T remember nothing!” she cried.

“Think a little,” said I, soothingly ;” it will all pres-
ently return to you. You can tell me your name 2?”

She fretfully bit her lip, frowning to the torment
of her struggling mind, then shook her head.

I was confounded by this new mental phase in her,
and utterly at a loss. I wove a little imaginary story
of her disaster, with some fancy of stirring memory
in her by an accidental flash of truth upon the dark-
ness of her mind; putit that the ship she was aboard
of had sprung a leak, and that she had been handed
into the boat along with certain sailors of the vessel,
that one by one they had perished, one or two of
them being cast overboard on dying, another drown-
ing himself in the frenzy of thirst, and so on; but to
no purpose. I might as well have read a page of
Hebrew to her.

Presently she cried a little, and looked at me with
an expression of most passionate misery through the
tears that filled her large dark eyes. I feared her
brain might again become affected ir I worried her
with questions, and forced her thoughts inward
into the hopeless blank there; so, telling her in a
cheerful manner that she would recollect everything
presently, I changed the subject, spoke of our ship
and where she was bound to, of the slenderness. of
her wardrobe, and how we must all now go to work
to. see how she was to be comfortably fitted out. I
handed her from her bunk. and found that her weak-
ness had in a great measure passed, and that she
could walk, with the support of my arm.

“It is time,” said I, “that you exchanged this dull
cabin fora livelier scene. The fresh air of the deck
will serve you as a noble tonic. There is nothing in
the matter of apparel to confine you here. I have
been waiting for this happy moment to arrive, and
am prepared for it.”

With that, I went to my berth and brought from it
a warm dressing-gown, large enough to completely
clothe her, along with a seal-skin cap, and other arti-
cles of attire which she would be able to make use
of, She received them in a mechanical manner, as
though her faculties were almost paralyzed by be-
wilderment,

CHAPTER IV.
CAPTAIN CHRISTIAN MAKES A VISIT.

I found Captain Christian in the cabin, and told
him that the girl had recovered her mind, but that
it had returned to her without memory.

‘Mean to tell me she can’t give her name?” he
cried, bringing his winking eye to bear upon me with
a look of incredulity.

“She can recall nothing,” I answered.

“Ts it a matter of convenience, d’ye fancy, Mr.
Furlong?”

“Oh, no. Her madness has been as @ black curtain
betwixt her past and her present. Memory ma
dawn in her, but just now she emerges from her suf-
fering as though new-born and with no more knowl-
edge of what she has left behind than the infant
brings with it.”

“Well, sir,” said the skipper, “be her name what it
will, I'll tell you what'll be the yarn to fit her case.
She's a lady, isn’t she?”

“She has a very pretty SA ag captain. There’s
refinement in her voice, [ think.”

‘You'll find,” said Captain Christian, “that she was
a young lady passenger aboard some vessel bound
there’s no telling where. Maybe she was with her
father or mother, or both. Whatever might have
been the cause to send the people to the boats it was
something to make ’em beara hand. That you may
guess by the girl’s dress. She whipson a dressing-
gown and rushes on deck into the hurry and confu-
sion there; she gets separated from her friends and
is handed into a boat by some sailor, a true man.
The rest is easily made out. The disaster ’ll have
been fire, sir. Perhaps her name will be on her linen,
and the sound of it may serve as a flare to light up
all the rest of what we want to know.”

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

Well, after thus chatting forsome time with the
captain, I returned to the girl’s berth and found that
she had equipped herself with the articles I had pro-
vided. Her own and my dressing-gown made a warm
outfit. The seal-skin cap lent an expression almost
of archness to her pallid and still hagzard beauty.
She had dressed her hair with care, and stood lean-
ing against the bunk in a posture as though waiting
for me to come.

She smiled on seeing me, as she had been used to
do in her madness, but this greeting now was full of
intelligence and sweetness of a nature whose quali-
ties could express themselves without being de-
formed or shadowed in their deliverance.

Tat once asked if any portion of her apparel was
marked by her name or initials.

The question made her suddenly grave almost to
tears. She answered yes, she had looked for the sake
of helping her memory and had found J. H

“Do those letters suggest nothing ?” said I.

“Nothing,” she answered, and she sucked her lip
under her white teeth in a very passion of bewilder-
ment and grief.

“No matter,” I cried, ‘fall comes to him who knows
how to wait, the French say,” and, putting her hand
under my arm, I led her on deck.

It was blowing strong, as T have told you, but the
long heave of the sea had a rhythmic regularity, and
the ship leaned down and then pricked her spars

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“SUPPOSE MISS JENNY SHOULD BE ALREADY MAR-
RIED?”

afresh with a steadiness and certainty of action that
made a very easy platform of the deck. On our pass-
ing through the companion-way, the girl, holding by
my arm, came to a stand, and gazed around her with
an air of astonishment. I saw her sweep the horizon
with her dark eyes and run her glance forward and
aloft as one might, indeed, who had never seen the
ocean or a ship before. ~

I was staggered. by this, for as it was certain, hav-
ing regard to where we fell in with her, that she
must have been on board ship for some weeks and
for all I could tell for some months. I had imagined
that this picture of sloping spar, of shrieking rigging,
and dark and thunderous canvas, of the flying white
shape of the clipper, with foam to the hawse-pipes,
would haye proved the one familiar sight to have
touched the chord of memory and to awaken it out
of its silence into full music.

But I will not dwell too long upon this special pas-
sage of my extraordinary experience. The days
passed; gradually we drew toward the latitude of
the Cape; the flying-fish ceased to sparkle from
alongside, the atmosphere gathered a new quality
of freshness. Presently we should be having our
bowsprit heading to the southward and westward,
with the mighty waters of the Southern Ocean under
our bows, and Sydney a port to be talked about as
if it were no longer very far off.

The girl’s Inemory remained impenetrable—a black
adamantine barrier. We speedily abandoned all at-
tempts to induce her to recall her past. If the fac-
ulty were not absolutely dead in her, we had
sense enough to see that it was stone deaf to im-
portunity and that by prolonging our efforts to re-
vivify it we might come to tease and harass her into
much such other condition of mind as wé had found
in her when we had first taken her aboard. As she
was unable to give us he? name, we had to invent
one for her.

The captain said:

“Her, initials are J. H., so we must. stick to them
anyhow.”
I said:

“Jenny is a pretty name.”

“Jenny’ll do first-class,” said the captain.

‘Let t’other name be Harlowe,” said Mr..Marling.

“Why, Harlowe?” cried the captain.

Well,” said Mr. Marling, ‘‘I’ve got some books in
my cabin containing an account of the love and in-
juries of an Al copper-fastened young lady called
Clarissa Harlowe. This young woman’s a real suf-
ferer as t’other one in my cabin was a fanciful one,
and so T don’t know that we could do better than
Harlowe.”

The skipper rumbled through a few names before
adopting his mate’s suggestioon, then said:

“Well, Harlowe will do.”

So we called her Jenny Harlowe, captain and
mates addressing her as Miss Harlowe, and I being
as ceremonious too, before their faces, though when
alone with her I called her Jenny.

She smiled sadly, with a forlorn, wistfnl look in
her eyes when 1 told her that as we were unable to
get at her real name we had invented one for her.

“Strange that it will not come,” she cried, softly,
and knitting her brows.

It ended in my falling in love with her. It was
partly pity, partly delight in contemplation of her,
partly our constant and intimate association, partly
the fascination of the mystery of her own devotion
tome. She grew beautiful as she gained in strength
and health. Memory in her dated her life only from
the hour of awakening to her senses on board the
Lady Charlotte, and I would notice a preternatural
vitality of light and intelligence in her eyes, as
though they were quickened by the concentration in
her recollected existence of the intellectual qualities
which had animated her since her birth.

 

 

aS

SS
SS

SS

—

SS

ss

WSS,

{ial
=

\

 

a,

 

“WE WERE MARRIED, AND CAPTAIN CHRISTIAN AND
MR. MARLING WERE PRESENT AT THE WEDDING.”

I wish I had Janguage to convey the subtlety of
her devotion tome. She merged, as it were, out of
the eclipse of her soul into the perfect and ardent
woman, every instinct virginal, of an exquisite inno-
cence and purity of spirit, and so she loved me as
though she were some faultless being of another
world, who, lighting upon this earth, gave her heart
to the first mortal who searched her eyes with enam-
ored looks.

God knows whether the sort of love she had shown
mein her madness had stolen out of it into her san-
ity. I was sensible of an element in her devotion
that came very near to adoration, which I would
think of at times when aloneas uncanny, when there
occurred to me the faney of it all having happened
within afew weeks, with memory in her dark as the
night, and a story of a life behind the vail which had
fallen as blank to her as it was real.

Captain Christian was not long in seeing how the
land lay. One day at table, when we were alone, he
said to me:

“Excuse, me, Mr, Furlong, but my eyes aren’t
mates if Miss Jenny Harlowe hasn’t got ye taut in
tow, as I expected she would. A lovely woman, mind
ye; a form fit for a frigate’s figure-head; but a lady
that a chap with brains in his head would aire ee
on walking round and admiring than steer alongside

z ”

 

ol.
‘Why ?’ I asked, feeling the colorin my face.

 

‘Well, first of all, who is she?” said he.

“What does that matter?’ I cried. ‘She tells her
Own story, as far as her sweetness and lovableness
go, and that’s enough for me.”

“Why, for just now, perhaps it is,” said he, grin-
ning; “but sweetness and lovabubbleness wears out,
Mr. Furlong. They’re like soft-wood-built ships,
they’re not lasting. A man wants more’n those two
virtues, pleasing as they are, in a woman that he
means to keep alongside of him all his life. Suppose
Miss Jenny should be already married, sir?’

“Nonsense!” I cried, starting. “I doubt if sheis
nineteen years of age yet. Then where’s her wed-
ding-ring ?’

“Well, I don’t mean to say that her having been a
wife would be an objection in her,” said he; ‘and
for my part I’m of your mind, and consider her as a
young vargin passenger in company with her pa-
rents, aS I’ve before said. I think if I were you, Mr.
Furlong, I'd luff a bit, and keep a trifle to the wind-
’ard till the gloom in her mind cleared and let me see
through it.”

I laughed uneasily with a toss of my shoulders,
and exclaimed:

“Well, we shall see,” and then asked him if he
would put me in the way of obtaining any sort of
wearing apparel for her. ‘There will be needles and
thread forward among the men,” I exclaimed, “and
are there no light stuffs aboard of any kind out
a sash we might manufacture a dress or two for

er?

He asked me to wait alittle bit longer. He hoped
to be able to come at the right sort of thing pres-
ently. There was nothing on board likely to suit
that he could think of. He was only joking when he
talked of making a gown out of bunting.

However, it was next day that, going on deck a
little before noon with Jenny on my arm—for sbe
walked with nobody else; she would not leave the
cabin without me, nor remain on deck if I went be-
low—that I found the sailors backing our yards on
the main. A stream of. gaudy colors was flying at
our mizzen peak.

Right abeam, a little out of .ear-shot, was a large
ship, apparently an East Indiaman with painted
ports and green sheathing; the turbaned head of a
Turk for a figure-head, monkeys in the rigging, star-
board studding sails boomed-ended, and the canvas
towering in cream-colored spaces to little sky-sails—
wan and delicate as star-touched gossamer against
the keen blue of the South Atlantic sky.

One of our qnarter-boats was lowered and brought
to the gangway, and down went Captain Christian
into her, and was pulled over to the Indiaman.

By means of a telescope I saw him mount the poop
and enter into conversation with a square, purple-
faced man, whose coat twinkled with gilt buttons
and embroidery.

A group of ladies and gentlemen gathered about
them, and directed frequent glances at our ship
through binocular and other glasses.

Presently Captain Christian, and the crimson-faced
man went below accompanied by several ladies. It
was hard upon half an hour before they returned.
Captain Christian then making several polite bows
to the company, disappeared in the gangway, and
the head of his boat came rounding under the stern
of the Indiaman, which at that moment, was majes-
tically filling upon her maintopsail, and beginning to
slide through the floating heave of blue waters with
a lift of foam whitening at her stem, and her stud-
dings sails smartly growing again in shapely and
shadowless surface to the nimble dragging of the
men upon the gear belonging to them.

CHAPTER Y.
A TUMULT IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.

Our captain arrived alongside and sprang aboard ;
astout bundle was passed up after him, the boat
hooked on and hoisted, sails trimmed, and the Lady
Charlotte, with dipping ensign, was striking once
more for the deeper solitudes of the South Atlantic,
with the tall sails of the East Indiainan growing
star-like in the blue atmosphere over the stern.

“Here now,” cried Christian, as he pointed to the
bundle, ‘‘is a proper wardrobe for Miss Harlowe.
This is like keeping a man’s word, I allow. Better
than bunting or drill for dress, Mr. Furlong; and if

 

 

 

 

**WHEN I RECOVERED I WAS LYING UPON THE DECK
WITH MY HEAD UPON MY WIFE’S KNEE.

the fit ain’t up to the knocker, there, are huss’ifs
enough knocking about forward, and I reckon,” he
added, with a grin at the girl, ‘‘that you haven’t lost
the art of flourishing a needle and thread, ma’am ?”

We carried the parcel below. The ladies of the
Indiaman had filled it very handsomely. Captain
Christian had related to them the story of the girl in
2 plain, genial, seaman-like way, that had gone
straight to their hearts; and he told us that, with a
few exceptions, they had set to work to overhaul
their clothes to see what they could spare. There
were three good dresses,some shoes, a couple of hats,
seen a miscellaneous lot of under-wear, and the
ike.

The mere sight of these things seemed to put a new
heartinto Jenny. Heaven knows whether there were
any subtle stirrings of memory in her tounderstand by
recollection of other attire the insufficiency and even
the absurdity of the apparel of dressing-gowns,
and so on, in which she had heretofore gone elothed.
Possibly the natural instincts of the woman
quickened in her to the first glance at the dresses,
which were good, and one of them very handsome,
and at the embroidered petticoats and other articles.
Needles and thread were borrowed from the men,
and for the rest of the day she kept her cabin, hard
at’ work on the few alterations which she found
needful.

Mr. Marling said to me, “If she’s got no memory
how does she know how to use a needle and thread ?”’

“How does she know how to use a knife and fork ?”’
said I. “In many directions the mind acts mechani-
cally without reference to memory. Habit outlives
the eclipse of the intellect. People who have lost
their reason yet do many sensible things.”

“Well, we:are rum machines,” said he. “I wonder
how a man feels who can’t recall? Useful to a chap
who owes money, Mr. Furlong, perhaps; but put it
tvother way about; I mean let him. be owed money,
and I tell you what, not being able to recollect will
be rather Inconvenient ”

Jenny looked a real beauty when she emerged next
day dressed in one of the gowns which the ladies‘of
the Indiaman had sent her. It was a black silk, ‘little
the worse for wear, and no’ better fit could be wished.
It matched well her rich fair hair and the delicate
complexion of her throat.

I observed a marked quality of respect in Captain
Christian’s manner toward her. Finding me alone in
the cabin, he said to me:

“Sir, she’s a handsome girl, it cannot be denied.
She wears her clothes like a lady. Sir, she might
have a handle to her name for all we can tell. I can
no longer blame ye, Mr. Furlong, for wanting wari-
ness. Upon my word there's something about her
that’s enough to make even an old Cape Horner like
me reflective.”

I was mightily pleased by this speech. Christian
was a man whose hearty, honest. character I had
learned to yalue, and what he had formerly said
about Jenny had caused me many hours of anxiety
and misgiving, though there was no faltering in my
resolution to make her my wife.

Many a time I had walked quietly over to the boat
in which she had been when we fell in with her, and
which had been hoisted on deck and stowed near the
long boat, and minutely examined it, but. to no pur-
pose. Not the least hint was to be had from her of
the naine or character of the ship to which she had
belonged. She had the look ofa jolly-boat of. those
days, and might as easily have. been lashed bottom
up on the deck of a collier of a hundred tons as have
hung at the davits of aship of a thousand tons.. The
girl’s under-wear yielded no clew save what was to
be found in the initials J. H.

I remember that afternoon, that is to say the. day
on which she came from her cabin dressed as 1 have
deseribed, taking her on deck and asking her many
questions as we paced the white planks together. I
interrogated her in @ careless, off-hand way, and
contrived to appear in the least degree importunate,
for I feared in her the little frown of pain that for-
merly attended her efforts to answer me when. her
thoughts fell to groping in the darkness within her.

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

2

 

But her memory was the same hopeless blank that it
had been throughout.

I slipped a plain diamond ring onto one of her
fingers, and asked if she remembered ever wearing
such things.

She looked at it with a strained yearning effort of
recollection that was indescribably plaintive, and
then turning to me timidly, as though she feared a
secret reproach in me, answered:

“No.”

She knew very well what it was, but she could not
remember whether or not she had ever worn any-
thing of the kind.

Several other questions of this pattern I put to her,
put her gathering distress warned me to desist, In
short, life with her had begun at the moment when
her madness left her. The light was all in front of
the curtain; what lay behind was hopelessly impene-
trable gloom.

The Lady Charlotte entered the magniticent Bay of
Sydney and moored at the Circular Quay eighty-two
days after she had lifted her anchor at Gravesend. [

,took rooms in a hotel in the neighborhood of George

street, and forthwith went to work to provide
ot with the many necessaries she stood in need
of.
At the expiration of a fortnight we were married.
I will not pretend to say that I had given this step
careful consideration. ‘When love deliberates the
love is slight,” says the poet. I was fascinated with
my sweetheart’s beauty and character. The mystery
of our meeting and of our association flushed my
young, ardent, and romantic mind with fancies in
which I needed to have been very much older than I
then was §to find anything to excite a smile. The
great and silent heart of the deep had yielded her to
me as a spirit might descend from the broad expanse
of blue to.an earthly lover. Captain Christian and
Mr. Marling were present at the wedding.

The ship was toremain three months at Sydney
while discharging the freight she had brought with
her from England and filling up with wool; and
those weeks were a long and golden honey-moon with
us.

Her blankness of memory remained, but, indeed,
now that she was amy wife, [) ceased utterly to ques-
tion her. I’desired no knowledge of the past. What
her antecedents were, what her name, her connec-
tion, ‘the country of her birth, whatever her past
might contain,in short, was as naught totwe The
mere thought of even a slender ray of lighv . .ating
over the black abyss of her memory raised a sort of
jealous misgiving in me. She was the darling of my
heart now as I had her, as she was, as I knew her;
and I was satisfied that the dark curtain should be
kept dropped, seeing how bright and glad was her
life on this side of it.

We sailed from Sydney on the 2d of April, 1849, and
nothing whatever occurred of the least moment until
we were in about 120 degrees of longitude west, head-
ing aslanting course for the Horn.. Down to this
time we had encountered very agreeable weather,
fresh, spaikling, favorable breezes, shining days and
nights of hovering. silver, with the lazy wash of the
Pacific under our counter, and glimpses in the bril-
liant brine over the side of the fleet shapes of the
bonito and the albicore.

But now on a sudden the sky hardened in the
south. From the horizon to close upon the zenith
the heavens grew of a dirty greenish brown ridged
like a plowed field and tufted as though with the
presence of thunder. The chill of the Antarctic re-
gions seemed to be in the short, moaniug gusts which
swept betwixt our masts.

The gale burst upon us in the first dog-watch. It
was then pitch-dark. Some lightning flashed in the
first sweep as though the tempest kindled itself in a
flame with the fury of its own speeding.

However, Captain Christain had been eying the
south all day, and knew what he was about. The
first of the storm of wind found the Lady Charlotte
under close-reefed fore and maintopsails and fore-
topmast staysail. She lay down to the force of the
wind till the line of her lee bulwark rail was flush
with the sea, then rose buoyant with a long, floating
lift up the side of the great Pacific surge, and was
presently making a noble fight of ‘it:

This weather threatened never to end. Day after
day it continued to blow with astounding violence.
The heavens were a dark, stooping, apparently mo-
tionless surface of a sort of sooty slate, along which
there fled with incredible velocity a wild yellow
scud, of the color of sulphur, in curls, and feathers,
and vail-like lengths.

For days and days my wife kept under hatches,
and I visited the deck but rarely.

The discomfort of the time was beyond expression.
The galley fire was incurably extinguished, and
there was nothing warm to bebhad. We subsisted
upon vile tinned meats—and vile they were in those
days—and, had it not been for my having laidina
private stock of provisions, we should have had
nothing to eat but this preserved meat and moldy
biscuit, a large proportion of which was richly flav-
ored with weevils,

I cannot recollect the latitude, but I know that we
had trended very far north when the fierce gale
broke. The skipper got ‘‘sights,”’ but his face was
as ‘long as a wet. hammock,” to use the sailors’
phrase, when his calculations showed-him that he
had been blown leagues, and leagues, and leagues
out of his course. However, the barometer was ris-
ing, the sea falling, the breeze blew sweet and warm,
there was hot food to be had, and dry sand-white
planks to walk on,

Thad spent a couple of long hours of the evening
in pacing the quarter-deck with Jenny. There was
no moon, but many large stars trembled inthe dark
velvet betwixt the steam-colored clouds, and their
light touched her and made a vision of her face, with
a sparkle of white fire in each dark eye, and a pallor
of flesh, that dimmed her red lips into a hue as va-
gue as that of her hair.

We talked of England, went over again the plans
we had formed.

She had no knowledge of any country. What she
had seen and knew lay in the darkness behind her
mind, She heard me name London, Paris, Vienna,
New York—such cities as these without a hint in her
manner, voice, or face to suggest that they were more
than the idlest. words to her, Sometimes I would im-
agine, or perhaps hear a somethingin her articula-
tion that made me suppose that she might be an
American, or sprung at least from American par-
entsif a stranger to the country. Another time I
would fancy a Scotch accent, scarce determinable, in
her articulation. But I never questioned her. AsI
have said, I desircd that her past. should lie back in
the grave of her memory. She had come through
deep shadow, leaving all behind in impenetrable
gloom, and had emerged into the clear and pure
light, and had found me. Half the sweetness of her
love for me lay in this thought of it.. I was satisfied,
and, as I have said, lasked no questions, made no
effort to help her memory, shrunk as from a fancy of
barbarous violence from the lightest thought of
struggling to obtain a single peep behind the vail.

My wife went to her berth at a quarter before ten,
and Lsat with the captain in the cabin until about
twenty minutes to eleven, sipping at a small bowl of
punch, he had brewed in celebration of the improve-
ment in the weather, and smoking with him.

The captain said: ‘‘Your. health, Mr. Furlong.
You're a different man from what you were when you
first stepped on board us,”

I drank to him. “I am,” said I, “and in more
senses than one, too, Lam perfectly well in health,
and Iam married.”

“Tt is not the first time that a wife has been found
at sea,” he exclaimed. “Old ocean doesn’t want
much dredging to yield. ye wives as well as other
things more or less precious. . But it’s not often that
a wife comes to a man out of the blackness of a dead
calm, singing softly out of a straying mind, with
ne’er a name to her back, anda life beginning as it
were with a knowledge of the man she marries. I
suppose ye’ll be living in England, Mr. Furlong?”

“Ay,” said I, ‘we shall probably settle down near
London.”’

“T shall drop in upon you,” said he, heartily.

“No living creature will be more welcome,” said I.

We drank to each other again, then five bells were
struck forward. Ten minutes later I bade him good-
night and went to my wife’s berth.

She occupied the top bunk, ahd lay in.a deep sleep.
A small light was diffused by a bracket lamp that
swung near the door, and I stood looking at her for
some time with the lovein me for. her stirred to its
depths by the girlish tenderness of expression which
the calm and hush of sleep had mingled with her
loveliness.

I gazed, wondering whether her past ever opened
before her in dreams. It seemed incredible. that
beauty which discovered so much powers of mind as
hers, even as she lay, before me in peaceful uncon-
sciousness, should be absolutely destitute of prob-
ably the most vitalizing influence of the intellect.

Gently, thatI might not disturb her, I fell to un-
clothing myself.

Seated in my bunk, I was in the act of pulling off a
boot, when I was startled by a sudden, violent roar-
ing f voices on deck.

IT heard some hoarse shouts followed by another
wild roaring noise of human cries.

What couldit mean? There were anguish and terror
in every note of it. The ship creaked drearily from
her heart as she came to windward in a sharp,
peevish lift to the underrun of some wolfish, hissing
sea, and an instant after a blow resounded through °
her that was asthough she had blown up or struck
heavily amidships and split in two. " ‘

A loud crying of men’s voices rose again while the
ship lay over, over, over, bowing down with a dread-
ful rapidity till her deck was like the side of a steep
hill

I gripped at a stanchion and missed it, and fell
with the whole weight of my body against the bulk-
head that contained the door. My head struck the
hard timber; and down I tumbled motionless and in-
sensible as if my head had been laid open by a
hatchet. ,

When [ recovered my senses I was lying upon the
deck with my head upon my wife’s knee.. She was
bathing my brow with Hungary water.

The cabin lamp was burning, and I opened my eyes
upon her sweet and anxious face as she bent over
me. For a minute or two my mind remained abroad,
but the memory of the thunderous blow that had
heeled the ship over flashed upon me on a sudden

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

like
though electrified to my feet.

“Oh, dearest!” cried my wife.
dead.”

“How long have I been unconscious, Jenny ?’’ I in-
quired, eagerly straining my ears as I spoke.

“T cannot tell. I have been too much terrified to
know. Some serious accident has befallen the
vessel, 1 fear. There was a deal of hurried rushing
of feet overhead, and a noise of masts breaking, and
faint cries as of people in a boat at some distance,
and then this present stillness.”

With lifted hand as a demand for silence, I listened.
The ship was slightly pitching; before I fell sense-
less she had been rolling. The straining sounds
within her were very heavy ; there was also a sloppy
sort of noise, as of near waters close to us, as though
the wash of the surge came very near to the scuttles.
I also distinguished in the movements of the ship,
slightas they were, a sluggishness that was like a
slow, but steadfast languishing into lifelessness,
different indeed from the familiar buoyant lift and
fall of the planks.

Ali this I gathered in the space of half a dozen res-
pirations along with the sense of a dead stillness on
deck ; that is to say, | could not hear a human voice,
nor catch the dimmest footfall.

“Dress yourself, Jenny, as quickly as possible,” I
eried, ‘“‘as completely as time will suffer. I will re-
join you in a minute or two;” and within at least a
couple of minutes from the instant of my recovery I
was on deck.

“T feared you were

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

SISTER ANGELA;

OR,

Wedded by F'ate.
&.
By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

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

{“SISTER ANGELA” was commenced in No. 1.

{ Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Ageuts.]

CHAPTER XX.
A FLIGHT FROM WAR AND PESTILENCE.

R. NORMAN WINTHROP
was so like his brother, the
physician, that, to a casual ob-
server, he would have ap-
peared to be the same man.
He had the same symmetri-
eal, stalwart form and noble
earriage ; the same fine, clear-
cut, intelligent face, and
smile and hair and eyes; but
he lacked something, when
one saw them together, that Dr. Winthrop possessed.
Perhaps it was the grave, yet gentle dignity which
always characterized the latter; or if may have been
the frank, honest, straightforward look with which
he met the glance of every one, and which Norman
had never possessed.

They frequently had occasion to laugh over the
fact of their striking resemblance to each other and
the ludicrous mistakes which sometimes occurred in
consequence. For instance, Dr. Winthrop and his
brother were once invited to a reception which the
young physician was unable to attend. When Mr.
Norman Winthrop presented himself before his
hostess, she inquired for his brother and he explained
that an important engagement had detained him.
But, chancing just then to glance toward the other
end of the room, he exclaimed :

“Why, no! there he is now!”

And, excusing himself to the lady, he went to meet
his brother and walked straight up to a full-length
mirror that had been let into one side of the room, to
find that he had mistaken his own reflection for the
young doctor. : ,

This incident, which both were fond of relating,
never failed to excite the greatest merriment. |

But Miss Sadie Rochester had never yet been guilty
of mistaking one for the other, let her meet them
where she would. s

She had thought, the first time she saw Dr.
Winthrop, that she had met her fate, for she had
been attracted toward him as no other man had ever
attracted her. She recognized in him a nature more
lofty, a character more grand and true than other
men of her acquaintance wey morn and she believed
if she could win him for her husband and thus se-
cure also the two great fortunes, destined to be
united in one, she would have nothing left to wish
for.

But when Norman Winthrop suddenly made his |

appearance upon the scene she realized at once her
mistake.

The moment he greeted her—the moment his hand
clasped hers and his ovee looked into hers she recog-
nized a magnetic influence about him which his
brother lacked, and from that hour he began to
weave a strange spell about her.

She could not say that she liked Dr. Winthrop less,
and had she never seen his twin she would have be-
lieved that she loved him; but there was a subtle
power in every look, tone, and movement of Nor-
man, which set all her pulses thrilling, as if they
had been wrought upon by some weird and fasci-
nating musie.

Was it the element of wickedness inherent in both
their natures which recognized in each other a kin-
dred spirit.

The young man, on his part, seemed fascinated
from the hour of their introduction, and, despite the

fact that he knew Miss Rochester had for years been |

the destined bride of his brother, he devoted himself
to her, attending her upon every. possible occasion,
ealling upon her with suspicious frequency, and con-
stantly sending her fruit, flowers, or some other
reminder of himself. ,

Mrs. Rochester saw danger ahead from all this at-
tention, and the evident pleasure with which Sadie re-
ceived it, and she was very much troubled on account
of it, heartily wishing that Norman Winthrop had
never made his appearancé in Paris; but she seemed
powerless to change anything, or to prevent the de-
velopment of the acquaintance, and was therefore
obliged to let matters take their own course.

It was a very gay winter, in spite of the fact that
death had so recently -visited both families.

Miss Rochester willfully insisted that there was no
sense in shutting ones self away from all life and en-
joyment, simply because they happened to be in
mourning; while Madame Winthrop and Evelyn de-
elared that Dr. Winthrop owed it to them to act as
their escort, since Mr. Winthrop was unable to en-
dure excitement of any kind and they always man-
aged—when Norman did not interfere—so that he
and Miss Rochester would be thrown together.

Thus the season passed, and both Evelyn and Miss
Rochester became so absorbed in their pleasure-
seeking that they utterly refused to heed the warn-
ings of their friends to leave Paris, or they would be
liable to get into trouble, for the signs of the times
betokened serious political complications.

They laughed the idea to scorn that they, being
Awericans, could be in any danger, and kept putting
off their departure until it was too late, and the in-
surrection of that ever memorable year, burst upon
them, with all its horrors, when every avenue of
escape from the city was suddenly cut off, and there
appeared to beno possibility of their being able to
leave for a place of safety.

Those were experiences which tried the souls of
both men and woien, and it is doubtful if the Win-
throp or Rochester ladies were ever so subdued as
when they discovered that they were shut into that
turbulent city with unknown dangers on every hand.

One morning Dr. Winthrop called at Mrs. Rochester’s
rooms, and his pale face, and hurried manner, plainly
betrayed that he was laboring under great anxiety,

Miss Rochester was alone in the drawing-room
when he entered, for her mother, not feeling well
that morning, had not yet made her appearance.

‘“‘What is the matter?’ Miss Rochester questioned,
as she gave her hand to the young physician, and
then, with a sudden sense of impending evil as she
searched his troubled face, she laid her other hand
upon his arm.

“T have come to see if you and Mrs. Rochester can
be ready to leave Paris at a moment’s warning,’’ he
replied. ee

“Why; are we in any danger?” she cried in alarm.

“Every one in the city is in danger,” he answered.
“There is no knowing what may happen during the
next twenty-four hours. I am going to try to arrange
for a place of safety for you, together with my
mother and sister, if you will be guided by me and
consent to go with them.”

+ “Of course I will be guided by you. How good you
are to think of us!’”” Miss Rochester returned, cling-
ing to him and looking a into his face with an air of
trust, which she meant should tell him a great deal.

In spite of the strange power which his brother had
acquired over her, she was nevertheless determined
to marry Dr. Winthrop if she could win him; the
great possessions which the union would secure to
her were of more consequence than all the sentiment
in the world.

“Of course I should think of you, when you and
Mrs. Rochester, have no protector,” the young man
replied. “I am only sorry now, that I did not insist
upon your all leaving Paris when I first proposed it.”

something seen by a fierce light, and I sprang as

 

“Where can we go?’ she asked.

“T do not know yet,” he said, thoughtfully: ‘‘l am
onmy way now to see what arrangements I can
make with the American Consul for your safety.”

‘For oursafety!” sherepeated. “Surely you are com-
ing withus,” and Miss Rochester’s white fingers closed
almost convulsively over his arm, while her anxious
eyes searched his face.

‘Yes, [shall not leave you until you are all com-
fortably located somewhere, but——”

“You will not then return?’ she cried in a startled
tone.

“Yes,” he reluctantly admitted, “I did not mean to
tell any one of my intention, but since you have sus-
pected it, [may as well own that I am coming back
to offer my services as surgeon and physician in the
hospitals.”

“Oh, pray do not! think of the danger!” Miss
Rochester pleaded in tones of distress.

“T have no fear,” he said, gravely, while he added
to himself that it could not matter much to him what
danger orfate awaited him, for life had few charms
for him without Salome to share it.

“No, perhaps not for yourself,” his companion re-
turned, in tremulous tones, “but for the sake of
others youshould guard your life. If—if anything
should happen to you! Oh, Dr. Winthrop, I could
not bear it.”

She had spoken very rapidly, and almost passion-
ately—apparently driven on by feelings which she
could not control, while the look in her eyes revealed
to him just what she had long been trying to make
him understand, that he had become all in all to her.

Then, all at once, she appeared to become conscious
of how much she was betraying. A look of consterna-
tion and dismay swept over her face—the rich blood
rushed in a crimson tide over cheek, neck, and brow,
and the next moment, as if overcome with shame
forsuch an unguarded confession, she dropped her
head in graceful humility upon the hand whieb still
clasped his arm, and murmured brokenly.

“Forgive me—forgive me!—I forgot—I did not
mean .

At that instant a door, close by which the young
couple were standing in such asuggestive attitude,
opened, and Mrs. Rochester appeared upon the
scene.

Her face lighted with glad surprise as, at a glance,
she seemed to take in the situation.

It was too late to beat a retreat, for Dr. Winthrop
had already seen her, so she thought she might as
well take time by the forelock and give the young
man to understand that she believed hima happy ac-
cepted lover.

“T hope you will pardon me,” she said, witha
frank, delighted smile, ‘I would not have intruded
had I suspected the nature of this interview ; but you
will at least allow me to express my pleasure, and
offer congratulations.”

“Oh, mamma!” burst from Miss Rochester, and
then, as if overcome with confusion, she darted
through the open door, telling herself with a feeling
of triumph, that Dr. Winthrop, having been caught
in such a compromising position, could not do other-
wise than yield gracefully to his fate and ratify the
engagement which both families so much desired.

Dr. Winthrop, whose mind was intent only upon
getting safely out of Paris, did not realize that then
was the proper time to disclaim the honor which was
being thrust upon him. He pitied the fair girl, who
had so thoughtlessly (?) betrayed her love for him,
and felt that it would perhaps be best to leave her to
make her own explanations to her mother.

So he only bowed gravely in reply to Mrs. Roches-
ter’s greeting, though adeep flush swept across his
brow, then, ignoring her remark entirely, he said:

“T came this morning to ask Miss Rochester if you
and she could be ready to leave Paris at short no-
tice. The city is in such a turbulent state that we
- oo it would be best to get away as soon as pos-
sible.

“Isit so bad as that ?’—are wein danger personal-
ly ?” she asked, growing pale with anxiety.

“J will not deceive you—yes. The people are so
excited and unreasonable that there isno knowing
what they may not do.”

“Then let us go at once—I can be ready in less than
an hour,” said Mrs. Rochester, all her native energy
and courage rising to meet this emergency.

“We willif we can—if every avenue is not closed
against us,’ he replied. “Get your trunks packed
and be ready when I come, or send for you.”

“We will,” was the decided answer, ‘and,’ witha
significant smile, “Sadieis, of course, perfectly will-

 

ing to be guided by you, now.”

He made no reply to this, but took his leave at |
once, although notina very comfortable frame of |
mind, for it was very evident that Mrs. Rochester re- |
garded him as a prospective son-in-law and was very
much delighted in the belief. }

“Surely Miss Rochester will not allow her mother
to imagine that I have made her an offer of mar- |
riage; she will of course explain our unfortunate |
position,” he mused, as he went out. “It was very |
disagreeable, and I am surprised at her for losing
her self-possession so completely. I did notimagine !
that the girl really cared for me in any such way, |
she has always been so frank and friendly. I did
not dream that she would fall in love with me; I}
half suspected that she was getting fond of Nor- |
man.’

“Well, since she has fallen in love with you, why
shouldn’t you marry her? You are free, and you are |
not likely to meet another woman so lovely and ac-
complished as Sadie Rochester; and then you could |
settle at once and forever the vexing question of the
Hamilton-Rochester contract,” was the question |
which arose in his mind in answer to his previous |
musings; but he thoroughly believed in Sadie
Rochester, never once suspecting that she had been
playing a part during all these months. Though he |
recognized her beauty and many accomplishments, |
and knew that she would shinein any position, he
oe an instinctive shrinking from an aiance with

er.

But these thoughts could not long remain upper-
most in his mind. His chief anxiety now was to get
his family to a place of safety, and in this undertak-
ing he was peculiarly fortunate.

Mr. Tillinghast. met him. soon after he left Mrs. |
Rochester, and told him that he knew of a couple of |
families who were going outside the city limits that |
very evening. They had secured passes through }
some one in high authority, and were going to occu-
py a portion of a large villa that was almost a
palace, located on the banks of the Seine, about ten |
miles out. He believed that Dr. Winthrop might |
succeed in getting his family and the Rochesters |
passed out with them.

It was an opportunity to be instantly seized upon.
He sought the parties at once. They were kind and
sympathetic people, and consented to take the |
frightened Americans in charge. Everything was
arranged with comparative ease, and the next day
they were all safely housed in the spacious villa, and |
delighted to be out of danger, and also with the
pleasant change from city to country life.

When Dr. Winthrop had seen them all comfortably
settled, he informed his mother that he was going to |
return to Paris to resume his practice in the hospital, |
or wherever he should be most needed.

Madam rebelled violently against this plan.

“You have no right to do it—no right to thus rashly
risk your life, especially sow,’ she vehemently as-
cee and with significant emphasis on the last
word.

“What is my life?’ he demanded, bitterly, with a}
slight quiver of his lips; “and what especial value
can it have at this time ?”’

“Can you ask,” his mother inquired, astonished.
“when at last you have come to your senses ?”

“What do you mean?’’ he questioned, astonished,
in his turn.

“Why, that you are finally going to do the proper
thing, and marry Sadie Rochester.”

“Who said that I was going to marry Miss Roch- |
ester? Did she tell you so?’ Dr. Winthrop gravely |
inquired.

“No; of course not. Such an announcement should
come from you. But Mrs. Rochester has told me
what happened in her drawing-room the other even-
ing. She said that. you might not be quite ready to
formally announce it, for she could get nothing defi-
nite out of Sadie; but she was confident that you
were engaged.”

‘Mrs. Rochester is surely very good to arrange
everything so comfortably for me,” Dr. Winthrop re-
plied, with a curling lip, while in his heart there
arose a feeling of contempt for Miss Rochester, be-
cause she had neglected to set matters straight.

No matter what her own feelings might be, she at
least should have exonerated him from the suspicion
of having proposed to her and been accepted.

He turned abruptly and left his mother, without
attempting to explain further, and returned directly
to Paris; and certainly no one could have thought
him very lover-like to depart withont taking leave of
his supposed fiancee.

Madam spent the remainder of the day in tears, for
the estrangement of her son was a great trial to her,
since it proved that he had not forgiven her for the
part she had taken against Salome.

Several days. passed, and then the terrible crisis
came—a crisis’ the memory of which makes many a
Frenchman shudder to-day—and then, before the
horrors of the insurrection had fairly begun to sub-
side, there went abroad the paralyzing rumor that
cholera had broken out in the doomed city.

Who shall describe the weeks that followed? The
terrors of riot and of war were as nothing compared
with the onward march of that silent and stealthy
foe, tliat mowed down thousands with its invisible
but deadly weapons.

Dr. Winthrop was in Paris through it all, and had
thrown himself heart and soul into caring for the
perishing ones around him.

He had advised his father and brother to take the
family'and go to England or Scotland, or to some
other healthful resort, where there would be little or
no danger of the dread disease.

But his mother obstinately reftised to go, while he
remained, and of course the other members of the
family would not leave her.

Every one else had fled from the villa upon the first
rumor of cholera, and Mrs. Rochester would have
been glad to follow, but her daughter: was as obsti-
nate as Madame Winthrop herself. She had so set

 

her heart{fupon winning Truman Winthrop, so de-
termined to secure the prize for which she had so

schemed and humiliated herself, that she resolved to
boldly face death rather than run the risk of losing
him. Besides, Norman Winthrop was obliged to re-
main.

So'the Winthrops and the Rochesters had that mag-
nificent villa to themselves, and a charming place it
was.

Tt stood upon a ‘bluff overhanging the river, was
finely and healthfully located, and Dr. Winthrop said
if they were bound to remainin France they could
not bein a better place. Still he would have much
preferred that they should goto Scotland, and it was
a continual cause for anxiety to know that they were
in such danger from the pestilence.

Mr. Tillinghast, too, had refused to leave his friend,
but he was also one of those heroes who never think
of self in danger, and he had insisted upon going into
the hospital with and to act under the direction of
Dr. Winthrop.

But in his enthusiasm he overtaxed himself, and
one day he was stricken with the dread disease.

Dr. Winthrop felt asif thegtug of war” had now
set in, in good earnest. He could not devote him-
self exclusively to his friend, for the entire care
of some of the wards of the hospital devolved upon
him during certain hours of each day, while nurses
were very scarce, and he found it impossible to se-
cure the constant services of any one in the private
room which he had, by paying an exorbitant price,
managed to secure for Tillinghast.

“T must have a nurse and a competent one,” he ex-
claimed, almost in despair, after searching for more
than an hour one day, and an hour inthe race with
death was very precious.

He had just come into one of the wards where he
belonged, and was about to begin his rounds, when
his eye fell upon a couple of nuns, who were in the
habit of coming every day to assist and relieve some
of the nurses. They belonged to the order of Gray
Nuns, and were cladin the loose and homely garb
worn by that sisterhood. But little could be seen of
their faces, for they worethe close, gray bonnet, with
a wide frill of black tissue plaited about the edge of
alittle black silk cap worn underneath, and ghastly
white bandages about their foreheads and chins; the
only way that they could be distinguished from each
other—for they were of the same height—was by a
pair of double-blue glasses which one of them wore,
something evidently being the matter with her eyes.

But they were very helpful, very sweet and gentle
in their ways, particularly the sister in blue glasses,
who was known as Sister Angela, or “The Angel in
Gray,” as the poor soldiers and patients soon learned
to call her.

CHAPTER XXI.
DR. WINTHROP PASSES THROUGH DEEP WATERS.

“Perhaps they will know of some one whom I can
get to nurse Tillinghast,~Dr. Winthrop muttered, as
he watched these two Sisters of Mercy flitting from
couch to couch, intent only upon relieving the suffer-
ing around them.

He had never yet spoken with them, for on his ap-
proach, they would always modestly withdraw, and
stand with bowed heads and crossed hands until he
had made his examination, given his orders to the
head nurse, and passed on.

Now, however, he walked directly toward oneof
them, who was bathing the hot face and hands of a
poor fellow, who had lost aleg during the late insur-
rection.

Her back was toward him and he did not know
which one she was until he stepped beside her and
she turned her face toward him; then he caught
sight of the blue glasses and he saw it was Sister
Angela.

“Can I speak with you a moment Sister?’ he in-
quired in a low tone.

She stepped back, crossed her hands upon her
bosom, bowed her head and waited to hear what he
had to say.

“My friend has been suddenly stricken down,” he
began, ‘“‘I must have a competent nurse at once, or
he will die. Do you know of such a one ?”

“No, monsieur,” she replied, “every nurse in Paris
is engaged—see !”—with a sweeping gesture of one
hand, though she did not raise her head or her
glance—‘‘you have not sufficient help even here, and
hundreds are dying outside for the want of proper
care.”

“Then, what shall Ido?” cried Dr. Winthrop, and
there was a. note of agony in his tone. His friend
had not spared himself for others, and he could not
bear that he should die from lack of care.

“Has monsieur no friends who could come to him?”
inquired the nun.

“No; none who would be of any service at such a
time,” and he shivered as he thought‘of bringing any
member of his family into that pest-house. Norman

was the only one who occurred to him, and he was |

needed too much elsewhere, to be thought of for a
moment.

“Monsieur is very ill?’ said the nun, inquiringly.

“Very; I fear the worst,” he replied, with a heavy
sigh.

Sister Angela seemed to be thinking deeply for a
moment, then telling him briefly to “wait,’’ she went
down the ward and talked earnestly with the other
nun for a few minutes.

Presently she returned and said:

“T know something of sickness and if monsieur le
docteur will trust me, J will do the best I can.”

“Will you? Can you leave your other duties ?”’ he
eagerly cried.

“My duties are those that lie nearest at hand and
are the most urgent,” she quietly answered, but the
low, sweet tones were like music to him, for there

| was hope in them.

“Thank you,”
“you haye taken a great load from my heart.
can you come?”

*‘ Monsieur le docteur may take me to his friend at
once—the need is great; I delay not for anything.”

“You are very good,” her companion returned in a

the physician gratefully returned,
When

tone that trembled, for he was deeply moved. Then |

turning abruptly, he simply bade her “Come.”

She followed him to a roomat the further end of
the ward, where he opened a door and then stood
aside to allow her to pass in.

The apartment was. very comfortable, cool, and
well-ventilated, and the windows had been darkened,
for the glare of the sun was hot and painful.

Sister Angela ager noiselessly in, glancing toward
the patient as she did so. She quietly removed her

close gray bonnet, but Dr. Winthrop, though he tried |

to do so, could not get even a glimpse of: her face, for

the plaiting of black silk tissue which was fastened |

to her cap, still fell close about it.

She then went directly to the bedside and looked
more closely at the patient. t

“He is very low, monsieur,”’ she said to Dr. Win-
throp, who was gazing sadly at his friend, while he
felt his pulse.

“He is indeed,” he whispered with emotion.

“Has he hot water at his feet and warm flannel
about his body?” was the next query, “Ah!” with-
out waiting for a reply, and deftly slipping her hand
under the bed clothes to the patient’s feet, ‘the
bottle is cold, it must be renewed.”

She drew it forth, glided swiftly yet noiselessly
from the room, but was back again before he could
have thoughtit possible. and replaced the replenished
bottle at the sick man’s feet. :

She then heated a blanket, which she spread over
his body and limbs, after which she turned her at-
tention to his nourishment,

“Ah, thisis very badly made,” she murmured, as
she stirred the arrow-root gruel that stood cold upon
the table, and found it full of lumps.

She immediately set about preparing some fresh,
and not long after was deftly feeding the almost
dying man with the smooth, well-cooked porridge,
to which she had added a little brandy.

Dr. Winthrop was greatly relieved as he noticed
how efficient she was, and though he did not have
much hope that his friend would live, he felt that at
least he would henceforth have everything needful
done for him.

All day long he was in and out of the room to watch
his condition, and give him what personal attention
he could.

The nurse, though she seldom.spoke or even looked
at him, obeyed his every direction implicitly and in-
telligently, and toward evening he could detect a
slight—a very slight improvement in Tlllinghast’s
condition.

Sister Angela did not spare herself; she renewed
the hot bottles at his feet the moment they began to
cool; she kept the heated blanket constantly about
his body and administered either nourishment or
stimulants every few minutes.

During the night following she was just as faithful;
not once did she close her eyes to sleep or relax her
vigilant care oi her charge, and by morning he was
really more comfortable, if not actually better. But
he: was so weak, his pulse was so feeble, that Dr.
Winthrop-did not dare to hope much from the trifling
improvement in his condition.

Mr. Tillinghast, however, appeared to havea little
more consciousness of the efforts that were being
made to save him, and eagerly swallowed his nour-
ishment and stimulants, instead of lying, as hitherto,
almost stupid and indifferent, to have them forced
between his lips.

“You will be worn out—you must have rest.” Dr.
Winthrop said to Sister Angela, as the second day of
her attendance drew near its close and she was still
as unremitting in her attentions as ever.

“Nay; I shall not leave monsieur le docteur’s friend
until he is out of danger, or past all help,” she re-
turned quietly, but resolutely, and no amount of
persuasion could change her decision.

The young man did get better; he continued to
rally slowly but steadily, and in a few days Dr. Win-
throp was confident that if nothing new developed
he would soon recover.

As soon as Sister Angela was assured of this she
consented to take: her needed rest, and left him at
regular intervals for this purpose; but she always
returned promptly to her post afterward, and was
still the same watchful, careful nurse,

One morning, while she was giving her patient his
‘first really solid breakfast,” as he called it, Dr.
Winthrop hastily entered the room, his face pale and
stern, his brow wrinkled with care, and an open
note in his hand.

“Sister Angela,” he said, turning appealingly to

 

 

her, “would you be willing to go out of the city to
care for the sick? IT amina sad strait.”

“What is it, dear old fellow?’ Tillinghast asked,
sympathetically, and regarding his friend anxiously.

“My father and Evelyn are both down with the
cholera; my mother fears she soon may be, as she is
far from well,” waa the disheartening. answer.

“You will go, Sister Angela?” her patient said,
turning eagerly to her.. “I shall do well enough now
with what attention I can get from other nurses; I
will be very careful—nothing shall tempt me to be
imprudent or impatient. Ah, you must go, for poor
Winthrop is hard pressed.”

“Of course I do not expect that you will go alone,”
Dr. Winthrop continued; ‘‘I will find other nurses to
help youif they can be had, if you will but superin-
tend the care of my friends. I can trust you fully,
and shall feel that nothing will be neglected under
your supervision.”

The gentle nun did not reply immediately. She
seemed to be gravely considering the matter; but
Mr. Tillinghast, who alone could see anything of her
face, was sure that he saw a vivid crimson shoot up
to and lose itself under her ugly bandages, as if the
proposition was a very distasteful one to her.

“Yes, monsieur, I will go,’ she at last replied, in her
usual quiet tones, then she turned back to the bed-
side and went on feeding her charge, though he
thought her hand trembled slightly on its way from
the plate to the mouth.

“T believe I should have died but for you, Sister
Angela,” the young man said, when he had finished
his breakfast. ‘I am very grateful. I shall bless you
always. Is there not something I can do for you to
prove 1t?”

‘Nothing, monsieur; my wants are very few, and
I need no proof,’ she answered, but her yoice was
not quite steady, he thought.

“TY am sorry,” he said, gratefully, “for I should be
glad to make some thankoffering. My friend tells
me that you are called the ‘Angelin Gray’ here in
the hospital; you have surely proved yourself such
to me; may you live long to bless others with your
gentle ministrations.”

Again a flush swept over what was visible of her
face, and her lips parted with a sigh that was some-
thing like a sob.

«The poor creature has known some heavy sorrow,”
the young man thought; “perhaps that was what
drove her to be anun. I wonder how old she is; no-
body can tell with all that cotton-cloth wound about
her head and face. She may be forty for all I can
tell, but she seems a refined lady. Her voice is sweet
and low, and cultured; her movements are graceful,
yet dignified, and her hands are small and beautifully
formed.”’

He continued to wateh her curiously while she
busied herself about some last cares for his comfort,
and then she came to take leave of him, as Dr. Win-
throp was anxious to start at once for the villa.

“Good-by,” the invalid said, with emotion ; “I hope
IT shall see you some time again, Sister Angela, but if
Ido not I shall always hold you in grateful remem-
brance.”

She bowed her head in acknowledgment of his grta-
itude, murmured a benediction over him, and then
passed quietly out of the room with Dr. Winthrop.

The young physician felt greatly relieved because
she had acceded to his request, and tried to express
his thanks, but she cut him short in the midst of
them.

“Thanks are unnecessary, monsieur; it is my work,
my duty,’ she said. “I goto one, then to another,
wherever I am most needed.”

“But I think you are hardly strong enough for such
work; it is too hard, too wearing for your slight
frame.”

“But Iam well. I shall work while Heaven gives
me strength, then—His will be done,’’ was the low-
voiced, tremulous reply, and its pathos sent a quick
stab of pain through the young physician’s heart.
There was acertain hopelessness init that deeply
moved him.

He found another woman to go out to the villa with |
them, but he feared she would be hardly suited to the |

sick-room ; still it was the best he could do, and he
had to be content. -

He tried to engage Sister Angela in conversation on
their way thither, but she would not talk. She lis-

tened to whatever he had to say with bowed head |

and clasped hands, and when actually obliged to
answer him, she did so in the briefest manner.
Arriving at the villa, Dr. Winthrop found his
father alarmingly ill. Evelyn
frightened, but in no immediate danger.
Winthrop was far from well, but did not as yet show
any deciced symptoms of the terrible scourge.
Norman Winthrop was doing the best that he

could for them all, with the assistance of the ser- |
vants; but he was greatly relieved by the appear- |
| ance of his brother and his assistants.

Mrs. Rochester and her daughter had shut them- |
selves in their own rooms as soon as Mr. Winthrop |
was attacked, and kept aloof as much as possible |

from every one. They would have been glad now to
flee from France at once, if they had not feared they
would be overtaken by the plague before they could
reach a place of safety.

Sister Angela at once took up her position at. the
bedside of Mr. Winthrop; but, though she was faith-
ful in the minutest particular and Dr.

ance with the prevailing law,

buried.

This affliction of course made Evelyn. worse, and |

Madame Winthrop was at once prostrated, while. be-

fore the day was over, Dr. Winthrop was summoned |
to attend Miss Rochester, who was Violently attacked |

with cramps.

“We must have more help,’ he said, with pale |
“Where shall I |

lips, a little later to Sister Angela.
turn for another nurse ?”

The faithful nun, after thinking a moment, drew

forth a note-book, wrote a few lines, then, tearing a

couple of leaves from it, was about to pass them to |
the physician, when she suddenly seemed to change |

her mind and, crumpling them in her hand, hastily
thrust them into her capacious pocket.
“Could you find No. 15 Rue de 2’ she asked,
mentioning a street in an humble quarter of Paris.
Or OSL) &
getting a nurse in this terrible emergency,”
perately returned.
“Then go—inquire for

he
Harriet Winter;

Hasten, monsieur, for time is precious.”

Dr. Winthrop needed no second bidding; he did |

not even pause to wonder over the fact that the

French nun had sent hin for a woman with a very |

American sounding name.

With despair at his heart he flew back to Paris,
sparing neither himself nor his horses. He found
the street and the woman, Harriet Winter—a black-

eyed, red-cheeked, pleasant-mannered individual, |
1 and be- |
fore sundown she was installed in Miss Rochester’s |

who did not hesitate to obey his summons;

room, and Dr. Winthrop felt that he was fortunate

indeed in having secured another nurse who was |

second only to Sister Angela herself.

Harriet Winter not only proved herself to be very |
efficient in the sick-room; but she seemed to fit in |

everywhere, assumed the management of the entire
household, and at once the whole family began to
experience a sense of homelike comfort such as they
had not known during their residence abroad.

During the two weeks that followed, there were
anxious days and nights in that villa overlooking the
Seine.

Madame Winthrop went very low into the “valley
of the shadow of death,” while Evelyn slowly rallied,
then, when her mother began to recover, she had a
relapse, and at one time her brother thought she was
gone beyond recall.
~ But the faithful nurse would not give her up; she
stood over her, even after Dr. Winthrop had said
there was no pulse and that all further efforts would
not avail, and persisted in dropping nourishment
mixed with stimulants between her pallid lips.

“Tt can do no harm, monsieur,’’ she murmured,
when he had begged her to desist.

“No, nor any good,’ he responded, moodily; but
his voice broke as it suddenly occurred to him that
his sister must die without a knowledge of his for-
giveness for the great wrong she had doue him, and,
staggering weakly to a chair, he sank into it with a
groan, bowing his face upon his hands.

The overworked man was worn out mentally as
well as physically.

A deep, quivering sigh broke from the lips of Sister
Angela, but aside from a yearning, wistful glance,
she paid no heed to him, but continued her ministra-
tions to Evelyn.

One—two hours passed, and still the weary man sat
there half asleep, wholly exhausted, while drop by
drop the patient nun pressed the stimulating gruel
between the girl’s hueless lips,

At length she thought that her breathing, which
had hardly been perceptible for a long time, had be-
come a trifle stronger. All at once the invalid ap-
peared to swallow naturally. A faint sigh broke
upon Sister Angela’s ears, the girl moved her head
slightly on her pillow, and then sunk into a natural
slumber.

A wan little smile flitted over the nurse’s lips, as
she noiselessly placed her cup and spoon on the
table beside her, and glanced at that other sleeping
figure across the room.

She would not arouse him from the blessed rest, for
she knew her good news could wait; but when at
last she saw he was awake, she glided softly to his
side, and said in a scarcely audible tone.

“Monsieur, take courage, I think your sister will
live.”’

Dr. Winthrop started to his feet, a dazed look om his
worn face, then he moved quickly to Evelyn’s side,
and at the first glance his practised eye told him that
there had been a decided change for the better.

From that time until morning dawned, he never
left her side, and when the sun arose, he felt almost
as if his sister had been given back to him from the
dead.

But their trials were by no means over, for during
that day one of the servants died, and Miss Rochester
appeared to be sinking. But what need to dwell
upon those wretched experiences? upon the almost
superhuman efforts of Dr. Winthrop to save the
precious livesin his charge; of the faithfulness of
those tireless nurses, who neglected nothine, and yet

was considerably |
Madame |

Winthrop |
spared no effort to save his father, he died on the |
third morning after their arrival, and, in accord- |
was immediately |

can find any place if there is hope of |
des- |

tell her.|
Sister Angela has need of her and she will come. |

exercised the utmost care over their own health for
the sake of their patients.

Those were experiences that could never be for-
gotten, but they could not endure forever, and when
those who had been so near the borders of the other
world began to recover, and Dr. Winthrop pro-
nounced them out of danger, Sister Angela and Har-
riet Winter were relieved by two other women, and
sent away for needful rest.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

a

this Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

REGINALD FORTUNE

By Mrs. HARRIET LEWIS,

Author of ‘** Lady Roslyn’s Pensioner,” ‘‘ The
House ot Secrets,” **The False Heir,”
“The Heiress of Egremont,” etc.

(“REGINALD’S FORTUNE” was commenced in No. 7,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER VIL.

A PROVIDENTIAL VISIT.—WILLA FINDS A FRIEND.

“Good actions crown themselves with lasting bays.”
Anon.

Mrs. Reid Westcourt’s particular weakness, as may
have been suspected from her violent distaste to-
ward her husband’s business, was a love of fashion-
able society.

As the daughter of an officer she had formed the
acquaintance of several county families, by whom
she had been tolerated rather than cordially received.
To strengthen her position,and secure an undisputed
foothold in their aristocratic circle, she had married
Reid Westcourt, ignoring his business, and reflecting
only that he came of a family much better than her
own, and that his brother and sister-in-law were
magnates in their own country.

But having left her village home and entered upon
her married life in town, Mrs. Westcourt had found
that her bright anticipations were not all to be real-
ized.

The families who had tolerated her in the country
did not seek to renew acquaintance with her during
their London season, not caring, perhaps, to intro-
duce a tradesman’s wife.

Reginald Westcourt and his wife, who cherished a
cordial respect for the younger brother, always in-
vited them to their entertainments, but these invi-
| tations, when accepted, were always productive of
much jealousy and heart burning.

Nevertheless, when Lady Westcourt died Mrs.
Reid Westcourt felt a sudden void in her life—know-
ing that unless her husband abjured trade, her future
life would be circumscribed to one dull routine, and
a glimpses of the brilliant world would be denied
ner.

The only friend of former days who still kept up
acquaintance with her was the widow of one of her
father’s friends, a Mrs, Col. Delvan, an elderly lady
of family and fortune. Mrs. Westcourt regarded her
as the portal by which she should re-enter her favor-
ite society, and exerted herself to the utmost to win
and retain Mrs. Delvan’s friendship.

The merchant’s wife, learning that Mrs. Delvan
was entertaing a friend from the country for a few
weeks, had called, finding neither at home, and she
was now every day expecting the call to be returned.

The morning after the interview between Mr.
Westcourt and his clerk, the merchant’s wife was
|} seated in her drawing-room. There was a lack of
ill-repressed anxiety on her countenance—a look pro-
duced by self-reproach for the part she had aoteet to-
ward Reginald. She had tried to stifle the voice of
conscience by thinking that it was now too late to
| retrace her steps in the matter, and that her husband
| would not listen to any remonstrances. The reflec-
| tion which gave her most solace was that her daugh-
ter would most benefit by the lad’s death, and with a
part of his fortune as a dowry must ultimately con-
tract a brilliant marriage.

She was not now thinking of Reginald. Oriana sat
near the fire, with Willa beside her, engaged in at-
tiring her favorite doll, and as her mother watched

her she indulged in proud dreams of the future.
| Oriana,” she said, at length, breaking the silence,
‘be careful of your dress, dear. I expect a visit
this morning from Mrs. Delvan and her friend, and IL
want you to make a good impression upon them.”

‘“‘Who is her friend ?”’ aKa the daughter, with an
air of interest, carefully adjusting the folds of her
dress.

“She is a Miss Tracy, of Lincolnshire. She comes
of a very old family, and is very rich, She is not at
| all young, I hear—quite an old maid, in fact—and if
you should interest her I presume she would invite
you to her country-seat.”’

“T wish she would,” replied Oriana. “I’d like to
go to-morrow, if it is cold weather. Perhaps she’ll
give me presents, too.”’

“Do you think she’ll invite me, Ory?’ asked Willa,
timidly. ‘‘“My mother’s name was Tracy—it’s written

”

 

| in her Bible.
Oriana glanced contemptuously at her little com-
|panion, and was about to reply, when the door
opened, and the subject of their remarks was an-
nounced with her friend, Mrs. Delvan.

Mrs. Westcourt had not before met Miss Tracy,
and was rather surprised at beholding a tall, elegant
lady of about thirty years, of unusually striking ap-
pearance,

Miss Traey possessed a well-rounded, well-de-
veloped figure, and a countenance strongly indica-
tive of character. Her eyes were dark, keen, and
penetrating; her nose was a delicate aquiline; her
mouth well proportioned to her other features, and
her complexion had little color.

There was an expression of habitual reserve and
self-repression on her face, and a haughtiness and
abruptness in her manner, that caused her hostess to
set her downin her own thoughts as an “eccentric,
strong-minded woman.”

While these characteristics did not transcend the
bounds of good breeding, they yet indicated an in-
teresting and puzzling character.

All this was seen in the course of a few minntes,
while the hostess was being introduced to her and
exchanging the compliments of the day.

Oriana’s presence had been quite forgotten by her
mother, but that young lady now came forward,
claiming her share of attention. Mrs. Westcourt in-
troduced her with evident pride to Miss Tracy,
whose manner in addressing the child seemed very
formal.
| Perhaps the reason was that there was nothing
child-like about Griana, She was. already a “little
lady” in manners and dress, and there was a painful
lack of childish enthusiasm in her movements and
expression.

As Miss Tracy turned from Oriana, her glance rest-
ed upon alittle head covered with tiny curls, which
was projected from behind a chair, where its timid
owner believed herself securely hidden. The little
sparkling face, with its eager eyes fixed upon her,
immediately riveted her attention; her manner soft-
ened and agéhtle sadness transfigured her counte-

nance.
| It was evident from this change that the lady’s
heart possessed depths of which the world knew
little.

“You have another daughter, I see, Mrs. West-
court,” she said, with a sigh.

The merchant’s wife glanced at Willa, involuntarily
marking the contrast she presented to her own child,
and replied :

“That child is not my daughter, Miss Tracy; [have
but one. She is simply a little girl whom I have taken
as a companion for Oriana. Willa,” she added, ad-
dressing the little maiden, ‘‘you: may go up to the
nursery; I don’t like you to stare so.”

“Willa?” repeated Miss Tracy, with some agitation.
“Ts her name Willa? She looks very much like a
Willa I once knew,”

The little girl left the room at this juncture, much
to Mrs. Westcourt’s relief, not liking her daughter to
be so obscured. After a minute’s reflection, she re-
marked:

“You seem to have taken a
Miss Tracy?”’

“T have, indeed,” said the visitor,
tive of yourself or of your husband ?”

“Of neither. She is a child whom I have taken out
of charity... Her mother was a schoolfellow of mine,
who cherished her girlish friendship for me long af-
ter our school-days had ended. She married against
the will of a relative, and was discarded by him. Her
husband was a professional man, dependent entirely
upon his own exertions ; and at his death, some years
ago, he left her but slenderly provided for. She died
a year ago, leaving her daughter penniless and to
my care. I accepted the charge, for my old school-
mate had been like a sister to me, and I could not en-
dure the thought that her child should be homeless,
Since then Willa has been a daughter to me, and a
sister to my child.”

Mrs. Westcourt told the story as if expecting praise
for her own generous conduct toward Willa, but Miss
Tracy bestowed none, asking, with increased_agita-
tion of manner:

“What was her mother’s name ?”’

“Willa Tracy. How singular! the same surname
as your own. She married a gentleman named Heath
—Roland Heath.”

“Ts it possible?” exclaimed Miss Tracy. ‘Willa
Tracy was my niece, although not many years young-
er than myself. She married while I was living
abroad. T returned to England only a year since, but
eould not find a trace of her, or learn that she had
left a child.”

 

great interest in Willa,

“Ts she a rela-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“T remember Willa Tracy used to speak of an aunt,
who was living abroad,’ said Mrs. Westecourt. “So
little Willa turns out to be your great-niece. How
very singular!”

Miss Tracy looked pale-with the excitement of her
discovery, and said:

“T must beg of you, Miss Westcourt, to recall Willa.
She looked at me so steadily that [fancy she must
have seen something familiar in my face. Formerly
I was not unlike her mother.”

Mrs. Westcourt inwardly ‘smiled at the thought
that this grave, self-possessed,; frozen-looking lady
could ever have been ‘considered like the merry,
sparkling Willa she had known, but she was polite
enough to conceal her amusement and send her
daughter in search of her little companion.

“Yes, I remember you as being very merry and
gay,” said Mrs. Delvan; ‘‘that was before you went
abroad, my dear. You have changed greatly during
your-long residence in foreign countries—your old
frankness seems quite frozen out of you.”

Miss Tracy smiled faintly at her friend’s remark,
but the smile was full of pain and bitterness,

Mrs. Westeourt wondered, in her own mind, what
cause could have so changed Miss Tracy, but her
musings were interrupted by the entrance of the
children.

“Come to me, Willa,’”’ said Miss Tracy; “I am your
aunt.”

The tone with which she addressed the child, and
declared the relationship existing between them,was
strangely soft and winning.

Willa surveyed her a moment, with a steadfast gaze,
then advanced with childish confidence, and was
clasped tenderly to her heart.

“Of eourse, my dear Mrs. Westcourt,’’ said Miss
Tracy, lifting the child to her knee, and folding her
to her bosom, “‘I must claim my niece!”

“T cannot object to your doing so, although I shall
deeply regret parting with her,” replied Mrs. West-
court, hardly knowing whether to rejoice or grieve at
Willa’s good fortune. ‘She is a lovely child, and we
shall regret her loss. Oriana is greatly attached to
her. E should be tempted to deny your claim, my
dear Miss Tracy, but I feel sure that you can do so
much better for her than we can.”

“T shall adont her as my own child,” responded the
visitor, looking tenderly down upon the head that
nestled in her bosom.

““My dear,” said Mrs. Delvan, in an undertone,“‘you
are young yet and may marry.”

“No, I shall never marry,” replied Miss Tracy, her
countenance convulsed with a look of pain. ‘‘[ in-
tend,” she added, with assumed lightness, ‘‘to edu-
cate this child, whom Providence has so strangely
bestowed upon me. I shall find happiness in form-
ing her character and gaining her love. At lastI
have something to live for.”

“T am glad that Willa has found such a friend,” re-
marked Mrs. Westcourt, blandly; ‘but Ido not like
to think that the ties of affection which unite her and
Oriana should be severed. You will allow dear little
Willa to visit us often, will you not, Miss Tracy ?”

Willa’s newly found aunt was not at all deceived by
this remark. She had noticed the manner of. her
hostess when proclaiming her benoyolence to the
orphan child,and had seen that the latter was re-
garded as an object of charity by both mother and
daughter,

She had also noticed inthe imperious manner of
Oriana and the shrinking, deprecating attitude of her
little ‘‘companion,” that Willa’s position in the family
had not been at all pleasant.

Notwithstanding these facts, Miss Tracy inclined
toward yielding to Mrs. Westcourt’s request.

She reflected that the merchant's wife had given a
home, such as it was,with care and attention, to her
little niece, and it would not be possible to repay her
in money; she therefore replied:

“T hardly think, Mrs. Westcourt, that I can part
with my newly found treasure, even to visit you. I
intend to reside altogether at Longholme, and, if you
are willing, should. be pleased to welcome Miss Ori-
ana whenever she is tired of town or desires Willa’s
society.”

The invitation was what the proud mother especi-
ally desired. To have her daughter on visiting terms
with Miss Tracy, to have her. spend weeks in the
midst of aristocratic society seemed to her the pin-
nacle of bliss.

In her own mind she beheld that society attracted
to her own house by Oriana, when she should have
become older, and herself on the full tide of fashion-
able life.

She expressed her pleasure in warm terms, dwell-
ing upon the affection felt for each other by the chil-
dren, and asked how long her visitor intended to re-
main in town.

“T had intended to return to-morrow,” answered |
Miss Tracy, ‘‘and, as my people all expect me, I think
I shall carry out my intention. That is,’”’ she added,
with a smile, “if my little niece has no objection. |
It seems to me, darling,” she said, addressing Willa, |
“that you are strangely silent. Don’t you want to go |
to my beautiful home in the country, where there
are birds, and flowers, and green fields ?”

Willa yielded a grave assent, adding:

“Shall I always live there ?’

“T hope so. Lam your aunt, you know, and Iam
going to be your mother, so my home will be yours.
You shall have a pony——”

“A pony ?’ ejaculated Oriana,

“A pony?’ cried Willa, eagerly. |
ride it every day! You want Regie, too, don’t you!’

“Regie! Who is Regie, darling?”

“Why, don’t you know Regie? He’s a boy—the
best and darlingest boy in the world! He’s my
friend !”

Willa spoke proudly, as if ‘“Regie’s’ friendship
were beyond all price, but the answer did not seem to
enlighten her aunt.

Mrs. Westcourt oxpiained :

‘Regie, as Willacalls him, is my husband’s nephew,
Reginald Westcourt. He is very fond of your little
niece.”

“T remember the elder Reginald Westcourt, his
ag remarked Miss. Tracy. “Is the lad like
tim 2?’

“In some respects,” Pe aa the merchant’s wife,
uneasily; “but he is not healthy. Willa, dear,” she
added, wishing to change the subject, “‘won’t you be
sorry to leave us all?’

Willa shrunk closer to her aunt, as if for protec-
tion, and that simple, appealing act aroused for her
in a moment all the cones sympathies and love in
Miss Tracy’s nature.

“She will see Oriana often at Longholme, will she
not?” she asked, without giving the child a chance
to reply. ‘And Oriana shall have a pony when she
comes, and we will have delightful rides together.”

Oriana expressed her delight at this promise, and
Miss Tracy then bade her niece get ready to return
with her to Mrs. Delvan’s, adding:

“You see, Mrs. Westcourt, that I have already be-
come deeply attached to the child. I can hardly bear
to have her leave my sight.”

When Willa returned to the drawing-room with her
outdoor clothing on, she carried a small parcel of
books in her arms, including those given her by Regi-
nald on his departure, and her mother’s Bible.

“What are you going to do with all these?” asked
her aunt,in surprise. ‘You had better leave them,
Willa.”

“This was my mother’s Bible,” declared Willa, “and
Regie gave me these story-books. I want to take
them all with me.”

Miss Tracy took the Bible, glanced upon the fly-leaf
at the inscription, and showed some emotion as she
recognized the handwriting.

“You shall take this, my dear,” she said.

“Allow her to take them all,” said Mrs. Westcourt,
siniling. “At least, Miss Tracy, allow me to send
them with her trunk to Mrs. Delvan’s.”

The visitor would gladly have declined books,
trunk, and all, but she did not wish to grieve Willa
or anger her late protector, so she acceded to the
request.

After a further conversation, the visitors rose to
take leave, Willa made her adieu, Mrs. Delvan led
the way to the carriage and gave the order for home.

“Are you my Aunt Johanna?’ asked Willa, thought-
fully, as they drove onward, her little form nestled
closely to her aunt.

“Yes, dear, [am your Aunt Jolianna. But how did
you know my name?” responded Miss Tracy.

“FT used to hear my mother wish she knew where
Aunt Johanna was. She said she would take care of
we.”

“So she will,” declared her relative. ‘You are go-
ing to be loved and taken care of all the rest of your
life !”’

She looked fondly at her little charge, and then
said to Mrs. Delvan:

“How providential was our visit to Mrs. Westcourt
this morning: Notwithstanding your acquaintance
with her, you knew nothing of Willa’s ehild.”’

“T knew that Mrs. Westcourt had a child in her
family who was not her own, but [ did not know
whose it was. I did not know your niece, my
dear.”

“Of course,” said Miss Tracy, “I shall not allow my
nieee and heiress to wear the clothes of charity. So
when her trunk comes to your house, I must beg of
you to use its contents in. your charitable visits to
the poor. Iam going to spend the day in shopping
for Willa, and I shall purchase a gift for Mrs. West-
court.”

By the time this decision had been arrived at the
carriage stopped at Mrs. Delvan’s residence, and the
coachman received orders to be at the door again in
half an hour.

Willa was then conducted into the warm drawing-
room, bestowed in a great arm-chair, and petted by
her new friends in what was to her a most bewilder-
ing manner,

“Now what do you want, Willa?’ asked her aunt,
sitting down by her. “I know all about dolls and
toys. for you shall not be cheated out of your happy
childhood yet, and the story-books, and those things.
You shall have a writing-desk, a work-box, a dress-
ing-case, and new dresses. What else shall I get for
you? Don’t be afraid to mention anything you want.
Aunt Johanua’s purse is very deep.”

“I'd like to have Regie go to Longholme too,” was
the reply. ‘“ Regie needs a pony—the doctor said
80.

“Whereis Regie ?”’

“Hs uncle has put him in his old office,” answered

 

 

“Oh, Regie shall

 

 

 

 

Wille, evrnestly, and with indignation. “Regie don’t

like an office, but his uncle does,'and says Regie is
poor. I know better, and so does Regie.”

“Who told you all this, Willa?’

“Why, Regie.”

Miss Tracy involuntarily
thoughtful, as she asked:

“Ts this simply child’s talk, Mrs. Delvan, or is there
sense in it? Did Reginald Westcourt leave anything?
He must have done so.”

“Certainly he did. You couldn't ask that question
if you had not been abroad so long. Still nothing is
known of his affairs. He died in the East. His
brother, Mr. Reid Westcourt, is his son’s guardian,
and a very honorable, upright man, Probably young
Reginald’s fortune has been lost, or become embar-
rassed in some way, and his uncle has deemed it best
to put him into hisown business. It is hardly the
thing, perhaps, for the son of Reginald Westcourt,
but I dare say the lad’s uncle does as well as he can
by him. He could do no better by his own sen.”

“True. And so, Willa,” added her aunt, ‘you want
Regie to go with us to the country. [am sorry that
he cannot, but be may come and visit us before you
go. Ill write a note to his uncle, asking him to allow
ener to visit us this evening. Would you like
that ?”

Willa assented, somewhat disappointed that the
lad was not to share her future happiness, and Miss
Tracy instantly wrote the note to Mr, Westcourt and
dispatched it.

By the time it was finished the carriage came to the
door, and the ladies, with Willa, set out on a shop-
ping expedition.

The day was passed in making purchases; among,
others a handsome present for Mrs. Westcourt.
another for Oriana, and Willa felt overwhelmed at
the sight of the beautiful things her aunt lavished
upon. her.

The shopping was completed by dinner-time, and
the two returned to, their repast fatigued, yet de-
lighted, with the results of the day’s labors.

About seven o’clock, when the little party were
gathered in Mrs. Delvan’s drawing-room, around the
cheerful fire, Reginald Westcourt was announced.

Willa flew to meet him, and was clasped in his
arms, both forgetting the presence of others.

The little maiden was the first to recollect that
they were not alone, and said:

“You know, Regie, that Lhave found my Aunt Jo-
hanna I’ve told you about. Here sheis! You must
love her very much, for I do.”

With this simple introduction, she conducted him
to Miss Tracy, whose countenance beamed with a
gentle and tender expression.

She had been listening to a long account from Willa
of his championship of her rights, and his love and
eare for her, and she now welcomed him with a
loving kiss.

Reginald was then introduced to Mrs. Delvan, and
took his seat beside Willa, at a little distance from
the ladies.

wate you got my aunt’s note?” inquired the little
rir.

“My uncle did, and gaveitto metoread. He said
that as Mrs. Delvan was such a particular friend of
my aunt, I might come up and see you this evening.
I am to be back at the office by ten.”

“T’m sorry you can't go with us to Longholme,”
said Willa, sorrowfully. But never mind, Regie;
you'll come and see us next summer and ride on my
pony, wou’t you?”

The lad promised, endeavoring to repress his tears
at the thought of their approaching separation.

He had sufficient good sense to see that Willa
would be immeasurably better off with her aunt ina
home where she would be the reigning queen, and
be loved and cared for, and he rejoiced that she
would no longer be domineered over by Oriana;

smiled, then looked

nevertheless, his heart sank at the thought that;
heneeforth there would be a great gulf between |

them.

“Willa,” he said, resolved to communicate to her
his fears, “if my uncle should have spoken truly, and
I should be penniless, just think what a difference
there would be between you and me! Oh, you won't
forget me, will you, Willa? When you are rich and I
poor ig

“Forget you, Regie?” interrupted Willa, with won-
dering eyes. ‘‘Why, you are my best friend! You
know we are going to live together when we get
older. And if I'am rich, I'll give you all my money.”

Reginald could not longer indulge his fears that
Willa might be spoiled by prosperity.

He felf that her simple, honest nature was proof
against deteriorating influences, and his face beamed
as he said:

“[ shall claim you one of these days, Willa. When
men grow up they get’married, and you are to be my
little wife, you kuow.”’

Willa assented, proud and happy at Reginald’s
declaration, yet comprehending only that some time
she would see “Regie” every day and love him and
comfort him.

The little couple planned a happy future, and
talked of the approaching summer when the lad
should visit Longholine, his uncle’s consent being
taken for granted, and of the correspondence which
should be regularly kept up, between them.

The lad was rather fearful that Miss Tracy might
object to this proposed exchange of letters, and ap-
pealed to her for her consent, which she readily
granted.

“Willa’s friends are my friends,” she said, kindly.
“T have confidence in you, Reginald, and believe
that you are a fit companion for my little
Your father was good and noble, and I trust that his
son resembles him.”’

Reginald gave a look of gratitude to Miss Tracy
for this tribute to his father, whose memory he ten-
derly revered, and immediately declared to Willa, in
an under-tone, that ler aunt was one of the nicest
ladies he had ever seen.

His boyish heart was quite won by her kindness.

While the lad and Willa conversed apart, Miss
Tracy and Mrs. Delvan kept up a sort of conversa-
tion in order not to place any restraint upon the
young couple, and the hostess wondered at the soft-
ened face and manners of her guest, attributing the
change rightly to the interest she was taking in her
little niece.

The time wore on, and at length Reginald said that

he must go, or he should barely arrive at the office |

before ten o’clock.

He made his adieus to his hostess and Miss Tracy,
and was followed to the door by Willa, who there ex-
changed a few final words with him.

The little maiden was absent so long from the
drawing-room that Miss Tracy was about to seek her,
when she returned, so pale, sad, and subdued, that
her aunt’s heart was touched.

She took her into her arms and devoted herself to
the task of consoling her, soon suceeeding in win-
ning a faint smile upon the little innocent face.

That night, for the first time since her mother’s
death, Willa’s curly head was pillowed upon a loving
breast.

The next day, wrapped in furs, she set out with
her aunt for her new home in Lincolnshire.

CHAPTER VIII.
A TEMPTED MAN—AN APPALLING SURPRISE.

‘Horror and doubt distract
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir
The hell within him.’—MILTON.

On leaving the sanctum of his employer, Fennes
paused a moment in the counting-house to summon
up his courage to meet the gaze of his fellow-clerks,
Very few of the employees were ever admitted even
there, unless to be dismissed, or severely reprimand-
ed, and he knew that his summons could not have
failed to excite comment.

Reginald did not look up from his work upon his
return to the anteroom, and he had several minutes
in which to compose himself. At length, hearing the
steps of the merchant approaching the door, he ab-
ruptiy retreated to the sale-room, where, as he had
expected, his appearance was the signal for various
questions.

His pale face and look of trepidation were regarded
as proof positive that his employer had spoken harsh-
ly to him; and the clerk, not knowing how he could
otherwise account for his changed appearance, and
his late interview with Mr. Westcourt, took pains to
confirm the general impression.

When one of his fellow-clerks asked him if he had
not been summoned to a private conference on ac-
count of the dislike he had lately expressed against
the merchant, he replied in the affirmative.

“Are you going away, Fennes ?”’ asked another.

“Would to Heaven I had gone before this!’ was the
reply of the miserable clerk. ‘‘Do let me alone, boys;
I don’t feel well.”

One of the salesmen managed to elicit the fact that
Fennes expected to remain, and he gave it as his
opinion to his companions that Mr. Westcourt had
very kindly resolved to give the disaffected clerk an-
other trial before dismissing him. This declaration
from one of their number served to increase the
merehant’s popularity among his subordinates,
which sentiment they showed by turning their backs
upon Fennes.

But that unhappy man, glad to be rid of their ques-
tioning words and glances, retreated to his books,
and resumed the copying of an invoice. His pen
moved idly over the pages, while his thoughts were
intent upon his gentle Mary and the terrible hold
which his employer had upon him.

When Mr. Westcourt came through, about to de-
part for home, his manner, to avoid suspicion, was
studiously cold toward Fennes, while the clerk bent
closely over his book, pretending not to see him.

Every eye in the room witnessed the conduct of
both, and the conclusions that were drawn were
favorable only to the merchant.

Fennes was the first clerk to leave at the usual
hour, not caring to encounter any more questions,
but he was too restless to proceed to his iodgings,

and therefore wandered about the streets, finally
spending the evening at a place of amusement, A

hoping to drown all thought.

But the harder he tried ~he more difficult became
The forbidcen subject would rise, déspite
ali his efforts, and he indulged in various 8 meat
it de-
sirable to gain money in such a dishonest manner.
He finally concluded, rightly, that the merchant had
gone beyond his depth in speculating, that he was

the task.

tions as to the reason why his employer founc

niece. |

n need of a large sum of money, that he did not like
to borrow, and that the circumstance of being in-
sured to twice the value of his possessions had over-
come whatever honesty he might have had.

At a late hour the clerk sought his plain but com-
fortable lodgings, and tried to sleep, but his eyes
were not closed in slumber until near morning, and
then he dreamed of Mary’s reproachful eyes and her
dissuading voice.

At a late hour the next morning he sought his
business. The clerks were all busy when he entered,
and Mr. Westcourt could be seen through the glass
door that opened into the counting-house. The late
arrival of Fennes elicited a look of surprise, for Mr.
Hutchley always insisted upon perfect regularity in
the appearance of his subordinates, and it was evi-
dent that the clerks expected their comrade to be
repripascen by their employer.
: But they were disappointed. Mr. Westcourt took
no notice of him, although Fenunes occasionally pre-
sented a strange, persistent gaze in his direction.
When the letters arrived, and the merchant read the
note of Miss Tracy and threw it to his nephew,
Fennes was looking at him so earnestly tbat his em-
ployer retreated from view to his own desk.

A dozen times that day the unfortunate clerk was
eee to rush from the office and fly to his be-
trothed, tell her the whole story, and solicit her ad-
vice; but the impulse was checked each time by the
reflection that Mary must then learn that he was a
forger, and reject him.

Besides, he reflected that, if she would still cling
to him, he would be torn from her by the officers of
the law, tried, and sentenced to transportation. In
either case, he would kill her, he believed.

Again, he was tempted at times to commit suicide,
aud thus end his troubles in.this world; but life was
oe oe to fly to the coward’s. refuge—a voluntary
death.

As the day passed, his mind grew calmer, and he
thought more upon the benefits that would accrue to
him from the proposed crime. One brief act, and he
should be able to claim Mary, would be. envied by
his old associates, and advanced in his business. He
reasoned that he could not escape from his em-
ployer’s clutches, that he could not refuse to commit
the sin required of him, and that, really, there was
little risk of discovery. The weak-principled young
man finally quieted his conscience by these thoughts,
and began to consider the ways and means of carry-
ing out his proposed crine.

As on the previous evening, he was the first clerk
to leave. He wandered about aimlessly, sometimes
approaching the bridges, and then seeking more
sheltered localities, buying at one small shop a box
of matches, and at others small quantities of com-
bustibles such as could, be readily concealed about
his person.

About eight o’clock he returned to the office,
gained admittance by means of a key, lighted a small
lantern, and surveyed the scene of his operations.

How very different that roem” looked to him by
night, with guilty thoughts in his heart, from its ap-
pearance in the broad day when the busy clerks
made it pleasant.

He seated himself for a moment, but then started
up, remembering that Reginald slept in the building,
and might be up stairs at that moment. To make
himself sure, he crept, lantern in hand, up to the
boy’s chamber; but he was not there.

In fact, as the reader knows, Reginald was then
paying his parting visit to Willa.

“He has gone out for the evening,’ thought the
clerk, returning to the sale-room. ‘I hope he won’t
come in to-night. I shall not begin my operations
till midnight, so I had better hide till then.”

Turning down the light of his lantern, he crept
under a counter and waited in silence for Reginald’s
return. The time seemed so long that once or twice
he turned on the light to consult his watch, but at
length he heard a key grate in the lock and some
one entered.

A few minutes more and a dim light gleamed in
the sale-room, and, peeping from his concealment,
Fennes saw Reginald Westcourt. The lad had lighted
his lantern and was now engaged in removing his
outer garments. When they had been deposited on
the counter, he seated himself on astooland gave
himself up to melancholy reflection.

Fennpes hardly dared to stirlest he should attract
attention, but, at length, to his great joy, Reginald
arose, took his lantern, and went upstairs. After
waiting a little while, the clerk was about to emerge
from his concealment, when the lad returned with
his bed, which he proceeded to arrange upon the
counter.

The clerk watched the operation with amazement.

He had supposed that the lad had a fire and other
comforts, and wondered that he was deprived of
them. He remembered how well Reginald had been
treated in his occasional visits to the office, and that
within two or three days the merchant had said that
his nephew had become impoverished.

“TI believe that is more of his villainy,” he thought.
| “If he’d burn his own warehouse to get the insurance
money, he’d rob his nephew. I wouldn’t wonder if |
he were trying to kill the boy so as to inherit his
property. [ll just keep an eye on Mr. Westcourt
after to night. If he’s injuring that lad, I will find
it out,’’

With this resolve, Fennes. turned his thoughts to
his own immediate affairs.

Reginald began to undress, noticed that the room
seemed a little chillier than usual, and crept into bed
but partially disrobed, soon failing asleep.

It was nearly midnight when the incendiary crept
| from his concealment, and stood over the boy, listen-
ing if he slept soundly.

As he looked upon the lad before him, his own in-
nocent, youthful days seemed to return, and he re-
membered when he was his father’s pride and his
mother’s darling.

How he had changed siuce then!

Turning away from the boy, he returned to the
back of the counter, and piled up his combustibles in
various places in such a way as to readily catch on
the wooden counter itself, or the walls.

He placed them behind the piles of silks on the
light shelves, gathered papers and all other easily
ignited articles he could find, and arranged them
in suitable places.

The silks he saturated in places with turpentine or
camphine, and finally he removed the top of the
lantern and was ready to finish his work.

And then he bestowed a thought on Reginald.

What it he should never awaken to his danger?
What if he should be smothered? He would then be
a murderer as well as an incendiary !

He reassured himself with his employer’s words.

The cries of fire would awaken him, or some fire-
man would rescue him. He was partially dressed,
and could easily escape.

And then Fennes took his uncovered light and pro-
ceeded toward his largest pile of combustibles. As
he lifted it, about to apply the fire. the sound of a
church bell striking the hour of midnight arrested
his guilty arm.

What thoughts that sound breught to his soul!

His father—his tender mother—his gentle Mary—it
seemed to him that they all stood by his side at that
moment, the dead with the living, uttering warning
prayers.

“T wanted to be good, but he wouldn’t let me,” he
involuntarily whispered.

His purpose wavered for a moment as the bell was
echoed by other bells, all telling the hour of mid-
night, some of them with a far-away sepulehral
sound, and some startlingly near.

But when they died on the air, he exclaimed :

“Pshaw! I am frightened at shadows. To-mor-
row I'll think of Mary.” .

Fearful lest his delusions should return, or his
courage fail, he applied the light to the pile, going
rapidly to another and another, until all were
lighted, and long fiery tongues were to be seen on
the walls and the counters. Then with sudden and
awful terror, he dashed down his lantern into a heap
of papers, aud rushed to the door.

He opened it, darted out—and found himself in the
grasp of a police officer.

“A thief, eh?’ said the official.
this ?”

The door swinging back a little had revealed to him
a perfect den of fire within.

Fennes struggled frantically to free himself, but
physically he was not very strong, although despera-
tion gave him the momentary strength of a maniac.
He would inevitably have got away had not an-
other policeman come opportunely to the assistance
of his comrade.

The call of these brought more, and Wixon Fennes
Was soon carried away a prisoner.

Two of the policemen then penetrated a little way
into the shop, far enough to note the extensive prep-
arations of the incendiary, and see that the fire was
the result of no accident, and they then retreated as
a general cry of ‘‘Fire’”’ rang out in the night.

In a few minutes fire-engines made their appear-
ance, and loud demands were madeif any one slept
in the building.

“A boy sleeps up stairs,” cried one of the clerks of
the house, who lived in the neighborhood. ‘Mr.
Westcourt’s nephew is in the front room !”’

All eyes were turned in that direction.

So intent was everybody in watching the upper
windows that no one noticed the white, scared face
and boyish figure of Reginald, as half-dressed, with
a bundle of clothes hastily caught up in his arms, he
glided through the door-way and mingled with the
crowd.

So rapid was the progress of the fire within the
building that by the time the ladders were put up,
and the brave fireman had made a brief examina-
tion of the upper room, the flames began to render
the flooring unsafe, and to issue from the upper win-
dows.

“One of the beds is stripped of its clothing,” re-
ported one of the firemen. ‘The boy probably went
down to sleep in a warmer room. It is too late to
save him !”

4 groan of commiseration arose from the crowd,
which had growu very large.

There were the firemen whose duty it was to be
there, policemen to keep order, the shivering poor,
to whom even such a fire as that was welcome,
thieves who hoped to gain something from the build-
ing, people brought there by curiosity, and pick-
pockets, who move in and out among the better
class, plying their profession.

 

“Ah! What’s

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outside the crowd, in the shadow of a door-way,
wrapped in his great-coat, stood Reginald West-
court, bewildered by his abrupt transition from
pleasant slumbers to such a feartul scene.

He had been awakened by the shouts of the popu-
lace and the din of the engines, had found himself in
the midst of roaring flames, and even in his terror
had instinctively seized his garments, which lay be-
side him, and rushed into the street.

That the firemen were looking for him he had not
the slightest suspicion. He supposed he had been
seen by some one, but gave no thought whatever to
the subject that his only shelter was burning, and
we his books and other treasures were irretrievably
ost.

The wind was high and fierce, rendering it impossi-
ble to save any of the goods or valuables—even the
account-books were being burned. In a short time
but a shell remained, and then one side of that fell
in, and the fire grew fainter, and was evidently yield-
ing to the firemen.

It had early been seen to be impossible to save
either the building or its contents, and every effort
had been made to save the neighboring buildings,
many ot which were, of course, in immediate danger,
owing to the fierce wind, but happily, these escaped.

The crowd at length began to disperse, all except
the poor homeless ones, to whom the door-ways and
other nooks in the vicinity. lighted and warmed by
the smoldering fire, presenting tempting resting-
places.

The clerk who had announced the fact that Regi-
nald slept in the building had departed, horror-
stricken and trembling, to inform his employer of his
double loss—burning of his goods and the supposed
death of his nephew.

And Reginald himself, carried along by a portion
of the crowd, found himself homeless and desolate.

He heard people discussing, in loud tones, the
origin of the fire, declaring the guilty clerk worthy
of his fate, even if it were an immediate hanging,
and, without asking, he learned that the incendiary
had been his uncle’s clerk, and was now securely
lodged in a prison-cell.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—_ ——_— oo

METHODS OF THE MAFIA.

A recent triai elicited facts which show that spolia-
tion and murder have been carried on in a genteel,
unobtrusive way quite lately by members of the
Mafia, and thatthe perpetrators of these misdeeds
enjoyed immunity from ‘persecution ;” for this is the
term systematically employed by Vincenzo Ejinares,
in his account of Antonio, the famous Sicilian
bandit.

The story here referred to cannot, for obvious rea-
sons, be told in all its crudity, but this much may be
said:

At a princely villa’ near Palermo, during some re-
pairs last year, several skeletons were found, all of
which must have been secretly, and some not very
long since, committed to the ground. One of the
workmen employed indiscreetly named the circum-
stances; he should have known better; the next day
he was stabbed.

In the hospital nothing would maxe him reveal the
name of his assailant, fearing the vengeance of the
Mafia, which would pursue his family. But in curi-
ous illustration of the Sicilian character, though deaf
to the voice of justice, the instinct of revenge was as
strong in him ashe kuew it to bein others. On his
death-bed he sent for his son, and. enjoined him to
pursue the murderer, whom he denounced, to the
death. The Mafiosi could not interfere with that;
for was it not a common and legitimate act of retri-
bution? s

It was by this means only that the two officers of
the law, who were concealed under the bed, learned
the name of the guilty man. He was one of a band,
who, trom time to time, spirited away a peddler, or
other obscure person, known to have money about
him. concerning whom no persistent inquiries were
likely tobe made. Thechief of this band was the
steward of the great family in question, where, for
reasons variously assigned, he enjoyed high favor.

The protection afforded to such miscreants by noble
personages, on the understanding that they and
theirs were never to be molested, was a matter of
common notoriety when brigandage was rife. The
writer above referred to states openly that Antonio
Testalonga—who is depicted as a sort of modern
Robin Hood, chivalrous to women, beneficent to the
poor—was protected by the Prince Trabia of that day
(1767), until some petty depredation in his house hay-
ing been traced to one of Antonio’s followers, the
Prince’s ire was roused, and the bandit’s ‘‘persecu-
tion” began, which ended in his capture and death.

We have alluded to the Mafia, a name which prob-
aLly conveys to most readers no idea of the subter-
ranean coufraternity by the ramifications of which a
great part of Sicilian society is still undermined. It
is described by a writer in the present year in terms
which may be thus paraphrased : es:

“The Mafia has seized, in every department of life,
whether public or private, an arbitrary power,which
is exercised by every means, legal or jMegal, for the
benefit of its adherents. It may be said to be a State
within the State—a secret conspiracy, having for its
object the usurpation of authority and the invasion
of order; extending over every possible field, and
rooted so. deeply in the hearts of the people, appar-
ently, to be ineradicable. The close relationship of
the Mafia with brigandage is, for the time being, in
abeyance, but the illicit nature of the association 18
not diminished thereby.”

 

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It is

Read the following criticism:

KATHLEEN DOUGLAS.—Like the plot of an artfully con
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exami THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

VOL, 46—No. 10,

 

 

 

LET US ALL REMEMBER THE POOR.
BY MRB. M. A. KIDDER.

Remember the poor when the snow comes down,
And covers the earth with aChristmas crown,
Ye watchers and workers about the town.

Remember the poorin the great highway,
The pitiful waifs that ahungered stray,
For the sake of the Christ-child, born to-day.

Remember the poor when the board is spread,
When there’s plenty of meat and plenty of bread—
By Him was the needy multitude fed.

Remember the poor when the day grows wan,
When the warm sun sets, and the night comes on,
And the shivering wretch to his straw has gone.

Remember the poor with some garment warm,
That may shelter his breast in the coming storm,
Or may wrap some little wanderer’s form.

Remember the poor at your very door,
When your bin is full and your cup runs o’er,
When the Lord has given you stock and store.

Remember the poor in the great highway,
The pitiful waifs that ahungered stray,
For the sake of the Christ-child, born to-day.

b-Backsnapper Papen,

BY DANIEL BARBERRY.

(“THE BACKSNAPPER PAPERS” were commenced in No.
2. Back numbers ¢an be obtained of all News Agents. }

 

 

 

4 SLAW
VASA A
WY i
uy

YY,
Wit

 

 

‘MR. BARNUM, I CAME IN HERE TO SETTLE THIS
CAT BUSINESS!”

No. 9.—Mrs. Backsnapper Knows All About that
Joke lke Got Off on Barnum.

It was jist two years ago next comin’ August thet
Mister Barnum» plastered circus menaggery bills all
over Hogoria. Hogoria, you know, is jist about
twenty miles due wes’ of Frogsboro on the new rail-
road.

So Hogoria was to be honored by a remarkibul, or
fearful, or somethin’ or other combination.

Now this yer Ike Forney never sees or hears of
anything without he tries to connect some kine of
deviltry with it. ’

Ike_ had hearn tell of some fellow who hed got
fooled on bringin’ a waggin load of cats to feed the
show animals, but it struck Ike that this thing could
be carried on to a greater extent.

So Ike prepared, accordingly ; he put the horse in
the buggy, an’ along the sides of the buggy he
painted, on cheap bleached muslin, “Barnum’s
Great Menaggery,” an’ away-he went all over» the
country surroundin’ Frogsbero an’ Hogoria, He gin
the farmers bogus passes to*the show, an’ agreed to
pay ’em sixty cents a head for every cat,an’ signed
everything “Barnum.”

Why, gush dern him, he contracted fur fifteen
miles around both towus, and must have had about
three hundred suckers. gatherin’.up-cats.to feed the
animals with. Dorgs, too. He said the dorgs was
fur the anercondas, an’ thet the farmers mus’ come
aroun an’ see a anerconda swaller a dorg, but the
cats was for the other animals,

He iole the farmers that it took a monstrous sight
o’ cats te keep the animals in rattlin’ good health,

Wal, th’ day of th’ show come aroun’, sand my ole
man an’ I went over to Hogoria with a load of wheat,
an’ of course put up at my sister’s, Mrs. Sophronia
Ann Jemima Scratchclaws.

It was astonishing to see the waggin loads of cats
an’ dorgs—all, ye know, to feed the animals with.

Barnuim's tents was surrounded with waggins. Ike
tole all the farmers to present, their passes to the
tn te and tell him the number of cats: they

rung.

The door-keeper hadn’t more an’ got into» posish
afore about 400 farmers commenced to han’ in their
bogus passes, an’ report what they hed brung along.

‘‘W’at’s this?’ says the door-keeper. ‘“I,don’t know
nothin’ about this derned cat business. You’d bet-
ter—or rather one of yeh, hed better go inside an’ see
Mister. Barnum... Here, you,” an’. the, door-keeper
pinted to Elihu Buzzard, ‘pass in’.an’ see Mister
Barnum about this confounded cat business.”

“Mister Barnum, I b’lieve?”’ said Elihu, a noddin’.

“Yes, that’s my name,”’, said Barnum. “Suppose
ye come in to see the great aggregation of animals,
somethin’ that my son-in-law lowed wouldn’t pay.
Expenses enormous an’——” ;

“But, Mister Barnum, I came in here.to settle this
cat business, an’——”’

“Yes, yes. My son-in-law said that to carry such
@ monster concern over the country would be at-
tended with——”

“Wal, Mister Barnum, this cat business is wot ’m
in yere to look arter, an’——”

“Ye said yer name was Buzzard? Wal, wal, Mister
Buzzard, ’mright giad that yeh kim aroun’ to see
this monster concern o’ mine; sémethin’ that my
son-in-law ’lowed wouldn’t pay. Seven tents, you
know, an’——” .

“But, Mister Barnum, I kim in yere on cat business
—Cat’s thet ye wanted to feed the animals with,

n ctilihalthlead ,

“Cats! cats! Oh, yes, we have several in our
grand combination, sueh as the Pennsylvainy wild-
cat, a wild-cat from Patagonia; in fact, a full line 0’
= x was a goin’ to git more, but my son-in-

aw—’

“What the duse doI care about yer son-in-law?
Neither do I care a.cuss how many show cats ye got.
What I wantis fur ye to fork over an’ come out an’
take these cats off of our han’s that yeh bought to
feed the animals with, an’ I’ve got a fifty poun’ dorg
thatl wan ter see the anerconda swaller, an’——”

‘Mister Buzzard, { presuine you’re not aware that
I leetur’ on temprence; besides, [ never ordered a
cat of anybody.”

Then ole Buzzard went out frothin’, an’ all of ’em
commenced to froth,

“Let's rip the tent down !” said some of ’em.

“No,” said Buzzard, “‘let’s surroun’ this gosh dern
tent with our waggins an’ let these cats loose at wonst
—the cats will gin ’em bother enough.’*

An’ he was right. No sooner had they let ’em loose
with the dogs when they commenced to git in every
diréction, a fightin’ an’ scratchin’.

The tent was kivered with cats in about five sec-
onds, besides they wasa shootin’ in every direction
inside.

Purty soon the canvas gim away right above the.

elephants, an’ about 2,000 cats fell on top of ’em.

Then the elephants commencedito sling cats, an’
the animals got up the dreadfullest growlin’ I ever
heard.

Those elephants jist filled the air with cats, and sot
the people inte the dreadfullest panic—oh, my
Heavens an’ arth!—sich yellin’, an screechin’, an’
sich rammin’ an’ jammin! Why, everybody was a
tryin’ to git out at wonst in about forty different di-
rections. f

IT was stan’in’ near the pelican waggin’, an’ I jist
jerked down to crawl through under it to git onto the
outside, wen all of a suddent somebody’s head struck
me while [ was on my hands an’ knees an’ sent me
clean through the tent to the outside quicker’n blue
blazes.

It was Si Witherell who created this earthqake. He
jist drapped onto his hands an’ knees an’ started to
git through like hot shot without knowin’ anybody
was crawlin’ through.

No wonder he was in sicha gosh dern hurry. As
soon a8 my eyes got rightly opened thur he was a
runnin’ fur dear life, with a cat onto his back.
They do. say that Si Witherell didn’t stop a runnin’

e
ontil he reached Californy—nothin would stop him

from runnin’ but an ocean after he wonst git skeert.

I was so pollywoddled for about three minutes
after I got out that I stood stock-still;.then I made
nee fur Sister Sophronia Aun Jemima Scratch-
claws.

Thadn’tmor’n got in aforemy ole man come a flyin’
in without a hat an’ about half of his scalp off, that
had been struck by one of ’em ere cats.

Then I went up stairs an’ looked out 0’ the garret
winy, an’ sich a‘ sight’ I never seedd in all my borned
days. Cats was everywhere; on houses, on the
chimbleys, a hangin’ onto lightnin’ rods, an’ about
500 dogs was a fightin’, men was a fightin’, an’ it was
the wust uproar that ye kin imagine. Why, the con-
fusion at the Tower of Babel was nowhere.

Wal, the upshot of the hull thing wasthat Mister
Barnum tuck his tent imejetly down an’ was obleeged
to git his animals away as soon as possible.

I’ve hearn swearin’ men speek of Pandemonium on
wheels, an’ I pos’tively think thet this was a fair
specimen of it.

The town smelled of ded cats ontil cold weather set

In.

CHRISTMAS GIFTS.

BY KATE THORN.

 

Christmas is almost here, and already the fancy
stores are. gay and tempting. with the display of
goods for the holidays; and nervous people are
shivering every time they go home to dinner, in ex-
pectation of demands for camel’s hair shawls, seal-
skin capes and sacques, silk dresses, and jewelry, for
Christmas.

The children are beginning to hoard their nickels,
and to almost grudge the pennies which have _ to go
into the various mission boxes on Sunday; and they
lie awake nights wondering what they sha‘) get, and
wishing Uncle Dick or Aunt Sally would remember
to send them a Christmas box.

Many hearts will be gladdened by receiving just
what is not wished for, and many otlers will be
doomed to disappointment.

This giving of presents at Christmas time is a
pleasant custom, and we sincerely pity the individual
who is so unfortunate as to have no one for whom to
purchase gifts. We know just how empty of mean-
ing to him are Christmas trees, and mistletoe, and
the hanging up of little stockings.

But while we certainly advocate the bestowal of
gifts at this season, we must seriously deprecate the
custom, now so prevalent, of giving that we may re-
ceive in return.

Everybody gives everybody else something, con-
fidently expecting to get back an equivalent. Now,
we don’t like this way of doing things. Gifts from
friends should be a free-will offering of the heart,
not a modified case of trade and barter; and the mo-
ment they cease to be free-will lofferings, that mo-
ment they lose all their beautiful significance as
tokens of love and regard.

The prevailing custom in regard to this “present”
system is peculiarly hard on young men. If they
are sons of millionaires, of course it is not so bad;
but if they are clerks on salaries, Christmas must be
for them a veritable reign of terror. For they know
thatif Sallie Marie gives them pen-wipers. and smok-
ing-caps, she expects costly. fans, and laces, and
jewelry in return. And if the young men do not
come down handsomely ‘they are stigmatized as
“mean,” and “stingy,” and receive the cold shoulder
thereafter.

We once heard two ladies — sisters — arranging
Christmas matters, and their conversation opened
our innocent eyes and gave us @ new insight into the
mystery of why some people hadso many more pres-
ents than some other people.

“Laura, love,” said one to the other, “I want a
chain bracelet, which will cost about forty dollars,
and, if you will make me a Christmas present of
one, I will get you that silver salver at Goldbug’s,
which we priced the other day. It was just forty
dollars, you know.”

And the other lady replied :

“The very thing, Julia! Iwas thinking of it last
night, after I went to bed. Itis so genteel to receive
valuable Christmas presents, and have them to show
to one’s friends. I should die of mortification if
Jennie De Jones should get more than [. And sheis
always’ bragging about the things herrich uncle in
Cuba sends her, and everybody knows old De Jones
gives her the money and she buys’ them herself. J
wouldn’t be so deceitful !”

And when Christmas came, and the bracelet and
the salver were duly paraded as presents from
“friends at the South,” we held our peace, though we
felt that we could a tale unfold when we heard folks
exclaiming: .

“How fortunate these Brown girls always are!”

In the selection of gifts for one’s friends the donor
generally wants to be the judge of whatis best suit-
ed for the occasion, but we beg leave to suggest’ that
itisalways better to select something useful, even
if it be not so handsome as a more fragile article.

The age, position, taste, and needs of the recipient
should “be considered, and the gift be adapted to
those needs.

You would not want to give your washerwoman a
set of sablés, any more than you would send a box of
soap to Mrs. Colonel E. Jinkins, whose husband
counts his dollars by the hundred thousand,

We once knew of a yonng clergyman—a particular
favorite with the ladies—who received at Christmas
and New Year’s twenty-seven pairs of slippers, and
none of them fitted his feet, and the point of the
joke was that he detested slippers, and never allowed
himself to wear them.

Was it Doesticks who said, in effect, that he would
prefer a good pair of pantaloons as a Christmas
present to all the worsted trumpery in the world?

By~-all means make the children glad at Christ-
mas. If you can only get them picture-books ata
dime each, and. earthen. dolls. stuifed.with sawdust,
and penny whistles, get them—do so, and be glad
you can do so much, for Christmas should be.to the
children, and to us all, the symbol of love and hope,
and a sweet reminder of a risen Saviour.

OVER THE CHRISTMAS SNOW.

BY MRS. MAY AGNES FLEMING,

*“ Hark the herald! angels sing,
Glory to the new-born king !”

rang out from the choir, and the organist, a slender,
pale-faced girl, with grave, beautiful brown eyes,
joined in the anthem, all her soul in the triumphal
words:
“ Joyful all your voices rise,

Sing the anthem of the skies;

With the celestial hosts proclaim

Christ is born in Bethlehem!”

It was the last piece of the rehearsal. The cho-
risters threw down their books, only too glad to get
away. The organist alone remained, to play over
once more a new voluntary.

“Good-night, Miss Englehart!” “Good-night, Miss
Katherine!” “Good-night, Katie, and a merry Christ-
mas Eve!” were the cries, as, one by one, men and
maids left the ,choir, aud went down the stairs and
out into the bright white Christmas night.

Miss .Englehart’s gravely smiling lips and gentle
brown eyes answered them all. A moment and she
was alone, only the white piercing moonlight stream-
ing through the painted oriel over the altar and the
one dim light below. A flare of gas lighted the organ
loft, but this she lowered, and, with rapt face and
dreamy eyes, she played over, and over again the ju-
bilant new voluntary. She might have gone on for
hours—she was quite capable of it—but a piteous
yawn from the boy at the bellows recalled her from
heaven to earth.

“Oh!’. she said, stopping suddenly, with a half-
laugh, “Thad forgotten you, Jimmy. Well, I won't
play any more; and here, take this for your Christ-
mas box.”

Jimmy jumped up and seized the proffered green-
back with glistening eyes.

“Thanky, Miss Katie!. merry Christmas, please,
ma’am !” cried the boy, seizing his cap. ‘Ah, she’s a
brick, she is!” said Jimmy to himself, as he clattered
down the steep stair-way. “Nobody among all the
singers ever thinks of the boy what blows the bel-
lowses ’cepther. Don’t I jest hope she won’t marry
that long-legged rooster. that ’scorts her there some-
times, and leave the choir for good.”

Still atew moments longer lingered Miss Englehart
on her knees; then she, too, hurried down the stair-
way and out into the shining coldness of the starry
December night. High, and white, and cold lay the
Christmas snow. No “green yule” this year to make
fat the kirk-yard. Cloudless and blue spread the sky,
filled. with sparkling Christmas stars. Could that
other night, so long ago, when the shepherd watched
his flock in the green Galilee hills, ‘‘and the glory of
the Lord shone round them,’ have been one whit
fairer than this?

“Katie

With a great start the girl came back over eighteen
centuries, from Bethlehem to the town of Southport.
A tall man had started up in her path, and spoke her
name,

“You, papa?’ the girl said, in doubt and surprise,
the color that had arisen to her face fading out.

“T, Katie.” He drew her hand under his arm with
alaugh. “Did you thinkit was Harry Hatton? Well,
itis almost as good, for I have come to talk to you of
him.’

Miss Englehart looked up, a sudden trouble in the
brown, tender eyes.

“T thought you had done talking of him, papa,”
she said, a tremble in her voice. “I thought yester-
day had finished the subject forever.”

“Let me see. What was it I did say yesterday ?”
says Mr, Englehart, blandly. “Ah! I remember that
my stiff-necked, doting old client, John Hatton, had
made up his mind to forgive his runaway daughter
and disinherit Harry. Under these circumstances, I
very naturally told you that you were to meet Harry
no more. You’re a good girl, Katie—a very good
girl !’—Mr. Englehart pats paternally the little hand
on his arm—‘and at any sacrifice to yourself you

 

would have obeyed me, I amsure, My dear, it af-

 

fords me great pleasure to inform you the sacrifice
will not be required.”

“Papa,” the girl cries, her whole face lighting up,
‘you will let me marry Harry, poor as heis? Oh,
papa, I am not afraid of poverty—not afraid of work ;
neither is Harry, and——”

“Oh, pooh! my dear—pooh! nothing of the kind.
My opinion on that point has never changed, and
never will. No, no; itis something infinitely better
than that. Old Hatton died suddenly last night, be-
fore making the proposed new will, and all is
Harry’s.”’

Katherine Englehart uttered a faint, startled ex-
clamation. ;

**And the old will, leaving allto Harry, stands, and
his only daughter is disinherited and left out.”

‘Left without a’ stiver, my dear, and serves her
right, say I. She ran away with a worthless scamp,
against her father’s will, and, like all fools, has paid
the penalty of her folly. She supports herself and
her five children by sewing, so I have been told, and
you know what sort of support that means. Serves
her right, [say again. John Hatton has done what
it was his duty to do—what I would have done in his
place—cast her of and left her to starve with the.
pauper she chose.”

In the moonlight the face of Miss Englehart grows
white as the snow itself; but she walks on and does
not say a word.

“However,” cries her father, cheerfully, “that is
not what I want to say. Rose Hatton’s case need
never be yours. All is Harry’s; and except his
poverty I never had any objection to Harry as a son-
in-law. So when he comes to wish you merry Christ-
ae dear Katie, I give you leave to name the

ay.

A strange light comes into the brown eyes; a
strangely resolute expression sets the pretty mouth.

“Ts he coming to-night, papa?”

“You will find him, I have not the slightest doubt,
at the house before you. It willbe py boc isy for him
to profess any grief for that old skinflint' uncle, and
Harry is no hypocrite.”

““You have’seen him since his uncle’s death ?”

“Certainly, Katie; and was the first to congratu-
late him. ‘I trust you withdraw your objections to
my suit now, sir,’ he says to me, in his haughty way ;
‘Lam John Hatton’s heir after all!” A trifle hot
headed is Harry, but a good fellow in the main—oh,
a very good fellow! Ihave no doubt, Katie, he will
make you an excellent husband.’

“He means to-keep this fortune, then ?” his daugh-
ter says, and says it in so odd a Voice that her father
looks at her puzzled.

“Keep it! Whatdo you mean? What should he
do but keep it? By George, I should think he did
mean to keep it—a cool hundred thousand, if a dollar.
May I ask what you mean by the question ?”’

“Not now, papa, please; I will see Harry first,” she
answers, in the same strange voice—a very quiet
voice, though it startles her father.

“Look here, my girl,” he says, sternly, “I know you
of old—know your fiigh-drawn, quixotic notions
about things in general, and points of honor and con-
seience in particular. I warn you, don’t let us have
any of them here, if you wantto be Harry Hatton’s
wife. The lad has come fairly by his fortune—let
him keep it in peace!’ :

They are at the house with the last words—words
harshly and menacingly spoken. They go together
into the parlor, and there, as Mr. Englehart had pre-
dicted, they find young Hatton alone. A tall and
proper fellow, this Harry Hatton, with a handsome
face, and eager, happy eyes.

“At last,’ coming forward, both hands out-
stretched, ‘just as patience was ceasing to be a
virtue. ‘‘Thank you for bringing her, Mr. Englehart.
Come to the register, Katie, and warm those cold
little paws. Has our stately papa been telling you
the good news?”

He draws her forward, his eyes all alight with
love and joy. Last night he was in despair—last
night this cozy parlor had been forbidden ground.
Sorrow and weeping had endured for the night, but
joy had come with the morning. This time yesterday
he had been a beggar, and Katie had been refused
him—to-night he was a rich man, and Katie might be
his for the asking. Papa Englehart, after a genial,
father-in-law sort of nod, had slipped away and left
them together.

‘““Why don’t you speak, little girl?’ cries jubilant
Harry; “or has the power of speech been frozen
within you? Wish me merry Christmas, Katie, and
congratulate me on my capital fortune.”

She looks up at him with eyes. full of wistful love.

“TI wish you merry Christmas with all my heart,
Harry; but congratulate you on what?”

“Why, hasn’t the dear old dad been telling you?
Then wonders never will cease. Oh, pshaw! Of
course he has told you that my unele is dead ?”’

“Poor old Mr. Hatton—yes, I know he is dead.”

*‘And all is mine, Katie, all. And next April the
old house shall have a new mistress, and Harry
Hatton shall have a wife. Why don’t you speak?
Why don’t yousmile? Whatis the matter with you
to-night ?”

“Harry, you mean to keep this inheritance ?’

“Keep it?’ Harry looks at her’in wonder. “By
Jove, what a question! What should I do with it but
keep it ?”’

“Resign it to Rose Hatton—Mrs. Andrews now—to
whom it rightfully belongs.”

“A most likely idea, and quite worthy of Katie
Englehart. Ihave had poverty and hard work for
seven-and-twenty years, and now when the golden
shower falls in my arms, am I to resign it to Rose
Andrews and her drunken brute of a husband! No,
no, Katie; in the nineteenth century men keep all
they get, and they ask for more.”

“Sol perceive,’ she says quietly, though she ‘is
trembling as she stands. She draws a ring off: her
tinger and lays it on the table before him. ‘Our en-
gagement ends to-night, then, Mr. Hatton. Here is
your ring.”

He stands gazing at her, utterly bewildered.

“Katie,” he exclaims, ‘‘you don’t mean this !’’

‘T mean it, Harry. If papa had let me, I would
have been your wife in your poverty—oh, so gladly—
and worked for you and with you with all my heart;
but now—now that you take the portion of that wo-
Mman—worse than widowed—of those children, worse
than fatherless—I would die first.”

The gentle eyes flashed, into the pale cheeks an in-
dignant glow leaped, and the soft, tender voice rang
out as he had never heard it before.

“But. this is all nonsense, Katie,” he cried, impa-
tiently; ‘sheer nonsense! Ask your father”—a
smile crossed Katie’s lips—‘fask anybody if this
money is not fairly mine. Rose ‘Hatton, a head-
strong, obstinate schoolgirl, elopes with a scoundrel
who only seeks her father’s money, and she is disin-
herited, as she deserved.» Iam his sister’s son, and
to me what she resigned has fallen.”

‘Her father forgave her before he died, and would
have made another will if another day had been
given him.”

**Look here, Katie,” says Hatton, still impatiently;
“T will seek out my cousin, Rosie, and if she leaves
her beast of a husband I’ll provide for her and the
little ones. Will that satisfy you?’

“T knew Rose Hatton,’’ Katie answers. ‘She was
proud. and obstinate, and would die of starvation
sooner than accept as charity what is hers by right.”

He comes close and stands before her, his eyes
flashing angrily. Nidle

“TI must either choose between resigning you or
my uncle’s fortune ?’

“You must.”

“If Tresign it lama panper as before, and your
father will order me from his doors. You will not dis-
obey your father, so in either case I am to lose you.”

“Tt love you, Harry,” she says, With a gasp. “I
would wait——”

“Thank you,” he says, with a short laugh ; ‘that is
poor consolation. You are. a woman, and waiting
may be easy to you. Iam aman and don’t choose to
wait. Sinee I must lose you in any case, I'll not lose
my woney as well. Good-night, Miss Englehart. I
wish you a very merry Christmas,”

‘Harry !’’ she cries.

But he is gone—gone in a fine fury, banging the
street door after hini—and it is her father, white with
passion, whvu stands before her.

* * * * * *

Twice the Christmas tide has come and gone—
twice the joyful anthem of ‘*Peace on Earth, to Men
Good Will,” has sounded down the stately aisles of
St. Philip’s, andthe third time is here. Once more
itis Christmas Eve; once more altar and puipit are
wreathed with evergreens; once more the voices
of the choristers rise to the vaulted roof; once more
the slender, pale-faced, brown-eyed organist sits at
her post, her white fingers evoking wondrous music
from those pearl keys... But the face has a graver
beauty, the dark eyes a sadder light than of old, and
for the silks:and sables of other days, her dress is
deepest mourning, plain of make and poor of texture.

The last piece is sung—something grand, and old,
and triumphant; and ‘‘good-night, Miss Englehart,”
one and all cry, as they flutter away and down, the
stairs. She smiles her farewell, but lingers after
they have gone, as is her custom; and as her hands
fioat over the keys, and her eyes rest on the music,
she is thinking of another Christmas Eve, three
years ago, and of the father and lover, who stood by
her side that night.

She has lost them both—the lover then, never to
hear of or see since; the father one year ago. A
great financial crisis had come—had involved shrewd
Lawyer. Englehart, and swamped him. He had
broken down under the blow, and in less than three
months after was dead and buried, He had never
forgiven Katie her refusal of Harry Hatton ;, he did
not forgive her even on his deathbed.

“Tf you had not been a fool with your scruples and
whims,” he had said to her, bitterly, ‘you need not
have been a beggar to-day. Harry Hatton is married
long ago, no doubt, to some wiser woman, and when
Iam gone you may earn your living as best you
may.”

They buried him, and Katherine had_ earned her
living bravely and well. For years she had played
the organ of St. Philip’s as a labor of love. Now it
became a labor of necessity. Her salary as organist
and. half a dozen piano pupils, gave her all she
needed, and life went on somehow, and Christmas
had come again.

She dreaded Christmas—the old pain and struggle
seemed to come back allafresh. She did not regret
what she had done. Better loneliness and poverty

than become the wife of a man capable of wronging
the living and the dead. She had lost him, but she
had not ceased to love him. While she deplored his
sins, her pure prayers followed him in his reckless
wanderings over the world.

She left the organ at last, and slowly quitted the
church. Unlike that other Christmas, no moon. nor
stars shone. White, soft, ceaseless the snow fell.
She put up her umbrella and hurried home—the
home of a boarding-house—tooxk her belated and soli-
tary supper, and ranupto her own little sitting-
room. A fire burned in a grate, and her piano -sole
relic of former splendcr—stood open with some new
music upon it. Before. sitting down to her long
practice, she went to the window and looked out.
All the world was white and still, and ghostly, and
faster and faster the snow was falling. As she stood,
the tall, dark figure of aman opened the gate, and
eame plowing through the snow to the front door.

“One of. the boarders,’ she thought, “belated as I
was. How cross Mrs. White will be.”

She left the window and went to the piano. Before
she commenced her practice, and half unconsciously
she began softly to sing the old anthem:

“Hark the herald! angels sing
Glory to the new-born king.
Peace on earth—and merey mild
God and sinners reconciled.”

Then she stopped, conscious that the door had
opened, and the intruder did not advance.

“Come in,” she said, “and shut the door, please;
there is a drau——”’

She stopped with a low cry, but he took her at her
word, shut the door, and came forward.

“T have come back, Katie,” he said. “Willyou for-
give me and shake hands?”

He took hers without waiting for leave, and held
them fast.

“T only reached America yesterday,’ he went on.
‘All these years I have been in Europe, trying to
forget you and be uappy, and I have neither forgot-
ten you nor been happy. You were right, and I was
wrong. I have come back to tell you so, and to ask
you if you have forgotten me ?”’

“Forgotten you?” she repeats, almost with a sob.
“Oh, my Harry ! my Harry !”

“IT am no longer rich,” he says. “Rosie and the
little ones are at the old homestead, and the drunken
husband has drank himself to death. I tried to pal-
ter with my duty, Katie, before [ went away—I
sought out Rosie and proffered her a portion of her
father’s fortune. She was proud, as you told me she
would be, and refused it with scorn. ‘I am _ poor,’
she said, ‘almost starving, but I will not take as a
favor from you, Harry Hatton, that which is my
right. Keep all or give all!’

“I kept all, Katie, andif I coule have forgotten
you, might have kept all tothe end. But, lacking
good counsel, I engaged in wild speculations and lost
all. StillI was confident that, with you, I could be
happy without wealth. I love you so well, my
Katie, that I ask nothing but you for the rest of my
life. We will be poor, but we will be together. Say
you forgive me, Katie; you have not said it yet.”

She said it then, holding him close, her happy tears
damping his already damp coat collar.

“You and I are to spend Christmas day with Rose,”
he says, presently, that first transport over. “She’s
a jolly little soul as ever lived, in spite of ali her
troubles, and right glad to have done with matri-
mony forever. Who knows but that after eight
years of it you may not echo her sentiment ?”

“TI think I will risk it, though,’ says Miss Engle-
hart, looking at him, handsome, and big, and brown,
with adoring eyes. ‘Oh, Harry! to think I did not
know you, striding through the snow up to the gate.
I was just thinking with ever so little of a pang,
that no gift would be mine this year, while ali the
time the best and dearest of all Christmas boxes was
coming to me over the snow.”

“Christmas has brought you your lover, and the
New Year shal! bring you your husband,’’says Harry.

And the New Year did.

Pleasant Paragraphs.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

3 The New Neighbor.

Mrs. De Gadd—“That new neighbor of yours don’t
goto any particular church asI can see. He’s an
atheist, ain’t he ?”

Mrs. De Gabb—‘Not so bad as that, Iassure you.
He is what is called a Liberal Christian.”

Mrs. De Gadd—“Well, I’m glad to hear that, and
I'll call on him this very day, Our church is awfully
in need of a new organ and a Dew bell, and we ain’t
got half enough collected to pay the preacher yet.
Liberal Christians is what we’re sighin’ for in this
town.”

Old Times.

Host—“Now, old boy, make yourself comfortable,
and let’s talk over old times. Haven’t seen each
other since we were schoolboys together. I told you
I had married. Well, this is my house, and my wife
will be in presently.” By the way, you once lived in
Niceville, didn’t you?’

Returned Traveler—“Yes, lived there some years.”

“Then you may have met Miss Flirtie?”’

“Met her? I was engaged to her. But so were all
the other fellows, one atatime. What has become
of her ?”?

“Why—er—I was just going to tell you that she is
the one I married.

Hard to Find.

First Astronomer—‘‘Is there any mention of comets
in the McKinley bill?”

Second Astronomer—“I don’t know. Why ?’

First Astronomer—“They seem to be unusually
searce and high.”

Keeping “Him a Lover.

Mrs. Sharptongue—‘D’ye mean t’ say you’ve been
married ten years, an’ never had a quarrel with y’r
husband?”

Fair Stranger—‘‘That is true, madam.”

“And ye always let him have the last word ?”

“Yes, madam; I wouldn’t for the world do anything
to lessen my husband’s love for me. He might get
careless.”

“Careless ?”’

“Yes, Weare jugglers by profession, and at two
performances every day I ‘stand against a board
while he throws the knives.”

Ruled Out.
Postmaster—“Throw out the entire edition of the
Daily Civilizer. It has an account of a bartender
drawing a cork.”
Clerk—‘‘He did not draw it at a lottery.”
Postmaster—“There was 2 lot o’ rye in the bottle.”

Feminine Tact.

Hostess (at dinner)—“‘You own a very. fine teles-
cope, I understand, Mr. De Science.”

Guest—“Yes, madam, I was fortunate enough to
secure a most excellent instrument,”

Hostess—‘‘Are you interested in microscopes ?”

Guest—‘No, madam, I never had one.”

Hostess—“Marie, pass Mr. De Science the cheese.”

A Tough Job.

Minister’s wife (looking up fromm the paper)—The
ideat A minister in Michigan has brought a bill of
$500 against an estate for preaching the funeral ser-
mon of a wealthy citizen there. What in the world
did he make such a charge for ?”

Good Minister (wearily)—‘I presume it was to
satisfy his conscience.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

BASE SINGERS TO ORDER.—One winter afternoon a
caller on Cherubini, the great composer, was sur-
prised to find him in an unlieated room in company
with three full-bearded meu, who had their feet in
tubs of ice water. f

“Tn the name of Heaven, what are you doing here?”
asked his friend.

“To-morrow we shall give a new mass,” answered
Cherubini, ‘“‘and I need a couple of very heavy basses.
None of the men here has a voice heavy enough, and
so I am trying to deepen their notes a little.”

N. Y. Sun.

AN AMBITION EASILY. GRATIFIED,—‘‘Papa,” re-
marked Johnny, “I should like to be a pirate when I
grow np.’?

“Allright, my boy,” returned the old gentleman,
‘we will put you in charge of the humorous column
on a religious newspaper.—JN. Y. Sun.

AWFUL UNCERTAINTY.—Jenks—“‘Shall we go to the
opera this season as usual, Miss Helen?’

Helen—“‘We don’t know yet. Ethel and I want to
go very much, but our brother George is on his col-
lege football team, and we can’t tell yet whether we
shall be in mourning this year or not?”

Harper's Weekly.

Ups AND Downs.—Newly-appointed Police Justice
— ‘Your face is familiar to me, prisoner. Where have
T seen you before ?”’ : f ,

Prisoner (formerly a Police Justice himself)—“I
had the honor to send your Honor to the Island once
when I was on the bench.”

The Judge—“Six months.’’—Life.

A GIVEAWAY.—Young Wife (Vassar girl, putting

 

than] ill-gotten gain—better lose her lover forever !

 

hands over her husband’s eyes)—* t
SAAAE OF OB yes)—“You can’t guess
Enabande My Lttle wifey.”
Young Wife—‘You guessed by my voice,”
Husband—‘No; by your ernment
ie N. Y. Evening Snn,
e—“T love you passionately, my darling!” She—
“Ah! That remark has the genuine eng
ring.”’—Town Orier. x eee ee nen

a,
—

The Ladies’ Work<Box,

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

FASHION’S FANCIES.

The present fancy is for four buttons on the
while the Suede mousquetaire has eight buttons. pore

Very long scarfs of ruching, with metal-thread edge.
are fashionably worn as boas, an i - -
Cadiu ie omen, a a finish of metal-threa

Bows of black velvet ribbon, seeded with jet, are much
used for garniture, on materials aliti ;
wherever fancy may dictate. Sone Gb

A large butterfly bow at the foo
aad Sora acta tof the skirt is consid-

The new ribbons are mostly reversible, with satin
and terry or velvet borders of all kinds, ‘while obits wee
vet stripes and shot stripes are new, and the widths
most used are from two'to three and one-half inches.

White, cream, ivory, silver-gray, and‘a pale t
» 1, k , an are th
most. popular tints for stationery, and are" sold in eter
size, with a smalier size for notes, while the address is in
plain or metallic colors, with an initial or crest.

Fur is very fashionable for'cape
for dress trimmings. hres oven

With the thick materials of winter toilets there is
decided return to the plain, clinging skirt, with plaits o
the back only, while to obviate the trying effect of the
very close-clinging skirt, elaborate trimmings are re-
quired.

For morning walks and drives, the toque is the most
popular head-gear. Itis neat and ecm: holding on
well to the head, and the vail is easily fastened around its

edge, which is a great point in its f ri i
a g p avorin cold: or windy

aa

Lulu P., Brooklyn, N. Y,.—Soft silks, such as India
and surah silks, make the most graceful scarfs when

drapery is desired, and when the fringe produced b
drawing out the cross-threads at the ona Me not as full
and rich as one would wish, silk tassels hung on long
loops of cord can be sewed across the scarf and allowed te
rest upon the fringe, or the fringe itself can be rendered
heavier: by this simple device: Before beginning to
fringe the silk, turn up a hem as deep as you wish to. have
the fringe, and hem-stitch it in place; then slit open the
doubled edge at the foot of the hem, and proceed to ravel
it to within half an incéh of the hem-stitching.

Jessie H., Grafton, O-—A cloak which may be said to be
cloak and dress in one, and suitable for a girl of ten years,

is of brown cloth, richly figured with a flower in red
chenille. Its yoke is of red Velvet, and has a high collar.
Below it.a cape, reaching almost to-the belt, is raised to
give a high effect on the shoulder, and is square in its
mneeting fronts. The straight waist and pertfeetly plain
sxirt are belted in by a velvetribbon with a buekle and
pendant ends. The sleeves seen beneath the cape, which
come’ only to the elbow, are of the velvet seen in the
yoke, and the lining of the large hat, with an. ostrich
feather, should match these sleeves.

Dora L., Baldwin, Mich.—Skirts hang as plainly as pos-
sible, all the fullness being just at the back, and they
clear the ground. Some of the skirts measure barely
three and three-quarter yards round, the foundation be-
ing twoand one-half yards. Inthe front of some of the
foundation skirts the edge is cut in castellated style, and
bound with braid, so that it does not rub the hose or ties
of the walking shoes: The undraped skirt with a plain
soars and sides, and the fullness all in the back is still

‘2.

Mrs. E. C. L.—The pretty corselet bodice, for a girl of
ten, is shown ina full-skirted dress of Scotch plaid, in
green and red, with a touch of white and yellow line
The sleeves are of black velvet, and are eacirsied at the
armholes by a slight embroidery, while the top of the
waist, which has a small, close collar, is embroidered in
gold thread, as well as the collar itself, and a few gilt
buttons are seen on the cuffs. A sash of black satin rib-
— tied in the middle of the figure, has loops and short
ends.

Laura B., Oxford Junction, Ilowa.—A favorite arrange-
ment for dressy short costumes has a princess front, ex-

tending only to the front side-gore seam, with a round
waist at the back, to which the full breadths of the skirt
are attached in gathers, or with the upper edge doubled
and forming a standing frillon the waist. This model is
fancied for a combination of cloth and velvet, the princess
front and the back of the waist of velvet, and the re-
mainder of cloth.

atten iii
<i> 2 <i

Items of Interest.

A member of the town council in an English village
was charged, by the local newspaper, with having “tid-
dly-winked the shire funds.” The law was invoked and,
after consulting all the available dictionaries without
finding any definition of the term, the court decided that
the phrase was not necessarily libelous. Financial tiddle-
winking is a suggestive phrase, and will soon possess a
world of meaning to the ambitious young Napoleons of
finance, who study night and day to contrive schemes for
victimizing those who place money within their reach.

The christening of. acolt in Otago, New Zealand,
was attended with unexpected results. The animal was
ridden into the dining-room of a hotel, where a numberof
people were assembled; andalittle girl, after drenching
him with champagne, impressively named him. The
colt evidently did not understand the champagne part of
the programme, as it made him angry. He dashed madly
about the hall, kicked over the table spread for the feast,
and disfigured one of the spectators by kicking him in
the face. ;

Circumstantial evidence wasrelied on in the case
of three young, soldiers of Warsaw, Poland. They had
been. on! a spree, and the next morning found blood on
their clothes, and admitted that they had a confused
recollection of beating some one whom they did not
know. Soon afterward a sergeant in their. regiment was
found murdered, and the: three soldiers were tried, con-
victed, and shot within twenty-four hours. The next day
another soldier surrendered as the murderer.

So careful are the officials of Yeddo, Japan, to per-
vent theft, that-the employees at the mint are, at the end
of each day, compelled to divest themselves of all cloth-
ing, and pass through the following ordeal: Their back
hairis pulled down and examined; they then wash their
hands and hold them up to view ; they drink water and
then Tallo; and, lastly, they enter a yard, and leap over
two or three hurdles on their way; after this they don
other clothing, and are allowed to go home,

Anew and simple remedy for sleeplessness is an-
nounced. it is to sip slowly a pint of hot water before
going to bed. People who have tried it say the effect is
prompt, and almost wondrous.

OUR OPENING ATTRACTION

891, THE NEW YEAR, 189),

The first attraction for the new year will be the
brilliant and powerful story we are to begin next
week, under the expressive title of

FAIR, BUT FAITHLESS,

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of ‘‘Marjorie Deane,” ‘‘A Heart’s Idol,”
“The Gipsy’s Daughter,” ‘*Gladys Greye,”
** Violet Lisle,” ‘* Another Woman’s
Husband,” etc.

 

It would be imprudent to lengthily describe the
rare beauties of this animated, vigorous, and vivid
romance of English life. It is so intensely interest-
ing inevery part, that most of those who read it, will
be inclined to peruse it at least a second time. It is
astory of

A WOMAN WITHOUT A HEART,

a lovely and fascinating creature, who has been

tutored in, the

ART OF LOVE,
who plays with men as children play with toys, only
to toss them aside when weary, or when

A NEW STAR,

appears. in the social firmament,, to lure her from
allegiance to the man of whom she has grown tired.

Like all of BERTHA M, CLAY’S works, this story is
gracefully and artfully. constructed, the delineation
of character is bold and unique, while the plot is not
only extremely captivating, but is handled with ex-
traordinary cleverness and tact.

A perusal of the initial chapters, next week, will
convince any one that ‘FAIR, BUT FAITHLESS” prom-
ises to be what it really is—one of the author’s most
meritorious productions.

Read it, and you will say that it deserves unquali-
fied praise. Therefore we request and hope that you
will recommend it to your friends.