WITHOUT AH

onamaaneee

 

OME,” an Affecting Story, by a New Contributor, Mrs, B, F. BAER, Next Week.

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

Vol. 44.

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

Rose St.

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Conies Five Dollars.

No, 41,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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THE ENGINEER LIFTED JOSEPUINE IN

HIS ARMS,

AND HURRIED THROUGH THE CROWD,

 

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TOWARD THE OFFICE.

 

THE WORKINGMAN DETECTIVE;

A Crime Against the Poor.

By DONALD J. McKENZIE,
Author of “The Wall Street Wonder,” ‘‘The Murray Hill Mystery,” ** Under His
Thumb,” ‘The Grand Park Sensation,” ‘*The Reporter Detective,”
Detective Against Detective,” etc., ete., ete.

 

CHAPTER I.

A PISTUL AT A MAN’S NOSE. |
“No loating around these works!” said Albert |

Jordon, the head office clerk of the Fenway Manufac-
turing Company. And in emphasis of his authority, |
he seized the vagabond by the shoulder, and essayed
to thrust him down the steps.
Mr. Jordon was not, generally speaking, either .

hard-hearted or crusty. But upon this particular |
morning, matters had gone wrong in the office, and

the book-keeper was out of sorts. Consequently he |
used rather more force than was necessary for eject- |
ing the forlorn-looking man who had appeared, like :
poverty’s ghost, in the vestibule of the elegant office. |

The vagabond made no resistance, possibly because
he was incapable of resisting. He looked pale and |
haggard, and as Jordon’s push sent him almost head-
long down the steps, the clerk noticed with a pang of |
self-reproach that the stranger was lame and de- |
formed.

At that moment, Gerard Fenway, president and |
general manager of the company, appeared upon the |
scene. The ceaseless clatter, clatter of the hundreds
of loows in the works adjoining drowned the sound
of his footsteps; therefore, the vagabond noticed his |
approach before Jordan was aware of it. The)
stranger had recovered his footing upon the slippery
lower step, and stood shivering and daiectel. staring
up at the portly form and benevolent face of the
manufacturer.

“Ah! Mr. Jordan, what is this?” Mr. Fenway ex-
claimed, a trifle sharply.

Jordan turned hastily, looking abashed.

“The vayabond was coming right in, as if he owned
the works, and you know you have forbidden our |
allowing idlers to remain on the premises,” said the
clerk, apologetically.

“Did the man say what he wanted?” Fenway re- |
turned. }

“No, sir. As I said, sir——”

“And you pushed him down the stairs without giv- |
ing him an opportunity to speak for himself! Don’t |
you see heisacripple? You might have done him |
painful injury.
treating even a shabby stranger.” }

“T am sorry, sir. Really, I did not notice that he |
was not ale-bodied, and there are so many doubtful
characters around nowadays, sir——” |

Mr. Fenway interrupted by a gesture.

“Never mind,” he said. ‘Only, do not let me know
of your indulging a bad temper in this brutal fashion
again. That is all.”

The vagabond had stood in an attitude of shrinking |
humility since the manufacturer first made his ap- |
pearance. Fenway now turned to him, and spoke in
a tone which showed that even the ror president
of a great corporation may possess a kin
pathetic heart.

| ing, if you would be so kind, and thought to find you
| in your office.”

“What can I do for you, my friend?’ he asked, for
there was something genuinely pathetic in the man’s
face and attitude.

“Are—are you Mr. Gerard Fenway?’ the stranger
returned, in a tremulous tone,

“FE an.”

“T am in peculiar difficulty, sir,” said the vagabond,
drawing a step nearer, ‘‘and you can help meif you

 

only will. But I hate to trouble a great man like you
with affairs like mine. Rich men like you have no
idea about what fellows of my class have to bear.”

Mr. Fenway glanced at his gold watch, and then !

back at the face of thestranger. Naturally a sympa-
thetic and benevolent man, there was something |
about this vagabond that impressed him strongly.
He saw misery and want in all its guises almost every
day of his life, as any observant person may do inthe |
great city of New York, and he had done his share, |!
through proper institutions, for the alleviation of
such misery. But for him, beggars and vagabonds |
had no individuality. All were alike. He pitied them
as a class, not as individuals.

But here was one unfortunate who had singled
him out to hear his tale of woe. Should he listen to
it, orsimply direct him to the charitable institution |
only a few blocks away ?

A strange impulse, for which he could not after-
ward account, seemed to compel him to act as suc-
ceeding details will show.

Perhaps his condescension was partly to compen-
— for the unwarranted rudeness of his chief book-

eeper

“I will listen-to your tale if you will make it a short
one,” said the manufacturer, after a moment of con- '
sideration.

“It is beginning to rain, sir, if you please, and T’ll
not keep you out in it. I can come another time.
Besides, I wanted your name signed to a bit of writ-

The vagabond doffed his ragged hat and turned |
away. But Fenway touched his arm.

“Stay,” he said, ‘‘we will goin and hear your story.
I couldn’t promise to sign anything for you, how- |
ever. A petition of some sort, in behalf of some un-
fortunate friend, I presume?”

“You are kind, sir, yes, it is for a friend.”

The vagabond’s voice trembled, and so,did his
limbs as he hobbled up the steps, and followed the
philanthropic gentleman through the large, busy
general office of the company, thence along a short |

You know that is not my way of | passage-way to a door at the end. Across this thresh-

old, and they were in aspacious, sumptuously fur- |

nished private office, in the heart of that part of the
building.

To this room nosounds penetrated, save the faint
throbbing of the looms, subdued by distance and in-
tervening walls.

Mr. Fenway placed a chair for his strange visitor,
as courteously as if the caller were a director of the
corporation.

while I talk?’ was the vagabond’s strange query.
“Why, no! An absurd suggestion, man,’ returned }

and sym | the gentleman, who had dropped into his own chair , man.

near along writing-table, littered with papers. |

“TI didn’t know, sir. These clerks is inquisitive
sometimes,” said the vagabond.

“Go on with your story, if you have one to tell.”

“Certainly, sir. I said I had a friend in trouble,

and it will take the money or the name of a great
man to help him out. It’s a small favor that I ask.
Just to sign your name to some slips of paper. Let

me show you.”

The vagabond hobbled over tothe table, carrying
his right hand behind his back.

Mr. Fenway glanced keenly into his face. He saw
an expression there whic he had not noticed before,
and impelled by a vague sense of alarm he essayed to
rise to his feet.

But before he could do so the vagabond’s hidden
hand was suddenly thrust forward, and the muzzle
of a revolver touched Gerard Fenway’s nose!

“Don’t move a hair, nor utter a word!” exclaimed
the stranger. Accompanying the command and the
threatening demonstration, an expression shot from
the eyes of the medicant, which told Fenway it would
be dangerous for him to disobey.

The manufacturer sank back in his chair, and
stared at his visitor in silence.

“Now,” said the stranger, speaking in clear
tones, “you will give me three ten thousand dollar

;

checks, payable to bearer, or I will blow your brains ruined,
>

out! Choose!

The mind of Gerard Fenway acted with lightning-
like rapidity. The room was as silent and isolated
as though it had been situated in the midst of a wil-
derness. Throb, throb sounded the hundreds of looms,
and that was all. A cry for help would not penetrate
those thick walls, so as to be heard outside above the
clatter of machinery.

Fenway’s glance involuntarily wandered from the
face of the vagabond to a cord and tassel dangling
against the opposite wall of the room. The quick
eyes of the other noted the glance, however, and his
pale, haggard face, which a moment before bad ex-
cited the compasssion of this benevolent gentleman,
now relaxed in a slow. menacing smile.

“T didn’tsay anything about ringing for witnesses,”
he coolly remarked.

“You—you ingrate !”’ Fenway found breath to utter, |

in a husky tone.

“Those checks, and no words! Quick!” And again
the weapon pressed close to the manufacturer’s face.

Another moment of breathless silence, and in that
moment Gerard Fenway decided. He knew that he
eould not make himself heard by an outery. He knew
that refusal of the stranger’s demand would cost him
his life. In a physical struggle, he must fight against
odds, for he saw that the hand and wrist that held
the pistol were large and muscular. And on the
other hand, there could be scarcely a grain of risk in
signing the checks as required, for the paying teller

| of the bank would not cash so large asum for a

stranger without investigation. And, furthermore,
the bank could be immediately ordered to refuse the
checks. There were a dozen chances for balking the
robber, scarcely the shadow of a chance for him to
succeed.

Such was the tenor of Fenway’s reflections in that
brief moment given him to decide.

“You will wear these, if you please.

| The walls are so thick that it won’t be necessary to

 

make no fuss about it, unless you fancy being shot. |

gag you. Here! noneof that!”

The manufacturer, comprehending the other’s pur-

pose, had attempted to seize the pistel. But he was
toiled, and received asharp blow from one of the

| vagabond’s powerful fists for his pains. Halfstunned,

|

 

|
|

“T did not dream that such treachery and ingrati |

tude could exist!” he exclaimed, meeting the gaze of
the vagabond fearlessly.

‘Sign those checks!’ reiterated the other.

The president rose and went to a desk, unlocked a
drawer, and took therefrom the long, narrow check-
book of the corporation.
his side, one hand loosely grasping his shoulder.

“Fill them out first, and make the stubsin your
book correspond, if you please,” said the man, as the
manufacturer returned to his seat at the table.

Fenway complied, tearing them out one by one,
and passing them over for the other’s inspection.

“Al regular,’ commented the vagabond. “Now
sign them, as president of the company. It isn’t you
that I wish to relieve of surplus assets. But these
corporations have no souls, and it won’t hurt them
any.”

} In silence Fenway complied. The checks were firemen, and glaring at them with wide, indignant
“Ts anybody likely to come and listen at that door | again scrutinized by the complacent robber, who. eyes.

placed them carefully in his pocket-book.

The stranger kept close at |

| was known simply as Pete, and he clanked his shovel

“Now for alittle necessary precaution,” said the |

fetters,

As he spoke, he produced handcutis and Nobody knows how many thousand dollars, And,

Fenway sank back in his chair, and in a moment was
handcuffed and his ankles fettered.

The vagabond swiftly glided from the secluded
inner office, closing and locking the door upon the
president of the company. Then he hobbled out
through the business office, looking so innocent and

forlorn that even the younger book-keepers sent after |

hii pitying glances.

No sooner had the doorclosed upon him, than
Gerard Fenway uttered aloud cry for help.

*Halloo! Robbers! Help!”

Those were his cries, while he struggled frantically
to cast off his fetters.

Throb, throb, throb sounded the looms of the great
factory.

Would no one hear? The vagabond must be inter-
cepted. For, if payment of those checks were not
stopped, the Fenway Manufacturing Company was |

 

CHAPTER II.
BRADSHAW, THE ENGINEER.

|

|

The great five-story factory of the Fenway Company |
shook and swayed to the pulsations of hundreds of |
looms, allin unison. They seemed like sensate beings

as one here, and another there, ceased its motion for
a broken thread, and waited for the alert weaver to
come to its aid

Here men and women moved busily about, scarcely |

ever finding opportunity to exchange a word with
each other. And if one did fms it must be to
screech in the ear of the one addressed, so deafening
was the ceaseless clatter which drowned all lesser
sounds.

Like the moving bodies of our universe, there was
an impelling power behind these countless machines
—a power which the operatives knew of, and yet
which few of them had ever seen. That power was
the great engine, which moved with such pre
ease and majesty in a spacious room by itself, upon
the ground floor of the building.

Here, in an outer room, were five furnaces and:
boilers, the former fed by great shovelfuls of coal, |
which they devoured so greedily that two men were
almost constantly busy keeping up the supply.

These firemen, who on a steamboat would have |
been called stokers, were powerful, dark-faced men, |
grimy with bituminous dust, and with brows that
were lowering in expression.

Both were busy feeding the furnaces as they are
introduced to the reader. The red glare lighted up
their faces, lending them an almost demoniac aspect.
Both cease shoveling at the same moment, and the
furnace doors are clanged shut. Then they face each
other, and one of them—the darker of the twain, and
who has only one eye—speaks, in a marked foreign
accent,

“To-morrow is Saturday,” he said, gloomily. ‘Still
nothing said about-a pay, eh? We feed-a fires no
more withonut-a pay. That-a right?’

This man was an Italian, the other an Englishman,
whose speech bespoke his Lancashire origin, espe-
cially when he was very much in earnest.

“Thee is right!” he exclaimed, bringing his brawny
hands together with a sound like the report of a
pistol.

“We no work-a without pay,” said the Italian, who

sharply upon the cement floor in emphasis.

“Thee is right!” reiterated Pomby, the English-
man, drawing the sleeve of his blouse across his per-
spiring brow.

At that moment a young man came rushing in,
flushed and breathless.

“Heard the news?” he cried, confronting the burly

“No. What is it, lad?’ Pomby demanded.
“There has been a robbery at the office, so they say.

And you will | company, and that we’ll lose the most of our wages.

What do you think of that? And some say as how
it’s alla put up job. just for a pretext for failing.
How’s that, Pomby ?”

And the young man looked more indignant than
ever.

“That’s all a canard, as you ¢allit,’” said Pete, in-
credulously.

“Itis,eh? Just gotothe door and see the crowd
in front of the office, then, and tell me what you
think of that. Come, you needu’t take my word.”

The young operative turned quickly away, and
darted out into the dingy court upon which the

| engine-house opened.

The fire shovels were thrown down with a clangor,
and Pete and Pomby started to follow their excited
intormant. Buta heavy hand fell upon the shoulder
of each and held them back.

“Where are you going?’ demanded a low, deep
voice, which impelled them to face about, with an
air of marked deference.

“The lad brings strange news, Mr. Bradshaw,”

| said Pomby, in a respectful tone, ‘‘and we was going

to see if it was true.
Sir’

‘And leave my engine, and allow you to leave your
boilers. No. We have no orders to stop the works,
Come back.”

And the speaker half-led, half-pushed the two fire
men back to their posts of duty. Then he retreated
to the door of the engine-room, where he stood for
several moments watching the firemen as they shov-
eled coal into the seething caverns of flame.

A remarkable looking man was this Bradshaw,
with his Titanic stature and strikingly grave and
thoughtful face. His height must have been six feet
two, while hisshoulders looked asthough scarcely any
burden could have been too heavy for them to bear,
His age was barely twenty-six. In five years’ time
this young man had worked himself up from the sta-
tion of a green apprentice in a small machine-shop
to the position he now held. As engineer in the Fen-
way gingham mills he held great responsibility.

Having satisfied himself that his firemen would not
again leave their post without permission, Bradshaw
went back into the engine-room. There he paused
to watch the steady, almost silent strokes of that
mighty power without which the Fenway Mills
would be useless and dead. With keenly practiced
eye and ear, this man could detect the slightest irreg-
ularity in the action of his engine. The click, click,
of the cut-off, the soft whir of the regulator, the hiss
of steam as the great ees glided in and out of the
cylinder, were all intelligible sounds to him, and told
him whether the machiney was working easily or
otherwise. The loud rustle of the main belt overhead

Thee had better go with us,

; was almost the only noticeable sound in the engine-

 

what’s more, it’s the talk that the loss will break the

room.

The apartment was a model of neatness and good
taste. In the broad window were flowering plants,
luxuriating in the perennial warmth. At one side was
an aquarium, with gold-fishes swimming lazily about,
we a tiny fountain cooled and replenished their
element.

Having satisfied himself that his engine did not re-
quire immediate attention, Bradshaw went over to
his desk near one of the windows and took up a book.
At that moment he heard light, quick footsteps, and
a boy confronted him,

“A message for you, sir,” said the lad, giving him
an envelope.

He took it, tore it open, and read as follows:

“MR, BRADSHAW :—You are wanted at the office at
once. Stop the works. Serious trouble.
“GERARD FENWAY.”

“Tell Mr. Fenway that I will report as directed, as
soon as I can leave my engine,” said Bradshaw to
the boy.

The latter turned to go, but something in his face
caused the engineer to detain him.

“Stay, boy,” he said. “There is trouble of some
sort. Do you know what it is ?”

“There’s a big crowd round the office, sir, and some
of ’em says there’s goin’ to be the biggest kind of a
row !” was the reply.

“Do re know the cause of it?”

“Nothin’ only what they’re tellin’ round.

{ All sorts
of stories.

The company has been robbed or cheated

 

 

  

 

 

 

 
  
 
 

 

 
 

 

>

 

2

out of a lot of money, the clerks say. The hands
mostly think it’s a put-up job to cheat them out of
their pay.”

A shadow of foreboding crossed the handsome face
of the engineer, as he turned to stop his engine. No
one knew better than he the sure consequences of a
failure on the part of the Fenway Manufacturing
Company to fulfill its obligations. Several pay-days
had been passed over of late, the operatives, most of
them, having contidence in the integrity of the presi-
dent and directors. The company had met with
losses, and was in straitened circumstances, but few
of them had any doubt of its ability to stem the tide
of adversity, and pay dollar for dollar to all its cred-
itors. The hands had been asked to wait three
months for their pay, as an alteynative to a shutting
down of the works. The request had been granted,
and on the morrow, which was Saturday, the time
would be up.

Nothing having been said about payment, a few
were becoming uneasy and suspicious. There had
been head-shaking and lowering looks. And now, if
the rumored calamity turned out to be true, there
would be some grounds, at least, for a suspicion of
intentional deception.

Great as was his inward excitement, Bradshaw did
not leave the room until every detail had been at-
tended to. Steam was shut off from the engine,
which moved more and more Slowly until it stopped
entirely, while the throbbing of the looms ceased,
and only a faint hissing of steam was audible.

“Bank your fires to keep a few hours, Pomby,” said
Bradshaw, as he closed and locked the door of the
engine-room, and passed out.

The firemen cast suspicious glances after him as he
passed from view.

Reaching the dingy court-yard, Bradshaw saw,
with dismay, that nearly all the operatives had al-
ready ieft the mills; the women clustered in a mass
near a wing of the buildings, while the men and boys
surged toward the office. He saw, too, a couple of
policemen standing guard, and occasionally warning
back the more obtrusive of the workmen with their
elubs,

Bradshaw, clad though he was in the coarse garb
of a workingman, attracted more than one admiring
glance from the group of young women whom he
passed. There was a dignity about him, in face and
mien, that placed him above his fellows.

He pushed his way through the throng of opera-
tives and reached the entrance to the office. There
he was met by Albert Jordan, the head book-keeper,
whose face was pale with agitation.

“Mr. Fenway is waiting for you,” the book-keeper
hurriedly said. ‘‘He wishes you to disperse this
erowd. You have influence with them, while noth-
ing that we can say or do calms them in the least.
They must be made to listen to reason, or at least
kept quiet until we can get a squad of police here. A
little clubbing may bring them to their senses.”

Bradshaw listened te this excited speech without
interrupting. But he frowned slightly, and there was
an indignant ring in his tones as he returned:

“T shall do nothing to disperse my fellow-workmen
until I understand the situation.”

Scarcely had he spoken, when a hoarse voice from
the crowd raised the cry:

“We want our pay. We will not see our wives
and children suffer without a struggle. Give us our
money !”

There was a responsive shout from the throng of
operatives. At the same time, Gerard Fenway and
another officer of the company came out from the
inner office. Fenway was deathly pale, and he
clutched the shoulder of the engineer with impet-
uous force.

“Tell them to go back to their looms!” the presi-
dent exclaimed.

“If you pene. sir,’ said Bradshaw, ‘‘I wish first
to know what foundation there is for the rumors
T hear ?”’

 

 

 

CHAPTER III.
DEMANDING THE TRUTH.

The firm yet perfectly courteous response of Brad-
shaw, the engineer, seemed to bring Mr. Fenway to
his senses.

“To what rumors do you refer?’ he asked, more
calmly.

“T hear that the Fenway Manufacturing Company
has met with a heavy financial loss, by which all its
creditors, including employees, must suffer,” said
Bradshaw, in his candid, deliberate way.

“The announcement was premature,” said Fenway,
hastily.

“Ts it untrue ?”’

“Not wholly. We have been robbed, and at a time
that cripples us badly. I thought this morning, after
the robbery occurred, that actual loss might be
averted by prompt action. But I was disappointed.
There is still hope of recovering the funds taken.
The whole case is already in the hands of the detec-
tives at police headquarters: How the matter reached
the ears of the operatives so soon is more than I can
imagine.” :

“Pardon ime, sir, if I remind you that the hands
were expecting a payment of at least a part of their
wages to-morrow,” said Bradshaw.

“Well, to-morrow isn’t here yet, is it?’ retorted
Fenway’s companion, who was a gruff, red-faced
man, who looked as if he had been well fed all
his life.

“It will be in a few hours, sir. Of course the com-
pany’s business is its own, In one sense; but we who
look to you for our wages may be pardoned for
thinking of the morrow. The hands haye grounds
for uneasiness. If you can assure them their pay as
agreed, there will be no need of calling the police to
disperse the crowd outside.”

Fenway looked at the director in a helpless, hope-
less way. Then he turned to Bradshaw, and the lat-
ter could see that the president was harassed well-
nigh to the point of madness.

“T had called a meeting of the stockholders for this
evening,” he said, speaking rapidly. “I hoped to
make some arrangewent by which a compromise
might be effected to-morrow. With the operatives, I
mean.” ~

“Did you hope to pay them something?” the engi-
neer persisted.

He was too clear-headed to be deluded by the in-
definite term ‘‘compromise.”’

“To tell the truth, no,” said Fenway, lowering his
voice.

é 7 Then you proposed to defer payment to a later
ay?’

“T have no authority to propose anything until the
board meets. You are a candid man, Bradshaw, and
I will tell you the truth. That is why I sent for
you.”

The president hesitated, as if loth to speak what
he had in mind. Bradshaw waited respectfully, and
yet the red-faced director, eying him suspiciously,
realized that this cool-spoken engineer was not to be
easily cajoled.

“7’}] tell you the truth,” Fenway repeated, to brace
up his own resolution. “We had, a few hours since,
funds in bank to our credit sufficient to pay up nearly
a month’s arrears to our help. But nearly every
dollar has been drawn out by fraud. There is nearly
enough left to pay what is due you, sir.”

“Did you propose to tell me the whole truth, sir ?’
Bradshaw asked, with quiet signiflcance.

“Of course—all we have time to tell. The men out-
side are getting uneasy, anc-——”

“Well they may, with @ prospect of losing their
hard-earned wages, and many of them in debt for the
necessaries of life.’

“True. Mr. Bradshaw, and I’m not the man to think
lightly of their troubles. I shall do all I can, you
may be sure of that.”

“T believe you, Mr. Fenway. And I think you will

find them lenient if it turns out that the fault does |

not lie with the company. You say the funds were
oo out by fraud. Do you object to explaining
1oWw ?”’

“T did not wish to make the matter public until the
police had the case well in hand.”

“T can see no reason for keeping it secret, since the
consequences must be known. The hands are justly
ce and it will save trouble if you are frank
with them.”

“Humph !” exclaimed the red-faced director, again
putting in an oar. “So the operatives have to be
taken into the company’s private affairs ? What have
they to do with details and figures. Not one in
twenty of them knows how much two and two
amount te. Tell’em we’ve been robbed—swindled—
anything. They may not believe it, but they will be-
lieve that just as easily as they will a string of
details that they haven’t wit enough to compre-
hend!”

Bradshaw turned quickly upon the speaker, a dull
red flame leaping into his cheeks.

“Pardon me, Mr. Hofmann,” the engineer ex-
claimed, “but I cannot construe your remarks other-
wise than a personal insult.”

The director flushed in turn, but not with anger.

sare are of another sort, Bradshaw,” he hastily
said.

“T am only a workingman, and there are better
hearts and clearer brains among those of my class.
Look at my hands!” and the engineer held them up
—great, strong hands, dark with the oil and grime of
his occupation.

“Pshaw !” the director returned.

He patted the young giant on the shoulder, and
smiled up at him with a patronizing air, and con-
tinued:

“You know what I mean, Bradshaw. Our hands
are a good, efficient set, of course. Better than the
average, no doubt. But there are no heads for busi-
hess along them. They’re ignorant and easily preju-
diced. You, as I say, are of a different sort. You’re
shrewd, and I shouldn’t be surprised if you get to be
manager of some works like these some day, if you
use your talents wisely. Not a bit surprised.” And
Mr. Hofmann glanced at the president as much as to
say, “That taffy ought to win him over!”

But the young engineer turned to Mr. Fenway,
without so much as acknowledging the other’s flat-

ry.

You sent for me, sir,” he said, in his deliberate
way. “Please state what you require, and I will not
detain you longer.” :

“T hope you do not blame me for this trouble?” the
president exclaimed, with an earnestness that
showed how deeply he felt the pain of disappointing
the operatives.

ter atall. If you knew that you could not meet the
payment agreed upon to-morrow, you might have
meed trouble by announcing the fact,” said Brad-
shaw.

tf tell you, we expected to pay until afew hours
ago.’

“You say you have been robbed. You also state
that funds were withdrawn from the bank by fraud.
What are the creditors of the company to under-
stand from those statements ?”

“I would explain fully to youif I had time. But I
cannot now. Can’t you prevail upon them to go
quietly to their looms and await a formal announce-
ment of our condition to-morrow? TI can do nothing
without the concurrence of the board of directors.”

~The hands can hardly be expected to be very
patieut under the circumstances. Some or them will
not long have homes to go to unless their wages are
forthcoming.”

Mr. Fenway covered his face with his hands.
There could be no question as to the genuineness of
his distress, or of his sympathy for the operatives.

“State the facts tome briefly, Mr. Fenway, and I
will do what I can,” added Bradshaw.

The president glanced at the director, and then
back to the engineer.

“It happened at about nine o’clock this morning,”
he said, speaking rapidly. And then he went on to
detail his thrilling experience with the fugitive
mendicant, as the reader is already acquainted with

it.

“Tt was more than half an hour before I could
arouse any one to release me from the helpless plight
in which the vagabond left me. Still, | hoped to stop

yayinent of the checks [ had been forced to sign.
ut I was too late. They were cashed about ten

ie before we telegraphed the order to the
ank.”’

Bradshaw’s face betrayed the interest he felt in the
singular case. And his ready brain grasped all the
salient points of the story as it did the component
parts of an ingenious machine.

“Tf this story is repeated to the operatives, I am
afraid, sir, that they will ridicule it, as being improb-
able,” he said, when the president had finished.

“T hope you do not doubt my word, sir?” exclaimed
Fenway.

“Certainly not. But you haven't told me the whole
aes You are keeping back an important part
of it.’

“How do you know?”

“Because your explanation doesn’t explain. There
isn’t a bank in the city that would pay thirty thou-
sand dollars on checks without identifying the one
presentimg them.”

Fenway and Hofmann exchanged glances, the latter
nodding, and saying:

“Didn’t I tell you this Bradshaw had a clear head ?
A very superior young man,” with another patron-
izing smile.

“Because I thought of that point is no special sign
of shrewdness,” said the engineer. ‘There are few
men among your operatives who will not put the
same question. You may find, sir, that we are not
the dull clods you take us for!”

“T was about to explain,” said Mr. Fenway, quickly.
But at that moment there arose a shout from the
space in front of the office, and simultaneously,
Jordan, the book-keeper, rushed in excitedly.

“Quick—somebody—they’re smashing a carriage!
Your earriage, Mr. Fenway, that just drove up for
you, and your Gaughter is inside! And they’ll kill
the driver!”

There was a quick rush for the door.
was the first to reach the steps. But there he was
passed by Bradshaw, the engineer. Ata glance, the
latter took in the situation. The elegant Fenway
carriage had attempted to drive up to the office
entrance, when it was set upon by several roughs,
who were backing the terrified horses, while the
driver was frantically trying to beat them off with
his whip.

Mr. Fenway

 

CHAPTER IV.
A CRIME AGAINST THE POOR.

It was an exciting spectacle, and especially so to
Gerard Fenway, who recognized the pallid, beautiful
face of his daughter in the carriage.

For a single instant the manufacturer paused to
take in the situation with a horrified gaze. Then he
sprang down the steps, and would have plunged into
the midst of the excited throng had hé not been held
back by a hand which was too strong for him to
resist.

“Those roughs are not employees of yours,” said
Bradshaw’s deep voice close to his ear. ‘If you fall
into their bands, you may be violently handled. I
will see that your daughter is defended.”

In the same breath the tall form of the engineer
strode through the surging throng of operatives and
idlers who had been attracted by the promise of an
unusual and exciting event.

Bradshaw saw that he had not a moment to lose,
The horses were spirited, and with fierce-visaged
men pulling at their bits, and beating them in the
face with clubs, they were rendered well-nigh fran-
tic. :

The driver, a pompous young fellow with a waxed
mustache, was shouting at the top of his voice, and
striving to drive his horses forward.

“Get away from there!” he cried, striking at the
roughs with his whip, while he clung frantically to
the reins. 7

“Help! help! police!”

In his terror he leaned forward until he seemed in
peril of falling under the feet of the horses, while he
caused his whip to hiss spitefully over the heads of
the assailants. And it chanced, not altogether
through the coachman’s prowess, that the whip cut
across the cheek of one of the ruffians.

Instantly there was a roar of rageand pain from
the one struck. Then a form leaped toward the vehi-
cle, and a pair of brawny hands seized the driver by
the feet, pulling him, kicking, struggling, and shout-
ing, to the ground. At the same time the horses
were turned abruptly to one side, the carriage nearly
upset, while a shrill scream from the fair occupant
smote the air.

It was at this moment that Bradshaw reached the
spot.

Phe ruffian who was backing the horses was sent
reeling under a blow from the engineer’s hand. The
same hand seized the most frightened of the two
horses by the bit, and by sheer exercise of strength,
drew them back into place, righting the vehicle,
which would have been overturned in another
second.

Rapid as had been his action, Bradshaw did not for
a moment lose presence of mind. As he had de-
clared, those who had rudely attacked the private
carriage of Gerard Fenway, were not employees of
the company. The foremostof the roughs the engi-
neer recognized as a former workman in the mills,
who had been discharged for some misdemeanor.
His companions were idlers of his own class.

Searcely had Bradshaw dashed in among them ere
several of the Fenway company’s operatives fol-
lowed him, ready to Iend a helping hand.

‘‘Here, Baldwin,” said the engineer to a young man
who was first to spring to his assistance, “hold these
horses, if you can, until that dude of a driver recoy-
ers his wits. I will see to the lady. That’s it. If any
of these loafers try their game again, don’t hesitate
to hit out right and ieft.”

Baldwin seized the horses by the head. Another
employee came to his aid, and as Bradshaw sprang
to the carriage the ruffians fell back. But as he
reached the vehicle, and opened the door for the oc-
cupant, a missile hurtled past his face and shattered
one of the side-lamps of the carriage.

“So much for the grand turn out of the nabobs!”
shouted a gruff voice. which Bradshaw recognized as
that of the discharged workman.

The engineer bent forward, and in a moment had
the half-fainting form of Josephine Fenway in his
arms. The crowd made way for him as he hurried
toward the office, up the steps, and, with Mr. Fenway
going ahead, into the inner room, where a few hours
before the singular robbery had taken place.

The young lady was deposited gently upon a
lounge, and Bradshaw turned to withdraw. At the
door he paused to cast a lingering, yet deferential
prance at the white, lovely face of the president’s
daughter.

She was not unconscious; she was uninjured; yet
it was no wonder she was unnerved by the shock to
which she had been so unexpectedly treated. The
engineer had seen Josephine Fenway many times,
upon the street in the elegant family carriage, at the
opera in aprivate box, and once, only a short time
prior to these events, she, in company with several
ladies and gentlemen, had paid a visit to the neatly
kept engine-room of the Fenway Company, upon
which occasion she had asked Bradshaw all sorts of
questions about the great engine, and chatted and
laughed with a freedom which he understood in its
true light—as the condescension of a high-born young
lady toward a handsome, yet coarsely clad, grimy
workingman.

“Wait a moment, Bradshaw,” said Mr, Fenway, as
the engineer was about to go. The manufacturer had
drawn a chair up beside the lounge, and sat gazing
with solicitude into the face of his daughter, while
he held and caressed her small, gloved hands.

“Tm afraid,’ Fenway continued, as the other
silently closed the door and stood waiting in silence,
“that affairs have reached acrisis. If there is so
much feeling as this against me, no explanation I
can make can insure peace. This ruffianism——”

“Pardon me,” Bradshaw returned, as the other
hesitated. ‘“‘But not aman of the compary’s em-
ployees had a hand in this outrage.”

“Are you sure?”

“As sure asSlam that I had no partinit. Several
of the hands stood ready to, and did, assist me in
the rescue of your daughter.”

“Well, well, I’m glad to hear it. But they still hang
about the works, and I can hear some of them shout-
ing pretty loudly at this moment. Why don’t they
disperse ?”

“They are awaiting an explanation, sir.”

“Then go and explain for me.. They will listen to
you, and you know as well as Ido that nothing can
be done to-night.”

“Tf I tell them only what you have told meit will
not mend matters. They know there is blame due
somebody, and they will not be satisfied until they
are taken fully into your confidence.”

 

 

“T blame no one, and I do not understand the mat-

 

“You mean that they will doubt the truth of my ex-
planation unless some one is directly implicated in
the crime?’

“That is it, sir.
look.” {

“Well, Bradshaw, it is mysterious, and the point I
have withheld from you only makes it the more so.
But you shall haveit. You wish to know how the
one to whom I was compelled to give the checks suc-
ceeded in drawing money on them!”

“Tf you please, sir.”

“That is the first point I took measures to clear up,
I saw the paying teller and others in the bank where
the money was on deposit, and all declare that they
recognized most positively the one who presented
the checks. They have seen him, and given him
large sums On our account too many times, they say,
o caeey of raising a question when he presented the
checks.” ;

“Ah! And whom do they declare the person to
be?” Bradshaw epeerly asked.

“Albert Jordon, our head book-keeper.”

Fenway rose t rhis feet as he made this announce-
ment, and, crossing the room, paused face to face
with the engineer. _ ;

And I happento know,” he continued, shaking his
foretinger in deep emphasis, ‘that Mr. Jordon has
not visited that bank or any other to-day !”

Bradshaw realized in a moment that a most in-
tricate mystery was presented for solution; and,
knowing what suffering the crime must entail upon
his fellow-workwen and their families, he experi-
enced a sense of mingled pain, indignation, and a de-
sire to see the Jc'peamer of this monstrous crime
against the poor brought to justice.

. “Ts this all you have to tell me, Mr. Fenway ?” the
engineer asked, after a brief interval of silent reflec-
tion. :

“itis all.”

“Are the officers of the Detective Bureau in posses-
sion of all the facts ?”

“They are.’ _j

‘You have called a meeting of the directors of the
Fenway Company, I understood you to say ?”

“Yes, and of tlie stockholders also.” ;

“Have you any idea what action will be taken in
relation to pare the help ?”

Fenway hesitated.

aie is a limited company,” he said, speaking
slowly. ;

“Phen it is notlikely that there will be an assess-
ment upon shafeholders to coyer the company’s
losses ?”’ |

“IT suppose not. If all chose to be liberal, or it was
thought advisable, they might subscribe enough to
pay the help, and go on with the business. But itis
unlikely that such action will be taken. Business
prospects are dull and money is close. In due time,
doubtless, a new company will be formed. If the
money is recovered the operatives will prebably get
re whole of it, as we should give preference to their
claims.” 1

Bradshaw’s face had grown slightly pale while the
other was speaking, and more than once he com-

ressed his lips, as if to keep back an indignant out-

urst. :

Before he could again speak, had he intended to do
so, the door was flung open, and Hofmann, the di-
rector, came breathlessly in.”

“There’s a dozen of the hands in the outer office
raising the very duse. The police have made off like
a pack of frightened schoolboys. If you've any pis-
tols, [11 see whether the mob can be cleared out or
not!’’ he said, his face livid with passion.

Bradshaw hurried out, his countenance lit by a look
of deep determination. Fenway followed, pale and
agitated.

They were met by a pak young woman, whose
large, anxious eyes met those of the engineer with
eager inquiry. Behind her were others, men and
women, the former speaking in loud, menacing tones,
the latter, or most of them, weeping.

“Tell me!” the girl huskily exclaimed, laying a toil-
worn hand on the arm of the engineer, and looking
from his face to thatof Mr. Fenway. ‘They say we
are going to be cheated out of our pay. ‘‘Is it true or
not?”

“You shall not be cheated, Nelly,” said Bradshaw,
reassuringly. He gently led her toward the outer
door, adding:

“We are all victims of a base crifhe, but I pledge
you my word that the perpetrator shall be detected,
whoever he may be.”

They reached-the broad upper step of the office
entrance, followed by the other operatives who had
intruded. eS .

As the tall form of Bradshaw appeared, with up-
lifted hand to attract attention, many faces were
turned eagerly toward him. Hofmann, the director,
came out upon the step at the same moment, pistol
in hand, and before the engineer could speak, his
brazen voice sounded above the murmur of the
crowd.

“This mob must disperse, pay or no pay!” he ex-
claimed, flourishing his pistol.

“Keep back, sir, 1 beg, if you would avoid trouble,”
said Bradshaw,in a low, hasty tone. But the self-
willed director, accustomed all his life to enforce
obedience, paid ne heed to the workingman’s
warning. ‘i -

“Here, you policemen,” he shouted to the officers
who, watchful but inactive, stood near. ‘Help me to

The affair has a very mysterions

clear this conFreyard "11 not have a howling crowd
on the premises Whi m about. Don't be afraid of
’em. I’ll back you up, whatever happens.”

Hofmann advanced to set an example of defiance.
He did not notice the powerful, menacing form
striding forth from the office at his heels. He heard
a warning cry from the book-keeper, and at the same
time the pistol was sent spinning from his grasp.

He tried to turn and face his assailant—but too
late. The great, grimy hands of Pomby, the fireman,
seized the director, raised him quickly aloft, and held
him, gasping and struggling, over the iron balustrade
of the office steps, with the evident purpose of drop-
ping him upon the flag-stones below !

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
—__—___ > e +—_____

Whose Child Was She?

A LIFE-LONG CURSE.

By MARY GRACE HALPINE,

Author of ‘‘The Missing Bridegroom,” ‘*The Hus-
band of Two Wives,” etc.

 

(“WHOSE CHILD WAS SHE?’ was commenced in No. 31.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER XXIX,
“THE GULF IS BROAD AND DEEP THAT LIES
BETWEEN US!”

 

   
 
  

RTHUR remained motionless
~. for some moments, looking
intently into the face of the
speaker, as if with the wild
‘}hope of finding there some
Staditii: proof in confirmation of the

ma \CS= denial that arose to his lips,

R but which they refused to
’ utter.

It was in vain for him to
crush down the soul-sickening
conviction of its truth; old
memories, half-forgotten looks and tones, came
thronging back, knocking at the door of his heart.

A deadly sickness crept over him, and, faint and
dizzy, he fell back upon his seat.

In the meantime, the woman’s agitation had
reached its culmination. ‘

“Arthur, my boy !my boy!”

Bursting into a tempest of tears and sobs, she
threw her arms around his neck, and clung, weeping,
to his breast.

The unmistakable fumes of alcohol upon her breath
completed the measure of Arthur’s disgust, and dis-
engaging her arms from his neck, he pushed her
from him, saying:

“Don’t! you suffoeate me.”

Carlotta Graham’s eyes flamed at this repulse, but
suddenly softened as they looked at the colorless
face. Going to the sideboard, she poured some wine
from a decanter. ‘

“Drink this,” she said, holding the glass to his
lips. “That cowardly blow hurt you more than I
thought.”

Arthur had now regained something of his usual
self-control, and pushed the por gently back.

“T am not used to spirits of any kind, and shall be
better withontit.” |

With a look that expressed more than surprise,
Carlotta set down the glass, and then took a seat
opposite him.

The two regarded each other attentively, and Car-
lotta was the first to break the silence.

“T told you when we parted, years ago, that the
time would come when I should come back to you.
Have you forgotten it, my son ?”’

“T have not forgotten it, mother. Many and many
atime have U pictured the joy, the peace, the com-
panionship that would then be mine.”

There was an unspoken reproach in these words,
ee than the harshest language he could have
used.

Even Carlotta’s blunted sensibilities felt it, though
it only aroused her resentment.

Tepe you would rather it had not come
a a ”

“I cannot—will not deceive you, mother. I never
thought to find you in a place like this.”

Carlotta’s face grew darker still, for there was
something in Arthur's look and tone that reminded
her of his father, which made them doubly irritating.

“Ha! So your father, and your father’s wife, have
succeeded in their endeavors to poison your mind

society, and place me where I once have been?

 

 

«ats THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 mune

x
=

against your mother? But their day of reckoning is
at hand. They have a son, through whom I can
wring their hearts as they have wrung mine!”

The fierceness of this outburst shocked Arthur
beyond all expression.

“You wrong Aunt Alice, mother; it is not in her
gentle heart to speak ill of any one, and to me she
has never spoken a disparaging word of you. As for
father, he has never mentioned your name to me
since I was a boy.”

“Tt matters not,” was the sullen response; ‘‘there
are more effectual means than words. The work has
been done, it seems. Ah, me! how many times have
I looked forward to the day that my son would be free
to come to me—the son of whom I was so cruelly
bereaved—never once dreaming that he would re-
yxroach and scorn me for the life and surroundings
into which I was foreed !”

Arthur was visibly moved at this appeal.

“Mother, can you make no allowance for the shock
that the revelation of your identity in this place gave
me? Ido not scorn you, Heaven knows; and if I re-
Sere} you at all, itis that you have kept me so long
n ignorance of your return. [ have met you at
various times—hov is it that you did not make your-
self known to me?’

“JT waited for your heart to recognize me, but
waited vainly. I have heard that the instincts of
the heart are unerring in ties like ours—in this in-
stance, at least, they failed.”

“They failed on my side, certainly,” said Arthur,
his thoughts reverting, with a pang of compunction,
to the singular repugnance he had experienced.

Perceiving the impression she had made, Carlotta
followed it up.

“IT decided not to see you until you were of.age,
and able to act for yourself. ‘The years have been
long and dreary, but they have passed, and now my
time has come—the time to assert my Claims upon
the child that I brought into the world and nourished
at my breast. Does not your heart acknowledge those
claims, Arthur ?’

“T do not deny your claims upon me, mother, or the
duty ITowe you. The first one surely is to remove
you from a place which must be as repugnant to you
to be in as itis to me to see you in it.” :

—J

“About Christmas.” .

Here Carlotta became disinclined to converse, and
soon after Arthur took his leave. |

The unexpected result of his visit there had made
him quite forget the object that called him thither,
in the new perplexities and embarrassmentsto which
it gave rise. Bs

But after the first shock was over of a meeting so
different from anything he had ever believed could
be possible, pity took the place of the disappoint-
ment and disgust that had overwhelmed him.

“Poor mother!” he thought, “she has had a hard
time and been hardly dealt with, but my love shall
save her.”

With the buoyancy of youth he threw off the gloom
upon his spirits, and began to lay plans for the attain-
ment of his purpose.

Carlotta’s reflections were far less satisfactory.
There was a moral dignity and purity about her son
that she had little expected to see, and her heart
ire rebelled at the barrierit had erected between

em. f

“Bah!” she muttered, “it almost made me hate
him to see that look upon his face—his father’s look,
curse him! But I will not be balked thus. The gulf
is broad and deep that lies between us; I cannot
cross over to where he is, but he shall come to me. I
will not be bereaved of my son a second time!”

 

CHAPTER XXX.
A VINDICTIVE WOMAN.

Judge Linscott and his wife were sitting together
alone the following evening. The former wasreading
the paper, or pretending to do so, and Alice was.
sewing; every now and then letting the needle fall
from her hand, and then renewing her efforts with
increased energy, as if trying to dissipate the painful
thoughts that oppressed her.

A tremulous sigh escaped from her lips.

Judge Linscott laid down his paper.

“Wife, what ails thee ?”’

Alice was startled by the unusual gentleness, as
well as suddenness, of this inquiry.

“Why, what should ail me, dear?” she responded,
forcing a smile to her lips.

 

Carlotta looked at the speaker with an air of angry
astonishment.

“Are you mad, Arthur, to ask me to give up a busi-
ness which I have just got well established, and
which brings me in more every day than I have
earned in as many months before? Money is a power
not to be despised.”

“T was not considering it in that light, mother; I
was thinking of the wrong that you are doing to
yourself and others. As for me, I would submit to
any toil and privation rather than that you should
live by the sale of liquor, and encouraging the vices
and weaknesses of the thoughtléss and ill-disposed.
- cannot be that you understand the harm you are

cing.’

Carlotta flashed upon the speaker a look of mingled
pity and scorn. :

“Harm? You are a novice in the world’s ways,
boy. When you have reached my age, you will have
learned that half the world lives by preying on the
other half, and that about all that is left us is to
choose to which of these halves we shall belong. I
need not tell you that I have made my choice. The
poor, silly gudzeons would fill some other net if they
did not fallinto mine. Why should not I have the
benefit of their folly as well as another?” |

“T trust that IL shall always be a novice in such
ways as these. You use false logic, mother, of the
head as wellas of the heart. I do not see how the
misdeeds of others can excuse our own, or take from
us our Individual responsibility. To me it is a simple
question of right and wrong.”

It was not the least bitter drop in the cup of this
strange woman, to find the son, upon whose sym-
pathy and compassion she had counted, so far away
from her and yet,so near, and she fretted against
the barrier between them as only such a nature can.

“Reproach and scorn me if you will—TI lay no claim
to the high morality you preach. Blood runs in my
veins, not water. Society has warred against me,
and I have warred against society; for all that the
world has heaped upon my head, I have returned

“T don’t know, indeed, Alice; but this is the third
time you have sighed during the last fifteen minutes,
and have noticed, for some time, that you were
looking pale and care-worn.”

“You know that I have a good deal to think of and
attend to at this time.” .

“I suppose so,” was the grave response. “It is
well that you have only one daughter to warry, if it
is going to affect you thus.”

Alice was silent, revolving in her own mind
whether she had not better unburden to her husband
the fears and anxieties that oppressed her.

So absorbed was she in these thoughts, that she did
not notice the entrance of two women, who cawe in
noiselessly and unannounced.

The shorter of the two remained at the door, in
obedience to an imperious gesture from her com-
panion; the other moved slowly up to where Alice
and her husband were sitting. : ;

When within a few feet of them, she threw back
the vail that shrouded her face, flashing upon thein a
mocking look of insolent triumph.

“Good-evening, Judge Linscott; and yon, too,
madam. I trust that I find youin the possession of
all the happiness you deserve.”

Judge Linscott partly arose from his chair, turning
upon the intruder a questioning look, his face sud-
denly paling at the unwelcome recognition that
dawned upon hii.

_ This seemed to afford his strange visitor no little
alnusement.

“Good people, either you don’t know me, or you
are not over-glad to see me.”

The color returned to Judge Linscott’s face at the
laugh that acconipanied these words.

“Woman! I know you only too well; but I don’t
know by what right you eome here, or what business
you can have with me.”

“It will not take me long to tell you.” —_-

The judge glanced at his wife, whose face betrayed
strong agitation.

“My love, you had better go to your room. This

 

 

scorn for scorn, and wrong for wrong; and so it will
be to the end.”

“Mother, itis my wish to aid, not reproach you.
Give up this kind of life at once. Surely, the neces-
sity you speak of no longer exists, now that you have
a son to work for and defend you.”

“So you think that you can reverse the verdict of

Arthur, you might as well hope to move the eternal
hills as to do this.”

“At least, let me try. If I can find means to furnish
you with a comfortable and pleasant home, will you
leave this place, and go to it?”

It was not in any heart, not entirely hardened, to
view unmoved the pleading look in the eyes that
were directed toward her, and Carlotta felt her own
suddenly moisten. She caught a brief glimpse of
the peace, the purity she had forfeited.

“Too late!’ she wailed.

‘Tt is never too late.”

But this unwonted mood passed as suddenly as it
came, and with an inward jeer at her weakness, Car-
lotta raised her head. 5

“Go to work, and see what kind of a home you can

ees can say nothing fit or pleasant for you to
lear.”

‘However that may be, Judge Linscott,” retorted
Carlotta, **we will not at present‘discuss. I do not
say that the tidings I bring will be very pleasant to
hear; but as they concern her as well as you, I think
she will find it for her interest to remain.”

Alice’s face grew still paler. -

“Carlotta!” she gasped, “in pity’s name, don’t keep
me in suspense. Is it about Robert, my boy, you
have come ?”

“Your boy !” repeated Carlotta, scornfully. “What
should I have to say about him, except that I wish
you joy of all the comfort he will ever be to you?”

Alice took a step forward, fixing her eyes steadily
upon the jeering face that confronted her.

‘Carlotta, think not to deceive me; I know more
than you think. I know thatyour toils are around
my poor boy, but my faith is strong that be will be
delivered out of your hands.”

Judge Linscott regarded his wife with an air of
surprise, that was tinged with displeasure.

“Alice, itis my wish that you have nothing what-
ever to say to this creature; sheis only practicing on

 

give me. I should not like to lose my sure hold on
this for an uncertainty. Who was the young lady I
saw with you at Taylor’s?”

The effect of this sudden question shbwed ‘that
Carlotta had not counted wrongly on it to divert
Arthur's thoughts from the point at issue.

“Tt was my Cousin Georgie—Georgie Graham—my
cousin now, but my wife that will soon be.”

A dark, inscrutable look, certainly not one of pleas-
ure, passed over Carlotta’s face, as she asked:

“When was this planned, and by whom?’

“T don't know what you mean, mother; it is my
free choice and hers, whose love is the most precious
thing to me in life.”

“You think so, of course, and yet I know that you
have been lured into this as well as if I had seen
every artifice and maneuver.”

“You wrong her, for one so lovely and lovable
needed no artifice to win my heart. Indeed, I hardly
know when my love for her began.”

“Boy, what do you know about love? I suppose |
this is the only beautiful girl you have seen, and you
have been thrown so constantly together that you
imagine her to be the only woman that can make
you happy. But don’t be alarmed; I am not going
to attempt the thankless and useless task of trying to
prove your delusion.”

It was now Arthur’s turn to try to direct the con-
versation into some other channel.

“Who is the young girl that I saw in the saloon
behind the counter?’

Carlotta flashed a singular look upon the speaker.

“Hagar? Why, who should she be but the girl I
hire to attend there? And very useful she makes
herself; I don’t know how I could get along without
her. Why do you ask?’

“Nothing, only I have seen her several times on
the street with Robert.”

‘Very likely. Ihave no knowledge of or control
over her movements outside of her duties here.”

“And he often sees her here?”

#‘Yes, as she is engaged to attend the visitors here.”

“Mother, don’t encourage him in dissipation. If he
‘eens on in this way he will break his mother’s

eart.”

Carlotta lifted her hand to her eyes to hide their
exultant gleam.

“What is that to me, Arthur? Other mothers have
suffered as well as she. Hearts are tougher than you
think, or mine would have broken years ago.”

“T thought Isaw young Makepeace here?”

“T shouldn’t wonder; he is here frequently. He
and your brother are great cronies.”

“Luther is the son of Simon Makepeace, father’s
clerk. Youremember old Simon ?’

“Don’t I! Iremember as if it were only yesterday
the last time I saw him. It was when he came to
enforce the harsh decree that robbed me of my
riscdoag? I have a good memory for some things, Ar-
thur.

There was something in the tone of the speaker
that jarred harshly on Arthur’s feelings, and he
made an ineffectual effort to obtain a glimpse of his
mother’s face.

“T hope you don’t cherish hard feelings toward
him, mother? In acting as he did he only followed
the instructions of his employer.”

“Deareme! how strangely youtalk! Why should
I cherish hard feelings toward him? Only I can’t
help thinking how strangely things happen in this
world; so different from what would be expected.
Years ago I wentto your father’s wife.in a vain
hope that she would afford me a parting look at you.
Robert—the boy whose wildness is now wringing her
heart—was sleeping on her knee. I-don’t suppose
the thought crossed her mind that she would one
— experience something of my sorrow and desola-

ion.”

“Aunt Alice bas one of the best and kindest hearts
in the world. It almost seems as if you rejoiced that
she was in trouble, but I don’t suppose you mean it.”

“Of course not. But you were speaking of Simon
Makepeace ?”’

Yes, he spoke to me about his son only yesterday,
with tears in his eyes.”
aeerees and so the old man is really worried about

im?’

“Yes; nor can [say that his fears are unfounded.
Already his little savings have been expended in
paying the debts incurred by his son’s worse than
foolish extravagance. Luther is his only son, whom
he had expected to be the joy and support of his oid
age.”

“Ah, well, we must all have our troubles, it seems.,
I once thought that there was no sorrow like my sor-
row, but I find that other hearts ache as well as
mine.”

“Setting all that aside, mother, will you not, for my
sake, close the doors of this place to these two—my
brother Robert and Luther Makepeace ?”’

“T will do anything in reason, Arthur; but what
good would that do? IfI closed my doors to them,
they would only go to some other place. I don’t see
anything very alarming about the young men; they
are only a little wild. After they have had their
fling, they will sober down. When is that marriage

 

your fears and credulity. As for you,” he added,
turning to Carlotta, ‘say what you have to say to
me, and say it quickly, or I will forget that you have
the semblance of a woman, and have you forcibly
expelled from the house.”

“Thank you, Judge Linscott; I came into the house
of my own free will, and I shall leave itin the same
manner. The courtesy with which you treat her,
who once had the misfortune to be your wife, is in
keeping with the rest of your conduct, But let that
pass. [ have just heard of my son’s contemplated
marriage, Judge Linscott—our son; for, however

your heart may rebel against it, this is a tie that the
law is powerless to annul.” z
_ Carlotta’s eyes rested maliciously upon that stern,
impassive face, which gave no token of the agony
and humiliation at his heart.

“T acknowledge Arthur to be my son, madam; that
he is yours also is his misfortune—and mine.”

That Carlotta felt the sting of these words could be
o— by the angry flush that mounted to her fore-

ead.

“You may find that there can be a greater; but let
that pass, too. One would suppose that I might be
notified of an event like this, if not consulted.”

“You know as well asI that you had no right to
expect either, and I will not discuss the subject with
you.”

_ ‘Nevertheless, I have come to say that this mar-
riage shall not, must not be.” ¥

Judge Linscott looked attentively at the face of the
speaker, the coarse outlines of which showed little
trace of the surpassing beauty that had been ulike a
curse and a snare. :

A feeling of self-contempt, mingled with the loath-
ing with which she inspired him, stung him out of his
self-control. :

“And now, having done your errand—which you
wight have spared yourself—you will go, and go ai-

 

rectly. I want you to clearly understand me; if your
object, in making this absurd interference, is money
—as I suppose it is—you will not gain much by the
operation. I am not a man to be blackmailed in any
form, as you will find. And if you persist in annoy-
ing me or any member of my family, I will have you
arrested and dealt with as I would deal with the
most abandoned of your sex, few of whom are 80 lost
to all shame and decency. Be sure that nothing you
have been or may say will deter me.”

No one who looked at Judge Linseott could doubt
but what he meantwhat he said—certainly not the
woman who listened to him with such a baleful tire
in her gleaming eyes.

“Tam in no need of money, and if I were, you are
the last man to whom I would apply. Feol! if Arthur

onin this precious scheme, and marry him to his own
sister.” :

“What!” .

It was Alice who spoke, as she started forward with
blanched face and dilated eyes. =

“Only this, that the child you have nurtured wi
somuch care and tenderness is my daughter, not
yours.”

“No, no! It cannot be! Oh, Carlotta, by the mem-
ory of your innocent girlhood, and all we were to
each other then, unsay those cruel words!” te

With a heart-breaking wail, the wretched mothe
ee age out her hands piteously toward that pitiless

ace.

“T should have to forget many things that have
happened since then to remember that. But you love
her as if she were your own child, and were it not for
this foolish scheme of marrying her to Arthur, you
might have believed it te the end.”

; The color rushed back to the pale, horror-stricken
ace.

“T don’t believe what you tell me. Cue is my

marriage, and are bad, false, and cruel enough to say
anything that will accomplish your purpose.”

“Come hither, Cleo.”

The other woman, whose dusky face and glittering
eyes betrayed her race, came forward.

“You remember Cleo?’ asked Carlotta. ‘She was
through all my wanderings since.
this lady, Cleo?”

The woman nodded. :

“You remember, when I quitted Riverside for the
last net that Ileft you behind, and for what pur-
pose ?” ; :

“Yes.”
; whee child did you take, and whose did you
eave ?”’
“T left your child, and took hers.” :
As she spoke Cleo nodded toward Alice, whose eyes

You remem

most soul.

“Cleo, as you would make answer before the bar of
Heaven, where you must some day stand, tell me,
are you speaking the truth ?”

response, ‘‘an’ can’t sa
Alice now turned to

no more or no
arlotta. 3

 

of yours coming off?”

Say is mine?”

 

 

were not my son as well as yours, I would let you go ~

child... I feel, [know it! You want to break up this |

with me at Riverside, and has followed me faithfully

were fixed upon her face as if she would read her in-

“I did just as Miss Lotta telled me,” was the sullen _

“What have you done with her—the child that you ae

 

 

   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

        
     
   
     
   
   
     
     
    

 

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«axa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #25

  

 

 

“Why, do you wantto make an exchatige? Give
me the one you have educated so carefully, and take
her? You éan do so if you choose—thatis, if she will
go with you. She has hada careful training, too,
under my own especial eye. Whether her ways and
habits will suit yours, is another thing. [will give
you the name of a dining saloon in Carlingford where
she attends the bar daily, and you can judge for
yourself.”

With asharp cry Alice threw up her hands, and
would have fallen had it not been for the arms that
saved her. ‘

Judge Linscott bore the insensible form to the sofa,
and then turned to her, who was not only his evil
genius. but that of all connected with him.

“Woman—fiend, rather—are you not satisfied now?”

“Satisfied? No! not while there is a single joy or

‘hope for your heart to cling to—not until your home

is as desolate as you have made mine! This is but
the beginning of the end, a premonition of the curse
thatis overshadowing you—the curse you invoked
twenty years ago, when you tore my child from me.
Said I not rightly, a curse he will surely be?”

Judge Linscott was aroused by the sound of the
closing door, and, crossing the room, he gave the bell
a sharp pull.

“T rang,” he said to the man who entered, «“t§ have
How often have
I told you to let no one in to see me unless they give
their name and business ?”

The closing sentence was said as Carlotta and Cleo
left the room.

“JT didn’t let no one in, sir,” said the astonished ser-
vant, “‘and I didn’t see nobody in the hall or on the
stair-way as I came up.”

“You must be blind!” was the sharp response. “Go
and make sure that they have left the house, and then
send Katy here.”

With one glance at the pale face of his mistress,
who, unclosing her eyes, was looking wildly around,
James disappeared.

He examined the halls and entrances, and tried the
front door, but no one was to be seen, neither was
there any trace of any one having passed that way.

He then went in search of Katy, whom he confiden-
tially informed that either. somethin’ was up, or
Judge Linscott had lost his senses.”

{TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

Os Story Wil Note Published in Bul-Fom.
THE QUAKER ort. .

A Tale of the Revolutionary War.

 

‘fast, and thou canst come for the dishes by and by !’”

“All right; you’re sensible!” said the woman.

She turned away and went out, taking the jug of

rum with her, and not forgetting to bolt the door be-
hind her.
“Thee must be careful, and not alarm the woman
with an idea that we want to escape,” Naomi said to
Deborah. “For should she tell the men below, they
might confine us yet more closely or take us else-
where, and retard our means of deliverance.”

“Thee is more thoughtful than I,’ said Deborah.
“But I do dread to stay in this dreadful place. Should
those ruffians below take to drinking, we know not
what they might do in their madness!’

“‘We will pray our Father to guard us,” said Naomi.

 

CHAPTER XXXV.
AN ALARM—A VOLLEY IN THE DARK.

When Hannah Slocomb rode out in that terrible
storm of sleet, and wind, and driving snow, which met
her fairly in the face, almost blinding her despite the
vail she wore, she had formed no definite plan of
action; ber only thought was to get to the American
lines, and to find her son Adab, just as soon as
she could. :

She knew her route as far as Germantown, and
could she once reach that point she thought she
would be beyond the British lines. Butif halted by
guard or patrol, she had no pass—no hope to get by,
except that she might touch the feelings of those who
detained her by a story she had thought of—a dying
son whom she sought to see and bless before he
passed away.

“Itis wicked to speak an untruth; but to save the
honor and the life of poor Naomi, I would risk, even
lose, my own life. For she is dearer to Adab than his
own life, I know, a thousand times.”

She rode swiftly on, passing points where she
feared to meet a guard, but the terrible storm had
driven them all in, and at last she reached the out-
skirts of Germantown, and began to feel as if she
were safe from present danger, and when day came
—— find it no hard task to reach the American

ines.

Through the silent town, so lately the scene of ter-
rible carnage, she rode more slowly, for her horse
began to show fatigue, thinking, as she met no one,
what road would be the right one for her to take,
for she was ah utter stranger in that section of the
country.

Moving on and giving her horse his own way, she
entered the very bit of forest, though she knew it
not, where the four robbers had attempted to take
the treasure which Adab was conveying to the
American camp; and here, in a dense thicket which
lined both sides of the road, she came upon two
large guard-fires and a body of men whom her fears
magnified to hundreds, though, perhaps, fifty all told
would have counted them.

The saddled horses were tied to the trees, and the
men were grouped around the fires, as she rode
within the circle of light.

She had no thought that they could be other than

 

 

 

By JASPER W. WILDWOOD.

(“THE QUAKER SPY” was commenced in No. 32. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIV.--(CONTINUED.)

A muttering noise, a shrill,-harsh volley of curses,
came from an innerroom, and then shortly after a
woman, scarcely half dressed, with disheveled hair
and a red, bloated face, came out.

“Oh, it is you, is it?’ she said, smothering a curse
meant for her husband, when her eye fell on Worms-
ley. ‘“What’s wanted now ?”’

“TI have a couple of lady-birds here for you to look
out for. They’re to be fed and closely guarded till
them that hired me come for’em. That will be in
three days. You'll be well paid; don’t fear that.”

“All right. Money will buy rum, and that’s the
comfort of life. Ha, ha!”

Her laugh was as discordant as her looks were
repulsive.

She walked up to the two shuddering, shivering
girls and scanned them from head to foot.

“Quakers !” she said, in a contemptuous tone.
“Women must be scarce when men’ll take up with
Quakers. But what’s thattome? Money—money’ll

buy rum, and rum is the comfort o’ life. Come with
me. I’ll put you where you'll be as safe as rats ina
trap. Ha, ha! ho, ho! Come with me.”

And she started with a candle in her hand, though
now day was near breakin

The girls hesitated, and

Grommatey saw it.

“You'd best go—quietly, too.

Tf you raise the evil

 

 

in her nature you'll fare badly.”

“Come,” said Naomi to Deborah. “At least, we can
be alone.”

Deborah took her hand, and in silence the two fol-
lowed the woman up into a small chamber, where
light and air from outside only had access by a win-
dow searcely a foot wide, lighted by but two panes
of glass, and an iron bar across them. c

In the room was a table, a bed, three or four chairs,
and a breken water-pitcher. =

Naomi saw all this at a glance. ;

“Tll bring you breakfast at breakfast-time. Keep
quiet and make no noise, or twill be the worse for
you,” said the woman.

She now started out, carrying the candle with her.

“Please leave the light,” cried Deborah. “I cannot
bear to be in darkness.”

“Can't do it. Candles cost money,” said the wom-
an. gruffly.

“There is money. Leave the light,” said Naomi,
and she put a a piece of gold in the woman’s hand.

“Youtalk. You’re worth looking at,’ said the wom-
an, putting down the light. ““Money is good; ‘twill
buy rum, and rum is the comfort o’ life.”

She now went out, bolting the door on the outside
as she went,

In a second, Deborah took a knife from her pocket,
cut the candle in three pieces, lighted each, and
while she held two in the lower part of each corner
of the little window, she made Naomi hold the third
piece up at the top, making a triangle of lights.

These were held up a minute and then withdrawn,
while Deborah peered out into the wood which rose

thick and dark back of the house.

Three flashes of light, following each other in quick
succession, were seen in the rear of the house.

“Thank Heaven he is there! My signal is an-
swered!” cried Deborah. ‘Do not despair, Naomi—
we will be saved!” :

“One man can never do it,’ said Naomi, sadly.
“There are full twenty ruffians below, besides the
vile hag who has locked us in.”

“Fear not. He has never failed yet—he will not
now,’ said Deborah. ‘‘See how quickly he has traced
us hither. He has three days to work in before our
persecutors come. In threedays he can bring Adab
and plenty of men hither to help us.”

“We will pray Heaven that he succeeds,” said
Naomi. “But all things look dark now. Yet will I
hope, for as thee said, it will not do to yield to de-
spair. But—hark! What is that?”

A strange, rumbling sound fell on their ears—a
harsh grating noise, like some piece of machinery.

“It cannot be wagon wheels on the rocks?” said
Deborah. ‘I feel a tremor, as if the house jarred.”

“Tt may be some strange machine in the house—for
what, who can tell? Not we,” said Naomi.

“itis dreadful! Oh, what can it be?’ murmured
Deborah.

Day was now dawning, and to save the candles for
future use in signaling, Deborah put them out.

Looking out in the forest, the two girls hoped to
see their friend, but they saw no signof him now.
He evidently would not risk being seen by others—
perhaps he had already ridden off for help to release
them.

An hour passed; they could see sunlight shining in
the tree tops, showing that the storm had passed.

Still the noise which seemed so strange sounded in
their ears—a rumbling, crashing, grating noise,
which they could not liken to anything they had ever
heard before.

Shortly after sunrise the woman came up, unlocked
the room and brought in a large wooden tray, on
which was a very substantial meal of bread, pota-
toes, meat, and a bowl of milk. In addition there
was a black jug, which would hold nearly a quart,
and pointing to it, she said:

“You gave ine gold—and I’ve brought you some
rum—the comfort o’ life.” :

“Thee can drink the rum. We do not need it,” said
Naomi.

“Not drink rum?’ cried the woman, in a tone of
wonder. ‘Why, I couldn’t live without it. I’ve got
a puncheon of it in the cellar, all paid for too, and
I’m getting money to buy more! I’ll drink it—it’s the
comfort 0’ life!”

And putting the jug to her lips, she took a long
draught.

“Wilt thou tell us what is the noise which we hear ?”
asked Naomi.

“Yes. ’Tis the mill-wheel. This is the Glen Mill-
House. We grind out flour for the Westchester folks,
and people miles away. My man is the miller—his

: name is Luke Grimstead. And I’m Molly Grim-

“Thee has brought us a very good breakfast, and
we are thankful,” said Naomi. ‘Accept this for thy
kindness !”

And the girl put another sovereign into the hand of
the woman.

‘This is jolly !” cried the latter. “More money for
rum—the comfort o’ life. You're as good as gals are
made, I reckon, young woman. I'll do all I ean for
you—see if I don’t!”

“Will thee let us go free?’ asked Deborah, quickly.

“Not exactly, young woman+not exactly. Why,
they’d burn the mill over our heads if I did that. But
T’ll feed you well, and if you’ll only drink rum, I’ll
send you all you want!”

“We want no rum, and we thank thee for what

thou hast done,” said Naomi, making Deborah a sign
not to spea’ ~vain. ‘We will partake of thy break-

Britons, and that detention would be perilous; and
though she heard the stern word “Halt!” she lashed
her horse furiously with the whip she carried, and
sped in a gallop along the road.

It could not be that they recognized her sex in the
gloom, so suddenly she appeared and so swiftly she
sped by; but whether they did or not, a terrible vol-
ley from pistols and muskets followed her into the
gloom beyond, and in an instant a numbness in her
side and a strange feeling in her left shonlder told
her she had been wounded; and her horse, leaping
wildly on in terror, made her feel also that it had
been hit, perhaps badly hurt.

But she never thought to draw rein, though she
knew she was bleeding, for she heard the clattering
hoofs of pursuing horsemen close behind her.

“On, on!” she shrieked to her horse. ‘‘Carry me to
my son before I die!”

But the horse began to lessen his leaps—he stag-
act while the poor widow grew more and more

aint.

“Oh, merciful Fatger, save me till I can see my
son !’ she moaned.

But nearer and nearer came the thunder of pursuit
down the narrow road, weaker and weaker grew
horse and rider, till at last, just as a shout close at
hand told her she was discovered, her horse fell to
the a with a groan that told her his life was
spent.

Fainting, she tried to rise, but failed, just as she
saw that she was surrounded by armed men.

Some one seemed about to strike when she heard a
voice—a well-known voice ery out:

 

“Hold! Strike not the fallen! It is unmanly and
wrong !”
“Adab! Oh, Adab!’ she shrieked.

“A wonian? *Tis the voice of my mother!’ cried
Adab Slocomb. “Ho! strike a light, for she hath
fainted quite away, and I fear me I feel the moisture
of blood upon her garments.”

Quickly the American scouts, for it was such that

about the wounded woman and her son, torches were
set alight, water was brought, and a surgeon hurried
up to try and revive her and attend to her wounds.

“Mother, dear mother! Is thee slain, and by our
owp men ?” cried Adab, wild with agony.

She partially recovered, opened her eyes and saw
his dear face close to hers, and she gasped out:

“Save Naomi!”

Then again her consciousness left her, and the sur-
geon looked grave, while he hastened to take up an
artery in the shoulder and to stanch a bad flesh
wound in the side. :

“She hath been fearfully overstrained, mentally
and bodily,” he said. ‘Besides, she has lost a great
deal of blood. If she survives the shock, it will be
through Heaven’s merey—not my skill. Yet, I will
do all I can.”

“Doctor, if thee saves her life, f can never repay
thee, even though I give thee all I possess on earth,”
said Adab, while tears coursed down his manly
cheeks.

Then he thought of the only words she had
spoken.

“Save—Naomi!’’

What deadly peril must his young wife be in, that
his mother should have left her home, evidently to
seek him, in the dark night, in the terrible storm?

Never was a man’s mind racked with more wild
suspense—never was man’s heart wrung with more
mortal agony than now tortured that true son and
husband. His worst enemy might have pitied him,
as in the cold, bitter night, drops of sweat bedewed
his pallid brow.

The scouts built a huge camp-fire by the road-side,
they improvised a hurried shelter of cedar boughs,
and within it, on a litter covered with their blankets,
Hannah Slocomb was carried, and for hours she lay
literally hovering between life and death, while her
son, and good Doctor Craig, from Washington’s own
staff, sought to stay the spirit that seemed to linger,
undecided, between earth and heaven.

And all this time, echoing through his fevered brain,
Adab heard the words—‘save Naomi.”

The day broke, the sun rose, and the storm went
down, still Hannah Slocomb remained insensible, a
pee pulsation telling thatlife yet lingered in her

pody.

“How long—oh, doctor, how long before she can
speak to me?” asked Adab, in agony.

“It may be hours—it may be days—it may be
never!” said the doctor, in a whisper. ‘I have done
all I can—her case rests with a Power greater than
any on earth.”

“Watch over ber—do not leave her a second. I
must go out among the men. Ihave an errand of
life or death for some one to take,” said Adab.

And he strode out where the scouts, poorly clad,
hovered around the cheerful blaze of the camp-fire.

“Men,” said he, ‘I have a purse of gold here—the
amountis over one hundred dollars—which I have
saved for an hour of need. I will giveit to the man
who willin disguise venture into Philadelphia and
bring me news from my mother’s house—news from
my young wife. [ would go myself, but [dare not
leave my mother, who, if she becomes conscious, will
ask for me, and perchance die if she sees me not.”

There was silence for a minute, while the men
looked from one to another, and then at that tempt-
ing purse of gold.

“T know the risk, and would take it on myself if I
dared to leave her,” said Adab, eenerng at the bough
hut where his mother lay. “The manthus caught
inside of the British lines will be hung as a spy!”

“Unless he is rescued,” said one of the men—
‘HENRY STAGER’ was his name—let itbe recorded in
letters of gold. ‘‘Adab Slocomb, you saved my life
when [I was down under my horse at Germantown
and three troopers were hacking away at me. I
haven’t forgotten it. I will go, only give me clear
directions, so I cannot miss the house.”

““Heaven bless thee, Henry Stager!” said Adab, as
he grasped the young Patriot by the hand. ‘Take the
purse—even if taken it may buy thy freedom.”

“Keep your gold, Adab Slocomb,” said the hero.
“No gold would hire me to run the risk of dying as a
spy. But you have risked life often for us and with
us, and I will go.”

“The good Father repay and thank thee, then!”
said Adab. “The gold shall go to thee and each one
of thy comrades in equal share when thou returnest,
and I feel thou wit, no matter what the news thou
bringest. Goto this number in Arch street, and ask
for my wife, Naomi, and if she be well tell her to
come with theeto nurse our mother if she lives, or to
see her laid in the grave if she dies.”

And Adab handed him a paper, with the location of
Slocomb Hall plainly indicated upon it.

The scout now changed his uniform for some old
garments which had been putina bag and carried
along for purposes of disguise, blacked his face and
hands with charcoal, and as his own hair was black,
short, and curled all over his head, he was quickly
changed into a darky that would bear inspection by
daylight, for he rubbed the grimy coal in witha
woolen rag till his skin shone like that of a Guinea
negro. :

He then picked out alean and scraggy horse, put
an old blanket on its back. a halter in its mouth in-
stead of a bridle, and when he mounted he looked ex-
actly like a runaway ragamuffin. .

An old tattered blanket completed his costume,
| and, as he carried no arms, it seemed hardly possible

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hannah Slocomb had passed and fled from, gathered |

he could be recognized as one of Morgan’s best rifle-
men, as he truly was,

The scouts laughed and cheered when he prepared
to ride off, and laughed louder yet when in regular
Carolina dialect he said: ;

“S’pose you gemmen never seed a plantation nig-
ger afore? Ise gwine down sonf{ Tis, it’s too gor-a-
mity cold for dis darkie up dar whar young massa
took me. No hoe-cake dar, neo homminy an’ possum
fat. Dis chile can’t stan’ it no longer. Ise gwine
home.” --

Cheer after cheer followed him as he kicked his
heels into the sides of his lean horse and it went off
at a scrambling gallop. ‘

‘‘He’ll go right through the lines as adeserter from
his young master!” said Captain Holmes, of the
scouts. ;

“Yea, verily, he is good at disguise, and in his talk
doth imitate the Ethiopian quite as well as in look! I
feel more hopeful now,” said Adab.

He now returned to the side of his mother and

watched Doctor Craig, who was trying to pour afew
drops of cordial between her lips.
The physician succeeded in getting nearly a tea-
spoonful of the reviving liquid down her throat, and
a gentle sigh showed that it had some effect But
the death-like stupor was yet heavy upon her, and
unless she was roused from it before long, he said
she would sink into an eternal sleep. The reaction
must soon commence, or it would be too late.

Adab now chafed her cold hands, and the doctor
told some of the men to heat some stones that he
might wrap them in a blanket and place them
against her feet. 2

Again, after all this had been done, the doctor
eaused Adabto raise her head, and essayed to pour
more cordial down her throat. A long drawn breath
i him, and she swallowed almost a wine-glass

ull. ;

Color began to come into her face, the pulse rose,
and Doctor Craig smiled when Adab’s questioning
look met his.

“There is hope,” he said.
“T thank the Heavenly Father!” said Adab, rever-
entially, while hot tears from bis eyes fell on the
white, thin hand of his beloved mother.

But yet her recovery was fearfully slow. By noon
her eyes were unclosed and she evidently saw Adab,
but her mind seemed to be weak and wandering,
and the doctor said it wouid not do to excite her, or
to endeavor to rouse her too fast.

As this scouting party was but an outpost of
videttes, placed there to watch the enemy, and guard
against approaches toward Valley Forge, where
Washington now held his little army, there was no
need for them to move for the present, so the doctor
had nothing to take him from his patient.

The day wore on, and when it was near night Doc-
tor Craig saw his hopes rewarded, for Hannah Slo-
comb, able to swallow a whole yvlass of wine, asked,
as she looked wonderingly atthe green walls of the
bough house and recoguized her son:

“Adab!- Is thisa dream? Where am I?”

He was about to answer, when a bugle blast fellon
his startled ear, and he heard Captain Holmes out-
side shouting:

“To arms, men! to arms!
coming !”

Mount! the British are

 

CHAPTER XXXVI.
UNEXPECTED RETURN OF HENRY STAGER.
Adab pressed his lipsto his mother’s brow and
whispered: ed
“Be quiet, dear mother. Fear not; thou art safe;
the doctor will stay with thee. Igo to see what is

r

 

the matter. Doctor, leave her not, on thy life!”
The next second Adab was cutside the hut, and,
seizing the long rifle which Henry Stager had left
ae against a tree near the camp-fire, he
bounded into the saddle of his own powerful horse,
close at hand, and rode to the very head of the little
a ye which Captain Holmes had just joined in the
road. :

Again the shrill blast of the bugle, nearer and
nearer, rang out as Holmeggaye the order:

“Forward! Fours! Trot!”

~Heading toward Germantown, the little column
emerged from the wood just as a rattling volley of
small arms was heard, andthey saw the horse—so
well known—of Henry Stager come flying down the
road, the rider bowed over onits back, as if wounded,
while fully fifty redcoated dragoons came sweeping
down in his rear, shouting as they rode.

“The Lord of Gideon be my helper!’ shouted
Adab, as he drove his spurs into his horse and dashed
on wildly ahead of his own column.

“Charge!’’ shouted Holmes, and every rider dashed
forward to meet the hated foe, sword in hand, open-
ingin the center for the horse of Stager to pass as
they swept madly forward. _

 

 

 

“Heaven forgive me! ‘Tis for my mother's life!”
cried Adab, as he brandished the heavy rifle and
bore down on the foe in advance of all his troops.

The British leader now made a fatal mistake. See-
ing this unexpected advance, where he thought only
one man was flying from his pursuit, he checked bis
troop to form it more compactly, aud now, with its
impetus all lost, his men startied, and his eclamn in
disorder. he found the Americans coming like a
whirlwind upon him. =~ ;

“Down! ye wolf dogs, down! shouted Adab, in
the lead of all, and, swinging the ponderous rifle
with both hands, he brought it down right and left,
erushing saber-guard and human skulls asif they
had been made of paper.

“Liberty or death!’ came from fifty patriot lips as
they drove sword in hand into the chasm made by

Adab.

Right and left, onward dashing, the giant Quaker
cleared his way—right and left the patriots clove
down man after man as they followed, and in less
than a minute, Adab, already in the British rear,
turned to continue his deadly work.

But now from the few left—only fifteen or twenty
—came the ery of:

“Quarter! quarter! Mercy! mercy !”’

“Give them Paoli* mercy!’ shouted Holmes, as he
a a terrible blow at the already wounded British
leader, .

“Nay, friend!. Spare him whoasks his life in the
hour of thy victory!’ said Adab, as he parried the
blow with his rifle-barrel, and saved the life of the
British officer.

“You're right, Adab! My blood was hot! You’ve
fought like a lion and your voice should be the first
for us to listen to,” replied Holmes, and he gave
orders to secure the prisoners, arms, and horses.

“Did I fight? The Lord forgive me! But the life
of my mother was at stake, and the command is to
‘Honor thy mother.’ and surely it meaneth to defend
her when godless men assail.” |

And Adab rode back, with a meek face and abashed
on to the camp ground, to see how his mother
fared.

She was better, and Doctor Craig was bending anx-
iously over a new patient. j

Henry Stager, badly hurt, ‘with three gun-shot
wounds, lay there, while his horse, just having
strength to bring him through, lay bleeding yet, and
dying outside the hut. ;

Adab was on his knees by his side in a moment.

‘Dear friend, thee hast suffered for my sake,” said
Adab, sorrowfully. *‘*Would that I were in thy stead
now.’

“No, no; I’m allright. Ill pull through!” said the
young hero. “I tried my_best to get to your house
and get news for you, and would have succeeded had
it not been for a bothersome thief of a Quaker they
called John Roberts. He was passing the door with
a party as I was going in; he made them stop and
question me, and his prying eyes saw white skin
through some of the holes in my ragged clothes. I
had to run for it then, and afterI got to my horse it
seemed as if every guard and picket had a volley for
me. But I’m here, old fellow !I’'m here!”

“Yes, and you'll stay here, if you don’t keep still,”
said the surgeon, sharply. ‘“‘You’ve lost nearly all
the blood in your body. Keep still and let me save
the rest.”

“All right, doe. Do the best you can forme. My
country needs me,” said Stager, faintly, for, his ex-
citement over, he knew how weak he really was.

“Mother can tell me where Naomi is now, perhaps,”
said Adab, who saw that his mother was far better,
and he approached her bed—or rather the litter of
boughs and blankets on which she had been laid.

“Yea, and it is bitter news,” said his mother, in a
feeble tone. “She hath been carried off, and with her
also Deborah Stacy, by those godless wretches John
Roberts and Abraham Carlisle.’’ ;

“John Roberts was the thieving villain who dis-
covered me,” said Stager. ‘“‘He isin Philadelphia.”

“I was coming to tell thee what had been done, and
that the young Continental soldier who hath be-
friended thee afore time, sent me to tell thee to come
quickly to Westchester to help him rescue her, with
a company of Morgan’s men,” continued the widow,
not hearing Stager, whose voice now was low and
faint.

“The Continental soldier? The friend of Deborah
Stacy ?” asked Adab.

“Yea; the same. She made some signal which he
discovered, but he came too late to save her. But he
went to find her, begging me to have his message
sent to thee.”

“Tt shall be answered,” said Adab. “A part of
these men shall carefully carry thee and friend
Stager to Washington’s camp, with the doctor to see
to yeasye journey. With the rest, I willspeed to
Westchester, for there I shall surely see or hear from
the soldier, for he is a goodly youth, and exceedingly
valorous, If Naomi and Deborah be in the land of
the living he will watch over them and shield them
from harm.”

It was now almost night, and knowing that it was
best to change their quarters at any rate, a portion
of the foree, dismounted, with some men mounted to
guard them and the prisoners, prepared to carry
Hannah Slocomb and the wounded rifleman to the
camp at Valley Forge; while Captain Holmes, with
Adab and twenty ~picked men, rode away in the
gathering gloom toward Westchester, leaving direc-
tions if they were not in camp within twenty-four
hours, to ask General Washington to send a company
of mounted riflemen to look them up.

*At Paoli, Pa., our troops were butchered after sur-

 

 

 

 

 

render.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE RASCALS IN PERIL.

- We have some way to go back now, lest a thread
in the woof of our story being omitted, the warp will
look slovenly.

Mrs. Stacy and Petrunia Stone spent the rest of
the long night in tears and prayer, after Hannah
Slocomb rede away in the midst of the terrible tem-
pest on the night when Naomi and Deborah were ab-
ducted. The servants were sad and silent, for they
knew not what to say or do to comfort them.

Just after day dawned, General Knyphausen and
his staff returned from the ball. The general was
weary, yet he had passed a pleasant night and.was
in a good humor.

Entering the house and finding the people up,
Hannah Slocomb and the two: young girls gone, with
Mrs. Stacy and Petrunia Stone weeping, he asked
what was the matter.

Between heart-breaking sobs, Mrs. Stacy told the
whole story.

The German general turned to a deathly pallor with
choking rage when he heard all she had to say.

“The safeguard of my quarters broken!” he cried.
“T will haug the dastard wretches who have done
this deed!” ;

And he instantly ordered an officer with a guard to
go in search of Abraham Carlisle and John Roberts,
and to arrest them and all with them wherever found,
and to bring them instantly before him.

“Weep no more,” he said tenderly to Mrs. Stacy
and to Petrunia Stone. “The young women shall be
found and brought back, if it takes my whole com-
mand to do it. And woe to those who have harmed
them!”

The general, who was brave in battle and strict in
discipline, was kind to those who looked to him for
protection, and his words fell soothingly on the ear
of poor Mrs. Stacy.

His owil servants now made coffee for the general,
for he swore he would not retire to rest until he had
seen the end of this matter and the foul outrage
righted in some way.

In less than an hour, Abraham Carlisle and John
Roberts, bound, with all their servants, were hustled
into the presence ef General Knyphausen by his
Hessian guards.

“Miserable carrion! how dare ye raise your eyes
in the presence of this weeping mother?’ said the
general, sternly addressing Carlisle and Roberts.

“Officer of the guard,’ he continued, “have two
strong ropes brought. We will hang these villains in
the front yard, as an example to other wretches of a
like kidney!”

“Mercy! What have we done?” moaned John
Roberts, piteously.

“Yea—tell us what hath so angered thee that thou
doth threaten our lives!’ eried Carlisle, trembling
from head to foot.

“What have yedone? Cowardly dogs! do you ask
me, when you know well that this house is in mourn-
ing because you have torn away its fairest orna-
ments? Where are the two helpless girls whom you
tore away from here in the darkness of midnight,
knowing that I and my guard were absent? Speak
quick, or I will drive my own sword through your
black hearts!” and the Hessian general laid his hand
on the hilt of his sword.

“What is this we hear? We have just been taken
from our peaceful beds, where we have lain the
whole night,” said Roberts, assuming a tone and look
of injured innocence.

“Yea, verily, as we can prove by our,own servants,
we retired to sleep three hours before midnight, and
just a little while since were dragged from our beds
by thy soldiers,’ added Carlisle.

“Lying varlets! I would believe this woman’s tears
before I would your oaths. Reveal where ye have
hidden the girls, or your lives are forfeit before I
count twenty !”

“Oh, will he never, never come 2?’ groaned Carlisle.

“He comes! He comes! I hear the clank of sabers!
We are saved!” cried John Roberts.

“What doth this mean?’ cried an officer whose
insignia betokened his rank to be that of a major-
general in the British service. ‘‘These men who are
bound sent for me to save their lives—they are under
my safeguard! What are they doing here ?”

“Lord Cornwallis!’ said General Knyphausen,
speaking slowly and with almost kingly dignity, ‘‘it
may suit you to become the safeguard of renegade
spies and traitors to their native land, but when they
break the safeguard of my quarters, tearing away
helpless girls from the arms of their mothers, they
shall die in spite of all the earls and lords in your
army! This is my quarrel—interfere if you dare?’

“Oh, my lord—my lord, we are innocent!” pleaded
Roberts, seeing that the British general quailed
before the honest impetuosity of the enraged Hes-
Bian.

“Yea—on my veracity as a Christian man, I affirm
it!’ groaned Roberts.

“And I pronounce ye both graceless liars and hypo-
crites !” cried General Knyphausen. ‘My lord, look

at those weeping women.

Why do the tears run

down their cheeks? One weeps for her abducted
child—the other for her niece; while out in the piti-
less storm, out in the darkness of the night, the gray-
haired mother of the other seeks for her son’s young
bride! Are you a man, and yet would stay the hand
of justice ?”

“No!” said Lord Cornwallis, “but I ask that these
men have a fairtrial. Give them that chance, and
Isay this—if they are proven guilty, I will be as
quick as you to say ‘ Hang them to the nearest tree !’”
“A respite! We may escape!” whispered Carlisle
to Roberts.

“My lord,” said the Hessian general. “Your de-
mand is just. They shall have a trial. Let it be
called speedily. Till then the prisoners remain in
my guard house !””

“Tam content that it should be so! Good-morning,
general,” said Cornwallis.

“Good-morning, my lord,’ replied the general, as
the former withdrew.

tent turning to the officer of the guard again, he
said:

“Guard these craven wretches closely. T know they
are guilty, and they must not escape. Had not that
British lord come when he did, they would now be
swinging in mid-air.”

The officer bowed, made a signal to his guard, and
they withdrew with the prisoners.

“Madam, find but the slightest clew of the direc-
tion in which they have taken your child and the
other lady, and I will send troops to look for them,”
said the general, addressing Mrs. Stacy.

“Alas! general, I know not whither to direct a
search. Perchance, when Hannah Slocomb comes
back, she may give us some idea.”

“Till then we must wait and hope,” said Petrunia
Stone.

{TO BE CONTINUED.)

A SECRET OF THE SCAFFOLD.

BY LEON FORTIER.

 

 

One autumn evening of the year 1864, Edmund La
Pommerais satin the condemned cell of La Roquette,
in Paris. :

His arms bound by the usual strait-waistcoat, he
sat, with features pale and rigid, staring at the soli-
tary candle upon the table, while against the wall
stood a warder, silently scrutinizing his every move-
ment,

La Pommerais was a surgeon, about thirty-four
years of age, his hair dark, yet already gray about
the temples, and he awaited his death summons for
the murder of a rich female patient, by digitaline,
with the intent to possess himself of her wealth.
Despite the powerful aid of the eminent counsel
Lachard, the court had refused to admit ‘extenuating
circumstances.” His friends had appealed for mercy,
and the venerable Abbe Crozes had personally inter-
ceded with the emperor, but it was deemed in every
quarter absolutely necessary to make a signal ex-
aimple of La Pommerais.

The rattling of muskets upon the slabs without in-
dicated the approach of some one of importance, and
the grinding of the key in the lock roused the pris:
oner from his reflections, The door opened, and the
governor of the jail entered, accompanied by another
person, whom La Pommerais recognized as the emi-
nent scientist, Armand Velpean.

Ata sign from the governor the warder withdrew,
and Dr. Velpean was locked in with the culprit.

La Pommerais resigned the only chair to Dr, Vel-
pean, and seated himself upon the narrow bed, from
which so many had been before so strangely aroused
from t!:-ir last slumber. The light being feeble, the
visitor moved his seat closer to the prisoner that he
might more closely scan his features. He was just
sixty at that date,a member of the Institute, the
author of many brilliant works on pathology, and,
as a scientist, at the height of his fame.

“Sir,” said Velpean, after a pause, “I will not be so
insincere as to offer you condolences upon your posi-
tion; for, although my doom may be more remote
than yours, the disease from which I suffer condemns
me as surely to death, within the next two years.
Therefore, as men whose hours are numbered, let us
proceed to business as quickly as we can.”

“Has my appeal been rejected then?” gasped La
Pommerais.

“T fear so,” replied the doctor, “but you have yet a
few days before you.”

The prisoner shuddered, and the cold sweat started
on his brow; yet with an effort he added:

“Well, so be it. Lamready. The sooner, perhaps
the better.” ; °

Velpean, drawing a lancet from his pocket, slit the
jacket at the wrist, that he might place his finger on
the condemned man’s pulse, and after a minute’s
consideration, he continued: si ag

“You are possessed of coolness and determination,
very rare under such circumstances, and these ren-
der the proposition F came to make an easier task.”

 

“T ain all attention,” replied La Pommerais.

 

eee

 

“As a medical student yourself, you must be
aware,” said the scientist, “that one of the most
curious physiological questions is as to whether
wemory lingers in the human brain after its separa-
tion from the human body ?”

‘The prisoner shivered slightly at this reference to
pee ee fate, but promptly recovering, he re-
plied :

“Twas thinking upon that same point, sir, when
you entered this cell, and if the question interests
you, think how much more deeply interesting must
it be to me.”

“You have doubtless read Ledillot and Bichat ?”

“Yes,” answered the prisoner, “and have myself
dissected a criminal after execution.”

“And have you formed any settled opinion on the
subject?’ interposed Velpean.

“Not yet.”

“This very day,” continued Doctor Velpean, “I have
carefully considered the instrument of death, and I
admit its complete adaptability for its purpose. The
heavy angular knife does its work in exactly one-
third of a second; therefore the patient cannot ap-
preciate the shock any more than the soldier can the
loss of a limb from the passage of a cannon ball
upon the field of battle. Any sensation under srch
circumstances must be obscure anddumb. It is true
that the knife makes two wounds; but I imagine that
the rapid severing of the neck produces a swoon more
perfect and immediate than that of the most power-
ful anesthetics. As to the involuntary movements of
the fleshly body, so suddenly arrested in its vital pro-
cesses, they are but nervous indications, not neces-
sarily combining pain. The actual suffering may be
alone in the preparations for the last ordeal, other-
wise the separation of brain and heart should par-
alyze all.”

‘I trust it may be so,” replied La Pommerais, “‘yet
whatif there be some terribly new agony, impossible
to analyze, in the sensual disorder produced by the
instantaneous usurpation of death ?”’

After some moments’ reflection, the culprit con-
tinued:

“Are the organs of memory and will, in man, placed
in the same lobes where we locate them in other ani-
mals, and, if so, are they equally confounded by the
passing of the blade? There are tales of lips that
have articulated after separation ; andit is related of
a sailor at Brest, who was accidentally decapitated
on board ship, that he snapped in twain a pencil
placed between the teeth afull hour after the head
had been severed from the body. Was that a muscnu-
lar act only, or an effect of the sentient organs of the
brain? Who can tell? Before many hours I shall
have known—and forgotten.” :

“Forgotten, yes; but perhaps communicated the
knowledge,” eagerly continued Doctor Velpean. “It
remains with you to decide the point; and that brings
me directly to the object of my visit.”

“T do not understand you,” cried the prisoner,
amazedly.

‘“‘Monsieur de la Pommerais,” said Doctor Velpean,
“in the sacred cause of Science, which daily claims
her martyrs, you may by an act of supreme abnega-
tion benefit her and mankind. You are a surgeon,
and are better fitted than any other to collaborate in
an experiment which may be of inestimable value.
I believe it possible, by a concentration of will, that
you may exchange with me a sign of intelligence
after execution. If you assent, and we succeed, you
will leave a memory in science which may efface the
record of your social fault!” :

“To what tests do you propose to subject me—
arterial, injection, electricity, or——”

“To none of these,’ interrupted the physician.
‘Your body shall be respected; but when the knife
falls, I will be at your side, and rapidly as I can [
shall grasp your head, and cry distinctly in your ear,
‘If you remember our covenant, close your right eye-
lid three times, the left remaining open.’ If by this
action of the palpebra nerve you prove that you
understand me, you will revolutionize our conclu-
sions, and be recorded as a benefactor, instead of a
criminal.”

At this astounding request, the eyes of La Pom-
merais dilated, and after a pause he replied:

“Come to me that morning, and I will give you my
answer.”

“T thank you,” said Velpean, and bowing to the
prisoner, he disappeared at the door, as the warder
re-assumed his watchful attitude; then La Pom-
merais threw himself on the bed, to reflect as well as
he might upon the ghastly experiment.

On the fourth morning thereafter, about half-past
five o’clock, the governor of the prison, accompanied
by an officer of the court and the Abbe Crozes, en-
tered the condemed cell.

Suddenly shaken from sleep, the prisoner knew
that his hour had come, and rising, he dressed him-
self rapidly. For afew minutes he spoke with the
good abbe, who had for years enjoyed a brave repu-
tation for strengthening and consoling those in the
supreme agony. His eye then fell on the anxious
face of Doctor Velpean, and he said:

‘*T have practiced my part of the task and suc-
ceeded. See!” and with his right eye he winked thrice.

The man of science acknowledged his courage with
an approving smile, and then made way for the exe-
cutioner andvhis assistants.

The last toilet was quickly effected, the good old
priest reading the while a farewell note from the
prisoner’s wife. La Pommerais’ eyes filled with
tears, but they were religiously wiped away by the
old man’s pions fingers. Refusing the proferred glass
of brandy, the prisoner rose, and the procession
moved toward the entrance of the prison.

The vast iron doors swung back before it, and the
soft morning air swept into the gloomy building.
The Place dela Roquette was guarded by a cordon
of cavalry, and within them, surrounded by a half-
circle of gens d'armes, whose swords were instantly
drawn and held en garde as the procession appeared,
arose the grim engine of the law.

Beyond the mounted troops arose the surging cries
of the debauched crowd, that had kept vigil all night
for the ghastly spectacle of the morning. Ruffians
clung to the chimneys, while at the windows of the
taverns women dressed in the tawdry dancing silks
of the previous evening quaffed bad champagne still
with their black-coated companions. Sparrows hop-
ped nervously from twig to twig, as if greatly dis-
concern. by this unwonted assemblage in the early

ours.

Grim and stark rose the guillotine, the knife
gleamed coldly, and away in the sky beyond a single
star twinkled faintly, like the last speck of hope, and
faded out.

To the prisoner, around and above, there was noth-
ing but glittering steel, but he nerved himself
strongly for the end.

As he was fastened to the plank, he kissed the
erucifix, and a knot of his own hair which the priest
had gathered at the toilet.

“Courage!” the old man whispered, as he himself
laid the last kiss of peace upon the sufferer’s cheek.

As the plank was dexterously put in position,
La Pommerais saw Doctor Velpean at the promised

ost.

. The whole platform shook with the thud of the
knife, but the sound had not ceased to vibrate ere
the severed head was in Velpean’s hands.

The face was somber and livid, the eyes open and
distraught, the brows twisted into a horrible grimace,
the teeth locked, and the lower jaw yet quivered.

Loud and distinctly the scientist uttered the ques-
tion agreed upon into the ear; but although fortified
to his task, a tremor crept through Velpean’s flesh,
as the right eyelid closed slowly, while the left gazed
distinctly into the experimentalist’s face.

“In Heaven’s name,” cried the electrified doctor.
“Again! the sign again *”’

Twice the eyelid had moved. Now the lashes
slightly wavered, as if with an astounding effort, but
the lid did not move, and in another moment the
face was rigid.

The executioner took the head and placed it, ac-
cording to custom, between the legs of the trunk.

In afew moments more, as the surging crowd dis-
persed, Doctor Velpean fell back overcome in his
carriage, and La Pommerais was _ already on his last
journey to the cemetery of Mont Pamasse,

-e~<
CHINESE MEDICINE.

The medical art in China is mysterious and empirical.
The medical profession is regulated by rules almost the
opposite of those which prevail in this country. In
China the doctor receives a fixed salary as long as his
patient is in good health. If the patient falls ill, the
doctor’s pay is stopped until a cure is effected. Here a
sick person usually tries to assist the doctor by explain-

ing the symptoms of his case. In China, this would be
considered an insult to the doctor. The doctor may feel
the patient’s pulse, examine his skin, and look at his
tongue; but he may ask no questions. He is then ex-
pected to diagnose the disease from which the sick man
is ailing, and to prescribe aremedy. The medicine pre-
scribed is usually very cheap and very nasty’; but some
drugs are high-priced; and there are certain precious
stones which are believed to be of wonderful efficacy in
curing diseases. One of these expensive prescriptions
consists of very costly ingredients. White and red coral,
rubies or jacinth, pearls, emeralds, musk, with one or
two earths in special quantities, are crushed into pow-
der, rolled into pills with gum and rose-water, and
coated with gold leaf. This unique medicine is reported
to be an infallible cure for small-pox, measles, scarlet
fever, and all diseases which arise from blood-poisoning
and break out in cutaneous eruptions.

 

 

    

<h

Aching Sides and Back, Hip, Kidney and
Uterine Pains, Rheumatic, Sciatic, Sharp and
Weakening Pains, relieved in one minute by
the Cuticura Anti-Pain Plaster, The first and
only instantaneous pain-killing, strengthening
ylaster. 25 cents; 5 for $1. At druggists, or of
POTTER DRUG AND CHEMICAL CoO., Boston.

 

 

Pimples, blackheads, chapped and
PI Mi oily skin cured by CUTICURA SOAP. PLES

 
 

 

 

 

   

   
  
 
 

 
 
 

 

 
 

 

  

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

VOL. 44—No, 41,

 

 

 

PI

weve vv Yee ve

NEW YORK, AUGUST 10, 1889,

 

Oren eee

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FRER.)

 

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for money lost in transit unless sent in one of the above
ways.

HENEWALS,—The volume and number indicated on your
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pires. Note this carefully, and renew promptly, as all
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f you do not receive the paper promptly, notify us that
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ERRORS.—The irregularities of the postal service fre-

nently cause loss of papers in the mails. We will cheer-

ully duplieate any missing numbers upon application,
and desire an early opportunity to rectify any mistake
that may occur. :

TO CLUB RAISERS.—We are at all times ready and will-
ing tolend you all possible aid, and will send, free, as
many saniple copies as you think you can judiciously use,
together with other advertising matter.

Special inducements made for large clubs.

Subscriptions may begin at any time, and numbers as
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All letters should be addressed to

STREET & SMITH,
P. 0. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

ALONE IN THE GREAT CITY,
A NEW STORY, BY A NEW CONTRIBUTOR.

 

 

 

A life-like and affecting romance of a friendless
girl, alone in the great city, will be commenced next
week, under the title of

WITHOUT A HOME,

By Mrs. B. F. BAER.

 

The action of this story is vivid and impressive;
the character-drawing is quite clever; the plot is
natural and well developed, and the incidents brisk
and spirited.

A sad turn of fortune’s wheel strands a sensitive
young girl upon the shoals of poverty ; she becomes
little better than a drudge to those who should at
least have treated her with kindness if not with
love. Too proud to ask aid from her wealthy kin-
dred, her unhappiness becomes unendurable when she
is made

THE VICTIM OF A BASE ACCUSATION.

Her only chance to escape from her persecutors is
afforded by flight, and she hastens to the metropolis,
and there experiences

THE PERILS OF BEAUTY.

The narrative is earnest, touching, and frequently
intensely dramatic. The opening installment will be
placed before our readers next week

Why Novels are so Widely Read.

 

 

Some people read novels solely for the entertain-
ment they afford, others merely for pastime, and a
still greater class for the knowledge of human nature
which good stories impart, and the views of society
therein presented—views not otherwise readily at-
tainable because ef the remoteness of this class of
readers from social centers, or because of inability
to frequently go into soviety. A Baltimore lady uses
novels for a still wiser purpose—to keep her from
worrying and moping. Toa local reporter she said»
“Novels are better than medicine for me. I am, as
plenty of other women are, a natural ‘worrier ;’ that
is, I am given to borrowing trouble and looking
ahead with apprehension of disaster to come. I
should have been born a man, I sometimes think, and
thus combat with the world myself; but sitting at
home as I do, the mother of a family, and having to
wait and watch, my husband trying to lay up some-
thing for our old age in his own way,I easily fall
into the habit of useless worrying about the future,
which tends to stimulate regret for the past, and
often, I am sure, makes the present unnevessarily un-
pleasant for those around me. For this ‘disease’ I
have found a remedy in novels. When I feel a wor-
rying mood coming on me now, I fall to reading them,
and they never fail to soothe me.”

——>@~<

ODD SPELLS IN A HUSBAND,

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

“Oh, Mr. Brown is a fine man, and a real good hus-
band, but he has his odd spells. But you don’t mind
these after you are well acquainted with him. He
can’t help them.”

So said an acquaintance, in speaking of a mutual
friend.

Now, begging the pardon of everybody for differing
witb the popular opinion, we do not believe that Mr.
Brown cannot help his odd spells.

Nobody has any right to have odd spells, unless he
is sick or insane. What business has a well, sane,
common-sense man with odd spells ?

He ought to be ashamed of anything of the kind.
He ought to be as much mortified over his odd spells
as his wifeis. And, if he cannot break himself of
them, he ought to sit up nights, and devote his time
to that end.

We have known a great many people who were sub-

ject to odd spells, and they were, without a single
exception, selfish and contrary, and their odd spells
in anybody else would have been ill temper.

But it was all set down to the score of their oddity.

Now, in families and communities, we hear fre-
quently oddity spoken of almost in the light of a
virtue. “Tommy is such an odd child!” says the
mother, and the smile or look which accompanies
the expression, would almost lead you to think that
she expects Tommy to become, in due time, a modern
Shakespeare, or George Washington.

We pity the woman who has a husband subject to
odd spells. She isthe victim of a martyrdom, for
which we sincerely hope there is a very brilliant
crown in prospect. A husband subject to the gout is
an angel of lightin Cnr to a husband subject
to odd spells. One can have patience with a fellow-
sinuer when physical pain and suffering rack him,
and make him wonder where the advantages of having
been born come in, but for odd spells, which are only
ill temper, selfishness, and an indifference to thecom-
fort and happiness of all concerned, it is the duty of
no one to have patience. There are times when
patience ceases to be a virtue.

The husband who is subject to odd spells generally
has an attack when there is company in the house.
Company seems to act as a sort of a stimulant to
him, and he comes down in the morning with a sober
face, and carves the meat in a brown study, and takes
his coffee in somber silence, and looks annoyedif any
one makes a joke, and answers in monosyliables when
spoken to, and declines all attempts at sociability on
the part of the company, and rebuffs hig wife at every
turn, and declines the caresses of the children, and
makes himself as hateful, generally, as it is in his
power to be. The very cat knows he is having an odd
spell, and she wisely flees to the attic and curls up to
wait till it blows over; and the dog, if theréisa og,
drops his tail between his legs and skulks away.

The cat can hide, the dog can run away, the com-
pany can go home and laugh about it after they are
there, but the wife has to stay and endure it, and
apologize to everybody. for it, and make it-all fair
weather until he comes out of. it, and treat him just

 

 

’
the same as though he acted like a reasonable being, !

instead of an idiotic lunatic.

And if she is a woman of sense. she detests herself
for bearing it as she does—and yet she knows that
under the circumstances itis the best thing she can
do.

And we hope that every man who has odd spells,
and who flatters himself that nobody notices them,
or that his friends regard them as rather nice in him,
will lay this flattering unction to his soul that a man
with habitual odd spells is as detestable as a pole-
cat in any well-bred community.

“NOT YOURS, THAT'S ALL.”

BY HARKLEY /HARKER,

 

 

 

“Will you tell me the justice of it? Is George a
better fellow than Iam? Yet he gets his two months
of vacation.”

“ That’s no way to look at it. George has a good
thing. But it is not yours, that’s all. You havea
good situation; but it has a short vacation attached
to it. Again, that’s all there is to that. Accept
things as you tind them, till you can change them,
that all. 2

The “that’s all” of the wiser man of these two had
a great deal of truth init. It was a favorite expres-
sion of his when he wanted aclincher. He always
ended up an unanswerable argument with it, explo-
sively and finally. There was as much in the tone as
some men would put into a page. It meant fact.
Some things are facts, and it is vain to contend with

them. To accept them at once is wisdom, for you
will be forced to accept them in the end; better to do
it at first, with a quick decision on a sure look, than
to fight against them for weeks, and be compelled to
knuckle down before them, disappointed and spent,
in the end.

Now, here were two young men of about the same
age and abilities. They were both confidential men
for rival houses in the same trade. One was located
in Boston, the other in New York. They each did
about the same work. One was employed by a gener-
ous firm, who happened to think an employee who
was worked sixteen hours a day, and bore very heavy
responsibilities, should half rest for two months by
going over to do the firm’s summer errands in Paris.

“Practically two months vacation George has,” re-
marked the other.

But the speaker worked for a firm who, while just,
were rather hard on their help. They gave just as
good wages, there were equally good prospects ahead.
Only there was “No Paris in mine,” if I may quote
the speaker’s colloquialism. Very well. What was
the use in growling? Paris is not yours. You are
not to think of yourself as being robbed of a Paris
trip because the other fellow has it. You never had
it. It was, then, never taken away from you. You
would not have thought of the Paris element in your
year’s compensation had you not seen it in his.
What you have to do is to forget Paris. It is not in
the usual line of things. Count the other fellow
lucky, if you think of hii over there, and be gener-
ous aboutil, too. Bat don’t count yourself unlucky,
that is the important point.

Another man drives his sidebar and mare out to
the park, after business. Very good; I can’t. Itis
not mine yet. I put the thought of discontent down
and grind it under my heel. In due time I may have
my mare. Perhaps I shall be up when he is down;
perhaps when I get up he will be higher yet. All
right. His things are not my things. I insist on
living my own life. I may deserve all that he has,
and more; but I have not got it, and that endsit. If
the truth were known, perhaps I could as well afford
the turn-out as he can. Perhaps I like to spend my
surplus some other way; may be I save it for a rainy
day; may be I prefer to get married, and so buy rib-
bons for a pretty woman, and velocipedes for hand-
some children. That’s my business. At all events
I am not going to play the consummate fool and
scratch myself with nettles every time I see the
other fellow spinning down the road, It’s not mine,
that’s all.

Auother man gets a promotion. Well, mine has not
come yet. Whatis his promotion to me, any way? It
has not knocked my pay down a cent. He happened
to be in good fortune, There was a happy combina-
tion of circumstances; aman ahead of him was killed
on the railroad, and there was nothing for it but to
put this next man into the dead man’s shoes. Do I
want any old fellow killed to make way for we? No,
thanks. I do not go round the store with loaded re-
volvers in my mind’s pocket, killing off men, in
thought, to get up in the world. Or it may be that my
schoolmate had a rich uncle. I did not have a rich
uncle. That ends it. Imustbe my own uncle. I’
cheerfully try. His unecleis not my uncle. All the
fretting in the world will not change the fact. I may
havea rich auntie. Thank Heaven, she is not his
auntie. He, having his uncle, must bide his uncle.
He cannot take my aunt. Facts are facts, and they
work for as wellas againstus. There is asoft sideas
wellas a hard side tu every fact. No fact can turn
its opposite sides to the same man at the same time.
Therefore, I trust that any of my admiring kinsfelk
who are almost disposed to reflect on my abilities be-
cause of the other fellow’s promotion, will please read
this. Iam myself, that’s all. I dothe best I ean in
my place; I cannot get into the other man’s place—
nor, thank God, can he get into mine.

Itis the easiest thing in the world to look on an-
other man’s things so intently that they seem tobe
yours. You feel defrauded because he has them.
You have thought of them so long that when you see
them in his possession it gives you all the sensations
of areal theft. If he had snatched them from you,
you could hardly experience a more poignant sensa-
tion. This is envy. A man’s happiness consists in
nothing so much as in the healthy preservation of
the line between the things that are rightfully nis
and the things that are not his. In business life men
encroach on each other's rights by looking over the
fence so long that they actually lay claim, in their
thoughts, to the other man’s trade, or honors, or op-
portunities. The next step, of actual, overt robbery,
is easy and natural. Then come wars and endless
heart-burnings.

The secret of contentment is his who stands by his
own, who believes in his chance, who values a thing
even a little higher because he has it or does it. 1
like to talk even with a conceited man. His fault is
not to be denied, and is often contemptible. Yet it
is so very comfortable to him that it is refreshing to
converse with him. His satisfaction is something
immense. I really believe, however, that a right
self-valuation, a thankful spirit, and a stout-hearted
patience, will enable any man to reach the same end
—comfort and happiness. At any rate, whatis not
mine [ will not torture myself by sighing for. Let me
rather work for it bravely and silently.

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

 

 

 

FASHION’S FANCIES.

Tan-colored gloves should be worn with shoes of that
color.

Many wool dresses have the neck and sleeves finished
with a white silk cord.

When the hat is all white, the parasol should be also
white. :

Russet red costumes, with blouses of white crapeline,
are popular for sea-side use.

Hats made of apiece of the dress goods, stitched in
many rows, are used with yachting and traveling dresses.

Expensive black lace dresses are enriched by pendants,
slides, girdles, and other ornaments of jet.

A new neck dressing is aruff made of large plaits of
—_ which is tied together in front with two narrow
ribbons.

,_ Plain round skirts should be made about an inch shorter
in the middle of the back than at the sides, so as to make
them set properly.

A very nice quality of silk glove is shown this season,
which fits as snugly as kid, and is much cooler and more
comfortable to the hand.

_ The Directoire linen collars and cuffs, with a deep plait-
= of lace on the edge, form charming accessories to a
lady’s toilet, while wide mull ties and cravats have also
been revived.

Sashes of all hues and kinds are universally liked for
the empire style of dress, Persian and Roman designs
having been revived, while China crape makes a good
combination with evening dresses, though surah silk, or
the same material as the dress, is most generally used,
the ends being fringed, embroidered, or tassel-tipped.

The creole shirt, worn in New Orleans, is very neat,
graceful in appearance, and just the thing for warm
weather. Itis made of fine white cambric or jaconet,
with a besom pistes in at the neck and waist, and fall-
ing in loose folds over the bosom, letting the air in freely
through its thin texture, and presenting a cool and com-
fortable contrast to the heayy linen bosom, lined and
starched, that forms so excellent a bake oven for suffering
humanity.

_The most fashionable summer robes composed of mus-
lin, surah, and such like stuffs, are made with gaugings,
and puffed casings run through with ribbon of different
widths. A favorite style for trimming the fronts of skirts
is to have groups of these casings each going down to a
point in the center, and the narrow ribbon put in is then
tied in a bow at each end, orinaline of bows down the
middle. Such puffings are used to trim almost every
article of dress at present, and we see hats, bonnets, chem-
isettes, sleeves, skirts, bodices, and even underlinen,
decorated in this novel way, while the lace and embroid-
ered skirts of last summer may be worn again this year
by arranging them as tunics mounted at the top with a
casing, with colored ribbon run through it.

 

Mrs. Louise W.—Dresses for widows are extremely
plain, and are made of Henrietta cloth or nuns’ vailing,

 

 

 

‘|a short distance above the school-house.

 

with vest and panels of English crape, or they are en-
tirely of crape, over silk. The back and sides of the skirt
fall in wide natural-looking folds, while the front may be
slightly draped, and the whole bordered with a wide
crape fold, or there can be fine plaits down the front, or
panels or plaits of crape. The close high bodice extends
just below the waist-line in a dull point front and back,
and the back of the skirt is hooked on the bodice, while
the sleeves should be high in the shoulders, and may be
either coat shape or leg-of-mutton, to suit the wearer.
Skirts of house dresses lie ten inches on the floor in the

back, and those for the street are made quite long. The.

turn-over collar and wide cuffs, worn outside the sleeves,
are of white nainsook, batiste, or organdy, with an inch-
wide hem turned up on the outside, while some of these
sets are hem-stitched with black. The widows’ cap of
white crimped crape puffs, when worn by young women,
is quite small and flat, pointed toward the forehead,
straight at the back, and tapering at the sides to fasten
under the low-coiled back hair, four or five of the small
crape puffs known as widows’ ruches covering it en-
tirely, while for older ladies, tucked strings that hang be-
low the back hair are added to snch caps, and others, for
those still older, have large crowns to take in the back
hair, 2d. It is usual for a widow to wear mourning for
two years, but the cap js only worn for one year.

Miss Millie D.—The French waist shows no darts, but
is gathered in front and back at the neck and waist, over
a fitted lining of thin white silesia or satin, while it may

be quite round, though it is generally slightly pointed at
the back and front. The skirt worn with this waist is
shirred at the top of tlie back, and slightly draped on the
hips, cr it is laid in plaits that meet im front.

Gertie._I\st. Camellias, white locust blossoms, bluets,
carnations, and roses, gre the favorite flowers for sum-

mer hats. 2d. Bluets are the blue German corn-flower,
known here as blue pinks, and also called ragged sailors.
3d. Violets are still fashionable, tied in small bunches,
with their stems and roots showing.

Lulu T., Nassau, N. ¥.—A small scent sachet, kept in

the pocket, will perfume the handkerchief in the delicate
manner desired, while similar ones should be placed in
your handkerchief drawer.

Miss Charlotte X.—Thb Shakespeare bracelet is w nar-
row band of silver, with a quotation from this great
author engraved upon if.

Estelle C., Stamford, Conn.—The ‘‘Candy Maker” con-
tains recipes for making all kinds of candy, and we will
mail it for fifty cents.

Nellie.—A well-fitting underwaist of silk or satin is a
great improvement to ajersey of any sort.

NAN.

BY E, L. VINCENT.

 

 

 

Bang!

A snow-ball whizzedthrough the air, and away over
the fence sailed the professor’s hat, battered and dis-
honored.

A ripple of girlish laughter floated up from some
one behind him, and looking around angrily, the pro-
fessor caught a glimpse of a pair of dark, roguish
eyes peeping at him out of a pretty hood, which did
not hide the saucy face of the maiden who had
thrown the ball.

She watched the professor as he climbed over the
fence and regained his disfigured tile, and tried,
rather ruefully, to smooth its battered sides; then
she scampered toward the school-house.

Joel Sherwood had just emerged from the univer-
sity at W——, with cousiderab e honor and the degree
of good opinion most men of his age entertain for
themselves. He really was entitled to a great deal
of credit for the courage and steadfastness of pur-
pose with which be had toiled to make his way
through the tedious university course. He had done
it alone, and at the same time managed to help his
widowed mother in keeping what had proved to be
a very gaunt and persistent wolf from the door. But
the world, as is its custom, had been somewhat slow
in recognizing his genius; so that when the winter
term of school at Weston was offered to him, he was
only too glad to accept it, hoping that meantime
something better would come to him.

He picked up his hat, with some sense of disgrace,
and strode on to the school-house.

It was the eventful ‘first day,” and it must be con-
fessed that Joel’s heart for a minute sank very low
as he saw the roguish face disappear through the
door of the building which was to be his castle for
the next few months, He had a dim foreboding that
trouble was in store for him. But shortly his cour-
age rallied, and with lips closed a little more firmly
than usual, he stepped 4 his desk.

Nan, with many a girlish giggle, was relating her
adventure to a circle of admirers.

“The idea of a young fellow like him bringing a
tall hat down here! My! how mad he looked when
the thing went over the fence! Well, it was rather
mean, after all; but I'll never see him again. I don’t
kuow who he is. Some city chap, I s'pose, down to
look at the natives!”

Just then the door opened and the professor
walked in.

If Joel could have seen the glorious crimson which }

swept Nan’s face, he might have known how poorly
prized was her victory. But he was busy and had
almost forgotten the episode a moment later.

It was brought back again, however, when he
chanced to glance at Nan. Once more the flood of
erimson dyed her cheeks, but she buried her face in
a book and waited-until it had vanished. ;

* * * * * » *

That winter Joel Sherwood learned many valuable
lessons. It was a good school for him. He knew
more about himself when the term was over than he
ever had before. He put away the silk hat, and won-
dered why he ever should have worn it down to
Weston.

By this time he did _ not feel himself so very much
superior to the Poort there as he had felt. They
proved to be kind-hearted and intelligent, and he liked
them better the more he knew them.

He had found Nan a disturbing element in his
little dominion. Not that she meant to do anything
wrong; but she had too much mischief in her nature
not to be at the bottom of many a project which
brought the new teacher into disrepute. She never
pretended that she had no hand in these plots. There
was no deceit in Nan. Whatever she did was so frank
that Joel’s reproof was tempered by a strange feeling
which caused him to. forgive the spirit which
prompted Nan’s action—a feeling he knew not how
to analyze.

Once, when she had perpetrated some especially
annoying trick on him, and he had met her out of
school hours on the way home, her pretty smile and
look of respect had driven every spark of anger from
his heart, and he broke out:

“Oh, Nan! Why will you—”

But she had pulled her hand out of his, and fled be-
fore the words were out of his mouth.

And Nan—she was the same thoughtless girl, as far
as Joel could see, as the weeks sped quickly by and
brought them nearer the end of the term. She led
the boys and girls in every game. She could out-
skate them; not a boy dared to challenge:her to a
race on the ice for fear of the defeat he knew would
await him. Her happy laugh rippled everywhere.
Not a boy but would have risked his life for her. Not
a girl but fled to herin time of trouble; for she was
ever to them a champion equal to every emergency.
cS all she was simply ‘“‘Nan”—kind, loving, mirthful
‘““Nan.”

About the time Joel's school closed, the river,
which had been frozen all winter, began to break up,
and the ice gave signs of going out. Here and there
sreat seams appeared, and a warning roar sounded
through the valley.

Some of the older boys who had explored the stream
higher up, very sagely predicted that there would be
trouble before night; but this brought to Joel’s mind
little fear. He thought the stream might rise, and
carry away the ice, but that would be all. He knew
nothing about the fearful gorges which sometimes
dammed the river, and flooded the entire country for
noiles around.

_ At noon the report came that a gorge was ene

‘here
never before had been such a pile of ice crowded into
that part of the river, and water was beginning to
flow over the valley. A heavy rain set in, falling for
hours in torrents. Still Joel had no idea what danger
wasimpending. This was his first experience with
the river, and when some of his pupils begged to go
home, he thought it best for them to wait until the
storm became less terrible or their parents came for
them. This latter thing happened sooner than he
had thought likely, and some of the sturdy yeomen
came for their little ones quite a while before the
usual time for their dismissal, and gravely advised
Joel to close for the day, as they feared trouble from
the gorge up the river.

At length the young man, impressed more by the
anxious faces of the children than by any thought
of real danger, told them to go, and quietly pro-
ceeded to help them get started for home.

Night was dropping down over the valley. The
storm king was abroadin all his fury. The night
gave promise of being a terrible one.

Joel's heart reproved him for not letting the chil-
dren go sooner when he opened the door and heard
the sullen roar which came from the gorge.

He listened sharply.

Yonder came a man on horseback, riding rapidly.

What was the matter.

The rush of waters smote his ear. The truth flashed
over him.

The ice gorge had given way!

The young man’s face grew pale as he drew the
children back into the house and shut the door. He
could net let them go now. It was too late.

A few minutes more and a wide currentof water
Swept around the building, cutting off all hope of es-
cape on foot It was now plain that they were
hemmed in. /

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The horseman waved his hand toward them, and

then wheeled away to seek other means of reaching
the school-house. It was a trying place forthe young
teacher, and some courage was required to look
calmly into the faces of the awe-stricken children
and try to quiet them.

But in this he had a helperin Nan. The girl’s face
showed nothing of the terror Joel expected to see
inher. The woman seemed to have suddenly come
in place of the rollicking girl. She was here, there,
everywhere, cheering the younger ones in a most
motherly way.

How this crisis had transformed her! Joel noticed
more than ever now what a strong face she had. He
had always thought her pretty ; now a look had come
upon her features which indicated the spirit which
makes women heroic. She had become a calm, self-
possessed woman.

While Joel was thinking of this, through the dusk
came a boat, manned by two farmers. It slowly
pushed its way through the current, fighting hard
against wind, ice, and drifting wood; but it was not
long before the rescuers reached the imperiled house.
Joel could no longer open the door without letting in
alittle ocean. Tiny rivulets were spreading over the
floor. The only way to get the children into the boat
was through an open window.

Not more than half the number were able to get
into the boat. The rest must wait.

“Hadn’t you better get in now, Mr. Professor?”
asked one of the men when the boat was ready to
push off for the bank.

“Not as long as there is any one elseto go, Zeb,”
was Joel’s firm response, as he gaye the boat a steady
shove away from the house.

A half-hour of suspense passed. Then the dim out-
line of the hoat appeared through the gloom again.

“The boat i8 full enough,” said Joel, as he tucked
the last one of the children securely into the boat.
“The load would be too heavy and trouble might
come of itif I should get in. I hope the worst is
over, anyhow. Even if the water rises two feet more,
I can still find a way to keep out of it until morning,
perhaps.”

“°’Tain’t just the thing to leave you here,” said one
of the men, hesitatingly. “Get in and we'll get
through all right, I guess.”

“No,” was the quickresponse. “Go ahead. If you
can come for me, allright. If not——”

He paused. Something in Nan’s eyes awoke a
tumult in his breast. A strange light shone in them,
and as Joel leaned down from the window toward
her, in answer to a slight movement of her hand,
she whispered:

“Mr. Sherwood, I’m sorry I’ve made you so much
trouble this winter. I didn’t meanit. Will you for-
give me?”

The only reply Joel gave was a warm pressure of
her hand. That was enough She understood it.
Then the boat pushed out into the twilight. ,

But it left behind a very happy young man, in spite
of his desperate position. After such a confession
from Nan, what could he not endure? Floods could
not sweep away the joy which thrilled him.

But an hour sped by and still Joel was alone. The
water kept rising steadily till it drove him to the
top of the desks. He noticed that the tide was
coming up much faster than at any time before.
There was no longer such a rush about the house.

Studying the situation for a while, Joel made up
his mind that a gorge must have formed somewhere
below him, and the water, no longer able to run out,
was backing up, leaving him in the midst of a great
sea. If this were true the outlook was not at all en-
couraging..

He peered anxiously out over the waters for some
sign of the returning boat. Nothing butintense dark-
ness met his gaze. -

Another hour passed. Inch by inch the river crept
up, driving him from place to place until he was now
on the highest possible point. Now he must quietly
await his fate.

But it was not very heroic to be drowned like a rat.
He must do something to save himself.

At length a star glimmered in the distance. Hope
sprang up again. Some one was kinder to him than
he deserved. »

How slowly the light came. It was a hard battle
with wind and torrent.

Suddenly the awful rush came again. Had the
gorge below given way? Then Heaven save him!

He felt a shock. The building trembled. Some-
thing had struck it heavily and it was being carried
down into the raging flood.

It was time for him to act. To remain where he
was would be death.

He flung up the window and looked out. One thing
he had learned wellin years gone by—to swim. It
seemed almost madness to think of trusting himself
- such a current, but there was nothing else to be

one,

The light was nearing him more swiftly now,
although it was apparently a long way off yet. He
bravely leaped into the surging water and struck
out for the shore.

Something below the surface of the waves caught
him and dragged him swiftly down the stream. He
struggled with all his nigh to get away, but in vain.
One of his legs was held asif in a vise. His head
whirled,

Then a flash of light fell upon him. In another
moment a strong hand grasped hisarm. The rays
of a lantern lighted up the face of his rescuer. ;

It was Nan!

a * * * * * x
oo awoke the next morning with a delicious sense
of peace.
here was no pain anywhere. A woman’s hand
was on his forehead. He was in a woman's room.
He lay with his eyes closed, and tried to put things
together. Then he looked up into the face of Nan.

“Don’t speak, Nan! Let me bestill. If this isa
dream I don’t want it to end!”

“But itisn’t. It’s real, and I thank God it is!” said
Nan, reverently.

Joel reached up and drew Nan down toward him,
and their lips met.

“So do I,” was all he said.

THE LOVE-KNOT,

BY ROGER HARCOURT.

“You must renounce that forward young man,
Edward Bird,” said General Dan Butler, the aristo-
cratic leader of Waterville society, to his beautiful
daughter, Alice, ‘for he is only a farmer’s son.”

But Alice was willful, and she loved Edward Bird,
and he knew it as well as she did.

This was a terrible evil in the eyes of the general,
for he had fixed his eyes and heart on her marriage
with a wealthy friend of his named Rush Newhall,
whose age was not far from sixty, and whose fortune
doubled sixty thousand.

And the latter had set his eyes upon the young
beauty, even asan old hawk views a poor pigeon
resting from a flight far from the dovecote. e was
ever on hand when there was a picnic in the sum-
mer or a sleigh-ride in the winter, paying such at-
tentions to poor Alice that she was sure to be jeered
at by her young companions, and she dared not ut-
terly slight him or repel his advances, for she feared
her father’s anger even, more than she dreaded her
young companions’ sneers.

Her interviews with Edward were few and far be-
tween, for her father had forbidden his visits to his
house, and a constant watch was kept over her when
she went abroad. But they had a post-office, not sus-
tained as yet by the United States, for it was ina
large hollow tree on a walk near the house where
Alice was very fond of promenading.

Almost always after a dark night Alice could find
a letter there, and it would not be long before its
answer reached the same place of deposit.

Therefore, in spite of all interference and watch-
fulness. the two lovers managed to keep up a con-
stant exchange of loving words, vows, and promises.

But at last difficulties accumulated. Mr. Newhall,
emboldened by the timidity of Alice and the open
hints from the general that his suit should be lis-
tened to with favor, made a proposal of marriage in
due form.

Alice, almostin despair, deferred an answer for
three days, and that very afternoon posted a letter
to Edward Bird, telling him in agony that she knew
not what todo. Would he help her?

His answer was looked for with a trembling heart.

It came soon, and was couched in these words:

“DEAREST ALICE: My angel, I will be atthe end
of the lane at eight o’clock to-night, with the fastest
horse and the lightest buggy in the county. The
Reverend Mr. Brown has promised to meet us at
Odell’s Lake. This is the only way I can help you.
He has promised to tie a knot which neither your
father nor old Newhall can untie. Your own,

“EDWARD.”

Mr. Newhall got a very singular note thesame day.
He was invited with a select party to spear pickerel
when the moon rose that night at Odell’s Lake. The
moon was expected to rise at eleven o’clock. Sup-
per aaa be ready at Mr. Stillwell’s at twelve
exactly. : °

Now, Mr. Newhall had intended to visit General
Butler’s that evening, but he was intensely fond of
pickerel, so he thought he would defer the Visit and
go for pickerel. __

_ That evening Alice did not come down to tea. Her

little sister Hattie, a pretty brunette, a couple of years
younger, said she was sick, and took tea and toast
up into her room for her.
_ The general, suspecting nothing, went to his lodge
in the village. He returned late—in fact, it was near
midnight, forin his lodge they generally took retresh-
ment after labor.

He had but just put his horse into the stable, when
a buggy, driven furiously, reached his door. From
=e buggy descended Rush Newhall, in a perfect

ury.

“Youre a model father—you are!” eried the en-
raged old bachelor. “They’ve gone and done it right
under your very nose !”

 

 

 

es

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“They! Whot What?” ganped the general.

“Why, your daughter Alice has gone and married
Ned Bird. And they had the impudence to ask me to
the wedding supper !”

“It’s alie! Alice is sick in bed, in her own room!” ©

cried the general.

“She looks sick, doesn’t she? For here they come!”
said Newhall.

And, true enough, Alice, Hattie, and Edward, all in
one buggy, came up, while the general stood, as he
said afterward, like a ‘‘dumb fool.”

“Father, I couldn’t help it. Edward loved me, I
loved him, and he is my husband !” said Alice, as she
jumped out of the buggy and threw her plump arms
around the general’s neck,

The general wanted to swear, but when he saw
that finely formed, honest-faced young man standing
beside the stooped figure and wrinkled face which he
at intended for Alice, he said never a word, ex-
cept:

“Go into the house, you young fools! Go into the
house out of this night-air, or you'll catch cold!”

_ The “Love-Knot” was tied, and there was no use
in crying aboutit. Alice and Edward are happy.
$$

“ Correspondence.

—__

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS

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

 

Miss C. E. A., Ithaca, N. Y.—1st. The color of the seais
not uniform, though it is generally described as bluish
green. In the tropicsitis generally indigo blue. The

cause of the change of hues is explained as “ depending
on the action of suspended articles of solid matter on the
light which traverses the water. Light on entering the
water is refracted, and therefore moreor less resolved
into its re colors, especially if the water is of suf-
ficient depth. The red, orange, and yellow rays do not
penetrate the water to so gn adepth as the blue and
violet. Now the presence of minute solid particles causes
some of the light after serene the water to be reflected,
and the color of this reflected hght will depend upon the
depth at which the reflection takes place. Lf the particles
are large and freely reflect from a moderate oer they
will also prevent reflection from a greater depth, so that
the rays coming to the eye of the observer will be green ;
butif the particles in the upper strata are minute and
the reflection is from a considerable depth, the color will
be more nearly a pure blue.” Professor Tyndall, it is said,
while making a voyage in a steamer had’a white plate at-
tached to a cord cast into the water to a moderate depth,
and when it reached the proper point of observation its
color + as green, ateopat that of the water was blue. 2d.
New Ireland is an island in the South Pacific Ocean. It is
separated from New Britain on the south-west by St.
George’s Channel, and from New Hanover on the north-
west by Byron’s Straits. Its length is about 200 miles;
average breadth, 20 miles. The inhabitants belong to the
Australian negro race. They trade in fancy woods and
tortoise shell. Among the products of the island in the
lower tracts are sugar cane, bananas, cocoanu ts, and
yams. ;

Traveler, Bergen Point, N. J.—ist. Two green flags
by day, and two green lights by night, displayed in the
place provided for that purpose on the front of an engine,

denote that the train is followed we another train running
on the same schedule, and entitled to the saine time-table
rights as the train carrying the signals. 2a. A blue flag
by day, or a blue light by night, placed on the end of a car,
denotes that car inspectors are at work under or about
the caror train, which must not be coupled to or moved
until the blue signal is removed. 3d. Two white flags by
day, and two white lights by night. carried at the end of a
car denote that the train isan extra. 4th. After sunset,
or when the track is obscured by fog or other cause, a
ene must be displayed in front and two red hghts in
the rear.

Young Farmer, Monmouth County, N. J.—ist. Bantam
fowls are named from the town of Bantam in Java, butit
is said that they were first brought from India. 2d. The Sea-

bright bantam, first raised in England by Sir John Sea-
bright,is a beautiful bird of mixed colors, with smooth legs.
3d. The Brahmapootras, named from the river of that name
in India, are large gray fowls, and are thought by some to
be part Shanghai and part Chittagong. 4th. Poland fowls
are supposed to have been first brought from Poland, and
Dorking fowls were first raised in Dorking, England.
5th. The black Spanish fowls are sometimes called Fayal
fowls, because many are raised in that island. 6th. The
common barn-yard fowls are supposed to be a mixture of
many breeds.

Observer, Nashville, Tenn.—It is stated by an authority
upon the subject that “much of the oppression and
languor that even the robust sometimes feel in close and

sultry days is due to the obstructien of the insensible per-
spiration by an avmosphere surcharged with humidity.
Not only are waste matters generated in the system thus
unduly retained, but malarious poisons, introduced
through the lungs by respiration, are prevented from es-
caping.” In the summer of 1853, when there was a remark-
able prevalence of sun-stroke in this city, the heat of the
atmosphere was accompanied by great humidity. In
brief, air which is warm and moist has always a relaxing
and weakening influence upon the body.

A. B., an old reader, writes to know if Charlotte M.
Brame and Bertha M. Clay represent the same person,
We have had other similar inquiries, and to all such we an-

swer as follows: The name Bertha M. Clay is a trade
mark of Street & Smith. The principal stories of Char-
lotte M. Brame were published in this paper under that
name and other names, The name Bertha M. Clay be-
came very popular as the result of liberal advertising,
and the great merit of our stories published under that
stock name. Since Mrs. Brame’s death. which occurred
in 1884, there has been no abatement of popular interest
in our Bertha M. Clay stories, which are written to order
for us by authors of the highest ability.

W. P., Pa.—Under the circumstances stated by you, we
think that it would be better. for you to board with some
French family in this city, in which the language you
wish to acquire is exclusively spoken. You could also
have the advantage of a private instruction on as
reasonable terms as cuuld be obtained in any other city.
As to your working your passage abroad, you would find
it very difficult to find a position that would achieve the
end in view, and at the same time be agreeable to you.
The NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will supply
you with any French works you may desire to begin your
studies with, at reasonable prices

B. J. C., Augusta, Ga.—Incense was first used by the
ancient Egyptians in their worship, and afterward by
the Jews. The early Christians probably took the cus-
tom of burning it from them. It is usually a powder made
up of benzoin, storax, and other resins, cascarilla bark,
etc. The wder is so placed that it will drop little b
little on a hot eon in the bottom of the censer, and as it
burns the smoke escapes through little holes. ‘The censer
used in churches is a silver vessel hung by chains and
swung in the hand.

Belle, Flushing, N. Y.—The wedding anniversaries are
named as follows: First year, cotton wedding; second
year, paper wedding; third year, leather wedding; fifth

year, wooden wedding; seventh year, woolen. wedding;
tenth year, tin wedding; twelfth year, silk and fine linen
wedding; fifteenth year, crystal wedding; twentieth
year, china wedding; twenty-fifth year, silver wedding;
thirtieth year, pearl wedding; fortieth year, ruby wed-
ding; fiftieth year, golden wedding; seventy fifth year,
diamond wedding.

Lizzie, Long Island.—ist. The growth of the eyebrows
is sometimes hastened and improved by rubbing in daily
a little pomade—beef’s marrow is very good—and apply-

ing a small brash and comb gently to them. If they are
well grown and well shaped, itis better to set them evenly
with a towel after washing the face. In this case the

brush and comb can be dispensed with. 2d. ae

may be clipped to advantage with a pair of sc

rs, if
found split at the ends.

B. M. F., Barre, Mass.—A nice toilet article for the com- -

plexion is rose vinegar, which is thus made: Take dried
rose leaves, one ounce; white wine vinegar, half a pint;

rose water, halfa pint. Put the vinegar upon the rose
leaves, and allow them to stand together for a week ; then

 

 

 

strain and add the rose water. It may be used pure by
dabbing the face with the towel that has been saturated
with it, or, if diluted, by putting a tablespoonful of the
liquid inte the water used for washing.

Leonard Strong, Fremont, Ohio.—The simmering or
singing sound of vessels upon the fire just before boiling,
is sup d to be caused by vibratory movements pro-
duced in the liquid by the formation of vapor bubbles,
As the heating continues, they rise higher and higher
until they reach the surface and escape into the air.

R. A. W., Sandusky, Ohio.-The Boehm flute is named
from Theobold Boehm, flutist to the King of Bavaria, who
made the first one about 1833. It is described as resem-

bling the German flute; butit has moie and different
keys, which make it more perfect in tone.

&. W. A., Savannah, Ga.—The picture of ‘““Washington
Crossing the Delaware,” was painted by Thomas Sully,
who was born in England, but settled in‘ Philadelphia in
1809. He was brought to the United States by his parents,
who were players, in 1792. He died in 1872.

Wm. L B., Brooklyn, N. ¥Y.—Frederick Douglass, re-
cently appointed Minster to Hayti, was United States
_— al for the District of Columbia, under President

ayes

Mrs. L. A. M., Albany, N. Y.—The eorner-stone of the
Cathedral of the Incarnation, a memorial of the late A. T.
a at Garden City, Long Island, was laid on June

W, D., Cambridge, Mass.- Edward Hanlan, who is said
to have retired as a professional rower, was born on July
12, 1855. His first noted victory was at the Centennial
regatta in 1876.

4M. T. S., Jackson, Miss.—Jesse James, the notorious
desperado of the West, was killed by the Ford brothers,
at St. Joseph. Mo., April 3, 1882.

Queenie —We think the books referred to are well worth
the price paid for them, being superior in every respect
to the lower-priced ones, with which you compare them.

Regular Reader, Norwalk, Conn.—The United States
Government pays about $900,000 a year for its weather
service.

Cc. W. L., Wilmington, Del.—William H. Rhinehart’
A American sculptor, died in Rome, Italy, Oct. 28

ford, Conn., was formerly called Washington Co
name was changed in 1845.

 

 

 

 

Nicholas, New Haven, Conn.—Trinity Sali. Hart’
ge. The —

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a ee

$
+

 

fie aes

 

=

 

 
  

res |

 

 

——

 

  
 

_ old chateau, as I have already written you, but I am

 

 

 

 

 

..——-

onume, «wees THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3=

 

 

TAKE ME, PM ALL THINE OWN.

 

BY FRANCIS S. SMITH.

 

This hand is free,ethis heart is pure ;
It beats for thee, and only thee.

Until I saw thy winning face
I leved not, and was fancy free.

I loved thee, and if thou canst say
You live for me, and me alone—

: That I dwell in your heart of hearts—

Then take me, I’m all thine own.

T love thee! deeply, truly love;
For thee my life I would resign!
But I require in exchange
A passion that will equal mine.
A queen I’din thy bosom reign,
Withouta rival near my throne—
Tf thou canst this condition meet,
Then take me, I’m all thine own.

*Tis heaven when two are joined in-love
So deeply that ’twere death to part;

But, oh, twere death if I were doomed
To live on a davided heart!

If thou shouldst ever slight my love,
The crime thou never couldst atone—

But perish thought so base as this!
Take, take me! Iam all thine own!

This Story will uot be Published in Book-Form,

LADY LAUDERDALE TEMPTATION,

By EMMA GARRISON JONES,

Author of “A Great Wrong,” “The Midnight
Prophecy,” ‘A Southern Princess,”
“A Terrible Crime,’’ Etc.

 

 

(“LaDy LAUDERDALE’S TEMPTATION” was commenced
in No.39. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents. ]}

 

CHAPTER VIII.
DEAD AND BURIED.

“You need the change, you see, Bess, my dear, and
Ihave given up the London season for your sake.
We are going down into Gascony, to my old chateau,
where the fresh air and green fields will soon bring
back your roses. I hope you are strong enough to
bear the journey, child?”

“Oh, yes, I am strong enough,” responded Bess,
settling herself back in a cozy corner of the great
Lauderdale carriage; “but Iam sorry, Cassie dear,
that you are giving up the London season and put-
ting yourself to so much trouble on my account. I
could have remained at Tresby Wold with Mrs.
Garnet quite as well.”

“Nonsense,” said my lady, seating herself opposite
her young companion. but averting her face in a

curious, shrinking way. “What do I care for the
Londen season? I’ve lived through three already.
I think I prefer the old chateau and the green Gasco-
uy valleys, and I’ve written to St. Aubyn tojoin us
here.”

Bess flushed and drooped her eyes, and shrank
back into her corner, full of gratitude and happiness,
but tormented by a ceaseless feeling of unrest.

The great, old-fashioned carriage rolled out from
under the oaks and elms at Tresby Wold, and Mrs,
Garnet stood on the stone terrace and watched it till
it disappeared behind the laurel hedge beyond. Then
she turned into the silent mansion, to close the win-
dows and unpack my lady’s London wardrobe.

“Such a fickle mind as my lady do have,” she com-
mented, toiling slowly up the broad stair-way, “it is
astonishing to see. To-day she be a-packing for Lon-
don, and to-morrow she flies off into France. Well-
a-day, ’tis a pity, I'm a-thinking, that ever that

oretty, dove-eyed young thing come to live with my
thay. Somehow, I can’t a-bear the look 0’ my lady’s
face o’ late. I’m afeard there’s something wrong.”

But what or where the wrong was, good Mrs. Gar-
net could not decide; so, wisely enough, she put the
matter aside, and set about her household duties.

Meanwhile the traveling party journeyed on b
slow stages—my lady, and Bess, and my lady’s Frene
maid, Louise. At Dover the grooms and the family
carriage were sent back to Tresby Wold, and these
three took passage across to France.

Bess lay upon an improvised couch, well Se
in her heavy shawl, on the deck of the steamer. She
watched the stars, with the plash of the wavesin
her ears, and the twinkling harbor lights fading out
in the misty distance; and, somehow. the scene
called up her old life in the far-away Algerine bar-
racks. Her father’s handsome face seemed to be
looking down upon her. The tears trickled from her
eyes, and her heart swelled with tender and pas-
sionate regret. What life could ever come to her so
dear as that old lifeof her young girlhood? Half
unconsciously she put up her hand to look at the
quaint, twisted band, the token of her plighted faith
to Redmond Carew. But it was gone, and in its
stead flamed the old St. Aubyn opal.

A sudden chill struck through the girl’s heart at
sight of the gleaming thing upon her finger, and she
gi her eyes, as if its fiery brilliancy pained

er.

“Oh, Redmond,” she whispered, every word a sob,
“T did not want to break my faith to you——”

“What were you saying, Bess? And, child, what
makes youcry? Does your head pain you again?”

It was Cassundra’s voice that brokein upon her sad
reverie, Cassandra’s cold, white hand that touched her

brow. 7

“No, it does not pain me much, thank you, Lady
Cassie. I was thinking of old times—and—and that
made me cry.”

“T should think you were happy enough in your
— lot not to weep over the past,” replied my

ady, a sort of cutting contempt in her cold, clear
voice, ‘but, come, child, sit up and take this; it is
your last composing draught for the night.”’

Bess sat up, and swallowed it obediently, wiping
the tears from her cheeks, and looking wistfully out
upon the starlit waves. It was in truth her last com
posing draught for the night, and for many, many
nights to come.

ery soon she _ down again, with a sluggish feel-
ing about her head, and a dim, burning sensation in
her eyes. The steamer glided on, the waves mur-
mured, and the silent, summer stars twinkled in the
siniling sky above. Bess watched them, like one in a
dream, till at last they faded from her sight, and
the very darkness of death itself seemed to settle
down upon her. Alas, poor little Bess, she did not
dream how many weary, weary days and nights
would pass before she ever looked upon those starry
Hights again.

ord St. Aubyn was detained in Paris for two weeks.
At the expiration of that time, his uncle died, and
was buried, and with his newly inherited honors, m
lord hastened home to England, and to Tresby Wold.

He arrived there in the dusk of a June evening, and
hastened up the avenue that led to the imposing old
house, in a fever of impatience. He looked at every
window, hoping to see the sweet face of her he loved
with such a mad idolatry. But the old house was
like a grave.

His heart began to beat with apprehension. Could
Bess be ill yet—worse even than when left? At
first his letters from Lady Cassandra contained as-
surances of her steady improvement, but toward the
last she had hinted that Bess was feeble, and needed
change of air. My lady had given up London, and
was going for the season down to her old chateau in
Gascony, but she was quite sure they should not
leave Tresby Wold before St. Aubyn’s return.

Surely they had not gone? Almost mad with fear
lest a disappointment was in store for him, St. Aubyn
hurried up the steps, and rang a vigorous peal.

“Your lady is here, at home, of course,” he de-
manded of the footman who admitted him.

“No, my lord; my lady has gone to France.”

St. Aubyn stumbled forward, and into the drawing-
room. There he fell upon a sofa, blind and sick wit
bitter disappointment. For days he had longed fora
sizht of the loved one’s face, for a touch of her soft.
shy lips, and to be disappointed in this way! He had
never known a pain or a disappointment in all his
happy, prosperous life, and now was filled with
Savage anger.

“How came your lady to Fe off in this way before
my return ?”’ he demanded of the housekeeper, when
she entered.

rs, Garnet bristled up on the instant, in her
ks Tedy thought roper to hen she did

y thought p r o when she did, my

ord,’ she answered, prosutelys “put here be letters

r your lordship r the dozen; they’ve been a
coming a’most every hour i’ the day.”

St. Aubyn seized the letters that she held out to

im. He broke the crested seal of ‘one, tore out the

ty sheet, and began to read:

“ST. IMOGEN CHATEAU, France, May 28th.
“My DEAR ST. AUBYN:—We are here in the dear

sorry to have to tell you that Bess does not seem to
improve at all. She has the very best of medical
care, but she grows weaker day by day. My dear
cousin, I have no wish to alarm you, but I beg that
you will come to us without delay.”

“Great Heayen !” he burst out, tossing the letter

3 .
worse, and the letter dated five days ago! Who can

tell what may have happened ?”’
He broke a second seal, tore out asecond sheet,
and read again:

“My Poor Cousin :—My heart bleeds for you. I
know what a shock this will be, and how you will
—_ yet the truth must be told. St. Aubyn, Bess is

ea

d yr?

A ery, that was like no sound of human grief, but
rather resembling the death-shriek of some hunted
animal, broke frow his lips. ,

“Dead! My darling, my pretty betrothed wife!’

The words broke from his lips in gasping sobs, and
he covered his face with his hands, his strong frame
shaking like a reed. :

Mrs. Garnet looked on in dismay, awed at the sight
of such stormy suffering.

“And he my lady’s promised lover, as we all
thought,” she meditated. “Ah! didn’t I thiak as
there be something wrong a-brewing ?”’ :

By and by, when the dusk h deepened into
darkness, and the wax lights were all ablaze, she
crept up to him, and laid her hand on his arm.

“My lord,” she said, ‘I beg your pardon, but won’t
it be better to rouse up, and think 0’ what should be
done? Maybe my lady may be a looking for you to
come to her, down in France, being as the poor, pretty
dear is dead.”

St. Aubyn gathered himself up, his face like ashes,
his eyes dull and wild with agony.

“Yes,” he answered, in a hoarse, unnatural voice.
“T must go at once; I did not think of that’

eg picked up the letter and read it through to the

end.
“Bess is dead,” wrote my lady, “and you must try
to bear your loss like a man. She died quite sud-
denly and unexpectedly, though for weeks she has
been very weak. It was heart disease, the doctors
say, and nothing could have saved her. 3

“St. Aubyn, you will come at once, but I am afraid
you will not bein time to see her. She is fearfully
changed. And, don’t let me hurt you, but you must
know all—in consequence of the heat we shall be
forced to bury her down here, under the marbles in
the old St. Imogen grave-yard. But come, St. Aubyn,
without delay.”

That night he started, going back over the same

 

route he hadso lately traveled, with a face that
seemed ten years older.

When he reached the old chateau, which stood in a
green hollow beneath the shadow of the Pyrenees,
Lady Cassandra herself met him on the portico. She
was robed in dead black, and her marble-white face
wore a strange look of half-exultant, half-remorse-
ful unrest. She ran to meet St. Aubyn, and warmly
grasped both his hands.

“My poor St. Aubyn !” she said, in a shaking voice,
looking up wistfully into his worn face, ‘show you
have suffered! How you have changed in a few
weeks! I am sorry for you, believe me. Heaven
knows, I wish I could take all your pain into my own
heart, and bear it in your stead.” ;

_He put her from him, impatiently, seeming not to

 

this morning.”

comprehend the meaning of the words she uttered.

“What have you done with her?” he asked. “Have
you buried her out of my sight forever ?”’

She caught at his arm again, as if her very life
hung upon winning or losing his approbation.

“St. Aubyn, what could I do?’ she pleaded. ‘You
did not want to see her sweet face all changed and
disfigured, did you? I put her away with my own
hands, ure and sweet—poor little Bess! There she
lies, under the great olive tree down there, in the old
St. lmogen grave-yard.”

He followedeher pointing finger, and then turned
from her and strode away without a word across the
lawn, down into the somber shadows of the olive
grove. There, in a silent corner, under the gloom of
thick-drooping branches, was a slender, newly sod-
ded grave, and that was all that remained of pretty
little Bess.

St. Aubyn threw himself, face-downward, amid the
long grass that waved beside this slender grave, in
the bitter agony of his first grief. And when the sil-
ver dusk deepened into darkness, and a young moon

 

‘
NW

Wines
ey
a
fs

 

 

 

 

 

‘6 ] SHOULD THINK YOU WERE HAPPY ENOUGH IN YOUR
PRESENT LOT, NOT TO WEEP OVER THE PAST!”

came up, and hung like a silver crescent in the
southern blue—even when all the white, midnight
— were out—he lay there still, dumb, and sick with
misery.

From the window of her boudoirin the old cha-
teau, my lady watched the spot, and the dark form
that lay so motionless amid the summer grasses, her
eyes drowned in heavy tears.

“Oh,” she moaned, clasping and unclasping her
slender fingers, “how he loves her! how he mourns
her loss! Will his heart never turn back to me?
Shall I lose him, after all I have done?”

CHAPTER IX.
TWO YEARS AFTER.

A hot day in Moulins. The summer sun shining
over the quaint old French town, and making every
steeple and window blaze like fire. The old-fashioned
streets fairly blistering the children’s bare feet, as
aan, scamper away, with bright tin pails on their
curly heads, or in their hands, containing a bite of
dinner for the peasant women who are engaged at
their weekly wash-out upon the banks of the Loire.

Itis hot even down there, though the lime leaves
break off the direct power of the sun, and acool wind
comes up from the river. The stout dames, with
their red arms bared to the elbow, are sitting in
groups along the river-bank, their. wash-tubs stand-
ing in rows before them. They chatter and laugh,
after the manner of Frenchwomen, and fan them-
selves with their sun-bonnets, while the barefooted
children stream along from the quaint old town be-

ond.

Little Josie is among the first who reach the river
shore. She is a pretty child, some ten years old per-
haps, with bright cheeks and lips, and wicked, laugh-
ing black eyes. But her — are solemn enough, as
she comes along, dipping er shapely brown feet in
the shallows of the river, and looking .furtively now
and then at something she holds in the palm of her
round, dimpled hand. ms
“Josie, see how you loiter,” calls her foster-mother,
sharply, a stout brown dame, seated upon an in-
verted wash-tub; “and I’ve not had a bite since five

Josie quickens her steps to a run, and soon reaches
the impatient dame’s side. —_-

“There,” she says, putting down the tin pail, “you’ll
have a nice dinner, mamma. See, there’s cold mut-
ton, and currant jam to spread on your bread, and
there’s cucumbers in that little bowl.”

The dame nods and chuckles, as she removes the
lid and sees the savory food within; then she looks
up, and reaching forth her brown hand, pinches
Josie’s red cheek.

“May Igo and walk under the trees at Mount
Sa says Josie, “while you eat your din-
ner?’

The dame looks up and away at an old building
that stands upon the summit of a rocky hill, down
below Moulins, in the province of Burbennois. It is
a curious, antiquated sort of place, its diamond lat-
tices and quaint, ry turrets just visible through
the green growth of the lime leaves.

“Well, yes, if you wish, I suppose there’s no harm
in your going,’ the dame responds. ‘But what on
earth you want to be hanging round that old mad-
house for, I can’t see. I should think the sight o’ the
wild faces up there would frighten a young thing like
you.”

Josie says nothing, but darts away, as soon as per-
mission is given her, across the high road, and up the
er olive steeps, till she reaches the great iron
gates.

There she stops, her pretty brown feet imbedded
in the rank grass, the August sun beating down upon
her head. She peeps through the iron bars, her
round black eyes full of impatient expectation.

The old mad-house stands above her, all its latticed
windows in a blaze, its gray turrets piercing the hot
air at a dizzy height. It must have been some feudal

 

and emblazoned arms above its great arched en-
trance, and down below the grounds are vestiges of
what must once have been 4 moat and draw-bridge.
Without it is a dreary, uneanny old place, silent, and
gloomy, and ghostly, and full of mold and charnel
damps, despite all the glare auld heat of the summer
sun.

Within, the aspect is even more horrible than with-
out. The front entrance leads through a long, dark
hall, which terminates in a flight of downward wind-
ing steps. These lead into a vast ground saloon,
which is partitioned off intosmall, square cells. Each
cell has a door, which is securely locked, and above
the door is a small aperture, closed by a movable
flap, through which the poor, crazed prisoner has
liberty to looK out upon the subterranean darkness,
and upon the ghastly faces of his fellow-prisoners.

On this close August day, while little Josie lin-
gered at the iron gate beloy, her black eyes shining

 

 

 

 

 

HE COVERED HIS FACE WITH HIS HANDS, HIS STRONG
FRAME SHAKING LIKE A REED.

with impatience, in oneof these lower cells, reserved
for the most unmanageable subiects—those to whom
no privileges of life or humanity could be accorded—
a small, slender girl was sitting.

Almost a child she looked, in her simple print
gown, with her rich, flossy hair hanging loosely
about her neck; but her face had none of a child’s
hope and gladness; it was full of the indescribabie
pathos of utter despair.

Thin and wan, and white as moonlight, the great
brown eyes, reminding one of the eyes of some hunted
wild creature, the pretty child’s mouth quivering
with pain; the little, dimpled hands clasped, as if in
supplication.

There she sits, in her bare, damp cell, on the edge
of her rude couch, as she has sat, day and night, for
two long, weary years.

No wonder the sweet eyes have grown wild in
their despair; the pretty face so wan and white that
her father, if he couid rise from his foreign grave,
oe fail to recognize the daughter he loved so
well.

But it is Bess—pretty, innocent little Bess, whom
Lord St. Aubyn, and all her friends, believe to be
dead aud buried under the olive trees in the old St.
Imogen grave-yard.

She fell asleep on board the Dover steamer, watch-
ing the English stars {ading away in dream-like mist,
pe she awoke here, in the damp, close cell of a mad-

ouse.

How long she slept that awful, death-like sleep,
she never knew. The dreary beat of a storm awoke
her toa vague consciousness, ase! se that she was
alive. She heard the winds bowling amid the turrets
and through the thick olive groves, and the ceaseless
rain pattering dismally outside her small prison. It
was dark, cold, damp, and close. She half-rose from
her couch, with a sudden conviction that she had
been buried alive, and all this storm and rain were
rioting above her grave. The thought was a horrible
one, and poor Bess put her hand to her hot eyes, and

moaned.
Oh, Redmond, Redmond, who

“Oh, papa, papa!
will help ne now ?”

Her father was in bis distant grave, and faithful
Redmond nad returned to the old Algerine camp-life.
Only the shrieking winds and beating rain an-
swered her pathetic ery.

The poor little thing crouched there in the gloom,
feeble, and faint, and frightened, and at intervals the
horrible din and screech of the poor mad creatures
around her filled her with terror. So the first night
of her consciousness went by, and at last the dim,
pallid light of day stole feebly into her grated cell.

Then came her keeper, a great Burbonnois peasant,
with a stolid face, and limbs like an ox, and, by and
by, the matron of the ward.

“For Heaven's sake,” gasped poor Bess, nits up,
and a back her tangled hair, ““where am I?’

The ox-like keeper winked, and madam the matron
replied, with a chill smile:

“In a nice place, where you will be well taken
care of.”

“But how did I gethere? What’s the matter with
me? Am I alive, or dead?” shrieked Bess, as the
woman was turning to leave the cell.

Madam arranged the breakfast things on the small,
square table.

“Eat your breakfast, child,” she answered, in the
same keen, steady voice, ‘“‘and don’t ask questions.
You are here, and here you will remain, and the
better you behave the better you will fare. I’m glad
to see youimproving so. I'll send Doctor Lenoir to
see youin an hour or so. Good-morning. Lock the
door, Jacques.”

This last command was to the stolid keeper, as she
swept away.

Bess stared like one struck dumb; but as the man
approached to lock the door, she sprang forward and
fell on her knees at his feet.

“Oh, for the love of Heaven,” she implored, “do
not leave me! Oh, have pity! have mercy! Iam
alone in the world, fatherless, friendless. Pity me,
for the sake of your own child,if you have one!
Speak to me; tell me how I came here, and what
place this is ?”’

 

 

 

 

 

‘“‘OH, FOR THE LOVE OF HEAVEN,” SHE IMPLORED,
‘*DO NOT LEAVE ME!”

This pathetic appeal touched the heart of the
honest peasant. e looked at the kneeling figure, at
the thin, wan face, and the tears rose in his great,
dull eyes. He stooped down, and raised Bess to her
feet, as gently as her own father could have done.

“Poor thing! poor, pretty little one!” he muttered,
half to himself and half to her. “I hate to tell you,
ee you ought to know. You're in a mad-house, my

r 9,

“A mad-house !” ; ‘
She repeated the words in a slow whisper, her wild,
bright eyes still upon his face.
“Yes, in Mount Chateauroux Mad-house.”

“And how did I come here ?”’

“Why, child, your friends put gos here, of course.”
Bess stood silent a momnet, her brain busy. Her
friends! What friends had she save Lady Cassandra?
Then, with the remembrance of her cousin’s name
came a sudden and horrible thought. What if Lady

 

 

 

 

 

aside, seizing a second one. “Bess growing

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

Cassandra had put her in this place? Like lightning

 

 

- ' .
stronghold in its day. Theré are curious carvings! all the events of that. morning, when my lady

trampled the water lilies beneath her cruel feet, shot
through her mind. She recalled the terrible threat:

“Dare to drive to Hartland with Lord St. Aubyn,
and I’l] make you repent it till your dying day. Mark
my words, and heed them before it is too late.”

“Merciful Heaven! could such a thing be true?’

She looked up at the keeper again, her cheeks ashen
white, an awful terror in her eyes.

“But Tam not mad. Oh! believe me, for the love
of Heaven, believe me! I am not mad!” she gasped.

The man shook his head, with a low, pitying smile.

“Ah! child,” he said, ** they all say that, and many
a one may tell the truth, for what I know; but there’s
no help for’em. Try to be quiet, and do as you’re
bid, my girl, and we'll see how things turn out. I
must go now; my time’s up.

The cell door closed, and the key rasped in the lock,
and Bess was alone.

And thus the first day went by, and hundreds of
others followed—slow, torturing days, each one a
living death ; and no hope or help came.

The second spring came. The March winds had
blown themselves out; and the April sunlight deep-
ened into the full splendor of May. All the vine hills
were green with promising clusters, and the limes
and olives rustled cool and shadowy along the mar-
gin of the Loire.

Jacques was still a keeper in the Chateauroux
Mad-house, and sometimes in the lengthening after-
noons, while his dame was busy at her washing on
the river-shore, little Josie, his foster-child, came up
to walk under the green trees till her father was off
duty and ready to go home.

Jacques was always on the lookout for her, and
ready to unlock the gate, and Jet the little black-eyed
sprite slipin. If the great fellow loved anything on
He, face of the earth, he loved little black-eyed

osie.

He had never been blessed with a babe of his own,
much to his and his good dame’s regret; but one day,
when the dame went to wash upon the shore of the
Loire, what should she find but a little wicker basket
adrift amid the sand and rushes,

She laid hold of it eagerly, fancying she had
stuinbled upon a treasure; and, drawing it up on the
brink, she proceeded to unfasten the lid. And what
do you suppose she found? A little child, carefully
wrapped in silk and flannel.

She left her wash-tub on the sbore, and hurried
back to her cottage with her new-found treasure —a
sweet, strange rapture stirring in her bosom. She
set to work, with stimulants and cordials and warm
baths, and that evening, when Jacques came home
to his supper, there was a tiny cot in the best room,
and in it a little black-eyed baby.

“Hey,dame,” cried the good fellow, staring blankly,
“what’s this?’

“A baby, Jacques,” responded the dame, coolly
dishing up her shrimps; ‘‘you’ve always wanted one,
and there she is.”

So they kept the little waif, and called her
Josephine, and loved and cared for her as their own,
and this is little Josie’s history.

Alnost every afternoon, when ske had grown to be
a smart girl, she went up to Mount Chateauroux to
walk home with her father. The dame fussed about
it, and said the child would be frightened at sight of
the wild faces, but Josie pleaded so hard to go, she
had not the heart to refuse her.

So frequent were the pretty little maiden’s visits
that many of the poor creatures got to know her
bright face, and to look forward to her coming as
pleasant features in their dreary existence. She
would carry them flowers and fruits from the vale
below, and then she would sit downin their midst
under the trees, and they would play at royalty, and
Josie would be queen, and all the poor, crazed crea-
tures her loyal and adoring subjects.

One May afternoon Josie went up with a great
bunch of odorous English violets in her hand, which
the housekeeper at Nivernois Court had given to her
that morning.

Nivernois Court was a grand old French estate, out
a little distance from the town, the home of some
great English noble, who was leading the life of a re-

 

 

 

  
  

jl es

A aye *

—
=? “
“*T WOULD SUFFER DEATH ITSELF TO GET AWAY FROM
THIS HORRID PLACE!”

cluse, on account of a recent bereavement. By some
chance Josie had visited the old place, and made the
acquaintance of the housekeeper, and from her she
received the English violets.

So she went up to Mount Chateauroux that after-
noon, carrying themin her hand. Jacques let her
in as usual, and she sat down under the lime trees,
awaiting the hour when the inmates should come out
to take their afternoon walk.

By and by they came swarming under the gloomy
arches and down into the well-kept walks below—
some dancing and shouting, others stalking along in
majestic dignity, and others again bowed down be-
neath a weight of despair.

Josie was advancing up the main walk and looking
about for her favorites, when all at once a slender
girl darted out of the ranks and caught her arm.

“Oh, please, please!” she cried, “will you let me
smell those violets ?”’

Josie put them into her hand, staringin childish
my at her white face.

e girl sank on the grass at the footof a lime tree,
and buried her face in the fragrant blossoms, her
slender form shaken by passionate sobs,

“Oh, how much they smell like home,’ she mur-
mured, pressing them to her cheeks and bosom, “I
have not seen an English violet for so long. Oh,

nlease, please, little girl, will you give me just one to
oP for my own?”

The crystal tears stood in Josie’s bright eyes by this
time, and she sat down softly on the grass, by the
sobbing girl’s side, while the other inmates and the
— g.adually strolled away. f

“You may have them all,” she said, “and I’ll bring
ie some more to-morrow, if you like. I get them at

ivernois Court, and there are lots of lovely flowers
there. Do you like flowers so much ?”

“Oh, yes!” cried the girl, “I love them dearly, and
I have not seen a violet since I left England. How
sweet they are, and how much I thank you for them.
Won’t you tell me your name ?”

“My name’s Josie, and my papa’sa keeper here,
and we live down yonder. What’s your name ?”’

“My name is Bess,” said the girl, putting out her
thin hand to clasp Josie’s plump, brown one—‘‘Bess
Lauderdale. My papa’s dead—and—and I’m here,
but I’m not mad.”

The words ended in a sob, and Bess let her white
face rest upon the violets and wept like a babe.
Josie watched her curiously, the shining tears stand-
ing in her own black eyes.

“No,” she said, reflectively, “you don’t look mad,
like those singing and dancing over in the grounds
there. But what made you come here?”

“T didn’t come here, Josie.”

“Who put you here then ?”’

“J don’t know. Some one that did not like me, and
wanted me out of the way, I think.”

Josie pursed her scarlet lips, and looked darkly out
into the May sunlight.

“And you’re not mad a bit?’ she asked presently.

og mad a bit,” replied poor Bess, with a sad
smile.

oa” long have you been here?’ continued the

“Oh, along time—two or three years, I suppose.
Summers and winters have come and gone—so many.
many days, and awful nights. I'm so tired, and I
can’t die, and I can’t get away.”

“Would you like to get away?’
sharply.

Poor Bess half started from her seat, and glanced
about her with a wild, hunted look. The one dream
of her life was escape; it sustained her through all
she endured. For slow, dragging months she had
affected utter resignation and indifference, all the
while her very soul in an agony of feverish hope and
impatience for the chance that never came. If she
could get out of that loathsome cell, and away from
those horrible faces, out into the free world, and
make her way back to Algiers, there she would find
Redmond, and he would protect her.

This was her dream. Strangely enough, in her su-

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

asked Josie,

 

preme distress, she never thought of Lord St. Aubyn;

her heart and hope turned to her old friend an

lover, Captain Redmond Carew.

, She turned her wild, scared eyes back to the child’s
ace.

“Oh, Heaven, yes, yes,” she panted, “I would suf-
fer death itself to get away from this horrid place.”

The crystal tears overflowed Josie’s blaek eyes
and fell like diamonds on the downy peach-bloom of
her cheeks.

“Poor eo she said, ‘‘I’m sorry for you—indeed I
am—and I'll try to help you. I think I can; Pll talk
to papa, and see.”

“Oh, no,” gasped Bess, ‘don’t speak to him, or toa
living soul; that would ruin me. If I could get a ke
to unlock the cell door, or a file, maybe I might clim
over the wall in the night-time. But hush! here they
come! For Heaven’s sake don’t betray me!’

Josie rose to her feet, and began to stroll along un-
der the trees.

“No, I won’t betray you,” she whispered, nodding
her curly head assuringly. “I mean to help you;
see if I don't.”

Poor Bess, weary almost unto death, was cheered
by the child’s promise, and clung to it as a drowning
man clings to a floating straw.

(TO BE CONTINUED.) ©

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

MARJORIE DEANE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of ‘‘ In Love’s Crucible,” “A Heart’s Bite
terness,” ‘*Thrown on the World,” etc.

 

 

(‘““MARJORIE DEANE” was commenced in No. 36. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XII.
MR, DEANE BIDS FOR A HUSBAND FOR MARJORIE.

Through the fish, the entrees, the game, the sweets,
Sir Roland ate his way in something approaching to
absolute silence. Once only he smiled, and that was
when he extracted a particularly tempting and in-
digestible bon-bon from the dainty Sevres dish and
gave it across the table to Bessie.

“Sweets to the sweet,” he said, and his face soft-
ened for a moment.

Mr. Deane, meanwhile, talked as only a self-made
man can talk, and Lady Chesterton sat watching him
from under her drooped eyelids, and mentally be-
wailed the hard fate which compelled her to listen
to him. At last she looked at Helen Montressor,
rose, and the ladies filed out. Even then it was
Beainale; not Roland, who opened the door for
them.

“Bring your chair nearer to the fire, Mr. Deane,”
said Sir Roland, musingly. ‘Will you take port or
claret? The claret is at your end.”

“Port—port, Sir Roland. I’m too old-fashioned to
turn to claret,” said Mr. Deane, nodding his head.
“lve drank port all my life, and have acquired too
eonfirmed a taste to desert it.”

Considering that until his great good fortune his
acquaintance with port had been limited to an ocea-
sional bottle at three shillings apiece, his friendship
for that wine was remarkable.

“Try this,” said Sir Roland, handing him the
pores “You can have something drierif you pre-

er it,”

Mr. Deane held up his glass, took a sip, and shook
his head in the approved fashion.

“Couldn’t improve on this, Sir Roland. I call it
perfect !”

Then the butler, having waited for this decision,
glided silently from the room, and the three gentle-
men were left to amuse themselves until the coffee
came.

Sir Roland turned to the fire and stretched out his
legs, and Reginald, assured by the expression on his
cousin's face that he, Reginald, would have to do the
talking, set bravely to work. For ten minutes Sir
Roland sat and listened to Mr. Dean’s opinion on

politics, agriculture, and commerce; and when the
atter subject came uppermost, Mr. Deane had a great
deal to say.

“Tm aman of commerce myself, Mr. Montressor,”
hé said. “I owe a great deal to commerce, sir, and
I’m not ashamed to admit it. But I’m no radical and
reyolutionist ; I know what is due to the aristocracy
of the country, and I’m ready to pay it. I respect
birth and blood, Mr. Montressor, ana T believe I’m
stating a fact when I state that the name of Deane is
not one of yesterday.”

“Fine old name,” said Reginald, stifling a yawn.

“Like some other names, it’s been down in the
dust for a time,” said the owner of the name; “but
it’s to have a turn now,I hope. Of course I can't
expect to do much for it myself, but I always im-
press it upon my daughters that they won’t forget
that they came of good old stock, though their father
was in trade.”

“Quite right,” said Reginald, glaneing sidewise at
Sir Roland, who moved his legs instantly. “Quite
right, Mr. Deane; and if I may be permitted to say
your charming daughters are not likely to
do so.”

“No, no, they’re good girls—good girls, both of ’em.
Marjorie is a bit fond of her own way, and what you
might call uppish; but she’s young, and as you
sporting gentlemen say, we must give a skittish filly
her head a bit.”

Sir Roland rose and poked the fire viciously. A
sinile of satiric enjoyment crept over Reginald’s face.
Mr. Deane was doing his part well. If he had been
trying to disgust the haughty, high-bred patrician,
he could not have gone more surely to work.

“T like a girl with a spirit of her own, and I don’t
attempt to break it. o, Mr. Montressor, I know a
father’s duty, and I shall doit. I’m not one of those
who want to force their daughters against their will.
When the time comes I sha’n’t stand in the way, and
if the man’s the right sort I’ll do the generous thing.”

“Yes,” said Reginald, leading him on. ‘You refer
to—matrimony. He will be a good fellow to come
within a mile of being worthy of Miss Deane, and a

ducky one to win her.”

The proud father bowed as if the compliment was
as much to him as to Marjorie.

“Thank you, sir—thank you, Mr. Montressor. Well,
Isha’n’t be particular, and if she chooses in the right
quarter, I'll do the generous thing, as I said. [’m
not a millionaire, Mr. Montressor, but I ain’t so far
from it, and my daughters won’t go quite empty-
handed. I’ve made provision for ’em. I’ve never
breathed a word to my eldest daughter, Mr. Mon-
tressor—perhaps it’s best I shouldn’t—butif she mar-
ries to my liking, there’ll be fifty thousand pounds
for her eee

Reginald Montressor had turned to reach his wine-
glass, with a smile of intense enjoyment at the com-
mencement of the speech; but as its conclusion
dropped slowly and pompously from Mr. Deane’s lips,
he forgot his wine, and turned with a start and stare
of astonishment to see if the man was joking.

But Mr. Deane’s face was as grave and solemn as a
judge’s. There was not the _ of a smile lurking
in his eye or on his lip, and Reginald Montressor’s
face flushed. He took Wes his wine-glass and drank
the contents at a draught, glancing all the time at
the silent figure beside him. Sir Roland’s face was
as hard and impassive as ever, but there was a dark
frown on his brow, and a deep, dusky red on the
tanned cheeks, which showed that he had heard the
braggart, foolish declaration.

“That’s a generous kind of—of—undertaking, Mr.
Deane,” said Reginald Montressor, and for the firgt
time there was a ring of respect in his voice. ‘“Isn’t
it rather—rather rash, eh?’

“Why, sir,” asked Mr. Dean, pompously, “why
should I make a secret of it? I’m not afraid of for-
tune-hunters, if that’s what you mean. No fortune.
hunting adventurer will get a penny of my money—
my daughter knows that well enough. 0, sir, I’m
not ashamed of being rich. It’s honestly come by,
Mr. Montressor, and I’m only doing my duty asa
father in helping my children to—to—restore the for-
tunes of our’ouse. Mind! I say if she chooses to
my liking.”

“Miss Deane will have no difficulty in making a
selection,” said Reginald, with a little bow. ‘She
can choose where she will.”

“Exactly,” assented Mr. Deane, “that’s my object.
What do you say, Sir Roland ?” and for the first time
he looked directly at the master of the wold—directly,
for his little oie had been covertly watching him
during the whole of the conversation,

Sir Roland looked up grimly, and with a eurl of
scorn on his lip.

“Do you ask my opinion ?” he asked.

Mr. Deane nodded and sipped his wine.

Sir Roland rose and leaned against the mantel,
and looked down on him pnt

“T should say you were offering a premium to
every mercenary scoundrel who might chance to
cross Miss Deane’s path.”

Mr. Deane changed color, and Reginald stared at
his kinsman. Never had he heard him speak with
such energetic indignation.

“JT don’t agree with you, Sir Roland,’ said Mr,
Deane.

But all further discussion was stopped by the en-
trance of the coffee. Almost in silence the three
men drank the decoction of the fragrant bean, and
then Sir Roland said:

“Shall we join the ladies?” and led the way across
the hall, _—

CHAPTER XIII.
SIR ROLAND WALKS HOME WITH THE DEANES,

The ladies in the meantime had been conductin
themselves something after the manner of a funera
party. Lady Chesterton kad made a few icy ad-

 

 

 

 

    
      
 

 

 
 

 
  
  
 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
   
   
  
  
    
  
  
  
  
    
    
   
     
    
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
   
   
    
   
  
  
   
      
      
   
  
     
  
  
   
    
       
   
  
  
  
    
  
   
   
  
  
    
    
   
  
  
   
    
 
 
   
    
   
    
  
   
  
  
  
   
  
   
   
  
  
 
    
   
  
  
   
   
    
   
      
  
  
  
   
    
   
 
   
     
 
      
         
           
       
         
        
          
      
        
       
           
  
        
     
       
                    

      
 
 

         
    
    
    

 

        
  

   
  

 

 

 

6

 

vances, which Marjorie had met in an equally icy
way; Miss Montressor, in the absence of the gentle-
men, had not considered it necessary to put herself
out to be entertaining, and Marjorie had maintained
an utterly indifferent silence, which Bessie would
have been happy if she could have imitated; but in
default of doing which, she could only gape and look
sleepy.

“Well, are you enjoying yourselves?”
Roland’s first words.

“Very much,” answered Miss Montressor, waking
instantly and turning her beautiful face with a smile
of welcome.

“Tf | were not afraid of being considered rude, I
should say you were half asleep,’ he remarked.
‘Miss Deane, will you give us a little music?”

Marjorie looked up, and was about to shake her
head negatively, when, as she looked at him, she in-
tercepted a glance from Miss Montressor to Lady
Chesterton, which she as a woman understood to

mean, “She can’t even play !”

“T don’t play much, but I will willingly sing,” she
said, quietly.

Miss Montressor heard her with a smile of satis-
faction playing about her lips, but no sooner had
Marjorie touclied a few chords on the piano than the
smile hardened into a frown and then passed away
to eat into her heart. Marjorie’s touch was ex-
quisite, and gave the promise of an execution at once
skillful and full of feeling; but if her tovfh promised
much, her singing was the promise fulfilled. She
sang the simple little ballad of “The Minstrel Boy,’
and she sang it as not one there had ever heard it
sung before. And presently Lady Chesterton was
looking at the fire with dimmed eyes, while Miss
Montressor was pale with mortification and chagrin.
Bessie made no secret of her tears, but let them fall
frankly. Sir Roland said nothing, but there was
something in his eyes as he looked at Marjorie that
frightened Miss Montressor. She had never moved
him with her music as she saw he mow was moved,
Reginald was the only one whohad voice to speak
with when Marjorie turned on the stool.

“Miss Deane,” he said, ‘‘you have almost wronged
me past forgiveness,”

“How?” asked Marjorie, smiling.

“You have nearly made mecry. I have heard ‘The
Minstrel Boy,’ oh, a hundred times, but: never like
that before. Where did you learn to sing like that ?”’

Marjorie looked at him, and then a smile hovered
on her lip as she glanced slowly around the room, as
if asking attention to. her answer, which she gave
with deliberation and distinctness, and yet with
child-like simplicity.

“T hardly know. IsupposeT sing that so well be-
cause I used to sing if to the girls in the school where
I taught before papa became wealthy.”

A bomb-shell could not have produced more effect
intheroom. Sir Roland was the only one not actu-
ally horrified, and he was obliged to turn his back to
sinile. He could appreciate the audacity of the girl
in thus snatching from her enemies’ hands the only
weapon they had to employ against her.

Mr. Deane turned a fiery red, and performed a per-
fect overture on his nose by means of his bandanna,
He was beside himself with rage and mortification,
and the worst to him was to feel that he was abso-
lutely powerless against his willful daughter, who
sat on the piano-stool enjoying the discomfiture of
them all.

Reginald was the first to recover from the shock,
and he said:

“T wish I had been educated at that school. Won’t
you sing us something else ?’’

“How will ‘Jockey to the Fair’ do?” she asked, and
without waiting for an answer, turned and played
the prelude.

When she had finished the ballad there was silence
for several moments. No one could trust himself to
speak. Then there was a low murmur of applause,
and Marjorie rose from her seat, saying:

“Tam ashamed of having displayed my musical
ignorance. Miss Montressor must dispel my discords
with some real music.”

Miss Montressor was a finished musician, and she
did not fear the result of a comparison, but she knew
it was notin her power to touch the hearts of those

oresent as Marjorie had touched them, and she would

ave refused to play had she dared. To refuse would
have been to give a victory to the girl she had invited
to the house to humiliate.

She asked Reginald to find her a sonata of Schu-
bert’s, and that being done for her, she played it in
her best style. But, alas for her! the first strains of
the music were hardly sounding through the room,
when Sir Roland crossed over to Bessie, and after a
jocular word to her on her moist eyes, said :

“Are you fond of music ?”’

“T am fond of Marjorie’s. I think her singing is
simply divine! but she won’t always sing. Some-
times she used to sing in the evenings when papa
had come home from the city, and before the gas was
lighted.” :

“Oh, she sang for you and your father,” said Sir

were Sir

Roland. ‘No one else?”

“No one else?’ repeated Bessie, wonderinugly.
“Certainly, there was no one else. What do you
mean ?”"

“Nothing. Do you like pictures?”

“Oh, yes; some kinds. 1| like tigure pieces best.”

“Would you like to see some now ?” :

“Oh, yes. In your gallery? May Marjorie come
too?”

“Tf she would care to,” and a gleam of hope lighted
up his eye. :

Bessie ran over to Marjorie, and whispered to her.
He watched eagerly to see what the result would be.
Marjorie looked at Bessie doubtfully, then glanced at
Lady Chesterton and at Miss Montressor, and with a
sinile, rose and followed Bessie to where Sir Roland
waited.

“She comes because she is angry at the way my
mother and Helen have treated her. Never mind, so
that she comes I shall find no fault. Then there is
no other! But what then is that locket of Roger’s ?”

With a tight pressure of his lips against each other,
as if he would thus shut out from his mind all
thoughts of the obnoxious Roger, he lifted the curtain
and held it until the two sisters had passed through ;
then he let it fall, and Helen Montressor, who had
seen them all go, felt that she perhaps had over-
reached herself. ‘ 5

Sir Roland had a rare collection of ancient and
modern masters, and there was so much to see that
Marjorie speedily forgot the objectionable persons in
the other room, and became as natural and merry as
Bessie herself. Sir Roland too recovered his tone,
and the three wandered through the gallery in utter
forgetfulness of anything but the happy present.

Sir Roland was led by Bessie’s eager curiosity to
tell the stories of the pieces of armor which hung
here and there on the walls. One piece was a breast-
plate worn by an ancestor in the time of the first
Riehard.and which was pierced in the side where
the sword of the Saracen Saladin had gone through
it. Bessie listened breathlessly to the story (for the
wearer had given up his own life for his king), and
then insisted that Sir Roland should put the piece
on. He laughingly did as she wished, and then hung
it up again. Z

They turned away to look at something else, and
Sir Roland was a little in advance of Marjorie when
he was startled by a cry of alarm from her, and
turned only in time to see the breast-plate falling.
Marjorie had jumped quickly as she cried, but the
movement was not rapid enough, and the mass of
metal fell upon her side, striking her arm and shoul-
der. She staggered backward, and was falling when
he sprang to her, and caught herin hisarms. _

Bessie wrung her hands and wailed, for Marjorie
had fallen as if dead. -

“Hush!” said Sir Roland, his own face white.
“There is some water on that table; bring it to me.”
She broughtit, and he went on, ‘‘Don’t be frightened.
Go ask my mother—only my mother—to come here.”

Without a word Bessie flew away, but in her fright
and hurry she went out by the wrong door.

Sir Roland tried to pour some of the water through
the pale lips, but in vain. White and death-like she
lay in his arms, as if life hadlefther forever. Witha
face that was almost as white as her own, he bent
over her, his eyes fixed on her with remorse and sor-
row. He felt that his careless hand had brought
about this mishap. Wild, passionate pity and ten-
derness had swept over him; with a shudder he
raised the arm that hung limp by his side, and as he
saw the blood-red mark which stood out accusingly
on its soft whiteness, it was as if a hand had seized
his heart and wrung it.

With a low, broken cry, he pressed her to him, and
passionately kissed the white lips that a minute ago
wore sorich ared; kissed not only her lips, but her
closed eyes, and the hair that shoneflike gold upon
his breast. ;

And as if his kisses possessed some mystic power to
call her back to life, she drew a long, labored sigh,
and, with a shudder of pain, shrank closer against
his heart. And as he felt her nestling of her own will,
so to speak, against him, the blood rushed to his face,
his heart leaped within him.

“My darling!” he murmured, hoarsely. ‘Oh, my
darling! my darling!”

And it was this word—this passionate cry which
assailed Marjorie’s ear, as she reluctantly came back
to consciousness. Slowly the beautiful eyes opened
and looked up vacantly; then presently she recog-
nized the pale, handsome face above her, and in the
place of vacancy came a look of startled questioning,
followed by a quick, hot flush of maidenly shame.

“What—what has happened 2?” she breathed, striv-
ing to raise her hand.

“Hush! hush!” he said, holding hertightly clasped
to him. ‘Do not move.”

With a sigh she attempted to raise her hand to her
brow, but letit fall with a cry of pain; then, pale
again, gently drew away from him.

“Tt fell on me, did it not?’ she asked, with a little
woe-begone smile. “That comes of disturbing old
institutions !"’

And. still gently, she put his arm from her and sank
on a chair.

Sir Roland stood over her, his heart beating fast,
his eyes drinking in, with a strange mixture of de-
light and pain, the beautiful face, over which was
sweeping the softred and white: He could not trust
himself to speak.

“Yes,” she said, with an effort, “I remember. I saw
it falling, and yet could not move. I was fascinated,

Ithink. Is my arm broken?”

 

 

 

cmt THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 |

  

 

He dropped on his knees and gently raised the
white arm with its ugly red mark.

“No,” she said, with asmile that cost her an effort;
“it isn’t broken. It would hurt me a great deal more
if it were.”
eee she: noticed his remorseful face, and smiled

indly.

“Please do not look so concerned.
scratch.
ing.

It is a mere
IT ought to be ashamed of myself for faint-

I suppose I did faint? IT have never done so be-
fore, that [remember. Where is Bessie? Did it fall
on her, too?”

“No,” he auswered, still hoarsely; ‘it fell on none
ofus but you. It was my fault,” he added, with pas-
sionate anger; “I did that!” and he pointed to the
blood that was trickling down her arin.

“That—that is nonsense,” she said, with a smile.

“Yes, I didit,” he went on, impetuously. “I, who
would have given my life to spare you a moment’s
yain.””
$ A deep crimson suffused her face and neck, and she
vainly tried to draw her arm from him.

“Indeed, it was not your fault, nor that of any one
else,’ she said. “Yes, the bracket gave way, and—
and it does not matter. There isno harm done be-
yond a scratch and abruise. Please, please do not
look so distressed. Lam allright. Why should you
be so distressed——”

“Why ?’ he repeated, and his eyes looked into hers
with passionate earnestness. “Because I would give
a dozen lives, if I had them, to guard you from a mere
scratch, as you callit. Because I love you!”

Marjorie stared at him for a moment, as if his
words had no sense or meaning, but as their import
penetrated her brain, she drew her hand away, and
with a pale face looked down at him.

“Sir Roland!” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said, with a sort of hopeless vehemence,
“T understand. I know thatI have no right to say
so; I know that you are pledged to another——”

The sudden and unmistakable surprise and bewil-
derment in her eyes stopped him.

“T—pledged to—another ?”’ she said, faintly.

“Ig it natso? You look—do you mean to tell me
that itis not so?’ and in the revulsion of feeling, he
sprang to his feet and stood over her trémbling with
hope. “Do you say thatI am mistaken, that your
heartis free? For Heaven’s sake, do not keep me in
suspense !”

Marjorie looked up at him, with pale face and
quivering eye.

“What—what do you mean?’ she murmured, brok-

enly. “Do you mean that [am—am engaged to—
to marry any one? Indeed, you are wrong, quite
wrong. Ido not understand how——”

No further words were possible, for, with a low cry
of relief and delight, he put his arm around her and
pressed her to him.

“No?” he cried. “Oh, my darling, what a load you
have taken from my heart! Forgive me!” he broke
off, for Marjorie had risen, and stood, pale, and breath-
less, and silent. ‘Forgive me,” he pleaded, humbly.
“T—Marjorie, my love carried me beyond myself.
Say that you forgive me!”

Marjorie looked at him with puzzled eyes; then she
turned pale, and looked around.

‘“‘Bessie—where is Bessie ?”’

As if in answer to the call, Bessie ran in.

“Oh, Sir Roland, I can’t find the drawing-room—I
lost the way. Oh, Marjorie! are you better? What
was it? Are you hurt very much ?”’

“No,” said Marjorie, with a tremulous smile, ‘‘noth-
ing to speak of, dear. Will you get—get my fur
cloak? Stay, we will go upstairs Sir Roland, will
you be kind enough to tell Lady Chesterton that I
would like to go home?” -

He took a step toward her, but with a ye gesture
she repelled him, and, putting her hand on Bessie’s
arm, murmured :

“Come, eee and they passed out.

Sir Roland stood for a moment, confused, irreso-
lute, strangely unlike himself. Then he paced up and
down the room, struggling to still the wild beating
of his heart, and to regain composure; more than
that, to realize what he had done. With restless
hand he pulled at his mustache. and stared under
frowning brows at the accursed breast-plate; then
his brow cleared, and a sudden light of joy flashed
into his eyes. There had been some mistake, and he
was free to love her. But she—— He stopped, with
his hand on the door. He had held her in his arms;
had kissed—a warm glow suffused him as he recalled
those passionate kisses unfairly snatched as she lay
in his arms—he had kissed her; but she—well, if she
had not actually refused him, she had certainly not
accepted him. And now she would go, and he would
be left in suspense.

With a start, he “pulled himself together,” as
Reginald would have said, and crossed the hall; but
as he did so, he heard light steps on the stairs, and
turned back as Marjorie and Bessie descended.

Marjorie looked down, and her face, very pale a
moment before, turned slowly red, and her eloquent
eyes were hidden behind their long lashes.

To him her face seemed suddenly, mystically, to
have changed. It was asif one of the fairies of old
had waved a magic wand over it, and thrown a spell
which gave to its beanty a subtle charm. ;

Utterly regardless of Bessie, forgetting that “little
pitchers huve long ears,” he took Marjorie’s uninjured
arm within his own, and bending down, said :

“Have you done anything for it? Are you in pain?”

“No,” she answered, softly, and her voice was
strangely altered—‘‘no, it does not pain me much. [
have bound it up with a wet handkerchief.”

“Let me see,” he said, as she reluctantly extended
her white arm. He touched it tenderly, reverently.
“T shall never forgive myself,” he muttered. “You
must let my mother bind it up properly before you

. Marjorie stopped suddenly, and looked at him, for
the first time, entreatingly. A

“No. Please don’t say a word about it in the draw-
ing-room. Promise me that you will not!”

And, in her eagerness, she put her hand beseech-
ingly on his arm. =

He took it, and with Bessie’s eyes full upon him,
bent his lips to it.

“Very well,” he said. Then, as she drew her hand
hurriedly away, he murmured, ‘May I say no more
to-night? Not even askif you have forgiven me, or
will forgive me?”

Marjorie shook her head, and her face grew pale.

“No,” she murmured, with a short breath, “do not.
I do not understand.” : :

“And yet it isso easy,” he whispered, in a low,
melting tone. : :

But something in her face prevented his saying
more, and the next moment they entered the draw-
ing-room. To tell of the anxiety and curiosity with
which three of the occupants of that room had been
awaiting the reappearance of the absentees, would
require pages. -At sight of the two girls, cloaked and
hooded—at sight of Marjorie’s pale face and heavily
drooping eyes—Lady Chesterton almost started from
her chair. As it was, she rose with something very
different from her usual stateliness, and went toward
them with icy surprise.

“Are you ill, Miss Deane?” she began; but Sir
Roland eut her short, and in a voice that plainly pro-
claimed his intention to cut her very short indeed.

“Yes, Miss Deane has a bad headache, and would
like to go if Mr. Deane——”

“Eh ?—what ?” exclaimed Mr. Deane, staring at the
group. ‘But the carriage—I—er—,” consulting his
watch, “ordered it for half-past ten.”

“We can walk. I would rather walk,’ said Mar-
jorie, faintly. “It would do me good, I think,” she
added, with a forced smile.

“Are you sure?” asked Sir Roland, bending over
her with an expression that made Lady Chesterton
shudder, and caused Helen Montressor’s white hand
to clasp passionately around her fan.

“Quite,” answered Marjorie, with as commonplace
an expression as she could command.

“Good,” said Sir Roland. “I will accompany you
if you will allow me—just to keep the wolves at bay,
eh, Miss Bessie?”

“T’ll join the escort—just to guard against the in-
sidions attacks of the odious lions and tigers in the
woods,” said Reginald, coming down the room.

But Sir Roland lifted his head and looked at him
queerly.

“Tt will not be necessary, Reginald,” he said; and
Reginald Montressor, being far too wise to oppose his
powerful kinsman; smiled with cheerful assent.

While Mr. Deane was getting into his overcoat—a
proceeding that required time—Lady Chesterton pro-
duced a smelling-bottle, and Helen Montressor stood
by murmuring soft expressions of sympathy. At
last Mr. Deane appeared, adieus were spoken, and
they were free.

Reginald Montressor accompanied them to the
very steps, standing watching them for a moment,
and then returned to the drawing-room and leaned
against the mantel-shelf, looking down upon the two
speechless ladies with a smile that spoke volumes.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
>-e~

TWO VALUABLE BOOKS.

 

 

 

The highest price ever given for any book was paid
by the German Government for a book now in its
possession at Berlin. The sum of 250,000 francs
(£10,000) was paid for it, and the book is a missal,
formerly given by Pope Leo X. to King Henry VIII.
of England, along with a parchment conferring upon
that sovereign the right of assuming the title of
“Defender of the Faith,’’ borne ever since by English
kings. Charles II. made a present of the missal to
the ancestor of the famous Duke of Hamilton, whose
extensive and valuable library was sold some years
ago by Messrs. Sotheby, Wilkinson & Hodge of Lon-

on.

The book which secnred the highest offer was a
Hebrew Bible, in the possession of the Vatican. In
1512 the Jews of Venice proposed to Pope Julius II.
to buy the Bible, and to pay for it its weight in gold.
It was so heavy that it required two men to carry it.
Indeed, it weighed 325 pounds, thus representing the
value of half a million of franes (£20,000). Thou%h
being much pressed for money, in order to keep up the
“Holy League” against King Louis XII. of France,
Julius II, declined to part with the volume.

|

 

 

THE RETURN OF THE TIDE.

 

BY JOHN W. O'KEEFE,

 

Last night our boats lay drifting, late,
Upon the sea’s unmoved expanse,

When, lo! some eddying swirl of fate—
Some current of capricious chance—

Broke chain from chain and heart from heart,
And we were borue apart.

You southernward, to drift or lie—
I know not how, nor when, nor where;
I underneath this northern sky—
A frozen heart in frozen air—
Yet soothed by one sustaining thought
Mine eyes to me have brought.

For this I know; all tides converge,

Through dark and light, through calm and stress;
The southern swell aml northern surge

Some day shall meet and coalesce ;
And all the freights those currents bear

Shall meet some day somewhere.

Ah, what though black clouds hide the sky,
And desolate, trackless wastes divide?

Some day, somewhere, our boats shall lie
Within the harbor, side by side,

Where sorrow nevetmore, nor pain,
Shall sever us again.

This Story Will Not te Published in Book-Form,
Queen Bess:
A Struggle For a Name.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘ Edrie’s Legacy,” “The Forsaken
Bride,” ** Brownie’s Triumph,” “ Sibyl’s Ins
fluence,” ‘* Geoffrey’s Victory,” etc.

 

 

(“QUEEN BESS” was commenced in No. 33. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XXI.

KENNETH RECOVERS HIS
LETTER.

R. STARK arose as he spoke,
and going to the door, beck-
oned the officer to come into
the room.

Avery few moments served
to satisfy him that his pris-
oner would be forthcoming
when he should be wanted to
answer to the charge against
him, and after being treated
to a cup of hot coffee and a
substantial lunch, he took his
‘ departure in the best possible
humor, and asserting that Mr. Stark was a gentle-
man, and “he'd be blowed if he didn’t believe that
Kenneth was anéther.”

The publisher insisted that Kenneth should remain
where he was for the night.

“We shall both want to be at the office early in the
morning, and I shall be more likely to get around in
good time if you are here to go with me,” he said,
when Kenneth protested that he should not mind the
walk back to his lodgings, now that his heart was
lightened of its load. :

But he could not refuse to comply with his em-
ployer’s request, after he had argued it as a personal
favor to himself, and he was soon after calmly sleep-
ing in the handsome guest-chamber of the publisher’s
elegant mansion. :

 

 

The next morning both men were, to all appear-
ances, busily engaged in their office. when the door
opened and Egbert Reynolds made his appearance.

The instant that his eyes fell upon Kenneth he |
stopped upon the threshold and stood staring at him,
a look of amazement on his face.

Kenneth was writing at his desk and did not look
up, although he longed to do so; but Mr. Stark’s eyes
were upon him, and he had the full benefit of his
surprise and dismay. .

“He is at the bottom of Keith’s trouble, without
any doubt,” Mr. Stark said to himself, while a stern
look settled over his face. <

“Good-morning, Mr. Reynolds,” he said. “What is
the matter? You look surprised about something.”

“Yes—I—ah—that is, it is rather an unusual occur-
rence to find you in the office quite so early,” the
young man stammered, flushing violently and turn-
ing away to conceal his confusion.

Kenneth smiled quietly to himself, but kept on
with his work, and Reynolds, after darting another
malicious look at him, went away to his own desk,
at the lower end of the room, wearing a dark and
frowning brow.

Mr. Stark watched him elosely all day, and was
entirely convinced of his agency in Kenneth’s arrest
long before it was over, for he was very ill at ease,
and eyed his victim askance every time he came into
his presence.

The publisher sought an interview with Laurence
Fane that same afternoon, intending to relate the
story of the watch to him and ascertain if the two
young men could not come to some amicable settle-
ment, and thus quash all further legal proceedings.

But Mr. Fane had gone out of town during the
morning, and was not expected to return for two or
three days.

Before the publisher found another opportunity to
call upon him, Kenneth was summoned to answer to
the charge against him. ;

When Laurence Fane saw who it was that had
been arrested for stealing his watch, he was as much
astonished as he would have been if he himself had
been taken into custody for the same offense.

“You /” he cried, looking dismayed beyond descrip-
tion when Kenneth came into the court-room with
the officer. “I never dreamed that it could be you
when I was told that Eggleston had ‘bagged a fellow
by the name of Keith.’ Why, of course yow never
stole my watch.” ;

“No, that is true,” Kenneth replied, smiling. “T
was never guilty of theft, and yet Iam afraid that
it was your watch which was found upon my
person.”

“How can that be possible?” exclaimed the young
man, with increasing surprise. “You see,” he con-
tinued, “I knew nothing about the matter until I was
notified to appear here this morning. I went away
just after New Year’s, and was detained longer than
[ anticipated.”

Kenneth explained the circumstances briefly, and
repeated his theory that the thief must have dis-
posed of the watch to some dealer who had resold it
to his little friend. Isabelle Langford.

“Yes, that must be the secret of this unpleasant
business,” Fane responded, and looking decidedly
uncomfortable himself. “I am very sorry that you
should have had all this disagreeable experience on
account of it, and if I had had the slightest inkling
as to the identity of the person whom Eggleston had
arrested I would have ordered proceedings stopped
at once.”

The case had been called, and the officer inter-
rupted their conversation at this point, but Laurence
Fane, after conferring with the district-attorney,
stated that a grave mistake had been made, and that
a personal friend, in whose integrity he had the ut-
most confidence, had been arrested upon the charge
of stealing his watch. He briefly explained the
affair, and requested that the case be dismissed
without further trial. _

Accordingly Kenneth was immediately acquitted,
and the young men were left to make whatever set-
tlement, personally, they might see fit.

“T do not know what arrangement to propose, Mr.
Fane,” Kenneth said, smiling, as he glanced at the
watch which had been passed over to that young
man. “I have not a doubt that the watch is yours,
but of course you do not wish to carry one that is
marked with my initials. Suppose I turn the works
over to you, then you can select another case which
I will cheerfully pay for.”

“And pray what will you do for time,in that case ?”
young Fane asked, flushing.

“JT have an old watch which I used to carry before
I received the other; [can use that until I feel able
to replace the works in the case I propose to retain,”
Kenneth answered, cheerfully, but at heart feeling
very loth to part with the gift which he had prised
so much. ~

“Indeed, I shall consent to no such arrangement,”
his companion said, emphatically; “it would not be
the same watch to you at all, it would spoil all the
romance of the thing. Pray keep the time-piece just
as it is, and let us say no more aboutit. I am gure it
would be very unkind in me to take it from you.”

“But I cannot feel comfortable to carry the watch,
knowing that it was stolen from you; at least let me
give youits value so that you can replace it,” Ken-
neth urged.

“No, I am not going to accede to that propo-
sition either,” the young man said, decidedly, “but
for my own negligence it would have been replaced

 

long before this, for when my father learned of my

loss he handed me a check for two hundred dollars
and told me to get another. So pray do not feel at
alluneomfortable about it, Keith,” he added, heartily,
“for, on the whole, [ am glad that the affair happened
since it has made me better acquainted with you.
Please show that you reciprocate the friendliness
which I entertain for you and do as I wish.”

He extended his hand as he concluded. Kenneth
grasped it warmly, expressing his thanks and appre-
ciation of his generosity, and thus a friendship was
cemented which lasted throughout their lives.

Laurence Fane took pains to see the reporter, who
had been present that morning, and secured his
promise that nothing relating to Kenneth or the case
should appear in the papers, for he could readily
understand how sensitive he would feel to have it
noised abroad that he had been arrested for theft.

But what was his consternation and indignation,
the next morning, to find an exaggerated account of
the whole affair in print, representing Kenneth ina
most unfavorable light. and intimating that the case
had been quashed by some collusion between him-
self and the district-attorney.

He was very angry and paid an immediate visit to
the reporter, accusing him of double dealing; but the
man disclaimed all knowledge of the account, assert-
ing that he had destroyed what he had prepared re-

without a suspicion of the thunder-bolt that was in
store for him.

“Will you have the goodness to inform me how
ey came by this document ?” the publisher asked, as

1e held Kenneth’s letter up before him.

A look of blank dismay shot over the fellow’s face.
He grew paler, if that were possible, than before,
and shrank as if he had been suddenly smitten.

“T don’t know; itisn’t mine; I didn’t have it,” he
began, stammeringly.

“You are a liar, sir, as well as a thief!” thundered
his employer; ‘‘you did have it in your pocket, among
these other papers, when you were caught in the
machinery down stairs, and it tells its own story; it
tells that you entered Keith’s room during his ab-
sence, and s/ole it in order to do him an unpardonable
injury, but your villainy has been discovered at last.”

r, Stark paused an instant for breath, for the
more he thought of the injury done Kenneth, the
more indignant he became ; but Egbert Reynolds sat
before him, stricken dumb ; he simply sat motiouless,
and stared at the latter as if there was something of
horrible fascination about it.

“Tam thankful that your life was spared a little
while ago,” the publisher went on, sternly. ‘I should
have bewailed your fate sorely if you had gone into
eternity with this terrible wrong on your soul. And

 

 

lating to the affair, as he had promised.

“T would like to know then who has been guilty of
writing such a foul slander,” young Fane cried, with
flashing eyes. ‘‘I would like to make him feel my irein
ab intensely practical way.”

But, though he made diligent inquiry, he could not
learn who the author was, to punish him as he de-
served, and so he did something even better; he
wrote a thorough vindication of Kenneth, speaking
of him in terms of highest praise, claiming him as a
valued personal friend, and signed his full name to
the article.

now, sir, you andl will part company forever; I
want nothing more to do with you; I want no more
of your service. A man who will let himself down to
such meanness as you have been guilty of—who will
commit crime to ruin another—is not fit to be asso-
ciated with honorable men. You may consider your-
self discharged from my service from this moment.
The cashier will give you a check for the amount due
you, and now here are the remainder of your papers,
which I hope, for your own sake, are not of the same
nature as the one that I retain.” :

 

 

Mr. Stark and Kenneth were both very indignant
upon reading the report of the case, and both were
inclined to attribute it to Egbert Reynolds, although
they had no means of ascertaining the truth of their
surmises.

“T have never been so humiliated,’ Kenneth said,
with flushed face and flashing eyes; “nothing could
have been more offensive to me than to see my name
in print in any such way.”

Mr. Stark also answered the scurrilous article with
a calm and conclusive dignity, which he well knew
how to assume, giving a brief account of Kenneth’s
life and character, during his long apprenticeship to
him, and relating how, by his unswerving integrity
and assiduous attention to business, hé hadadvanced,
step by step, until he had been proud to admit him as
a partner inte the firm. %

All this was of course very gratifying to Kenneth,
and yet underneath his satisfaction there was a sting,
forhe was conscious that he had an enemy who
might seek to injure him still further.

To Egbert Reynolds—for he it was who had been
the author of all the mischief—the result of Kenneth’s
arrest, so different from what he anticipated, and
which he imagined he had planned so cleverly, was
exceedingly galling. He had hoped to make him con-
spicuous in the most humiliatingmanner, while, in-
stead, he had made him famous as a young man of
more than ordinary promise and talent.

His chagrin was so great that he could not utterly
conceal it. He treated Kenneth very superciliously,
and made himself especially disagreeable in many
ways.

But he was not to go unpunished, as will shortly be
seen.

On day he was obliged to go into the room where
the printing presses were working.

While conversing with one of the pressmen he care-
lessly moved too near the machinery, and, before a
hand could be put forth to prevent it, his coat was
caught in the gearing and stripped from his body in
an instant, while it seemed a miracle that the wheels
were stopped before he himself was drawn in and
mangled to death.

He was rescued, however, without a scratch, from
his perilous position, though badly frightened and
shaken by the danger he had so marvelously es-
caped. e

Cousiderable excitement prevailed in the establish-
ment, the employees flocking to the scene when the
machinery was so unceremoniously stopped.

Mr. Stark, himself, was considerably unnerved over
the occurrence, and his face was almost as white as
Reynold’s own, when he was led froin the room.

He waseven more upset, however, a little later,
though in a different way, when, upon clearing the
wheels of the debris, one of the employees handed
him several papers and letters with the young man’s
pocket-book, and he made an important discovery.

He took them and passed from the room, devoutly
thankful that a human life had not been sacrificed in
his service, and while mounting the stairs to his
office, he ran his eye carelessly over the papers in
his hands. ao :

He suddedly stopped short, an expression of sur-
prise and indignation settling upon his face, as his
glance fell upon a letter directed in a round, school-
girl hand, to “‘Mr. Kenneth Keith.”

A frown darkened his face, and his lips compressed
themselves into a stern, rigid line.

He paused a moment outside the office door, and
seemed lost in troubled thought.

- Then he opened the door, and said, quietly :
“Keith, will you come here a moment?”
Kenneth arose from his desk, somewhat surprised

by the summons, for all special business was usually

transacted in a private office, with closed doors.

When he joined him Mr. Stark handed him the
letter bearing his address:

“Do you recognize this?” he asked.

Kenneth knew it meee -

His face flushed with pleasure, his eyes lighted
with eagerness.

“It is the letter from my little friend, Isabelle
Langford !” he cried.

He drew the note from the envelope, and passed it
to Mr. Stark to read.

That gentleman raised a pair of very kind eyes to
the young man’s face, after he had perused it, and,
lifting his hand, laid it affectionately upon his
shoulder.

 

 

 

 

 

“Kenneth, my dear boy,” he said, with almost fath-
erly tenderness, ‘‘you had my perfect faith before,
but Ido not hesitate to say that Iam glad to have
seen this letter. I rejoice that it has been found, and
yet the finding brings its regrets also.”

“Where did you find it?” Kenneth inquired, won-
deringly. ;

For the moment he had only been glad, without
giving a thought to the circumstance of its being re-
covered in so strange a way.

Mr. Stark showed him the other papers in his hand.

“With these,” he said. Then he told him what had
happened below.

Esanem grew pale as he listened to the tragic
recital.

“T wondered what ailed Reynolds when he came up
a little while ago,” he said. ‘He was as white as a
sheet and trembling like a leaf, while he was without
his coat. I asked him what the trouble was, and if I
could do anything for him; but he would not make
me any answer. He threw himself upon the lounge,
and there he is lying now. So he had the letter, after
all. I felt sure that he was the author of the whole
mischief,” Kenneth concluded, thoughtfully.

“What will you do about it?’ Mr. Stark asked, re-
garding him with a searching, curious glance. ‘‘In-
stead of being athief yourself, it will pa be ver
easy to prove that he entered your room and robbe
you.”

“I think I shall not do anything,’ Kenneth re-
sponded, gravely, after considering the matter a mo-
ment.

“Nothing?”

“No. It could benefit me in no way to make trou-
ble for him. My own character has been cleared from
all suspicion, thanks to you and Mr. Fane, and be-
yond retaining the letter and letting Reynolds know
that I have it, and have found him out as well, I
think I will let the matter rest just as it is.”

“Well, you take it very coolly, I must confess,” re-
marked Mr. Stark, with some surprise.

“No, sir, I do not,” Kenneth replied, with a laugh,
which, however, had a note of bitterness in it, for he
could not forget how low down in the valley of
humiliation he had been. “At heart I am very angry
with Reynolds for his meanness, dishonesty, and
malice; 1f I should give the rein to my passion I am
afraid that I should do something which I should
always regret; therefore I will not allow myself to do
anything that will seem like an unworthy revenge,
and thus lower myself to his level. If I had diseoy-
ered that this letter was in his possession before I
was acquitted, of course I should have felt justified
in making the fact known to defend myself. As the
matter stands now, however, I shallsimply ignore it.”

“You are very magnanimous, Kenneth,” his friend
observed, regarding him affectionately.

“Pray donot give me credit for more than I de-
serve,” the young man responded, smiling. “I am
not magnanimous—I am very human and ugly inside,
just at this moment; but I wish to conquer the feel-
ing, and so I will not give expression to it.”

“Tt is a Christian trait, at all events,” his friend re-
turned; “but while I admire you for cultivatingsuch
a spirit of charity and forbearance, I feel that the
fellow deserves to be summarily dealt with, and I
pre ignore the matter, whatever you may see fit

0.

 

CHAPTER XXII.
RETRIBUTION,

Mr. Stark turned the handle of the door as he
or speaking, and, with a resolute air, entered his
office.

—— Reynolds had risen from the lounge where
he lay when Kenneth went out, and now sat ina
large arm-chair, still weak and trembling, and pale
from the fright which his narrow escape had caused.
_ Mr. Stark went directly to his side, and stood look-
ing sternly down upon him.

“Well, sir, how do you find yourself now ?he asked,
in a quick, incisive tone.

“I am all right, sir; a trifle shaken perhaps, but I
shall be over that and ready for business again
shortly,” he answered, trying to brace himself up.

“Um; if you are sure that you are all right, per-
haps you could attend to a little matter now,” said.
his employer, laconi

He held them out to Egbert, who took them with a
erest-fallen air, and then staggered to his feet, al-
most convulsed with anger and mortification over
the discovery of his dishonesty.

Mr. Stark then went to the cashier, told him to
make up Reynolds’ account, and give him a check
for the amount, with forty dollars extra to replace
the coat which had been destroyed while in his ser-
vice.

‘This he handed to Reynolds, and then, his hot in-
dignation having now given place to real regret for
the young man’s wrong doing, he pleaced earnestly
with him to mend his ways, and, for his father’s
sake, if not for his own, to strive in the future for
honor and integrity of character.

But his appeal was only wasted breath, for the
young man assumed a sulky, defiant bearing, and did
not even have the grace to express any thanks for
the extra sum that had been so considerately added
to his wages.

_He gathered up his belongings as quickly as pos-
sible; then slunk out of the room, nursing bitter

malice and enmity against Kenneth, who, he be- ~

lieved, had influeneed Mr, Stark to disgracefully ex-
pel him from his employ.

It was a relief to Kenneth to have him gone, and to
feel that he was freed permanently from his disagree-
able society ; still he felt sorry for him in his dis-
vrace, and was almost tempted to plead with Mr.
Stark to give him another trial; but the man seldom
retracted when he had once made up his mind to a
certain course, and he felt that it would be useless to
intercede.

Mr. Stark sat down immediately and wrote a long
letter to his old friend, Judge Reynolds, stating
kindly, but plainly, what had caused him to dis-
charge his son, and expressing sincere sorrow for
what he had felt obliged to do in justice to his young
partner. It was a candid, honest letter, written in a
spirit of true friendliness, and he closed it by express-
ing the hope that the unfortunate event would not
mar their friendship, which had already stood the
test of so many years, while he trusted that Egbert
would see the folly of which he had been guilty and
yet prove to be a great comfort to him during the lat-
ter years of his life.

_The following week Mr. Stark gave a grand recep-
tion in honor of the birthday of his elder daughter,
and Kenneth’s name was, of course, included in the
numerous invitations.

The fond father spared no labor nor expense to
make everything beautiful and delightful for his be-
loved child, and it was a gorgeous scene which
greeted the two hundred guests who had been asked
to honor the occasion.

To Kenneth it seemed like a scene in fairy-land, as
he made his appearance about ten o'clock.

The drawing-room, all white and gold, except
where rare flowers made vivid contrast, was filled
with a brilliant company, whose rich robes, of every
hue, and flashing jewels, made a picture long to be
remembered.

Kenneth, after he had paid his duty to his hostess,
and congratulated Miss Mamie upon the auspicious
occasion, made his way through the gay throng, bow-
ing here, smiling there, and greeting courteously
those whom he chanced to know, until he came to a
group of young people, where he had espied a face
and form which always made his heart thrill with
sweet emotions.

Queen Bess was the center of this group, bright and
charming—a veritable queen with her peerless
beauty, her brilliant repartee, and her clear, sweet,
infectious laugh.

She wore, this evening, a dress of simple white
silk, trimmed with lovely sprays of trailing arbutus,
her neck and fair white arms encircled with bands of
black velvet, fastened with a diamond star.

She glanced up witha smile of welcome as Ken-
neth drew near the circle of her admirers, and his
heart leaped as he noticed how quickly the color
grew deeper in her rounded cheeks.

“You are very late, Mr. Keith,” she said, and this
only added to his joy, for it told him that she had
been looking for him and had inissed him.

She then introduced him to two or three who were
strangers to him, and then, after chatting fora few
moments, she allowed him to lead her away to a
room beyond, where the merry dancers were ‘‘trip-
ping the light fantastic toe.”

A pair of jealous, lowering eyes watched the young
couple leave the room, and a fair, beautiful face—far
too fair and beautiful to have been marred by such
a into frowning displeasure, for Alice

herman had been standing a little in the back-
ground when Kenneth appeared; but she had been
entirely overlooked—he had not seen her, conse-
quently she had received no greeting from him, and
her envious heart was throbbing like a surging vol-
cano with envy and bitter disappointment.

“He has no eyes but for her,” she said to herself,
angrily. ‘Will he never givea thought to me?—if he
could but read the secrets of my heart he would not
treat me with so much indifference.”

“Where have you kept yourself, Mr. Keith, all this
long time?” Queen Bess asked, as they were slowly
making their way through the crowded rooms. “T
have seen you only once since New Year’s Day, and
_ only for a moment on the street a8 we were

riving.”

“I have been unusually busy, for one thing,” Ken-
neth replied, “and,” he added, flushing, “I have
been in trouble also.”

He said this to ascertain if she knew anything
ee his arrest for the theft of Laurence Fane’s
watch.

He knew instantly, by the look of sympathy which
came into her eyes, that she did know of it—that she
must have read an account of itin the papers. He
wondered if she had seen his vindication also.

Whether she had or not, he knew that she could
not have given credence to one word of that lying
report, or she never would have been there leaning
upon his arm so trustfully, and with that light of
sweet content beaming upon her lovely face.

“T know that you have been in trouble, Mr. Keith,”
the fair girl returned, softly, then added, with a note
of reproach in hertone. “But, don’t you know that
the time of trouble is the time for friends to prove
whether they are worthy the name or not ?”

Kenneth could not refrain from slightly pressing
the small hand that lay upon his arm at tuis kindly
speech. x

“Thank you; that means a great deal to me, Miss
Marchmont,” he said, earnestly, the look of anxiety
which for a moment had shadowed his face vanish-
ingat once “It at least tells me that you did not
credit the foul slanders against me.”

_“Why, you did not for a moment think that I be-
lieved it, I hope!’ Queen Bess cried, with surprise.

“T ho you did not, certainly.”

“I believe I want to scold you for saying that,” she
retorted, with a pretty little pout. “You should have
known that I would not believe any evil of you,” she
added, with a charming air of imperiousness, and a
glance that set all his pulses throbbing with delight,
and he longed to clasp her in his arms and pour forth
all that was in his heart to her then and there.

“You make me a than I can tell you by ex-
pressing so much contfidencein me,” he murmured,
with an answering look, that dyed her face crimson
and made her clear, dark eyes droop shyly.

Scarcely a word more was utte by them during
the quadrille which they joined; but their silence was
far more eloquent than words, for to each it seemed
as if some crisis was near at hand.

For the time being it was enough, Kenneth thought,
simply to be near her, to look into her lovely, in-
genuous face, which, it seemed to him, had never
been so earnest and beautiful before. It was enough
to clasp her soft, warm hand—to have it rest so con-
fidingly in his, and any light or frivolous conversa-
tion would have destroy the charm which seemed
to surround them both.

Every moment spent with her was making him
more and more her captive, was cementing more
closely the bands of love that enslaved his soul.

Something seemed to tell him that she returned his
affection, and_ all at once, emboldened by the belief,
he resolved that he would put his fate to the test
Bae ects night if he could make a suitable oppor-

unity. :

“Are you tired?’ he whispered, when the music

had been broken, she laid her hand upon his arm to
leave the floor. : ; :
“Not tired, but very warm,and alittle weary, I
think, of all this glare, and glitter, and confusion. IT
had danced several times before you came in,” she
replied. “Cannot we get aw ’ :

 

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“Very well, sir; what is it?’ Reynolds inquired,

 

 

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VOL, 44—No. Al,

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' Say five able men.”

- to sail the sloop.”
‘*¥es.”

_ came near enough to make the danger imminent.

 

- But little as it was, it threw the stern of the sloop

 

 

lume eenése THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ee

 

 

 

 

 

Her request thrilled him—to go quietly away with
him, apart from the gay and brilliant throng. How
much it meant to him! ‘ :

“You should have told me that you were tired, and
I would not have made you dance again,”’-he said, re-
gretfully. : .

“Oh, but I wanted to dance with you!” Queen Bess
eried, ingenuously, with a bright, upward glance at
him, and then blushed again at the iook which she
metin his fond, earnest eyes.

“Tam afraid yonder company will miss their queen
if I take you away, and [ shall be anathematized
for depriving your subjects of your coveted so-
ciety,” Kenneth remarked, as they passed out of the
room.

The young girl’s lips curled slightly. :

“My subjects,” she repeated, a trifle of scorn in her
tone.

“Yes; you appeared to be surrounded by devotees,
who were paying you marked homage when I came

hh"
“Tt was very evanescent homage, I fear, Mr.

saw, his opportunity to take the little sloop at her
weakest point, forward of the mast.

He haa purposely refrained from going at full
speed, in anticipation of this moment, and now he
had the bell rung for full speed.

It seemed as if nothing Wat could now do could
save the sloop and her freight from going down, but
he never altered a muscle until he could see that the
yacht had too much headway on to check herself, no
matter what he might do. 2

Then he made a signal to the duke, who stood at
the wheel, and the latter with all his strength
whirled the wheel around, while Leon at the same
moment let go the sheet. ;

The sloop lay over until the water ran over her
gunwale, but in a moment she had righted herself,
and was steady just as the steam-yacht forged up
alongside. :

As Wat had foreseen, the maneuver, practiced just
as it was, had resulted in bringing the yacht so close
to the sloop that, for a minute or more, the two ves-
sels bumped each other perilously.

 

Keith,” she said, with aslight smile. Then she con-
tinued, more seriously, ‘‘Do you know I begin to |
think that there is very little of true loyalty anda
great deal of shallowness and lack of sincerity in this
gay world which we eall society.” :

“What a cynical conclusion to have arrived at—and
this only your first season, too!” Kenneth exclaimed,
in mock surprise. : ss

“Do not laugh at me, sir. Iam nota cynic by any
means,” she retorted, smilingly. ‘‘I enjoy a good time
as well as anybody in the world, but I do not believe
I could ever become a regular society woman. If my
happiness depended upon the gay devotees of the
world, it would be stort-lived, I fear.”

She was wearying of it already—her true womanly
heart was longing after something more real and
substantial.

Upon what did her happiness depend? Kenneth
asked himself. Could it be possible that it could de-
pend in any measure upon himself—would it be pos-
sible for him to add to or detract from it in any
degree? J

“TI will know within this hour,” he secretly resolved,
and his grand, strong face settled into a look of de-
termination and intensity that betrayed how much
of either weal or woe might result from his decision. |

They passed out into the great, wide hall, down its
entire length. to a cozy little room which Kenneth
knew of, behind the library.

It was between it and the conservatory, into which
it looked through one entire side of glass.

It was a luxurious little nook, and evidently in-
tended as a place of retirement for rest and reading,

 

. and where one could enjoy the rich color and per-

fume of the rare flowers and plants beneath the crys--
tal dome beyond.

Asmall ebony. table stood upon one side of the
small room, holding a massive silver ice-pitcher and
goblet. Near by there was an inviting arm-chair of
crimson velvet, with an enticing footstool within
easy reach, while opposite there was a couch to
—— where one could recline if weary or inclined

sleep.

Through the large plate-glass windows, which
reached from ceiling to floor, and were made to slide
at will, couid be seen the choice foliage, ferns, and
flowers within the conservatory, which was now
brilliantly lighted, while the sweet warbling of birds
in gilded cages was wafted to the ear on the perfume-
laden air, as a score of feathered songsters, like the
gay throng about them, thus turned night into day.

Kenneth seated his companion in the luxurious
chair, where she could have an unobstructed view of
the fairy-like sea beyond.

He placed the footstool beneath her feet, poured
her a glass of water from the silver pitcher, and then
stepped back and gazed down upon the fair picture
which he had arranged, a smile of tenderness and
content beaming from his fine eyes.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form,

A Titled Counterfeiter:

OR, THE

Wat, Leon, and Fernand, the instant the yacht
came alongside, sprang to the rail, and with one

' bound flung themselves on the deck of the Fanfar-

onnade.

All of the crew of the steam-yacht,
Simon, were on deck. :

For a moment they were bewildered with aston-
ishment at the unexpected assault upon them.

Out of this they were unceremoniously awakened
by Wat, who, the first to recover himself, felled De
Rouville, who was nearest him, to the deck.

De Virenne was the first after Wat to regain his
presence of mind, and like a tiger he sprang on
Fernand, who had lost his footing and rolled near
hitn.

“Aft, all of you!” he cried, as the butt of Lis pis-
tol fell on Fernand’s head. ;

Then he sprang back, and the others, reanimated
by his coolness, followed him, drawing their pistols
as they ran.

Wat and Leon drew theirs also, and it began to
look as if the odds would be too much, after all;
for with pistols in their hands, and distance between
them, Wat’s prowess was not of as much value as
in a close encounter. .

excepting

 

CHAPTER XLIIT.
BOARDING THE YACHT.

It was a moment for quick action.

' Wat had already taken in the fact that Francois
was in the pilot-house at the wheel, and that there-
fore, with Simon in the engine-room and De Rouville
lymgon the deck, there would be only De Virenne,
Paul, and the “Ghost” against them.

To disable one of the three would consequently be
to make the odds equal.

Without waiting for any parley, therefore, he raised
his pistol and fired at De Virenne.

He had no time to actually aim, but he tried to
avoid a vital part, as he had no wish.to kill the mis-
creant.

The shot took effect, and, for a moment, Wat was
uncertain whether or not he had mortally wounded
his man.

He learned subsequently that the shot had pene-
trated the right hand, glanced off on the pistol, and
then entered the right breast.

De Virenne must have been in intense suffering,
for though he endeavored, with a great deal of cour-
age, to hide his wound from his fellows, he was
obliged to sink to the deck in a few moments after
being shot.

Lying there, he strove with threats and oaths to
urge his companions to a prolonged struggle.

But Wat, who, with Leon, had jumped behind the
smoke-stack, cried out to the two men: -

“ll give you two minutes to throw down your
arms. If they are not on the deck in that time, I
shall shoot. And I shall not be so particular where
I hit the next time.”

Paul was an obstinate fellow, and not a coward by
any means, but he had had some experience with
Wat, and had conceived the greatest respect for his
ability to do what he promised.

He listened to De Virenne for a moment, and
ee threw down his pistol, saying gruffly to the
ad ost”’ >

“You can do as you like. I krow that man, and T
don’t take any chances with him.”

“You coward!” howled De Virenne.
your pistol.”

“Pick it up if you want it.”

The “Ghost” had even less reason than Paul for
holding out against Wat, and he followed his com-

 

“Give me

 

AMERICAN DETECTIVE IN FRANCE,

By NICK CARTER,
THE GREAT NEW YORK DETECTIVE,
Author of ‘“‘The Crime of a Countess.”

 

[“‘A TITLED COUNTERFEITER” was commenced in No. 26.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER XLII.
PUTTING THE PLAN IN OPERATION.

Wat took up the glass to lock at the smoke.

“You don’t ask me what I think of your plan,” said
Leon.

“It isn’t necessary. I know,’ answered Wat,
smniling. : ;

“You do? Parbleu! And what doI think?”

“You think you were foolish not to have thought of

it yourself.” ~— pam te Oe

“But that is true!”

“What!” eried the duke. ‘Do you approve, then,
Leon?”

“Approve? If monsieur will permit, I will be the
first to board the yacht, and throttle that De
Virenne.”

Carrying all the canvas he could, Wat drove the
sloop along toward the yacht until he was satisfied
from observation through the glass that they had
been seen and recognized.

Then, with every appearance of having just recog-
nized the Fanfaronnade, he had the sails trimmed
and the course altered.

There seemed a sort of exultation in the way the
steam-yacht altered her course so as to bear down
exactly on the sloop.

Lucette and Suzanne had been told of the plan of
attack proposed, and although Suzanne turned pale
and said nothing, Lucette flashed a proud look at
Wat, and demanded:

“Can T not help in some way ?”’

“T think not.”

“But think again. How many men do you think
there are on the yacht?” 5

“De Virenne, De Rouville, Simon—who counts for
nothing—Francois, Paul, and, I think, the ‘Ghost.’

“And you are four.”
. “Three, for one must stand at the wheel.”

“Let me stand at the wheel.”

“You are not strong enough. Besides, you could
not sail the sloop if we left you alone on her.”’

“Then it needs one to stand at the wheel and one

‘‘And then you will have to leave two men behind.” }.

Wat laughed.

“How sharp you are! Well, what of it? Two of
us, particularly incase of such a surprise, are worth
the whole five.” _

“But three of you would be better. Come now, let
me hold the wheel while one of you sails the boat.”

“Really, you are not strong enough.”

Here Suzanne interposed :

“But two of us would be. Let me help her.”

“You shall not refuse my first request,” said
Lucette, with a pretty pout. “Itis settled. Suzanne
and I are to take the wheel.”

Wat looked at the duke, and the duke answered,
with a laugh: i

“You'd better give in at once. She will have her
own way. She always has had it.”

“T yield then,” said Wat.

“No, you shall not. It shall be just as you please.
Only I do think we could do it just right. Particu-
larly if you would give us a few lessons now.”

380 Wat gave her and Susanne lessons in steering
the rest of the afternoon.

And it was arranged that the duke should take the
wheel just before the two vessels came together, and
then turn it over to the two girls as soon as they had
separated.

1is was what was done, then, as soon as the yacht

De Virenne had in mind the trick by which he had
been robbed of his prey the day before, and was evi-
dently prepared to checkmate it now.
Wat could see that he was to have no such easy
time as he had had, but he lost none of his coolness,
as he stood aft watching the approaching vessel.

It would have been a beautiful sight had there
been anybody disinterested enough to enjoy it.

As it was, even those on the steamer held their
breath as the two unequally matched vessels drew
nearer and nearer together.

The wind fortunately favored Wat, and he was
oo at a pace that taxed the powers of the steamer
overtake hiin.

“You'd better say your prayers,” shouted De Vir-
enne, a8 svon as the two vessels were nearjenough to
make conversation possible.

“Very well,” answered Wat, “we will pray for you.
You need it badly enough.”

After that nothing more was said, and the yacht
caught up on the sloop more perceptibly as the dis-
tance lessened.

De Virenne, instead of trying to come down on the
sloop amidships, was plainly intending to try to
break in her quarter.

Wat, seeing this, altered his course ever so little.

    

 

 
 

  

 

 

 

 

round s0 much that De Virenne saw, or thought he

panion's action, and threw his pistol down also.

Then Wat, followed by Leon, stepped out and ad-
vanced boldly toward the three men.

There was no attempt at further resistance, and
eveu Francois, who had at first contemplated taking
a shot at Wat from behind and been deterred by
Leon, who held him covered, threw his pistol out of
‘the pilot-house window.

Wat first made sure that none of the men had any
arins concealed on their persons, and then had De
Virenne carried into the cabin. ‘

He left Leon in charge, with orders to keep thé
sloop in sight.

A white flag was hoisted at once to indicate to the
anxious ones left on the sloop that the adventure
had not miscarried.

Wat examined De Virenne’s wounds, and finding
them to be serious but not mortal, dressed them after
extracting the bullet from the breast: ee

De Virenne watched him in silence all the time
that he was ministering to him, and when he was
through asked, in a matter-of-fact way:

“What do you propose to do with me?”

“Cure you if I can.”

“And after that?’

“Hand you over to the Chief of Police in Paris.”

“Have you proofs enough to convict ?”

“Everything but the plates, and those we will have
as soon as we reach the bay where you threw them
overboard.”

“You'll never get them up.”

“Oh, yes, I will. I have a diving suit with me.”

“You mean business, I see.”

“T do, indeed.”

“T am not seriously wounded, am I 2?”

“Seriously, but not dangerously.”

With this Wat left him, convinced that the sick man
was contemplating some sort of villainy, but not
knowing what.

He determined, however, to keep a strict watch
over him, and prevent, if possible, any chance of
harm froni that quarter.
ee wenton deck ernst his prisoners before

im. -

De Rouville had by this time recovered his senses,
and was meekly awaiting his fate. Leon relieved
Francois for the time, and Simon was left undisturbed
in the engine-room.

oe four men stood before Wat, waiting for him to
speak.

“Do you all realize that the game is over, and that
I have won ?”

“Yes,” answered Francois, speaking for the others.

“And will you all promise to behave yourselves and

“obey orders if Ido not put you in irons ?”

They all answered yes to this.

“Very well, then. Only remémber thati‘ I find one
of you trying to take advantage of my kindness, to
try to get the best of me, I shall have to shoot quick
and to the purpose.”

They all protested that they had no intention of
doing anything so foolish.

Wat did not trust them at all, but he knew he could
control them by fear, and he needed them to help
him work the two vessels.

He sent Francois back to the pilot-house, sent De
Rouville to the cabin to sit with the wounded man,
put Paul at work cleaning the brass-work, and took
the “Ghost” aside. ‘

“Do you know what sort of a scrape you are in?’
he asked him.

“No. I know, of course, that thereis some sort of
a row between you and De Virenne, and I am satisfied
now that he is in the wrong, but I had no idea of it
until I saw him try to run you down.”

“That’s the truth, is it?’

“Itis. I was told to put myself under his orders
by the Minister of Police himself.”

“Do you know what the count is guilty of ?”’

“I know you are after the counterfeiters, but I
don’t see what that has to do with the count.”

“Well, I suppose you know that if I can prove that
the count is guilty of any great offense, no matter
what it is, you will stand a chance of sharing his pun-
ishment ?”’

“T have my orders from the minister, and shall fall
back on them.”

“Had you any orders to assist in an act of practical
piracy on the high seas? Running a vessel down
deliberately is piracy.”

The “Ghost” turned pale, and spoke far more
humbly than he had before:

“Appearances may be against me, but I have only
been doing as nearly as I could what I was
ordered to do.”

“If you would say that you have done as you have
out of pique, because I fooled you, you would come
nearer the truth. You know very well thatI could
send you to the guillotine if I wanted to.”

“Yes, monsieur ; but knowing [ am innocent of any
an of real wrong, I am sure you will be merci-

u x 7
“If you are sure that you recognize the tract that
you are in my power, I think I will be merciful.”

“T admit your power, monsieur.”

“Very well, I think I can trust you: I atte to
put you on the gee with one of my men, and I want
you to help him sail it home.”

“Yes, monsieur.”

 

CHAPTER XLIV.
A BOLD STROKE FOR LIBERTY.

As soon as the steam yacht had come within a safe
distance of the sloop, Wat sent Leon and Paul in a
small boat to bring the ladies and the duke to him.

Leon was left with Paul on the sloop, while the
duke rowed the boat back to the yacht with the
ladies. ;

Both sloop and steamer now proceeded as quickly
as possible to the bay where the plates were.

Two days later they arrived there, and Wat pro-

- , v
| ceeded to take his position as nearly as possible

to where the plates had been thrown over.
{ Fernand and the duke were instructed how to work
the pump which supplied Wat with fresh air, and
with an injunction to keep an eye on the counter-
feiters, he allowed himself to sink overboard.

Pumping is not easy work, particularly for those
unaccustomed to it, and so it came that the duke and
Fernand, in their desire to make no mistake about
Wat, forgot about the men they were to watch.

By himself, De Rouville would never have thought
of making any effort to escape from the position he
was in; but De Virenne was made of different metal,
and he had all along been waiting for this moment.

De Rouville would do nothing until De Virenne,
rising unsteadily from his bed, threatened to strangle
him if he did not at least attract the attention of
Francois, who had been ordered, on pain of death, to
remain in the pilot-house. —

De Rouville contrived todo as he was bidden, and
then De Virenne took his place at the window, and
while the duke and Fernand were absorbed in their
work, made such signs to Francois as the latter could
understand. ;

The plan, as disclosed in this way, was an ex-
tremely simple one, and consisted in all three of the
men making a simultaneous rush at the two men at
the pump. ; ;

Wat would at once be smothered to death without
a chance of being saved,and unless the two men
were very quick, they would fall easy victims.

De Rouville, with a wholesome dread of Wat, was
difficult to persuade; but when De Virenne showed
him not only how easy the plan would be of execu-
tion, but how its accomplishment would put the two
young ladies in their power, he yielded, and agreed
to do all he could. : :

Francois stood, with his hand on the door of the
pilot-house, waiting for the! rush of his friends, and
the moment De Rouville and De Virenne made their
appearance, he silently opened it.

The duke and Fernand were pumping laboriously,
when of a sudden they found themselves clutched in
a tight embrace.

They cried out at once,and grappled with their
assailants.

Wat, many fathoms bélow the yacht, suddenly
found himself strangling. *

Lucette and Suzanne, in the ladies’ cabin, were
startled to their feet.

For a moment they stood in silent and alarmed
indecision.

Then Lucette, as if divining the cause of the out-
ery, caught up her pistol and ran on deck.

The pump standing idle first caught her eye.

She knew, because Wat had told her, what the loss
of air meant to him. =

Then she saw the struggling men.

With a sickening feeling at her heart she ran for-
ward and fired her pistol at De Virenne, who was
eagerly watching his opportunity to deal a blow
with a handspike which he had picked up.

The shot missed him, but it struck De Rouville as
he was struggling with Fernand, and he was easily
hurled to the deck. : -

De Virenne was then an easy victim to Fernand,
who hardly more than pushed him over.

He then turned his attention to the duke and
Francois, and helped to overthrow the latter.

All this time the two men had been in the greatest
agony about Wat, knowing he would die if he had not
enough air.

They turned as if by one impulse to the pump, and
there — the two girls working with all their
strength.

: ae pulling this cord,” said Lucette, breath-
essly.

“Then he wants to come up, and he is alive, thank
Heaven!”

They began at once to pull him up, and ina few
minutes were as rejoiced as if he had come to life to
| see him emerge from the water and climb slowly up

the ladder.
few words told him the whole story, and he
blamed himself that he had left the men at liberty.

“Where is the ‘Ghost?’ he demanded.

“Down in the engine-reoom with young Simon,”
answered the duke. z=

“Then they had no handin this affair. It is well
for them. What is the matter with De Virenne ?”’

“I have escaped you,” gasped the latter, as he lay
on the deck.

And _ then they saw that he had torn the bandages
from his wounds, and, with incredible hardihood,
had even torn open his wounds with his own hands.

He was bleeding to death, and no effort on their
part could save him.

He lived for a day, and then died.

Before dying he made a confession before Wat,
Fernand, and the “Ghost,” whom Wat had purposely
called in, of all his connection with the counterfeit-
ing scheme. =

He was the head and front of the whole affair.

He had aided a condemned counterfeiter to escape
from prison, and had then used him in his plan, giv-
ing him an asylum on shore, and finally allowing him
to escape from France after the last lot of money had
been printed. : ; :

He had used the duke after discovering the record
against him, and had corrupted De Rouville.

He asked, as a favor, that his father might, if pos-
sible, be kept from a knowledge of his crime.

Wat wrote out his confession, made him swear to it,

 

 

 

 

and sign it.

 

_ CHAPTER XLY.
NEARING THE END.

Wat made one more trip to the bottom of the sea,
and succeeded in finding the coveted plates.

There was now nothing more to detain him from
France, and putting Fernand, the “Ghost,” and Simon
on the sloop to sail her home, he got up steam and
started for Marseilles.

There he took the cars, with his prisoners, for
Paris, and made directly for the Chief of Police.

“T’ve returned from Egypt,” he said.

oa Egypt?’ said the chief, somewhat ironi-
cally.

“Yes. And I have the counterfeiter in charge.”
“What?”

“The counterfeiter, or counterfeiters, are in the
outer room, waiting to see you.”

“Waiting? Let them come in.”

“Stop a minute, chief. Do youremember how you
drew me off this case, and sent me on a wild-goose
chase to Egypt?”

“You never went.”

“No. Because I had an authorization from the
Minister of Finance to prosecute the case.”

“The Minster of Finance?’

“Precisely. And, had I been so minded, I could
have put you in a nice hole by carrying my prisoners
to him instead of to ee How do you think you
would have appeared before the public if it had
transpired that you had put every obstacle in my
way, and yet [ had succeeded ?”

“Tf do not understand you 2?”

“Yes, youdo. And, fortunately, I understand you.
You acted under secret and positive orders from your
superior, the minister,”

os ’

 

 

“Yes. And now listen and you will learn some-
thing which you might have known earlier had you
but worked with me, and had confidence in me.”

And thereupon Wat told him all that had occurred.

The chief would have doubted had the proots been
a whit less conclusive.

“T ought to have known better than try to hood-
wink you, but I had such strict.orders from the min-
ister that you in particular should have nothing to
do with the case, that I had no choice.”

“But why should he have selected me in such a
way and at such a time?”

“I see it now. As soon as you telegraphed to me
about the case, I hastened to the minister and told
him that you were the yery man for it. We were
most anxious to have the counterfeiters caught, for
we were and have been at odds with the Department
of Finance, and our reputation was at stake. Of
course after I was gone the Count de Virenne dis-
covered what had taken place, and his influence over
his father being unbounded, he procured the orders I
had to give you.”

“Of course. Well, I will leave the prisoners and
the testimony in your hands, and you may save your
reputation.” :

“You are kind. I may some day be able todo a
good turn for you. I hope you will command me.”

“YT will. By the way, I do not care what becomes
of the prisoners, but it is necessary that the reputa-
oe of Fernand and Suzanne be established in their

ome.”

“T will see to that among the first things.”

 

CONCLUSION.

It only remains to say that Lucette fulfilled a
promise made under-the shadow of a sail one night
on the Mediterranean Sea. And if any one is in doubt
as to what that promise was, he has only to write to
Mrs. Wat Denton, Chateau de Villepont, near Mar-
seilles, France.

Suzanne was received back into the bosom of her
family, only to leave it soon after to become the wife
of Fernand, who, by the help of the Duke de Ville-
pons was nade the manager of the iron works, which

ad been sold atter the former manager, Simon the
elder, had gone to take his place in prison alongside
of the Count de Rouville, Francois, and Paul. Simon
the younger was released, there being no testimony
to show that he was cognizant of any of the crimes
committed by the others.

If any be curious to know, it may be said that
Madame Denton, or the Countess de Villepont, may
be found every winter in New York by those who
know her real name,

(THE END.)

{Another brisk and thrilling story, entitled “THE
WORKINGMAN DETECTIVE; OR, A CRIME AGAINST
THE POOR,” appears on the first page of this paper.]

—_——_ + ©

WHEN pride and poverty have to shake hands, the
meeting is a bitter one.

A WEAK mind is like a microscope, which magni-
fies trifling things, but cannot receive great ones.

 

 

MY OWN, MY MOTHER DEAR.

 

BY J. E. ASTES.

 

Like richest strains of melody,
Thy name sounds in my ear;

These words have ever charms for me,
My own, my mother dear.

’"T was you who taught my infant hands
To join in holy prayer,

To Him who rules all earthly lands,
To keep us in His care,

With kindness fraught, you often smiled.
My little heart to cheer;

My youthful sorrow oft beguiled
My own, my mother dear.

Can I forget thy watchful care,
As I to manhood grew,

To guard me from temptation’s lair,
By precepts kind and true?

I'll breathe thy name at midnight hour,
To Him who reigns above,

That He may on thee blessings pour,
And strengthen me in love.

Though mighty seas divide our lot
Upon this earthly sphere,

Still thou wilt never be forgot,
My own, my mother dear.

A LIVELY RECUPERATING SPOT.

GEORGE SPELTER, Esq.:

 

 

ply Istate that my heart beats high with expectation
as I think how we shall enjoy ourselves basking in
the sunshine of Wyoming Territory, lying on our
backs and kicking up our heels toward the mighty
hills.

It is almost too much to think we shall have your
‘company (such as it is) through the long, hot summer
months, but my spirits are clouded with condensed
grief to hear you say that the air of New York city
no longer agrees with you, and that you are run
down. 5

George, Wyoming is the country in which to re-
cuperate. The whole face of,the territory is one vast
body of recuperation. If you fail to recuperate in
Wyoming Territory you are a gone duck. I have
known whole families to recuperate here, not because
they needed recuperation, but because they could not
help it.

Iam pleased beyond expression to hear that you are
fond of fishing. Im my mind’s eye I can see ourselves
wandering along the banks of Wind River, a bottle
in each pocket, looking for a shady place to sit down
and fish, or hunt, as the case might be. It will not be
necessary to walk far to find a pleasant place to fish
or hunt, if you are not particular about the amount
of fish or game taken. Half a mile out of town will
be plenty far enough to have a good time.

You should ship several cases at once—ship them
by freight, and consign them to me so they will be
here on your arrival.

Now, as to board. Our hotels are run upon a plan
of their own, being a little crude, but easy to under-
stand, and enjoyed by all guests as soon as they be-
come accustomed to the rules.

You ean have your rolls, hot coffee, and eggs, butin

 

order to have them served as soon as you arise, it
will be necessary to get up at the first discharge of
the anvil, which is fired in the main hall. The most
of the guests get up at the first shot. The second
shot means a cold breakfast, and the third none at
all, but that you have to turn your bed over toa
Chinamap for airing.

I speak of the rules so you may understand them.
It sometimes happens that the landlord neglects to
give a guest a copy of the rules, and when the first
shot is fired he leaps out of the window or appears in

 

 

 

-| gambling hall at seven.

| lord if he was in the bug business.

the dining-room in operatic costume, to inquire
which way the earthquake is headed.

Supper is served at six o’clock sharp, instead of
eight, as all the waiters are expected to be in the
c As for desert, every man
gets his share in this country.

I fixed it with the landlord about the south front.
He said he would put you in the school section, and
you could front any way you please.

The sieeping rooms are all on the ground floor, and
the school section (so called because it has no parti-
—— between the bedrooms) has the ground fora

oor.

The landlord bought a sack of wooland madea
fine bed especially for you. The springs troubled
him forsome time, but he came to the conclusion that
you or any other man could not tell pine boughs from
wire with that mattress on them.

Bugs are an after consideration, that is, you will
have to consider about them after you have tried
it. Inever heard any of the guests complain, and it
seemed like touching a tender chord to ask the land-
It is immaterial,.
anyway, as men who come to this country to recupe-
rate are always in a good condition to sleep when
they goto bed, unless they should be afflicted with
the jim-jams, and then they could place no reliance
on themselves, as they are liable to see anything.

The above accommodation will cost you fifteen dol-
lars per week in advance, and you furnish your own
blankets and toothbrush.

The landlord wishes. me to say that you had better
bring a small mirror and a coarse comb, as it re-
quires some time for the boys to all comb their hair
with one comb; also a ae eof cheap towels and a
wash-dish. He will furnish the water,

The last man that came here to spend the summer
found fault because the things I have just named
were not in his room, and became boisterous; and
the proprietor had to shoot him as an example for
future tourists to profit by. He did not kill him, only
laid him up for five months, and received tive dollars
@ week extra for nursing him.

You will see an account of that affair hanging in
the bar-room, with his photograph over it. It will
be to your interest to avoid arguments of this charac-
ter with the proprietor.

I would take you into my own family, but we are
living in a one-story tent, and while things are con-
venient, if is more or less confusing to parties not
accustomed to this sort of life.

Come as soon as youcan get away; do not stay
until you get so far run down that we will have to
lift you up every morning. Ship the cases as soon as
you get this.

I expect your liver is enlarged, but this. is a great
place to reduce liver. Ship the cases at once.

Why Linsist upon your shipping your drink is that

itis not advisable fora person whois run down as
you are to change drink too suddenly. Our drink is
spontaneous in its effects, but perfectly harmless
when a person becomes accustomed to the use of it.
We had a tourist here from New York two years
ago, who did not bring any nourishment from home,
and commenced on ours at the same gait he quit his.
The consequences were startling. He imagined he
saw serpents, bugs with long tails and cloven hoofs,
and mules without ears. He assured us that his shirt
was filled with centipedes, while lizards and other
mammalia were crawling up his pants legs. Under
the influence of this wonderful climate he recuper-
ated.
I do not know the technical name of the disease,
but our doctors called it jim-jams, and say a man
cannot live over a year if itis not checked. It seems
to be a disease of the optical nerve, as no one but the
patient sees any of the things described. I sometimes
think it was excited imagination brought on by an
overdose of our emulsion.

The saloon-keeper desires me to say that he makes
special rates on long runs.

We have religious services every Sunday morning,
and in the afternoon and evening all places of
amusement, including saloons and gambling-houses,
are open.

Hoping to see you soon, I am, yours truly,
ELM Woop.

mint. — > @-—~<- ithe
A FISH CAUSES A MAN’S DEATH.

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8

SWEETHEART DAISY.

 

 

 

BY FRANCES WYNNE.

 

The sunset all its golden rays

Athwart the skies of amber threw,
When down among the woodland ways

My bright-haired Daisy came in view.
(Soft dintings of a dainty shoe

Had pointed me the path she chose,
And why I followed up the clew

I know—and Sweetheart Daisy knows.)

We met—she turned an absent gaze
To where, far off, a heron flew;
For spoke she till, with trembling phrase,
Her hand into my own I drew.
Then, Sweetheart Daisy rosier grew
Than her small namesakes when they close,
And why she flushed se fair a hue
I know—and Sweetheart Daisy knows.

What time the trailing garden sprays
Were heavy with the summer dew ;
When quenched was the geranium blaze,
And dimmed the gay lobelia blue—
Daisy and I came pushing through
The long loose hedge of brier rose,
And why we were so glad, we two,
I know—and Sweetheart Daisy knows.

Prince Love, all potent sovereign, who
The fate of lovers dost dispose,

Why this old world for me is new
I know—and Sweetheart Daisy knows.

Diary of a Minister’s Wife,

By ALMEDIA M. BROWN,

Anthor of “The Diary of a Country Schoolma’am.”

 

(The “DIARY OF A MINISTER’S WIFE” was commenced
in No. 35. All News Agents supply the back numbers.]

 

Notin the most amiable frame of mind, I hastened
home, and leaving Eddie in the kitchen, took my
way to the study, whence came the sound of voices.
The door was open, and three ladies sat in a row,
with their backs to me, while Mr. Hardscrabble stood
politely in a listening attitude, with his hand resting
on his unfinished sermon. Mrs, Harper was speak-
ing in an excited tone.

**Your perverse wife,” were the first words I heard.
“She has doubtless told you of the division she has
made in our society, that she has resigned her office,
and put Miss Crimmings in as president.”

“No, I was not aware of it.”

“Then it’s all news to you? I thought you could
not approve of it. I am glad I thought of coming
over this morning and consulting you in the matter.
I knew your wife was out, and we should be undis-
turbed.” ; z

“Did you pray over this matter, sister, before you
left home?” asked Mr. Hardscrabble, gravely.

“Pray! Why—why—it’s too small a matter; be-
sides, I didn’t have time.” stammered Miss Harper.

“Nothing is too small to pray about when it is to
affect the welfare or happiness of a fellow-being. If
T understand you aright, you have come here to ac-
cuse my wife, and expect me to join you in condemn-
ing her.” ;

“Why, Mr. Hardscrabble, you misunderstand us.
Miss Crimmings is unbearable, with her airs, just as
if there never was any one elected to office before
her,” simpered Mrs. Benson. : :

“I hate her, she is so overbearing. I tell you, sir,
our society will all be broken up if she is suffered to
go on,” added Mrs. Baxter. ;

“What do you expect of me, ladies?” asked Mr.
Hardscrabble, coldly. ; 7

“We expect that you will show your wife the im-
propriety of her conduct in this matter (which must
be apparent to you, sir), and induce her to resume her
duties as president. Whatever faults she may have
as a presiding officer, she is not haughty and over-
bearing, like Miss Crimmings, who will not suffer
any one to guide her at all.” :

“T presume my wife had good and sufficient reasons
for her course—at least, I shall not question them. I
never interfere in the matters of a sewing-circle.
There is always more or less jealousy among its
members, and I have affairs of more importance than
listening to the bickerings of any party,” and he
glanced uneasily at his sermon. _

“Tam sorry you uphold your wifein her perverse
course; it will break up the harmony of our so-
ciety” Z ;

“Good-morning, ladies,” I said, entering briskly
and interrupting Mrs. Harper’s speech, to that lady’s

aise THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #e=

VOL. 44—No, 41,

 

 

“True, I need a lesson on that charity that is long
suffering and kind,” I sb tacit responded.

I attended church at South Rockdale this after-
noon, and after church went home with Miss Hart to
tea Her little parlor was in prim order, every
chair, footstool, and book in place. A stately bou-
| quet in a tall vase occupied the center of the table,
there were dahlias standing up as stiff as grenadiers,
with bunches of phlox and leaves between, but not
a drooping blossom or a spray misplaced; a honey
bee would not have thought of lighting on the flowers,
they looked so unnatural and stiff.

Miss Hart tied a large black apron over her neat
black silk, and excused herself while she prepared
tea. It was an hour when we were summoned to the
table, which was laid with a glossy cloth, and snowy
napkins ironed to an alarming smoothness.

he silver tea service shone so that every article
on the table was duplicated over anl over again.
The plates and cups were of delicate china, looking
so frail and thin that they seemed likely to fall in
pieces any momeut. In the center of the table was a
plate containing four uniform slices of bread, flanked
on owe side by a square of butter, on the other a dish
containing six small pickles, all laid in a row. The
jelly stood up in a pyramid, clear as amber, but not
breaking the least bit from the form of the mold.
The cake in the basket was cut and laid by rule
—just four pieces of sponge, long and thin, four
square wedges of fruit cake, and the same number of
pieces of pound cake, rich and light. The dried beef
was as thin as a shaving, and cut so as to all curl one
way.

On a stand nearasunny window Sat a large gray
cat, watching us during our repast with unblinking
oF, ae so still and quiet that he seemed cut out o
marble.

Miss Hart deliberately poured out little half-cups
of tea, adding a lump of sugar and a teaspoonful of
milk to each cup.

After the repast, she arose and took a colored nap-
kin from the cupboard, spread it upon the carpet,
— filling a saucer with milk, placed it upon it, and
said:

“Come, Jimmy, have your supper.”

The cat sprang down, and deliberately lapped the
milk, then drawing back, washed his face and paws
with the air of one going through a regular routine
of duties.

I was much amused at the clockwork regularity of
everything.

Returning to the parlor, Miss Hart offered to give
us a few pieces of sacred music, and as there was
half an hour to spare before going to the jail, where
Mr. H. has prayers and a little talk every Sunday
afternoon, if possible, we seated ourselves to listen.

After several trials, and swaying her body back
and forth, she succeeded in extracting a little music
from the wheezing old instrument, and struck up the
old tune called “Coronation.”

Mr. H. joined her in singing a hymn to the tune.
Then followed “China” and ‘‘Old Hundred,” and we

| arose to leave.

We hastened to the a were adniitted by Mr.
Hinckley, who seems glad to have some religious
services on the Sabbath. Miss H. informed us that a
young woman, a prisoner, whom we had seen once
or twice in our visits, was very ill, and she thought
we had better go in and visit her before we left. Her
trial was appointed to come off on the twentieth of
the month, and the dread of meeting it had evidently
overcome her and prostrated her strength. At the
summons of the bell, all were assembled in the large
room, and I noticed two new faces among the pris-
oners, while several were absent, their time having
expired. Mr. H. read and explained a chapter, sang
a hymn, and knelt in prayer, an example followed
by half of the male convicts. The two females looked
stolid and defiant as before.

After a few words with each, and giving tracts and
papers into the eager, outstretched hands, Mr. H.
proposed visiting the sick woman, and we followed
Mrs. Hinckley down along corridor and up a flight
of stairs into the women’s ward. She paused before
a stout door and admitted us into a narrow Cell, so
bare and comfortless that I shuddered as I enteredit.

The morning sun came in through the narrow
grated window, and threw crimson beams athwart
the dreary room. There were‘a chair, a table, and a
hard mattress, on which the sick woman lay. Her
features were thin and pinched, her eyes had the look
ofa hunted fawn as she turned them upon us as we
entered.

“Margaret, the minister and his wife have come to
see you,” said Mrs. H., advancing to the bedside.

“Oh, why did you bring them? Lam too wretched
to see any one,” and she drew the ragged coverlid
up over her face, and the bed shook with her sobs.

“But, Margaret, you will feel better after he talks
and prays with you. Perhaps he can comfort you.”

“Can he prove my innocence—can he save me from
the cruel crowd who will muck my agony when I am
led out to die. A murderess, they call me. Oh,
Heaven! I would give worlds, if I possessed them,
for one moment of such pure, innocent happiness as
I knew in my childhood!” and again the bed shook.

The matron was about to expostulate, but Mr. H.
laid his hand upon her arm to stop her, and then be-
gan singing:

“Just as I am, without one plea.”

As he proceeded the woman lay more quiet, as if
there were some soothing power in the words, her
sobs grew less, and at last she drew the coverlid from
her face and looked shyly up. Without appearing to
notice her, he finished the hymn, then repeated the
fifty-first psalm, and knelt in prayer. In his petition
heseemed carried beyond himself, and his prayer was
the outpouring of a burdened, contrite spirit. For the
time being he seemed to take the place of the shrink-
ing, trembling convict, and he pleaded for that mercy
from Heaven that an earthly tribunal might deny.

The prison matron was melted to tears, and the sick
wowan’s pale lips moved, as if following each peti-
tion. Without addressing her a word, he motioned
us to leave the cell as soon as he arose; she was so
sensitive, he deemed it best to leave her to her own
thoughts.

We took leave of the jailer and his wife, and has-
tened home in the early twilight, arriving in season
for the prayer-circle,

Tuesday, Sept. 4.—About ten o’clock this morning a
nondescript vehicle stopped at our gate. It was a
sort of old-fashioned ‘chaise,’ as they were called
when in style. It had a brown top, that nodded des-
perately at every step; it was very low, with only
two wheels, and creaked dolefully as it came up the
street. The propelling power was an old, lank steed,
who bore his weight of years meekly. He was blind
of one eye, very lame, and carried his nose close to
the ground, as if scentingatrail. His harness was
old, and tied up with leather strings and bits of
twine, and hung so loosely about him that he seemed
in danger of emerging from it at every step. A large
red box, secured by a padlock, was lashed on behind
the vehicle.

An elderly man, in seedy garments, and with a
boy’s cap perched on a bald head, held the reins in
one hand and flourished a leather thong tied to the
end of a stick, on the back of his dispirited steed. He
alighted at the gate, and after carefully securing his
horse, lifted a ponderous satchel from the chaise, and
caine up the walk. He had keen gray eyes, and
nature had made up for the deficiency of hair on his
head by giving him a long, grizzly beard that hung
down on his breast. His step was brisk, and he
swung his arm to and fro like a pendulum as he came
up the walk.

 

 

evident discomfiture; and I seated myself, with a re-
mark on the weather, as if I supposed they had come
for a mere friendly call.

“Excuse me, ladies, lam very busy this morning,”
and witha bow, Mr. Hardscrabble and his manu-
script disappeared.

“Cool, upon my word! You have him well tutored,
— Hardscrabble,” said Mrs. Harper, rising to
eave. .
“Whatis your hurry, ladies? Tam justin froma

walk. The air is very invigorating.”

“Some people, on Saturday morning, have duties
more important than gadding around the streets,”
said Mrs Harper,-severely.

“True, but we all seem to be at leisure this morning;
andif I have trespassed on an ordinary rule, I have
geod company, it seems,” and I bowed coldly.

“Presuming! Shows her bringing up!’ muttered
Mrs. Benson, between her teeth, as the three hurried
down the hall. and out of the house, while I went
about my household duties.

At the dinner table Mr. Hardscrabble asked me
why I resigned the chair at the sewing-circle, but
made no remark after I explained my reasons.

Sunday, Sepi.2.—Mr. Hardscrabble preached this
morning from I. Corinthians, xiii., 4—‘‘Charity suf-
fereth long and is kind.” He was very earnest in his
discourse, portraying in strong language the beauty
ef charity or love, dwelling upon its endurance, con-
trasting it with envy, malice, ete. He showed how
this charity should be exercised in our daily inter-
course with our fellow-creatures; and showed how
much sorrow and anguish of spirit would be spared
were all actuated by the sweet spirit of love.

As he drew near the elose of his remarks he made
a rather close application of the subject, asking if
there was not a want of charity in the church, re-
minding them if there were bitterness or malice
among them, instead of pure, unfeigned love, they
were as the apostle said, “like sounding brass or a
tinkling symbal.”

IT noticed seme glancing around at Mrs. Harper and
myself as though they thoughtthe application rather
personal. I was rather surprised to see her at last
arise and sweep down the aisle, and out of the church
as though she felt insulted.

Miss Wright giggled audibly as she nudged her
cousin’s arm, and several ladies looked in blank dis-
may after the retreating figure.

There were many whispered comments as the con-
gregation passed out.

“T wonder if Mr. Hardscrabble got up that sermon
on poxposs to-day ?” said one.

“Guess he has heard of the row in the sewing-cir-
cle,” replied another.

“Well, Mrs. Harper was very foolish to leave the
church so abruptly; everybody noticed it.”

“She got fitted too closely with a garment,” laughed
&@ young girl.

“Well, I think Mrs. Hardscrabble might take some
of it to herself; she has no great love for Mrs. Har-
per,” said Miss Wright, with a toss of her head.

Imet him at the door. Laying his hand on his
heart, he made a low how, and asked:

. ‘Is this the Methodist parsonage ?”’

I bowed assent. »

“Ts the clergyinan in ?”’

“He is. Do you wish to see him?”

“Tf you please, madam,” and removing the cap
| from his bald pate, he followed me to the study,
| where Mr. H. arose to greet him.

“Ah, good-morning, good-morning, brother ——”

“Hardscrabble,” suggested Mr. H.

“Ah, yes; rather a singular name. My name is
John Wyles—Dr. Wyles I am called,” and he stroked
his beard complacently, after making this astound-
ing announcement. “I am traveling around as a
public benefactor; my object is to place in every
family health-restoring medicines. I have with me
some of the most wonderful medicines the age ever
saw or science ever compounded.”

“We enjoy good health, and, I think, are in no need
of eerens of the kind,’ returned Mr. H., with a
sinile.

“Don’t say so, sir’ (witha start.) ‘The seeds of
disease are in every constitution, and nothing but
such powerful agents as I carry can avert the blow
that, sooner or later, will fall on each devoted head.
This lady—your wife, I presume—needs some of my
Elixir of Life to plant the roses of health on: those
pale cheeks, or a box of my Liver Invigorating Pitls,
to renew her youth, and make bright the rosy cheek,
add Inster to the sparkling eye, and buoyancy to the
elastic step.”

After this declamatory speech, he drew a key from
his pocket, unlocked the satchel, and produced a
bottle, which he uncorked, and shook up a muddy-
looking liquid; then fished a tin box from the same
depths.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

Experience ackts on sum people just az it duz on a
bull tarier—he don't fairly git over one whipping be-
fore he goes in for another.

Very old age iz only desirable to the truly virtuous,
and they allways hav sense enuff not to ask for it,

Thare iz noboddy who gits so low down in the ditch
what thinks thare iz sum one lower down than

e iz.

Munny will buy allmost enny thing a man wants
;except Virtew, Helth, and Kontentment. These 3
| artikles aint in the market.

The grate excellence ov wisdum iz to git the great-
| est ae ov truth into the fewest amount of
words,

Anger allwuss hurts us more than it duz the thing

 

 

j world.

The man who haz lately found out, after two
years’ sarch, that the cockroach’s egg iz round, and
oval, iz one ov them.

An Atheist iz one who sez he don't beleave in Di-
vine Providence. Divine Providence kan stand this
az long az he kan. .

Avarice eats up every other quality ov the harte,
good, bad, and indiffirent.

Most all very cunning men have a speshalty, and
| they are generally az dullin other things az they are
sharp in that. ;

To beleaf nothing iz just about az much an evidence
ov wisdom az to beleaf everything.

Modesty and bashfullness are often konfounded,
but they are az different az delikasy and dullness.
Next to doing a man an injury,in point of mean-
ness, iz to do him a benefit, and then continually re-
mind him ov it.

When a man finds fault with himself, he expects yu
will kontradikt him, not koincide with him.

Good breeding makes all pholks equal.

After yu have learned to think, the fewer books yu
read the better.

 

@ 4

Pleasant Paragraphs.

 

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

 

A ‘‘Queries’’ Column.

We (or I should say I, as I am not at this moment
writing editoriallv) recently started a small paper,
which would some day, I hoped, be a mighty power
in national politics. On the second day of publica-
tion it became painfully evident that something
must be done to interest the people. The public
didn’t appear to catch on with the vim which I had
expected. I had all the news, plenty of editorial,
and a full complement of reading matter. I also had
personal references to half the people in the town,
but the half who were not mentioned got mad because
I left them out, and the half who were mentioned
felt insulted because I did not say more about them.
After a week of deep thought, during which the cir-
culation was largely confined to the families of
reporters and compositors, I had an inspiration.

“A ‘Queries Column’ is the thing!” I cried, and
straightway I put the idea into practice by writing a
lot of questions on history, literature, the tariff, &c.,
and duly answering them. The ‘Queries Column”
took. Next day I found in my mail the following:
“When did the moon dry up ?”

“Sharpe Bargan and co advertise calicos at three
cents. Will they wash?’

“Tf A bets C that D flukes on the royal flush, and E
loses first base on hot grounder from 1-4 mile pale
with F nose to nose at the gh—fi, b. g. under King gam-
bit, which takes the pot?

“What is the color of the paper on Sullivan’s bed-
room ?” 4 ’

“Who invented the eclusematicus, and why ?”’
“How many papers will.a town the size of-this
support?”

“What is the best arrangement of ‘White Wings,’
and what key is it in?’

“What relation is Pete Perkins, the new postmaster
of Podunk, to President Harrison ?’

“Tf a baby’s back teeth come before the front teeth,
what is it a sign of ?”’

“How many years is it since the eruption of the
Yung Ling Voleano in China, said to be alluded to in
aoe = ee of Confucius as co-existent with the

ood ?” ;

“What is the easiest, quickest, and cheapest way
to get a drink in a Prohibition town where there are
no drug stores, hotels, or restaurants ?”’

“Did Moses ever have the chicken-pox ?”
“What books would you recommend to a young
man who wants to be an editor?”
A brand-new plant of a defunct newspaper in a
flourishing town is for sale cheap. Good reasons for
selling.
A Gloomy Outlook.

Old Friend—*‘Got a star for next season ?”
Theatrical Manager (gloomily)—‘‘No; all the babies
are engaged, and the woman who killed that Chicago
broker won’t go on the stage.”

Deeply Stirred. :
Deacon Drybones (enthusiastically)—‘‘ Does no
this congregational singing stir you up?”
Prof. Note (a musician)—“Stir me up? Indeed it
does. Makes me swear.”

George All Right.

Anxious Mother—“My dear, I’m afraid George is
getting into bad company. He is out very late nearly
every night.”

Observing Father—‘‘Oh, he’s all right. He goes to
see some girl or other. Shouldn’t wonder if he’d an-
nounce an engagement soon.”

“He hasn’t said a word about any young lady.”

“No; but he’s keeping company with one all the
same. His right wrist is full of pin scratches.”

Keeping Up Appearances.

Spriggers—‘Why do you pore over the stock re-
ports so every morning while going down town in the
Lears? You don’t own a share, I am sure.”

Figgers—“‘No; but it sort o’ gives a fellow an air of
financial solidity, you know.”

A Woman’s Revenge.

Mr. Slimpurse—‘‘My dear, you hayen’t told me
what you got with that ten dollars.”

Mrs. Slimpurse—‘‘I hate to tell you, John, for I
know you will think it was silly, but really I couldn’t
help it. I stepped into De Style’s great store to look
atsome bargain goods,and there at the very next
counter was that horrid Mrs. Fatpurse buying $3.00
worth of anti-moth paper to put her beautiful winter
wraps and things in.”

Mr. Slimpurse (sadly)—“E wish you had winter
things worth buying moth paper for, my dear, but
you haven’t.” ;

Mrs. Slimpurse—‘‘No, I haven't, I know; but Mrs.
Fatpurse looked at me with such a supercilious air
that I just stepped over to the moth-paper counter,
right in front of her, and bought $10 worth.”

Made a Mistake.

Old Gent (meeting a frequent caller on the street)—
“Young man, what’s your salary ?”

Young Man (indignantly)—“‘Sir ?”

“JT want to know what your income is.”

“Go to Halifax.”

“Oh! Beg pardon. I thought you were courting
my daughter, but I see you are only flirting with her.
Allright. ’Nuff said.”

A Crisis in Spain.

Queen of Spain—‘,Moi Gracia! The baby king has
the stomach-ache.”

Lord Chamberlain (excitedly)—‘*Woo-o!
Secretary of the Interior!”

Everything in Season.

Able Editor—“‘See here, Mr. Phunnyman, you have
used this ice-cream joke about forty times within a
month, this hammock joke about twenty times, and
this soda-water joke at least a hundred times.”

Newspaper Humorist (indignantly)—Well, sir, you
don’t expect me to write stove-pipe and plumber
jokes in the summer time, do you ?”

The Ruling Passion.

Call the

 

Wild-Eyed Lover—*‘This is your last chance, Cold
Beauty. Speak quickly. .Do you see that can? It’s
full of dynamite. Promise to marry me, or I will
touch it off.”

Cold Beauty—‘‘Will you promise to keep me in bet-
ter style than that horrid Miss Pert is going to live
in when she marries Mr. De Rich ?”

“Tmpossible.” :

“Touch it off.” .

A Gotham View.

New York Child (on getting her first glimpse of the
Eiffel Tower, in Paris)—“Oh, mamma! When French
peoples build flats, they put up the elevator first.”

Pebble Cut Pebble.

Miss Alleyway (haughtily)—‘We’s goin’ to summer
in the country. You ain’t.”

Miss Backcourt (disdainfully)—‘‘We don’t ’sociate
wid none of our country relations.”

A Kind Father.
Doting Father—‘‘Phat’s the’ mather, Micky ?”

 

 

 

 

 

we git mad at.
Itiz strange what learned phools there are in this

 

Little Mike—The teacher guy Johnny Smart a re-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ward-av-merit pictur’ card fur knowin’ his lessons

and Oi didn’t get none—boo-hoo !”

Doting Father—‘Never moind, Mickey. Come wid
me to the sthore windies an’ show me phat koind av
a carred it waz, an’ Oi'll buy ye a noicer wan.”

A Contented Child.

Fond Mother—‘‘How do you like your new gover-
ness, Johnny ?”

Johnny—‘‘Oh, I like her ever so much.”

“T’m so glad my little boy has a nice teacher at
last.”

“Oh, she’s awful nice. She says she don’t care
whether I learn anything or not, so long as pop pays

her salary.” 7

A Reporter Knocked Out.

Reporter (breathlessly)—‘The people say there has
been a suicide here.”

Landlady—‘*Yes ; a young woman—Ann Blank.”

Reporter (rapidly writes)—‘‘ ‘Miss Annie Blank, the
young and beautiful daughter of——’ Who was her
father ?”

Landlady—‘‘Mr. A. Z. Blank, of Chicago.”
Reporter (continues writing) —‘‘A. Z. Blank, of
Chicago, killed herself at her boarding-house, No. |
1234 Nine Hundred and Ninth street, yesterday, be-

cause——’ What did she kill herself for?”

Landlady—“Because she was so homely.”

_ Laws of Health.

Tramp—‘Thankee kindly, mum; I'd no hope of
gettin’ sich a fine supper to-day, mum. May Heaven
bless ye!”

Housekeeper—“‘As you’ve had a good supper, I
think you might chop some wood.”

“Yes, mum; but you know the old adage, ‘After
dinner rest a while; after supper walk a nile.’ I'll
walk the wile first, mum.”

Calm Audiences. ;

Newspaper Man—‘A fire started in a Philadelphia
theater this evening, and the audience sat perfectly
still and watched the firemen put it out.”

Old Actor—“Shouldn’t wonder. It takes a good
deal to stir up a Philadelphia audience.”

Reform Out West.
Western Magistrate—“It seems, sir, that in com-

 

 

pany with others, so called White Caps, you seized a
citizen, said to be a wife-beater, and gave him a se-
vere flogging.”

Prisoner (whimpering)—‘‘I had to do it, jedge. My
wife said if I didn’t help thrash that feller, she’d floor
me with a flat-iron.” :

European Dependents.

 

Old Philosopher—‘‘How wonderfully near Europe
and America have been brought by steam navigation!
Just think what changes there would be if all these
ships should suddenly stop!”

Close Observer—‘'Well, in the first place, the Lon-
don and Paris comic weeklies would have to manu-
facture their own jokes, or cease publication.”

Men of Talent. |

Layman—“I cannot understand why you should
have elected the Hon. Mr. Greatman a member of
your Actor’s Club. He has never been on the stage.”

Actor—“No; but he must be a good actor, or he
would not be such a successful politician.”

Strategy.

Young Wife—“You are not going out to-night, are
you?’

Husband—‘‘Yes, my dear; I must go back to the
office and post my books. I’m afraid I'll be kept
late.”

Y. W.—‘‘Not going anywhere except to the office ?”

H.—‘‘No-o.”

Y. W.—“‘Well, then, stop into Strong Smell & Co.’s,
around the corner from your office, on your way
down. They’ll be open until eight o’clock. Geta
couple of mackerel, and bring them home with you
when you come.”

H.—*‘Ye-es, my dear. Good-night.”

Wife (to herself, as her husband departs) — ‘He
Won't do much theater-going with those mackerel in
his pocket.”

Lesson in Etiquette.

High-toned Waiter (to guest who did not fee him)—.
“Beg pahdon, sah—take this.”

Guest — “This? Why, this is a twenty-five-cent
piece. What is this for?”

High-toned Waiter—“To help you pay foh youah
dinnuh, sah.’’

Good Cause for Alarm.

Anxious Mother—‘‘My dear, is not your husband

drinking pretty heavily?’

 

 

 

 

 

Daughter (wife of an editor)—““Um—why do you
ask ?”

A. M.—“Oh, nothing. Only I have noticed several
articles in his paper lately about the dangers of ice-
water.”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

A COACHMAN WHO NEEDS A CHECK. — Youngest
Daughter—‘“I had the funnicst dream, last night. Do
you know, I dreamed about James, the coachman.”

Fond Mother—‘‘My dear, you will have to discharge
James; he is getting entirely tou familiar. Imagine
his allowing Mamie to dream about him! Such pre-
sumption !”—N. Y¥. Truth.

THE BABY FROM TwO POINTS OF VIEW.—“‘Freddie,
you haye a new baby at the house, haven’t you?”

“Yeth’um.” ¥

“What does little sister think about him ?”’

“She says he’s too swcet for anything.”

“And what do you think about him ?”’

“T think he’s a darned nuisance.”—Epoch.

A NEw KIND OF Hay FEVER.—A new variety of
hay fever has been discovered by a Pennsyivania
paper. An Oil City man is engaged to five grass
widows.—Garden City, Herald.

No DANGER OF INTERFERENCE. — First Burglar
(whispering)—‘“‘Hist! I hear a step out on the side-
walk in front, Bill. Is the coast clear?”

Second Burglar (listening a moment) —‘“‘It’s too
brisk a step for a policeman, Jake. Up with that
window.’— Chicago Tribune. ’

A JOKE THAT WORKED BADLY. — Mudge — “For
Heaven's sake, Bosworth, have you been Sandbagged,
or in a railway accident?’

Bosworth—“Neither. I hid under the bed the other
night to scare my wife.”— Courier Journal.

A Strone Pornt.—‘Ah, how divinely you sing,

 

 

Miss Clara. Singing must be your forte.”
“Oh, no, Mr. Claude—not singing.”
“What then ?”

“The piano is my forte.”—Chicago Globe.

A STRONG RECOMMEND. — Foreman —“I want to
employ a good strong man to wheel brick. Have you
been engaged in work that would harden your
muscles ?”

Applicant — “Yes, sir. T’ve been employed in
Wheeling West Virginia.”—Omaha World.

“You applied for astay. didn’t you?” “Yes; got it,
too.” “How long?” “Twenty years at hard labor.”
—Harper’s Bazar.

Outcast—‘‘Please, mum, could you help an unfor-
tunate man who was caughtin an elevator and laid
up for six months?” Old Me La euee man! here’s
a dollar for you. How did you happen to get caught ?”
Outcast (pocketing the dollar)—“‘The police wuz too
quick for me, mum.”—Time.

A fellow that has actually tried, says that although

there are three scruples in a dram, the more drams |

you take the fewer scruples you will have.—Glouces-
ter Advertiser.

“What is that green stuff in the cream, William ?”
asked a young wife, referring to the pistachio in the
center of the form. ‘Oh, that’s an oasis, my dear.”
“A what?’ “An oasis—a little green spot in the des-
sert, you know.’’— Yonkers Statesman.

She—“How did you like our new minister, yester-
day?’ He (a base ball crank)—‘‘Oh, he’ll make a
good pitcher in time; his delivery is pretty puz-
zling.”—Harvard Lampoon.

Everything in nature indulges in amusements. The
lightning plays, the wind whistles, the thunder rolls,
the snow flies, the waves leap, and the fields sinile.
Even the trees shoot, and the rivers and streams run.
—Brooklyn Standard Union,

Eternal vigilance enables a man to carry the same
umbrella for years.—Boston Courier.

Wibble—“ What do you think of this idea of adopt-
ing the sunflower as the national flower?” Wahble—
“Pretty good idea, I think. It is typical of quite a
numerous class of Americans. It makes a big spread
all summer, and is seedy in the fall.”—Terre Haute
Express. ‘

“Pshaw !” said a Sixteenth-street lady to her hus-

 

band, who had been criticising her attire; “what

 

 

does a man know about a woman’s clothes, any way?”
‘‘He knows the price, my dear,” he replied, gently,
and she retired.— Washington Critic. =

A correspondent wants to know how to remove
paint. The best way is to sit down on it, and then
get up and walk away.—Rochester Post-Express.

A man doesn’t feel in the least inflated when blown
up by his wife.—Boston Courier,

“That was a pretty hard story to swallow,” said the
cellar, as the upper part ot the house fell into it.—
Terre Haute Express, see

If some men were half as big as they think they
are, the world would have to be eularned.— Merchant
Traveler.

“What straits are most perilous ?” asked the teach-
er, and a little boy eried out, ‘Whisky straights !”—

exas Siflings.
It is no sign that a hen meditates harm to her

owner because she lays for him.— Zexas Siftings.
oe

Items of Interest,

An interesting experiment was some time ago per-
formed by a patient and ingenious gentleman of Savan-
nah. Taking a gallon jug of whisky he passed a string
through its cork, which cork he dropped to the bottom
of the jug. The twine was then introduced into a water-
melon vine by slitting the vine, and the vine was per-

 

mitted to produce only two melons. When the melors —

were matured they were served to six gentlemen. The
effect was astonishing. The gallon of whisky got in its
work. Not a drop of the liquor remained in the jug when
the melons were ripe.

There was a little commotion in Greenville, Miss.,
the other day, caused by a policeman who, while shoot-
ing ata white man, caromed on a darkey. The event is
thus pleasantly described by a local paper: ‘‘The cop
blazed away at the man and shot him in the elbow, the
vall glancing and striking the negro in the cheek. As he
spit the ball out, he said: ‘Look heah, white man, you quit
dat shootin’ at me; fus’ thing yuh knows yuh gwinter
brake some ’spectable pusson’s winder-glass.’”

A Chicago gentleman, at the corner of State and
Washington streets, found himself inextricably wedged
in adense crowd. His efforts to get out provoked angry
remarks from many who could not make way for his exit.
As he chanced to have in his pocket a bottle of ammonia,
which he was bringing home to his wife for washing pur-
poses, he quietly uncorked it, and let the contents run
on the sidewalk. In less than a minute the crowd scat-
tered from that spot.

Chauncey M. Depew, while speaking of the great
scramble for public positions, said: “Ifa Cabinet officer
has an office seeker so big and influential that he cannot
be frankly told that he has no chance, he usually takes
him out for a drive through the big National Cemetery at
Arlington. On his return the visitor is likely to reflect
that he has seen the only spot where there are more va-
cancies than there are applicants.

A process of engraving on glass and crystal by
electricity has been communicated to the French
Academy of Sciences by M. Plante. The plate to be en-
graved is covered with a concentrated solution of nitrate
of potash, and put in connection with one of the poles of
the battery, and the design is traced out with a fine plati-
num point connected with the other pole. The resulis
are said to be of marvelous delicacy.

To remove the desire for alcoholic stimulants, a
correspondent recommends the use of tincture of Peru-
vian bark. When the craving fer liquor comes on, let the
person take a teaspoonful of the tincture every two
hours. The effect is almost magical. In afew days the
taste for liquor will either have gone, or be so checked
that a person with the least desire to resist a bad habit
will be able to entirely renounce the use of intoxicants.

A chemist at the Paris Exposition offered a bribe
of 3,000 francs for a gold medal to be awarded to any one of
his productions, and the same sum for others if the jurors
saw fit to thus commend his goods. The jurors adroitly
suggested, as a matter of form, that he submit his pro-
posal in writing. The chemist imprudently did so, and
the jurors gave his letter to the directors, who promptly
expelled the briber.

Wonder agitated the residents of Louisville, in the
vicinity of Bank and Twenty-first streets, a few days
ago, when, during a rain-storm, they saw showers of frogs.
fall to the earth. The frog-shower lasted about an hour,
and covered an area comprising four squares. The little
animals averaged an inch in length; they were quite
lively, and their antics were somewhat amusing.

Old shoes are now ground into leather dust and
converted into material for new shoes. To the ground
leather is added about 40 per cent. of India-rubber, and the
whole is then subjected to a p essure of 6,000 or 10,000
pounds per square foot. The substance is then colored,
and is sold at prices some 50 per cent. below that of natu-
ral leather.

An effort is making in Australia to restrict by law
the reckless slaughter of kangaroos. The great market
for kangaroo skins is the United States, and so high a
price is paid for them that the young animals afe killed
in such numbers as to threaten the rapid extinction of
these singular creatures unless effectual measures are
taken for their preservation. =

In Cuban houses the kitchens are usually detached
from the houses. In large dwellings or hotels a number
of detached grates are used, each ten inches wide and
ten inches deep. The fuel is generally charcoal. The
draught is arranged to come from the bottom, and pass up
a wide, draughty chimney, so that kitchen odors rarely
penetrate the dwelling.

A rather ambiguous expression was made by one
of the speakers at a meeting of the Woman’s Foreign Mis-
sionary Society at East Orange, N. J., when he said that
“thousands of gallons of rum go into Africa for every
missionary who is sent there.” It caused one of the sis-
ters of that society to whisper to another, “Rather a large
allowance of liquor for those missionaries!”

Two horses in Patriot, Ohio, belonging to Stephen

Lucas, were tied together and left grazing in the yard.
In their endeavors to escape the animals knocked over

several of the bee-hives, and they were instantly covered -

with the angry insects. Before they could be rid of them
they were both fatally stung. One of the horses lived
but one hour, and the other about five hours.

Hearing a lady order “an L. T. straight’ in a Phila-
delphia restaurant, a curious reporter quietly asked
what was meant. A tip of a dime brought this reply:
“An L. T. straight’ means ‘a lady’s tipple’—whisky plain,

served in a cup and saucer, so that observers may think ~

it is only tea the lady is drinking.”

The heart of a venerable mother, 117 years of age,
a resident of Warasdin, Croatia, after hopelessly waiting
many years to see her child married, bounded with de-
light as she saw her maiden daughter, aged 83, led to the
altar a blushing bride. The groom’s age is 46.

About one hundred visitors daily record their
names in the register at Independence Hotel, Phila-
delphia, and a big book is filled about every six months.
These books are carefully kept for a time, and then sent
to the paper mill.

Poverty was considered a blessing by Simon Cam-
eron. His friends often recall this remark, “My son Don
had many advantages, but I had one which overbalanced
them all—poverty.”

An English law court has decided that a photog-
rapher taking a portrait in the usual manner has no right
to sellor make any public use of copies of the same, except
for delivery to the original.

A Burlington paper exposes the cruelty of the
meanest man in Maine—an old fellow who imposes on his
hens most shamefully. He has put an electric light in
the hen-house and the hens lay day and night.

As a reward for carefulness, the government of
South Australia has decided to give £10 to every railroad
engineer who runs his train for two years without an
accident.

The Eiffel Tower in Paris is largely patronized.
About 30,000 persons ascend each day, but only from 3,000
to 4,000 have courage to go to the top, 1,000 feet above the
earth’s surface. é

A dime museum freak in this city entertains his in-

tellectual visitors = eating, or pretending to eat, one
hundred eggs every day.

Abram Ephraim Elmer, of Washington Hills, N.Y.,
is the oldest man in the State, His age is 125 years.

A tailor in Akron, Ohio, to remedy bagging at the
knees has invented “reversible trousers.”

A movement to abolish the wearing of black for
mourning has been started in Canada.

Boston has two dozen women’s tlubs, and the mem-

 

 

 

bership of mest of them is constantly increasing.

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