“UNDER A GUNOE, 2 Ee

LIEUT. MURRAY. NEXT WEEK.

 

 

Vol. 39.

Office

THE DREAMS OF A LIFE.
BY JAMES WILLIS GLYNDON.

There is a dream of early youth,
That never comes again ;

*Tis a vision of life and light and truth,
That flits across the brain.

And love is the theme of that early dream,
So wild, so warm, so new,

That in all our after years, I deem,
That early dream we rue.

But there is a dream of maturer years,
More turbulent, by far;

*Tis a visien of blood and woman’s tears,
And the theme of that dream is war.

And we toil in the field of danger and death,
And shout in battle array,

Till we find that fame is a bodiless breath,
That vanishes away.

There is a dream of hoary age—
*Tis a vision of gold in store;

Of sums noted down on the figured page,
And counted o’er and o’er.

And we fondly trust in the glittering dust,
As a refuge from grief and pain,

Till our limbs are laid in that last dark bed,
Where the wealth of the world is vain.

%

And is it thus, from man’s birth to his grave,
In the path which all are treading,

Is their naught in that long career, to save
From remorse and self-upbraiding?

Oh, yes; there is a dream, so pure, so bright,
That the being to whom it is given,

Hath bathed in a sea of living light—
And the name of that dream is Heaven.

{THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

GR iT

Twe Youre Boatman oF Pine Point.

By HORATIO ALGER, /r.,

Author of “ABNER HOLDEN’S BOUND BOY,’
“BRAVE AND BOLD,” “THE WESTERN
BOY,” “JOE’S LUCK,” “THE
TRAIN BOY,” etc.

CHAPTER I,
GRIT.
“Grit!”
**Well, mother, what is it?”
The speaker was a sturdy, thickset boy of fifteen,
rather short for his age, but strongly made. His
eyes were clear and bright, his expression was

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

 

pleasant, and his face attractive, but even a super-
ficial observer could read in it unusual firmness |
and strength of will. He was evidently a boy whom
it would not be easy to subdue or frighten. He was
sure to make his way in the world, and maintain
his rights against all aggression. It was the gene-
ral recognition of this trait which had led to the
nickname “Grit,” by which he was generally
known. His real name was Harry Morris, but even
his mother had fallen into the habit of calling him |
Grit, and his own name actually sounded strange |
to him.

**Well, mother, what is it?” he asked again, as his
mother continued to look at him in silence with an |
expression of trouble on her face.

‘I had a letter this morning, Grit.”

**From—him ?”

“Yes, from your father.”

**Don’t call him my father!” said the boy, hastily.

 

___Fintered According to Act of Conaress. in the Year 1884, bu Street & Smith. in the Office of the Libraz

31 Rose St.

New Yor .

 

 

**Yes; we have lived plainly, but I have had you,
and you have always been acomfort tome. You
were always a good boy, Grit.”

“T’m not quite an angel, mother. Ask Phil Court-
ney what he thinks about it,” said Grit, smiling.

‘He is a bad, disagreeable boy.” said Mrs. Bran-
don, warmly.

“So Ithink, mother; but Phil, on the other hand,
thinks I am alow, vulgar boy, unworthy of asso-
ciating with him.”

“TI don’t want you to associate with him, Grit.”

“TI don’t care to, mother; but we are getting away

 

“He isn’t my father.” |
‘‘He is your step-father—and my husband,” said
Mrs. Morris, soberly.
“Yes, worse luck for you! Well, what does he |}

say?”

*““He’s coming home.”

An expression of dismay quickly gathered on the |
boy’s face.

“How can that be? His term isn’t out.”

“It is shortened by good behavior, and so he!
comes out four months before his sentence would |
have expired.” |

“T wouldn’t have him here, mother,” said Grit, |
earnestly. “He will only worry and trotble you.
We are getting on comfortably now without him.”

“Yes, thanks to my good, industrious boy.”

“Oh, don’t talk about that,” said Grit, who always |
felt embarrassed when openly praised.

“But it is true, Grit. But for the money you
peeks in your boat, I might have to go to the poor-
10use.,.

“You will never go while I live, mother,” said |
Grit, quickly. |

“No, Grit, I feel sure of that. It seems wicked to
rejoice in your father’s misfortune and disgrace |

“Not my father,” interrupted Grit.

“Mr. Brandon, then. As I was saying, it seems
wicked to feel relieved by his imprisonment, but I
can’t help it.”

“Why should you try tohelp it? He has made
you abad husband, and only brought you unhap-
piness. How did you ever come to marry him,
mother?”

“IT did it for the best, as I thought, Grit. I was
left a widow when you were four years old. I had
this cottage, to be sure, and about two thousand
dollars, but the interest of that sum at six per cent. |
only amounted to a hundred and twenty dollars,
and I was not brave and self-reliant like some, so |
when Mr. Brandon asked me to marry him, I did
so, thinking that he would give us a good home, be
a father to you, and save us from all pecuniary care
or anxiety.”

“You were pretty soon undeceived, mother.”

“No, notsoon. Your step-father had a good mer-
cantile position in Boston, and we occupied a com-
fortable cottage in Newton. For some years all went
well, but then I began to see a change for the worse
in him. He became fond of drink, was no longer
attentive to business, picked up bad associates, and
eventually lost his position. This was when you
were ten years of age. Then he took possession of
my little capital and went into business for himself,
But his old habits clung to him,and of course there
was small chance of success. He kept up for about
a year, however, and then he failed and the cred-
itors took everything G

**Except this house, mother.”

“Yes, this house was fortunately settled upon me,
so that my husband could not get hold of it. When
we were turned out of our home in Newton it
proved a welcome refuge for us. It was small,
plain, humble, but still it gave us a home.”

“It has been a happy home, mother—that is, ever
since Mr. Brandon left us.”

 

from the subject. How did Mr. Brandon behave
after you moved here?”

“He did nothing to earn money, but managed to
obtain liquor at the tavern, and sometimes went off
for three or four days or a week, leaving me in igno-
rance of his whereabouts. At last he did not come
back at all, and I heard that he had been arrested
for forgery and was on trial. The trial was quickly
over, and he was sentenced to imprisonment for a
term of years. Isaw him before he was carried to
prison, but he treated me so rudely that I have not
felt it my duty to visit him since. Gradually I re-
sumed your father’s name, and I have been known
as Mrs. Morris, though my legal name of course is
Brandon.”

“It is a pity you ever took the name, mother,” said
Grit, hastily.

ae agree with you, Grit; but I cannot undo the

past.

“The court ought to grant you a divorce from
such a man.”

“Perhaps I might obtain one; but it would cost
money, and we have no money to spend on such
things.”

“If you had one,” said Grit, thoughtfully, ‘“Mr.
Brandon would no longer have any claim upon
you.

“That is true.”

“You said you had a letter from him. When did
you receive it ?”

“While you were out this morning. Mr. Wheeler
saw it in the post-office, and brought it along,
thinking we might not have occasion to call.”

*“May I see the letter, mother ?”

“Certainly, Grit; I have no secrets from you.”

Mrs. Morris—to eall her by the name she preferred

| —took from the pocket of her dress a letter in a yel-
| low envelope, which, however, was directed in a

neat, clerkly hand, for Mr. Brandon had been ecare-
fully prepared for mercantile life, and had once been
a book-keeper, and wrote a handsome, flowing
hand.

Here itis, Grit.”

Grit opened the letter, and read as follows:

“____. PRISON, May 10.

“MY AFFECTIONATE WIFE: I haveno doubt you will be
overjoyed to hear that my long imprisonment is nearly
over, and that on the 15th, probably, I shall be set free,
and can leave these cursed walls behind me. Of course I
shall lose no time in seeking out my loving wife, who has
not deigned for years to remember that she has a hus-
band. You might at least have called now and then, to
show some interest in me.”

“Why should you ?” ejaculated Grit, indignantly.
“He has only ill-treated you, spent your money, and
made you unhappy.”

“You think. then, I was right in staying away,
Grit ?” asked his mother.

“Certainly. I do. You don’t pretend to love him ?”

“No; I only married him at his urgent request,
thinking I was doing what was best for you. tt was
a bad day’s work forme. I could have got along
much better alone.”

“Of course you could, mother. Well, I will read
the rest:

“However, you are my wife still, and owe me some

“GOOD HEAVEN!’ THE FATHER EXCLAIMED,

 

reparation for your long neglect. I shall come to Pine J

 

Point as soon as I can, and it is hardly necessary to re-
mind you that I shall be out of money, and shall want you
to stir round and get me some, as I shall want to buy some
clothes, and other things.”

**How does he think you are to supply him with
money, when he has left you to take care of your-
self all these years ?” again burst from Grit’s indig-
nant lips.

He read on:

“Flow isthe cub? Is he as independent and saucy as
ever? I am afraid you have allowed him to do as he
pleases. He needsa man’s hand to hold him in check,
and train him up properly.”

“Heaven help you, if Mr. Brandon is to have the
training of you, Grit!” exclaimed his mother.

**He’ll have a tough job, if he tries it!’ said Grit.
“‘He’ll find me rather larger and stronger than when
he went to prison.”

“Don’t getinto any conflict with him, Grit,” said
his mother, a new alarm seizing her.

“T won’t, if I ean help it, mother; but I don’t mean
to have him impose upon me.”

CHAPTER II.
THE YOUNG BOATMAN.

Pine Point was situated on the Kennebec River.
and from its height overlooked it, so that a person
standing on its crest could sean the river for a con-
siderable distance up and down. There was a small
grove of pine trees at alittle distance, and this had
given the pointits name. A hundred feet from the
brink stood the old-fashioned cottage occupied by
Mrs. Morris. It had belonged, in a former genera-
tion, to an uncle of hers, who, dying unmarried,
had bequeathed it toher. Perhaps half an acre was
attached to it. There had been more, put it had
been sold off.

When Grit and his mother came to Chester to live
—it was in thistownship that Pine Point was situ-
ated—she had but little of her two thousand dollars
remaining, and when her husband was called to ex-
piate his offense against the Jaw in prison, there
were but ten dollars in the house. Mrs, Morris was
fortunate enough to secure a boarder, whose board-
money paid nearly all their small household expen-
ses for three years, the remainder being earned by
her own skill as a dressmaker; but when the hoard-
er went to California, never to return, Grit was al-
ready thirteen years old, and hit upon a way of
earning money,

On the opposite bank of the Kennebec was the
village of Portville, but there was no bridge at that
point. So Grit bought a boat for a few dollars,
agreeing to pay for it in installments, and estab-
lished a private ferry between the two places. His
ordinary charge for rowing a passenger across—the
distance being half a mile—was ten cents; but if it
were a child, or a poor person, he was willing to
receive five, and hé took parties of four at a reduc-
tion.

It was an idea of his own, but it paid. Grit him-
self was rather surprised at the number of persons
who availed themselves of his ferry. Sometimes he
found at the end of the day that he had received in
fires over a dollar, and one Fourth of July, when
there was a special celebration in Portville, he ac-
tually made three dollars. Of course he had to
work pretty hard for it, but the young boatman’s
arms were strong, aS was shown by his sturdy
stroke,

Grit was now fifteen, and he could reflect with
pride that for two years he had been able to support
his motherin a comfortable manner, so that she had
wanted for nothing—that is, for nothing that could
be classed as acomfort. Luxuries he had not been
able to supply, but for them neither he nor his
mother cared. They were content with their plain
way of living.

m of Conaress. Washinaton. D.

19, 1884,

C

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] Dy he a

ah UP Bees Hy
Ny aL

 

Entered at the Post Office New York. as Second Class Matier.

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Copies Five Dollars.

“MY BOY IS OVERBOARD, AND | CANNOT SWIM?"

 

| maintain the household.

; upon that.

| worse luck!

 

But if his step-father were coming home, Grit felt
that his income would no longer be adequate to
Mr. Brandon ought to in-
crease the family income, but, knowing what he
and his mother did of his ways, he built no hope
It looked as if their quiet home happi-
ness was likely to be rudely broken in upon by the
threatened invasion.

“Well, mother,” said Grit, ‘‘I must get to work,”

“You haven’t finished your diuner, my son.”

“Your news has spoiled my appetite, mother.
However, I dare say I'll make up for it at supper.”

“T’ll save a piece of meat for you to eatthen. You
work so hard that you need meat to keep up your
strength.”

“JT haven’t had to work much this morning, mother,
I only earned twenty cents. People
don’t seem inclined to travel to-day.”

“Never mind, Grit. I’ve got five dollars in the
house.”’

“Save it for a rainy day, mother. The day is only
half over, and I may have good luck this afternoon.”

As Grit left the house with his quick, firm step,
Mrs. Morris looked after him with blended affection
and pride.

“What a good boy he is!”’ she said to herself.
is a boy that any mother might be proud of.”

And so he was. Our young hero was not only a
strong, manly boy, but there was something very at-
tractive in his clear eyes and frank smile, browned
though his skin was by constant exposure to the sun
and wind. He was a general favorite in the town,
or rather in the two towns, for he was as well known
in Portville as he was in Chester.

I have said he was a general favorite, but there
was one at least who disliked him. This was Phil
Courtney, a boy about his own age, the son of an
ex-president of the Chester bank, a boy who con-
sidered himself of great consequence, and socially
far above the young boatman. He lived in a hand-
some house, and hada good supply of pocket-money,
though he was always grumbling about his small
allowance. It by no means follows that money
makes a boy a snob, butif he has any tendency that
day it is likely to show itself under such circum-
stances.

Now it happened that Phil had a cousin staying at
his house as a visitor, quite a pretty girl, in whose
eyes he liked to appear to advantage. As Grit
reached the shore where he had tied his boat, they
were seen approaching the same point.

“T wonder if Phil is going to favor me with his
patronage,” thought Grit, as his eyes fell upon
them.

‘Here, you boatman!” called out Phil, in a tone of
authority. ‘‘We want to go over to Portville.”

Grit's eyes danced with merriment as he answered,
gravely:

“T have no objection to your going.”

The girl laughed merrily, but Phil frowned, for his
dignity was wounded by Grit’s flippancy.

“Tam notin the habit of considering whether you
have any objection or not,’ he said, haughtily.

“Don’t be a goose, Phil!’ said his cousin,
boy is in fun.”

“T would rather he would not make fun of me,”
said Phil.

“T won’t, then,” said Grit, smiling.

“Ahem! you may convey us across,”’ said Phil.

“Tf you please,” added the young lady, with a
smile.

“She is very good-looking, and five times as polite
as Phil,’ thought Grit, fixing his eyes admiringly
upon the pretty face of Marion Clarke, as he after-
ward learned her name to be.

“Tshall be glad to have you as a passenger,” said
our hero, but he looked at Marion, not at Phil.

“Thank you.”

“He

“The

 

“Tf you’ve got through with your compliments,”
said Phil, impatiently, ‘‘we’d better start.”

“IT am ready,” said Grit. ‘‘May I help you in?” he
asked of Marion.

“Yes, thank you.”

“It is quite unnecessary.
Phil, advancing. ;

3ut he was too late, for Marion had already ayail-
ed herself of the young boatman’s proffered aid.

“Thank you”, said Marion again, pleasantly, as she
took her seat in the stern.

“Why didn’t you wait for me?’ demanded Phi
crossly, as he took his seat beside her. : 4

“I didn’t want to be always troubling you, Cousin
Phil,” said Marion, with a coquettish glance at Grit
which her cousin did not at all relish.

“Don’t notice him so much,” he said, in a low
voice. “Heis only a poor boatman.”

“He is very good-looking, I think,” said Marion.

Grit’s back was turned, but he heard both ques-
tion and answer, ani his cheek glowed with pleas-
uxe at the young lady’s speech, though it was an-
swered by a contemptuous sniff from Phil. |

“T don’t admire your taste, Marion,” he said.

‘Hush, he’ll hear you,” she whispered. ‘“‘What’s
his name?”

By way of answering, Phil addressed Grit in a
condescending tone.

“Well, Grit, how is business to-day?”

‘Rather quiet, thank you.”

“You see he earns his living by boating, ex-
plained Phil, with the manner of one who was
speaking of a very inferior person.

; ara much have you earned now?” he asked,
urther.

“Only twenty cents,” answered Grit; “but I sup-
pose,” he added, smiling, “I suppose you intend to
pay me liberally.

“T mean to pay you your regular fare,” said Phil,
who was not of a liberal disposition.

“Thank you; 1 ask no more.”

‘Do you row across often?” asked Marion.

“Sometimes I make eight or ten trips in a day.
On the Fourth of July I went fifteen times.”

**How strong you must be!”

“Pooh! I could do more than that,” said Phil,
loftily, unwilling that Grit should be admired for
anything.

“Oh, I know you’re remarnable,” said his cousin,
dryly.

Just then the wind, which was unusually strong,
took off Phil’s hat, and it blew off to a considerable
distance.

‘My hat’s off!” exclaimed Phil, in excitement.
“Row after it, quick. It’s anew Panama, and cost
ten dollars.”

IT can assist you,” said

CHAPTER III.
THE LOST HAT.

Grit complied with the request of his passenger,
and rowed after Phil’s hat. But there was a strong
current, and it was not without considerable
trouble that he at last secured it. But, alas! the
new hat, with its bright ribbon, was well soaked
when it was fished out of the water. ‘

“Tt’s mean.” ejaculated Phil, lifting it with an air
of disgust. “Just my luck.”

“Are you so unlucky, then?” asked his cousin
Marion, witha half smile.

*T should say so. What do you call this?”

“A wet hat.” y

‘‘How am I ever to wear it? It will drip all over
my clothes.” 4

“IT think yon had better buy a common one in
Portville, and leave this one here to dry.”

“How am I going round Portville bare-headed?”
inaguired Phil, crossly,

“Shall I lend you my hat?” asked Marion.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

cots’ THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

“Wouldn’t I look like a fool, going round the
streets with a girl’s hat on?”

“Well, you are tlhe best judge of that,” answered
Marion, demurely. :

Grit langhed, as the young lady glanced at him
with a smile.

“What are you laughing at, you boatman?”
snarled Phil. :

“T beg your pardon,” said Grit, good-naturedly;
“T know it must be provoking to have your hat wet,
Can I help youin any way? If you will give me the
money, and remain in the boat. I will run upto
Davis, the Hatter’s. and get you a new hat.

“How can you tell my size?” asked Phil. making
no acknowledgment for the offer.

“Then [ will lend you my hat to goup yourself.”

Phil’s lip eurled, as if he considered that there
would be contamination in such a plebeian hat.
However, 1s Marion declared it would be the best
thing to do, ke suppressed his disdain, and, with-
out a word of thanks, put Grit’s hat on his head.

“Come with me, Marion,” he said.

“No, Phil; I will remain hers with Mr. —,” and
she turned inquiry toward the young boatman.

“Grit,” he suggested.

“Mr. Grit,” she said, finishing the sentence.
“Just as you like. I admire your taste,” said

Phil, with a sneer.

As he walked away, Marion turned to the young
boatman,

“Is your name really Grit?” she asked.

“No; people eall me so.”

“T can understand why,” she answered with a
smile. “You look—gritty.”

“If Ido, [hope it isn’t anything disagreeable,”
responded our hero.

“Oh, no,” said Marion; “‘quite the contrary. I
like to sea boys that won’t allow themselves to be
imposed upon.”

“IT don’t generally allow myself to be imposed
upon.”

“What is your real name?’

“Harry Morris.”

eon you and Phil know each other very
well?”

“We have known each othera long time, but we
are not very intimate friends.”

“YJ don’t think Phil has any intimate friends.”
said Marion, thoughtfully. “‘He—I don’t. think he
gets on very well with the other boys.”

“He wants to boss them,” said Grit, biuntly.

“Yes; Lexpect that is it. He’s my cousin, you
know.”

“Is he? I don’t think you are much alike.”

“Is that remark a compliment to me—or him?”
asked Marion. laughing.

“To you, decidedly.”

“Well, Phil can be very disagreeable when he sets
out to be.
know.”

“You couldn't,” said Grit, with an admiring glance.
“That’s a compliment,” said Marion. ‘‘But you're

mistaken. I can be disagreeable when I set out to
be. I expect Phil finds me so sometimes.”

“IT wouldn’t.”

“You know how to flatter as well as to row, Mr.
Grit. It’s true. I tease Phil awfully sometimes.”

By this time Phil came back with a new hat on his
head, holding Grit’s in the tips of his fingers as if it
would contaminate him. He pitched it into Grit’s
lap, saying, shortly:

“There’s your hat.”

“Upon my word, Phil, you’re polite,’ said his
cousin. “Can’t you thank Mr. Grit?’

“Mr. Grit!” repeated Phil, contemptuously.
course I thank him.”

“You’re quite welcome,” answered Grit, dryly.

“Here’s your fare!” said Phil, taking out two
dimes, and offering them to the young boatman.

“Thank you.”

“Phil, you ought to pay something extra for the
loau of the hat,” said Marion, ‘‘and the delay.”

With evident reluctance Phil teok a nickel from
his vest pocket, and offered it to Grit.

“No, thank you!” said Grit, drawing back, “I
wouldn’t be willing to take anything for that. I’ve
found it very agreeable to wait,” and he glanced sig-
nificantly at Marion.

“IT suppose [ am to consider that another compli-
ment,” said the young lady, with a coquettish glance.

“What, has he been complimenting you?” asked
Phil, jealously.

“Yes, and it was very agreeable, as [ got no com-
liments from you. Good-afternoon, Mr. Grit. I
ope you will row us back by and by.”

“T hope so, too,” said the young boatman, bowing.
“Look here, Marion,” said Phil, as they walked

away, “you take altogether too mucna notice of that
fellow.” ;

“Why doI? fam eure he is a very nice boy.”

“He is a common working boy!” snapped Phil.
“He lives with his mother in apoor hut upon the
binff, and makes his living by boating.”

“Lam sure that is to his credit.”

“Oh, yes, I suppose it is. So’s aditch-digger en-

d im a @ ely ] 0

5 cred
' ez

“Of

& DOY. : a :

“Iwas thinking,” said Marion, “it would be nice
to invite him round to the house to play croquet
with us.” —

“Invite Grit Morris ?’”’ gasped Phil.

“Yes, why not?’ :

“A boy like him !”

“Why, wouldn’t he behave well ?”

“Oh, I suppose he would, but he isn’t in our
circle.”

“Then it’s a pity he isn’t. He’s the most agreeable
boy [ have met in Chester ”

“You say that only to provoke me.”

“No, L don’t. I mean it.” ;

“LT won’t invite him,” said Phil, doggedly. “I am
surprised that you should think of such a thing.”

“Propriety, Miss Marion, propriety!” said the
young lady, in a tone of mock dignity, turning up
the whites of her eyes. “That’s just the way my
governess used to talk. It’s well I’ve got 80 ex-
perienced a young gentleman to look after me, and
see that I don’t stumble into any impropriety.”

Meanwhile Grit sat in his boat, waiting for a re-

_ turn passenger, and as he waited he thought of the
young lady he had just ferried over.

“I can’t see how such a fellow as Phil Courtney
can have such a nice cousin,” he said to himself.
“She’s very es too! She isn’t stuck up like
him. [hope [shall get the chance of rowing them
back.”

He waited about ten minutes, when he saw a
gentleman and a little boy approaching the river.

“Are you the ferry boy ?”’ asked the gentleman ?”

“Yes, sir.”

“~ heard there was a boy who would row me
across. I want to go to Chester with my little boy.
Can you take us over ?”

“Yes, sir; I shall be happy to do so.”

“Are you ready to start?”

“Yes, sir, just as soon as you get into the boat.”

“Come, Willie,” said the gentleman, addressing his
little boy, ‘‘won’t you like to ride over in the boat?’

“Oh, yes, papa,” answered Willie, eagerly.

“T hope you are well acquainted with rowing and
careful,’ said Mr. Jackson, for this was his name.
“T am rather timid about the water, for I can’t
swiin.”

“Yes, sir, [amas much at home on the water as
on the land. [ve been rowing every day for the last
three years.”

The gentleman and his little boy sat down, and
Grit bent to his oars.

CHAPTER IY.
A BOY IN THE WATER.

Mr. Jackson was a slender, dark-complexioned
man of forty or thereabouts. He was fashionably
dressed, and had the air of one who lives in a city.
He had an affable manner, and seemed inclined to
be social.

“Is this your business, ferrying passengers across
the river?” he asked of Grit.

“Yes, sir,” answered the young boatman.

“Does it pay?’ was the next inquiry—an impor-
tant one in the eyes of a city man.

“Yes, sir; [make more in this way than I could
in any other,”

*“How much, for instance?”

“From five to seven dollars. Once—it was Fourth
of July week—I made nearly ten dollars.”

“Yhat_is a great deal more than I made at your
age.” said Mr. Jackson.

“You look as if you made more now,” said Grit,
smiling.

“Yes,” said the passenger. with an answering
smile. “Iam afraid I couldn’t get along on that
sum uow.”

“Do you live in the city?” asked Grit, with a sud-
den impulse,

“Yes, Llive in what I regard as the city. I mean
New York.”

“It must be a fine place,” said the young boat-
man, thoughtfully.

“Yes, it is a fine place, if you have money enough
to live handsomely. Did you ever hear ef Wall
street?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Lam a Wall street broker. I commenced as a
boy in a broker’s office. I don’t think i was any
better off than you at your age—certainly I did not

in so much money.”

“But you didn’t have a mother to take care of, did
you, sir?”

“No; do you?”

“Yes, sir.”

You are # good boy to work for your mother. My
poor boy has no mother;” and the gentleman looked
sad, Ps hat is your name?”

i

“Is that your real name?”
“No, sir, but everybody calls me so.”
For @ goo reason probably. Willie, do you like
to ride in the hoat?”

 

/ when I grow up I should like to goto the eity, and

 

I should not want to be that, you |

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Yes, papa,” answered the little boy. his bright
aren and eager manner showing that he speke the
truth.

“Grit,” said Mr, Jackson, “I see we are nearly
across the river. Unless you are due there at a
specified time. you may stay out, and we will row
here and there, prolonging our trip. Of course I
will increase your pay.”

“T shall be very willing sir,’ said Grit. ““My boat
is my own, and my time also, and I have no fixed
hours for starting from either side.”

“Good! Then we can continue our conversation.
Is there a good hotel in Chester?”

“Quite a good one, sir. They keep summer
boarders,”

“That was the point I wished to inquire ahout.
Willie and I have been staying with friends in Port-
ville, but they are expecting other visitors, and I
have a fancy for staying awhile on your side of the
1river—that is, if you live in Chester.”

“Yes, sir; our cottage is on yonder bluff—Pine
Point, it is called.”

“Then I think I will eall at the hotel. and see
whether
tions.” y

“Are you taking a vacation?” asked Grit, with
euriosity.

“Yes; the summerisadull time in Wall street,
and my partner attends to everything. By and by
I shail return, and give hima chance to go away.”

“Do people make a great deal of money in Wall
street?” asked Grit.

“Sometimes, and sometimes they lose a great
deal. [have known a man who kept his span of
horses One summer reduced to accept a small clerk-
ship the next. Ifabroker does not speculate, he
is not so liable to such changes of fortune. What
is your real name, sinee Grit is only a nick-
name?”

“My real name is Harry Morris.”

‘‘Have you any brothers or sisters?”

“No, sir; Lam an only ehild.”

“Were you born here?” .

“No, sir; I was born in Boston.”

“Have you formed any plans for the future? You
won’t be a boatman all your life, I presume?”

“T hope not, sir. It will do well enough for the
present, and [I am glad to have sucha chance of
earning a living for my mother and myself; but

I can obtain satisfactory accommoda-

getinto business there.”

“All the country boys are anxious to seek their
fortune in the city. In many cases they would do
better to stay at home.”

“Were you born in the city, sir?” asked Grit,
shrewdly.

“No; L was born in the country.”

“But you didn’t stay there.”

“No; you have got me there. Isuppose it was
better for me to goto the eity, and perhaps it may

 

be for you; but there is no hurry. You wouldn’t
have a chance to earn six dollars a week in the |
city, as you say you do here. Besides. it would cost

much more for you and your mother to live.”

“TI suppose so,sir. I am contented to remain |
where Lam at present.”

“Is your father dead ?”

Jeu: Bee,

“It is «a great loss.
widow ?’

“T wish she were,” said Grit, hastily.

“But she must be, if your father is dead,” said
Mr. Jackson.

“No, sir; she married again.”

“Oh, there is a step-father, then? Don’t you and
he get along well together ?”

“There has been no chance to quarrel for nearly
five years.”

“Why ?”

‘‘Because he has been in prison.”

“Excuse me if i have forced upon you a disagree-
able topic,” said the passenger. in a tone of sym- |
pathy. “His term of confinement will expire, and
then ke ean return to you.”

“That is just what troubles me, sir,” said Grit,
bluntly. “We are expecting him ina day or two, |
and then our quiét life will be at an end.”

“Will he make things disagreeable for you?”

“Yes. sir.”

“At least you will not have to work so hard.”

“Yes, sir. I shall have to work harder, for I shall |
have to support him too.”

**Won’t he be willing to work ?”

“No, sir, he is very lazy, and if he can live without

Then your mother is a

 

work, he will.
“That is certainly unfortunate.”
“Tt is worse than having no father at all,” said
Grit, bluntly. “I don’t care to have him remain in
prison, if he will only keep away trom us. but I
shen be glad if I eould never set eyes upon him
again.
Well, my boy, you must bear the trial as well as
youcan. We all have our trials, and yours comes
in ae shape of a disagreeable step-father——” —
e did not finish the sentenee ;

 

pened, ; Z

“Good Heaven!” he exclaimed, “my boy is over-
board, and I cannot swim!”

He had scarcely got the words out of his mouth
than Grit was in the water, swimming for the spot
where the boy went down, now a rod or tio distant,
for the boat had been borne onward by the impulse
of the oars.

The young boatman was an expert swimmer. It
would naturally have been expected, since so much
of his time had been spent on the river. He had
often engaged in swimming matches with his boy
companions, and there was no one who could sur-
pags him in speed or endurance.

Hoe struck out boldly, and as Willie rose to the
surface for the second time he seized him by the
arm, and turning, struck out for the boat. The lit-
tla boy struggled, and this made his task more diffi-
cult, but Grit was strong and wary, and holding
Willis in a strong grasp he soon gained the boat.

Mr, Jackson leaned over and drew the boy drip-
ping into its safe refuge.

_Climb in too, Grit!” he said.

“No, I shall upset it. If you will row to the shore,
I will swim there.”

| but never in paying qu

 

“Very well.”

Mr. Jackson was not wholly a stranger to the use
of oars, and the shore was very near. In three
minutes the boat touched the bank, and almost at
the same time Grit ¢lambered on shore.

“Ya have saved my boy’s life,” said Mr. Jackson,
his voice betraying the strong emotion he felt. “I
shall not forget it.”

“Willie is cold!” said the little boy.

“Our house is close by,” said Grit, “Let us
take him there at once, and mother will take care of
him, and dry his clothes.”

The suggestion was adopted, and Mr. Jackson
and his two young companions were soon standing
at_ the door of the plain cottage on the bluff.

When his mother admitted them. Grit noticed that
she looked disturbed, and he seized the first chance
to ask her if anything were the matter.

“Your step-father has come!” she answered.

{TO BE CONTINUED.]

oe

A Man of Taste and Judgment.

The opinion expressed in the appended commu-
nication from a gentleman who has heen a reader of
the New YorK WEEKLY for seventeen years, is in-
dorsed by the public, and shows him to be a man of
taste and judgment:

SHeEerBy, Onto, April 12, 1884.
Messks. STREET & SMITH: fe ‘
GENTLEMEN—Having been a reader of your valu-
able paper for nearly seventeen years, I feel privi-
leged to write to you and express my opinion of the
New York WEEKLY.
I consider it a splendid paper! and I don’t see how
I could get along without it. The stories are all
interesting, and you have a great number of very
good authors. I have read a great many papers,
but [like the New York WEEKLY above them all, as
a good, moral, instructive, and entertaining paper.
Vith hearty wishes for your success in the future,
as in the past, I remain
Yours respectfully,
J. R. BARBER,
—_—_______ >- © «+ —— --—--

WHY PEOPLE WENT WEST.

Tom Corwin undertcok, when a member of the
Ohio Legislature, to have a law enacted abolishing
publie whipping for crime. He spoke at some length
in support of his measure, and an elderly gentle-
man, who represented a rural district, answered as
follows:

“Mr. Speaker, the gentleman is not as old as I
am, and has not seen as much of the practical oper-
ation of the system of punishment which he desires
to abolish. When I lived in Connecticut if a fellow
stole a horse or cut up other anties, we used to tie
him up and give him a real good thrashing, and he
always cleared right out, and we never saw any-
thing more of him. It’s the best way of getting rid
of the rogues that ever was tried, and without ex-
pense to the State.”

“Corwin rose to reply:

“Mr. Speaker, I have often been puzzled to ac-
count for the vast emigration from Counecticut to
the West, but the gentleman last up has explained
it to my satisfaction.”

—_——_—_——_»>-@-~—
A plan of forcing vegetation, by heating the soil

 

 

 

with steam pipes, has been successfully tried in France.

‘BLOSHOM.
BY MAY GORBYN.

a
In the orchard grass, through the daisies and clover,
She wandered along by the side of her lover.

_ She pulled the bloom from the bough above her ;

And the lover watched and stood still to reprove her.

“Appleflower for a farewelbtoxen—

To-morrow,” she said, * y heart will have broken.
“You may come back when the tose is in bower,
But no summer can bring back the applefiower.

“Rains may water, and sun
But these will never grow

may dapple,
> ths apple.

“Bloom and germ will have
Take it,” she said; ‘‘’tis the

perbhed to-morrow—
token of sorrow !”
:
a ldver. -
all of it over.

Appleflower, and the look o
Then the orchard gate—and
(THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PU

ee
BLISHED IN BOOK FORM. |

RAMON ARANDA

THE CALIFORNIA

 

DET CTIVE.

; and Strange
beaten

By EUGENE T. SAWYER,
Author of “THE MALT ES E CROSS.”

{“Ramon Aranda,” was ¢ need in No. 24. Back
numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XIV.
THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE.
In the meantime, while Ramon Aranda was shad-
owing Leith Osborne in Maytown, and having his
troubles multiplied, where ¥ Evelyn Carsdale,

| the fair heroine of this story! And how had the

escape from the log-house been made?

Ramon Aranda wss puzzled when he beheld the
burning house and saw that the inmates had es-
eaped. Whither had they com? His position on
the outside had been such that no escape by the
door or windows could have been made without his
knowledge. ae 4

There was but one explanation of the mystery.
There must be an underground passage.

He could not determine the point by making an
investigation at the house, because it was on fire,
and it would be hours before he could make an at-

‘tempt, even with the aid of water, to find the en-

trance. &
He could, however, search forthe outlet, and for

an hour or more he worked the ground thoroughly

in the region of the house, but all to no effect.

At lust he came tothe conclusion to return to
Maytown, as has been before stated, resolving at
the same time that if he failed within twenty-four
hours to there find a clew to Fvelyn’s hiding-place,
he would return to the hills and begin his search
anew. :

He was rightin his eonj
been made by means of an

Gold has been found all t

The eseape had
rground pussage.
hrough the coast range.
‘ities. ‘he croppings
generally furnish flattering indications, but tunnel-
ing and shafting have always blasted the anticipa-
tions of the workers, who. 7] ey had for
tune eS : : ae
Con
nort

one
i &#

¢ Ape = Hesire to secure a
safe retreat, he entered, and=™™Movered that. after
many defiections, it terminate#MAt the bottom of a
shaft, which, as he afterward ietrned, opened upon
a high flat, over a thousand feet from the point at
which he had entered.

Fortune af‘erward favored him in his war against
society, and, ering about him a band of road
agents, the -house was built directly over the
shaft, and thus it, together with the tunnel, was
utilized and found to answer more than one pur-
pose. :

In case of a discovery of their stronghold anda
subsequent attack, there was aehance of escape
by means of the shaft and tunnel. In the event of
a hot pursuit of one or more of the gang, there wis
the tunnel, through which an entrance to the house
could be effected if desired, or a hiding-place se-
eured in the tunnel itself.

The mouth of the tunnel was concealed by trees
and bushes ; one tree, in fact, had grown so large as
nearly to block up the opening. :

But after atime reverses overtook the band, and
those who escaped death or capture left the country.

After many years, one of the road agents, Tom
Belton, wandered back to his old stamping ground,
and ere long found himself enrolled in the new
organization of road agents and general plunderers.,
led by the ‘‘ecaptain’” }

Belton remembered the old honse and its secrets,
apd it was at his suggestion the band took posses-
sion of it.

When a shot from Ramon Aranda’s rifle had
stretched Belton dead on the floor, Barry Durgan be-
thought himself of the shaft. It had never been
used by the ‘‘captain” or his band, and the latter in-
dividual had almost forgotten its existence.

“We must get out of this, cap,” shouted Durgan,
after he had fired the shots which had no apparent
effect, ‘‘and there is a way—the shaft.”

“The very thing, Barry,” exclaimed his leader, in
delight ; ‘‘why didn’t I think of that before?”

A trap-door in the center of the front room was
raised, and the entrance tothe shaft was revealed.
It was some twenty feet in depth, and a stationary
ladder, made of strong oak branches, firmly secured
by staples to the timbers on one side, fugnished the
means of descent.

The “captain” then hastened to the next room.

“Miss Carlisle,” he said, with an air of command,
‘itis necessary that we should leave the house im-
mediately. I dislike to use force, but shall be com-
pelled to do so if you refuse to come quietly.”

Our heroine, with her wounded arm and prostrated
physical condition, certainly secniale ineapable of
offering any resistance.

The answer, therefore, filled him with surprise
and rage.

, “You can go wherever you like, but 7 shall remain
here.’’

She thought of Ramon Aranda, whose presence in
the vicinity must have suggested the Ps re-
treat, and her spirits rose in spite of her bodily
weakness. / :

“By heavens, my lady!” exclaimed the “captain,” in
a voice choking with wrath, “you shall not defy me.
If you won’t come peaceably, then I’llsee what force
can do.”

As he moved toward her with a fiendish expression,
ha thrust her right hand into the pocket of her
dress.

The blood left her face, and her heart almost stop-
ped beating. :

The pistol, upon which she had placed so much re-
liance, was no longer there.

In the struggle at the redwood tree, where she was
shot, the weapon had fallen to the ground, and she
had not missed it since, on account of the shock she
had received and the suffering she had subsequently
undergone.

Without further remonstrance, she arose as the
villain approached, and giving him a look that
es nim for days afterward, pointed to the

oor.

“Go!l’ she said, with terrible calmness; “I will
follow.”

He obeyed her without a word.

Scoundrel that he was, he was not proof against
such an exhibition as was afforded by his helpless
victim, who, in her pallid loveliness, seemed the in-
carnation of angelic purity.

He passed into the front room, she following.

“Descend first, Barry,” was his command; “you,
Miss Carlisle, will follow.”

“Must [ go down there?’ and she trembled in spite
of herself.

“There is no alternative. The distance is short,

and a tunnel high enough so that no one can walk
upright, will take us to the open air. I will. place a
rope around your waist, so that in case you feel your
strength failing, [ can let you down or draw you
up.
So saying, he adjusted a stout rope about her
waist, she quietly submitting, and the descent was
then commenced. .

Barry Durgan and Evelyn reached the bottom in

safety, though the latter was obliged to summon all
her strength and courage to make the perilous jour-
ney.

The “captain” was aboutto follow suit when a
sudden thought struck him.

“Ha! ha!’? he chuckled, ‘I’ll give you a fine prob-
lem to solve, Mr. Detective. When you find by what
means we escaped, if you ever do, we will be miles
away.”

He took a candle from a shelf and placed it against
the side of the house. Around it, seas toleave but
two inches of the top visible, he arranged a quantity
ofrags. He then brought.a small keg of whisky,
and after thorougly saturating the rags with the
fluid, poured the rest over a dining-table close by,
and on the logs of the cabin side.

This done he struck a match and lighted the
candle.

“Tn one hour the blaze will begin. In ene hour we
will be where you, Ramon Aranda, will never find
us. Caughtinatrap, are you?’ and he laughed in
devilish glee. “Ha! ha! It will bea cold day when
you get the better of me, Mr. Detective.”

He descended the shaft, and the trio then hurried
along the tunnel.

Two hours later Evelyn Carlisle reclined upon a
couch of skins in a rocky cave.

Sleep on, poor girl; sleep on and sleep well. Na-
ture offers some compensation to those of her ehil-
dren who have aching bodies and beavy hearts, Na-
ture must be kind to you now, for your troubles are
not yet over.

CHAPTER XV.
A COMBAT IN THE DARK.

Leith Osborne was stunned by the blow which the
detective gave him, but consciousness soon returned.
In a bewildered manner he arose to his feet, looked
about him confusedly for a moment, then picked up
his hat and started up the street.

He had been assaulted by a drunken teamster; he
recollected that. Who was the fellow? and had there
been any object in the attack ?

As his brain became clearer, and his mind resumed
its wonted activity. he rapidly considered these and
other questions of vital moment.

He felt in his pockets and about his person. His
money had not been disturbed, and his watch was
safe. No, he had not been robbed.

He had forgotten all about the letter written by
Constance Barstow.

“No, robbery was not the object of the attack,’
was his comment as he walked along. “What was
it? Ah, I see, with a sudden recollection. “I drew
a knife on him, and he doubled me up to pay for it.”

He was now reminded that he had lost something.
Where was the dagger? The sheath was there, at-
tached tothe belt at his side, but the dagger was

one.

3 He had dropped it, doubtless, when he received
the blow, and could easily recover it.

“Whatif it was notthere? What if—”

As these thoughts crowded through his brain,
his teeth chattered, his face became lived, and his
knees smote together.

Then, witha horrible fear tugging at his heart, he
staggered, rather than walked, back to the spot
where the encounter with the detective had taken

lace.

: Dropping on his hands and knees he eagerly
seanned the surface of the ground where he had
falien, and for rods beyond it.

Shaking in every limb, he at Jast arose to his feet,
and pressed his hand tremblingly to his forehead.

He was perplexed. The dagger had disappeared.

“T eannot think now; I must not think until I
have steadied my nerves. Pshaw!’ and he tried to
reassure himself, ‘Iam as foolish as an old woman
—as chicken-hearted as the veriest coward that ever
breathed. It’s all right—I know it’s all right.” |

He sought his warehouse as soon as_ possible,
though he cast furtive glances about him as he
neared the building. :

But no one was in sight, and a stillness as of the
grave rested over the locality. 5

Entering by the rear door, he groped along a nar-
row passage until he came to the door of the so-
ealled harness room, which adjoined the stables.

As he struck a match, and with shaking fingers
lighted a candle, he caught a reflection of his face
in the small looking-glass, which was hung on the
wall in front of him.

His eyes were blood-shot, and his face was bathed
inaclammy perspiration, while upon the white eol-
lar of his shirt were stains of blood. ;

Starting back with a cry, and closing his eyes as
if to shut out some fearful spectable. he remained
for a moment a prey to the most terrible thoughts.

But his former hardihood and callousness soon

 

 

“This may be the work of Ramon Aranda; and then
again the man may have been some drunken bul-
| whacker, or mule-exhorter. Which is it? And
what has become of the dagger? Let us suppose
that this prying half-breed was the man, and that he
has the dagger. Whatofit? Lam resent,
for he will never disclose what he bas discovered
until he is ready tostrike. I know him, and he will
stay corked up for a time—a few days at least.”

He took another long pull at the bottle.

“Ramon Aranda must not live another night. By
some means he must be put out of the way. Then,
and not till then, will my secrets be safe, and my
life and liberty assured. I must not fly; I must
stay here. I must concoct a plan that will rid the
earth of the one man who holds my life in his

lands.

With his busy brain at work, and the bottle grow-
ing lighter and lighter, the hours passed on.

It was perhaps three o’clock in the morning, when
the street door by which Osborne had entered was
softly opened, and a lithe form glided noiselessly
along the passage toward the room where the owner
of the building lay stretched upon some horse-
blankets in a drunken sleep.

Osborne, in his perturbation of mind, had forgot-
ten to lock the door after he had passed in.

The. burglar, for such he appeared to be, went on
until he came to a door opening into the large store-
room. He passed through this slowly and cautious-
ly, for it was as dark as Erebus, and at last reached
the door of the office.

All was still within, and the depredator was
about to open the door, when a noise behind him at-
tracted his attention, and caused him to dart sud-
denly behind some bales that were piled along the
center of the store-room.

Some one had entered the street door, and he had
searcely settled down in his place of concealment,
when the person, whose coming had given him such
a start, stainped into the store-room, exhibitihg not
the least caution as to his movements.

The second party had got half way across the
floor, when a sharp ‘hist!’ induced hlm to come to a
Stand-still.

“Is that you, cap?” he demanded, in a hoarse
whisper, his eyes meantime trying to penetrate the
darkness which enveloped him.

“Yes,” was the response, also in a whisper.
that you, Barry?”

An affirmative answer was given, and then the
man who had first entered the building, said:

*Don’traise your voice, but move forward three or
four steps.”

Barry Durgan, for it was the ex-convict, did as re-
quested, wondering the while what the mischief was
in the wind tomake his leader act so strangely.

“What’s up, cap?” he uttered,in a low voice, when
within a few feet of the man in concealment. “What
are you keeping shady for? Why don’t you come
out and show yourself?”

“Remain where you are, and don’t ask silly ques-
tions,’ came the stern reply,in a hissing whisper.
“There’s @ man in the office—a detective. Be silent;
not a word, not a move for your life until you have
heard what I have to say.” as Durgan made another
step forward, presumably to bring him nearer to the
door.

“{T am wedged in between some bales,” continued
the unseen personage, “and you can’t get to me
witbout making anoise. Half an hour ago I shadow-
ed this detective and the town marshal. I heard the
detective say that he would pick the lock of the
otfice-door, and once inside would await my arrival,
for he was certain that I would come. I entered by
the rear door, and must have forgotten to lock it
again, for you found it open, I see, as though I had
been expecting your arrival.”

“And were you not expecting me? Have you for-
forgotten the girl?”

“The girl!” and there was a movement of the
bales as if the last speaker had determined to come
forth. “Of course, Barry, of course, I ought to have
remembered her, and that you were coming, but
this confounded detective completely upset me.
Where is she? Did you bring her along?”

All this conversation had been carried on in low
whispers.

“She’s at the bridge, in charge of Dick Tanner. I
came on abead to see if the coast was clear.”

“That’s right. And now you had better go back
to the bridge and await ny coming.”

“Two can do better work than one, Let’s finish
te, jietective between us, and then go for the
girl.

“No, he’s my meat.
fo me.
flume.

“Can you manage it alone?”

“T shall not fail. He will come out presently (be-
eause no one will enter the office) to investigate the
warehouse. As soonashe steps into this room I
willtopple these sacks on to him, and then, while
he is down, finish him with a knife. Hurry! Off
with you, for he may come out at any moment.”

Barry Durgan, without the least suspicion that
he was being deceived, turned and walked lightly
across the floor toward the rear. He had not reach-
ed the door opening into the narrow passage-way,

“Ts

You know what he has done
" My hand must send him spinning up the

 

 

 

 

when a hand reached out from one side and caught
him by the writ.

“Not a word on your life!’ was the stern whisper.
“Tan the captain, and the man you have been talk-
ing tois an impostor!”

The whisper, low as it was, was heard by the man
at the other end of the recom.

Grasping a revolver in onehand anda knifein
the other, he moved forward in the direction whence
the whispering had come.

He felt that his situation was a desperate one,
and that perhaps his life hung in the balance.

But although he had moved forward with the
noiselessness Of a cat, the watchers, listening for
the faintest sound, had heard him.

He was not more than six feet from them, when
patean suddenly flashed a bull’s-eye full in his

ace,

Leith Osborne, looking straight ahead, saw the
ae remembered form of the drunken mule-
driver.

Upon the instant there was the report of a pistol,
followed by another and still another—these suc-
ceeded by two heavy falls.

One man alone had eseaped. :

Lifting up the bull’s-eye lantern, which had
fallen with the opening of the conflict, Leith Os-
borne, with a heggard face, turned its light upon
the prostrate bodies.

As he did so, Barry Durgan scrambled to his feet
and held out his hand, which was grasped with a
fervency that expressed a world of meaning.

“Played possum, eh? Well, I will forgive you,
eonsidering what a ten-strike we have made.”

He pointed to the motionless form of the false
mule-driver, whose head lay in a pool of blood.

The wig had fallen off, and bending over him,
with the Jantern close to his face, Leith Osborue
uttered acry of exultation,

“As Isupposed. We have done the best business
of our lives. This is Ramon Aranda.”

“Ts his goose cooked?”

“It will be cooked,” was the fierce response, ‘‘for
we will bury him, Barry, dead or alive!”

CHAPTER XVI.
AGAIN IN THE TOILS.

Barry Durgan looked at the body of Ramon
Aranda, and a wicked smile hovered about his
ugly mouth.

“The girl will wonder what has become of her
gallant protector, I reckon. What would she Suy if
she could see him now?”

The current of Leith Osborne’s thoughts instant-
ly changed at the mention of the lovely captive.

““Where is she?” he eager y demanded. “Did yon
bring her along, as I ordered?”

“Yes, and it was as much as Dick and Ieould do
toinduece her to make the journey. I believe we
would have had to carry her, had I not mentioned
the fact that Maytown was our objective point.”

here was a slight movement of the detective’s
body, but neither of the villains noticed it.

“Where did you leave her ?”

“At the bridge with Dick. I wanted to get the lay
of the land before fetching her here. It’s’.a risky
piece of work, bringing her to Maytown, but I reckon
you know what you are about.”

“Yes, itis risky business, but once here she’ll be
sater than in the hills oranywhere else. Who would
think of looking for her herein this building, and
who would be likely to find her in case a search
should be made ?””

The light of the lantern did not now shine on the
detective’s face. Had it done so, and had the con-
spirators looked in that direction, they would have
seen that the eyes were wide open.

“The cellar has been arranged,” continued Os-
borne, “and everything is prepared for——” he stop-
ped suddenly, for two sharp raps were heard at the
rear door. ;

“Tt’s Dick Tanner,” whispered Durgan, “‘andsome-
thing’s wrong. Why doesn’t the fool come in—the
door’s not locked ?”

“T’ll go and let him in,’ answered Osborne: ‘You
hold the lantern and stay with this cadaver until I
come back.’

So saying he hastened toward the street door.

Opening it, the nan called Dick Tanner was found
standing outside, his left arm in a sling, and his
short, thick frame trembling with excitement.

“Come on, cap,’ he said, as he caught sight of
Osborne’s teatures. The duse is to pay, and there’s
not a moment to lose.”’

“What’s the matter ?” was the interrogatory of the
astounded “captain.”

“Matter!” and Tanner gave a groan. ‘‘My arm’s
broken and the girl’s gone. But don’t atop palaverin’;

come on.” : :

ex

mm t ng Cw! le Tratu Lexis:

He had turned unconsciously toward the street as
the door closed, and at that moment something
ee to fly through the air and clutch him by the

1roat.

The lantern dropped from his hand, and he fell to
the floor with such force as for a time to knock all
the breath out of his body.

In Jess time almost than it takes to tell it, the dis-
conifited rascal’s wrists were encircled by a pair of
hand-cuffs.

Then, with his knee upon his prostrate victim’s
chest, Ramon Aranda raised his head and listened
intently.

All was still about the place, save for his own deep
breathing.

Taking a handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped
the blood from his face, at the same time rapidly
considering the situation.

He had escaped death by a miracle.

The bullet fired by Barry Durgan had grazed the
skull, producing a temporary numbness, and conse-
quent insensibility.

He had recovered his senses in the nick of time,
and realizing his peril, had planned to take advan-
tage of the first favorable opportunity that should
present itself.

What to do with his prisoner, was the question
that now confronted him.

He had been a listener to the conversation in re-
terence to Evelyn Carlisle, and he knew, instinc-
tively, that the absence of Leith Osborne at that
moment meant evil to the girl he loved.

fle must follow him at all hazards.

A plan occured to him, as if by inspiration, and he
proceeded quickly to put it into execution.

Barry Durgan, though with his eyes open ind his
senses alert, had not uttered a word as yet.

For fear that he would speak, or make a noise
that. would attract attention while he was gone,
Aranda drew from his pocket a small stick, with
strings attached, and proceeded systematically to
close Durgan’s yocal aperture.

Like all detectives who understand their business,
Ramon Aranda knew the efficacy of a buck and gag,
and he was therefore proviéed for just sueh an
emergency as had arisen.

This accomplished, he removed his victim’s coat
and hat, and donned the articles himself. The hat
was a low-crowned “plug,” that had seen consid-
erable service, and in the darkness the detective be-
lieved that it would admirably serve the purpose
desired. E

After securing the ex-conyiet’s feet, the detective
passed a cord around each arm, and tied the ends
behind his back, so that it would be impossible for
Durgan to use his hands to remove the gag,

He then‘hurried from the building.

Five minutes had not elapsed since the departure
of Leith Osborne and Dick Tanner.

The Barstow residence was situated on a street
running parallel with, and one block from the San
Francisco road.

The two law-breakers were hurrying along toward
the Barstow place for the purpose of taking a cut-
off through a large field.

*““She’sin that fleld somewhere,” Tanner explained
between his groans, “‘andif it had not been for this
blamed darkness,’—the moon had disappeared
more than an hour before—“I would have found
and caught her.”

At this momenta female form darted across the
road, not fifty feet ahead of them, and disappeared
in the grounds of the Barstow residence.

“That is shel” was Osborne’s ejaculation; “and
she has gone to seek shelter with her friend. She
must never see her!”

He rushed forthe gate, passed through it, and
glanced excitedly about.

The house, a large two-story building, with a
basement, was painted white. and he could see the
front door plainly.

“She has not entered there,’ was his
“and so, must be somewhere in the rear.

He_ now cautiously moved along the path, bor-
dered with shrubs, toward the back part of the
house.

Suddenly there was a succession of loud knocks
on the door, under the kitchen window, which
opened into the basement.

“Let mein! let me in!” saida voice, which Os-
borne immediately recognized as belonging to Kvye-
lyn Carlisle.

A few bounds, and he was by her side.

At that moment the door opened, and Mrs. Mar-
cum, the old, sour-visaged housekeeper, with a
lighted eandle in her hand. confronted him.

Evelyn darted by her, with a seream of delight;
then, exhausted by the intensity of her emotions,
sank down upon tie floor.

The housekeeper stared at Leith Osborne for a
moment, and then a hideoussmile gradually spread
over her wrinkled face.

The villain leaned over, whispered a few words in
her ear, and a moment later had swiftly and silently
departed.

Raising the form of our heroine in her arms, as
though she had been a child, Mrs. Marcum bore her
ton bedroom beyond.

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she said, as Evelyn’s hands clasped her neck. ‘No
one shall harm you now, and here you shall stay till
your true love comes.”

Hertrue Jove! Yes, before long she should see
the man to whom her heart had gone; and with her
thoughts centered on Ramon Aranza, Evelyn, not
long after, sank into an uatroubled sleep.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE DETECTIVE’S RUSE.

Ramon Aranda, on leaving Osborne’s warehouse,
took his way down the street, in the precise di-
rection previously pursued by the men he was
tracking.

He knew of the cut-off, and he supposed that Os-
borne and his confederates would proceed imme-
diately to the bridge. &

He could not satisfactorily account for the ap-

earance of the man *‘Dick” at the warehouse, but
1¢ had not the vaguest suspicion of Evelyn Car-
lisle’s escape.

Believing that she was near at hand, he resolved
to rescue her or die in the attempt.

A dangerous light shone in his dark-brown eyes
as his thoughts reverted to Leith Osborne.

He had not examined the dagger which he had
picked up after his encounter with the villain, but
in his own mind he felt that Osborne was the mur-
derer of Charles Furlong. whose body now lay in
a room of the calaboose, whither it had been taken
shortly after the terrible discovery.

The detective had hunted up Tipton, and together
they had removed the body of the murdered man to
the room mentioned, which, in Maytown, answered
the purpose of a morgue.

Having performed this duty, Aranda announced
his intention of “piping” Leith Osborne, although
he sorely felt the need of sleep.

He now congratulated himself upon the wisdom
of his nocturnal undertaking, through which such
important discoveries had been made.

“Ay,” he muttered to himself, “‘and from which so
much will be accomplished. Leith Osborne, the day
of reckoning is near at hand.” ;

He was now within half a block of the Barstow
inclosure, and his keen eyes, piercing the gloom,
beheld the outlines of a man standing motionless
by the gate.

S was Dick Tanner, who was awaiting Osborne’s
return.

Aranda stopped, for he had not anticiptaed an
encounter so soon, or in the manner which now
threatened him.

Could he hope to successfully deceive the man
who stood at the gate into the belief that he was
Barry Durgan?

Ramon Aranda believed that the sentinel, forsuch
he appeared to be, was the man Dick; and that Os-
borne was somewhere about the house.

This eireumstance did not surprise him, for he
remembered the visit in the evening, and the note
from Constanee Barstow, which he had ‘taken from
the person of the visitor. |

But what could be the object of the present visit?
And where was Evelyn Carlisle?

He had not time for furth»r cogitations. for. glanc-
ing forward again. he saw that the man by the gate
had been joined by another, who eame from the
yard, and who must be the enemy whom he was
trailing.

Turning up the collar of Durgan’s coat, and giy-
ing the plug hat an extra pull downward, he ad-
Mores: without a moment’s hesitation, toward the
gate.

Osborne and Tanner started to meet him.

A reneounter, which meant death. was inevitable,
unless the man who had charmed so many by his
acting sueeeeded in the most trying role he had
ever undertaken. :

“That's Barry.” whispered Osborne to Tanner, as
the gap lessened. “i wonder whit’s up now?”

The detective. mimicking Durgan’s yoice to per-
fection, and holding his head so that his face could
not be clearly discerned, now spoke up:

“If you’ve done your job as well as I’ve done mine,
you may howl hooray till you’re hoarse, and little
harm will come of it.”

The parties were now close together, but the dark-
ness favored the detective.

His identity was not suspected.

Believing thatit was Barry Durgan, and none
other, who stood before them, Osborne asked, in
some surprise:

“Why. what do you mean? Is that blasted detec-
tive really dead?”

“He wasn’t dead when you left, but he’s awful
dead now, and don’t you forget it.”

Oshorne and Tanner had stopped, but the bogus

Durgan, realizing the danger of a “stationary con-

fab,” began to move on. /

“Hold, Barry,” said Tanner, *‘W
ne?

ibe en for the girl, unless you"

*“She’s all right,” was. Osborne’s respo
now I want to know how you salted this
“Well, he came to, Qon"t you see, and t
the life out of him with his own gun,” and the false
Barry tapped his pistul-pocket significantly.

“What did you do with the body?”
“Left it there, of course, and then started to loo
youup. And now that [have answered you, let m
ask, where did you put the girl?”

Aranda eagerly awaited the answer.

“Where Satan ean’t find her. In —.”

The sentence was never finished, for his eyes
turned toward the town, beheld red flames darting
upward from a large building afew blocks away,
and cornering upon the street upon which he was
standing.

“The warehouse is on fire!”

- Ramon Aranda turned and started to fly.

“Where are you going?” demanded Osborne.
oaae the warehouse.. Do you want to lose every-
thing?’

His thoughts were not on the " Sepgavt 4 of perish-
able merchandise which the building contained, but
upon the ex-convict, whose life was now in such
imminent dangar. Thepicture of this man’s death,
under such circumstances, though his life was clear-
ly forfeited to the laws which hehad so foully out-
raged, fairly appalled him; and he had resolved to
make an effort, fruitless though it might result, to
save Durgan from the flames.

But he stopped a moment on Leith Osborne’s
answer.

  
 
 

 

   
 
  
 

 
  
   
 
     

| throng.

ie pete = -

“The villain was anxious to learn the fate of Dur-
gan, his confederate, but for prudential reasons he
forbore to ask his merchant acquaintance any
question on that point.

Asis usual on such oeeasions, there was quite a
crowd gathered about the smoking ruins.

The town marshal was there, and when he saw
Osborne he came forward with a grave expression
on his henest countenance, and thus accosted him:
; Ca is a little rough on you, Osborne, for a

act.

“Yes. If it wasn’t for the insurance I’d be a
Fao, SNe. About half the loss will be covered, I
nink,

“That’s a comfort. By the way, your man Dur-
gan, the chap that stole your horse, is in quod
again.”

“Is he? I’m glad of it.”

He looked as if he were rejoiced, and the marshal,
under ordinary circumstances, would have been
taken in by his simulated sincerity.

"Where is he?” he added, after a pause.

“In the county jail at San Tomas; but he’ll never
be tried.”

“Why?”

A grayish pallor began to creep over the villain’s
face as he propounded the guery. He longed for,
and yet dreaded, the answer, for he realized what
mighty interests were at stake.

“Because his mouth is shut; and because he’s
done for?”

“Is he dead ?”

“No, not dead as yet, but he’s shot in the mouth.
and the bullet issomewhere about the base of the
brain. He’ll niver live to see anotber day. To-mor-
row you can chalk Barry Durgan down for a dead
man.’

“And he hasn’t spoken ?”

“Spoken!” returned the marshal, indignantly;
“how can a man speak with one jaw shot all to
pieces? He’il never speak again in this world.”

Leith Osborne walked away with a load taken
from his breast.

“Ramon Aranda dead, Durgan as good as dead.
there 1s no one to stand between me and the goal of
{my desires. Whata narrow escape I’ve had. But
the danger is over—there’s no one now to fear—and
atlast victory is within my grasp. Barstow’s mil-
lions soon shall be mine.”

, But “there’s many a slip’twixt the cup and the
ip.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
—_>-@—~<

| [THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

ROSAMOND;

SUNDERED HEARTS.

| By MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER,
AUTHOR OF

“BRUNETTE AND BLONDE,” “THE SENA-
TOR’S BRIDE,” etc., etc.

 

 

 

 

(‘‘Rosamond” was commenced in No. 18. Back Num-
bers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

CHAPTER XVII.
A STRANGE: STORY. Fe

The mother and daughter led a very quiet life.
Their pleasure in each other’s society was tempered
by feelings that slumbered unspoken in either
breast. In the mother’s heart there was au unhealed
wound that tortured her crully sometimes when she
stood and looked silently down at the sweet, grave
face of her daughter as she read or sewed in the low
rocking-chair before the fire, for the summer was
jong since past, and the chilling rains of November
made a cozy fire very cheerful and comfortable.
Rosamond had not acceded to Mrs. Lee’s unselfish
wish that she should return to her father, but she
thought of him very often with a yearning desire to
see him again. He wrote to her every week kind,

 

put there Was mever @ Word urs wire, v
Rosamond’s letters to him were filled with tender
allusions to the beautiful and gentle mother. He

paid no attention to these, nor to her entreaties that
he would come to Richmond that she might see him
if only for afew hours. He took up his abode with

| his sister, and began to write another book in order

to direct his mind from painful thoughts

And Rosamond lived on in the quiet way that she
had begun, and brightened the loneliness and ead-
ness of her mother’s life without dissipating the
shadow that hung about her own. No words could
paint her vague longings for Victor's presence,
though she tried to bury herself in her occupations
and forget that such a person ever lived. He re-
spected her evident wishes, and never annoyed ber
with attentions and visits. Colonel Fairfax had
been in Richmond twice, and on the first occasion
his son had accompanied him to call on Rosamond,
After that the colonei came alone, and Rosamond
never saw Victor save for some few times, when,
with her face pressed against the window-glass,
looking out at the motley throng that crowded the
busy main street, she saw him passing among the
Sometimes he looked up and bowed, some-
times passed on without lifting his eyes, and Rosa-
mond would watch the erect, graceful figure as it
| disappeared from view with a pang of inexpressible
| loneliness and grief.

 

 

 

She received a letter from Mrs. Grey one day, kind
Mrs. Grey who sometimes wrote prosy yet weleome
letters to her dear Miss Rosamond, who prized

“Do T want to lose my property!” said the indi-| them more because they told of the dear old friends

vidual, with refreshing equanimity.

do, for it is insured for more than it is worth. Ij

should have touched the match myself, ere long, but
now fate has taken the job off my hands.”

“Well, that’s a consolation for you, I suppose.
But I must learn whether the firemen will discover
the detective’s body before the flames reachit.”

“There’s reason in that,” hastily answered Osborne.
“But the danger?”

Aranda did not hear the last words, for he was
half a block away, and running with incredible
swiftness for the scene of the conflagration.

Osborne and Tanner remained standing by the
gate. The former did not propose to show himself
in the locality of the fire at that particular time, for
reasons that will be obvious to the intelligent reader.

Looking up the street, and foliowing the false
Durgan’s movements. he heard a pistel-shot just as
Aranda reached a point within one block of the
burning building, and then saw his supposed ally
throw up his hands and fall forward on his face.

A moment later a man whom Osborne, by the
bright light which now flooded the heavens, recog-
nized as Tipton, the town marshal, rushed toward
the prostrate body.

“Barry’s done for,” exclaimed Tanner, in trepida-
tion, as he gazed at his broken arm, ‘and this meet-
ing might as well be adjourned.”

“Yes, the game is up, and we must make ourselves
scarce.”

Osberne gave one parting look at the warehouse.
It was now enveloped in flames, and the engines
were just getting ready for work. |

Darting across tiie street, and into the eunt-off,
they hastened rapidly toward the San Tomas

ridge.

It was late in the afternoon of the next day before
Osborne reappeared in Maytown. :

He entered on horseback, as if he had just re-
turned from one of his periodical business excur-
sions into the country.

Of course his first news was of the fire. which had
reduced his warehouse to ashes.

He listened with affected consternation to the tale
that was poured inte his ears, and bitterly bewailed
the losses which the flre had caused him.

But he soon discoyered that the burning of the
warehouse was not the only sensation of the day.

Charles Furlong, his clerk and book-keeper, had
been foully murdered. and report associated the
murderer with the incendiary, for no one believed
that the fire was the result of an accident.

“My opinion is,” said a prominent business man
to Osborne, as they walked up the street toward the
still smouldering ruins, “that Furlong must have
seen the incendiary, who was doubtless a burglar
also, when he was attempting to force an entrance
to the building; that the fellow, surprised in his
felonious act, turned and fled. and that your book-
keeper pursued him down the San Tomas road;
that a struggle took place upon Furlong’s reaching
him, and that the young man was killed where the
body, was afterwards found.”

“A very plausible theory, and probably the correct
one,” Osborne returned, reflectively.

“The murderer having disposed of the man who
had interfered with his plans, returned to the ware-
house, and after haying finished his work of plun-
der. applied the match and fled.”

“Some one must have seen me when I placed that
money in the drawer of the desk yesterday,” said
Osborne, as if talking to himself. :

“You had money, then, in your office?” asked the
citizen, with a look which said, ‘The whole thing
isexplained. 1 see it all.”.

“Only a few hundred dollars. I have not made it
a practice to keep money in the office, preferring
rather to bank it, or deposit it at the hotel; but
ond gagged I thoughtlessly placed some gold that
had been paid me by a farmer, in the drawer.
person passing at the time could have observed the
act through the window.”

“Certainly I} and the dear old home.

 

{
;

Mrs. Grey was both indig-
nant and sorrowful this time.

“Poor, dear Miss Lilly. a mere pretty ‘child as she
was, and that young artist, Mr. Esdaile, had taken
it into their giddy heads to fallin love with each
other. There had been a vast amount of loye letters
written back and forth. and then Mr. Esdaile had
been down from the city half a dozen times, and
the end of it all was an engagement which the
young lady’s parents indignantly refused to sanc-
tion, taunting the poor young man,” Mrs. Grey
said, wrathfully, “with his poverty and his poor
prospects.”

And Mrs. Grey took occasion to remark here that
“simply because a young man was poor was no rea-
son at allwhy he should be denied the comfort of
having a dear little woman to love him and inspire
him with a noble ambition to rise in the world for
her sweet sake.” 5

It seemed that the poor little fairy had been uni-
yersally cowed and scolded by her three august rel-
atives, her letters intercepted, and her romantic
young lover contemned and slandered, and she had
fled to the sympathetic bosom of Mrs. Grey for aid
and support from the enemy.

Mrs. Grey ended by agraciously worded petition
from the tearful Lilly that her dear Rosamond
would send a note to Julian’s studio to inform him
that his letters to her had been intercepted by her
parents, and herself forbidden to write to him, and
that they might as well give up all hopes of contin-
uing a correspondence for the present.

Rosamond laid the letter before her mother for
advice and counsel. Both of them sympathized
with the youthful lovers, knowing as they did that
Mr. Esdaile was both respectable and amiable, and
one of the most promising artists in Richmond,
and they-thought it could do no harm to comply
with Lillian’s request.

“IT have heard both my father and Mr. Fairfax
speak very highly of the young man,” said Rosa-
mond, ‘and I was very much prepossessed in his
favor myself. I am sure it can be nothing but a
foolish ambition to marry Lilly to some wealthy
person that hns induced her relatives to refuse
their consent to what seems to me a very bright

 

prospect for Lilly’s happiness.”

“T have become interested in your two young
friends,” said Mrs. Lee. ‘We are not so poor but
that we ean afford to help others along in their
struggle with the world, Rose. Suppose we eall on
Mr. Esdaile and deliver the message ourselves, and
by way of encouragement commission him to paint
a portrait of you?”

Rosamond exught eagerly at the idea.

“Only.” she said, “I would rather haye a portrait
of you, motber?” ;

After some pleasant altercation a compromise
was effected by a resolution to have a portrait
pene of each, and this settled, the day being

right and sunny, the two ladies donned street at-
tire and issued forth on their errand of kindness.
All traces of Mrs. Lee’s illness had quite disap-
peared under the magie spell of love and happi-
ness. Inthe prime of ker matronly beauty she was
almost as lovely as her daughter, and quite as in-

teresting with that soft shade of melancholy that
invested her classic features with such a peculiar
charm. Still stately and youthful looking as she

walked by the side of her peerless Gaughter, both
of them wearing full costumes of rich black silk,
they looked more like an elder and younger sister
than mother and daughter.

Victor Fairfax, who was coming down Main
street looking very thoughtful and abstracted, was
passing them, quite unconscious of the proximity
of his idol when a musical yoice pronouncing his
name arrested him.

Mrs. Lee had been very much pleased with the
young man at the time of his one visit in company

 

with his father, and not being aware of the peculiar
feelings existing between her daughter and the

| sky between th

to letters,breething the spirit of the writer,

4

 

handsome young lawyt: she did net hesitate to
stop him in her very grief! and Jady-like way:
Are youina hurry, br. Fairfax?”  ~

Victor professed himelf quite at the service of
the ladies. i

“We are just going » eaii-on your friend. Mr.
Esdaile. I am sure iigon will accompany us we
shall aot be troubled th the slight sense of em-
barrassment so natura to two such recluses as
Rose and I.” 6

He looked at the dau Bter’s gentle, slightly flush-
ed face. Notseeing any} isible disapprobation there,
he. gladly availed hime?! of the pretty little invita-
tion and accompanied@:them. walking on by Mrs.
Lee’s side and talking j-ry aimatedly to that lady,
while Rosamond walk! on quite in silence, until
they entered the ek es little studio of Julian

 

Esdaile.

Mr. Esdaile wasin, afd, mnch to his visitors’ satis-
faction, quite alone. $Je came forward and wel-
comed them, radiant ith pleasure, and quite as
handsome as any of jj$ pictures. Mrs. Lee was
quite charmed by his sanity grace and beauty, and
with all her womanly 4@rt enlisted in his favor, re-
solved to further his esse as much as lay in her
power. : j

He showed them arownd the room, selecting his
choicest works for their inspection, even to the un-
finished picture on the easel, and gratefully received
the commission for the two portraits, promising to
execute them well and faithfully.

After ashort time Reyamond gave him Mrs. Grey’s
letter te read.

He ran his eyes rapifily over the contents; then
he came forward and wrang Der hand with grateful
fervor. eaor

“Miss Lee, I cavnot thm you enough for doing
me this kindness.” J

Victor looked a littié Sipprised and curious. Mr.
Esdaile very frankly explained the state of affairs to

  

him.

“Mr. Reeves very plainly intimated to me that
Lilly was to marry a gentleman of fortune,” he con-
eluded, in a-hopeiess tone, “and I think heis a man
to keep his word, even though he breaks her heart
in enforcing his will.” ett

“Poor little Lilly!’ murmured Rosamond, with
tears starting to her €yes. ‘

The sight fired Victor's chivalrous young blood.

“She shall not be forced to marry against her
will,” he said, firmly, “not if I have to steal her
away from her heartless parents, and assume the
responsibility of accompanying Julian and her to
Washington to give the bride away myself.”

There was a = laugh among the group at this
impetuous speech, buts more hopeful light sprang
into the artist’s blue eyes. 2

“Thank you for such a proof of friendship,’ he
said; but I am afraidif such athing had been pos-
sible [should have eatried her off before. I under-
stand that she is closely watebed.”

“It is a pity that the young lady should be so un-
justly treated,’ obseryed Mrs. Lee, who had been a
silent listener to the conversation.
the peculiar circumstances of the case, it can do no
harm, Rose, for yowto inclose a short note from
Mr. Esdaile in your Ktter to Mrs. Grey. Iam sure
hé wishes it, and a “fair in love and war, you
know.” a <a

The young artist bowed tefully to the fair
pleader, and turnedjan entreating gaze on Rosa-

 
  
  
   
     
  
  
  
  
  
   
  

 

 
  
   
 
   
  

mond. \ cs
“Tf you only would,” he said, earnestly. “Only a
few lines to her, Miss Lee, and it would make me

inexpressibly grateful to you. I will not say one
word of eloping or of rebellion against her parents.”

Victor added his persuasions to those of Julian.

“T can scarcely resist three such eloquent plead-
ers,” she smiled, ‘‘and ieereaent of the pleasure
it will give dear little Lilly will not let. me refuse.
Write as long a letter as you like, Mr. Esdaile, and
I will write only a short note to Mrs. Grey, and in-
close yours with it. T will scarcely ee
that, as we are enone and nobody
Del suspect Mrs. Grey of encouraging a love
affair.” es .

“Thank you,” thank
“You make me very ha
this very day, andleave

Rosamond sighed a littl
dress. Her home! It w:
three quiet rooms, cozy
were, as her home, She
pine as only a tem
ler mother. Now, fo

 

 

"he answered, warmly.
y, Miss Lee. I will write
at your home in passing.”
as she gave him her ad-
odd to think of their
ough they

had all along regarded this
abiding-place for her and
w e first time, she pictured
herself wearing out the best years of her life in the
same quiet place, lo -out as the years went by
at the same dull Jong rows of houses,
erowded payemen rrow strip of blue
fhile memory went
ns, the free a0
dearer | on

 
      
     
     
    
  
 
  
    

 
  

     
  

back to the
period of her lite
Her home! §

 
 
 

 
  
 
 

at her beautiful,
all of tha

and the alisiice.
1 out by the slow
ch she had endured

eyes she knew she
ion of the past had
, at that careless

  
 
    
 
 
 
  
  
  
 

herself sadly that she
e uth had been passed

Q the gipsy band until her
marriage with Ernest Lee. Then, after her one year
ef married life, she had taken up her lonely life
again, not indeed with the gipsy band, to which she
never returned, but alone and friendless she had
journeyed hither and thither, never making herself
a permanent home anywhere.

Now that she had her daughter with her, the place
where she had lived almost two years began to feel
somewhat home-like, but still the chance word
struck a quivering chord in her heart that vibrated
long hours after.

Victor walked back with them and said good-by at
the door. Then he went on to his office, and they
returned to their quiet life.

* * : *

* ; * *

“Mother,” said Bind that evening, as the
cold November twilight was falling, and they sat by
the fireside together, with only the fitful fame of
the firelight brightening the cozy parlor. ‘Mother,
you promised to tell me some day the reason why
you left your home—to give me the explanation to
which my father would not listen—not that I want
to pain you or that ldoubt your truth and purity,
but for another reason. I would like to know, if you
do not mind telling me.”’

She had drawn 4 low ottoman to her mother’s
side, and she had hermother’s hand in hers, nervous-
ly playing with her slender white fingers, while she
made this brief, hesitating speech.

Mrs. Lee looked down withafond smile
finshed, sweet face that looked dreamily
flickering firelight.

“Certainly, I will tell you. I should have told you
long ago, but Ihave been testing the worth of my
daughter’s affection by her patient endurance of my
silence. Now that I know the valueof your true
affection, I will tell you the story of my past.”

She paused, looking down at the fresh, sweet face
that had so many Gives tor her loving eyes, then
she began, with her thoughtful gaze on the fire, as
if the story of the ae had been written there by
the flickering flaine:

“In the gipsy tribe with which my early life was
passed there was an o]d crone whomI was taught
to consider my Petter thet She was always kind

t

*

at the
at the

to me while the restof the tribe petted and abused
me alternately. Allthe affection in my nature was
lavished onthe kind old woman who was all the
kindred I had. ;

“When we were at Clifton Forge, on that memora-
ble time when I was married to Mr. Lee, she discoy-
ered the affection that had sprung up between us two,
and it was by her advice and assistance that Iran
away fromthe band and was quietly married, my
whereabouts continuing a secret until they left the
place. They *vere yery anxious to find me. I was
of great use and profit to them, being the principal
singer of the troupe. You may think it was very
selfish of me to desert the poor old creature, but she
earnestly desired—nay, firmly insisted—that I should
forsake the wild life of the gipsies and marry Mr.
Lee, a8 he wished. It did not need much persuasion
to induee me to consent, for I loved him passion-
ately and devotedly,

“You know the story of my married life up to the
time of my disappearance when you were two
months old. At that time I received a letter from
my old grandmother begging me to come to her, as
she was ill and must see me before she died to com-
municate something of great importance tome. I
wanted to go to her, as she was not far away, ata
dull old village in Virginia, but I did not care to
take my young babe with me on 80 hasty Se ace
and I procured a proper nurse for you, and begged
Miss Winifred to see that you were properly cared
for, and told her where I was going, and that I
wuld return as early as possible. Lalso wrote a
letter to my husband, who was absent, explaining
everything, and gave it to his sister to mail to
him.

“TJ went on my journey quite unconscious of acting
wrongly, and in two days reached the gipsy en-
campment. I found the old woman prostrated with
age and feebleness. To be brief as possible, Rose,
she unfolded to me a strange tale of treachery and
wrong.

“She said that I was no gipsy at all, but the daugh-
ter of a Spanish noble of great wealth and rank, and
that the proudest of the blue blood of Castile flowed
in my veins. My father, it appeared, had been mar-
ried many years before my birth, and had an only
brother, who would inherit after him the estates
and title if no heir was born to my father. My birth
after the lapse of 80 many childless years secretly
infuriated my uncle, and in my early childhood
he bribed the gipsies to steal me from my parents
and drown me. :

“The old woman followed his bidding so far as
kidnapping me, but she was too tender-hearted to
murder me. She theretore adopted me as her

 

“TI think, under |

   
    
     
 
 
 
  
 
 

—

 

 

 

me was the result of remorse at the part she had

aeted in depriving the fond parents of their idolized
offspring. They made many efforts to recover me,
but never succeeded in finding the old gipsy, who
had been suspected of the crime from having been
seen prowling around the castle the day of my dis-
appearance, and they at length gave up all hope,
and fell into premature age and grief.

“No other child was born to fill the void in their
hearts, and, many years after, one of those sudden
revolutions so common in Spain deprived my father
of his rank and fortune, and placed him in peril of
his life. He and his wife collected the remnants of
his once princely fortune, and eseaped to America.
In a few years my father sank under his trials. and
bik ae poor mother a widow and alone in a strange
and.

“One year after my marriage the gipsy band en-
tered the town where she lived, and in spite of the
long years that had intervened, the griefs and cares
that had marked her life, my mother recognized the
kidnapper of her child, and went to see her. The
old erone could not resist the pleadings of the poor
mother, and she sent for me. After she had told
me the sad story, she took me to a pretty little
country residence and presented me to my mother.

“You ean imagine, dear, the joy, the rapture of
that meeting. But my mother was very aged, and
broken in mind and body, and it would have been
inhuman to have Jeft herthen. -I wrote to Mr. Lee
explaining these things, and begging him to take
the nurse and child and cometo me. I wrote re-
peatedly, but received no answer.

‘In six weeks my mother died, and I was free to
return. After her burial I remained a few days to
settle up her affairs, she having left me the small
fortune which was the remnant of all she had once

ossessed. Then I went home. The rest you know.
My husband had never received my letters, would
net listen to my defense, and taunted me cruelly
and ecauselessly, urged on by his stern sister. I
was ill from hasty travel. loss of rest, and’ my heart
was still aching from the loss of my mother, who
had grown very dear to me in the six weeks of close
and familiar comp:nionship we had spent together.
I was inordinately proud and passionate, and I took
up my babe and kissed it; then. with his insults
ringing in my ears, Iturned away and left him, as
I said to myself, forever.”

Mrs. Lee had told her story very clearly and slow-
ly, interrupted at intervals by some pitying word
from her daughter. When she had concluded with
that passionate, pathetic word “forever,” she looked
down, and saw Rosamond with her face in her
hands quietly weeping.

“Don’t weep. dear,” she said, gently; “it is all
past now. The pain, and the passion, and the fever
of life are all done forever. [Tam content that the
closing of my life shall glide onthus. Cheered by
your presence and your tender love, I find there is
much of peace and happiness left to me yet.”

“Ah, if my father only knew how much he had
wronged you, I think his heart would break,” sighed
Rosamond.

Her mother sat silent, twisting the slender wed-

| ding-ring about her finger, and thinking of the

hand that had placed it there, and the lips that had
breathed that solemn vow to love and cherish her
forever. How ill the promise had been kept, she
thought, as she looked back through the long years
at all the grief, and pain, and loneliness that had
been her bitter portion in life. A strange, wild life
it had been for the heiress of a Spanish grandee,
with the best blood of Spain flowing in her veins.

Suddenly Rosamond looked up brightly. $

“Mother, I have not forgotten that Colonel Fair-
fax was only induced to receive me into his home
by the remembrance of some debt of gratitude
which he owed you.” :

“And you ure anxious to hear what it was?” asked
her mother, with a faint smile.

“Tf you please.” ‘

“Tt was but a trifle,’ Mrs. Lea said, carelessly,
“and the colonel was kind enough to exaggerate
itinto something more. The spring preceding my
marriage with Mr. Lee the gipsy bund was encamp-
ed in vicinity of ‘Le Refuge,’ There were some
very bad men among them; bad enough and cruel
enough to do anything for the sake of plunder.
Well, there was a plot formed between five of these
villains to go to the colonel’s house at midnight and
effect an entrance and get away with all the plate
and valuables they could lay their hands on. It was

roposed to murder Colonel Fairfax if he resisted.
With the colonel there were only the housekeeper,
one or two female servants. and the old gardener,
who slept in the kitchenat a distance from the
house and would be of no use to defend his mas-
ter’s life, since he was deaf and could hear nothing.
This plan in full I oyerheard on the night on which
it was t#be executed. They were making prepara-
tians to break up the camp and begin their tramps

     
 
 
      
 
  
 

_| before daylight. The gipsy women were all ue
ae nd |-also for your suggestion.

a ie i
ceeding, and my grandmother ‘and
overhear the reason. I dogged the steps of the five
8 into the wood, and learned their diabolical
scheme. i
“Filled with horror and indignation. I did not
pause to return to my grandmother, but hurried to
‘Le Refuge,’ and after some difficulty obtained an
interview with its master, and related my story to
him, and begged him to prepare to defend himself.

  

He promised to do so, and was extravagant in his
thanks and praises. He wished toreward me hand-

somely for my timely warning, but I refused all his
offers and returned to the camp with the under-
standing that he was not to betray my agency in the
matter. The old gipsy to whom I confided what I
had done commended my course and promised to
keep my secret.

“That night when the yillains went to accomplish
their purpose they were promptly arrested by of-
fleers of the law whom Colonel Fairfax had placed
on the scene. They were tried for burglary and
convicted, but as the colonel was only lukewarm in
the prosecution they escaped with a brief term of
imprisonment. hey never suspected me of having
betrayed them, or I might have suffered violence at
their hands. That summerI was married to Mr.
Lee and escaped from the band altogether. That
is the whole story, my love.”

“It was very noble of you, mother,” said the lis-
tener, warmly. ‘Colonel Fairfax has reason to be
grateful tg you.”

‘And I have reason to be grateful to Colonel Fair-
fax,’ the mother said, with a fond glance at her
lovely daughter. ;

“He has indeed nobly discharged his debt of grat-
itude to you.” returned Rosamond, thoughtfully.
“A father could not have given me more earnest
attention and more tender love.”

“His son isa noble young man,” said Mrs. Lee,
“and one whom J feel proud to number among my
few friends. He is a paragon among men—is he
not, dear?”

“He seems so,” said Rosamond, listlessly, as she
rose and sauntered to the window.

The tone of indifference caused Mrs, Lee to look
curiously at herdaughter, The delicate, clear-cut
profile outlined against the window was sad and
regretful in expression. Mrs. Lee rose from her
seat, and, going over to her daughter, put both
arms about her waist.

‘‘What is it, my love?” she asked. ‘‘My love, have
I offended you? This young man—was I wrong in
my estimate of him?”

“No, no. I think—I feel sure you cannot speak
too highly of him, mother, He has been yery kind
and brotherly to me. Nothing is the matter, be-
lieve me. I love to look out at these strangers pass-
ing hither and thither beneath my windows to
their various destinations. It sugzests some va-
Pegs and not unpleasing thoughts to my vivid

ancy. b

She had quite drifted away from the subject of
Victor Fairfax. Mrs. Lee did not return to it, but a
new train of thought was started in her mind, and
with womanly intuition she began to see dimly that
beneath her daughter’s assumed indifference some-
thing graver was concealed.

That evening Rosamond wrote to her father a full
account of her mother’s strange story.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

——__— 9-4 —___+_—__—
DIAMONDS BECOMING PLENTIFUL.

The mines of Africa are turning out diamonds of
the aggregate weight of 2,000 grains daily. This
means moro in one day than Braziland all the
other diamond mines of the world produce inthree
months. If this goes on—and it is likely to go on—
diamonds must become a drug on the market.
Even now there are hundred-weights of diamonds
in Europe which cannot be offered for sale, not only
because the market is already over-glutted, and the
effect of dispersing these secret hoards would, as
the owners well know, tend to make the diamond
almost worthless, but also because the world does
not possess a tenth of the diamond-cutters that
would be needed to cut and polish these stones,

Ot
KEEPING A HUSBAND COOL.

In Arabia. when a widow is about to marry again,
she visits her first husband’s grayo the night before
the second marriage takes place, where she kneels
and prays him not to be offended at her for taking
another husband. But as a gunrantee against any
failure of her prayers to placate the deceased, she
takes a donkey laden with water, along and satur-
ates the grave—a proceeding which is calculated to
keep the dead husband cool under the most aggra-
vating circumstances,

—______ + 0 ~—____—_

Horsford’s Acid Phosphate,
For Overworked Females.

Dr. J. P. COWAN, Ashland, O., says: “It
proves satisfactory asa nerve tonic; also in dys-
pe tic conditions of the stomach, with general de-

bility, such as we find in overworked females,

 

 

grandchild, and her tenderness and affection for: with nervous headache and its accompaniments.

 

Correspondence.

 

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

[We desire to call the attention of our readers to this
department, which we intend to make a specialty in our
journal. Every question here propounded shall be an-
swereé fully and fairly, even though it may take a month
of research to arrive at the facts. No expense or pains
shall be spared to render the answers to questions abso-
lutely reliable. J

 

A.E.C., Becket, Mass.—l1st. The number of appointments
to the U.S. Naval Academy at Annapolis is limited by
law to twenty-five each year, the cadets being from four-
teen to eighteen years of age. 2d, The consent of their
parents or guardian is necessary. 3d. The bayonet was
invented at Bayonne, in France (whence the name), about
1670. 4th. America was discovered by Christopher

bus, A. D, 1492, on the 11th of October, on which day he
came in sight of St. Salvador. This great navigator found
the continent of America in 1497, and the eastern coasts
were found by Amerigo Vespucci (Americus Vespucius)
in 1498; and from this latter.discoverer the whole of
Americaisnamed. 5th. Mesmerism comes from Mesmer,
who first brought it into notice at Vienna. about 1776.
6th. The signal service of the U. S. army in time of peace
transmits intelligence in’reference tu storms or approach-
ing weather changes by the display of signals of warning,
and by reports at the different cities and ports of the
United States. It was organized by the late Gen. Albert
J. Myer, who was popularly known as ‘‘Old Probabilities.”
The present Chief Signal Officeris Gen. William B. Hazen,
of the War Department. 7th. It is called violin varnish.
8th. The papers containing “Letters from a Bully Boy,”
will cost 84 cents. 9th. Your handwriting is fair. 10th.
You ought to be at least five feet three inches in height,
and weigh not less than 100 pounds. 1ith. To make ink
powder, take one pound of nut-galls, seven ounces of
cgpperas, and seven ouncesofgum-arabic. Pulverize and
nis This amount of ink powder will make one gallon of
good black ink. Two or three powdered cloves should be
mixed with each pound of the powder to prevent mold-
ing. 12th. We cannot give the name of the place.

A.N. L., Trenton, N. J.—The Committee of the Whole
is peculiar to legislative bodies. Norecord is made of its
proceedings, and it has no officers, except of its own crea-
tion, for temporary purposes. Itis liable toinstant dissq-
lution in cases where it is imperative for the Speaker to
resume his chair. When the House resolves itself into

Committee of the Whole, the Speaker selects a chairman,
and the appointed gentleman advances to the Speaker’s
desk, and having taken the chair and received from the
clerk the bill to be considered, he orders the reading of
the first section and asksif any amendmexts are proposed.
If none are offered, the chairman directs that the second
section be read, and then the third and fourth, as the case
may be. until every sectionis read, and the bill is reported
back to the House. If it is desired to consider the bill
further, a motion is made to rise, report progress, and ask
leave to sit again. When the committee rises, the Speaker
resumes his seat, and the chairman of the committee in
his place on the floor makes his report. In a Committee
of the Whole there is great freedom of debate, and bills
sre eherre until they meet the approbation of the ma-
ority.

 

Freda, Wlinois.—1st. Freckles are, in persons of light
complexion, the result of the sun’s influence acting chemi-
cally on the peculiar composition of the coloring principle
of the skin. In such cases the spots fade, and become in-
visible during winter, and ‘are therefore termed summer

freckles. Those, onthe contrary, which do not depend on
light or heat, being equally vivid in winter or in summer,
may be regarded as constitutional, and are called cold
freckles. They vary in color, being sometimes yellow,
and sometimes green, and are not, like summer freckles,
peculiar to persons of fair complexion. Liver. spots are
discolorations of the same nature as freckles, though not
always permanent, being often referable to some disar-
rangement of the system, and disappearing with the
cause which gave them existence 2d. ‘l’oremove freckles
of long standing apply to the face every night rusty-nail
water, and letit dry on the skin. To soften and whiten
the skin and improve the complexion generally, apply
glycerine and fresh lemon juice.

Fred H., Woodbridge.—l1st. Terra cotta is a soft, porous
kind of earthenware, much made into ornaments. It is
sometimes, but not usually, glazed. Many busts and little
statues are made of it. The making of various sorts of

earthenware is carried on in the United States at Tren-
ton and Jersey City, N. J., at Liverpool, Ohio, and other
laces. 2d. Terra cotta was employed by the ancient
3reeks and Egyptians in the manufacture of statuary and
other objects. he color is usually a red or buff. The
Romans also used it, ee it into lamps, urns, etc. Itis
an important manufacture in Englayd and France. 34.
The information you desire may be obtained at any pe.
tery. 4th. The story named is not in book- th.
Thanks for your praise of the NEW YORK WEE

  

Y, and

Mrs. J. S., Brooklyn, N. ¥.—In the Women’s ‘rt School
‘at Cooper Institute about 250 persons receive gratuitous
instruction yearly. The pupils are divided into classes in
drawing, ploto-crayon, photo-color, oil color, painting, re-

touching, normal teaching, wood engraving, and pottery
painting. In these in the morning hours is given free in-
struction; but the great pressure for admission to these
classes has led to the formation of an amateur class for
those who can afford to pay $15 for a course of thirty les-
sons to be given in ten weeks. ‘his and the pottery class,
where the fee is $3 fora course of lessons, are the only
classes of ony Bind in the institute which are not abso-
et ae ke application in person between 9 A. M.
anc . M.

F. C.—I1st. David Livingstone, the British traveler and
explorer, was buried in Westminster Abbey, England, on
April 18, 1873. His remains were carried to England by
a government vessel. 2d. Mr. Stanley, who had been dis-

»atched to Africa in search of Livingstone, found him at

Jjiji, in the autumn of 1871, alive and well. He and Stan-
ley then made a journey to the north end of Lake Tangan-
yika, and believed that they had ascertained conclusively
that the lake has no communication with the Nile. 38d.
sipnegortic died of dysentery, alter about a fortnight’s
illness,

£. H. R., Brockton, Mass.—At Bolivia, Richard Gibbs
is the minister resident and consul general; at Guatemala,
Henry Hall; at Hayti, John M. Lanston; at Siberia, J.
H. Smyth; at Persia, S. C. W. Benjamin; at Panama,
Thomas Adamson; at Venezuela, W.S. Bird, E. H. Plu-
macher, and E. White, (Residents respectively at La-
guaza, Maracaibo, and Puerto Cabello.) Any further in-
formation may be obtained by writing to the Stato De-
partment, Washington, D. C., where any changes in the
consular services are duly recorded.

Fred.—Thomas Moore wrote a poem entitled “Black and
Biue Eyes,” the first stanza of which we quote. It is

probably the one you have in your mind, as the name of
Fanuy occurs iu it.
“The brilliant black eye
May in triumph iet fly
All its darts without caring who feels ’em;
But the soit eye of blue,
Though it scatter wounds too,
Is much better pleased when it heals ’em!
Dear Fanny !”

A. &., Flushing, N. Y.—Vineland is in Cumberland
County, New Jersey. It isregularly laid out. The prin-
cipalavenues ure a hundred feet wide, the others sixty
feet, and all are bordered with double rows of shade trees.
The dwellings are very handsome, and are surrounded by
tlower-gardens, vineyards, and orchards. Shoes, and but-
tons, and many other articles, are extensively manufac-
tured in this thriving place.

D. E. M., West Medway, Mass.—ist. In no fewer than
twenty-six of the States, the constitution expressly for-
bids the legislature to authorize lotteries, and though
they are still permitted in Kentucky and Louisiana, in
nearly ali the States the parties interested in lotteries are
subject to the imposition of heavy penalties. 2d. In most
ot the States the advertisement of foreign lotteries is
made a penal offense.

Marcellus, Michigan.—Narciso Lopez, the Cuban reyo-
lutionist, was garroted in Havana on Sept. 1, 1851. He

was a native of Venezuela. He sunk almost his whole
fortune inthe organization of three successive expedi-
tions to Cuba, the last, which set out in August, 1851,
ending fatally.

Cc. F.—Indelible ink may be removed from linen by dip-
ping the garment into a solution of one ounce of cyanide
of potassium in four ounces of water. After afew hours
the stain will be obliterated. This is very effectual, but
the mixture is highly poisonous, and should be carefully
removed.

C. C. G.—Asia is the largest of the great divisions of the

globe, and is supposed to have been tho cradle of the
human race. The most numerous of the great Asiatic
races is the Mongolian, next the Caucasian, then the
Malay, and, lastly, the Ethiopian.

May and Margie, Molden, Mo.—1st. You are both too

inexperienced to be trusted in a love affair of the kind de-
scribed, Continue to read good books and papers, and
give to beaus the cold shoulder for at least two years. 2d.
We have no choice. 38d. Good.

Golden Hair.—Anything powerful enough to change the

color of the hair must be injurious to it; to say nothing of
the effect upon the nervous system. Our advice to all
our correspondents is to let all hair dyes and hair
bleaches alone.

Della Dell, Pittsburg.—lst. Short rubber gloves can be
furnished for $1.50; long ones for $1.75. 2d. No hair was
foundinclosed. 3d. We do not know in what the distine-
tion consists. 4th. See reply to ‘‘lreda.”’

L. F., Atlanta, Ga.—We can send you a copy-book
containing an alphabet of the German text letters, both
large and small, for 20 cents.

Long Islander.—The collision between the steamers
Narragansett and Stonington on Long Island Sound oc.
curred on June 11, 1880.

A Constant Reader, Beaver Meadow.—I1st. The largest
Teritory is Dakota. 2d. The “life loan’ company is a
fraudulent concern.

Lemmer, Mystic River, Conn.—There is no premium on
either coln described, at present.

Newsdecler.—Make a will, if youdo not wish your money
to go to your two brothers.

 

 

 

Colombo, a Genoese, better known as Christopher Colum- *

 

 

 
  
  

 

 
      
 

 

 

 

 

 

    
  

29 ae
-

New

NEW YORK, MAY 19, 1884.

LP PPP OLLI LL LL DP NL A Lh ON A he
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~~

 

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other Foreign Countries must be added to the subscription
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We are not responsible for manuscripts sent lo this

office, and wish it wnderstood that they are at the
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(Se MANUSCRIPTS WILL NOT BE RE-
TURNED, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES.

 

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ina BLUE WRAPPER will understand that their
Subscriptions EXPIRE in FOUR WEEKS. Tis will re-
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change their Post-office address, will please give us the
OLD ADDRESS in full, as well as the new one.

 

 

A Story of Deep Interest.

 

Next week we will place before our readers the
opening chapters of a strange story, entitled,

UNDER A CURSE:

OR,

RETRIBUTIVE JUSTICE.

By LIEUT. MURRAY,

Author of “Tried for His Life,” “Black Mask,” etc.

 

The curse of gold, the “price of many a crime un-
told,” is in this story pictured with vivid and thrill-
inz intensity. There are a number of exciting dra-
matic tableaux, and the mystery is cleverly con-
cealed, .

  

  
 

A few mx di. re u: n
open the eyes of a mismated couple, and remove
the sugar-coating which made everything seem so
sweet and lovely during courtship. Under the
steadily burniug matrimonial light, each sees in
the other faults previously screened under assumed
amiability. Instead of making the best of a bad
match, the struggle to please is no longer contin-
ued, and they resort to those petty annoyances
which are so well designed to arouse unrelenting
animosity. Each tries to foree the other to the
commission of some deed which may afford a pre-
text for divoree. On divoree they rely to free them
from hated bonds, and they are sometimes willing
to degrade themselves to secure it.

If divorces were not so readily procured, people
would be more prudent and circumspect in enter-
ing the marriage state, aware that only death or dis-
honor could release them. So lax are the laws on
this subject, that in one of the States incompati-
bility of temper is a valid cause for separation,
especially when one of the parties is troubled with
cold feet. We needa national divorce law, which
will be the same all over the country, and which
will grant release from wedlock on one ground
only—dishonor.

——_———_ > 0 +

GOLD.

 

Since the morning of the world, gold has been the
chief object of desire of mankind. From the days of
Midas until now this gold,

Bright and yellow, hard and cold,
Molten, graven, hammered, and rolled;
Heavy to get and light to hold,

has been

Hoarded, bartered, bought and sold,

Stolen, borrowed, squandered, doled;
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old
To the very verge of the church-yard mold.

No other material object has retained in a like
degree the united devotion of men of all ages. Upon

gold rests the whole superstructure of the wealth of
the world. Gold has an intrinsic value superior
to that of all other metals because it has
useful properties possessed by none other. It is
more durable than any, and is practically inde-
stiuctible, as Egyptian excavations and Schlie-
mann’s discoveries in Greece have shown. It may
be melted and remelted without losing in weight.
It resists the action of acids, but is readibly fusible.
It is so malleable that a grain of it may be beaten
out to cover fifty-six square inches with leaves only
the twenty-eight thousand two hundredth of aninch
in thickness. It is so ductile that a grain of it may
be drawn out in wire five hundred feet in length,
The splendor of its appearance excels that of all
other metals. Its supereminent claims were sym-
bolized by the Jews in the golden breastplates of the
per as they are by the Christian in his highest

opes of a Golden City hereafter; and we signalize
the sacredness of the marriage-tie with the gold
ring.

Ow

DARING EXPLOIT.

 

Charles Smith, a skillful hunter, residing in Cen-
ter Bartlett, N. H., on the 4th of April performed a
daring feat. He was on Giant’s Stairs Mountain,
and in a eave there discovered two bears. The
opening was three feet in height, and half as wide,
and was on a ledge a hundred feet above the valley.
It was reached by a path from above. The platform
in front of the opening was not more than six or
seven feet wide. On looking in, Smith discovered
at the farther extremity of the cave, some thirty

feet distant, a pair of eyes which shone like balls of
fire. He promptly discharged his gun, but his shot
only infuriated the animal, and she came for him
with her mouth wide open, growling savagely.
Smith was cool and unterrified. When the creature
was within eight feet, he discharged his second
barrel, and she dropped dead. Reloading his gun,
he discovered a second bear beyond where the first
one lay. With a single shot he killed this one also.
It proved to be asmall one. He threw the two car-
casses down to the valley below, where he skinned
them. The large one weighed about two hundred

ounds, and the small one was about half the size.
Smith was obliged to leave the bodies ttirthe next
day, when he obtained assistance and brought them
out on a hand-sled.

CED

  
   

  
     

THE NEW

    

 

WEEKLY. 32>

 

 

 

 

 

 

HE OLD MAID'S SONG.

BY FRANCIS 8. SMITH.

 

I once was fair,
And had my share

Of lovers who came and went;
Iam old to-day,
My hair is gray,

And my once lithe form is bent.
But I never knew
A heart so true

As the heart of my tiny Skye,
Who tries to speak
As he licks my cheek—

He loves and does not lie.

CHORUS.
Yet some will wed,
And some will dread,
And wander fancy free—
But whether they wed,
Or whether they dread,
’Tis all the same to me.

I’m human still—
I’ve no ill-will

’Gainst levers who come and go,
Nor ’gainst the girls
With sunny curls

Who welcome and trust them so.
For each must meet
Life’s bitter and sweet,

And bear it as best she may—
Alike for all,
The honey and gall

Are offered from day to day.

CHORUS.
Yet some will wed,
And some will dread,
And wander fancy free—
But whether they wed,
Or whether they dread,
’Tis all the same to me.

I’ve had my share
Of this earthly fare,

And I neither repine nor fret,
Though my tiny Skye,

With his honest eye,

1s the truest lover I’ve met.
Am I poor or rich?

He cares not which,

And he’s pretty as hecan be;
And he loves me still,
Through good and ill,

And he never lies to me.

CHORUS.
Yet some will wed,
And some will dread,

And wander fancy free~
But whether they wed,
Or whether they dread,

’Tis all the same to me.

e

ODDITIES OF PROMINENT WOMEN,

By J. Alexander Patten.

 

 

 

MRS. PRESIDENT ADAMS.—MRS. PRESIDENT MADISON,—
CALPURNIA AND FULYVIA, THE ROMAN WIVES.—
MRS. SHELLEY, THE AUTHORESS.

 

Mrs. John Adams, wife of the second President of
the United States, was a woman of some pleasant
peculiarities. She was the daughter of a New Eng-
land clergyman, and was a thoroughly practical and
economical woman. Many of her letters are filled
with the wisest reflections. At the same time she

 

 

 

 

 

 

ul Li - alia a
Adams took the now renowned East Room and hung
clothes-lines in it to dry her washing. Now let us
show the gayer side of her character in an extract
from aletter written by her in London in 1786, when
Mr. Adams was minister at the English court. It
was written to a niece. After other remarks, she
continues thus:

“‘And pray you,’ say you, ‘how were my aunt and
cousin dressed? If it will gratify you to know, you shall
hear.

“Your aunt, then, wore a full dress court cap, without
the lapels, in which there was a wreath of white flowers
and blue sheaves, two black and blue flat feathers (which
cost her half a guinea apiece, but that you need not tell of);
then pearl pins, bought for court, and a pair of pearl ear-
rings—the cost of them no matter what—less than dia-
monds, however. A sapphire blue demi-raison, with a
satin stripe sack, and petticoat trimmed with broad
black lace-crape flounces, leaves made of blue ribbon, and
trimmed with floss; wreaths of black velvet ribbon spot-
ted with steel beads, which are much in fashion, and
brought to such perfection as to resemble diamonds,
white ribbon, also in the Van Dyke Style, made up of the
trimming, which looked very elegant; a full-dress hand-
kerchief, and a bouquet of roses. ‘Full gay I think for
you, my aunt!’ ‘hat is true, Lucy, but nobody is old in

urope. I was seated next the Duchess of Bedford, who
had a scarlet satin sack and coat, with a cushion full of
frei for hair she has none, and is but seventy-six
neither.

Mrs. President James Madison was the daughter of
Quakers. Mr. Madison married her when the widow
of Mr. Todd, of Philadelphia, with one son. She
won all hearts in Washington by her sweetness of
character. Mr. Madison was cold, reserved, and
lofty, and much of his popularity was due to the gen-
tle characteristics of his wife. Before going to the
White House Mrs. Madison was entirely satistied
with a plain home, which was very plainly furnish-
ed. Her dress was never extravagant. Her table,
however, was so abundantly supplied that the wife
of a foreign minister ridiculed the enormous size
and number of dishes, saying:

“It was more like a harvest home supper than the
entertainment of a Secretary of State.”

Mrs. Madison keard of this and other remarks of the
same kind, but only answered, witha smile, ‘‘that she
thought abundance was preferable to elegance, that
circumstances formed customs, and customs formed
taste, and as the profusion so repugnant to foreign
customs arose from the happy circumstance of the
abundance and prosperity of one country, she did
not hesitate to sacrifice the delicacy of European
taste for the less elegant, but more liberal, fashion of
Virginia.”” Mrs. Madison never forgot a name nor a
face, and was quick tu recognize a person. At Mont-
pelier, Mr. Madison’s estate in Virginia, she was
especially devoted to his aged mother. When ninety-
seven this lady still retained all her faculties, but
had the bodily infirmities of age. “I am feeble and
helpless,” she said to a lady visitor, ‘‘and owe every-
thing to her,” pointing to Mrs. Madison. “She is my
mother now, and tenderly cares for all my wants.”
Says the visitor: “My eyes were filled with tears as
I looked from one to the other of these excellent
women. Never in the midst of the splendid drawing-
room, surrounded by the courtly and brilliant, the
admired and respected—herself the center of attrac-
tion, the object of admiration—never was Mrs.
Madison so interesting, so courtly, so estimable, as
in her attendance on her venerable mother-in-law,
whom she loved and honored with grateful affec-
tion.” Mr. Madison said that “his connection with
her was the happiest event of his life.” She died in
Washington, July 22, 1849, and her funeral was at-
tended by the highest officers of the government and
a large concourse of people.

Calpurnia, the fourth wife of Cesar, was remark-
able for some peculiarities, especially compared with
other Roman women. ‘No one could perceive,” says
a biographer, ‘any difference between Calpurnia,
wife of Cesar, Senator of Rome, and Calpurnia, con-
sort of the master of the world. Mildness, gentle-
ness, affability, and fortitude were her distinguish-
ing characteristics. ;

When she heard of the assassination of her hus-
band she was filled with the deepest grief, but pro-
nounced in the rostre his funeral eulogium. She
eloquently expressed her affection tor the deceased ;
her sense of his great qualities; her respect for his
memory, and her sorrow for his loss. She also de-
clared that a loss such as hers admitted of no repara-
tion. In conformity to this sentiment she passed the
remainder of her lifein mourning, secluded in the
home of Mark Antony, to whom she intrusted
the treasures and papers of Cesar, that he might be
the better enabled to avenge his death.

How different was Fulvia, the wife of Antony. Her
fury was so excited against Cicero, the great orator,
that when his hewed-off head and hands were car-
ried to Rome, she drove her hair-pin through the
ei, which had denounced the iniquities of both
her husbands.

Mrs. Mary Wollstonecroft Godwin Shelley wrote
the wild and powerful romance of “Frankenstein,
or the Modern Prometheus,” an immortal produc-
tion. In childhood and womanhoed she was strange-
ly given to dreaming and mystery. “As a child,”

 

  
  
  

d my favorite
for recreation
earer pleasure
of castles in the
the following
or their object
.’ In the sum-
Mrs. Shelley
va. They went
week of rain
ading German

she relates herse
pastime during th
was to ‘write stories.’ —
than this, which wa
air, tbe indulging of
up of trains of thoi
the formation of ii
mer of 1816 Lord ¥
lived on the banks of
on boating excursi;
amused themselve
ghost stories.

It was agreed that
in imitation of the 0
Byron to Mrs. Shelley
He then began his ta
ing the whole arran
story to them one e

Mrs. Shelley surp
tery of her conceptions, |\ a before or since
has so completely pas the bounds of
female imagination, In. spect her oddity
stands alone, and p that it should
doso. Frankenstei nt who pores
over books of physi emical experi-
ments, and visits even es of the dea
and dissecting rooms, nd nights of in-
credible labor and fi ds in discover-
ing the cause of gen Nay, more; he
becomes capable of tion on lifeless
matter. He creates innumerable trials
and revolting experim i) s principle of life is
actually infused into sic figure of clay eight
feet in height. His fee ‘ : I
sults are powerfully de . But the most strik-
ing isthe manner in. which Mrs. Shelley has de-.
scribed her own emot? @ewhen the plot of the story
ae first seized or con’phended by her imagina-
t

    
 

    

  

  

  

 

 
   

     

 

  

 

ite something
I,” said Lor

urs together.”
ire.” and hav-
, repeated the

    
   
  

 
   
  
  
 

he awful mys-

 
 
 
 
 
 
  
   
   
   
   
 
  
 
   
    
 
  
     
     
  
     

1 reaching these re-

 

      
 

 

ou, —

In authorship she was’@ woman who seemed to
unsex herself. That kind of imagination which
would naturally afright a woman, absorbed and de-
lighted her. She made a study of horrors. She
analyzed the mysteries of life, death, and corrup-
tion, and at no point seemed to feel a single emo-
tion of womanly repugnance,

o<«—

Josh Billings’ hilosophy.

          
 
   
  
   
   
     
   
    
      
     
   
   
    
   
       
    
 
    
  
   
  

.

 

 

BILLINGSISMS.

It iz an old truism, that it iz eazier to manage the
publick than an individual, just az it iz eazier to
drive 10 geese than it iz one.

Prudence iz sumtimes merely a negative virtew—
he who goes barefoot to saye his shoes iz the very
pink ov prudence. ;

Puns are a kind ov bas witicisms.

. The gloryoy man lies notin hiz perfekshun, but
in the square heel and toe race he makes to eskape
his pashuns.

Knolledge without cha’
and pashunee without a
doubtfull possesshions. Rathy S$

Lerning iz valuable just in proporshun to the
kind it iz, and in the manner we uze it.

Ii the power to do evil waz equal to the desire, it
would be impossible to civ mankin¢

Originality iz natral strength, but it haz az menny
grades az thare are rounds jn a ladder.

_The man who never trusts to fortune iz more cun-
ning than wize.

_, Fully one haff the amb
itself in quackery ov sum ;

Punktuality iz a dubble duty, haff ov it we owe to
ourselfs, and the ballance to the other phellow.

Modesty iz the delikate shadow that virtew kasts.

Idle people hay no lezzure} they lead a life ov aktiv
lazyness. =

Excess oy caushun iz of
safety as sheer karlessness

If the marters of virtew were haff az numerous,
and haff az up and doing az the marters ov deviltry,
we could prognostikate with safety that the mil-
lenium waz moving this way,

Sooner or later all lies must evaporate; even an-
I » konsekrate one yet.
Thare iz nothing more conmon than excuses, and

. honesty without force,
rpose, are weak, if not

n ov mankind wastes

az mutch oppozed to

    
    
 

 

 
 

 

 

yet I don’t rekolekt ov heating haff a dozen good |
ones in all mi life. NI ee

 
 

If thoze people who retge} from the world would
only tell us that they hav jgy: got virtew enuff to liv
in it, we should hav a¥iigher opinyun ov their
philosophy and philanthrey.

Experience iz the oldest and most arbitrary ov the
pedagogues. ‘ ae

A dandy iz a taylor’s puppet.

e+.

WHY AN INDIAN NEVER SWEARS.

—

 
 

 

 

By J. H. Williams. |

ee

A lecturer on “Life Among the Red Men,” in re-
counting the virtues of the savage, said: “An In-
dian never swears.”

And, fellow-sinners, he doesn’t have to.

He has no provocation to indulge in this soothing
habit of civilized and Christian peoples.

The noble red man is never presented with a bill
for fifteen dollars worth of gas burned during the
three months he and his family were reveling in
the gayeties and frivolities of fashionable life at
Saratoga, and had the gas turned off at the meter.

The dusky child of the forest never experienced
the aggravation of having a water-pipe burst in the
second story of his wigwam at midnight, and find-
ing the plaster soaked off the ceiling in the room
below next morning, and his grand piano ruined a
hundred dollars’ worth, and the chairs, andastring
of scalps, and other articles of bric-a-brae floating
around in promiscuous recklessness, and at the
same time realized that the plumber would come
and tear up all the floors before he found the leak,
and send ina bill for forty-two dollars and sixty-
eight cents! ‘ :.

The painted savage does not go out in the back
yard to chop wood, and catch theax in the clothes-
line overhead, and nearly split himself wide open.

The untutored denizen of the plains never shat-
tered his toe-nails from alphato omegain an enthu-
siastic endeavor to kick the first of April brick off
the sidewalk and send it whirling across the street,
and limp about on crutches two weeks subsequently.

A “ward of the nation” never stepped on a loose
brick in the pavement aftera heavy shower, when
he was gorgeously attired in light cassimere pan-
taloons and low shoes, and foreed astream of coffee-
colored water up his trouser leg and over his pale-
tinted hose, inducing the belief that he had struck
a mud-geyser, :

Oh, no; an Indian has nooccasion to indulge in
swearful profanity. ‘

He never comes home from the lodge at the
twelfth run and thirteenth breath, eold moon. and
finds the incorrigible and demoralized keyhole
achieving three hundred and forty thousand revo-
lutions per minute, and, after making two or three
dozen ineffectual attempts tojab his toothpick in
the migratory aperture, sees the door open sudden-
ly, and feels himself fiercely clutched by his wife,
who drags him upstairs and compels him to listen
te a lecture that is two hours passing a given point.

The red man never stepped on a banana-rind as
he was in the act of tipping his hat to a blonde per-
son of the seal-skin saecque gender, and come down
on the pavement on his spine with such powerful
emphaticness that the stars shim meringin the blue
dome of heaven over China were jarred loose by the
concussion, and went plunging through spaceina
very erratic INanner. E

The wife of a sealper of Lge eng never impor-
tunes him for two hundred dollars to purchase a
new spring bonnet, and striped stockings, and a
crimson Jersey, and long. mousquetaire eighteen-
button tan gloves, and Pompadour laces and
things. Hardly.

Nor does he promenade the main street with his
best girl, and hear her read the ice-cream signs
until the hint becomes so transparent and able-
bodied that it almost knocks him over end ways, and
he is led. like a lamb to the slaughter. into the ice-
cream caravansary, where he and his girl destroy
fifty cents worth of ice-cream; and when he puts
his hand in his pocket to liquidate the debt, makes
the startling discovery that he has left his pocket-
book at home in his second-best trousers.

The Indian doesn’t send his son to college to ac-
quire five hundred dollars’ worth of education, and
see him return home at the expiration of three
years wearing eel-skin pants, three-story shirt-
collars with a mansard roof, pointed shoes, and ex-
Ne ad hat. and a vacant expression,
and putting on more airs than a rural brass band
at an agricultural horse trot, and the biggest part

of the education concealed about his person con-
sisting of the art of playing buse-ball and smoking
cigarettes.

The Indian is not obliged, in order to please his
wife and keep the white dove of peace hoverin
over his domestic circle, to lug sixty-nine pots o
alleged flowers into the house and up into a third-
story, sun-exposed room at the first indication of
frost, and tote ’em all down again when gentle
spring comes again, and every flower as dead as an
average Presidential boom.

Hencely, brethren, why in the dickens should an
Indian swear.

And then please inspect the Indian language for
the short space of a brief period. Note how fruitful
it is of seven-syllabled. hyphenated, steel-toothed,
barbed-wire words, with ragged edges, pebble-
dashed gables, and an all-over air of zigzagged
ecussedness. A man who has such language within
reach to hurl about promiscuously would be a
seven-ply idiot to resort to profanity. Three or four
such words, hitched together with hyphens and vo-
ciferated vociferously into the atmospheric here-
aboutness, should suffice to relieve the pent-up
Utica of any man’s feelings when he inadvertently
utilizes his thumb-nail fora screw-driver, ora ton
of snow falls from a roof and lands on his neck.
To be sure, if the Indian was an editor, and, while
engaged in writing a leader om the “Political Out-
look,” was interrupted by an individual with long
hair, and a longer poem on *‘Summer Joys,” he
would want something more go-right-to-the-spot-
able than a fragment of Indian language to hurl
atthe intruder. He would want atomahawk. But
he wouldn’t swear.

There exists a musty old Indian legend which
has never appeared in print, and which is quite

apropos to the subject under consideration. It |

meanders in substance as follows, to wit:

In the seventh sleep of the planet moon the impos-
ing wigwam of Winky-wum, chief of the Flatuoses,
began to manifest signs of the usual semi-annual
outbreak of house-cleaning, If Winky-wum had
been a far-seeing Indian he would have gone off on
a tour of pleasure and recreation, scalping pale-
faces, and creating a deficiency in the stock of horses
and cattle owned by his enemies, and remained away
from home until the domestic cyclone had blown
over; but he was brave and reckless, and lingered
about the house during the reign of terror; and when
he stepped on a cake of soap which his wife ha
thoughtfully placed at the head of the stairs—so the
legend runs—his legs shot out from under him with
surprising and distressing hurriedness, and he only
touched one step in his terrifying journey to
the bottom. and when be landed on his occiput with
one leg pointing east and the other west, Mrs. Winky-
wum fied to the street, thinking a South American

earthquake had come to pay them a visit and brought |
its trunk along. Butshe soon discovered her error, |

and when She flew to the assistance of her husband
and asked, with a voice redolent of anxiety and nig-
ger-head tobacco, “Did you hurt yourself, dear?” he |
rubbed the back of his head and gently howled: |
““G-r-r-e At-Pohgamacookswampscotaquis-Ugh-ugh-
Blanki-Tiblank-Thu-Ndera-shun, woman!
think I came down that way for fun?”

But he didn’t swear.

The house-cleaning continued, and Winky-wum,
after gluing himself together with court-plaster,
and putting arnica where it would do the most good,
heroically assisted his wife to take up the carpcts.
And about midnight it came to pass that the chief’s
eight-months-old papoose emitted a wild, electrify-
ing wail for a dose of paregoric.

“There!” said Mrs. Winky-wum, propping herself
on one elbow, and nudging her husband in the ribs.

| little bieyeling is a good thing.
hundred i

| systems.

Did you and say: “I wis

}

Harkley Harker.

 

By

 

Had what ?

Why, the strength which I wasted ag a boy in
horse-play and tomfoolery. I wish, now that Jam
aman of so many cares and so exhaustive labors
which tax my bodily vigor every day to the utmost,
that I could but have some of the wasted strength
of boyhood.

How wasted ?

Well, for instance, when I was a boyjsh young
man it was my delight to grapple with the big porter
in our store and try to throw him over the counter.
Ah, what a strain that was! Iremember one day in
particular. Ididthe thing! Yes, I landed the por-
ter on his back across a line of goods. But I was
lame fora month after it. I got a kink in some
muscle of my back that has never quite got out,
from that day to this. I wish I had it back again—
the wasted museular power of that day. I say
wasted, because it did no good. What use to throw

breaker and load-carrier. I was a pone business
man, whose main hopes were my brains, and not
my muscles.

A company of young gentlemen, friends of mine,
are to ride bicycles from Chicago to Boston, in June.
It will take them two weeks, they calculate. Nowa
I Thirteen or fourteen
miles of it is too much. If these young
| fellows don’t see the day, before they are sixty
| years old, that they look back on the strength thus
thrown away, Iam mistaken.
| Inthe merchant’s future panic; in the lawyer’s
| future stress of a tremendous case that eats up his
| hours, and consumes his vigor like a cormorant; in
| the future years of a sick household up town, anda
| big business down town; in a season at Washing-
| ton, where the Senator must work all night with his
| committee, and speak like a Webster day after day
|in the Senate, these fellows will look back to the

 

| dreds of miles and say: “I wish I had it now.”
In my college days I saw giants training for
stroke oarsmen. I saw men overstrain themselves

jon those crews for the glory of a day, who have —

It is not the
champion base-ball player of college days who can
endure the most professional fatigue in active life,
'as Isee them about me. The king of the gymna-
sium is not the king of the physicians, or bar, or
editorial-rooms. Almost invariably these cham-
pions overstrained their uervous and muscular
They have halted lame ever since. You
may be sure ney look back on that boyish strength
I had it now.”

_Development of muscle is one of the most scien-
tifie things inthe world. You can carry it just so
'far—but stop before you. begin to waste. Most
| young men do not know when tostop. I know ofa
| young bank clerk who daily liftsa hundred-pound
/dumb-bell. He is a fool for doing it, Of course it
| is possible to train the vital force, the life principle,
'into the arms and shoulders till you ean lift one
| hundred pounds. But you have substracted just
| So much vital force from the brain and the dixes-
| tion; so that as you go k to your banking or

| been physical imbeciles ever since.

“I told you at the supper-table last night that if you | your dinner, you are out of pocket just so much
I

fed that child too much bear meat soup it wouldn’t |
sleep well. Get up quick! You will find some |
matches on the mantel, or on the stand, or in the top |
bureau drawer, or in the bath-room on the window |
sill, or somewhere.”

:

vital force as you overstrained. you compel
yourself to go on with this banking for the day—as
you, indeed, may—you borrow of to-morrow. Some-
time the books must be balanced, and you_will ex-
claim, in regret over those dumb-bells: “I wish I

Winky-wum sprang out of bed rather tumult- | had that wasted strength.”

ously, and trod on the vice versa end of a carpet |

tack, and the iron entered his sole to the depth of
half an inch, and he clasped and hugged the in-
jured foot with both hands, and danced frantically
abont the room in the dark on one leg until his nose
collided with a half-open door, and Mrs, W
wum, without a particle of punctuation, cried:

“My goodness gracious what in the world are you
doing anyhow and will that child never stop secream-
ing the paregoric bottle is on a shelf behind the

inky- | most boys spend all these

It isa rare thing to find a young man—say a boy
or a youth, for care should go back as far as that—
| who can be made to realize how much he is going to
| needa good stomach by and by. Good eyes, sound
nerves, good sleeping ability, by and by. Hence
orces of nature with a
They easily recuperate from any ex-

prodigal hand.
A good night’s sleep seems to make up

| cess at first.
for four nights of carousal. But the facts are that
the recovery is taken off the other end of life.

    
      
    
  

 

   

door or somewhere why don’t you strike a light?” | Eighteen years has borowed of fifty years. The ac-

 

And the Pet ient chief, as he stumbled over a rock- |
ing-chuir, lifted up his voice and ejaculated: |
“ 0-0-0-0-u-ch-passaxora-mitee-quoitmulgeeko

       
 
     

ow a wee Pete .«
ment, LO nh case His hold s

admirable arrang slipped
and the stove journeyed down stairs and mashed

mother for his children. But the woman struggled
nobly with her end. and didn’t have
back but a trifie, while her husband was bent nearly
double all the time; and at the critical moment,
when the last joint in his spinal column was about
to snap with a dull thud, Mrs. Winky-wum crowded
him by forging ahead too rapidly, and he
end of the stove down on his best toe, and howled
some of the most frightful-looking words in the
Indian language, which so startled his wife that she
uplifted her end as high as she could, and threw
about seventeen more tons on his toe, and he cried

*“Wh-e-e-e-w-Goshakukanueck eueto-keugomoc-

riporaris!

But he didn’t swear.
He didn’t have to!

—_—_—_—__re

FIFTY DOLLARS A DAY.

By Kate Thorn.

 

 

 

The easiest way to make a living that we know
of is to canvass for a newspaper.

The advertisements of the newspaper which is
“to be introduced into every family in the land,”
through your efforts, tell you that you can easily
make fifty dollars a day in your own town; and you |
needn’t get up early, either. Everybody will rush |

names, and the names of all their aunts and cous-
ins on your list.

ing the paper.

suffering an irreparable loss, whether conscious of

it or not. |

The newspaper you want to select, for which to |
eanvass and make fifty dollars a day in your own!
town, should be one which gives chromos. If it
ean throw in a dictionary, or two, s0 much the bet-
ter. You should be able to offer the paper at a dol-
lar a year, and the echromos should be worth five
dollars; and if there bea dictionary, it should be
one, pronounced by competent judges, fully equal
to Webster’s unabridged.

You want to study up some fine phrases when you
go among the country people. You will need some
clean paper collars, a ring as large as you can get
at a ninety-cent store, a watch chain which makes

a good show,and a tall hat. You should dress well,
to give people the impression that business is
flourishing with you, and you are earning fifty dol-
lars a day so fast that you have to lay awake nights
to plan how you shall invest your money.

ou must not mind it if people are a little cool
at first. Some folks will be blind to their own in-

‘terests.

Always go to the front door, and stand there and
ring till somebody comes. They will be sure to
eome at last, rather than have the door-bell pulled
out by the roots. Don’t let them play the old trick
on you by pretending not to be at home. Boldness
and perseverance are what you need.

If they set the dog on you, don’t be surprised.
Dogs must be kept in practice on somebody, and
you should be willing to do your part in the world.

The fifty dollars a day should compensate you for
everything. :

You must be bland to all creation. You must be
ready to agree to all kinds of religion and politics.
Don’t argue. Smile on the children, and tell them
they are little angels; and then, after changing the
eee for a few moments to something else, ex-
elaim:

“Why, madam, how strongly your little girl re-
sembles you! The likeness is perfectly wonderful!”

_If that won’t induce her to subscribe, nothing else

will, unless you can manage to find out who her
female rival in that vicinity is, and declare that you
never saw so plain a woman.
_ You want to be polite to everybody. If the cat
jumps on your knee, smooth her fur the right way,
and let her claw your knees to put an edge on her
nails, and remember it is all a part of the way to
earn fifty dollars a day.

Yes, young man, if you want to make an honest
living easy, canvass for a newspaper, and if you
don’t retire at the end of five years with money
enough to buy the Union Pacific Railroad, then
thers must be something wrong about your system,
or else you have selected a bad territory in which

 

| to earn fifty dollars a day.

his wife as flat as a cough lozenge, he would be left | whieh 1 o a ife
a lone widower, to waltz around in seareh of a new | good, cat eee Sheath ii 1 ee

ut his le

in agony: . |

Thunderan-lightningandcon -Dem-Nationtoblazes- |
D’ye want to kill me, woman!” |

 

las his way; but no doubt

You will be doing the world a service in introdue-
It is filled with original matter—all |
newspapers pride themselves on being entirely |

original—and the family who do not havo it are | swrer BroTHERs & Co., of the Union Stock Yards,

i

 

count of physical endurance is, by 80 much, over-

  

 

Gs

need | H Newlth a ‘ew 300d wife to a good man
and a true mother to children. Next+to beanty of
character there is nothing so charming, nothing

   
      
      
   
 
  

 

|

1

  

tion. If it were a choice between health and school-

to bend her ing for a little girl no wise parent ought to hesitate
¢

_@ moment whi

2 to sacrifice. The coming ages will
be in debt to the parents who carefully guard the
‘health of their little girls and boys to-day.
| One of the greatest lessons of life is to economize
arly. Before you break witha friend think ahead.
| The time will come in this friendless world when
/yon will say of that friendship, “I wish I had it
/now.” Don’t sacrifice the respect and esteem of
;men for your youth. You'll need all the confidence
| in you that you can muster.in men’s minds by and
by. You’ll want to borrow money; you'll want to
| geta reer you'll be trying to start a company.
t will be a great thing then never to have hada
break in your career; never a blot, a year of wild
oats or wrong-doing. It will be a great thing if men
can say that future ay. “Why. yes; we have known
him from boyhood. He was always a good boy. He
must be a trustworthy man, for the boy is father to
the man.” No doubta wild pene may repent and
e will ever say with
envy, as he regards some fellow whuse youth was

 
 
     
 
 

| clean and now is his best backer, “Alas! I wish I

had it.”
It is easy enough to throw away wealth. It is easy
toemptyacup. But after that, what? Keep all the

| wealth and strength, all the talents, all the virtues

with which you start life in youth’s fair morning.
You will need it all before yougetthrough. Let all
exercise add—not subtract. My advice is that you
keep the title of this article in mind. Imagine your-
self a score of years older, once in awhile. Look at
things as you will look at them then. Then trust
God. and come on, out into the cares amid which

with open arms to meet you, and put down their | the writer now stands, with good hopes of success.

>o~

DRESSED BEEF FROM CHICAGO.

 

| A marked effect upon the prices of peef has been
| caused, all over the country, by the enterprise of

Chicago. They have established more than one hun-
dred branch offices, in as many prominent cities
throughout the Union, for the sale of their dressed
| beef, which is prepared for the market in their main
| depot, in the metropolis of the West.

So rapidly has this business advanced, under the
| wise and energetic management of the SwirtT
| BROTHERS, that last year they killed 331,000 head

| of cattle, and disposed of the meat through their

| various agencies. The cattle are dexterously killed
| by the most approved process, artistically carved

|;and dressed, and the meat is stowed in huge re-
| frigerators constructed on scientifie principles. These
| refrigerators are at once simple and ingenious. At
| the top is a warm air chamber, toward which the air

: from the beef is always in motion, thus securing an
: unceasing current of fresh air from the external at-
; mosphere. By means of this warm-air chamber, the
| air surrounding the beefis always fresh and sweet,
| and all impurities arise and pass away.

| _ When the beef is thoroughly cooled, and is needed
| for transportation, it is placed in A. B. Chase’s re-
| nowned refrigerator cars and conyeyed to its des-
| tination. SwikT BROTHERS own 805 of these ears,
| Which are said to be the best in use. In them the
' beef can be transported thousands of miles, and in
| a8 fresh condition as when it began the journey.

| The superiority of beef dressed in Chicago is con-
| ceded. The meat is more tender than that of cat-
| tle conveyed alive from the West, and is certainly
more wholesome. It is well understood that long
journeys in confined cars cause fever and other dis-
eases to cattle, and toughen the meat. The injuri-
ous effect is otherwise evident in a marked loss of
flesh. By killing at the West, so near the source of
supply, the loss of weight by transportation is
avoided, and the economy of the plan is evident.
As there is no loss in transit, and as only the sal-
able parts are transported, the SwIFT BROTHERS
and their patrons can undersell all conpetetors who
deal in beef which is conveyed alive from the West,
Saeeng expense and care all along the journey.
All this trouble and outlay are avoided by the Swirt
BROTHERS. No wonder their business is rapidly ex-
tending, for they are supplying a want long felt—
fresh and tender dressed beef at reasonable rates.

—__—_—_—_——_ 9

ticket speculators, who are said to make more
money than the footlight favorites, and certainly
with less trouble and less brains, but more brass.
' The envious actors seriously think of renouncing

 

| the stage, joining the managers’ pool, and securing

licenses as ticket peddlers.

 

 

the big bully? He was a man of muscle, a box-.

| endurance throw away on the bicycle rides of hun- ©

 

 

  
  
 

drawn. If this little word of mine would only in- _

Some of our theatrical stars are envious of the

 

 

 

     
     
   
   
    
      
  
    
      
       
 
      
  
   
 
    
    

 

 

 

i ER oop

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

a end

eh MNS tS

tS

ft

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER THE RAIN.

BY HARRIETT STOCKALL.

 

 

The welcome summer rain has passed away,
The royal sun reigns o’er blue realms once more ;
Though here and there a patch of sober gray
Reminds us of the storm so lately o’er.
The queenly rose resumes her native grace,
And shakes the rain-drops from her blushing cheek ;
The pure, white bindweed lifts her happy face,
And turns toward the sun with glances meek.
_ *Neath heaven’s blue canopy soft breezes pass,
On scented wings, still sweetening as they move,
And whisper to the happy meadow grass
And happier flowers their tale of changeless love;
And birds burst forth the freshened woods among,
Lark, merle, and robin in a gush of song.

So when the rain of grief has passed away,
And joy’s glad sun has made life’s picture fair—

Though in the firmament some tints of gray,
Some pleading fears and galling doubts may share—

‘Then rosy pleasures hand in hand arise, a
And summon pride to lay the dead past low,

And pure white hope looks up with happy eyes,
Asif on earth were no such thing as woe.

Then dreams and yearnings o’er the future years,
Spring into being from the busy brain,

And wondrous fabrics fairy fancy rears,

_ Peopled with forms as beautiful as vain,

And melodies where Hope and Love take part,

Ring through and through the chambers of the heart.

——_—_—__ > @—<$_____-

Cc: ipl Se

ACTRESS! DAUGHTER :
The Mistress: Rho House,

By MRS. MAF AGNES FLEMING,
AUTHOR OF
“Wedded, Yet No Wife,” “A Wonderful Woman,”
“Norine’s Revenge,” “Silent and True,” “A
Mad Marriage,” “One Night’s Mystery,”
“Carried by Storm,” etc., etc.

 

(“The Actress’ Daughter” was commenced in No. 22.
Back numbers can be obtained of all Newsdealers. ]

CHAPTER IX.—(CoNnTINUED.)

The stranger hurried on with the rest, and a very
few minutes brought him te the beach, already
thronged with the alarmed neighbors. On a high
rock stood Miss Jerusha, wringing her hands and
gesticulating wildly,and more wildly urging the
men togo to Georgia’s assistance, going through all
the phases of the potential mood. “‘exorting, com-
manding, entreating,” in something aiter the fol-
lowing fashion:

“Oh, she’ll be drownded! she’ll be drownded! I
know she will, and sarve her right, too—a ventur-
some, undutiful young hussy! Oh, my gracious!
what are you al! a-standing here for, a-doing noth-
ing, and Georgey drownding? Go right off this
minit and git a boat and goafter her. There! there!
she’s down now! No, she’s up again, but she’s sar-
tin to be drownded, the infernally young fool! Oh,
Pete Jinking! you derned lazy old coward! get out
your boat and go arter her! Oh, Petei you’rea
nice old man! do go arter her! There! nowshe’s
upsot! No, she’s right end up agin, but next time

she sure togo! Oh, my conscience! won’t none en
ye arter her, you miserable set of sneakin’ cow-
ards you! Oh, my stars and garters! what a life I
lead long o’ that there derned young gal!”

“There’s no boat to be had,” said ‘‘Pete Jinking,”
andif there was, Miss Georgia’s skiff would live
where a larger one would go down. If she can’t
manage it no one can.”

“Oh, yes! talk, ik: talk! git it off your own
shoulders, you cow: old porpoise, you! afraid
to venture where a delikay young gal does. Oh,
Georgey, you blamed young pore vod. wait till I
catch hold of you!” said Miss Jerusha, wringing her
hands in the extremity of her distress.

“She has reached him! she has reached him!
There, she has him in the boat!” cried the stranger,
excitedly. :

‘and she bas got him! she has got him! Hurra!
hurra! hurra!”’ shouted the crowd on the shore, as
they breathlessly shaded their eyes to gaze across
the foaming waters.

Steering her light craft with a master-hand, Geor-

a had reached the rock barely in time, for scarcely

ad the lad leaped into the boat when a huge wave
swept over the rocks, and not one there but shud-
dered at the death he had so narrowly escaped.

But the occupants of the skiff were far from safe,
and a dead silence fell on all as they hushed the very
beating of their hearts to watch. She had turned its
head toward the shore, and bending her slight form
to the ears, she pulled vigorously against the dash-
ing waves. Now poised and quivering on the top-
most crest of some large waves, now sinking down,
down, far down out of sight nntil they feared it
would never rise, yet, still re-appearing, she toiled
bravely. Her long, wild, black hair unbound by the
wind, streamed in the breeze, drenched and drip-
ping with sea-brine. On and on toiled the brave
girl, nearer and nearer to the shore she came, until
at last, with a ge tf shout, that burst involun-
tarily from their relieved hearts, a dozen strong
hands were extended, caught the boat, and pulled it
far up on the shore. And then “Hurrah! hurrah!
Hurrah for Georgia! hurrah for Georgia Darrell!’
burst from every lip, and hats were waved, and the
cheer arose again and again, until the welkin rang,
and the crowd pressed around her, shaking hands,
and ee aes her, and hemming her in, until,
half laughing, hb impatient, she broke from them,
exclaiming:

“There, there, good folks, that will do—please let
me pass. Mrs. Smith, here is your naughty little
boy; you will have to take better care of him for
the future. Uncle Pete, will you just look after my
skiff, and bring those oars up to the house? My
clothes are so heavy with the wet that they are as
much asl can ecarry. Now, Miss Jerusha, don’t be-
gin to scold; Iam not drowned. you see, so it will

alla waste of ammunition. Come along; I want
to_get out of this crowd.”

atigued with her exertions, pale and wet, she
toiled wearily up the bank, very unlike herself.
The stranger, muffled in his black brigandish-
looking cloak and slouched hat, stood motionless
watching her, and Georgia glanced carelessly at
him and passed on. Strangers were not much of a
novelty in Burnfield now, so this young, distin-
guished-looking gentleman awoke no surprise un-
til she saw him advance toward her with out-
srretched hand. And Georgia stepped back and
glanced at him in haughty amaze.

“Miss Darrell, you area second Grace Darling.
Allow me to congratulate you on what you have

do: tos day.

“You will not shake hands, Miss Darrell? And
velwe are not strangers.”
eo. bor under a mistake, sir! Ido not know

you! Will you allow me to pass?”

  
 

He stood straight before her, a smile curling his
mustached lip at her regal hauteur.

“And - five years, five short years, completely
omen d even the memory of Richmond Wild-
air’

“Richmond Wildair! Who was he?” she said, lift-
ing her eyes with cool indolence, and looking up
straight into the bronzed, manly face, from_which
he Mo) now taised. “Oh, I recollect! How do
you ' rot ,Come, Miss Jerusha; let me help you

stood fora moment transfixed. Had he ex-
to meet the impulsive little girl he had left?

expected this scornful young empress, with

lilling “who was he?”

did not notice his extended hand—that re-

 
 
  
   
 
  
 

min m of the child Georgia—but, taking Miss
Jerusha’s arm, walked with her up the path, the
Bones gad erect, but the springing step slow and
abored. —

He watched her a moment, and smiled. That
smile would haye reminded Georgia of other days
had she seen it—a smile that said as plainly as words
could speak, “You shall pay for this, my lady! You
shall find my power has not passed away.” |

It was a surprise to Georgia, this meeting, and
not a pleasant one. She recollected how he bad
mastered and commanded her in her masterless
childhood—a recollection that filled her with angry
indignation ;_a recollection that made her compress
aa ps, set her toot down hard, and involuntarily

  

   
   
 
 

 

clinch the small hand; a recollection that sent a
bright, pnery light to her black, flashing eyes, and a
hot, irritated spot burning on either cheek; and the
dark brows knit as he had often seen them do be-
fore as same resolutely up and stood on the other
side of Jerusha.

“An you, too, disown me, Miss Jerusha?’”’

 

| a look.of reproach, “Is Richmond
forgotten by all his old friends in

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

«<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #~

 

Miss Jerusha, who had not overheard his con-
versation with Georgia, faced abruptly round, and
looked at him in the utmost surprise.

“Why, bless my heart if it ain’t! Wall, railly now!
Why, I never! Georgey, don’t you reeommember the
young gent as you used to be so thick ’long of? Wal,
new! how do you do? Why, I’m rail glad to see you.
I railly am, now!” And Miss Jerusha shook his
hand with an empressement quite unusual with her
in her surprise.

“Thank you, Miss Jerusha. I am glad all my
friends have not forgotten me,” said Richmond.

eres lip curled slightly, and facing round, she
said:

“Miss Jerusha, if you’ll excuse me,I’ll goon. I
want to change this wet dress ;” and without wait-
ing for a reply, Georgia hurried on.

“What brings him here ?” she said to herself, as she
walked quickly toward the cottage. ‘I suppose he
thinks he isto be my lord and master as of yore,
that I am stilla slave to come at his beck, and be-
cause he is rich and I am poor he can command me
as much as he pleases. He shall not do it! he shall
not! I will never forgive him for conquering me,”
flashed Georgia, clenching her hand involuntarily as
she walked.

“And so you’ve come back! Wall, now, who’d a
aT It? Is the square got well and come back,
too?”

“My uncle is dead,” said the young man, gravely.

“Dotell! Dead,is he? Wall, we’ve all got to go
some time or another, so there’s no good making a
PS oe What’s going to come of the old place up
there ?”

“T am going to have it fitted up and improved, and
use it for a country-seat.”

“Oh—I see! it’s your’n,isit? Nice place itis, and
worth a good many thousands, I'll be bound! S’pose
you'll be gettin’ married shortly, and bringing a
wife there to oversee the sarvints, and poultry, and
things, eh ?’” and Miss Jerusha peered at him sharply
with her small eyes.

“Really, Miss Jerusha, I don’t know,” he said,
laughingly, taking off his hat and running his fingers
through his waving dark hair. ‘If I could get any
one to have me, I might. Do you think I could suc-
ceed in that sort of speculation here in Burnfield ?
The young ladies here know more about looking
after poultry than they do in the city.”

“Ah! they ain’t properly brought up there.” said
Miss Jerusha, shaking her head; “it’s nothin’ but
boardin’-schools, and beaus, and theaters, and other
wickednesses there; ’tain’t ekilto the country no-
ways. You’ll get a wife though, easy enough; young
mInen with lots of money don’t find much trouble
doing that, either in town or country. How’s that
nice brother o’ your’n ?” said Miss Jerusha, suddenly
recollecting the youth who had by force possessed
himself of so large a share of her affections.

‘‘He is very well, or was when I heard from him
last. He has gone abroad to make the grand tour.”

“Oh—has he?’ said Miss Jerusha, rather mysti-
fied, and not quite certain what new patent inven-
tion the grand tour was. ‘‘Why couldn’t he make it
at home?’ Then without waiting for an answer,
‘“‘Won’t you come in? do come in; tea’s just ready,
and you hain’t had a chance to speak to Georgey
yet, hey? You’re most happy. Very well, walk
right in and take acheer. You, Fly!”

“Yes’m, here I is,” cried Fly, rushing in breath-
lessly. and diving frantically at the oven.

‘“Where’s your young mistress ?”

AS stairs.”

“Well, you hurry up and get tea; fly round now,
willyou? Oh, here comes Georgey, Why, Georgey!
don’t you know who this is ?” :

Georgia gave a stuart of surprise, aud her face
darkened as she entered and saw him sitting there
so much at home.

Passing him with a distant courtesy she said, with
marked coldness:

“T have that pleasure. Fly, attend to your bak-

; Pll set the table.”

iss Jerusha was too well accustomed to the vary-
ing moods of her ward to be much surprised at this
eapricious conduct, so she entered into conversa-
tion with Richmond, or rather _—_ a raking cross
examination as to what he had been doing, where
he had been, ‘what he was going to do, and
last five years had been spent generally.

To all her questions Mr. Wildair replied with the
utmost politeness, but—he told her just as much as
he chose and no more. From this she learned that
he had been studying for the bar, and had been ad-
mitted, that his career hitherto had been eminently
successful, that his uncle’s death rendered him in-
dependent of his profession, but that having a pas-
sion for that pursuit he was still determined to con-
tinue it; that his brother’s health remaining deli-
eate, change of scene had been recommended, and
that therefore he had gone abroad and was not ex-
pected home for a year yet: that a desire to fit up
and poturn inh. the “House,” as it was called, par
excellence, in Burnfield, was the sole cause of his
leavin ashington—where for the past years
he had mostly resided—and finally, that his stay in
this flourishing township ‘depended on circum-
stances.”

It was late that evening when he went away.
Georgia had listened, and, es to Fly, had not
spoken half a dozen words, still wrapped in her
mantle of proud reserve. She stood at the window
when he was gone, looking out at the dark, flowing
waves.

“Nice young man,” said Miss Jerusha, approving-
ly, referring to her guest.

There was no answer. :

“Good-lookin’, too,” pusued Miss Jerusha, look-
ing reflectively at Betsy Periwinkle, “‘and rich.
Georgia—you’re fond of money—

Hem! I say,
leasant if you was to be mistress

in

ow the

wouldn’t it be
bime-by of the big house— hey?”
She looked up for an answer, but Georgia was

gone.
CHAPTER X,
DREAMING,
“ And underneath that face, like summer’s ocean,
Its lip as moveless and its cheek as clear,
Slumbers a whirlpool of the heart’s emotions—
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow, all save fear.”
HALLECK.

“Well, this is pleasant,” said Richmond, throwing
himself carelessly on the grass, and sending peb-
bles skimming over the surface of the river; ‘‘this
is pleasant,” he repeated, looking up at his com-
panion, as she sat drawing under the shadow of an
old elm down near the shore.

Three months had passed since his return, and
the glowing gonien midsummer days had come.
All this time he had been a frequent visitor at the
cottage—to see Miss Jerusha, of course; and very
gracious, indeed, was that lady’s reception of the
young lord of the manor. Georgia was freezing at
first, most decidedly below zero, and enough to
strike terror into the heart of any less courageous
knight than the one in question. But Mr. Richmond
Wildair was not easily intimidated, and took all her
chilling hauteur coolly enough, quite confident of
triumphing in the end. It was a drawn battle be-
tween them, but he knew he was the better general
of the two, so he was perfectly easy as to the issue.
In fact, he rather liked it than otherwise, on the
principle of the ‘“‘greater the trial, the greater the
triumph,” and, accustomed to be flattered and
caressed, this novel mode of treatment was some-
thing new and decidedly pleasant. So he kept on
‘never minding,” and visited the cottage often, and
talked gayly with Miss Jerusha, and was respectful
and quiet with Miss Georgia, until, as constant
dropping will wear a stone, so Georgia’s unnatural
stiffness began to give way, and she learned to ee
and grow genial again, but remained still on the
alert to resist any attempt at command. No such
attempt was made, and at last Georgia and Rich-
mond grew to be very good friends,

Georgia had a talent for drawing, and Richmond,
who was quite an artist, undertook to teach her, and
these lessons did more than anything else to put
them on a sociable footing. Richmond liked to give
his lessons out under the trees, where his pupil
might sketch from nature, and Georgia rather liked
it herself, too. It was very pleasant those lessons;
Georgia liked to hear about great cities, about this
rush, and roar, and turmoil, and constant flow of
busy life, and Richmond had the power of descrip-
tion in a high degree, and used to watch, with a sly,
repressed smile, pencil and crayon drop from her
fingers, and her eyes fix themselves in eager, un-
conscious interest on his face, as she grew absorbed
in his narrative.

Dangerous work it was, with pupil and master
young and handsome, the romantic sea-shore and
murmuring old trees for their_school-room, and
talking not forbidden either. How Miss Jerusha
chuckled over it in confidence to Betsey Periwinkle
—she didn’t dare to trust Fiy—and indulged in sun-
dry wild visions of a brand-new brown silk dress
and straw bonnet suitable for giving away a bride

in.

Little did_ Georgia dream of these extravagant
peeps into futurity, or the lessons would have end-
ed then and there, this new-fledged intimacy been
unceremoniously nipped in the bud. and Miss Jeru-
sha’s castles in Spain tumbled to the ground
with acrack! But Georgia.was in a dream and said
nothing. Richmond did, and laughed quietly over
it in the shadow of the old ancestral mansion.

“Yes, this is pleasant,” said Richmond, one morn-
ing, as he lay idly gn the grass, and Georgia sat on
oy trunk of a fallen tree near, taking her drawing

esson.

She lifted her head and laughed.

“What is pleasant?” she said.

"“This—this feeling of rest, of ease, of indolence,
of idieness. I never sympathized with ohare
love for the dolce far niente before, but in to
appreciate it now. One tires of this hurrying, bust-
ling, jostling, uproarious life in the city, and then
laziness in the country is considered the greatest of
earthly boons. All work and no play makes Jack a
dull boy, you know.”

“And do you really like the country better than
the city?” asked Georgia.

“T like it—yes—in slices, I shouldn’t fancy being
buried in the woods among catamounts, and pan-
thers, and settlers hardly less savage. Ishouldn’t
fancy sleeping in wigwams and huts, and living on
bear’s flesh and Johnny-cake; but I like this. I

like to lie under the trees, away out of sight and
hearing of the city, yet knowing three or four hours
in the cars will bring me to it whenever I feel like
going back. I like the feeling of languid repose
these still, voiceless, midsummer noondays inspire;
i a, to have nothing to do, and plenty of time to

o it in.” 3

“What an epicure you are,” said Georgia, smiling;
“now it seems to me after witnessing the ever chang-
ing, ever restless lifein Washington and New York,
and all those other great cities, you would find eur
sober little humdrum Burnfield insup ably dull.
I know I should; I would like above all things tolive
in a great city, life seems to be so fully waked up, so
earnest there. I shall, too, some day,” she said, in
her calm, decided way, as she took up another pencil
and went on quietly drawing. ; :

“Indeed!” he said, slowly, watching the pebbles he
sent skimming over the water as intently as if his
bps life depended on them. “Indeed! how is

at?" £

“Oh! I shall go to seek my fortune,” she said, laugh-
ingly, yet in earnest,too. ‘Do you not know lam
to Le rich and great? ‘Once upon atime there was a
king and a queen with three sons, and the youngest
was called Jack,’ I am Jack, and you know how
well he always came out at the end of the story.

“Georgia, you are a—dreamer.” —

“I shall be a worker one of oz days. My hour
has not yet come.” And Georgia hummed:

“T am asleep and don’t waken me.”

“What will you do when you awake, Georgia?”

“What Heaven and my own genius pleases: found
a colony, find a continent, make war on Canada, run
for President, teach a school,~set fire to Cuba, learn
ae or set up @ menagerie, with Betsey
Periwinkle for my stock in trade,” she said, with one
of her malicjous, quizzical laughs...

“Georgia, talk sense.”

“Mr. Wildair, I flatter myself I am doing that
now.” ~

“Miss Darrell, shall I tell yon your future ?”’

“T defy you to do it, sir.”

“Don’t be too sure. Now listen. In the first place,
you will get married.”

“No, sir-r!” exclaimed Georgia, with emphasis ; “I
scorn the insinuation! I am goiug to bean old maid,
like Miss Jerusha.” ,

“Don’t interrupt, Miss Darrell; it’s not polite.
You will marry some sweet youth with nice curling
whiskers, and his hair parted in the middle, and you
will mend his old coats, and read him the newspaper,
and trudge with him to market, and administer cur-
tain lectures, and raise Shanghai roosters, and take
a prize every year for the best butter and the nicest
quilts inthe county; and finally you will die, and
go up to heaven, where you belong, and have a
wooden tombstone erected to your memory, with

our virtues inscribed on it in letters five inches

ng.

“Shall I, indeed! that’s all you know about it,”
said Georgia, half inclined tobe provoked at this
picture; ‘no, sir; Iam boundto astonish the world
some of these days—how I haven’t quite decided.
but IknowI shall do it. As for your delightful
picture of conjugal ta may be a Darby

some day, but I will never be a Joan.”

‘You might be worse.” é

*‘And will be, doubtless. I never expect to be any-
thing very good. Emily Murray will do enough of
that for both of us.” | ;

“Emily is a good girl. Do you know what she re-
minds one of ?” f =

“A fragrant little spring rose, I imagine.”

“Yes, of that, too; but she is more like the river
just now as it flows on smooth, serene, untroubled
— shining, smiling in the sunshine, unruffied and
calm.”

“And I am like that same river lashed to furyina
pees storm,”’ said «Georgia, with a darkening

row.

“Exactly—pre-cisely! though you are quiet enough
now; but as those still waters must be lashed into
tempests, just so certain will you——”

“Mr. Wildair, I don’t relish your personalities,’
said Georgia, with a flushing cheek and kindling

eye. ;
*“§ ote your pardon—it was an ungallant speech—
but I did not know you cared for compliments.
What shall I say you look t—some gorgeous
tropical flower?” <r es

“No, sir! you sha
gia Darrell looks lil
yeu like my drawi
He took it and 1

       
   
    
   
 
     
 
 
     

nothing!. Geor-
There! how do

b hair and
thin garments stre

er in t e wind,
her hands clasped, herjeyes strain-
‘ed in horror far oy , ce dt the sea on
a drowning form. 3 8

ace rose a
full of a terrible,
woe as no fancy
1 ever have con-
r over her head
in that strange

the devouring waves—
nameless horror, desp
less vivid than that o
ceived. One arm wa
in the death-strugg
face were appalling

Richmond Wildairl
looked up in Georgia’

“Georgia! Georgia
name were you thin
She laughed.
“Don’t you like it,
“Like it! You’re
unearthly changelin
conjured up that bloc
been painting portrai
“T did not when f L
when they were doné.” —

“And life-like ee aits they are, too. That kneel-
ing girl is Emily Murray, though her sweet face
never wore that look of wild horror you have pic-
tured there, And that other ghastly, agonized
countenance, that seems rent by a thousand fiends,
is——”

“Myself.”

“Oh, Georgia! what spirit possessed you to paint
that awful face?” |

“How doI know? The eget of prophecy, per-
haps,” she said, in a tone of dark gloom.

nee Darrell, do you know what you deserve?”

“No, sir.” | t

“Then I shall tell you. You ought to be locked
in an attic, and fed on bread and water for a month,
to cool the fever in your blood.”

“Thank you; I would rather be excused. And
now I come to think of it, it couldn’t have been the
spirit of prophecy either that inspired me, for your
brother Charles once told me that I would never be
drowned.” sa

“No? How did he know it ?” :

**He said a more elevated destiny awaited me—

anging.” i

“What if he turns out atrue prophet?”

“T shall not be surprised.”

“You will not?”

“Most certainly not.
der, don’t they?”

**Well!l” she repeated, mimickin
i to be the death of some

ays.” i

He knew she spoke lightly, yet suddenly there
rushed to his mind the recollection of the conver-
sation he had once held with his brother, in which
he compared her to Lady Macbeth, and declared his
belief_in her capability of committing that far-
famed lady’s crime. Strange that it should come
back to him so vividly and painfully then.

“Well, signor,’” said the clear, musical voice of
Georgia breaking in upon his reverie, ‘of what is
your serene highness thinking so intently? Do you
fear you are to be the future victim ?”’

“Georgia!”

“T listen, mynheer.”’

“Suppose you loved somebody very much——”’

“A mighty absurd supposition to begin with. I
never intend to do any such thing.”

“Now, Georgia, be serious. Suppose you loved
some one with all your heart, if you possess such an
article, you flinty female anaconda, and they pro-
fessed to love you and afterward deceived you, what
would you do?”

“Do!” her face darkened, her eyes blazed, her lips
ee quivering apart, her hands clenched; ‘‘do! I
should BLAST them with my vengeance; I would
live for revenge, I would die for revenge! I
would track them over the world like a sleuth-
hound. I would defy even death by the power
of my own will until I had wreaked this doom on
their devoted head. Deceive me! Safer would it
be to tamper with the lightning’s chain than with
the heart that beats here.”

She struek her breast and rose to her feet trans-
formed! The terrific look that had startled him in
the pictured face flamed up in her living one now,
and she stood like a young Medusa, ready to blight
all on whom her dark, scorching glance might rest.

He stood appalled before her. Was she acting, or
was this storm of passion real? It wasa relief to
him to see one of his own servants approaching at
that moment with a letter in his hand. The pres-
ence of a third person restored Georgia to herself,
and leaning aguinst a tree, she looked darkly over
the smiling, shining waters. :

“From Charley!” was Richmond’s eo excla-
mation, as he glanced at the superscription of the
letter and dismissed the man who brought it. ‘‘It
is nearly six months since he wrote last, and wo
were all getting seriously uneasy about him, Will
you excuse me while I read it, Georgia?” |

Georgia bent her head in token of acquiescence,
und taking up another ere of paper, began care-
lessly drawing a scaffold, with herself hanging, to
horrify her companions. So absorbed did she be-
come in her task, that she did not observe the long
silence of her companion, until, suddenly lifting
her eyes, she beheld astartling sight.

With the letter clutched witha soeameeny in his
hand, his face livid, his brow corrugated, his eyes
fixed, his whole form rigid and motionless, he sat
with his eyes riveted on that fatal letter.

 

she gazed, and
sort of fear.
hat in mercy’s
rou drew that?”

e said.
ie! a witch! an

   
     
 

   

   
 

‘They hang people for mur-

his tone, “I ex-
y one of these

 

In all her life Georgia had never seen the calm,

4

self-sustained Richmond Wildair moved, and now
—oh, this was awful! She sprang to his side and
caught his arm, crying out: :

“Richmond! Richmond! oh, Richmond! what is
the matter?”

He lifted his eyes with a hollow groan.

“Oh, Georgia!”

“Richmond! oh, Richmond! is Charley dead?”

Dead? No! Would he were!” he said, with pas-
sionate bitterness.

“Oh, Richmond, this is terrible! What has your
brother——” ‘

“Brother! it is false!” he exclaimed, fiercely,
springing to his feet; ‘he is no brother of mine!”

“Good gracious! Richmond. what has he done?”

Done!” he repeated, furiously; “he has_ dis-
graced himself, disgraced us all—done what I will
never forgive.”

It was the first time Georgia had ever heard him
utter such language. Asa gentleman, he was not
in the habit of staining his lips with expletives,
and now even her strong nature shrank, and she
shuddered.

“Oh, what has Charley done? What can he have
done? He so frank, so kind,so warm-hearted? Oh,
he caunot have committed a crime! It is impossi-
ble,” cried Georgia, vehemently.

“It is not impossible!—lost, fallen, degraded
wretch! Oh, mercy! that I should have lived to see
oP at Oh, who—who shall tell my mother

is

“Richmond, be calm—I implore you.
what he has done ?”

“What you shall never know—what I shail never
tell you!” he cried, passionately.

_ The color retreated from Georgia’s very lips, leav-
ing her white as marble.

“Tf it is murder—”

“Murder! That might be forgiven! A man may
kill another in the heat of passion and be forgiven.
Murder, robbery, arson, all might be forgiven; but
this! oy Georgia, ask me not! I feel as if{I should
go mad.”

What had he done, what awful erime was this that
had no name, before which, in Richmond’s eyes,
even murder sank into insignificance.

Georgia stood appalled; while Richmond, with the
fatal letter crushed in his hand. strode up and down
as if he were indeed mad. Then, as his eye fell on
the familiar handwriting, his mood changed, and he
passionately exclaimed:

“Ob, Charles! Oh, my brother! Would you had
died ere you had come to this.
loved him so! every one loved him so! and now—
and now!”

He turned away and shaded his eyes with his
hands, while his strong chest heaved with irrepres-
sible emotion.

Every tender, womanly feeling in Georgia’s heart
was stirred, and she went over and took his hand in
hers, and said, gently:

“Mr. Wildair, things may not be so bad as you
suppose. I am sure they are not. Icould stake my
soul on the innocence of Charles Wildair. Oh, it is
impossible, absurd, he can be guilty of any crime.
The Charley Wildair I once knew can never have
fallen so low. Oh, Richmond, I feel he is innocent.

know heis.”

“Georgia, I thank you for your sympathy: it is
my best consolation now; but I am not deceived;
heis guilty; he has confessed all. And now, Georgia,
I never want to hear his name mentioned again;
never speak of him to me more. I must go home
now: I must be alone, for this shock has quite un-
manned me, Do not speak of this to any one.
Farewell!”

He pressed her hand. pulled his hat down over
nS Sree and started off in the direction of Burn-

eld.

Lost in amaze, Georgia stood watching him until
he was out of sight, and then resumed her seat on
the grass, to think over this strange scene, and
wonder what possible crime Charley Wildair had
committed. It was hard to associate with any crime
the memory of the handsome, happy, generous boy
she remembered; but it must be so. He confessed
it himself; his brother, who passionately loved him,
branded him with it; therefore it must beso. Whiie
she sat thinking, two soft hands were placed over
her eyes, and a silky eur] touched her cheek. |

“Emily,” said Georgian, quietly, without moving.

“Yes, that same small individual,” said a sweet
voice; and our fair Emily came from behind her,
and threw herself down on the grass by her side.

“Where did you drop from?” asked Georgia, not
exactly delighted at the interruption.

“Not from the clouds, Lady Georgia. I went to
the cottage, and learned from Miss Jerusha that
teacher and pupil had gone off sky-gazing and
‘makin’ pictures.’ At the risk of being de trop,1
followed, and here I am. Where’s Monsieur le
Tutor?”

“Gone home,” said Georgia, listlessly.

“And left you. here all by yourself! How shock-

Tell me

ingly ungallant! Now, I thought better things of
the lord of Richmond Hall. What do you think of
him, Georgia?”

“Of whom?”

“Of whom! You know well enough. Of Mr.
Wildair.”

“i have formed no opinion on the subject.”

“Well, that’s odd. have, and I think him a
splendid fellow—so gentlemanly, and all that. I
wonder what he thinks of us?”

“He thinks you are a good girl, and [ am a
dreamer.”

“A'good girl! Well, that’s very moderate praise,
blank and cool, but just as much asI want. And
you are a dreamer—I knew that before. Will you
ever awaken, Georgia?”

“T shall have to; I never wish it, though.”

“Then the awakening will not be pleasant?”

“No; Lfeel a presentiment that it will not. Oh,
Emily! I am tired of my present stagnant life; and
yet. sometimes I wish I might never be anything

ut a ‘dreamer of dreams,’ without even realizing
how real life is. I wish Il were now like you, my
little Princess Frostina.” é

“You and I can never be alike—never, Georgia;
every element in our nature is as essentially dif-
ferent as our looks. You area blaze of red sky-
rey and I am a little, insignificant whiff of

own.”

“No, indeed; you are a good, lovable girl, with a
warm heart, a clear head, and a cool temper, who
will lead a happy life, and die a happy death. But
I—oh, Emily, Emily! what is to be my fate?”

She spoke with asort of ery, and Emily started
and gazed on her with a troubled; anxious face.

“Oh. Georgia, what is the matter? Dear Georgia!
whatis the matter? You look so dark, and strange,
and troubled.” |

“Tam out of spirits—a bad fit of the blues, Em,”
said Georgia, trying to smile. ‘I am asort of mon-
omaniae, I think; I do not know what isthe matter
with me. I wish I were away from here; I grow
fairly wild at times. Emily, I shall dieif I stay here
much longer.”

All that day something lay on her heart like lead.
Perhaps it was the memory of that mysterious let-
ter, and Charley’s guilt, and his brother’s anguish,
that weighed it down. Miss Jerusha had long ago
given up wondering at anything her eceentric pro-
tegee might see fit to do; but when all day long she
saw her sit, dark and silent, with folded hands, at
the window, gazing at the ever restless, flowing riv-
er, she did wonder what strange thoughts were pass-
ing through ber young heart, or, to use her own
expression, what had “come toher.” Fly gave it as
her opinion, it was only a “new streak,’ in the al-
ready sufficiently “streaked” character of her young
mistress. And Betsy Periwinkle, wondering too,
but maintaining a discreet silence on the subject,
came purring round her, while her more demon-
strative offspring leaped into her lap and held up
her head for her customary curess.

Unheeding them all, Georgia went early to her
room, and leaning her head on her hand, gazed lan-
guidly out. The soft evening breeze lifted the damp,
shining braids of her dark hair, and kissed softly
her grave, beautiful face, and the evening star rose
up in solemn beauty, and shone down into the dark
eyes fixed so earnestly on the far-off horizon that
seemed her prison wall. And Georgia looked up,
and felt a holy calm steal into her heart, and forgot
all her somber fancies, and her high: heart-beating
grew still in gazing on the trembling beauty of that
solitary star.

(TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE LAW OF RETRIBUTION.

 

A gentleman, traveling on a British railway, is
congratulating himself that he has all to himself
the compartment of a smoking-car, in which he is
about starting on alongjourney. His gratification
is, however, quickly dispelled by the entrance of a
lady, having in her arms a lap-dog, furiously scent-
ed with musk. The weather is hot, and the pene-
trating odor soon disagreeably affects the gentle-
man.

“T beg your pardon, madam,” he says, “will you
mind my lighting a cigar? The scent of musk is
particularly unpleasant to me.”

Indignant protest on the part of the lady, who ab-
solutely refuses to grant the solicited permission.
Unable, however, to endure the exhalations of the

coat of the lady’s too carefully tended pet, the
gentleman dispenses with her consent and lights a
prime Havana cigar. The lady makes a strong but
not particularly successful effort to cough; the gen-
tleman, at least, is not impressed by the symptoms
of suffering displayed by her.

After smoking for a few minutes—whether from
the effect of the heat, or from fatigue, or from both
combined—the gentleman falls neler: holding his
cigar between the dexter and second finger of his
listless right hand, from which the lady, after a
brief moment or two of hesitation, gently abstracts
it, and—throws it out of the carriage window. :

Cautiously as the feat has been accomplished. it
{has nevertheless awakened the gentleman, who

 

Oh, Georgia! I}.

 

 

thorouglhy realizes what has happened, but says
nothing, and makes no sign:

A little while later the lady falls into a doze, and
the gentleman quietly seizes the offensively odorous
pet and pitches him out of the ear window.

At length the lady wakes, but has seen nothing.
hal a few seconds, however, she discovers her
oss.

“My dog! where is my dog? Horror! he is lost!
Sir! what have you done with my poor little Lolo?”
The gentleman exhibits no sign of perturbation.

Task you again, sir, what have you done with
my poor, dear little dog?”

Do not distress yourself concerning him, madam.
He appeared to me to bea hightly intelligent ani-
mal—an excellent retriever, no doubt. He must
have noticed my cigar fall out of the window, and
gone in search of it. He will probably bring it on to
the next station,”

Tableau!

i a

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.}

A DEBT OF VENGEANCE

By MRS. FE. BURKE COLLINS,

Author of “Bonny Jean,” “A Severe Threat,” etc.

 

 

(“A Debt of Vengeance’” was commenced in No. 24.
Back Numbers can be had of all News Agents. ]

CHAPTER XIV.
BOUND, YET FREE.

She reached his side with a swift, gliding motion,
and laid both her white hands in his, her dark eyes
full of wonderful tenderness, which for the time
drove the lurking devil from their lustrous depths,
In that mood she was doubly dangerous.

“At last!’ she panted.

He could not speak; something held him dumb
for a moment; then his eyes traveled toward the
open casket a few feet away, and met her gaze
again with a questioning look.

“What has happened?” he faltered, brokenly.
*“Who—”

She checked him,

“Your father-in-law, Geoffrey Lawrence,” she
explained, tersely. ‘“‘Strange that you have not
heard.”

“T have heard nothing,” he returned, gravely. ‘‘I
came from the station direct. And Geoffrey Law-
rence is dead? Gone with the burden of his sins

heavy upon him into the presence of the Great
Judge! Where—is—is——”
“Alicia?” Essica’s eyes were full of smoldering

re.

He bowed his head.

“Come in here,” she commanded, opening the
door of the drawing-roomas she spoke.

And away from the awful presence in that de-
serted chamber of death she led him across the
great marble-tiled hall into asmall parlor. Guy
drew a chair forward for Essica, and threw himself
wearily upon a gilded sofa. But she would not be
seated; there was a restless, nervous glitter in her
beautiful dark eyes, which glanced into his with a
strange expression.

“Wait here a moment,” she commanded, briefly.
“T will go and send her to you. I suppose you pre-
fer to make known your intentions to her per-
sonally?”

He bowed his handsome head.

“It is best, and only just,” he answered.

Essica left the room and went slowly up stairs,
her brain teeming with the strange, wild plot which
had suddenly been born in it.

It was very evident that Guy Rossiter knew noth-
ing that had transpired, and knew not that a child
had been born tohim. Might notasight of the wee
baby face soften his heart toward Alicia, and—oh!
perhaps he would go back to his allegiance. ;

To Essica Carroll the thought was far more bitte
than death; and in that moment of pain and doubt
she added another story to her structure of venge-
ance.

She rapped at the door of Alicia’s chamber; there
was a faint response, and Essica turned the silver
knob and entered the room. Alicia had thrown
herself upon the bed, and was gazing into the face
of her child—the most delicate, fairy-like creature
imaginable. She started up, her white face flush-
ing crimson at sight of the intruder. But before
she could utter the indignant words which trem-
bled upon her lips, Essica spoke.

“Alicia,” she said, quietly, “I am going to reply
to Guy Rossiter’s letter now. If you like, I will in-
close any written message that you may see fit to
send. You need have no fear of my playing you
false, You can write what you will, only do it now,
and I will faithfully inclose it in my own letter. You
had better seize this opportunity to communicate
with him—for remember, you do not know where
to address him,”

‘I shall humiliate myself no more!” cried Alicia;
then, after a thoughtful pause, she added: ‘‘Never-
theless I will write a line, though I have little faith
in your promises, Essica Carroll.”

ssica laughed.

“As you will,” she responded. “Here are paper
and pencil; the sooner your message is written the
better. forthe mail goes in half an hour.”

And poor, weak Alicia—angry, humiliated, her
pride stung to the utmost limit of endurance—sat
down at her desk, and wrote, in a trembling, un-
certain hand, the first words that her indignant,
insulted heart could utter:

“GUY ROSSITER:—If you wish to obtain a divorce, I
shal] cae no resistance. I can take care of myself and
my child.”

She fare the hastily scrawled message into Es-
sica’s hand, and, throwing herself once more upon
the bed, burst into a flood of passionate tears.

Poor, weak, credulous Alicia! And there, under
the same roof with her, was the man who, her law-
ful husband, had loved her after his own fashion;
and even yet all might have been set right, for the
sake of the child, by a few words—a single confes-
sion. But.Alicia was like wax in the firm hands of
her relentless foe.

Essica bore the paper away in triumph, pausing
to enter her own room, where, with her scissors,
she hastily eut away the lower portion of the paper,
upon which had straggled, in Alicia’s faint, uncer-
tain haad, these last words, “‘and my child.”

“He shall never know,” panted Essica, savagely ;
‘the shall know nothing about the child—as yet.”

And she caught her breath with a gasp of hatred;
then, without a momen’s hesitation, she went down
oe and placed the scrap of paper in Guy Rossiter’s

and.

“T bade her come and see you,” the wicked woman
announced, glibly; “but her answer was to write
this, which she gave me to deliver.”

He glanced over the hasty lines, and arose, clench-
ing the paper in a fierce grasp.

“It shall be as she wishes,” he cried, angrily, “TI
will take the first step to-day. For the present,
Essica, good-by.”’

He caught her hands and crushed them passion-
ately against his breast; then, with pale face and
stern, indignant eyes, he hastened frem the house.
No one save Essica knew that Guy Rossiter had
been there; no one would ever know.

The day after Geoffrey Lawrence’s burial Alicia
disappeared, taking her child with her. Days eame
and went; Essica was duly installed heiress of the
Lawrence estate; she was surrounded by all that
wealth can bestow—flattered, feted, and admired;
yet the most miserable of women. For a hurried
line from Guy Rossiter had broken down the last
hope of being more to him than now. It told her
that he was:free; that the law had granted him a
divorce from the woman for whose sake he had onee
deserted Essica; but forbidding him to marry again
until death should intervene. Bound, yet free; it
was a horrible thralldom. There was a short, pas-
sionate interview; then he went away to Europe,
ate Essica at Lawrence Park, and silence fol-

owed.

Frem that day Essica Carroll plunged into society
and frivolity, while the fashionable world claimed
her every moment. She allowed herself no rest, no
time for thought—that thought which might have
power to drive her mad. She had lost all trace of
Alicia; her vengeance could reach no further; only
—(she ground her white teeth together, and her
eyes flashed savagely at the thought)—she could
reach Alicia Rossiter yet, through the long, untried
future, and strike at her heart—(oh, Heaven! could
living woman be so base, s0 cruel, so unnatural %?)—
she could strike at her heart through her innocent
child! Would such sin be permitted? The future
will show. Evennow a strange, unlooked-for oceur-
rence was about to revolutionize her entire life.

CHAPTER XV.
FACE TO FACE.

“And how much longer does Miss Ruth Carroll
purpose to honor Lawrence Park with her presence?”

Essica’s tone was hard and cutting, and her dark
eyes full of insolent coldness.

Ruth, bending over a little drawing upon her easel,
glanced up, and although her blue eyes flashed, she
vais her natural indignation, as she answered,

uietly :

* “Not much longer, I trust, madam ; though, thanks
to you and yours, I have no other home.”

Essica shrugged her graceful shoulders.

“That is no concern of mine,’ she answered,
eurtly. ‘You should not have lost sight of your own

 

 

interests entirely, and so lost your fortune. There

   

 

 

 

 

 
 

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is bad blood in the Carrolls’ veins; you ought not to
have trusted so implicitly in your cousin. Though
your parents appointed him your guardian, you still
should have looked after your own affairs as much
as possible. Such implicit confidence, such child-
like trust, is refreshing in the extreme. Trust no
one—men especially—that is the best motto to live
by; not even—ah—not even your old friend, Captain
Vandeleur.”’

Ruth sprang to her feet; then {suddenly recollect-
ing herself, she controlled her agitation with a won-
derful self-possession, and sat down again.

“What do you mean to insinuate, Mrs. Carroll ?”’
she asked, coldly.

Essica’s eyes flashed. She was hurting somebody
mow, and she was consequently happy.

“Oh, nothing,” she answered, lightly ; “only. I have
a piece of news for you. Captain Vandeleur has ob-
tained leave of absence from his regimeut, and has
come home.”

A glad light leaped into Ruth’s soft eyes, but she
bent her head lower over the easel and made no
comment. .

‘Has come home!” repeated Essica, enjoying the
situation hugely. ‘His wedding comes off during
the Christmas holidays.”

“His wedding?” :
| The words dropped one by one from the girl’s pale
ips:

You are jesting. Essien!” she said, slowly.

Essica arched her black brows, and looked
amused.

“Not I!” she said. “‘Gertrude Vandeleur was here
yesterday, and she told me the news. Her brother,
Captain John Vandeleur of the 186th, is engaged to
marry Edith Darrington. She came home from
abroad last month. She is a perfect brunette, stylish
and graceful; a great cateh—worth a million in her
own right.”

And she paused to gloat over the girl’s white face
and suffering eyes.

But little Ruth had more than ordinary courage.
She was small and timid, gentle and retiring, but in
an emergency like this she found a wonderfal re-
serve fund of strength, and courage, and endurance.
She had learned how to control herself, and ‘‘he who
eontrolleth his own spirit is greater than he who
taketh a city.”

She sat very still now, one hand pressed lightly
over her aching heart, asthough to quiet its mad
tumult. Her face had become quite white, and
there was 2 hopeless look in her blue eyes, but there
was no outward sign of suffering over which Essiea
Carroll could exult. She gazed upon Ruth with cold,
eriticisiag gaze.

“What a pity.” she sneered, coldly—‘‘what-a great
pity it is, Ruth, that you—a Carroll, of Carroll—
should have given your heart away unasked.”

Ruth could endure no more. She could not un-
derstand how this wicked woman had learned her
secret, or divined the love that filled her pure heart
for this man to whom she had looked up as toa
superior being; it was enough that she did know,
or suspect the truth.

She arose to her feet. and lifted one white hand.

“Stop, Essiea Carrroll!” she eried, sternly." I for-
bid you to utter another word! How dare you speak
to me in such a way. you, with such a weight of
guilt resting upon you!”

“Such as what?” sneered Essica, euttingly.

; Ruth gazed fearlessly into her beautiful, haughty
ace.

“Let your own conscience enswer that question,
madam,” she returned, slowly. “It rests with you
pn het sa He will punish yoa in His own time, no
doubt.

And Ruth walked quietly from the room, her
golden head erect, and her blue eyes full of seorn,
Essica gazed after her, and her own eyes grew dark
with unholy passions.

“Every one who has yet crossed my path,” she
muttered, defiantly—‘‘every one who has tried to
conquer, and has got the best of me in this conflict,
I have livedtotriumphover. Beware, Ruth Carroll:
I have not yet finished my work!”

Arap at the door of the room made her start. A
servant stood before her.

“A gentleman in the drawing-room to see you,
madam,” he announced, briefly.

Essica went down stairs slowly, and opening the
door of the drawing-room, paused aghast, with a
wild ery of despair.

Alton Carroll stood before her.

CHAPTER XVI.
EDITH DARRINGTON.

A gem of a room, all searlet. and white, and gold,
in a sumptuous New Orleans mansion; a very bower
of beauty, fit setting for the jewel which it en-
shrined. The softest of velvet epee the daintiest
of hangings; frosty lace and scarlet silk draperies:
marble statues peering from silken niches here and
there; a bright fire glowing behind the silvery bars
of the grate; the low white marble mantel heaped

with rarest flowers; a canary in a gilded cage, sing- }

ing its little life out, in the bay-window; the per-
fume of blossoming jasmine over it all.

Outside, the night was clear and crisp. The wind,
Jow-voiced and gentle, swept over the brown-searred
faee of mother earth, moaning eerily through the
naked branches of the trees; for it was midwinter,
and even in this sunny climate winter wears an un-
smiling aspect sometimes.

Beside the fire, under the light of the blazin
chandelier, her dark eyes fixed upon the rosy be
of coals within the grate, stood a woman—a slender,
graceful woman, with a face of rare tropical beauty.
One finds such faces oceasionally in pictures, but
not often in real life. One small hand, glittering
with dinmonds, rested upon the marble mantel,
and a thoughtful look was in her large, lustrous
e€; es.

Her dress was of amber silk and white lace, with
rubies, glowing like drops of blood, here and there
upon the exquisite costume. She was dressed for
the opera. A pair of long white gloves and a costly
lace fan lay upon a marble slab near by, together
with a white cashmere cloak, trimmed with swans-
down. But the face bent over the fire was not a
happy face, and there were soundless depths of sad-
ness in her lovely eyes.

“Strange,” she said at length, half aloud; ‘‘strange
that it should be thus! That with all my wealth
and beauty (for I am beautiful), my position and all
that, lam not happy. Oh, if I could but win his
heart! But——”

She turned with a little nervous start, as the half-
open door was pushed open, and a woman entered
—a negress, with ebony skin, round black eyes, and
ivory teeth, her head surmounted by a towering
turban of the gayest colors. She stopped short at
sight of the girl’s pathetie face; then coming to her
side, she gazed into the dark eyes with all the mute
affection of a dumb creature. *

“Miss Edie, honey,’ she began, ‘‘de eap’en is in
de drawing-room. He say if you is ready.”

The girl started hastily from her musing attitude.
A wonderful light shone in her magnificent eyes.
She stepped to one of the long mirrors which lined
the walls of the boudoir, and gazed for a moment
upon the peerless face and figure reflected therein.

“Yes, yes, Aunt Chloe,” she cried, hastily; ““I am
ready. I willgo down now. Give me my cloak and
the otber things. There: that will do. Thanks,
very much. How do I look, auntie?”

And she turned slowly around, that the old wo-
man might view the perfect face and form from
every side. Aunt Chloe clasped her big black hauds
in rapturous admiration.

**°*Fore de Lawd, Miss Edie,” she cried, “I nebber,
nebber seed sitch a beauty afore! ’Pears like you
grows prettier and prettier ebery day. And yet
’tain’t but aleettle while since ole Chloe done tuk
you in her ole arms for de fust time. You was a
leetle teety baby den, Miss Edie.”

The girl laughed gayly—a low, sweet laugh, that
did one good to hear.

“Oh, dear, Aunt Chloe,” she eried, “don’t bring
up such old and forgotten memories. They make
me feel eighty instead of eighteen. I um going
down now. Don’t sit up for me to-night, for I shall
not need you, and I may be late. Is my sister—is
Mrs. Denzil dressed, Aunt Chloe?”

“Yes, missy, all dressed to kill; but she done gone
into de nussery to look arter dem young uns. Good-
by. Miss Edie, honey. May de good Lawd bless ye,
and grant ye all your wishes!”

The lovely dusky face flushed crimson, and Edith
Darrington caught her breath with a little gasp.

. “If He only would!” she muttered, under her

reath.
Then she left the room, and flitted down the vel-
vet-eovered staircase to the sumptuous drawing-
reom.

A man was standing at one of the lace-draped
windows—a tall, soldierly figure, a bronzed face,
with beard a la militaire, piercing gray eyes, and
close-cropped, thick dark hair.

; oe went up to him, and extended one slim
hand,

“Good-evening, Captain Vandeleur,” she said,
softly. “I am glad to see you—very glad.”

He held her hard for a moment, gazing down into
the deep dark eyes, and a smile crossed his bearded
lips—a rarely sweet smile—as he returned:

“It is very pleasant to believe that, Miss Darring-
ton. To the heart of a lonely, homeless soldier
#here is nothing so sweet as kindly remembrance.”
ret tee face fiushed a little, then she observed,

astily:

“Mrs. Denzil will be in directly, and then it will
be time to start, if we wish to hear Nilsson in
“Faust” to-night. My sister is the dearest of
chaperones,’’ went on Edith, gayly, “but she is gen-
erally behind time, and keeps me waiting. She is
at present in an alarmingly nervous state, on ac-
count of her children—little torments. There are
two, you know—Pearl-and Flossy—and they are
spoiled, utterly; to that degree that she cannot
keep a governess for them fora month at a time.
The last martyr to the cause resigned yesterday,
ana Mrs. Denzil is compelled to take charge of the
eherubs herself to-night; but I believe she expects
a governess to-morrow. Poor unfortunate! her life
willbecome a series of mishaps and adventures as
surely as she undertakes to control those two mad-
eaps, Pearl and Flossy. Captain Vandeleur,” paus-
inginthe midst of her gay speech, ‘‘what makes
you look so snd?”

; The young man started, and his face flushed a
rl

e.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Darrington,” he said.
“T eannot imagipe how I could possibly be sad in
your presence.”

“But your are,” she persisted, ruefully. “‘Ah,
here is my sister at last.” ;

For the door had opened, and a lady in garnet
velvet and black lace had entered the room,

“So glad to see you, Captain Vandeleur,” she said,
extending a iaulilessly gloved hand. ‘I have been
detained by my little ones, and we are rather late, I
fear, Ab! well, I shall not transgress again in that
respect, I hope, for I have secured a governess who
will be here to-night. or to-morrow, My dear
Edith,” turning to her sister, ‘the carriage is wait-
n

All the evening Edith Darrington watched her
escort with sager, earnest eyes. She loved him with
all her heart and soul—the heiress, beauty, and
belle loved this stern, cold soldier; and he, ah,
heaven! he would never eare for her. She knew
that something troubled him: some cloud rested
upon his heart, and she determined to know what
it was. So, between the acts. when the others of
their party (for the box was full now) were laughing
aud chatting pleasantly, she turned to the soldier
at her side.

“Captain Vandeleur,” she began,in a_ low, ear-
nest tone, ‘can’t you make me your confessor? I
know that you are in trouble, though you strive to
disguise it. Tell me. is it very serious? Surely,
there is a ‘faire ladye’ in the case.”

He colored violently. in spite of his strenuous
efforts to be composed. She tried to laugh, but
something held her silent; something that was like
a band of iron upon her heart. A sudden impulse
seized this man. Edith Darrington was good and
pure ; why not confide in her? Perhaps her woman’s
wit would see some way out of his own difficulty,
The impluse was strong upon him, and he yielded
tothe temptation almost.as soon as it came. Man-
like he took anipulbiviely the step which was des-
tined to alter his whole future; and he never
dreamed that Edith Darrington loved him. Men
are always blind, orelse their self-conceit shows
them something which does not exist. He bent his
handsome head, and made reply: ;

“Miss Darrington, I confess the truth. I love a
woman—a«a fair, sweet woman. love her, and I
haye lost her. Listen, and judge for me, if it be pos-
sible to judge. Away on the distant plaius with my
regiment, I wrote to her. I told her of my love, and
asked her to be my wife. I wrote from the very
depths of my heart-—a passionate, beseeching letter,
begging fora decision as soon as might be, That
letter could not have gone wroug, yet, Miss Darring-
ton, it was never answered.”

Edith turned her face aside, her great, dark wide-
open eyes staring straight across the stage. Nil-
sson was Singing now; oh, heavens! what a voice,
but. Edith Darrington never heard, never heeded.
It might have been the vilest discord for aught she
knew or cared: For the music had gone out of her
own life. and the sweet chord of love had grown
suddenly mute. Something was the matter with
the lights; why had it grown so dim and dark there
in the great, gay theater? That iron grasp upon
her heart grew heavier. She eaught her breath
hard, like one strangling, then she turned slowly
and gazed into his face.

“I—Ll am very sorry.” she said, simply. “But per-
haps it was over a miserable mistake, after all,
which may yet be set right. If Iean ever aid you in
this matter, Captain Vandeleur, command me, Will
you—will you—tell—me her name ?”

He hesitated—only an instant—and then he made
answer;

“Yes, I will tell you. It is Ruth—Ruth Carroll.”

“IT shall remember it,” she said, softly; and knew
not that the day was coming when she would have
reason to recall that name,

The opera over. they were driven rapidly home-
ward. Arrived at the Denzil mansion (for since the
death of their parents the two sisters had made
their home together), the captain pausedin the hall
for a few words of adieu. e.

At that moment, a slender figure, in deep mourn-
ing garments, hastily crossed the great hall-way.
and ascended the stairs to regions above.

Captain Vandeleur looked like one who has sud-
denly seen a ghost. His face grew very pale, and
his eyes dilated.

“IT beg your pardon, Mrs. Denzil,” he observed;
addressing that lady, “‘but who—who is that young

“Oh,” interrupted Mrs. Denzil, ‘‘that is the new
governess, I suppose; I half-expected her to arrive
to-night. Why do youask? You surely have never
met her ?” :

He turned away, with some trivial excuse, and the
adieus being spoken, he took his leave; but all the
way home to the Vandeleur mansion he kept say-
ing, over and over: ‘

_ Great Heaven! I believe that it was Ruth—my
little Ruth!’ ; ‘ :

 

CHAPTER XVII.
AN ENEMY’S WORK,

Yes, it was Ruth Carroll—poor, friendless little
Ruth !—who had applied for the situation of nursery
governess to Mrs. Denzil’s children, never dream-
ing, when she entered the stately mansion, that it
was also the home of Edith Darrington. But. set
adrift by Essica’s cruelty, she was only too glad to
find a home, and she set about her new duties with
a brave heart, determined to conquer all difficulties
which might lie in her pathway. The two children
were veritable little torments, though beautiful as
dream-children; their short lives had been cloud-
less, and their paths strewn with rose-leaves.

The morning after her arrival. Ruth was shown
to the pretty school-room, and there her pupils met
her—F lossy, blue-eyed and golden-haired, with a
face like a picture; Pearl, two yeurs her senior,
smalland delicate, fair and sweet.

The wee creatures stood gazing for a few mo-
ments into Ruth’s faee, then. with one aceord, they
darted forward, and caught. her hands in theirs.

“Tlove you!” whispered Flossy, lifting her rose-
bud face to be kissed.

“So doi!” chimed in Pearl. “We are going to
love you—oh, so much!—if you are good to us. We
like you already, ever so much better than that cross
old Miss Peters. You is pretty, too.” went on the
young critic, gravely, surveying Ruth’s face with a
pair of large, appreciative eyes—‘most as pretty as
our Edith.”

“Your Edith!” repeated Ruth, wishing to encour-
age theit confidence. “Is she very pretty ?”

“Why, didn’t you eversee our Edith ?” cried Flos-
sy, in ashocked tone. ‘“‘She’s just like a picture.
Captain Vandeleur says sho ought to be painted in
her white silk and pearls—the Darrington pearls,
you know,” added the child. with an air of pride.
“Why. Miss Carroll, what’s the matter ?” :

Even the childish eyes had seen that something
had gone wrong. All the pretty pink had faded
from Ruth’s cheeks, leaving her deathly pale. She
sank into a chintz-covered easy-chair, and clasped
her cold hands.

“Darrington, did you say, Flossy ?” she faltered—
**Miss Edith Darrington ?”

*‘Miss Edith Darrington is our own auntie, and
she lives here,” interposed Pearl, gravely; “‘and
Captain Vandeleur comes to see her, and takes her
to the opera and places. But mamma says it isn’t
proper to gossip of family affairs.”

And the child’s small face took on an alarmingly
serious expression, which at another time would
have provoked Ruth’s laughter. But not now! Ah!
surely nothing was farther from the heart of the
lonely little governess than laughter or merriment.
She bent her bright head over the gayly covered
books seattered upon the round table before her,
and prepared to examine into her pupils’ proficien-
cy; but her heart was in a tumult, and her brain
puke reeled, with the new thoughts that had come
into it.

Could she remain under the same roof with Edith
Darrington, the betrothed wife of the man whom
she loved? It didn’t seem possible; yet what could
shedo? Where could she go? She had no other
resource, and she had begun to realize the difficul-
ty of obtaining a situation. She was poor and
friendless, and starvation stared her in the face.
What could she do but remain where she was, and
bear her burden as bravely as she could ?

The rustle of a woman’s garments made her
glanee up from her task. She started to her feet
involuntarily, and the swift color flashed back into
her pale cheeks. Her eyes fell upon a little slender
figure, standing just within the door of the school-
room—a woman whose brilliant brunette beauty
was enhanced by the wrapper of white cashmere
which she wore, fastened at the throat with a great
red rose. Her luminous dusky eyes were upon
Ruth’s sad face. She extended one white jeweled
hand in acordial greeting, and smiled sweetly as
she said: ;
writ hope you will not find your duties too arduous,
Miss—

She hesitated, and there was a question in her

eyes.

“My name is Carroll,” returned the little gov-
erness—‘Ruth Carroll.”

For an instant Edith Darrington’s heart stood
still; she caught her breath convulsively; one white
hand went up to her throat, as thougn she were
strangling. ‘I love her, and IL have lost her!” The
words sounded in her ears like her own. death-
knell. This girl who stood before her was her bit-
ter, though unconscious enemy; for had she not
stolen the heart of the man for whose sake Edith
Darrington would have counted poverty as naught,
and to win whose love she would stop at nothing.
Nothing? Could she—dare she do wrong, even for
his love? Like aslimy serpent the black thought
trailed itself through this girl’s heart. The woman
whom Captain Vandeleur loved and had lost, now
uader her own roof! She would do nothing—no
sin—only keep silence. He would never dream the
truth. He would return to his regiment; and who
could tell but that his heart might yet be hers? For
hearts are often caught on the rebound. Beautiful,
wealthy, flattered. and feted, the most admired and
envied woman in the State, and he had known her
for years, it did not seem unlikely. And no one

 

knew better than she that the Vandeleur family
would be only too delighted should John wed the
lovely young heiress.

These thoughts flashed through the girl’s heart
like Hahtang 6 she stood there, outwardly calm,
conversing pleasantly with the governess. And the
dark temptation crawled after—to keep silent upon
the subject; to receive Captain Vandeleur as thongh
nothing had occurred, And, besides, how did she
know that say chee for him? Had she loved him,
would she not have answered his letter? But then
Edith knew that mere courtesy and common polite-
ness would dictate a | to such a letter, even
though an adverse one, and she was sorely puzzled.

The more she thought concerning the matter, the
more convinced she became that there was some
terrible wrong or mistake. But, all the same, when
she left Ruth’s presence, her mind was made up.

ome what might, she would never betray to Cup-
tain Vandeleur the presence of Ruth Carroll under
her roof.

* * * * * *

In the meantime, Captain Vandeleur, walking
down a crowded boulevard one day, suddenly en-
countered Essica. She had run down io New Or-
leans on a little business, and this meeting with
Captain Vandeleur wae unexpected good fortune.
She gazed into his face with eyes full of simulated
sadness, as she returned his cordial greeting.

“Oh, I have such news to tell you!” she faltered.
“LThardly know how to begin.”

His face became slowly white, as she added:

“Itis about Ruth.” _. ¥
_ Tell me, Mrs. Carroll,” he pleaded. ‘Anything
is better than suspense.”

Her face grew sad end wistful. One would be-
lieve her averse totelling her story, instead of dying
to repeat it. : ;

“Well,” she said, slowly, studying his face with
critical eye, “Ruth has run away!” :

Foratime Captain Vandeleur stood gazing into
the beautiful face before him. At last he spoke, but
his voice sounded far away and unnatural.

“Did Iunderstand you to_ say, Mrs. Carroll,” he
faltered, ‘‘that Ruth--Miss Carroll—has—has gone
away? What do you mean?’ ; \

“She has eloped.” returned the wicked creature,
enjoying the anguish depicted upon his pals. stern
face. “I have reason to believe that she has not
gone alone. There is really little to tell, Captain
Vandeleur.” she went on, gravely, ‘except the dread-
ful fact--she is gone. She left a note, which tells
all that I know, Here it is.”

And she laid a letter in the young man’s hand:

“Mrs. CARROLL,” said the letter, “I am going away—
going out into the world: but not alone, thank God, or
triendless, for He hasraised up for me a friend in my hour
of need. I shall be well provided for—my home will be
luxurious. I have nothing to desire, save that you never
seek to find me or give me further thought.

e “RUTH CARROLL.”’

.. Two hours later Captain Vandeleur was_ushered
into the prescnowal dith Darrington. Pale, and
stern, and unsmiling he took her hand in his, and
gazedinto hereyes. ;
‘Edith,” he began, abruptly, “Lreturn to my regi-
ment to-morrow. I have come hereto ask you a
question. If you can forget—as I do—the story that
1 told you the other evening, will you be my wife?”
She lifted her lustrous eyes to his face. and the
hand that he held trembled perceptibly as she an-
swered, while her heart leaped in her breast like a
ae re a. Ass
will,’

,

 

[TO BE CONTINUED.]
nd

 

[THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.]

TEE

SMUGGLERS DAUGHTER

By NED BUNTLINE.
ater” was commenced in No.

14. Back Numbers Ba. peti of all News Agents. ]
CHAPTER LIV.—(ConTINUED.)

It was the last order he sver gave onearth. Hen-
reich, almost desperata, a ild with the thought
that Florence, whon everenced, must be
captured, raised i! ble-barreled duck-
ing gun and fi sfull in the mass of
men. where Do and Captain Bouton
stood foremoust. ;

 

  
    
 
  
   
  
 
  
 
 
  
  
  
   
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
 
  
 
  
 
 
  
   
   

 

(“The smuge! ler’s Da’

 

The effect jot wt a quarter-pistol-
shot distances wa ton and Don Ferdi-
nand both went d shrieks of agony

hooner was luffed
er, that she shot

went out on the
so much, uncou
entirely past ihe

As she went by,
fully up, shot the
er flew up in in the
headway was lost.

At the same moni
to push from the 1 :
combatants, while “# hon
again boomed out its thunder of alarm.

Henreich told Floren¢e to take the tiller, while he
reloaded his gun as fast as possible; but all seemed

to be confusion on oer the schooner, and she did
not resume the chase. Her leader wounded or dead,
the erew lost all presences of mind, and did not know
what to do.

The sloop was once more tacked toward the light-
ship, and in a few minutes the sail-boat before spo-
ken of wasin hail ofher,, —

“What is the matter? Can we help you? I com-
mand the light-ship. Ihave signaled the revenue
eutter, and she is coming out!’ shouted a fine-
looking man, who was atthe helm of the sail-boat,
while six armed sailors manned his boat.

“We have been attacked by a_pirate, but have
beaten her off!” cried Captain La Vallette.

“Can we not keep her engaged till the revenue
cutter comes_up?” cried the other. “If you will
tack for her, I will sustain you.”

“Go into the cabin, my child. We will do it,” cried
the old merehant. :

“Ay, ay!” we will not leave the murdering wretch-
oe, he shouted to the captain of the light-ship’s

oat.

And Henreich, with his gun loaded, two or three
muskets in the hands of his men, and the pistols of
the old merchant, only for attacking weapons, wore
boldly around, and stood for the schooner,

Her crew, yet in some disorder, were trying to get.
their vessel off before the wind, but a shot fired
from a rifle in the hands of the light-ship captain
dropped another helmsman, and Henreich sent an-
other shower of buckshot aboard, and the crew fled
in terror below decks. _ :

“Board!—you on one side, and we on the other!”
eried Henreich; and the sloopin a minute more
was fast tothe lee rigging of the schooner, while
the sail-boat was on the weather beam, lashed fast,
and her crew almost as quickly on board.

“Who commands here?” cried Mr. La Vallette, as
he stood, pistol in hand, at the companion-way of
the schoomer. : :

“Nobody; our ye is killed,” said a seaman,
presenting himsclf. ‘‘We surrender. There’s no
use in our fighting, for we have nothing to fight
for. There lays the man who got us into the
scrape.”

“Get a lantern, and let us see who or what he is.
It is too dark to make out what he looks like,” said
the captain of the light-ship. ‘And hoist a light
forward to show the cutter where we are.”

One of the Spanish sailors got a lantern to hoist
and another to use on deck, while Henreich threw
the helm of the schooner alee, and had her jib-
sheet drawn to windward and her main-sheet flat-
tened in to deaden her headway. _

“Florence, all is safe here! Come on board and
ak you recognize any of these men!” eried her

ather.

“Lam here, and have been all the time,” she said,
and turning, he found her really there, close by
him. with a pistol in her hand.

“That voice? Oh senorita, I am doomed at last
to die for you!” groaned the man, who, Jaying on
the deck, had been pointed out by one of the smug-
gler’s crew as the man who had got them into the

trouble.

“Hold the light down. It is indeed Don Ferdin-
and—poor wretch!” said Florence. as she saw by
his ghastly face, and the pool of blood that stained
the deck where he was laying, that all was nearly
over for him.

“Yes, am dying, and my enemies triumph!” he
groaned. ‘Old Bent will rejoice, and—and your
lover will—Santa Maria, must I die!”

A struggle, as if to rise, a gasp.2 choking gasp.
and all was over. The old Spaniard who had caused
poor Florence so much misery was powerless to ever
give her trouble again. oe

Even while, with a shudder, she looked down into
the ghastly face of the dead man, Florence heard a
rushing sound, and Jooking up saw the white sails
of the cutter as she came sweeping down toward
the three vessels, now all lashed together. ;

“Cutter ahoy! or Beamont, lower a boat
and come aboard. We have a prize here for you!”
shouted the captain of the light-boat.

“Ay, ay! Is that you, Captain Benners?”
shouted Beaumont. ;

“Yes, sir. Isawa sloop out here attacked by a
pirate, and fighting manfully. Iran out to help her,
while I signaled you.”

““‘A sloop!” shouted Beaumont.

And it seemed scarce a second before his boat,
lowered, was on the way to the vessels.

Surely a minute had not elapsed before the boat

*

. whose blood was
1, and the schoon-
LD instant all her

er sail was seen
steer toward the

 

*

«<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3>

her to touch, jumped on board.

Rushing forward, his eye fell on Florence, and he
gasped out:

“Thank Heaven, dear lady, you are alive! I hope
safe. Ihave cruised everywhere I could hope to
find you, ever since I traced you to Cardenas and
learned of your escape.”

“Tam alive, well, and all unharmed!” she said, as
she pressed his extended hand, ‘‘and I am very
happy, for I have found my father—my dear and
real father. Allow me to introduce him—Mr. La
Vallette, my father. This is Captain Beaumont.”

“Tam glad to meet him, especially at_ this time,”
sald the old merchant. ‘‘An hour ago, I feared we
would never see him or any other friend. When the
rascally pirate bore down on us with so many men,
and we so few, our chances Jooked dark indeed.
But our brave Hepreich, with his heavy gun, threw
a shower of death into the midst of them, killing
the leader and another of their principal men, and
the rest were thrown into confusion, and then our
friend here came to our help, and between us we
scared the scoundrels into a surrender.”

“Don Ferdinand dead?” said Beaumont, looking
at his body. “I almost pity the poor old wretch.
This vessel was originally a Spanish smuggler, and,
I presume, this was the first act of her captain or
crew which could be construed into piraey, and this
attack was meant for the capture of your daughter.”

“I suppose that was their intention, and 1 thank
Heaven it has been frustrated,” said the merchant.
“You will take the vessel into port, will you not?”

“Yes, sir, but consider her your prize, not mine.
I will put a guard over the prisoners, andin the
mean time convey all of you intothe harbor. As
the wind is ahead in a part of the channel, without
a pilot, you had better let me tow your sloop in.”

“Thank you, my dear captain,” said Florence.
“You forget that I am perfectly at home in these
waters, and can pilot the sloop in with safety.”

“Tt is true, dear lady. I did forget that. There
will be no difficulty, Yet I would like to have you
both come on board the cutter, and then I could take
the sloop in tow. Captain Benner will bring the
schooner in.”

“We will visit you to-morrow. We must not de-
sert our faithful crew, and our swift and glorions lit-
tle sloop,’ said Florence. “But Captain Bent—how
is he. Does he miss me much?” ‘

“Captain Bent will not live to see another sun
set!” said Beaumont. ‘Terribly wounded over in
Cuba, he has been lingering for weeks between life
and death, but this afternoon the surgeon told me he
could not possibly live more than twenty-four hours!”

“Poor old captain. I must see and comfort him if
Iean in his last hours. With all his faults, he has
some virtues. He loved me well and never treated
me unkindly, no matter how harsh he was to others.”’

“He speaks of you whenever he talks at all. His
will is made, giving you, if you live, all that he has
in the world, slaves, vessels, and money. If you
were never heard of, it was to go to found a hospital
for seamen!”

“And must still! She is my daughter, and will in-
herit more than she can ever use in the way of for-
tune,” said the merchant.

“But, eaptain, we had better be moving. Our ves-

 

sels ure all drifting away from the light!”

“Tt is true,” said Beaumont. “I will return to the
cutter and stand in, keeping a light at each mast-
head. As soon aS we anchor in the harbor I will
come on board with my barge to take you and Miss
Florence on shore.”

 

CHAPTER LY.

The wind died away as the night advanced, and
the tide setting out made it impossible for the cut-
ter and the other vessel to get back throngh the
channel beyond the light-ship until the tide turned.
Therefore it was nearly morning when all were an-
chored in the harbor of Key West, and Beaumont,
coming on board the sloop, suggested that Florence
and her father should take_some rest before at-
tempting to visit the shore. If it pleased them, he
would see his prisoners sent to confinement on
shore, and call to take the merchant and Florence
to the Brent mansion at ten o’clock *in the fore-
noon.

The plan suited all who were interested, and it
was settled upon.

So Beaumont, who would not neglect duty for
rest, reported the scnooner and her crew as_ prize
and prisoners to the judge of the Admiralty Court,
or United States Court, for him and his attorney to
deal with as they thought best, suggesting if the
schooner was adjudged to be a lawful prize that she
had been seized Jointly by the sloop and light-ship
boat, and her value should be divided between the
owners, Officers, and crews of those vessels, and not
any claim laid on the part of the cutter.

This duty performed, Beaumont sent word to the
surgeon of the intended visit, that. he might act as

hethought judicious in regard to informing his

patient, and then he went on board his own craft to
take coffee and have a breakfast. prepared, in which
Mr. La Vallette and his daughter could join, before
they went ashore.

And at ten precisely he went on board the sloop
from his twelve-oared barge, tosummon the mer-
chant and Florence to breakfast, whence they could
go to visit the dying old captain.

The steward had done his level best. to make the
eaptain’s breakfast attractive, and the merchant
and his daughter showed due appreciation of the
delicacies set before them, but Florence could not
keep the thought of the poor old captain out of her
mind, and was glad when she was summoned to
the boat which was to carry them ashore.

Old Meta had been permitted hours before to go
on shore to see her daughter. for Florence knew
they would both go almost wild with joy on meet-
ing.

On reaching the landing, Florence was not sur-
prised to find Carlotta there. full of grateful tears,
and almost too much affected to speak. Barney

was ashamed of his Jate sprees, and seemed to
think everybody knew all about them.

“De ole cap’n is very low, missis. i hasn’t seen
him, but dats what de doctor says,” said Meta, in
answer to an inquiry from Florence.

The old merchant seemed surprised at the extent
and compatative eleganee of the mansion, so much
better than the generality of houses in town, in
furniture, as well as outward appearance; but all
other thoughts went aside when the surgeon came
out and told Forence that he had broken the news
of her arrival, with that of her father, to Captain
Bent. and that he was impatient, knowing that he
was then dying, to see them.

Instantly, with Beaumont following, Florenee
and her father went to the bedside of the dying
man. His face was thin and white. and his once

eye was still strong as the soul struggled for
mastery over death.

“Florence—Florence, you have come at last,” he
eried out, with almost a wail. “I have waited so
long. I could not go till you came—till I told you
where to find your real‘father: and yet you have
found him first. I can’task how. I’m only glad it
is, Forgive me, sir; I’ve been good to her, for I
loved her as my own life.”

“I do forgive freely, as one should forgive who
must soon follow you over the dark river,” said
Mr. La Vallette, taking the hand of the dying man
in his own grasp.

“Thank you—thank you. I'll die easier for this.
Florence, all I’ve got—all the people here—are yours.
Be kind to Lotta. I wish Meta could be found and
brought back.”

“Ole Meta is here, massa, bress de Lor’ dat make
you tink ob ine inde dark hour. Lotta an’ me is
bofe here; young missis found me and brought me
back.”’

The old captain started up. This was an unexpect-
ed shock, and it affected him more than even the
surgeon apprehended it could.

He looked at Meta, then at Carlotta, reached out
his hands as if to bless the latter, and sank back
gasping on his pillow, with a strange smile on his
wan face.

He never spoke again, but there was a tremor on
his lips and a wistful gaze in his eyes a moment
longer; then the film of death fell on them.

Florence sobbed as if she had lost a father indeed;
Meta and Carlotta wept in silence, and even the
cheeks of Mr. La Vallette and Captain Beaumont
were wet.

The captain had not been an unkind master, and his
servants all grieved when they were told that he was
no more. .

Friends were few, and there were no relatives to
eome in to look for the will first and mourn after-
ward, in due consideration of the bequests reeeived.
The surgeon, with his steward to assist, prepared
the body for the grave, and it lay all that day and
night, and until near sunset of the next day, in state
in the mansion.

Then, in aceordance with the wish of the old cap-
tain, he was buried under a large cocoa-nut palm
tree on his own grounds, within sound of the dash
of rippling waves that rolled up on the inrer beach.

And that was the last of poor old Captain Bent.
No, not the last, for his will, duly witnessed by the
surgeon of the cutter and the dector who had assist-
edin amputating Don Ferdinand’s arm, was found
under the captain's pillow, where he had insisted it
should remain till he died.

It gave everything the old man possessed to Flor-
ence La Vallette, by many supposed to be his own
inca but only so by adoption. The proviso that
if she could never be found the money was to go to
build a hospital out of the old mansion, was now un-
necessary, though Florence said a hospital should
onda t with the major portion of the money and
es 5

But her first act, after the funeral, was to manu-
wit every slave on the estate, though they begged to
remain with her, and as hers, aslong as they lived.
Florence knew that until she was free Carlotta
could never become the wife of Barney Mangin,

“a drop o’ the crachure.”
Meta would neither accept her freedom nor leave
her young mistress—that was a settled point; so

 

Carlotta, to remain near her mother, whom she

was alongside, and Beaumont, hardly waiting for

Mangin stood sheepishly in the background, for he’

gigantic form reduced fearfully, but the light of his —

which she desired to do, in spite of his fondness for |

  

loved beyond all other human beings, begged still
‘to remain employed by Florence. She said she
would keep Barney straight, and he would serve her
in any capacity that he was able to assume.
All these arrungements took several days after the
funeral for settlement, and while Florence was en-

tion to Captain Beaumont, which induced the latter
to offer him a passage un the reef.

An old wreeker was found who knew just where
the wreck of the old Mohawk lay imbedded in wa-
ter and sand, and acouple of expert divers were
carried along. P : ‘

Henreich, too, in the Capricia was told to follow
the cutter, for the old merchant could hardly bear
to have the brave young fisherman out of his

sight. :

Phe Capricia was light enough of draft to lay
alongside of the wreck, and the barge belonging to
the cutter carried the divers 1nd workmen who were
to look for the treasure.

Precisely where the old merchant set them to
work, after the old deck under the cabin was re-
moved, down literally on the unbroken “skin” of
the vessel, in boxes but slightly decayed, the specie
was found untouched.

Had the wreckers ever dreamed of such a thing

being there, it is not likely a timber of the old Mo-
naw fe would have been found together when search-
ed for. ;
_ When the money was all safely stowed in the cab-
in of the cutter, and she was ready to return tothe
harbor of Key West, the old merehant took the pa-
pers out from the package which Florence had
given him, and Jooked them carefully over.

Then he asked Captain Beaumont to direct his
carpenter to make a strong box, a little larger tha
an ordinary coffin, and so prepared that
made air-tight. . ‘LUeeeg ie?

When the carpenter reported this done, the mer-
chant asked Beaumont to have it taken on shore in
2 boat, with men carrying implements with which
to open a grave. :

Until they landed Beaumont did not know that
the mother of his betrothed loye was buried_on
the little rise of ground in the vieinity. But
the captain had fully described her grave ina
letter which he never intended Florence should see
till he died, and, when the party landed, Mr La
Vallette found the spot without difficulty.

The merchant wept freely while the grave wis
being opened, and when the rude coffin was raised
from its shallow grave. Butacry of wonder broke
from every lip when the old coffin was opened, or
rather when it almost fell apart. on

For, even as if it had been embalmed, the corpse
was in such preservation that the yet young-look-
ing and beautiful woman seemed not to have been
buried a single day. :

But, alas, the moment the air reached it, the
corpse crumbled, and the merchant had it
put in the new box and carried on board
pricia, to be afterward conveyed to the family
yault in New Orleans.

Thus, after these Jong vears, every needed proof
of the fate of his dear and long-mourned wife came
up plainly tothe old merchant. It was a mournful
satisfaction forhim to know allthis, and to have
the mortal remains of his first and only love placed
where his own body would soon be laid beside her.

On his return to Key West Mr. La Vallette told
Beaumont to keep the treasure on board until he
had decided how to dispose of it, and alsotold him
that he would expect his company at breakfast
next morning at the Bent mansion, where Florence
had taken up her old quarters.

He told him, too, not to fail to be there atten

   
    
 

to after breakfast in which he would find himself
interested. .

Beaumont promised to be there, and the o]d man
went on shore to tell his daughter of the success of
his expedition up the reef. '

 

 

CHAPTER LVI. _
Beaumont dressed himself with more than usual

ances—hardly a chance, indeed, to see Florence
one moment alone,-and even then he had not
learned whether the wealihy merchant would feel
disposed to sanction a betrothal made without the
knowledge that he existed. and who had the first
right, next to Florence, to be consulted in the matter.

eaumont, though a good sailor and a brave man,
was very nervous this morning. Twice he.chipped
his chin while shaving himself, and he had to take
two cups of strong coffee to steady his hand before
he got through. He somehow felt that before the

cided. si ga ta inte

| He went on shore in his bar,
had said he and Florence woulc q
ing the day, and was met at the landing by Florence
and her father. e ;

The former had evidently been weeping, and this
made umont doubly nervous.. Were the “two
hearts which beat as one” to be severed? Yer Flor-
ence greeted him cheerfully, and Mr, La Vallette
pressed his hand warmly when they met.

There are two kinds of suspense hard to bear. T
have been there, and “‘know just how it_is myself.”

One is when your life hangs on a thread as it were,
and you watch the faces of the surgeons who are to
decide whether it is possible for you to “pull
through.” : :

The other is when you wait to know if she, to
whom your heart's strong love has gone out, is to
be yours or not. :

Nota word about business was said by Mr. La Yal-
lette while breakfast was being discussed. And it
seemed to Beaumont that the breakfast lasted a
longtime. But finally it was over and a glass of
claret, Chateau Margot, elosed the céremonious

,for the merchant

meal. :

“We will now adjourn to your room, Florence,”
said the merchant. “It is cool and pleasant, and
from the back window we ean look on the spot
where this young hothead fought his first duel on
your account.”

Neither Florenee nor Beaumont spoke, but she
took his arm and led the way.

Sented, the merehant looked with a strange, quiet
smile on the pale and anxious face of the young
officer.

“You must be aware, captain,” said he, “that hay-
|ing been deprived of my daughter’s society since
her infancy, I cannot bear the thought of losing her

aes :

The face of poor Beaumont turned whiter than
ever. ~

“It is all over for me,” he thought, but he did not

“At the same time,” continued the merchant, ‘‘I

wish to do all that is in my power to render her
happiness complete, and by no act or word of mine

that she has found me.”

Tho eaptain began to breathe again. Was he the
“any one else” who was not to regret that Florence
had found a father. ?

The old gentleman gave him but little time for
speculation, but went on in a calm, methodical
way, as if he had studied out all he had intended to
say. and had not forgotten one line in the lession.

“This being the case, I propose to purchase your
commission as a —s in the Revenue Service of
the United States. I offer you_for it the one hun-
dred thousand dollars in gold and silver now on
board your vessel!” A.

“Sir? I—I do not understand you!” stammered
Beaumont. .

“I thought that my words were explicit. I offered
you one hundred thousand dollars for your eo:
mission as a captain in the Revenue Service
United States.” 7 7

ae sir, what would you do with such a commis-
sion ?” SEAe

“I would tear it up, sir, and cast it to the winds,
In short, I think it entirely out_of place for my
daughter to marry apoorman. With one hundred
thousand dollars in your hands, you can eome to me
with a very good grace and say: ‘Mr. La Vallette, I

love your daughter, and wantto marry her.’ And I,

  
 

 
  

tion, could answer: ‘Mr. —— not Capiain Beaum Fp
since I see that you are able to support her, on Gon-
dition that you will step into the firm of La Vall

your promise always to remain with me at my
desolate home on the banks of the Pontchartrain,
consent and wish you unlimited joy!”

 

father.”
is yours, and my resignation goes to Washington

ness of suspense to the light of unspeakable happi
ness. *“‘No words of mine can thank you or exp
what my heart feels. I will try to be a goc ;
band to my dear Florence, a faithful son and partne!
to you!” tan

“That is all that can be asked,” said Mr La Vallette.
“Now if you are ready to g te

will go. I have taken the liberty of preparing a sur-
prise there for you.” i P

The captain did not ask what it was. He felt that
he was just then in too happy a state to be surprised
at anything.

But it did look strange, when he entered the barge
with Florence and her father, on looking down the
bay, to see the cutter decked with flags from the
trucks down, and that without his orders.

He looked almost wild, too, when, on reaching the
eutter, he found in the cabin most of the notable
citizens of Key West with their wives and daughters,
ee ~~ but not least, the principal clergyman of
the place. Mg tS

Beaumont. when he saw the last person, regan
book in hand, understood tbe situation at once,
accepted it like a hero. ae

He offered his arm-to Florence, walke«
minister and faced him, while Mr. La }
the latter the word to proceed. "

It was a brief and beautiful cerem
moment it was over the saluting
cheering crew sent the news wid
town.

*

 

 

   
 

gagedin them Mr. La Vallette made a communica- .

o’cloek, for there was some business to be attended —

care to attend the breakfast at the Bent Mansion. -
He had hitherto had no time tothink of appear-_

noon of that day, his fate for this life would be de- |

visit the cutter dur-

to mar her joy or make her or any one else regret

with the prudence that becomes my age and voca-—

& Co., of New Orleans, you being the Co., and ae i

“Oh, father,” murmured Florence. Dear, dear |
“Sir, [ accept every condition. The commiasiga

  
   
 

the first mail.” cried Beaumont, lifted from ire Gare my

on board the cutter, we .

     
 
 
     
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

}
ie
| . fa

e
ie
.
$
.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

|

 

 

 

 

 

«ea THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ==

 

 

Tt is seldom that the writer has it in his power,
out of so much trouble and mystery, to record a
happy conclusion. :

But in this case it has been a labor of joy to come
to such an ending, and with one explanation he con-
gratulates hisreaders on that ending. -

After the resignation of the captain had been ac-
cepted, and, at his earnest desire, Lieutenant Squire
had been promoted to fill his place, Beaumont, his
bride, and his father-in-law returned to New Orleans
in the regular packet steamer which touched at Key
West on its way from New York.

Henreich, with the precious remains of the mother
and wife on board the Capricia, reached the city a
week later.

Afterward, he was, at his own request, allowed to
return to Cardenas, to provide comfortably for the
woman who ealled herself his mother, though he
never believed she was, and the dwarf, who was
called his brother.

He found both beyond the reach of want. In a fit
of drunken madness, Gotlieb had killed the old
woman, and then thrown himself into the bay, from
which his misshapen body was dragged three days
later, to be buried by the side of Mother Barb.

He saw Senor Guttierrez, and the latter told him
that the news of the brilliant wedding on ship
board in Key West had been published in the Cuban
newspapers, and, of course, read in his family.

The old gentleman was in deep grief, for his daugh-
ters had both signified their intention of entering a
convent for life. :

Henreich returned, after selling out the fruit
plantation in Cardenas, and accepted the command
and half ownership of the finestcotton ship that ever
left New Orleans,

[THE END.]

 

 

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| THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM. |

Beautirut, ut Dancerous

By T. W. HANSHEW,

AUTHOR OF '
“A WEDDED Wipow,” ““YounG Mrs. CHARNLEIGH,”
‘HER SISTER’s Sin,” ‘THE OCEAN OF LIFE,”
ETC., EDC 4

(“Beautiful, but Dang
14. Back numbers ¢

mmenced in No.

. vs Agents. }
i 3

{

turess had grown w
stillness had settled «
the two children had¢
selves in the wings,
looked in wonder at’
awed to a solemn cal still at their feet; Mr.
Remington was motionless; Mr. Donnithorn was
still and rigid as a galvanized corpse, and nothing
was heard but the hoarse, impassioned breathing
of the Italian standing face to faee with the woman
he had sought for all those weary years.

Mr. Remington was the first to speak. Approach-
ing the infuriated Italian, he laidone hand on the
fellow’s arm. } ;

“My good frend,” he said, gently, “I have no
recollection of ever having met you before, but your
face seems strangely familiar to me. You appear
to recognize this miserable woman, and, if such is
the case, it may be that Heaven has sent you to un-
ravel an iniquitous mystery, andright the wrongs
of the down-trodden and oppressed. Answer me,
my inend de you know this woman?”

Ir. Remington trembled as he spoke; for some-
how—it may have been because ofthe horror on La
Belle, Lura’s fuce—he felt that theItalian owed her
no kindly feelings, and would beonly too glad to
crush her down, i

The padrone shook out a hollow, rasping little
laugh, and flared his eyes into the ex-physician’s
ace.

_{Do I knowa de woo-man?’” he half snarled.
“Basta! does de needle knowa depole? Yes, I do;
and’—with an awful imprecation and » sudden lev-
eling of his finger toward Mr. Donnithorn’s face—‘‘I
knowa him, too. You seea him? Looka de white-
ness on his faeca. I thoughta himn friend, but the
mask is off now. I finda you with her, Andy Don-
nithorn, and I knowa you for an enemy now. I
knowa you for as false as she, and V’ll teara you
down with her. Close every doer—let no one es-
cape, and least of all thata woman.”

He jerked out another vicious little laugh, and La
Belle Lura, with a sickening sensation at her heart,
uttered a smothered ery and slunk farther back,
while Mr. Donnithorn, seeing the golden game
slipping through his fingers und eager to stem the
rising tide, moved forward suddenly and grasped
Scipio Bennedetti’s arm. ;

“In Heaven’s name, man, listen to reason!” he
oe out, hoarsely. “I—I thought you dead, and I

“Sparea yourself de lie!” broke in the Italian,
stormily. ‘“‘Whata you thinka_is nothing—do you
Bhdapewne me?—nothing? I finda you witha

er!’

iiness,
#jreadful seene;
d hidden them-
stood by and
Muriel,

 

‘But listen, Bennedetti——” ;

“Santa Maria! I listen no more. I finda you
witha her, [tell you, and Lura Banvard’s friends
are my enemies. I know not wha.a de game you
playa; I only come to teara dat demon down!”

Ascene of the wildest excitement immediately
prevailed. Muriel, with a ery of great thankfulness,
sprang up and eaught Mr. Remington’s arms; Mr.
Donnithorn seized the infuriated Italian and sought
vainly to reason with him; La Belle Lura, in a par-
oxysm of horror and fright, tried to stay the words
the padrone would utter; and the police, put to
their wits’ end, failed to get a word in edgeways,

With a sudden vicious snarl, Scipio Bennedetti
flung them, both off.

“IT seek justice, I tella you!” he roared out, in
an angry voice. ‘Nothing can stay me—nothing;
nothing’?

“Ten thousand dollars if you will not speak!”
bigNe in Mr. Donnithorn, hoarsely.

} oO ”>

“Twenty—fifty—a hundred thousand!” shrieked
La Belle Lura, in an agony of desperation, clutch-
ing the Italian and glaring wildly into his face.
“Scipio, Scipio, have mercy! It is a woman—a poor,
weak, defensejess woman—you are about to ruin.
In the name of Heaven, be silent. For my sake, for
| the sake of the past, seal your lips, and I will make
you rich. Don’t speak; don’t, dowt! A hundred
thousand dollars if you will only hold your peace!”

His blood-shot eyes looked downinto the white
misery of her face; his lips were so close to hers
that’ she could feel his hot breath flashing on her
eheek; and standing thus, he answered, in a slow,
long, venomous hiss:

“A million would not spare you! ] swore to hava
vengeance, and an Italian always keeps his oath.
You struck at my lifa, you fiend, and I paya you
backa if I die!”

He laughed as he ceased speaking—a rasping,
reckléss, jarring laugh, that rang with the triumph
of his soul. ‘

The frantie hands relaxed suddenly, the beautiful
face before him blanched and grew more deathly
than ever, the glorious eyes were full of horror,
and. with a gasping ery. the baffled beauty sank
fawn at his feet, and drew her mantle over her
nead.

The golden game was over, and it was her turn to
fall—her turn to seek the “‘sackeloth and ashes”’—
her turn to bear the bitter cross.

Mr. Remington shuddered at the brutal triumph
, on the Italian’s face; for though he did an act of
‘justice, his countenance was that of a remorseless

 

 

2 of the" adven-
A deadly

fiend, and something in his passionate joy. his
blood-shot eyes and his working countenance.struck
a sickening chill to the ex-physician’s heart, But
truth must be sought and justice won, no matter
from what source; and while he shielded Muriel
with one strong, protecting arm, he turned again
and faced the padrone, saying:

“Will you answer a few questions, my good friend?
I know notif you are aware how terribly this lady
has suffered through the wily tricks of the woman
at your feet; but if you do, I beg of you to speak
the truth, and be ussured Heaven wili reward you
forit. Answer me, sir—did you ever knowa man
named Arnold Vane?”

Bennedetti lifted his eyes from that crouching
figure, and shook his tawny head.

“No,” he answered; “I never heara de nama.”’

“And you have known that woman long?”

The blood-shot eyes went back to the shivering
figure at his feet, and that look of devilish jubilation
again crossed his face.

“T hnowa her twelve—thirteen—’most fourteen
years,” he returned. “She was Lura Banvard whena
we first meeta—‘La Belle Lura,’ the daughter and
deeoy of a gambler onee. He’—pointing to Mr.
Donnithorn—“he tella me that when he bringa her
tome. Iwas notta de poor padrone then; I was a
grand signor, arich man; a fool!”

Mr. Remington’s face lighted up, and asmile of
hope played over his fine lips.

“‘Lura Banvard ?’’’ he repeated. ‘Not Lura Glen-
arm? not Lura Vane? You are sure?”

“Sura? Basta! I stake my life! She was Lura
Banvard, I tella you, and she no changa de name till
I maka her my wife!”

He hurled the words at her with a spiteful vehe-
mence. A shudder and a moan escaped her as she
knelt at his teet—a cry went up from Mr. Reming-
ton’s lips, an echo escaped the trembling figure in
his arms, and in the glare of the gas-light they stood
still and stared at the Italian as though he only
mocked them.

“Your wife—yours ?”’ uttered Muriel, after a brief
pause, and Bennedetti shot her a swift glance.

“Yes, signorina, mine,” he made reply. ‘“Youa no
need to wonder. I was richa,TI tell you, and my
money bought her. It was notta de dazzled fool,
notta de love of an honest heart she wanta; it. was
money, signorina, money! and when that goa, whena
de doting fool is penniless, she forsaka him for an-
other: she goad him to madness, she even attempt
to murder him! You heara me? Lsay she is my wife,
and I claim her. De law of de church say ‘for
richa for poora,’ and she must shara my rags and
Rover she must follow me whera I pleasa.. [am

er husband—her master!”

“But, sir, sir! she has endeavored to blacken my
honor, she has robbed me of my home, cheated me
of my name, and before all the world she has pro-
claimed herself the widow and lawful legatee of Ar-
nold Vane by a marriage she swears was solemnized
in England thirteen years ago.”’

“Tt is a lie!’ broke in the Italian, hotly. ‘Thirteen
year’ ago she wasa my wife, she isa my wife still;
the marriage has never been annulled. I am her
husband and master, I tella you, and [ holda de cer-
tificate yet.”’

A ery went up from Muriel’s lips, and her beauti-
fuleyes uplifted suddenly.

“Oh, God, I than Thee!” she breathed out, bro-
kenly. ‘It is light at last. She never was his wife.
and we can prove it now—perhaps bring sunlight
back to Shadowdene. Oh, sir, sir! it is life and hon-
or yougive me back, and I can face the law again;
for when they know how shamefully this woman
has duped me, how ean they accept her evidence,
how can they believe me guilty of that ghastly crime?
Oh, John, John, the tide has turned again, and it
bears us on to sunlight!”

And then,in a whirl of hope and joy, she drooped
her face on his shoulder and lay there, sobbing hys-
terically.

La Belle Lura had never stirred. She knelt before
them, still and rigid, her hopes ashes, her dreams
shattered, and turning suddenly, Bennedetti laid his
hand upon her shoulder.

“Ttella youl hava vengeance,” he ground out,
vyenomously, ‘and I come to take it now, You sold
me fora lover, Signora Bennedetti; you hurled me
into de Seine to ridda yourself of a husband who
was poor, but Heaven sava me to pulla you down.
Shall Itella you how Iescapa? A poor waterman

ull me from de river half drowna, and taka me to

is cot’. For three day’ I lay in de fever; for a
week I no leava my bed, but when they setta me
free at last, 1 go forth to looka for you. I no finda
de trace, but Iswear hy de Virgin I seeka you, if I
hunta de whole world through. I go to London—
you no there. I have to liva—I have to maka de
money to finda you. and so I taka boys and teacha
dem play. I maka dem work. I beata dem if dey
no bring money enough, because I must travel—I
must find you! I hunt England through—I finda no
trace of you there, and I crossa de water to seeka
you here. f go from town to town; I hunt from
place to.place. I sweara I find you, and—I—keepa—
my—oath—at—last! Do you hear. Signora Benne-
detti? I keepa my oath at last. I finda you playing
your devil’s games here, too. I finda you claiming
aname to hava no right to bear, and I pulla you
down. I giva you up to de polica as an impostor. I
dragga you down to de poverty you despire: and as
you struck at me, now J strika you back—hearta for
hearta, and blow for blow!”

The hoarse, impassioned voice broke, and ceased
altogether; the working features calmed and froze
ina look of deadly hatred, and a dead silence fell
over all that dreadful scene. The woman at his
feet never moved, never spoke; and while he stood
there above her and looked down upon the ruin he
had wrought, a tiry, tattered figure moved from the
darkness, and the boy. Antonio, glided to his side,
saying, in a hoarse, firightened, shivering voice:

“Say it all, Toriani, say it all.”

The Italian turned, and looked down upon him.

“All?” he repeated. Whata you mean?”

“T—I mean the prayer—the oath!” the shuddering
voice went on. “It doesn’t begin like that; it ends
‘heart for heart, and blow for blow.’ Please say it
all, Toriani; I—I ean’t bring it back. I ean’t re-
member it, and yet those words make me think.
“Don’t you know—don’t you remember? I—I can
see the picture so piialy. A little room all pretty
and blue. with such a bright fire on the hearth, and
birds and flowers in the windows; and oh! how the
wind roars outside. Listen, Toriani, don’t you
hear it—ean’t yousee? Wait a moment—wait a mo-
ment; itis alleoming back. Yes, yes, I see it now.
There’s an old Jady with white hair—there’s a
darkey woman, too, and on the sofa, oh! such a
pretty lady, and she’s so still, so awfully white, that
she must be dead; and hark, Torani! There’s a
man, too, and he’s saying it—he’s saying—saying—
wait, wait, it’s all coming back—I knew you didn’t
say it right—he’s saying—saying—'mother, my dar-
ling, these wretches have killed you. But I will
have vengeance for your wrongs, be the issue what
it may. Hour by hour I will track them. step by
step I will hunt them, and when the dream is
brightest, my angel. I will pay them back, heart
for heart, and blow for blow!’ That’s it, Toriani.
It’s all come back at last.”

The shivering voice ended in a hysterical sob—a
woman’s cry, a man’s joyfulexclamation, broke up-
on the air, and the next instant John Remington
had snatched the little fellow from his feet and
held him in his trembling arms, while Muriel,
whiter than ever, clung to one tiny hand, and
looked wistfully into that childish face.

“My boy, my boy!” the ex-physician cried, in a
hoarse voice. “Answer me, child—where did you
learn those words?”

The pale, pinched, frightened face and the big,
blue, beautiful eyes looked down into his.

“I—I don’t know. sir—indeed, indeed I don’t!” he
stammered, in a dazed way. “Nobody taught them
to me—I just remembered them when Toriani
spoke. It brought back that picture, and——_ Oh,
look, sir—look, Toriani! That’s the lady—that’s
the face, just_as I os it lying on the sofa!”

He pointed to Muriel as he spoke, and with a
sudden cry she snatched him to her heart, pant-

ing:

“Arthur, Arthur! my baby!”

And the utterance of that single name seemed to
bring back the past yet more clearly.

“Arthur!” repeated the little lad. “Oh, Toriani—
oh, lady! that’s the name I have been trying to re-
member—that’s the name sie used to call me!”

“She! Whom do you mean?”

“Why, the old black aunty, Giacomo says I used
to ery for. Did you know her? Giacomo doesn’t,
but he says I always cried for Tibby—Aunt Tibby—
when Toriani first gotme. We were ever so late
to-night, you know, and we didn’t want to go home
until Giacomo had seen that ladvagain, and so To-
riani came aiter us, and, when he found us idling
by the doors there, he began to beat us, and we
were so frightened that we ranin here. But you
won’t let him beat us—you won’t let him take us
away, will you, lady?”

And Muriel, in a broken voice, replied:

“Never while life lasts, my darling—I am your
mother.”

“My mother!”

“Yes, deur; I know it, I feel it in my heart. Oh,
sir—oh, Mr. Bennedetti, answer an anguished
mother’s prayer. and tell meis this not my boy?”

The Italian padrone ground out a muttered

he cried. ‘‘He issa mine—I am his uncle!”

“No. he isn’t—indeed he isn’t!’ broke in that
childish voiee. “He used to beat me to make me
say he was, justas Giacomo told me he used to beat
himto make him e¢all him father. He stole me,
Giacomo says—stole me one winter night, ’way
down in the south.”

A sudden ery broke from Mr. Remington’s lips,
and the next instant his hands were at Scipio Ben-
nedetti’s throat.

“You dog!” he cried out, hoarsely, “I knew I had
seen you before. You are the fellow I. met that
night in the woodland road, and again in the de-
serted quarry. Ah! I recollect it all now—the child
who called you ‘father’ in sucha strange way that 1
did not believe it true; tire poor little cripple who
had such a patrician face, and to whom I gave
those coppers for ascarf.” ‘

“That’s him—that’s Giacomo!’ broke in little

 

 

 

 

Arthur, triumphantly. “Don’t you see him? There
he is beside you. Come forward, Giacomo, come
forward!”

The child in the shadow moved out intothe luster
of the gus-light as his little comrade spoke, and
barely had he made his appearance when Mr. Don-
nithorn sprang forward with a startled ery.

“Great Heaven, I would know that child among a
million!’ he uttered, hoarsely. ‘Look at him, Lura
—in the name of Heaven look!”

The mantle fell from the head of that drooping
figure. The ghastly, whitened face uplifted sud-
deuty and a gasping cry escaped those quivering

ips.

“The fates combine to ruin me,’ he shrieked ont,
wildly, “It is the boy Julian—it is Arnold Vane’s
first son—the lawful heir of Shadowdene!”

* * * * * * *

Reader, let us draw a vail over what followed.
Suffice to say that a scene of the wildest excitement
prevailed, that Toriani, driven to the wall, was
obliged to admit how he came into possession of both
children, and that out of the darkneess the light of
truth was plucked,

Mamma Poppinjay waited long and vainly for
“<Signorina Falconi’ and that bewitching little
blonde who promised to honor their drawing-room
to-night,” for neither of them made her appearance.

Why they disappointed not one in all that brilliant
assembly could dream, but the morning papers re-
vealed the reason, and “dear society” had the fattest
morsel of gossip it had known for many a day. The
telegraph flashed the story north, east, south, and
west: “Signorina Faleconi was an escaped murder-
ess, and was about to be sent back to Kentucky for
a second trial. That mysterious Mrs. Blair was only
some low adventuress, and she and her ‘cousin’ were
held for a dreadful conspiracy. Oh, it was shocking
—perfectly dreadful, you know, and only to think
et everybody had gone into raptures over both of

em

The preliminary examination of this remarkabie
case crowded the court-room with eager and impa-
tient spectators, and, if your memory is good, you
will recollect what a notable affair it was; how
everybody tried to gain admission; how those who
failed rushed for the newspapers, and how the State
of New York subsequently handed all four prisoners
over to the Kentucky authorities, having failed to
prove more than the fact that La Belle Lura and
Mr. Donnithorn were a pair of scheming impostors;
that there was no new evidence, so far as a brief ex-
amination could determine, to refute the testimony
which caused Muriel to be convicted of murder, and
that Mr. Remington was undoubtedly guilty of
felony in aiding and abetting in the escape of a cen-
demned woman.

Muriei still protested her innocence, but, as there
was nothing to establish it, the protestation did not
shield her from the dangers of a second trial, and she
found that, without strong evidence to shed new
light upon the case, men were prone yet to believe
the anie mortem statement of the ex-baby-farmer,
and look upon her as Nance Beckett’s assassin.

And with the unjust stigma of the law’s condem-
nation clinging to her yet, the long-suffering mother
was dragged back to Kentucky, and again placed un-
der lock and bar,

[fO BE CONTINUED.}

The Ladies’ Work-Box.

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

“Minnie B.,’”’ St. Louis.—1st. To make a log-cabin quilt,
take first a block of muslin of the size you may desire, and
baste upon this a thin wadding; this, when the strips are
sewed through to the lining, secures it and makes all the
extra thickness which is desirable in the quilt. If you use
a quilted lining, or any heavy fabric, like flannel or canton
tiannel, it is not necessary to baste the wadding in each
block. In the middle of the block of muslin thus pve.
pared place a two inch square of black velvet or silk, or
any other color which you may desire to use for the cen«
tral block, baste it to the lining so it shall not slip or be
misplaced by working. Cut your strips about an inch or

more in width, and sew upon the opposite sides of the
block of velvet. After this is done, turn it over and baste
down to the lining, and sew your next strips upon the
other two sides of the middle block, leaving the strips of
silk long enough to cover the ends of tLe silk which has
already been sewed on. Then turn over and baste as be-
fore, and sew your next strips to the ends you first sewed
upon, and s0 on, alternating from one side to the other.
The shading may be done in a variety of ways—diagonally,
or straight across, or there may be no shading attempted,
but the calico plaeed hit or miss, which makes very pretty
patch-work when it is not convenient to have colors
ne to handsomely shade a quilt. 2d. We will send
you the one dollar outfit of “Perforated Patterns” on re-
ceipt of price. it consists of fifteen patterns of em-
broidery and braiding, any two initials you desire, pow-
der, pad, etc., or ten patterns and the “Manual of Needle-
work.”

“Mrs. Jessie W.’’—The “Tortoise” is the name of achild’s
hat, which promises to become all the rage. In shape it
resembles the turtle, the ridges in the top of the hat being
similar to those found on a turtle shell, but here, however,
the resemblance ceases. Itis a jaunty, dressy little hat,
with the crown and brim in one, and a band underneath to
hold iton the head. Itis very pretty in fine white Milan,
with plaited Oriental lace underneath the brim, and a
ruching of the same around the inside band. Upon one
side of the front is an immense bow of coquelicot red vel-
vet ribbon, with a cluster of natural-looking water-lilies
in the center. Two diamond-shaped pieces of velvet rib-
bon are let through the left side of the brim, and adorned
with gilt crescents. A claster of three coquelicot red tips
are fastened just beneath the brim in front, two turning
up and one drooping down over the hair. Long loons and
ends of velvet ribbon, coming from underneath the brim,
form streamers behind.

“Lina B.”—A very suitable and becoming dress for a
young lady would be one made of white plain and bro-
caded crepe de chine. The basque of the plain material,
with a hanging loose vest of the brocaded crepe, edged
around with Orienta2 lace, over which falls a fringe of
pearl drops, with a tiny shell at the top of each, and caught
at one side with Ottoman bands. The back, also, was
trimmed with lace, with pearl-drops, and the sleeves were
puffed at the lower edge. ‘Phe underskirt was of the plain
material, with a flounce edged with Oriental lace, over
which feil the pearl drops. The long, full back drapery was
of the plain goods, while the front and sides were cover-
ed with the wide sashes of the brocade, placed one under
the other and high at the left side, they also being trim.
med with the lace and pearls.

“Miss Jessie B.—There are no arbitrary rules for mak-
ing graduating dresses, any pretty design suitable for the
fabric chosen being appropriate, though the one idea of
simplicity must be keptin view. Rather bouffant effects
are very popular, and polonaises and basques, with
trimmed skirts, are equally fashionable. The skirt should
be short. Any amountof lace or embroidery can be em-
ployed for trimming, and therg seems to be no limit to the
amount of ribbon used, the preference being for velvet or
satin. The sleeves should be demi-long. For white dress-
es, French nainsook, trimmed with embroidered nainsook,
and dotted and sprigged mulls are the favorite materials,
Indian linens and Hamburg “all over’? embroidery being
used for the overdress, or panels or apron fronts, in com-
bination with the plain goods, or for the waist and drapery,
the skirt trimmed with embroidered tlounces to match.

“Constant Reader, Dover, Tennu.—1st. For young girls
and children, the front hair is combed smoothly over the
forehead, and cutin a line a little above the eyebrows.
The parting is generally made about the middle of the
head from side to side. The hair from the temples and
the crown of the head is sometimes braided and tied with
aribbon bow. The back hair is usually crimped, or waved
by braiding while damp, allowed to dry, and then brushed
out. If the hair is naturally curly, instead of the braid,
three or four curls aretied close to the head by a ribbon
on the crown. 2d. Round combs are out of date, and people
of taste allow their children to wear no ornaments of any
sort about the head save a bow of ribbon.

“Muriel.’"—A new style in tailor-made dresses is the
use of striped serge or ladies’ cloth of two colors for the
skirt, with plain materials to harmonize for the basque
and overskirt. The vest may also be striped. The out-
side jackets to be worn with these suits in the street are
single-breasted frock-coats of medium length, cut away in
front to show two or three of the lower buttons of the
vest of the basque, and are always of plain material,

“Pearl,” Bridgeport.—1st. The article to which you re-
fer is said to be very beneficial, though we do not recom-
mend it or or any other cosmetic. 2d. We know of noth-
ing that will cure redness of the nose. 3d. The color of
the hair received is light brown. 4th. Your letters are
well formed, but the writing is much too heavy. 5th. Yes,
you could improve your handwriting greatly by constant
practice, with the aid of a copy-book.

“Miss Mollie W.”—The chemisette is plaited and slight-
ly puffed. Ono side of the opening is cut in scollops, and
this and also the plain side are bound or edged with vel-
vet. A full rosette is set upon each scollop,and one is placed
at the termination of the chemisette, with additional loops
and ends falling to the point of the corsage. Neck ruche
and sleeve trimming to correspond. One-inch-wide vel-
vet ribbon is used for all the garniture.

“Allie M.’’—‘‘Lost—a Pearle,’ is in book-form, and the
NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will forward it
to you on receipt of the retail price, $1.50.

“B.S. L.’—The price of “The Forsaken Bride” is $1.50,
om receipt of which the NBW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency will forward it to you.

“Mrs. T. O.”—The price of “Amber, the Adopted” is
$1.50, on receipt of which the NEW YORK WEEKLY Pur-
chasing Agency will send it to you.

“Carrie W.”—The NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing
Agency will send you the “People’s Cook-Book” on re-
ceipt of price, 30 cents.

“Mollie V.”—The price of the rubber gloves is $1.50
and $1.75, according to the length.

_-——_-__—_—- > @~< -——

Read the advt. about the book ‘‘Bodily Beauty.”

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SHY

 

OFF 10 THE BROOKSIDS.

BY W. R. BARBER.

The country streams! the country streams!
I hear their voices in my dreams.

They shout: “Pale helot of the pen,

Forsake thy dusky thinking-den ;

The world thy lines can do without;

Cast lines and ‘leaders’ to the trout;

Assume the rod, and hither tripping,

Give the ‘complaining brooks’ a ‘whipping.’ ”

Needs must I go; for since my hand
Had strength to wield the jointed wand,
My shadow, in the sweet spring-tide,
Has fallen by the brooklet’s side.

A malison on pen and ink!

I’m for the trout stream’s grassy brink.
Their pinions light the speckled fry,
Amid the liquid crystal ply;

And, oh! this vernal air’s delicious,

To men, and “gods, and little fishes.’’

Full well I knew the pools and lins,
Where watchfully, on fluttering fins,

The trout await, in hungry mood,

Their usual providential food.

To take them is no easy feat;

With wooden nutmegs you might cheat

A greenhorn, sooner than a trout

Of veteran age on the lookout.

Yet, if with skill you cast your “dotterel,”’
He'll take the false tly like the natural.

The creature, where the alders screen

The brook, lies in the shade unseen ;

And where the rapids seethe and comb,

Makes ’mid the splintered rocks his home.
There let your “hackle” lightly skip ;

Or, with a “coachman”’ on your “whip,”

Essay the quiet pool below,

Where deep and dark the waters flow ;

And if a troutlet there is swimming,

He’ll bolt your steel with feathered trimming.

I know a spot, where round and round

The foam-rings swirl—’tis there I’m bound;
And ere these words are turned to print,

I’ll seek the pool and try what’s in’t.

Some soldan of the brook, I’m sure

If there he dwelis, I can secure.

And I shall feast on trout as fine

As ever stretched an angler’s line.
Meanwhile I close these verses votive,

Lest I should miss the locomotive.

A GOOD BOY'S DIARY

A BAD BOY’S DIARY

No.!} 10.—He Enjoys Farm-Life More and
More.

I herd him tell miss Trimble, the nervus border,
he regreted taking little Jonny, only his mother an
sister wirso niece he didn like to send em away;
his house was not full, he wood lose 15 dolarsa

‘week (missTrimble pays 6). She mus try to bare it;
praps the boy wood improve with age like apple-
jack. So I pesoom we shal be alowed to remane
here.

Itakea grateintrest in farming; Iam going to
be a farmer like him when I grow up; he lets me
follo him round, cause he says when I am with him
he knows where I am. [I help him plant pota-
tose; when they are all in we are going to plant
corn, six akirs. He says he hopes the crows won’t
pick it half up. He also says he will reduse the
prise of my borde if I get so useful to him. He pur-

‘proses I shall dress up in some of his old close an

-play Iam askare cro to keep them off; he will give
me 5 sense a day, but I know a better way.

 

 

He is worrid bout a strange epidemic has atacked
his fouls; evry morning lately he has found two
or three dead ones lieing around—he cant see what
they dyed of. Curisly enonf it is only the roostirs
have the decease. Iam afraid to tell him how I thot
they were crows becaus they cruso, an how I fixed
them so they wood not eat up his corn when it was
planted, so [I got up very urly when they began to
crow an lassode all I eould cach—I shall not lasso
any more now I have lurned they are not crows.

Thereis a enormis gobler, mos as tall as Iam, struts
about the barnyard as if he was monark of all he
survade; if he makes me mad agen chasing me as he
did yesterday ’'m afrade Mr. Hopper will wonder
what diseze carrid him off an burid him behind the
barrak, for Bruno has nosed around the spot an
pawd away the erth so some of his talefethers show.

Daisy likes it here as well as I do; we have lots of
fun when I am not busy farming. She will insist in
todling round after me trying her level best to do
what her brother does; if she was a boy we wood
have have more fun, not but what I am very fond of
= little sister; but Mr. Tomson (one of our borders
who is not marrid) says girls should stay in the house
an lurn to so an nit. he does not beleve in womans
writes. Hesaid a good eel at the supper table las
night; Miss Fenn she ansered him back, she wood
rather be miss antony an dun with it than some
erechurs she had seen cald dudes—she did not think
dudes ot to be alowed to vote, witch made them all
laugh because Mr. Tomson flaters himself he is 1.

Miss fenn is prity an writch; all the borders like
her, I wood like to marry her when I grow up but
she says She will not wait. she wispered to melas
night there was some one coming nex week she was
rather fond of—then she gave me some creme candy
80 I wood not feel too bad.

Itis curius how some things you read about ac-
tually hapen. Yesterdy I read somethin to daisy in
moother goose—I did not think she wood rite about
us before we did it, yetit seems she did; what she
wrote was this

Jack an jill
Went up the hill
To get a bucket of water
Jack fell down
And broked his crown
And jill came tumbling after.”

that was us. it hapened yesterdy. We were play-
ing girl’s play to please Daisy—it wus take tea—for
we had got in the dary an borrode a picher of creme,
some bread an butter, an we had some cakes our
mother gave us. We had to have water to boil in
daisys dolls teakettle. mamma had said ‘‘children
you mus never go tothe spring, you might fall in
head formost and get drownded fore anybody herd
yer holler.’”’

But we went evry day when she was not looking,
but we never went when they knew it. It was very
deep. There was aborde acrost it to walk out an
fill your bukit, but mother Goose is mistaken, it
was atekettle we had, witch made me dizy when I[
stoopd over, anI fellin. My hed fell down in the
mud at the bottom an my feet fell up forchinitly for
Daisy to pull me out. I didnt holler cause my
mouth was full of water and polly wogs.

Itell youit wasatug for Daisy but she draged
me out at last on the korde witch skrached my nose
some but I was saved.

Mother goose is rong I did not brake my crown Ion-

 

 

 

 

 

ly mudidit. Iwas damp all over, so Daisy made mea
good hot cup of eatnip teaand gave meall the cakes.
She was quite damp too, cause she fell in when I
was so heavy; we did not wish to be seen in such a
plite, so we went an hid behind the current bushes
an et green curents till it was pich dark.

We were chilly when we went in; we did not get
a whiping but we got sore throte, witch is horrible
cause you cant swallow half your nice things no
matter how much jelly miss Fenn brings you.

=e We are better now. It is tuff being sick a
week this time of year when you are bording where
there is some fun evry minit. I have been to look
at the spring. Mr. hopper has had a barbd wire
fense put all round it, with a gate wich is lockd an
ne key gone. I beleve mama paid for the wire

ense.

This forenoon Mr. Tomson said I was a grate
plage becaus he wanted to be alone on the poreh
with Miss Fenn. I have herd Miss Trimble say he
only bordes in this quiet place because she does; he
has made up his mind he will make his living by
asting some writech young lady to suport him in
good stile. I was lying low behind some rose bush-
es atthe end the poreh, diging for wurms; he did
not know I wasthere till I thru a little weenty teen-
ty stone wood not hurt a baby only it hapened to
take him in the eye an made it water. He got angry
at jonny; I guess it was not the stone but jonny’s
being there put himinarage. He started to catch
me, an I ran for the barn, cause I thot Mr. hopper
was there, so he wood not dare totuch me.

Mr. Tomson is aterible coward; he is afrade of
all kinds of animals, even sheeps: he never drives

the colts; he thinks the barn-yard is a desgusting
place—city life for him, he says. But he was so mad
at jonny he forgot he never went to the barn; it was
ruther a cool morning for the last of may; he had
put a red scarf round his neck to look prity; it
stremed back on the air when he run to cateh jonny.
The old ram was looking on camly in sirprise—could
not stend that; he thot it wasa chalinge on purpus,
so he joined in, but Mr. Tomson was not aware of
his danger until it was too late. Sudenly sumthin
struck him with such fource he went rite down on
his hans an gnees. My goodnes, how the men who
came out the barn did laugh.

Miss Fenn, who had run to see what become of
her little favorite, laughed, too. He jumped up
very spry for him, and lookd behind to see what—o
my what a vell he gave when he saw the ram loring
those big horns agen—he forgot he was chasing
jonny to punish him, and took a hasty refuse in the
barn—the ram was after him, so the big door at the
back was open an he kep on thru, the terible beste
after him, all around the barn twist—he did not
think to clime the ladder an take refuse in the ha-
mow.

mr Hopper tried to call the ram off, he hithim with
the rake witch stoped him half a minit—Mr tomson

sezed the oportunity to doge thru a gate opn into a
field, he was too fritened to member to shut the
gate after hisself. such a seen of ecsitement you
seldom saw, Mama an the uther ladies looks out
their windows. the calf folled, the roosters flapped
an crowed; mr Tomson he was out of breth so he
stopped to look about if he was safe—o horor of
horors, not only was teat nraged crechur close after
him, but everything inthe field had joined in the
stampese, fore cows, two big oxen, 1 the colts was
out to grass, an the red bull the other side the field
saw the fun an the red scarf flying, an begun to
bello an paw the ground, it wood make your hair
stand on endif you wer afrade like mr Tomson is.

It did not make his hair stand on end because he
fell rite down 4n fanted away in histrax. It wasthe
bes thing could hapen to him, Mr. Hopper said, for
when the bull rusht up an saw the fo did not stir, he
sniffed an sniffed, an finly walked away in disgust
—they said he thot the enemy was dead—they will
not toss them when they are dead. When the brute
walked off the men went an pikked him up an carrid
him to the pump an sprincled him well, so he had to
put on a collar was starched better when he come too.
He remaned pale all day. Mrs. Hopper has had to
repare his close; he is deeply offended with me an
Miss Fenn, I beleve he leves for Saratoga when his
week is up. He abhaws the country a good ell wur-
ser than he did before. She is not sory he is going.
There will be anuther to take his place at table so
the farmer need not care.

* * * Some the borders complane they expected
to have more fresh egs for brekfast when they borde
on a farm. Mr. Hopper says the hens have sudenly
stoped laing; daisy an I don’t like egs fer breakfast,
we have so many when we play dolls teparty out
under the big chesnut tree down by the meddow.
We havea old tin pail was throne away to boil water
fer our tea; it leeks some, witch puts out the fire, but
rosted egs are very good when you rap them in
brown paper an berry them in the ashes; there is
salt fer the sheeps an cowsin the barn. I generaly
eat seven but she can make way with only 4. We
have spoilt a few making cake with sand, the cake
will not rise but I think if we can find some sugar it
will.

I was bound I wood have some fun with that old
ram so I took Daisys red flanel jackit an went out
alone in the sheep field, witch is a poor place, all
mullin stawks; there is quite a stream of water
runs thru it, it is sometimes hi after a hevy rain
like we had las’ night. Thereisa bridge over it, it
is a steep bridge 10 or 12 feet above the water, the
beams come out, so you can sit on the end of em an
fish. I have fisht sevral times an cot 3 minows once;
but to day Iruther have some fun with that cross
old ram, he has chased me onee too offen. Sol
went and sat on the string piece where it comes out
at the side the bridge; I calld the sheeps an shook
herred sack till he saw it an got jolly mad; he made

a rush to but me off into the deep water—jus’ as he
thot he was going to but me off. I droped an hung
on by my hans, he went rite over, kirsouse, in the
streme, 10 feet below; you wood smile to see how
astonisht that ram apeared when he swum out.
But he was not thurly subdude yet. I shook the
red rag an prity soon he came at me agen. After he
had doneit 3 times he semed ashamed of hisself
an suneked away—I guess he will not trouble little
Jonny any more at present. He will be more re-
spekful.
—_—____—__ > @~<__ —__—__

SUBSTITUTES FOR SUNLIGHT.

By John R. Coryell.

We may be very sure that one of the first things
that man endeavored to do was to dispel the dark-
ness of night by an artificial light. In some parts
of the world it must have been difficult to find
means for making light and keeping it; and we ean
only guess at the shifts our remote ancestors were
put to by a knowledge of what means are employed
now in various parts of the world.

In Alaska, for example, the natives have discoy-

 

 

ered a peculiarly oily fish about the size ofa herring;
this isdried and used as acandle. It requires no
special preparation, but is lighted at the tail and
burns steadily just as a tallow candle does. This
eandle has the advantage that when not needed as
an illuminator it can be eaten.

In other parts of the world the little bird known to
sailors as Mother Carey’s chicken, is burned with
very little more preparation than the Alaskan fish.
An ordinary wick is put into the mouth and run
through the body. The bird is then lighted as a

common candle is, and burns as readily. In South
America a bird is found, called the steatornis cari-
pensis, which burns like a pine knot. And by
the way, the pine knot is now and has for centuries
been used as an illuminator. Perhaps it may not
be too much to say that the pine knot has given this
country some of her greatest and truest men. Many
a statesman of the past two generations studied his
text books by no other light than was given by the
blazing pine log which was made to do double duty
as a provider of heat and light.

In the West India islands the natives from the
earliest times had the simplest and yet the oddest
and most beautiful means of procuring light. This
was aluminous beetle known as the sag We
have fire-flies in this part of the world, but they are
like the moon tothe sun compared to the cocujo,
This light-giving beetle is larger than a large cock-
roach, and throws out so much light that with a
single insect held in the fingers it is possible to
read a book.

In going through forests at night the natives used
to fasten a ea to ench foot in order to thus shed
light on the path. At the present time ladies fasten
the brilliant_insect in their hair and there let it
shine like a diamond in the dark.

All over the world oil has been used for ages, and
innumerable are the sources from which the oil has
been obtained. The animal, vegetable, and mineral
kingdoms have all been levied on for the coveted
light-producer. The whale, the shark, the seal, the
marine bird, the hog, the cow, and scores of other
birds, beasts, and fish have furnished the fat which
in turn furnished the oil. In the vegetable kingdom
are the castor, bean, and twenty other oil-giving
beans; the cocoa-nut and twenty other oil-giving
nuts ; the tallow tree and many other oil-giving trees,
Tn the mineral kingdom, to say nothing of other oils,
we find petroleum.

Next to gas, petroleum is the great light-giver of
the present day, and very many persons fancy that
petroleum is a modern discovery. As a matter of
fact, petroleum was known ages, centuries ago. Mr.
Job, who has earned something of a reputation for
patience, undoubtedly means petroleum when he
says: “When I washed my steps with butter, and
the rock poured me out rivers of oil.”’ In the Persian
Gulf is a little peninsula, called Okesra, where
there are oil wells thousands of years old. About
two thousand years ago Plutarch described the oil
wells which then existed.

As for illuminating gas, almost anybody would say
that it is entirely a modern idea; and yet itis prob-

ably the oldest kind of a light-giver. At Baku, on
the Caspian Sea, in south-western Asia, gas issues
from holes inthe earth and burns always. And as
far back as histery or tradition goes, it has burned.
Even in China gas has been used for centuries. Itis
caught as it comes from the earth, and is earried in
banmiboo tubes to where it is wanted. It, probably,
is not generally known that in this country, at this
present day, there are towns whollv supplied with
light from gas furnished by nature. East Liverpool,
Ohio, is lighted and in a measure heated by natural
gas. Andthere is sucha flow of it that the street-
lamps are allowed to burn all the time. Other towns
in New York, Pennsylvania, and Ohio are partially,
if not wholly, lighted by natural gas.

Artificial gas was not practically used until 1798,
when a Scotchman, named Robert Murdock, who
invented a process for making it, built a gas-mak-
ing machine, and lighted a shop in Birmingham,
England, with the produet. Of course there were
many wise persons who talked and worked against
the introduction of gas; and it is quite likely that
the manufaeturers of oil and eandles were more
sure than anybody else that gas would never do to
use. Just as the stockholders in the Brooklyn fer-
ries never could see any good use for a bridge from
New York to Brooklyn; and just as the gas com-
panies are positive that_the electric light will never
do to use in houses, and just as manufacturers are
certain that the country will be ruined if the tariff
is reduced. The tender interest of the rich monop-
olist in the welfare of the people is really very
touching.

o~<

A TRAGEDY BEHIND THE SCENES.
By Claude G. DeBruler.

“Wait until some other time, Charley: I must go
to the store now. I'll tell you some other time.”

“No, George, there is no time so favozable as the
present. Tell me now. You have always put me off
thus. And, besides.” said he, pointing to the clock
on the mantel, “‘we have at least an hour and a
half.”

The speakers were occupants of a room of small
dimensions, though furnished with great neatness.
The grate was heaped with masses of burning coals,
which shot forth their radiance, flooding the room
with a genial glow.

These gentlemen were in the employ of a well
known wholesale dry-goods dealer of New York.
The last speaker, Charley Marshal, was a dash-
ing young fellow, who appeared to have made
his debut into the world in aray of sunshine, and
proposed making his exit in the same manner.

The other, George Montrose, fully ten years Mar-
shal’s senior, was a quiet, reserved man, whose
countenance always bore a look of melancholy
which was at times extremely painful to behold.
Whether idle or engaged, that look was always visi-
ble. He seldom addressed any one, and then, only
at such times and upon such subjects as business
required.

When they first met this melancholy had
attracted the attention of Charley, who, by the
manifestation of many little kindnesses, soon won
the affections of Montrose. The latter longed for a
friend in whom he could confide. Thus they came
to love one another as brothers.

“Come, George, there is no use delaying this
longer. If you ever intend making me your confi-
dant in this matter, do it now,” said Charley, seeing
that he hesitated. :

“Well, Charley,” said he, seating himself, “you
have proved a true friend to me, and I will repay it
with my confidence, Mine is a long story, and one
which I had determined never to tell. But it may
afford some relief to my mind. It has remained
buried in my bosom nearly fifteen years, and with
its disinterment comes back many old scenes.

“Fifteen years ago I was a dashing young student
of Yale. It was my last term. Commencement was
drawing near. Persons from abroad were arriving
to witness the closing exercises; for commence-
ment was considered an event of more than ordi-
nary importance, Among theivisitors a young lady
from Cincinnati arrived, and was the guest of alady
friend of mime—the afflanced of my roommate.

“T of course ealied, and received an introduction
to her. She w retty, ay, beautiful, and in ad-
ditipn to this; y accomplished. In fact, to my
mind, she atta Md nearer toa state of perfection
than any lady” ever met.

“? leved hej-mpm the first. WhenTI first beheld
her I felt th meeforth for her alone would my
heart beat. ‘Séyeral visits I became convinced
that she rega me with feelings of more than
m:. friends T hailed with joy this belief, and

re my heart, and received the

din marriage. That night, I be-
tof my life. On the following
deliver my graduating oration.

p.
" oa laid’
pi -nise of her
lieve, was the
morning I was

“ ‘George,’ Said she, accompanying me to the door
as I was about to depart, ‘do honor to yourself to-

morrow. I desire to see you excel. And I am confi-
dent you will.’ 4

“-Thanks, darling. I will exert myself for—’

* ‘My sake.’

“« «Yes, Minnie, for your sake, as well as my own.’

“The hour was late when I reached my room, and
although rallied by my roommate upon remaining
out so late, I kept my little secret. Pleasant dreams
that night attended me in my sleep, and on the mor-
row I awakened bright and early, greatly refreshed.
I remembered what Minnie—Minnie Turner was her
name—had said the night previous:

* ‘George, do honor to yourself.’

“Oh! how those words continually rang in my
ears. They ingited me to action, and I won new
laurels. But I must hurry or I will not get through.
I received my diploma, and went to my home in
Philadelphia, while Minnie returned to Cincinnati.

“For nearly half a year we corresponded regularly.
Suddenly her letters ceased. Fears as to her health
took possession of me, and the agony of suspense
during the longinterval which ensued was terrible.

“But one moring a letter came. I eagerly tore
it open as I recognized the writing, but before I had
perused half a dozen lines my hand dropped to my
side paralyzed, Though short, every word pierced
my heart likeadagger. She said she had married a
man of her father’s selection, hoped I’d forgive and
forget—as though love like mine could cease at my
bidding. Iraved and swore—cursed the fates that
had thrown this being across my path.

“At times I think my reason must have deserted
me; for I would lock myself in my room and re-
main there fordays, allowing no one to come near
me. Then I resorted to strong drink and gambling,
and was in a short time penniless, The frail chords
which had so long sustained my mother snapped
asunder, and she was borne to the grave, murdered!
Ay, most foully murdered by me! My father, crushed
in mind and body, soon followed, and I—the villain
who had brought on this shame—remained, only to
drag out a life df dissipation.

“T now resorted to gambling for a livelihood. One
evening fortune favored me, and I came out several
thousand dollars ahead. I now determined to change
my base of operations to New York.

“On the evening of my arrival I visited the ——
Theater, to witness the performance of the accom-
plished American tragedienne, Minette Proctor. I
secured a private box that I might view the au-
dience and at the same time witness the acting. The
curtain ascended and the play commenced. I had
otten witnessed its rendition, and not caring to see
the opening scene, my opera-glass was directed to
the dress circle, when a clapping of hands caused
my attention to turn tothe stage, when, oh, heavens!
what a shock !~in this being, known to the world as
Minette Proctor, J recognized Minnie Turner!

“Actors, audience, and all floated before my eyes
and blended together in one confused mass. It was
with a great effort that I succeeded in retaining my
seat.

“IT calmed myself, however, and witnessed the play
through, without exhibiting outwardly any signs of
the terrible tnmult within.

“Just as the curtain was descending on the last
act a boy bearing a note entered my box. It was
addressed in the familiar hand to ‘Geo. Montrose,
Esq.’ My heart gave a great leap as I read it.

“The present was forgotten, and I was carried
back to the scenes of my college days, I thought of
the evening she had promised to become my wife. I
was recounting these happy scenes, when the voice
of the boy recalled me to the present.

‘Lead the way,’ said I, and he conducted me from
the box, aud immediately ushered me into the green-
room.

“There she stood proudly before me, scarcely alter-
ed. As I beheld her I unconsciously bounded for-
ward with the intention of clasping her to my
breast.

“ ‘Stop, sir! Do not touch me,if you value your
life!’ exclaimed she, waving me back. ‘My object
in requesting to see you is not to revive old mem-
ories, I wish you to return all letters you have in
your possession written by me.”

“*Your letters, madam, have long since been con-
signed to the flames—all excepting this one, the last
you wrote me. It isa relic I could not part with.
Ha! ba! Youno doubt regarded it as a light matter
to trifle with a man’s heart. But see what you have
accomplished, madam! Do you feel proud of your
great achievement? Look upon me and observe
what changes have taken place. Who did it, madam?
Who effected this mighty change? You seem disin-
clined to answer my question ; probably I had better
relieve you of the effort it would occasion!”

“IT was almost crushing her arm, which I had
clutched while speaking. The whisky I had been
drinking, in connection with these unexpected and
disturbing incidents, had almost converted me into
& madman,

** "Don’t, George!’ cried she. ‘You frighten me
with your strange talk. What do you mean?’

 

“ “Mean, madam! Read that note, then ask me, if
you can, what it means.’

“Teast the letter as I uttered these words at her
feet. She seized it, and at one glance inside, ex-
claimed:

* “George, I never saw that letter. As I may wish
for mercy iu heaven, I swear 1 never sawit! Some
treacherous hand did this. Ialso received a similar
letter from you, and——’

“Stop! Do not perjure your soul with false-
hoods, madam. You already have enough to an-
swer for.’

***As Heaven is my witness, George, I speak the
truth!’ exclaimed she, sinking upon her knees.

“Get up. madam; I do not believe you. I trusted
you implicitly onee. and that sacred trust you
abused. Stop! donot deny it.’

** “Oh, George, I pray you listen tome. You are
laboring under a great mistake. You judge me
harshly, and Heayen knows 1 do not deserve it.’

‘It’s false! I’ll murder you!’

“Just at that instant the door was thrown open
violently, and a man rushed in and struck me a
fearful blow upon the head. I sank, half uncon-
scious, to the floor.

“You did it!’ cried Minnie, turning upon him.
‘You wrote those notes. Take that!’

‘I saw her raise the dagger which she held in her
hand, and ina moment more it was buried to its
hilt in the villain’s breast.

* “Yes, I did it.’ said he, staggering forward. ‘But
I’m going fast, and wiil not go alone!’ and before I
eould interfere, his knife had reached its mark.
“She sank into my arms.

“ “Oh, George! We have both been cruelly de-
eeived, But you will now believe that I was to the
last—true. Kiss me, dear George! I am sinking
fast. Ican scarcely see you. Tell me that you still
love me, George, and please do not go away and
leave me. Remember me kindly. I have never
given way to sin. This man has been my evil
genius. He caused my father to drive me from his
house, believing that I had sinned. Since then I
have been compelled to bear his persecutions. But,
George, dear George, I have remained pure. Kiss
me again, George. And,oh! where are you? Hold
me fast, I—feel—so.’

“And thus she died in my arms. Oh, that mo-
ment was terrible! But I cannot dwell upon the
scene. Can you blame me, my dear friend, for ap-
pearing sv melancholy? Mine has been asad life.
But there will be an end.”

“Cheer up, George,” said Charley, lifting his head,
which had during the narrative rested upon his
arms. “You have indeed suffered; but remember
that in proportion to your sufferings upon this earth
will be your happiness in heaven.”

Pleasant Paragraphs.

{Mostof our readers are undoubtedly capable of contrib
uting toward making this column an attractive feature of
the NEW YORK WEEKLY, and they will obiige us by send-
ing for publication anything which may be deemed of
suflicient interest for general perusal. It is not necessary
that the articles uaa be penned in scholarly style; so
long as they are pithy, and likely to afford amusement,
minor defects will be remedied. ] *

What She Said and What She Did.
“T will never marty,”’ she said—she said—
“Unless a young man that just suits me I find;
Taller than I by at least half a head
He surely must be, with a face bright and kind;
His eyes I’d prefer of a violet blue,
His hair a light brown or a very warm gold;
He must sing—a fine tenor—and dance nicely, too,
And tell as good stories as ever were told.
No smoking allowed, for the weed I detest,
And of course no remarks that are rude or ill-bred;
And I’d like him always to be stylishly dressed,
The young man I marry,”’ she said—she said.
And then the maid married—she did—she did—
A three-score old fellow much shorter than she,
Who wore a black wig that but awkwardly hid
A pate that no balder could possibly be.
And his voice was a creak, and he danced like a bear,
And his nose it was red, and dull gray were his eyes,
And he’d sit by the hour and stupidly stare,
And he never said anything witty or wise.
And he smoked a clay pipe, and from morning till night,
In his mouth held of strongest tobacco a quid;
And he dressed—but, enough, he had two millions quite,
And she married him gladly—she did—she did.
A Cemetery Surprise Party.

A cheerful practice is undermining the cemeteries
of San Francisco. The price of cadavers having
advanced steadily for four years, the medical col-
leges found a scarcity of good, reliable subjects.
The sawhbones. therefore, clubbed together and
hired a venal sexton to make a midnight raid upon
the grave-yard lining San Francisco’s favorite drive,
and anticipate the day of reckoning for a small
consideration. Things ran_smoothly on_until last
month, when an able-bodied savant was buried. A
burst of thunder-sound startled the citizens the
following night; there was a patter of buttons and
eoffin-nails upon the roofs farand wide, and the
sexton’s wife awoke next morning to find herself a
widow. It seems that the savant, a doctor himself,
had directed a quantity of dynamite and fulminat-
ing silver to be interred with him, and the unsus-

ecting caterer to the college was thus trapped.

he simple ingenuity and effectiveness of the in-
vention seems to have tickled the San Franciscans,
and the cemeteries are now being honeycombed
with torpedoes and blasting powder, fuses and per-
cussion caps, to such an extent that the science of
anatomy is practically brought to an end.
Why She Wasn’t Removed.

After one of the Patti performances in San
Francisco, about the middle of the first act a dishey-
eled woman pushed her way through the crowd at
the back of the dress-circle, and sat down upon the
steps. A policeman followed her and said:

“Madam, you must not stay here.”

To him the rumpled womanfremarked:

“Why can’t I?’

“Because it’s against the law to occupy the aisles.”

“But there’s no one else here—what difference can
one person make ?”

Before this feminine logic the policeman was dis-
heartened.

“Madam,” said he, ‘if you do not go,I shall have
to remove you.”

“Touch me, if you dare,” said the rumpled woman,
glaring at him. ‘Just lay a finger on me, and I'll
holler fire |”

The officer gazed around the packed house, and
pensively withdrew.

“De Lawd Helps Him Who Helps Hisself.”

“What luck did you hab las’ night, parson?”
asked the Rev. Isaiah Boomer of the Rev. Theodore
Wilkins, two of Mount Washington’s most popular
colored clergymen.

*Didn’t hab no luck at all. Dar was no ducks or
geese in reach. I found a lot of clothin’ hangin’ on
a line. bnt de wedder was so inclement dat de
clothin’ was froze to de line so tight I couldn’t pull
’em off. May be the Lawd will temper the wind,
and moderate de wedder, so I can pull dem close
offen de line if dey am still out ter-night.”

“You’re the biggest fool in old Kentucky. Why
didn’t yer cut de line at bofe ends and go off wid de
line, close, and all?” :

“Brudder Wilkins, nex’ time I’ll be proud ter hab
yer go along. You has studied de text: ‘De Lawd
helps him who helps hisself.’” |ALMER BARNES.

It Will Not Doto Tattle.

SCENE I.—Boy with hand up.

Teacher.—‘“‘Well, what is it?’

Boy.—“You have not heard all the lesson, for we
had the map questions too.”

Consternation in the class. 3 j

Teacher gives out questions, all miss save this one
good boy.

ScENE II.—School-room empty.

Presently bad boy comes in and goes to good boy’s
seat. Works hard, with his knife, in good boy’s seat,
and puts five pins, points upward, in it.

SCENE III.—Morning.

Ail come in school-room.
Teacher taps bell.

All sit.

Good boy jumps up hastily.
Cries and groans fill the air.

A Bad Boy’s Trick.

“Did you lose this strap, mister?”

He was a small, ragged boy, with a clean, new
school-strap in his hand, who asked this question
behind Mr. P—— yesterday afternoon.

Mr. P— glanced around to see if anybody was
looking.

“Ah, thank you, my boy. Here’s a quarter for
your honesty,” and he tucked the school-strap in
his spacious overcoat pocket. ;

“It’s a cold day when I get left,” said Mr. P—— to
himself as he walked away, wondering who really
had lost the strap. :

**Dot vas a goot sale,” said the street peddler,
when the boy came back to buy another strap for

five cents.
An Old Saw Reset.

Plumber.—Have you Mr. Rich’s bill made out yet?
Clerk.—Yes, sir; but I want to make another one.
There is a big mistake init. |

Plumber.— What sort of a mistake?

Clerk.—The bill should be $13.17, but I got the fig-
ures transposed, and made it out for $31.17.
Plumber.—Are you sure the 17 cents is right?
Clerk.—Oh, yes; perfectly correct.
Plumber.—Then never mind about making any
change. Take care of the pennies and the dollars
will take care of themselves.

A Thrifty Wife.

“The sheriff will be here to-morrow,” said the
poor printer to his spouse, ‘and everything we
have will be swept away.” He bowed his head in
his hands and groared aloud. The patient little
wife went softly to a bureau-drawer, and taking
therefrom eighty thousand dollars, which she had
saved from her household expenses, placed the
package quietly at his feet. Half an hour later the
mortgage was paid,and the man was around the

LAURA A. P.

 

 

 

corner playing seven-up for the beer.

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 83s:=-

ar ns eee eae ie

A Fire Freferable.

A few days ago a business firm in Cincinnati got
into trouble among themselves, and one of the part-
ners posted off to a lawyer to ask advice. When he
had related his ease, he inquired:

“I presume the correct way is te ask that a re-
ceiver be appointed?”

‘“That’s one view of it,” replied the lawyer.

Why, I didn’t know there were two views to such
a question.”

‘Oh, yes. If none of you dare set fire to the store
and burn up everything and gail it square, you’d
better ask for a receiver and let him be two months
stealing you all blind. Ishould advise the torch, as
that will save paying two months’ rent.”

A Husband at Peace.

“Poor John! he was a kind and forbearing hus-
dand,” sobbed the widow, on her return from the
funeral,

‘Yes,” said a sympathizing neighbor, ‘but it is
all forthe best. You must try and comfort yourself,
my dear, with the thought that your husband is at
peace at last.”

Mirthful Morsels.

“What are you about?” angrily exclaimed a coun-
try editor the other day to his wife, who was touch-
ing up her complexion before the mirror. ‘Only
eine up my ‘patent outside,’ dear,” was the
reply.

No class, a police magistrate is reported to have
said, put more real feeling into their vocation than
pickpockets.

Said he—‘‘Matilda, you are my dearest duck.”
Said she—‘‘Augusta, you are trying to stuff me.”
She was too sage for him,

A nervous old clergyman went to see one of his
parishioners—a lady with a prodigious family, which
had recently been increased—after a long absence
passed in foreign travel. As he rose to leave, the
lady stopped him with “But you haven’t seen my
last baby.” ‘‘No,” he replied, nervously, “and I
never expect to.” The lady looked horror-struck,
so he deemed it best to flee.

A boy who was told he should always try to cheer
the aged, tried “three times three anda tiger” on
his grandmother the other morning, and the old
lady was so startled that she spilled a boxful of
snuff on him. He now looks upon the beauties of
nature with his left eye.

A famous artist once painted an angel with six
toes. ‘“Who ever saw an angel with six toes?” they
inquired. ‘‘Who ever saw one with less?” was the
counter question. That settled the argument.

He was an artist, and he was sparking the daugh-
ter of a retired sea-captain. While he was whisper-
ing sweet nothings in his sweetheart’s ear in the
dimly lighted parlor, he was paralyzed by the voice
of the ancient mariner in the other room: “Cast off
that painter!” But she explained that her father
was only dreaming that he was on the sea again,
and the engagement proceeded,

“May Heaven preserve your eyesight!” said a
beggar-woman to a man with a small nose who had
just given her agratuity. “‘Why?” he asked. “Be-
cause,” said she, “you’ve got no nose to hold your
spectacles.”

“No, George,” said she; “I love you just the same,
but as our city relatives are coming next week,
mother thinks you’d better stay away, because your
long hair and freckled face might make them think
our acquaintances weren’t very high-toned.” The
young man is staying.

When a driver is thrown over a horse’s head, the
horse becomes the power behind the thrown.

“ Only a tress of a woman’s hair!”
.. , Lhe lover musingly, fondly said;
And yet it forms a halo fair,
To-night, above her sacred head!”
* Only a tress of a woman’s hair!”
The maiden, smiling, sweetly said,
And laid it on the back of a chair
And went to bed.

There is a man in Louisiana who is such a con-
firmed gambler that when he was told the other
day that a friend had been stricken down by the

peal, cold anne Ae Ce he immediately went
out to raise it, declaring that “no man could pla
cold hand on any friend of his.” ee

Items of Interest.

The Guion steamer Oregon, which arrived at this
port on the 19th of April, made the voyage from Queens-
town in the extraordinary time of six days, ten hours, and
ten minutes, beating the best record of the Alaska, known
asthe “Grayhound of the Atlantic,” by just eleven and
a half hours. The poorest run during the voyage was
made on the first day out—440 miles. The last day’s run
was the best—472 miles, eclipsing the best run ever made
in twenty-four hours, that of the Alaska, by twenty-two
miles. The entire distance run was 2,861 miles, or 76
miles farther than by the Alaska, when she made her
great record of six days, twenty-one hours, and forty
minutes.

Silvan Owen, of Palmyra, Penn,, quarreled with
his sweetheart, Catherine Radd, sixty years ago. They
married other parties, who died and left them free again at
the age of forty or so. Again they were engaged and
again quarreled, and each again married another person.
They became widow and widower again recently, and have
just married, he at the age of eighty and she at eighty.
four, thus consummating their third engagement.

It is usually a long time between drinks when
the camel istraveling. Sir Samuel Baker informs us that
the camel] will cross the deserts with a load of 400 lbs.
at the rate of 30 miles a day in the burning heat of sum-
mer, and require water only every third or fourth day.
In the cooler months the animal will work for seven or
eight days without water, and if grazing en green foliage
without labor, will drink only once a fortnight.

A uniform divorce law has been suggested and
is much needed. This can only be accomplished by first
amending the constitution of the United States, and add-
ing two words to the fourth subdivision of section eight:
“Congress shall have power to establish a uniform rule of
naturalization, and uniform laws on the subjects of bank-
ruptcies and divorce throughout the United States.”

William King was converted at a revival meeting
in Caldwell, Ky., and under the impulse of religious ex-
citement confessed that he had robbed a store in 1863 of
$300 worth of goods. He went to the proprietor the next
day and paid the amount, with 20 years’ interest, but was
immediately arrested for the theft, and now languishes in
jail.

At a recent reception by Queen Victoria, a well-
known society lady appeared in brown gloves. She was
politely informed that she could not be presented to- the
queen unless she appeared in white gloves. The changes
was promptly made, a member of the royal household fur-
nishipg gloves of the proper shade.

Mr. Howell Jones and Miss Mary Allen, of Jersey
City, were engaged. The young lady’s mother died, and in
accordance with the wishes of the latter, the bridal cere-
mony took place beside her coffin. Four hours later the
funeral ceremony was witnessed in the same room.

The following extraordinary advertisement ap-
pearsin a Leipsic paper: ‘*Wanted by a lady of quality,
for adequate remuneration, a few well-behaved and re-
spectably dressed children to amuse a cat in delicate
health two or three hours a day.”’

A Mr. Perkins, of Norwich, Conn., has had six
family physicians during the 96 years of his life, all of
whom have died, and now the seventh is attending him.
Four insurance companies have refused risks on the last
doctor.

Six musical fiends, armed with as many accordi-
ons, serenaded a house in Paterson, N. J., from the front,
while a few of their confederates entered the house from
the rear, and plundered the premises.

The silver coffin-plate of Louis XIV. was recent-
ly discovered in an obscure Italian inn, where it was
used as a frying paa! It was observed by an antiquarian,
who bought it for a trifling sum.

M. Clemenceau, of the French Assembly, speaks
English well. He defines a snob as “a person absolutely
incapable of valuing moral or mental greatness unless it
is first admitted by big people.”

Prof. Trowbridge, of the U. 8. Signal Service, has
perfected an instrument which will photograph the minut-
est change in the electricity in the air, and gives measure-
ment of the changes.

The first postage-stamps were issued by Great
Britain in 1840. The first United States stamps were
used in 1847.

The State-house of South-Carolina, although be-
gun before the war, is still unfinished.

Several people have been poisoned in San Fran-
cisco by eating fresh sturgeon.

Patti, the vocalist, plays billiards, and is quite
clever at the game.

Trains will soon run all night on the Brooklyn
pridge.