STREET & SMITH,
Proprietors.

VOL. XXX,

A MAY-DAY LYRIC. |

BY JOHN G. BARRETT (ERIGENA). |

The song of the birds in the woodland
Is cheery and joyous to-day,
And blithe 1s the heart of the toiler
As he lists to their roundelay ;
The dew on the green leaves is hanging,
And glist’ning on many a spray
Like gems that the fingers of angels
Have dropped in their ‘innocent play.
The sun on the river is dancing,
And shimmering, brilliant and gay,
As he toys with the laughing wavelets
That glide so coy and swift away.
Nature a carpet of green has spread
For the feet of the witching fay,

} Nos. 27,
P.O. Box 4896 , New York.

;

ae
OBS

Ibe

29,31 Rose St.,

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year

1876, by Street & Smith, in

ZY

the Office of the Librarian of Congress. Washington, D. C.

 

NEW YORK, MAY 17, 1875.

 

 

Who comes in her glory this morning
The beautiful, beautiful May.
She comes in her beauty this morning,
And flowers in her pathway throng,
The jubilant nymphs of the forest
Wake the echoes around with song;
And the eastern sky, it is golden
And grand at the dawn of the day,
As the sunbeams herald the coming
Of beautiful, beautiful May.

THE

CASH BOY.

By Horatio Alger, J7.,

Author otf “ONLY AN IRISH BOY,” “ABNER
HOLDEN’S BOUND BOY,” etc.

(“The Cash Boy”? was commenced last week. Ask any News
aler for No. 27, and you will get the opening chapters.]

CHAPTER V.
THE TOWN AUTOCRAT.

‘The Widder Fowler is defunct,’? remarked Deacon
Pinkerton, at the supper-table.

“What's that?’ asked Tom.

“She is dead. Don’t you understand good English?”
said his father.

“Law, deacon,” said Mrg. Pinkerton, who was not so
far advanced in education as her dignified husband. *You
do use such outlandish words, no wonder Tom don’t un-
derstand ’em.”?

“I wish, Mrs."Pinkerton, you and Thomas would take
pattern by me, and strive to converse elegantly.’?

“Hil try, husband. When did she defunk ?”

Here Tom burst into a roar of laugliter, and the deacon
observed:

“) think, Jane, on the whole you had better adhere to
common words. There is no such word as defunk.”

“Didn't you use it?’

“Tsaid dotnet, which is different, The widder died
this afternoon.” }

“} suppose she won't leave anything ?””

“No. I hold a mortgage on her furniture, and that is
all she has.’’

“What will become of the children ?’?

‘Ag I observed, day before yesterday, they will be con-
strained to find a refuge in the poor-house.”’

“That's a pity,” said Mrs, Pinkerton, who was kind-
hearted.

“It is the best place for them. They will not be pam-
pered by luxurious food, but will have plain sustenance,
whiich will be better for them.”?

“What do you think Sam Pomeroy told me, father ?”’

 

 

“Won't youinvite Frank and his sisterto come aad

Stay here a week ?’’

“Just ad yous mother sayy”

“J gay yes. The poor ciiiidren will be qaiie welcorne.
If we were rich enough they might stay with os all.the
time.’? ¥

“Deacon Pinkerton is rich enough.”

“The deacon isn’t one of the liberal kind.
of money with him.”

“Tom’s going to be just like him. None of the boys
like him. He goes strutting round asif he thought he
was better than any one else. But his pride got a fall the
other day.”’

“How was that?’

‘He wanted to be captain of the base ball club, but the

It

isn’t want

 

“T am unable to conjecture what Samuel would be likely
to observe, my son.”’

“He observed that Frank Fowler said’ he wouldn’t go
to the poor-lhouse.”’

“Ahem!? coughed the deacon.
consulted.”?

“You see, he’s as proud as—as he can be. It’s enough
to muke a fellow sick to see what airs he puts on.”

“Now he always seemed to me like @ nice boy,” said
Mrs. Pinkerton.

“Weil, Z don’t like him,” said Tom, positively. ‘‘He’s
always putting himself forward. Last week he got the
boys to make him captain of the base-ball club, when I
was the one that formed it. Maybe they won’t like it so
well when their captain has to go to the poor-louse.”’

“ft is po sin to be poor,’? said Mrs, Pinkerton.

“But of cotrse a common pauper can’t expec: to asso-
ciate with other boys on equal terms.”’

“Ahem! Lagree with Thomas,’ said the deacon, who
hada high opinion of himself and his social position.
“The boy should be kept in his place.’

“Thats what I say, father,’ said Tom, who desired to
obtain his father’s co-operation. ‘‘You’ll make him go to
the poor-louse, wou’t you ?””

“] shall undoubtedly exercise my authority, if it should
be necessary, my son.’?

“He told Sam Pomeroy that all the Deacon Pinkertons
in the world couldn’t make him go to the poor-honse.”’

“Did he make that remark, Thomas?’’

‘‘Yes; Sam told me so himself. He said he guessed you
would find it hard work to drive him.”’

**] will constrain him,” said the deacon, in some excite-
ment, for‘he had a very high idea of his own position, and
was apgry when his authority was called in queslion.

“J would if I were you, father,’’ said Tom, elated at the
effect of his words. ‘Just teach him a lesson.”

“Really, deacon, you mustn’t be too hard upon the poor
boy,’ said his better-hearted wife. ‘‘He’s got trouble
enougii on him.”

“J will only constrain him for his good, Jane. In the
poor-house he will be well provided for.”

“You wouldn’t want Toi to go to the poor-house.”’

“That is a different matter.’

“J should think it was,’? said Tom, indignantly.
ain't a pauper.’’

“You might be if your father should die, and leave you
no money.”

“] wouldn’t go to the poor-house.’’

“Thats the way Frank Fowler feels,”

‘He's a poor boy.”’

“Suppose you were a poor boy.”

“Tm different from him.”

In this Tom was right, but whether this difference was
in his favor may be doubted. However, Tom wasn’t
strong On logic, and as long as his father was on his side,
he did not feel it necessary to be. He had a very decided
conviction that he was made of better clay than common
boys, an idea which is shared by a good many boys whose
fathers happen to be richer than their neighbors, It hap-
pens sometimes that riches take to themselves wings, and
then the superiority is not so manifest.

Tom was reassured by his father’s Jjeclaration that
Frank would be compelled to go to the poor-house. Such
a disposition.of our hero would be agreeable to Tom for
two reasons. First, it would gratify his spite, for he
heartily disliked Frank. Second, it would remove his
rivalry. For, argued Tom, if he isin the poor-house, the
boys will be ashamed to have him captain, and he will be
forced to resign. If he doesn’t, he will be kicked out.
Then, of course, they will take me, as they ought to have
done in the first place.

So Tom was on the whole pleased with the approaching
humiliation of his rival, and his own consequent advance-
ment.

Meanwhile another conversation respecting our hero
and his fortunes was held at Sam. Pomeroy’s home. It
was not as handsome asthe deacon’s, for Mr. Pomeroy
was A poor mau, but it was a happy one nevertheless, and
Mr. Pomeroy, limited a8 were his means, was far more
liberal than the deacon.

“I pity Frank Fowler,” said Sam, who was warm-
hearted and sympathetic, anda strong friend of Frank.
“T don’t Know what he will do.” ¥

**] suppose his mother left nothing.’

“T understand,” said Mr. Pomeroy, “that Deacon Pin-
kerton holds a mortgage on her furniture,’’

“The deacon wants to send Frank and his sister to the
poor-house.’?

“That would be a pity.’’

“*t should think so; but Frank says he won’t go.’?

“Tam afraid there isu’t anything else for him. To be
sure he may get a chance to work il @ shop or on a farm,
but Grace can’t support herself.’’

“Father, I want to ask you a fayor.’’

“What ls it, Sam???

“The boy will not be

 

“ey

 

 

 

boys elected Frank Fowler instead. Frank 18 a great
favorite.”

“T should think he might be.
and manly boy.”

“That's what heis. It is a sWame that such a boy
should go te the poor-house. Tom wants him to go, hop-
ing that the boys will be discontented with having a Cap-
tain from the poor-house. But even if Frank lost his
position Tom wouldn’t be any better off. The boys
wouldn't elect him, though he thinks they would.’’

“When Frank comes hereI will talk over his affairs
with him,” said Mr. Pomeroy. ‘‘Perliaps we can think
of some plan for him.”

“I wish you could, father.”

“In the meautime youcan invite him and Grace to
come and stay with usa week, ora fortuight. Shall we
say a fortnight, wife?"

‘With all my heart.’?

“All right, father. Thank you.”’

Sam lost no time in seeing Frank. Ouryoung hero was
so overcome by sorrow for his mother’s death, that he
had not had mnch time to think of his own prospects.
Time enough for that when the funeral was over, and the
final separation had taken place.

Sam delivered the invitation in a way that showed how
strongly his uwn feelings were enlisted in favor of its ac-
ceptance. Frank grasped his hand.

“Thank you, Sam, you are a true friend,” he said. “I
SR te to think of what we were todo, Grace
and I,

“You'll come, won’t you???

a “You are sure thatit won’t treuble your mother,
ain ??

“She is anxious to have you come,”’

“Then I’ll come. I haven’t formed any plans yet, but
I must as soon—as soon as mother is buried.”

“Father says he will see what can be done for you.
You had better talk with him.”

“T will, Sam. I think I can earn my living somehow.
One thing I am determined about—I won’t go to the poor
house.’?

He seems to be a good

CHAPTER VI.
FRANK DEFIES THE AUTOCRAT.

The funeral was over. Frank and Grace had looked
their last upon their dearest earthly friend. Hand in
hand we walked back to the little house, now their
home no longer. They were to pack up a little bundle of
clothes, and go over to Mr. Pomeroy’s in time for supper.
But it was only three o’clock, and they had over two
hours to make their small preparations,

When Frank had made up his bundle, urged by some
impulse, he opened a drawer in his mother’s bureau.
His mind was full of the story she had told him, and he
thought it just possible that he might find something to
throw additional light upon his past history. While ex-
ploring the contents of the drawer he came to a letter di-
rected to him in his mother’s well-known handwriting.
He opened it hastily, and with a feeling of solemnity, for
it was & message to him from the dead, he read as ful-
lows:

“My DEAR FRANK:—In the lower drawer, wrapped in
a piece of brown paper, you will find two gold eagles,
worth twenty dollars. You will need them when I am
gone. Use them for Grace and yourself. You will won-
der how I came by them. Years ago [ had a brother who
followed the sea; he was ten years older than I. After
one of his voyages he gave me them as a present. He was
always generous—poor Joe! He told me to keep them for
arainy day. I have kept them by me ever since, never
using them; I saved these for my children. Take tiem,
Frank, for | have nothing else to give you. The furniture
will pay the debt I owe Deacon Pinkerton. There ought
to be something over, but I think he will take all. I wish
I had more to leave you, dear Frank, but the God of the
Fatherless will watch over you—to Him I commit you and
Grace. Your affectionate mother, RvuTH FOWLER.”’

Frank was deeply moved as he read this last message
from the one whom he should always regard as @ mother.
What matter if no tie of blood united them—the sacred
bond of affection made them mother and son!

Frank, following the instructions of the letter, found
the gold pieces and put them carefully into his pocket-
book. He did not mention the letter to Grace at present,
for he knew not but Deacon Pinkerton might lay claim to
the money to satisfy his debtif he knew it, and he was
amply secured in another way.

“Lam ready, Frank,” said Grace, entering the room.
“Shall we go?”
“Yes, Grace.

longer.’’

As he spoke he heard the outer door open, and 4 min-
ute later Deacen Pinkerton entered the room.

The deacon was tall and rigid, with a very stiff back-
bone, which gave him the air of agrenadier. As he

There is no use in stopping here any

 

PAUSE TNL

 

 

‘JT have two strong hands, and they will make a living for sister and myself.”

 

 

 

walked through the vilise# s'teet, with slow and meas- |
nred pace, he seemed to.’ oii(iausily saying:

“famsomebody of in 5. S248, Laur Deacon Pinker-
© awrAtien * BAce 5

None of the ih "3 Aa Dt piasubess” uso 2>°ted AS he
entered the house aad the room. Frank had hever liked ;
him, and, though asmall matter, he was vexed that he}
had entered the liouse without the ceremony of knock- ;

rh

ing.

“I didn’t hear you knock,” he said.

*T didn’t knock,’ said the deacon.

“So I thought,” was Frank's significant reply.

“What do you mean?’ demanded the deacon, slightly
coloring.

“People usually knock when they enter other people’s
houses. I thought you might have knocked without our
hearing it.’’

Frank and Grace were standing, and so was the dea-
con.

“Will you take a seat?’ said our hero, with the air of
master of the house,

“] intended to,’? said the deacon, not acknowledging
his claim. ‘So your poor mother is gone?”

“Yes, sir,’? said Frank, briefly,

He did not open his heart to the deacon’s sympathy,
for he very well knew it was false and not genuine.

“We must all die,’’ said the deacon, féeling that it was
incumbent on him to say something religious.

Frank made no answer.

“Ahem! your mother died poor? She left no prop-
erty ?”

“It was not her fault.’

“Of course not. Did she mention that I had advanced
her money on the farniture ?””

“Yes, sir, she mentioned it.”

“I did it to oblige her. Iadvanced her more than it
was worth, but she was a widder, and I didn’t want to
be hard upon her.’

“IT think the furniture W
said it would.”

“IT am not certain, but I did it to oblige her. I am glad
she mentioned it. You might have thought it belouged
to you.”?

“My mother told me all about it, sir.””

“Ahem! You areinasad condition. But you will be
taken care of. You ought to be thankful that there isa
home provided for those who have no means.”’

“What home do you refer to, Deacon Pinkerton ?’ asked
Frank, looking steadily in the face of his visitor.

“J mean the poor-house, which the town generously
provides for those who cannot support themselves.”’

This was the first intimation Grace had received of the
possibility that they would be sent to such @ home, and it
frightened her.

“Oh, Frank!) she exclaimed, turning to our hero, on
whom she was beginning to lean in place of the mother
she had lost, ‘must we go to the poor-house ?”

“No, Grace; don’t be frightened,’’ said Frank, sooth-
ingly. ‘We will not go.”

“Frank Fowler,’”? said the deacon, sternly, ‘‘cease to
mislead your sister.”

“I am not misleading her, sir.’’

“Did you not tell her that she would not be obliged to
go to the poor-house?’’

‘Yes, sir.’

“After I had told you that such wastobe your future
abode ?””

“Yes, sir.’

“Are you aware that I am overseer of the poor ?’’

‘Yes, sir.’?

“Then what do you mean by resisting my authority ?”

“You have no authority overus. We are not paupers,”’
and Frank lifted his head proudly, and looked steadily in
the face of the deacon.

“What are you, then?’ demanded the deacon.

“Willing to work,’’ returned Frank.

“And your sister ?’*

“F will take care of her,’ and Frank threw an arm of
protection around the waist of his sister, and in this atti-
tude returned the deacon’s look.

‘This ig all nonsense, Frank Fowler," said the latter,
angrily. ‘You are taking too much upon yourself,”

“1 don’t think so, sir.’’

“You are & pauper, whether you admit it or not.”

“J am not,’ said the boy, indignantly.

“Where is your money? Where is your property ?”’

“Here, sir,” said our hero, unclasping his sister and
holding out his hands. ‘I have two strong hands, and
they will help me make a living for my sister and myself.”

“I guppose,’’ said the deacon, with a sneer, ‘you would
like to have the town give you a salary and live here in
juxury ?’’

“T don’t expect it, and I wouldn't accept it.
want the town to do anything for me.’’

“Itstrikes me that you are a very independent young
man, not to say impertinent, in bidding deflance to the
town authorities. You ave not been properly respectful
to ME.”’

“1 wish to be respectful to everybody, but you want to
force me into the poor-house.”’

“It is the proper place for you.’’

*] don’t think so, sir.”

“You can’t support yourself.’’

“That remains to be seen.’

“It would be a fitting punishment to leave you to
starve.”’

*“T am not afraid of that.’’

“May I ask whether you expect to live here, and use
my furniture?”

“No, sir, You can take it whenever you please.”

ill secure you from loss—she

I don’t

 

“You must live somewhere. Where do you expect to
eg to-night? Ishall not allow you to sleep on my

a.

“I do not Intend to, sir. Ishallask no favors of you,
neither for Grace nor myself. 1 am going to leave the
nouse. 1 only came back to get.a few cloihes.”’

“Where are you going,” asked the Geaeon, in amaze-
ment. Somehow he could not make out this boy.

“Mr. Pomeroy has invited Grace and me to stay at his
house for a few days. I haven’t decided what I shall do
afierward.”?

“You will have to go to the poor-housethen. I have no
objection to your making this visit first. It will bea
saving to the town.”

“Then, sir, we will bid you gaod-day. Grace, let us go.”

“That boy is very much wanting in respect for the con-
stituted authorities,’ said the deacon to himself, as our
hero led his sister out of the room. “His pride needs to
be brought down. Thomas is right after all.”

And the deacon went through the house, examining
the furniture in a dignified way, and assessing its value.
Arriving at last at the comfortable conclusion that it
would afford a handsome interest on the smail sum of
mouey he had advanced upon it.

CHAPTER VIL.
A LITTLE MISUNDERSTANDING.

‘“‘Have you carried Frank Fowler to the poor-house?’?
—, Tom Piukerton, eagerly, on his father’s return.

oe Yo.??

“Why not?’? asked Tom, disappointed.

“Ahem!” said the deacon, “he is going to make a visit
at Mr. Pomeroy’s first.”

“But he will have to go afterward, won’t he?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“IT shouldn’t think you would have let him makea
visit,’ said Tom, discoutentedly. “I should think you
would have taken him to the poor-house right off.’

“I feel it my duty to save the town uunecessary ex-
pense,’’ said Deacon Pinkerton.

So Tem was compelled to rest satisfied with his fatner’s
assurance that the removal was only deferred. The dea-
con said nothing of Frank’s defiant attitude. He was
jealous of his own dignity, and was not willing to admit
that his authority had been set at deflance. Besides he
had no doubt that Frank would be obliged to yield in the
end,

Meanwhile Frank and Grace received a cordial welcome
at the house of Mr. Pomeroy. Sam and Frank were inti-
mate friends, and our hero had been in the habit of calling
frequently, and it seemed home-like to him.

“{ wish you could stay with us all the time, Frank—you
and Grace,” said Sam one evening.

“We should all like it,’ said Mr. Pomeroy, ‘but we
cannot always have what we want. If I had it in my
power to offer Frank any employment which it would be
worth his while to follow, it might do, But he has got his
way to make in the world. Have you formed any plans
yet, Frank?’

“That is what I want to consult you about, Mr. Pom-
eroy.

“1 will give you the best advice I can, Frank.
pose you do not mean to stay in the village.’’

“No, sir; there is nothing for me todo here. I must go
somewhere where 1 can make @ living for Grace and my-
self.”’

“You've got a hard row to hoe, Frank,’’ said Mr. Pom-
eroy, thoughtfully. ‘Have you decided where to go?”

“Yes, sir. I shall go to New York.”

“What! To the city?”

“Yes, sir."?

“J don’t know what to say abont that. There are thou-
sands there whocan’t get work. The Zribune advises
those who want work to stay in the country, or go West—
not to come to the city.”’

“Suppose Greeley had staid in the country himself,”
said Frank. ‘‘He has succeeded pretty well. If there
had been any Tribune to advise him to stay at home, it
would have been the worse for him.”

“That is true, yet there is something in the advice.”

“TI know it, but [think the trouble is sometimes with
those out of work. Vll get something to do, no matter
what it is.”

“But how are you going to live in the mean time?’’

“T’ve got a little money.’’

“How much ?”?

“Twenty dollars,’?

“That won't last long.’?

“I know it, but I shall soon get work, if it is only to
black boots in the streets.”

“With that spirit, Frank, you will stand a fair chance to
succeed, What do you mean to do wilh Grace?”’

“I will take her with me,”

“T can think of a better plan. Leave her here till you
have found something to do. Then send for her.”’

“But if 1 leave her here Deacon Pinkerton will want
to put her in the poor-house, Ican’t bear to have Grace
go there.”

“Ste need not,
months.”

“Will you let me pay her board ?”?

“T can afford to give her board for three months.”

“You are very kind, Mr. Pomeroy, but it wouldn’t be
right for me to accept your kindness. It is my duty to
take care of Grace.”’

“J honor your independence, Frank. It shall be as you
say. When youare able—mind, not till then—you may
pay me at the rate of two dollars a week for Grace’s
board.”’

] sup-

She can stay here with me for three

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

FRANCIS 8S. STREET.
FRANCIS S. SMITH.

t No. 28

“Will that be enough, Mr. Pomeroy ?”’

“Jt will pay all the expense she will be to us, and I don’t
want to make any profit out of you. We like Grace, ‘and
it will be pleasant for usto have her here~all. except
Sam.”

“Now, father!’ expostulated Sam.

“}]] take it back, then. I fancy Master Sam will like
the arrangement as well as any one. But I positively for-
bid any elopement at present, until Sam has arrived at
years of discretion.”

“You're too hard on Sam,’ said Mrs. Pomeroy. “He
will have to wait till he is fifty for that.”

“T think you are a little harder than father.”

“Then,” said Frank, “if you are willing to board Grace
for a while, I think I had better go to the city at once.’

‘Wait a week, Frank,” said Sam.

“J should enjoy being with you, Sam, but I want to get
to work at once.”’

“Frank is right,” said Mr. Pomeroy. “He has gota
hard task before him, and, if he wants to set about it, I
can’t say he is wrong.’

“I will look over your clothes to-morrow, Frank,’ said
Mrs. Pomeroy, ‘‘and see if they need mending.”

“Then I will start Thursday morning—the day after.”

There were some little things that Frank wanted to do
before he left the village, for he dia not know when he
would again visit it. He hoped to find steady work in the
great city to which he had decided to go, and he had
made up his mind to ask no holiday, except it should be
necessary to come for Grace.

About four o’clock the next afternoon he was walking
up the main street, when just in front of Deacon Pinker-
ton'’s louse he saw Tom leuning against a tree.

“How are you, Tum?” he said, and was about to pass
on.

Tom did not fancy this salutation. It was entirely too
free and easy for a pauperin addressing him. He would
have said so, but he remembered that Frank was not yet
in the poor-house, and he wanted to ask him a question or
two besides.

“Where ore you going?’ he asked, abruptiy.

“To Mr, Pomeroy’s.”*

“You're staying there, are you ?’’

“Yes.”

“How soon are you going to the poor-house to live ??

Frank looked at Tom steadily for a moment, and then
said, quietly:

“What do you mean by that?”

“} thought I spoke plain enough,” said Tom. “I asked
you when you were going to the poor-house to live.”

“Who told you I was going ?”’

“My father.*?

‘Then your father’s mistaken.”

“T don’t believe it. He said he Jet you make a visit at
Mr. Pomeroy’s, but a8 soon as that was over, you were
going to the poor-house—you and your sister Grace.”

“I say again, then, that your father is mistaken.”

“More likely you are mistaken. My father’s the over-
seer of the poor, and he knows all about the paupers.””

“Very likely, but that has nothing to do with me.”

“Aint you a pauper ?”’ said Tom, insolently.

“No more than you are. If you want very particalarly
to know when I am going to the poor-house, it will be
the week after you go to live there.”

“Do you mean to insult me?’ blustered Tom, who felt
that his dignity had been outraged.

“Not at all. 1 was only answefing your question. Iam
no more likely to go to the poor-house than you.”

“You haveu’t got any money.”’

**] have got hands to earn money.”’

“You can’t earn your living.”

*“] am going to try.””

“Anyway Ladvise you to resign as captain of the base
ball club.”

“Why?

*“‘Becanse if you don’t you’)! be kicked out.”

“Who says so?’

“Of course you Will. Do you think the fellows will be
willing to have a pauper -for their captain ??

“That’s the second time you have called me a pauper.
Don’t call me so again.”

“You are a pauper, and you know it.”

Frank was not a quarrelsome boy, but this repeated in-
sult was too much for him. He seized Tom by the collar,
and tripping him up left him on the ground howling with
rage. As valor was not his strong point, he resolved to
be revenged upon Frank vicariously. He was unable to
report the case to his father till the next morning, as the
deacon did not return from a neighboring village, whither
he had gone on business, till late, but the result of his
communication was a call at Mr. Pomeroy’s from the
Deacon at nine o’clock the next morning. Had he found
Frank it was his intention, at Tom’s request, to take him
at once tothe poor-house. But he was too late. Our
hero was already on his way to New York.

CHAPTER VIII.
HOW TO PURLOIN A DINNER,

“So this is New York,’ said Frank to himself, as he
emerged from the railway station and looked about nim
with interest and curiosity. He had never visited the
great city, but had always wondered how it looked.

“Black yer boots? Shine?'? asked a bootblack, seeing
our hero standing still.

“How much do you charge?’

“Five cents.”’

This was before the general inflation of prices, which
encouraged the boys engaged in this humble avocation to
double their charge.

Frank looked at his shoes. They were dirty, without
doubt, but he would not have feit disposed to be 80 ex-
travagant, considering his limited resources, had he not
felt it necessary to obtain some information about the
city.

“Yes,” he said, ‘‘you may black them.”

The boy was on his knees instantly and at work,

“Do you get much to do?” asked Frank,

“Sometimes I do.”

“How mnch do you make in a day?”

“When it’s a good day I make a dollar.”

“That's pretty good,” said Frank. ‘You can save up
money out of that.”

“No, Lcean’t. Igive it all to my mother. Father’s
dead, and I have to help mother support the family.’’

“How old you?”

“Thirteen.”’

“You're not so old as Iam,’ said Frank, thoughtfully.

“How old be you ?””

“Almost fifteen. Can you show me the way to Broad-
way 9

“Go straight ahead.’

Our hero paid for his boots and started in the direction
indicated,

“If lcan’t do anything else can support myself by
blacking boots,” he thought. ‘Il shouldn’t like it, but it’s
honest.””

Frank’s plans, so far as he had any, were to get into a
store. He knew that Broadway was the principal busi-
ness street in the city, and this was about all he did Know
about it. He thought that a boy would probably be want-
ed in some one of the many stores to be found there, and
he intended to apply at once.

He reached the great thoroughfare in a few minutes,
and was fortunate enough to find on the windowof the
corner store the sign:

“A Boy Wanted.”’

He entered at once, and going up to the counter, ad-
dressed a young man, who was putting up some goods.

“Do you want a boy?"

4] don’t.”

“There’s a sign in the window.”’

“All right. I believe the boss wants one; I don’t.
out to that desk.’*

Frank found the desk, and propounded the same qnes-
tion to a sandy-whiskered man, who looked up frou iis
writing.

“You're prompt,” he said.
out two minutes ago.”’

“] only saw it one minute ago.”

“So you want the place, do you?’

“J should like it.’?

“Where do you live?”

“J am going to live in New York.”

“Don’t you live here now ?”?

“I have just come from the country.”

“Do you know your way about the city ?””

“No, sir, but I could soon find out.”

“That won't do; we waut a boy to carry out bundles,
He must, of course, be familiar with the streets.”

“Jcan buy amap of the city and soon find the way
round,.’”’

“Can’t wait till you learn.
do you live ?”?

‘Bast Ninth street.’’

“Do you know your way round the city ?"”

“Like a book.”’

“You see,’ said the merchant, addressing Frank,

Go

“That notice was only put

Here’s another boy—where

 

“there ig no chance for you. I shall have plenty of applt-

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

7S
Oo

“ess

oF

=4 THE NEW YOR

 

 

cations from boys who live in the city, and are familiar
with the streets.”

Frank left the store rather discomfited. He began ta
See that he had one important disqualification for the post
he wanted to fill.

‘However,’ he thought, ‘if they wanted me to sell
goods, it wouldn’t make any difference whether I knew
my way about-or not.”

Reassured by ‘this thought, he continued his quest for
employment.

He soon came to another store where there was a simi-
lar notice of “‘A Boy Wanted.’*, It was a dry goods store.

“Do you live with your parents?’ was asked,

“My parents are dead,’’ said Frank, sadly.

‘Very sorry, but can’t take you.”?

‘*Why not, sir.”

‘In case you took anything we should make your pa-
rents respousible.”? '

“T shouldn’t take anything,’ sai

*You might. 1 can’t take you.”

Our hero left this store a littie disheartened by his second
rebuff. There seemed to be more obstacles to his success
than he had anticipated. As he pursued his walk crowds
met or passed him. Every one was walking briskly.
Every one seemed to have something todo—every one
but him. In one aspect this seemed discouraging, but
Frank’s brave nature asserted itself. “If all these people
can get a living, I ought to be able to,’’ he said to himself.

Se made several more fruitless applications, but did not
lose courage wholly. He was gainivg an appetite, how-
ever. It was his usual dinner hour, and he had eaten less
breakfast than usual. It is not surprising, therefore, that
his attention was drawn to the bilisof a restaurant on
te opposite side of thle street. He crossed “over, and
standing outside, began to examine tllem to see what was
the scale of prices. While in this position he was suddenly
roused by a slap on the back.

Turnivg he met the gaze of a young man of about thirty,
who was smiling quite cordially.

“Why, Frank, my boy, how are you?” he said, offering
his haud, .

d Frank, indignantly.

oh

Not liking to show the white feather, he returned. Mrs.
B. explained how the cover was to be slipped on while
Boffin carefully arose from his sitting position, Bat alas,
for human expectations! Que solitary bee had crawled up
the leg of Boffin’s pants.

He was so positive of this that he gavea yell, turned a
handspring, and made for the house, followed by Mrs.
Boffin, Tom, and about six hundred bees, In rushed
Boffin and took refuge under the bed, where Skip was
already busily employed rubbing his nose. Tom landed
in the water-butt outside just as one big fellow took him
by the ear. Mrs. Boffin, with great presence of mind,
covered lier head and shoulcers with her dress, but, as
shé could not see, bumped her head against the door-
frame, which nearly stunned her. But she managed to
stumble in and close the door justas two of the enemy
buzzed in, one taking Master Billy under the eye and the
other herself on the hand.

The swarm outside hovered around the door for some
time and then flew over to Spanger’s hives, where they
settled down and at once coumenced making honey for
Mrs. Spanger.

Peace being declared in the louse of Bofiin, Mr, B.
came out and declared he knew it was wrong to handle
Italian bees thatway. Tom came in dripping wet, one
ear as big as a dollar bill, vowing vengeance against
all bees, Italian oY any other kind. Mrs. Boffin brought
out liniment, the wounds were bathed, and with. the ex-
ception of Billy’s eye, there was soon but little to show
there had been a bee scrimmage,

Next morning Boffin cailed on Spanger for his bees.

“How many did you have ?”?

“About six hundred,” replied Boftin.

“Pick "em out,’ said Spavger. :

“Pick the duse out!. How am I going to teil my lL
from yours ?”?

Then Spanger, with a smile, said:

“Yours were Italian bees, were they not?”

“Yes; but I can’t tell an Itaiian bee from any other, un-
less it stings harder.’?

ees

 

“Pretty well, thank you,’ said our hero, bewildered, for
he had no recollection of the man who had called him by
name.

The other smiled a little more broadly, and thought:

“It Was a Incky guess; his name is Frank.’?

“lam delighted to heur it,’? he continued.
you Teach the city ?”?

“This morning,’’ said the unsuspecting Frank.

“Well, it’s queer I happened to meet you so soon, isn’t
it? Going to stay long ?’?

“T shall, if I can get a place.”

“Perhaps I can help you. What kind of a place doyou
want???

“I want to get a placein a store. { wonder who he ls?””
This last, of course, to himself.

“i Know a good many merchants and traders.
I canhelp you.”?

“You are very kind,’’ said Frank.

“Oh, I should like to help for old acquaintance sake.”

*{ suppose l ought to remember you,’’? veutured our
hero, ‘‘bué 1 can’t think of your name,’’

“Jasper Wheelock, You don’t mean to say you dou’t
remewber me ??

+‘ don’t think I do,’ said Frank, hesitating.

**Perhaps it isn't Strange, as we ouly met once or twice
in your country-home. But that doesn’t matter. l’mjust
as et to help you. By the way, have you dined?”

*“No,”?

“No more have I. Come in and dine wlth me.”

As Frank was really }iungry, he saiy no reason why he
should not accept the invitation. They entered the res-
taurant, and seated themselves at asmall side table.

*‘What'll you take?’ asked Jasper Wheelock, passing
the bill of fare to Frank.

“I think I should like some roast beef,’ said Frank,
alter a brief examination.

“That willsuit me. Here, waiter, two plates of roast
beef, and two cups of coffee. You take coffee, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir; thank you.”

“This is a pretty good place.’ said Jasper.
dine here, or rather, lunch.

*-My mother has just died.’

“You don’t say so,’’ said Jasper, sympathetically.

‘“My sister is weil.”

“I forget your sister’s name,”?

“Grace.”

“Of course—Grace. I find it hard to remember names.
The fact is, I have been trying to recall your last name,
but iw’s gone from me.”

“‘Fowler.’?

“fo be sure—Frank Fowler. How could I be so for-
getful,, Well, Frank, you must keep up your spirits. New
York will make aman of you. Have you wied to get a
place yet ???

“Im been in at several places, but they wanted some

“When did

Perhaps

“IT often
How are they all at home?’

one that liyed with his parents, and knew the way round

the city.”?

“You'll need influence to get a place.”

“Shall 1?

“Yes; but ]’ll help you—-I know the ropes.”’

Frank didh’t understand what it was to know the ropes,
but judged from his companion’s tone that it was some-
thing desirable. The conversation was interrupted by
the arrival of the coffee and roast beef, which both he and
his new friend, attacked with vigor.

“What kind ef pudding will you hav %* asked the
stranger.

‘Apple dumpling,” said Frank.

“That suits me. Apple dumpling for two.”’

In due time the apple dumpling was disposed of, and
tivo checks were brouglit, amounting to seventy cents in
ai x

“Ill pay both,’ said Jasper.
Acquaintances, you kuow,’?

He put his hands into his pocket, and quickly withdrew
it with an exclamation of surprise:

“Weil, if that isu’t a good joke,” he said.
money at home, I remember now, I leit it in the pocket
of my other coat. J shall have to borrow the money of
you. You may as well hand mea dollar!”

(TO BE CONTINUED)
—>- @~<—

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

[Most of our readers are undoubtedly capable of contributins; to
ward making thiscolumn an attractive feature of the New YorkE
WEEKLY, and they wiil oblige us by sending for publication any-
thing which may be deemed of sutticient interest tor general pe-
rasal. [tis not necessary that the articles should be penned in
scholarlystyle; so long as they are pithy, and likely woasford
amusement, minor detects will be remedied

Boffin’s Bees.

Mrs. Boflin was determined. to move into the country.
She told Mr. Boftin of a really nice little place adjoining
Mr. Spanger’s, where it would be so nice to keep bees,
jastiike Mr. Spanger; ‘‘and then you know, my dear
Benjamin, we could make our own honey.” Mr. Boffiu’s
ideas of bees and making lloney were as yague as pussi-
bie, but the first principle of his married life was to see
Mrs. B.’s slightest wish fulfilled. No sooner were they
instalied in their new home than he bought seven dollars’

vorth of books on bees: “Bees and How to Cultivate,”
“Smith on Bees,’’ ‘Higgins on Bees,’ and, in fact, any-
body who had written‘anything about bees could be found
in his collection.

Mrs. Boffin read, Mr. Boffin read, and their son Tom,
also, read, und among the three they concluded what they
did not kuow about bees was not worth knowing. Bol-
fin’s mext step was to procurea dozen hives made to
order. These were placed at proper-distances under a
row of apple trees. And with what pleasure did Mrs.
Boftin survey the management of the experienced live-
builder! She could already see, in her mind’s eye, the
Winged workers darting to and fro, andin and out of
their homes, and visious of delicious honey stood in bold
relief before the eyes of Mr, Boffin.

So he posted his letter with a XX inclosed toa celébra-
ted bee raiser, and by return mail the package came, The
man who left it at the house remarked that he supposed it
was a new kind of music box; lie merely thought so from
ihe continued humming.

Mrs. Boftin smiled and thought ofdelusions. The brown
wrapping-paper was carefully removed, and a box about
elgiiteen iuches square stood exposed to view. Around
the sides, upon the topand bottom, were smal hotles,
covered wit a fine wire gauze. Qu a card was written,
*Seven Hundred IJtallan Bees.’?

“It does not say anything about Italian bees in the
dvooks, does it, my dear’? asked Mr. Boffip; who was
nervously scratching his head.

“Oh, never mind, they are to be handled just the same
as other bees.’?
Boffin said
his way to the

“No thanks. We are old

“T’ve left my

nothing, but took up the box and wended
orchard, followed by Mrs. B., Tom, and

their black and tan terrier, Skip. Master) Billy Boftin, |

age three years, was left in the house on the kitchen
floor, with a huge slice of bread and Dutter to quieta
nervous disposition, inherited probably from his father.

“‘] guess we will place a few in each hive.”

Could they have seen the look of dismay on the coun-
tenance of Spanger, who was peeping through a crack in
the fence near by, they might have hesitated. But Mr.
Boffin proceeded to pull off the cover, very carefully and
gently, while Tom held the hive tipped over so the bees
could goin. Mr. Boftin placed the box by the edge of the
hive and lightly tapped the end. The bees gradually be-
gan to move; first one popped out, then another and an-
other, but instead of going into the hive, they darted
alway, and were soon outof sight. After losing’ twenty
or thirty in this manner, Mr. B. paused for reflection.

‘Yom, go aud get ‘Jones on Bees,’

So Tom set down the hive aud started off for ‘Jones on
Bees,”

“Turn to page sixty-seven,”

Tom did as directed, aud aftera few lines were read
they concluded they wete doing Wrong; they had omitted -
to smear the sides of the hive with honey. So Mrs. Boftin
went overto Mrs. Spanger’s aud procured a pint of
Strained hioney, The work was soon accomplished.

Mrs, Boftin said she would hold the box this time. Mr.
Boftin nervously placed it in her hands, and off came the
cover. The first bee that came out struck Skip on the
nose, and he skipped away howling fearfully, as lve did so
darting between Boffin’s legs and upsetting him upon the
box. Skip then made forthe house, the door of which was
open, Where he overturned Master Billy, who joined his
voice to that-of the dog. Mr. Boffin had fortunately sat
right in the box, and his coat-tails crowding snugly in
kept the inmates from getting out. Mrs, Boffin screamed:
‘ PaOr’ get up, Benjamin; don’t get up, or we sliall lose

rem |!

Boffin had no idea of getting up then, but the piteous
expression upon his face would have excited sympathy in
any one. Tom was gradually approaching the house, as
he thought there might be a possible chance of getting
Stung. He was soou stopped, however, by his mother,
who called him back to help hig father.

Then Spanger told Boffin to take six hundred bees, and
pick them out anywhere. bBoffin remembered his leg. and
refused. In fact he did not know how to pick them.
} Nothing was said about picking in his collection of books.
So he consulted his wife, who told him the best way was
to engaged a bee-raiser. This was done at an expense of
ten dollars. In twenty minutes after his arrival the bees
were nicely housed in Mr. Boffin’s orchard.

‘** | would like to know how that was done,” said Mr.
Boffiu to the man, as he gave him the money.

“Oh, easy enough when you know how,’ said he, poc-
keting the money and moving off.

But in a@ week, those confounded bees were back in
Spanger’s garden making honey by the pound. Mrs.
Spanger tried to compromise the matter by offering to sell
Mrs. Boffin all the honey she wanted at @ discount. The
kind offer was refused, and the six empty hives in Boffin’s
orchard often bring stinging recollections of his first and
last attempt to raise bees.

And further, whenever the “Charge of the
gade” is read in his presence
words:

“Ou rode the six hundred?’ A shudder thrills his whole
frame, and nervously cluiching his coat tails, he whispers
to Mrs. Boffin:

“It should be ‘on few

Light Bri-
aud he hears the ominous

the six hundredP *”? WYLLGAN.
A Nice Decision.

Our friend Timmins, whois averacious man in the
strictest Sense, came im the Gther day, and in the midst of
our editorial absorption, asked if we had heard the news.
It is always a tantalizing question, thongh the news that
we hear, In response to our negative, May prove a news-
ance. We told him thatif he had news, to proceed aud
tell it.

“Sad accident to Dummer,”’ said he.

Now we knéw Dammer, and at once felt an interest.

“What was i5?’? we asked.

“Cut in two,’ he replied.

“Gracious! how was it?’? we asked, in a tone of real
horror.

“Why, hehadanote to pay at the Manhattan Bank;
time Was out, and protest must follow delay. Yesterday,
at two-and-a-half minutes of two, he started for the bank;
had just opened the large folding-dvors to goin, when a
gust of wird blew them to. He was between them, and
the Sharp edges of the door cut him right in halves, just
as the Clock struck two, one half inside and one out; aad,
will you believe it, the directors Jet his note go to protest
because only half of him put in an appearance.”

“And is it thus,’ said we. “Oh, Timmins, that you
would harrow up our soul! Go! getthee to a nunnery, or
to any place where the soap of penitence can wash this
Stain from tby conscience.”

Transit of Venus.
When up in town, the other day,
The ballet corps were marched away,
With tunics short and all too thin
To cover up the stains of sin,
A countryman among the throng,
in wonder, as they passed along,
Said, to a person standing near,
“Pray, stranger, tell wliat is this ‘ere?’
“Can’t say,’”? was Lhe reply, ‘“‘but, ’tween wus,
think the transit ’tis of Venus.”

 

A Candid Son-in-Law.

A young gentleman of extravagant habits, after
ing a lady, called on her father aud asked his con
their marriage. Tne father said: “You perhaps
am rich, and can give ny daughter a suitabie
portion. Not so; lam poor, and have a number
beside.”? “Oh,? responded the intended son-}
that’s your only objection, it’s of no consequeuce. I ant
poor too, and have more and greater debts than yours
self.?? WM. MULLER.

Anxious to Get Out.

An Irishman was arrested for participating in astreet
braw), and confined in the Tombs. Here he was visited
by his brother, who asked: “Pat, howin the name of
wondher, did ye getin here?’ ‘Too aisy, Mike; and I
know all aboutit.. But the question for you to unswer
now is, how aml to get out?”

Tall Candlesticks.

A verdant emigrant, who had lived in a country town
from his birth, arrived in this city at night, and was saun-
tering up Broauway. In amazement le stared at the
lamp-posts, aud exclaimed: “Oh, begorra, what big can-
diesticks they have in this country!’ ~ FF.

Eiow to Pick.

Two comrades and myself were living in the woodsin
camp, aud our chief food Was game and fish, We meta
stroller, one day, and Jearning that he was very poor, we
engaged him to act as servant, he informing us that he
had had some experience in the culinary line. We caught
arabbit, and gave itto him tocook. When came to
the table, in a stew, we made the discovery that it was
full of hairs, and complained to the cook about it. He
coolly answered, “Ifyou had dressed it, I guess it would
have been just as bad, dor it was a darned hard thing to
pick,’?

Tustead of skinning the rabbit, he liad picked it, as one
would a chicken’s feathers. Wu. H. KNOWLEs,

The Grater at Fault,

My friend, “The Old Un’s,’’ anecdotes of Edward Eye-
ret, in alate pumber of the NEw YORK WEEKLY, recalis
aslory inthe same line, which the narrator said was
strictly true. On an occasion when Mr, Everett was
making one of hismost thrilling addresses, in which he
had occasion to allude to the heroes of Bunker-Hill, Tom
G., then reporter on the Boston Posi, who sat very near
the orator, said, in quite an audible tone, “My father was
at the Batue of Bunker-Hill.”?. Whether the orator caught
the sound, or whether apy one imparted itto Mr. E.,
Was hot known, but he heard it, and took advantage of
it to say, *‘and here, fellow citizens, is the son of one of
those patriots who stood on that eminence at that mo-
mentous time, aud risked his life for his country, Please
staud, sir, that your countrymen may Jook upon the son
of one who played so distinguished a part on that event-
ful day.’ , Bat the one appealed to did not rise, which
was imputed to his modesty, contenting himself with the
applause which followed, At the close of the: address,
Mr. E, apologized to the son of the hero for the publicity
he had given lim, and regretted that he had not stood up
when invited. ‘I couldn’t very well do that, Mr. Bye-
rett,?’ said Tom; “for though it is true that my father was
at the Battle of Bunker-Hill, he was on the other sidet’?

IKE,

 

 

lt

A Schoolboy’s Advice.

The following conversation took place in one of our
public Schools between a teacher and a pupil.

Teacher.—‘*Master Brown, liayve you your lesson this
morning ?”’

Boy.—'‘No, ma’am.

Teacher.—* ‘Haven't
make time ??

Boy.—‘'Yes, ma’am.”

Teacher.— ‘How so?’

Boy.—‘'Go aud learn the clock-making trade,’’

MAT NORTON,

I haven’t had time.”
had time? Do you suppose I can

Suppers.

There’s nothing like dyspepsia to breed nightmare, and
hot suppers—or cold for that matter—eaten just before
soing to bed are first-class promoters of this condition.

& re :

Just before retiring for the night eat some pickles, two
pigs’ feet, and a fried pie. In less than two hours you
will see snakes larger than a ship’s hawser, and will sus-
tain aliand-to-hand fight witha horned monster with
sorrel eyes and a red-hot overcoat.

Two tumbiers of hot punch with the fried pie will as,
sisf the operation materially.

Smoked Out,

Scene, a railroad depot. An old lady with a travelirg
bag in one hand anda flat and ancient umbrella in the
other, enters acar. She suys to a male passenger:

“Ts this a smoking carriage ??

“No, marm,’” the rude passenger answers.
waut to smoke you must go in the forward car.”?

To P. P, ContrisutorsS.—The following MSS, are accepted:
“Quite a Transtormation,” “Advertising,” “Mr. Bloody Bull,”
“Warsaw,” “A Two-Legged Bear,” ‘‘A Comical Dream,” “Boots
to Fit,’ “Burns’ Goat,’’*'A Lively Drummer,” ‘‘Welcome Little
Stranger.”...... The following are respectfully declined: ‘‘Who’s
Thar?” “Step-Husband,’? “Some Horse,” ‘Too Clean,” “Rey. Mr.
X.,” “Quaker Meeting,” “A Fact,’ ‘The Sausage-Maker,”?
“Shingle Our Cows,” “Ss. Windsor’’—old, ‘The Spell-Spell,” “Pay
the Taxes,” ‘Bad Citizens,” ‘“Darkey’s Epitaph,” “A Scared
Nigger,” “Promoted,” “Bad Day for Huntlng’’—old,

2

TEARS.—All the tears under Heaven would not float an
eight-by-ten affliction, to say nothing of more weighty
ones, If misfortunes come, meet them with firmness. If
| there 1s any weeping to be done leave it to the turtle doves
} and the willows,

“Tf you

 

 

yi memse Operatuious wit, *
?} ship in

THE TURRETED MOUNTAIN.

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

The Turreted Mountain is soaring on high
*Mid the roseate flush ot summer sky,
That stretches above its shadowy wings,
Like a brooding love over earthly things,
Which quietly bend in a solemn prayer
And biess their Lord forthe balmy air.

The Turreted Mountain of old arose *

When Nature roused from a long repose,
And shouting poured from a liberal hand
The Hudson, that hallows this beautiful land,
Then murmurs away to the boundless sea,
Like a Hebrew bard to eternity.

The Turreted Mountain still mutters on high

ts old romance to the earth and sky,
While another race in its shade reclines
When the summer has come with some rosed’and vines
On her stately brow, or when autumn sings
With a breaking heart by the desolate springs.
Sweet childhood here shall kneel in the dim
Hushed eye, and offer its earliest hymn,
And lovers shall breathe, ‘mid a warble of birds
And a heaven of kisses, their plighted words,
And manhood shall ponder, and old age spread
His thin-worm sail for the Isles of the Dead.

o~<+—_

‘THE JOSH BILLINGS SPICE-BOx,
JOSH WRITES BAEK.

Dear Snoodgrass.—Yure very long letter Konsisting ov
four pages and a postkript cum safe, and I traveled threu it
but had to wade to doit. Writing letters iz not yure
natral grip, ya spend t00 mutch ov yure time on them,
and too mutch ewether peopies too. Yure letter stops bi
informing me—“Rroe more at present.’ This looks omin-
ous, but if ya had begun the epistie, and ended it, bi that
koucise and original remark, I should hav felt it mi duty
to hav komplimented yu hily.

AZ @ correspondent thare iz too mutch oy the raw
material in yure mixtur just at present, but time may
work wonders. Learn to pucker, dear Snoodgrass, iz mi
warm council. He that puckereth iz greaterthan he that
drizzleth, this iz a saying Ov one Ov tle anshunis, and iz
worih its weight in gold.

Dear Pheips.—i kant tell yu which iz the best Italian
opera Dow iu operashun, I don’t kno enny more about the
musik, words, or sentiment ov an opera, tllan Ishould the
lamentashuns ove yrdoo widder at the wood-pile phun-
eral ov her depart husband. A man haz got tobe az
highly educated to understand this kind ov musik, and git
the taste ov it, azhe haztorelish mushrooms aud tera-
pins, served up with sweet oiland leek sauce. I regret
this, for 1 would like to be sweet on opera, it shows style
and good bringing up to be able to talk opera, and sling
in the pet terms at the right time and place, whether ya
know enny thing about the matter or not. I luv melody
aZ Ido milk, but I Kant git the hang ov opera enuff to en-
joy it enny more than. kan the fileing ov a saw.

Dear Onderdunk.—Thare iz only one way to brake akik-
ing heifer, and that iz to stop her growth bideath. When a
heifer gits to kiking, the smartest mishionary in the world
kant cousole her, she will kik over her mother-in-law just
aZ quick az she wil a perfekt stranger. They will alwuss
mauage to stand fing still untillyu git the pail just
about fall, and ng} for fear they won’t it it, they will

 

{ Kik with both hind feet, and squeal into the bargin.

Alter they hav kikt the milk over they are perfektly
happy, and will stand and chaw the cud, and Jet yu milk
them for two hours if yu want to. eath iz the ouly
stiddy kure for kiking heifer, and the quicker yu arrange
for it the less spilt milk yu willhav laying around loose,
and the less swareing yure nabors will hear Sunday
morninge over iu yure barn. J hav had kiking heifers
miself, and hav tried every way known to the profeshion
to reazon With them, but it kau’t be did, for avhen yu
think yu hav got one natralized, the last thing yu
will rekolekt ~ will be a bak summerset off irom
the milking stool, and 8 quarts Ov nu milk dripping off
from yu. A deakon ov the church kan’t brake one ov
theze heel slingers enny quicker than a common sinner
kan. ,

Dear Laubenheimer.—I don’t knoe who wrote “Babes
in the Woods,’ but whoever did, hitnatur. I hay forgot
uow what the argument ov_the book iz3 all i kan remem-
ber izpired it when iwaz a boy, and i bouglt one last
week for mi litle grand son, and when he grows up to be
aman, and gits wed, and haz a family, he will buy it for
hiz children. Robinson Cruso, Jak the Giant Killer, ana
Babes in the Woods will wear az long az the Ailmanaks
do. I don’t kno az thare iza partikie oy literal truth in
tem, but they are so wonderfull that if they didn’t hap-
pen, it seems just aZ tho they ought to. Thare iz grate
art in tutching Kkords ov this kimd; it kant be did bi acksi-
dent. Noboddy but one.aggo haz got good tools; and
Knows how to use them, kan turn out sutchjobs. Ihad
rather undertake lo write seven Fourth ov Juiy orashuns,
aud make them all _smeiissthong oy gunpowder, and the
Stars and stripe: Oger her
litlie glass slipper, :

Dear Burlingnan
thy [hat yu don’towaut

ate’ la and
thy—SO grow
tw
BIUES “K g lamliy
K ing thein. They originally cum
fromthe North of Europe, but are az natral to every
country aZ files are. They liv on most things, and in
China, i am told, the foiks livon tem. Baked rat may
be good, buti prefer to take enny man’s word for it rather
than triit. Rats and Kats never had avery good under-
standing, they allwuss differ on the main question; but
whi they Kant livin peace together, and yote the Same
ticket, haz ailwuss bothered me. But i suppoze this iz
all owing to the fall oy AUam—Adain fell, and then kats
aud rats fell out too, Adam’s fall was a bad thing for
rats,

Dear Pinchbak:—Spiritualism iz badly demoralized just
now; it dou’t puy enuy wore; the profeshional peckro-
inancers and trampivg jugglers hav gone into it, aud
ruined the bigness. I hav seen sleight-oy-hand men do
ail that enny Spiritualist haz ever dun, and only
charged twenty-five cents admishun, and besides waz
honest enuff to tell the aujieuce that the whole
thing waz a fraud, and they would teach every
one how to do if, for a fair price. I am_ sorry
for this, not on ackount ov other fo}ks, but. on ackout oy
the spiritualists, for many ov them seem to be honest and
simple people who may fall into sumthing wuss next
time. I had rather beaspiritualist than to beleave in
nothing, butidon’t intend tojine either proceshup, I
kan find enuf inthe realitys oy life to bizzy me, and when
i Kant, rather than hunt for spirits, i will go up into Nu
Hampshire and hunt for woodchucks. Woodchucks are
a pretty sure thing, andi am told that their meat iz worth
a little sumthing, aud thattheir skins are quick at 25
cents,

Dear Ringgold.—Spruce gum iz made out ov a sticky
kind ov Jickor that drigzles out oy the spruce tree, and iz
biled down toa fix, Which makes it mastikatible. It izjust
a little more solid than putly when it iz chewable, and iz
found more common than elsewhare in the Siate oy
Maine. Evyeryboddy chews gum iu the State oy Maine,
aud while a horse jockey in Connektikut couldn’t trade
horses without getting badly cheated, ifhe didn’t hav a
piece ofpine shingle to whittle up in Maine, yu kan
manage to steal hiz gum, yu kan beat him clean out ov
hiz horse. I have tended an evening meeting up in
Maine, and everyboddy waz chawing gum, except the
minister, and heseemedto beina grate huryto git thru
so he could chaw. To chaw gum well iz a grate art,
and a grate accomplisiiment too, for what iz more inter-
esting than toseearoom full ov ladys, and gentlemen
running thelr tungs and jaws at the same time, talking
and chawing az hard az they kan, ’tis butiful to beholal
Chawing gum iz better than chawing tobbacco, bekauze
when yu git tired ov chawing yu kan pass yure gum to
yure nabor, this iz konsidered a grate kompliment, but
wouldn’t be Konsidered so inthe case oy tobbacco. If it
wasn’t for sparking and chawing gumI kant see how
they could use up the winters, up 10 Maine,

Dear Bigelow.—I received yure kind Jetter yesterday,

and thank yu for the menny kompliments it kontains.
Even authors are a Jittie vain and luv to be flattered. This
jz human natur, and ji dou’t kno az we are mutch to blame
for the human natur thatizinus. Yure letter closes up
bi asking me “how old i am,” Up to the timei waz 50 i
waz very free to tell mi age, but since then i hav bekum
bakward about it, i Kant tell whi neither, for i don’t want
no seckond wife, and thare aiut nothing i brag on more
than. the number and ages ov mi grandchildren, Dear
Bigelow, if yu will promis never to tell enny one, and will
keep itasekret to yure last dieing day, and least oy all
wont tellit toyure wife, nor yure maiden sister, and if
enny one asks yu, yu will shake yure hed, and say no one
kan find it out, i will tell yua—come a little nearer so that
i kan whisper in yure ear—i shall be 75 years old in April,
if i liv, and April don’t fail to cum around often enuff,
Dear Mitchell.—Lager beer iz a gentle tonik. Five or
six glasses Ov it before brekfast akts on the liver, acksel-
lerates the cirkulashun oy the biood, tones the sekreshuns,
and. absorbs the various ackumulashuns which might
otherwize dissarrange the workings of the sistum. Hight
or nine tumblers oy it before dinner aids digestion, ea ined
izes the morbid juices ov the natral man, arouzes tle
dormant energys, lubrikates the bile, stimulates morbid-
ness, and pacifys the anxietys ov the nerves. Twelve or
fifteen glasses in the afternoon awakens all Jethargys, pro-
motes perspirashun, dissipates vertigo, skatters melan-
kolly, and drives away all longing and apprehensliun.
Twenty-five or thirty mugs Ov it belore supper clears the
vision, stops all ringing in the ears, adds power to the
stummuk, and akts like a charm on the Janguid forces ov
the constitushun. Forty or fifty cups ovit during the
evening permeates thru the entire phisikal construkshun,
ascends the spinal collum, shakes up the kidneys, excites
the spleen, and finally sends a man to bed about hatf past
eleven az drunk aZ a phool,
Dear Dinsmore.—Mormonism haz about giv out, it iz
on its last legs, and auphull groggy atthat. Enny man
ov good horse sense, or even wule sense, might hav
known that no religion, nor bizzness, her spekulashun,
nor amuzement, could be made to stick that waz bilt ona
foundashun ov having a haff dozen wifes for kapital.

One wife iz just az mutch az enny man Kan git along
with and do enny kind of bizzness, and )aff the time, at
least, she will expekt to boss the job.

I allwuss said that poligamy would burst up in the lapse
ov time, but iam glad that the experiment was tried with
a plurality Ov wives, and not ov husbands. If each woman

SOLE

OW De

‘a ié
ONE Tt Ww vW

Pr ren Fa
7} ef
I years, ¢

bIZZy all the ume

 

had been grauted a hafedozen husbands, oh, scizzors!}

K WEEKLY.

 

~ @

 

What would hav been the result? Each poor man would
hay been kut up into moutihfulls, aud dried, to keep him
out oy mischiel. ,

Dear Montesque.—The only way to argy witha phool
successiully is to agree with him in every thing; this will
soon dri them up. -Argueing With a phool, iz like trieing
to kontend with a parcell ov musketoze; yu kant kill them
olf if yu should try, and if yashould, what hav yu gained?

Yu hav got bit bad, and hay only a jot oy ded muske-
toze to brag on.

No man ov fust rate sense iz anxious to argy ennything;
he knows that mutch can be sed on both sides oy enny
subject, and he also kuoWs that opinions generally are
like certain kind oy yegetables, thare iz no partikular
market price for them, and they are worth just what
ennyboddy iZ a mind to giv for them.

A phool iz a good deal like a mule, they understand the
natur ovaklub better than ennything else. lf yu kon-
tend with one ov theze kind oy phellows yu make him
important, they are like a brush heap on fire, yn kan’t

| putit outif yu try, but let it alone, it soon burns up, and
the fust wind that cums along, blows the ashes away,

> e~<~—

THINGS GENERALLY.

BY MAX ADELER.
HOW JONES KILLED HIMSELF.

— Aleck Jones, a young fellow in our place, proposed
a Short lime ago to a certain Julia Bangs over at Wilming-
ton, and Julia refused him. He was perfectly desperate
over his defeat, and his friends feared that some evil con-
sequences would ensue. Their apprehensions were real-
ized. Jones called upon Peter Lamb, and asked him if
he had revolver, and Peter said he had. Jones asked
Lamb to lend it to him, and Peter did 80, Then Jones in-
formed Peter that he had made up his mind to commit
suicide. He said that since Miss Bangs hdd dealt so un-
kindly with him he felt that life was an insupportable
burden, and he could find relief only in the tomb. Hein-
tended to go down by the river shore, and there blow out
his brains and so end all this suffering and grief, and bia
farewell tO @ World that had grown dark to him. He
said that he mentioned the fact to Lamb in confidence be-
cause he wanted him to perform some little offices for him
when he- was gone. Ileintrusted to Lamb a sonnet en-
titled ‘*A Last Farewell,’ and addressed to Julia Bangs.
Titis he asked should be delivered to Miss Bangs as
soon as his corpse was discovered. He said it might ex-
cite a pang in her bosom, and induce her to cherish his
memory. Then he gave Peter his watchas a keepsake,
and handed him forty dollars with which he desired Mr.
Lamb to purchase a tombstone. He said he would prefer
a plain one with his simple name cut upon it, and he
wanted the funeral to be as unostentatious as possible.

Peter promised to fulfill these commissions, and he sug-
gested that he would leud Mr. Jones a bowie knife with
which he could slash himself up if the pisto! failed.

But the suicide said that he would make sure work with
the revolver, although he was much obliged for the offer
allthe same. He said he would like Lamb to go around
in the morning and break the news as gently as possible
to his uuhappy mother, and to tell her that his last
thought wasof:her. But he particularly requested that
she would not pat on mourning for her erring son.

Then he said that the awful act would be performed on
the beach, just beiow the gas-works, and he wished Peter
to come out with some kind ofea vehicle to bring the re-
mains home. If Julia came to the funeral she was to have
a seat in the carriage next to the hearse, and if she want-
ed his heart it was to be given to herin alcohol. It beat
only for her. Peter was to tell his emplorers at the store
that he parted with them with regret, but doubt-
less they would find some other person more worthy
of their confidence and esteem. He said he didn’t care
where he was buried, but letit be in some lonely place
far from the turmoil and trouble of Lhe world, some place
where the grass grew green and where the birds came to
carol in the early spring time.

Mr. Lamb asked him if he preferred a deep cr a shallow
grave; but Mr. Jones said it made very little difference—
when the spirit was gone the mere earthly clay was of
little account. He owed seventy cents for billiards down
at Shoit’s saloon, and Lamb was to pay that out of the
money in his hands, and to request the clergyman not to
preach a sermon at the cemetery. Then he shook ‘hands
with Peter and went away to his awful doom.

The next morning Mr. Lamb wrote to Julia, stopped in
to tell them at thestore, aud nearly killed Mrs. Jones
With the jntelligeuce. Then le borrowed Cooley’s wagon,
and, taking with him the coroner, he drove out to the
beach just below the gas-works, tofetch home the muti-
lated corpse. When they reached the spot the body was
not there, and Peter said he was very much afraid it had
been washed away by the flood tide. So they drove up to
Keyser’s liouse, about half a mile from the shore, to ask if
any of the folks there had heard the fatal pistol-shot or
seen the body. On going around to the wood-pile they
saw Keyser holding a terrier dog backed close up against
alog. The dog’s tail was Jying across the log, and an-
other man had the ax uplifted. -A second later the ax de-
scended and cut the tail off close to the dog, and, while
Keyser restrained the frantic anima), ihe other man
touched the bleedipg stump with caustic, As they let the
dog go Lamb was amazed to see that the chopper was the
wretched suicide’ He was amazed, but before he could
ask any questions, Aleck stepped up to him and said:

‘‘Hush-sh-shi! Don’t say iti about that matter.
thought better of it. The pistol looked so blamed danger-
ous whenI cocked it that J changed me mind, and came
over here to Keyser’s to stay allnight. I’m going to liye
just to spite that Bangs girl.”

Then the coroner said that he didn’t consider he
had been treated like a gentleman, and he had half
a nolion to give Mr. Jones a poundipg. But they all
drove home in the wagon, and, just as Mrs. Jones
got done hugging Aleck, a letter was hauded him con-
taining the sonnet that he had sent Julia. She returned
it With the remark that it was the awfullest slash she ever
read, and that she knew he hadn’t courage enough to
kill himself, Then Aleck went back to the store, and was
surprised to find that iis employers had so little emotion
as to deck him for half a.day’s absence. What he wants
now is to ascertain if he cannot compel Peter Lamb to
give-up that watch, Gamb says he has too much respect
for the memory of his unfortunate friend to part with it,
but he is really sorry now that he ordered that tombstone.
On Washington’s birthday Jones’ bleeding heart had
been so far stanched as to enable him to begin skirmish-
ing around the atfeciions of a girl named Matilda Mullen,
and if she refuses him, he thinks that tombstone may
yet come into play. But we ail have our doubts about it.

HE DIDN’T WANT TO RUN,

— The prececessor of our preseut coroner, Barney Ma-
ginn, Was a@ man named Walsh. He was telling me the
other day about the singular circumstances attending his
election to the office.

“You know,’ said Mr. Walsh, “that I didn’t want that
position, When they talked of nominating mei told
them, SaysJ; ‘It’s po use; you needn’t elect me; l’m
not going to serve. D’you s’pose I’m going to give up
arespectable business to become a kind of State body-
snateber? D’you iunagine I’m going to occupy my time
skeeting about over this county mauling dead people,
and pluugipg things into them, and setting on them to
find out what kilied them? Well, Ijustain’t I’mno
professional corpse-investigator. I’m down on this post-
mortem foolery anyway. I don’t intend to spend my life
rassling with bones lying all around the State, There’s
bo sense init. .Why don’t youchuck them into the sep-
ulcher and be done withit? Whenaman’s blowed up
With guupowder and comes. down in mince meat it don’t
interest me to know what killed him; so you need’t make
me coroner, for l won't serve.’

“Well, sir, do you believe that those fellers persisted in
nominating me on the Republican ticket? Yes, they did;
actually put me up as a candidate, Sol publisiied a letter
declining the nomination; but they absolutely had the in-
Sufferable cheek to keep me on the ticket and tohold
mass meetings,-at which they made speeches in my fa-
vor. Iwas mad asthunder about it, because it showed
such a scand’lous disregard of my feelings; and so I
chummed in with the Democrats, and-for about two
months I went around to the Demoerati¢ mass meetings
and spoke against myself andin favor of the opposition
candidaie. [thought I hud them for sure, because I
knew Inore about my own failings than those other fellers
did, and I enlarged upon them until I made myself out—
well, Ijust heaped up the iniquity until I used to go home
feeling that I was a good deal wickeder sinner than I ever
thought I was before. It did me good too, I reformed.
l’ye been a better man ever since.

“Now, you’d athought people would a considered me
preity fair authority about myown unfitness for the
office, but I hope 1 may be killed and eaten if the citizens
of this county positively didy?t go to the polls and elect
me by about 800 majority. They did indeed, I was the
worst cub up of any man you ever saw. I had repeaters
around.at the polis too, voting for the Democratic candti-
date, and I paid four of the judges to falsify the returns so
as toreturn him, Butit wasno use; the majority was
too big. They had meina hole. And on election night
the Republican Executive Committee came round to ser-
enade me, aud as soon as the band struck up I opened on
them with a shot-gun and wounded the bass drummer in
the Jeg. But they. kept on playing, and after a while,
when they stopped, they poked some congratulatory res-
Olutions under the front door, and gave nie three cheers,
and went liome. I was never so annoyed in my life.

“Then they sent me round my certificate of election;
but 1 refused to receive it, and as sure as I’m alive those
fellers grabbed me and held me while Bill Harmer rammed
that certificate into my coat pocket; and then they all quit,
The next day @ man was run Over on the railroad and
they wanted me to tend to him,» Bub had my mad up
and I wouldn’t. So what does the sheriff do but come
here with a gang of police and Garry, me out there by
force. And he scared up ajury, which, brought in a ver-
dict. Then they wanted me to take the fees, but l wouldn't
touch them. I said 1 wasn’t golng to give my sanction to
the proceedings. But of Course it wasnouse. I thonght
I was living in a free country, but I wasn’t. The sheriff
drew th Yaoney and got & Mandamus from the court, ana
he cae Yate One day whiléd was at dinner. When I said
I wouldt tone) a dollar oGithe drew a pistol and said
if I di@mt fake those fapds ia blow my brains out. So
What Wa8@man to do? I Pesigned fifteen times; but
somehow those resignations jvere suppressed. I never
heard fromthem. Well, sir, atlastI caved, and for three
years I kept skirmishing. around perfectly disgusted,
meditating over folks that had died suddenly, and inguir-
ing about old dilapidated cadavers that were picked up in
various places.

“And do you know that on toward the end of my term
they had the faeeto try to nominate me again! IU’s a
positive fact, Those politicians wanted me torun again;

 

 

 

a Re EAEETNS

said I was the most popular coroner the county ever had;
Said that everybody liked my way of handling a corse,
it was so full of feeling and sympathy, and a jot more
slush like that! But what did I do? I wasn’t going to run
any such risk again. I wasn’t going to submit to such
despotism as that more’n once, anyway. Solslid ap to
the citypanad theday before the convention met I sent
word down that Pwas dead. Circulated a report that I'd
been killed by falling off a ferry boat. Then they hung the
convention hallin black and passed resolutions of respect,
and then they nominated Barney Maginn.

On the day after election I turned up, and you never
saw mien 100k 80 miserable, so cut to the heart as those
politicians, Tey said it was an infamous shame to play
it on them that Way, and they declared that they’d run
me for sheriff abthe next election to make upforit. If
they do I’m going to move for good. I’m going to sail for
Colorado or some other decent place, Where they'll let a
man alone. V’lldie in my tracks before ’U ever take
another office in this county. IJ will, mow mind mel’?

BLASTS FROM A BUGLE.

— Mr. Hammer, our tragedian, has returned to business
and after a few performances of *‘Nobody’s Child,’? the
manager of the theater put on Shakespéare’s‘* King John,’
with Mr. Hammer in the character of the King. 3
there isa good dealof flourishing of trumpets in the
plece, the manager went to Wilmington and hunted up 2
German, hamed Schenck, who plays on the bugle.
Schenck doesn’t understand the English language very
well, and the manager put him behind the scenes on the
leit of the stage, while the manager stood im the wing at
the rightof the stage. Then Schenck was instructed to
toot his trumpet when the manager signaled him wit
his hand. Everything went along smootiny enough unti}
King John (Mr. Hammer) came to the passage, ‘‘Ah, me!
this tyrant fever burns me up!’ Just as King John was
about to utter this the manager brushed a fly off ef his
nose, and Schenck, mistaking the movement for the ap-
pointed signal, blew out a frighful blare upon his bugle.
The king was furious, and the manager made wild ges-
tures for Schenck.to stop, but that estimable German mu-
sician imagined atthe manager wanted him to play
louder, and every time a fresh motion was made Schenek
emitted a more terrific blast. The result was somet}
like the following: .

King John.—**Ah, me! this tyrant——”

Schenck (with his cheecks distended and his. eyes beam
ing through his spectacies).—‘‘Ta-tarty;. ta-ta-tarty-tarty,
rat-tat tarty-tarty-tarty, ta-ta-ta, tanarty-arty, te-tarly.’?

King John.—Fever burns——’?

Schenck.—‘‘Rat-tat-tarty, poopen-arty,. oopen-arty, ta-
tarty-arty-oopen-arty; (a-ta; ta-ta-ta-tarty poopen-urty
poopen a-a-a-a-arty-arty.””

King John.—Ah, me! this——’*’ i

Schenck (ejecting a hurricane from his lungs}.—Hoop-
en-oopen-oopen-arty, ta-tarty; tat-tat-ta-tarty-tip-tup-ta-
tarty; poopen-ta-poopen-ta-a-a-a-arty-whoep-ta-la.”

King John (quickly).—“Tyrant fever burns me up.”’

Schenck (with perspiration standing out’ on his fore-
head).—Ta-la ta-ta. Ta-ta ta-ta tatten-atten-atten arty
te-tarty poopen oopen-00-00-00-00-oo0pen te tarty ta-la-ar-
ar-ar-ar-te larty-te-la-a-a-a-@-aA-A-A YP?

King John (to the audience).—*Ladies and gentie-
men——”’

Schenck.—'Ta-ta, ta-ta, ta-ta, poopén-oopen, poopen-
oopen,te-ta,tarty 00-loo o0-hoo-te tarty arty appeu-arty.”’

King John.—*‘There is a Dutch idiot behind the scenes
here who is——??

Schenck.—‘*Whoopen-arty te-tarty-arty-arty-ta-ta-a-a2-a
tat-tarty.”?

King John.—‘Blowing particular thunder out ofa horn,
and +

Schenck.—*Poopen-arty.”?

King John.—"“lf you will excuse me——”?

Schenck.—'*Pen-arty-arty.”?

King Jolin.—"I will go behind the scenes and put
Teutonic head on him.”

Schenck.—Poopen-arty ta-larty, arty-poopen-a-a-a-a-
arty-tat;tat-ta-tarty.”?

Then King Jonm disappeared and a scuffle was heard,
With some violent expressions in the German language.
Ten minutes Jater a gentleman from the banks of the
Rhine might have been seen standing on the pavement in
front of the theater with a bugle under his arm anda
handkerchief to his bleeding nose, Wondering what on
earth was the matter. Inthe meantime Aing John had
returned to the stage, and the performance concluded
Without any music. After this the manager will ewploy
home talent when he wants airs on the bugle.

COLONEL BANGS’ HAT.

— Colonel Bangs is very bald, and in order to induce
his hair to grow again he is using a very excellent articie
of “Hair Vigor’? upon his scalp. A week-or two ago he
was summoned as ajuryman upon a case in the Circuit
Court, and upon the day of the trial, just before the hour
at which the court met, he Yemembered that he had not
applied the Vigor to his head that morning. He had only
aiew minutes to spare, but he flew up stairs, aud into
the dark closet where he Kept the bottie, and pouring
some fluid upon the sponge, lie rubbed his head energet-
ically. By some mishap the colonel got hold of the wrorg
bottle, aud the substance with which he inundated his
scalp was not Vigor, but the black varnish with which
Mrs. Bangs decorated her shoes. However, Bangs didn’!
perceive the mistake, but he darted down Stairs, put
his hat, and walked off to the court-room, $a
cold morning, and by the time the colonel reached
destination lhe varnish wasas 9.4 OR watorte,
little uncomfortable about the héad, and I
io remove his hat to discover the cause of
but to his dismay it was immovable. It was ¢g!
tathe skin, and his efforts to take it off gave hii
ful pain.

Just*then he heard his name called by the crier, and le
had to go into court Loanswer. He was wild with appre-
hension of coming trouble; but he took his seat in the
jury box and determined to expiain the situation to the
court at the earliest possible moment. As he sat there
with a guilty feeling in his-soul, it seemed to him that that
high hat kept getting bigger and bigger until it appeared
to him to be about as large as a medium size siol-tower.
Then ie was conscious that the lawyers were staring at
him, Then the clerk. looked hard at him and screamed:

“Wats off in court!’? and the colonel grew crimson in
the face, ‘Hats. off!’ yelled the clerk again, and the
colonel was about to reply when the judge came in, and
as his eye. rested on Bangs, he said:

*Persous in the court room must remove their hats."?

Bangs.—‘‘May it please your honor, 1 kept my hat. or
because r

Judge.—‘*Well, sir, you must take it off now.”

Bangs.—“‘But I say 1 keep it on because ]——"!

Judge,—'‘We don’t want any arguments upon the sub
ject, sir. Take your hat off instantly.”

Bangs.—But you don’t Jet me ot

Judge.—‘Remoye that hat this moment, sir!
going to bandy words with ine, sir!
at ouce.”

Bangs.— ‘Judge, if you wiil only give me a chance
LC——e??

Judge.—*This jsintolerable! Do you mean to insult tiie
court, sir? Do you mean to profane Us sacred temple of
justice with untimely levity? Take your hat off, sir, or J
will fine you for contempt. Do you hear me?? :

Bangs.—* Well, it’s very hard that I can’t say a word
by way of ex——”’

Judge (warmiy).—*This-is too much! This is just a
little loo much. Perhaps you’d like to come up on the
bench here, and run the court, and sentence a few con-
victs? You’ve got more audacity thanamule. Mr. Clerk,
fine that man filly dollars! Now, sir, remove your hat.’?

Bangs.—' ‘Judge, this is rough on me, .I——

Judge (in a {urious rage).—‘*Won’t do it yet? Why, you
impudent scoundrel! Vve a notion to—— Mr. Clerk, fine
him one hundred dollars more, and Mr, Jones, yon go and
take that hat off by force!’

Then the tipsiaif approached Bangs, who was by this
time half-crazy with wrath, and hit the hat with hisstick.
It didn’t move. Then he struck it again, and caved in
Lhe crowns but still it remained on Bangs’ head, Then
he picked up a volume of ‘Brown on Evidence,” aud
mashed the. crown in flat., Then Bangs sprang at hint,
aud shaking his fist under the nose of Jones, he shrieked:

“You.white-livered; mutton-leaded scullion! Iye half
a notion to*tear the ribs out of youl Ifthatjackass on the
bench had-any sense, he could see that the lat is glued
fast. ‘I can’t take it off if 1 wanted to.”

Then the judge removed the fines, and excused him, a
Bangs went home. . lle slept im that hat for a week, and
even when it came off, the Lop of his head looked as black
as if mortification had set in.

—— > @~<_—_

RECENT PUBLICATIONS.

IvANHoz. By Sir Walter Scott. Publishers, T, B. Peterson &
Brothers, Philadelphia, This is the first yolume of anew cditior
of The Wayerley Novels, now in course of publication by the
Petersons, to be entitled ‘‘Petersons’ Cheap Edition for the Mil-
lion of the Waverley Novels.” Twenty-six volumes will be issued
at twenty-five cents each, or five dollars for the complete set,
This is a fine opportunity to get all the works of the great novel-
ist. Let no one neglectit. Ivanhoe has a portrait of the author
on the cover.

tipg
De

a

LAN f

dia 211

sli

r Are you
Uncover your hea:

91)

>
DU

{

| THe PICTORIAL TOWER OF LONDON. With a full and complete
index. By William Harrison Ainsworth. Publishers, T. B. Peter.
son & Brothers, Philadelphia, This work is complete in one
yolume, and “shows up” the “Tower of London,” as it was in
the Olden Times. The author has introduced in the work #
number of incidents that render it especially valuable as well as
readable, There are ninety-three illustrations.

WONDROUS STRANGE, By Mrs, C. J: Newby. Publishers, T.
B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. These enterprising pub.
lishers are issuing, as. before stated, a new, cheap and popular
edition of the excellent novels, written by Mrs. Newby. ‘Won-
drous Strange,” is one of them, and we can commend it to our
readers as equal to any of its predecessors. Price, paper cover,
50 cents.

ESTHER MAXWELL’S MISTAKE. Published by the National Tem-
perance Society, at the Publication House, No, 58 Reade street,
New York, This is another of the temperance books that cannot
fail todo good, it is attractively written, and inculcatesa very
useful lesson,

THE SMUGGLER’S GHOST, By Mrs, Henry Wood. Publishers,
T, B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia. This is another of the
interesting works of one of the most prolific writers of the age
But though a yery prolific, she is ever a fresh and pleasing
writer.

KrnG’s Copn, Loring, Publisher, Boston. This is one of Loring’s

select novels, and of course it is highly entertaining. The inci

 

dents are exciting and the plot well worked out,

 

 

 

 

 

 
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parents become Citizer

a
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CUTS DOUBL

FOR EACH INSERTION CASHIN ADVANCE

 

 
 

    
     

   

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i regart d to the locat

     
 
 

     
  

 

Intesrityv) Ta EYES A Industry.
sntegrity. gt ENE PEA Prive. P

      
    

20 cents per Ib. by Express, or 60 cenis lb. pack-

     
           
      
 
 
      
       
     
     
    

   

€ Tg age paid) by

When you | " blelohe patie Hag sis
RJ cs b 9 ure of pay- I New York Weekly Purchasing Agency,

        
 
 
  
 

 

) , Bremen rank ort and a number of
, Was a commercial confederacy organized tor the prot
tion “of their commerce against the numerous bandi ttia
o invested Germany and the neighborir
the encroachments, oF pressions and

» Ca i the ‘*

   

 

   
   

 

  
 
 

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B e with | ms I Ble sing inde e cipal autl \ority in
XSON VYICKERS ie | 5 : 19 sty é rhe city of A yurg was A0u8 ied
by w23-1 century by Charlemagne, and joined the above cities

  

 

the League early in the thirtee

ETIQUETT } DEI oP s nae

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| i eee. Be abo PL UCK. | 7 aa 7 | os T IDO T
( ; > M A OY 3
Glass Cards i*?. ih iE SUiEeER, | ere rai

in Gold : nil

  
     
    
 
 
  

   

ist year. lossom.—1.

     

  

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only because of
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K. SMI1 “2 ror, ¥ t :
ss CIT IY ROVELIY CO. Batlle Ni

FIRST CL ‘ASS eur r Trae Coe go hale io ents
avait ANP Diet oth settee
BILLIARD TABLES [sicee sen tent eo, ih tS

sd REz AD THIS. —We will

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>

 

 

et G ”
an now be purchased for $8109 and upward, AN:

   

   
           
 

       

‘|

€

;

Coummiss 5 ¢

gs Bae N ing in the world equals it. Adcress i

L. DECKER & CO., j 23-2 SHERMAN & CO., ¢ sco, M r 5

‘Sts., New York _ BOW -TrIS DONE, OR THE SECRET OUT.— ;

J a M ustache and Whiskers in 42 Days.—?his ‘

bn p LU0 OL -Gamblers’ Tricks ‘

Ail for Qne Dolla MF Seg ee eet ae ote pc
(Bae BY 3 or 25 cei Add a RP a j

Pe j |

3 B ss ee) S = \ i ——{)s r
f r ‘ di | er 3 months’ trialtothe New Werk Mii 1 ner &
, airs psts ae , Dressmaker, the best 3% Race) | Myer eee :
c s s I tot O 5 vante SHARPS PUBLISHING CO., “407 Mer er street, N. ¥ NEW YORK ¥ last ‘teen or’ fo! url
i 3 8 rough a vsdeale Sei years, and asadear frien
BE NJ. WV. HITCHC oCcK, Publisher, Bt KK I { ) A Ll Pp anelegant smite ally mus for j ny valuable s1
B55 |] vi via is Russia Leather Pocket-| tions. | tle oles, aged six
Fi : pee | & SCOTT, Box 3708, New York. |},

h ive reason tol
n

r WorkBox mu

MON K W an uote Catalog Bd ee Bera ts 20% BEAUTIFUL PATTERNS OF BRACK- every mothel

res, S5C., r 25 cents le best qu y samples in

ND-St WP CO

 

 

s Ss | 1 W AND MOTE
BR > ‘ S S cs W are g sy
‘ AND G IRL Ss, ae money at home. rane eer . 7 Peon ees
a Raasee stad aot ming tot not onl;
B ton, Mass \ aress € inseé

 

   

RY NIrma’? Ayapy Rav subj g, Sulla s t a ey 4 ie ina
LADIES W ORK-bOX., requ r immediate replies, wh ci

  

eo a : Ee i Hi | quiring imi
Nor Mot i Patehes nar ccinrnresiiery _| Sonu as te give sue spring sisles as thes

 

   
   
 

 

       

: . reas t 5 i Ave r rus mt ey are troubled w he a
t N Pu 5 ba g y 4 t
I - gus ive some counuse YOSSID to ¢ {
5 s ress, } € { 5 ha Keey & V 4 ’ re 8
19 N TOF 21-12 evel ¥ ire t good iris
3 ns resses, 80 ti¢ al
XH BEN ss . f i ers from either servanis misit
Dv 4) 4 (
Pot me em S s «er ime } é€ iVolL » IV A
i costs I
: i es oO! ‘ bh Old ‘ . - © 5 AS
9 “ay y i ER 1 Ameri n o
. Ti . I gant >—~<
Hamily jour mals 300 I adway, N. ‘ Ro ' oo
‘ f ve of gi
} I sS Ca .
& DGi r 10nSs

FOR YOURSEL®. | 4

      

: zored dress witha Saantac hati for your little girl.
637 7 Wisktor, MA sts NOTHING to try nt is gored and half-fitting, while t
+ *p.O. VICKERY & CO. Aucusta. Maine, | Ver & Separate skirt, plain att
yw | center. Weliave this pattern in sizes for children fro
LED a: Mi aN i EL . a ee TO . ao i ;one to six years of Age; for your iit ] l I SI 1 :
Sa Adare J. BI LONSON, “Detroi Mi ; l4 26 j years, you will require about three 3 &-[Ourtlhi OF | { on of the 1 F RK WEEKLY Pu
: inaterial, The pattern is No. 3,831, pr 5cents. ' ;

ice 1
G ‘ i IDE. TO! n ( C ; how- | catalogue of spring patterns has been sent to your ad-
ing eit 1 ; { 3
. ; | dress,
make t 3 aall tli- |} y | ee
SU © © Ss. Cag cabibal | r'experience.| ‘“Norma.’’—Rubber belts are still worn, also the gros-
2 v mople

» for | grain ribbon belts, either plain or beaded. We can get

»} } . f
iCKeL-DACK I

he sides and plaited at

      
     
     
           
     
   
 
  
    
                
      
 

I several weeks
n print

JATALOGUE.—T!

   

rds-and

   

ders receive
AUTeSS, pre

      

ten cents.

NOTICE.—VWitl
various subjects, i 1
instead of t cis the v arious

   
   

ar of letters

answer by

[ we receive a nu
1e Writers request

 
 

  

whie

 

              
   
    
 
       
       
 

       
 

  

S We Mai I ae . To do this we
cents THE hem for you to cost from 60 centsto $3each. Plaitings | compelled t r additional I eside being put to con
3 J of all kinds are fashionable; the box-side, Kuife, and | e1 expense to o heinformation. Tl

 

used to when the “questions are ans

7 { ANTE RNS and STEREOPTy- | (ouvie are
x CO NS ot sizes and prices. Views Ruffs may be e€
yr Partie Entertainment and | Do not wear , but braid your ownin along s
Public oe xhivitions. Puys wellon a small investment, Cata- | gle braid, and let it hang down your back. If a coro
eR n, 49 Nassau St is becoming Core yout fro nt hair back over one. Y
write a very » letter for ayoung girl. You

The reversed plaits, too, are very pretty

ier single or double, just as you like be

 

 

 

     

 

Weg Opti

 

S e M LIS!

 

1

n
th in writing and composi ion
Whenever you want informa
e Will take pleasure in finding
{ to know.
rritory.—T

G kK N* cs Ww ee 1). Men or women $34 a wee
} d umples free Write at <¢ et
AI REED }

CCE Mis SEG AR Fire’ c
S WITH. 66 | rt

FINELY PRINTED: BRISTOL, V ISK. |
5O IES ‘ARDS sent cents. Send st

   
 
 

 

   
 
 
  
 
    
    
  
    
    
  
 
  
 
 
 
  
    
 
 
   
  
    
      
      
  
     
   
  
  
  
     
  
  
 
 
  
  
  
    
  
 
   
  
 
 
 
  
  
  
      
     
    
   
     
 
      
   
  
  
  
 
 
   
      
 
 
       
          
 
     
    

   

 
  
 
  
    
   
  

    

ty this year,
gray and wl i
flowers, put on

pais ie

 

   

       

I 3 Glass Car Snc 2S & dictates, for tt
s nled ve FULLER & ¢ Mass 24-13 b

E UE ESSES (OF t
@ ‘ONSTANT EMPLOY MENT.—At home, Male or

{ 3S. msbur N. ¥ rm 4

 WINCHESTE R’S ee a fa ae
SP. EG IFiG PPR beg: ites

eis

 

ul materials we have, and every mc
De tv. | er Should keep a piece on liand, for the black not
t itcan be ma

 

i aresses, I

 

i el tsuccess, Jc | Makes handsome and use ful ut
Reme \ wn to Medi- | factured mto children’s aprons, aud overskirts, or pt
ee wa . $1 %, &c., SEND | na ses, or it will le Ok we in Sacques, basques, and
FO A ¢ t Prices: $1 per S $5, b y mail utside garments for 1 ; a A ft rid'c
1 j epared | ltgside garments! adies and misses. “A {ul piece «

  

se ‘ mat dbe le i ; tains from forty-five to fifty-six yards. It is far best
WANCILES'TER «& CO,, Chemists, 36 Jobn st. N. have such goods seut by express, for postage is now Vv

d, besides, the mail is not-so reliable for pa

YS NG MM EN SUFFERING F ROM WEAK ] ages as the express, unless a package is registered, :
SS, & Will learn of Sing Means ¢ wre FREE by | that will make the cost come to even more than
ssing I ti REEVES, s

No. 78 Nassau st, New York

; OK. 0.” -Yes, we can purchase the music for
ih rhe pieces you menti cost 35 and 40 cents each.

0. : * | 0, S 5900, i j 000 : are prepared to buy pianos in ail makes, al 130 organs

eve H+ | melodeot Ss, as well as other instruments is Viol

| putes, etc. F r any information you ma re by a

| write direct to the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purcl lasing Ag

   

  

   
 

 

Lricerass iy ehobk Paes IN WALL STI
$s to ny thousands of ee a profit.

         

j : itory circulars, ¢ ts| ey. Give name and address in full, as before, and incl
a ' rices of stocks tock | § stamp Lo prepay post lage on our reply.
Vy se desiring t ve “Brunette.’—You will find a good quality in two-t
‘Ale xX. r wothimgham & Cc Ons Bank ers a 4 Bs ol ae y | toned kid gloves quite ag satisfacte as the more or
2o-+ y s set, k }

    

mental with flowers stitched at the wrist, and besides

rence in price is cousiderable, the first costing fr

mproved farms, | $2 to $2.25, while the others cost from $3 to $5, and

in Che village, near have seen tiem with four and dea beidns costing
}

ot SAL BE, in ee oo) L. I., two hours’
¥ ) 20 a ya

   

much as $10 a pair. The set, consisting of fun, hand!
chief-holder, and scent-bottle, will cost $3. We
jappy toserve you at apy time.

“Mrs. E. C..’—We can purchase silks in all colors ¢
r various prices, ranging from $2 to $7 per yard.
edium qui alt ties in solid colors, which look yery ha

May by 150 shall

 

    

ton stree t, New Y¥

Te ¥Y THE OL eer y ARD HOU KK in AME aaa
\
- }

 

fo
m
2 : ke or Marble Cards, | Some, COSt $2.50, $3, § ind $3.50 per yard, and give q
J JOUN ) 7 "RE NC if 394 Main street, | a8 Much $s satisfact ionasa dress costing twice the amot
cr i w26 4 /To make a full suit, consisting of skirt, overskirt,
DqdE) A MONTH TO AGENTS, everywiere. | basque, you will require from twenty to twenty-five y
<B> Add

 

t n ime |

  
  

  

2 br

   
 

ress EXCELSIOR M’r’a. Co., Buchanan, Mich. | of the material, according to the quantity of trimn
you wish, thatisif you trim withthesilk. Lace or fri
would be pretty combined with plaitings or ruffles.
are constantly sending silk suits to our patrons rang
in price from $75 to $200 each. We can get you api
silk of good quality, and have it eleg: ADHY made for $
You will also find the $100 suits very ylish.
“Christian Ridge,’? Clarinda, tows. Why don’t
Gi: { rv E N AW AY For the address of a fri l-p’ge A get some one of the plain, solid colored hvaberints
Cards. Send P. Card. Sommer Co., Ne wark NJ combine with your fabric; you can then make a sty
j}and handsome sult, srowWnD, gray, or black will

AGENTS for the best selling | ai Bi tis lidtewrtita “tae . At » Ae

"i Prize Packages in the world, | pretty and suitable overgarments for your other d1

| ruins 15 ets paper, 15 en Now x is quite fashion: ible to have a skirt of one mate
nen, en-li

ler. pencil, | and polonaise or basque and overskirt of another, or

   

q li D MENS. aM Breet Dieter} me —Send stam}

R, East Clarend

 

6p BEAUTIFUL CH ROMOS and 500 Money-
oe Peat eas Recipes, pi t
w2 DANFORTH &

s nS lress

STOL, 697 Broad y, N.Y

    

 

Su et Pesan . %, W- | can use one fabric for the eee ation and trim with
, BR DE &..CO., 76D Broadwa _ Ne vy rk > } other. Yes, we are constantly buying ready-made

 

r our customers at all prices from $10 Lo $200.
would really be surprised to see what neaf, useful s

      

   

 

  

M \ R | \ ( 1} ac hy gh roe I | we can purchase fo1 $10, $12, $15 and $20. They are
pte eae ai tcr those who are marrieg | ade, Of good material, and lave given satisfactioj
(;U] Di. i latemarriage. | everyinstance. In ordering a suit you must give us j

) cent Address | measures across bust, around waist, length of sleeve

Dr. BUTT’S DISPENSARY skirt. We should judge from your description of yout
12 North Kighth street, St. Louis, Mo. | that your bust measnre would be 34 inches, waist 20 ot

| lskirtin front should be about 41 inches long. « I

 

    

> Wadgatk Y47 FOR AGENTS in our ten} hha ves z.
any TE > y ¥ New Novelties. Just Needed in | Dear are We right? Any of the new drab or gray sha
; \ ; Or the browns would become you. Weara pink or
| ribl at your throat. Dresses are now mad
the coloring is atthe thre and ou

= ; ,

& | wer hf} hh Organdie muslin is now used to make rut
SES 5 tsto D1 \N DYKE, rills for the neck of dresses, also the sleeves, and w

4 & 4 | 1321 Green street, Philadelphia. | desired for handsome weat the muslin is edged with

7 nnes lace, We willtry and give such descript

. ; rf as you require whe re yO i live.

T ee & 7 | “Ida M, Wellman,’’—A very pretty waist in the

ela Ay V@s i age N ew e style you desire, being Jow-necked and sleeveless, i
cuirass bodice No. 3,608, price 20 cents. It is a

‘ . ~ > af

The Only Perfect Instrument

| dressy little affair, and can be made of black or col
| SIIK, and worn over W ant or any thin dress. This
| ment comes in thirteen sizes for ladies, from 28
yr? |
FOR }
——— - mer ~ " i | “Mrs, L. A. Bunker.’—Wecan get sets of mold
at BSTORING 4 HE SIG HT AND GIVING | VAX Work, consisting of flowers 8, fruits, etc., from
UP THE USE OF SPECTACLES. |} ‘*Silvia.’—Child, let your moles alone, Don’t
t l

; inches bust measure.
take them off, even if you do imagine that they disfi

     

Guaranteed.

Le

Be
NAL

 

 

 

 
 

 

    

 

   

          

hy shave oe comin. the mene re y« utake alady’s skirt. P ern No. 8,625, pri
ye : Prod 2c equi ee e4 I « I oil b "1
Ce ee RIEL, GPT eet a ntatec) ym cur ationts in-all | Ceuts, is a very stylish pattern. The postilion overs
| States. J e6 en } fe and its effects | { andsomely shaped api front, with a fin
Che cheapest and Cid be s6.'' I e by in | The number
; i Pan ¢ upon the ey 1 toa the | Avery.’ _Use
{ i rie 4 l | +}
i 1 va uit ‘
AU Cent \ i
\ Dr. E. B. FOOTH, :
stylis pl
} I i } A
L201 ‘ ¥( } La | ng ol th lal, A
- may be made of brown Ssilk-popi
Be f 1 Oil Chromos, size ¢ SUR he demi-trained skirt. Let the jack
alge aol wetpnagy y Avents. For par. | Or cashmere, trimmed with pointed straps of
i" ' F, P, GLUCK, N w | and small-sized J t buttons. Pattern No.
I or Lass 52 | Cents, will be suitable for the upper garmentof thes

 

   
NEW YORK, MAY 17, 1875.
PI ON NNN Na Natracare —r
Terms to Subscribers:
One month (postage free} ee One Year—1 copy (postage yree).$3
A “ “ j 5

& CODIGE, Soesc cs veess,
4 os

Two months...... \
Three month : “ 10
Four months...... - ; - 0

Those sending $20 for a Club of Eight, all sent at one time, will
be entitled toa Nintl PY FREE. Getters-up of Clubs can after-
ward add single copies at $2 50 each,

IN MAKING REMITTANCES FOR SUBSCRIPTIONS, always procure a
draft on New York, or a Post-Office Money Order, if possible.
Where neither of these can be procured, send the money, but al-
WAYS in G REGISTERED letter. The registration fee has been re-
duced to eight cents, and the present registration system has been
found by the postal authorities to be virtually an absolute pro-
tection against losses by mail, All Postmasiers are obliged to
register letters whenever requested to do so.

Tn addressing letters to STRERT & SMITH, donot omit our Bow
Number. By a recent order of the Post-office Department this is
absolutely necessary, to ensure the prompt delivery of letters.

a> Specimen copies can be seen at every post-office, drug
store, and news agency throughout the Union.

THE NEW YORI WEEKLY POSTAGE FREE
Ra During the year 1875 we will prepay the postage on the
New YorK WEEKLY. Now is the time to send in subscriptions,
as all mail subscribers will hereatter receive the New YORK
WEEKLY postage free.
Li aia OULD li a

y

H, Proprietors,
-O. box

About five years since the mail running between 3u-
pharest and Marachesti was attacked by brigands, who,
{ter murdering the two soldiers who accompanied the

ach as guards, and also shooting the driver, and cut-
ing the throats of a couple of Jewish passengers, secured
he sum of eighty thousand francs in money, besides
ther valuables, and then made themselves “scarce.”
he character of the outrage was such as to create con-
iderable excitement at the time, and the police of the
histrict at once applied themselves to endeavor to solve
he mystery and to arrest the murderous villains who
ommiitted the crime, The director of posts and tele-
graphs was epecially active in his determination to find
he culprits.

After the style of justice in that southeastern part of
Europe peopie were arrested here and there upon slight
suspicion, and especially a number of innocent peasants,
vho were put to the torture mercilessly in efforts to com-
bel them to confess thatof which they knew nothing.
Some were “‘bowstsinged,”’ some tortured with hot irons

pplied to various parts of the body, some tied up by the
humbs with their toes touching the ground, and thus left
or hours, some Were starved neariy to death, and some
vere flayad upon the bare feet. The result of all this bar-
parity was not to elicit a pariicie of information,

ut several of the poor victims died from the treatment
Khey had received, thus making the authorities quite as
ouch murderers as the brigands themselves. The latter
had sacrificed but five lives, while the torture process had
killed nine human beings!

This disagreeable affair had become nearly forgotten at
Bucharest—which bame signifies in the native tongue,
“the city of enjoyment’*—when by a mere chance traces
were discovered of the brigands, six in number, who
were sought outin the Wallachtan mountains and brought
to justice. On examination it was found that a Ron-
manhian priest had been connected with the robbery, and
had received One-seventh of the booty realized from the
robbery of the mail coach. Five years had passed. This
man had doubtless found ample time for repentance, for
he has now come forward and confessed ail, both his own
guiltand that of the half-dozen professional cut-throats
with whom he was leagued in the transaction,

We do not learn what is to be done with the priest who
has 80 desecrated his sacred office, but the six robbers
will at once yield up their lives to the cause of justice.
The mind naturaily reverts again to those nine peasants
who were tortured to death by the wise and discriminat-

7 2 ities.

There lately died in western Massachusetts a man whose
life has been one of romantic interest. It is not necessa-
ry to mention names; the circumstances will be recog-
nized by only too many persons, while one relation lives
whose feelings should be respected, at least so far. The
unhappy man at last died mainly from exposure, and per-
haps also from hunger, Until he was a middle-aged per-
son he lived as @ bachelor in a small town, and possessing
ample means, & widowed sister acting as his housekeeper,
He was respected by all his neighbors, and indeed envied
for the comfortable domestic life which he appeared to
enjoy.

There came one day to the village a mechanic and his
wife, who were intelligent people, quite above the ordin-
ary Class; aud finally by agreement made their home at
huis house. In avery brief period the mechanic sickened
and finally died. A few months only had passed before
the neighbors were surprised by an announcement of
marriage between the bachelor and the handsome widow,
who lad thus become an inmate of his house. The man
seemed to have suddenly awakened to an appreciation of
love and married’ the widow. Itwas a bold step, and
from that hour trouble commenced with the infatuated
man. The wife at once Jed her new husband into extray-
agance and dissipation. She controlled him completely
by her winning ways and striking beauty.

From the habils of a simple bachelor he now. broke
loose entirely, left his old home and removed to New York.
Here he erected a large establisliment, and made many
friends, and his wife became the center of an admiring
circle, Which she seemed to adorn. Her husband felt
proud of her, and was really very fond of her also. One
morning he found upon his dressing-table a note, by
which he learned that his wife had disappeared. Ere he
had finished reading the letter which his absconding
partner had left for iim, bidding him a coarse and heart-
less farewell, the officers of the law had attached all his
property to cover the reckless woman’s debts. He gave
up all, and without complaint. He offered no hindrance
to the sacrifice of every article he possessed, but sat be-
wildered and stunned like one half-asleep.

Now came a series of discoveries. He had been made
& miserable dupe. On searching into the character and
antecedents of tie Woman whom he had loved and mav-
ried, he found that during her girlhood she had been the
inmate of a house of correction, because of her predis-
position to crime, and that even while confined in that in-
Stitution she had been punished for thieving from her
fellow convicts. Every step of his inquiry only divulged
fresh reasons for shame on her part, until the bereaved
husband ceased to pursue the subject further. He was
entirely broken-hearted. She was goue, no one knew
Whither, and no one now seemed to care, for she has
never since been heard of.

The ruin in fortune of this man did not seem to break
his spirit so much as did the consciousness that he had
been so wretcliedly deceived and duped. The abuse of

his confidence and his love had bowed him to the very
earl, At the oid homestead where he had passed his
boyhood, now a ruined and negiected hovel, he found a
miserable refuge, where he led a hermit life, avoiding
every one, living upon the coarsest fooc, and denying
himseif everything except sufficient to barely keep body
and soul together. He never leit his wretched quarters
ailer he reached them until Jately, whem he was curried
away on the day of his deaih.

A BaD OLD BOY.

Though New England was setiled by the most Pious
people in the world, with whom sin was an abomination,
we find among their early records, on almost every page,
evidence that the old Father of Mischief was around, as
he is to-day, working all manner of evil. Then every Oc-
currence—domestic, poliical, religious—was brought be-
fore the great general court, and was made matter of
record, 80 that the seeker has the fact as if occurred and
was disposed of, from which to form his own conclusions,

In looking over the “Records of the Colony of Massa-
chusetis Bay,’ for 1665, | have come upon the case of
John Porter, Jr, a bad boy of nat period, though he was
thirty years at the lime he got into trouble, his record
looks very dark. The ssory, told in the quaint style oi the
“ime, is simple, but strong. | wiil not attempt to copy the
spelling, but will retain as nearly as possible the plrase-
vlogy of the document,

In the first place John is represented as “possessing sal-
ficient capacity Lo understand his duty unto his superiors,
according to the filth Commandment, but he, being insti-

f xuted by the ‘diviil,’ and his corrupt heart, destitute of

the fear of God, did not only prodigally waste and riot-
ously expend about four hundred pounds of money and

p Zoos Committed to him by his father for his improve-

ment in two voyages to the Barbadoes, and go for Eng-
land, where by his. evil Courses he ran himself further
into debt (and was there imprisoned, from wheuce being
relieved by some charitable friends of his father), all
which debts his father did voluntarily discharge. After this,

} returning to New England, his parents entertained him

with love and tenderuess as their eldest son, and pro-
vided for him as wags expedient and necessary.” But
mark what follows. The wicked Johu disregarded all

} this Kindness, and “did carry himself very perversely,

stubbornly and rebelliously tuward his natural parents,”
who, the record says, “are persons of goud repute for
piety, honesty and estate.*?

Alter this the recurd details, at length, the various of-
feuces committed by the contumacicus Porter, some of
which are nearly as gross as items ina pending trial,
Which I shall simply specify by stars:

“He called his father thiet, liar and simple ape, ****,
Frequenily he threatened to burn his father’s house, to
cut dowu his house and barn, to kill his catule and horses,
and did with an ax cut down his fence several times, and

p did set fire toa pileof wood near the dwelling house,

greatly endangering it, being near thirty rods. He called
his mother Rambeggar, Gammer ****, Gammer ERR

| Gammer Two Shoes, and told her her tongue went like a

pear monger, and said she was the rankest sow in the
town; ald these abusive names le used frequently. He
reviled Mr. Hawthorne, one of the magistrates, calling
him a base, corrupt fellow, and said he cared not a ****
for him. [lt tully pardon John his offense against Haw-
thorne, the stupid old fool that tried the witches—a lump
of arrogonce aud self-sufficiency}. He reviled, and abused
aud beat his father’s servants, eudangering the life of one
of them. lle was proved to be a vile, profane, and com-
mon swearer aud drunkard; he attempted to stab one of
his natural brethren. All which things are proved by the
oaths of sufticieut witnesses upon record.”

Ah, vile and incorrigible John Porier, Jr., that you
should act so badly; that the charges against you should
profane the pages of history for huudreds of yeurs, to con-
tinue fur hundreds of years to come!

His pareuts were long suffering. His conduct was ac-
cordant with the above for several years, especially the
last two, at theend of which he was handed over to the
law, and sentenced to the house of correction at Ipswick
fur some time. After release from this lie behaved no
beLler, and then he was sent to Boston to be tried by the
“Assistants,’’ the supreme judicial authority of the time.

John had a fair trial. He was allowed to meet his wil-
nesses—his father included, who “craved justice and re-
lief agaiust him, being overpressed thereuuto by his un-
heard Of and unparalled outrages before named.” He
“impudently denied” some things, others he excused by
Vain pretences, and some he owned up to, but he was ob-
stinately impenitent. Therefore the court put on its black
cap of jadginent aud senteuced the offender thus severely:

“To staud upon the ladder at the galiows, with a rope
about his neck, for one hour, and afterward to be severely
whipped, and so committed to the house of correction, to
be kept closely to work, with the diet of that house, and
not thence to be released without special order from the
Court of Assistants or the General Court, and to pay to
the country as a five two huutred pounds.”

But here steals in, amid all this nubbub of crime and
judicial visitation, the pleading voice of woman—the only
lustance of the kind in the early records. It runs like the
note of a bird amid a storm, and our hearis are touched
by it:

“Ifthe mother of the said Porter had not been over-
moved by her tender and motherly affections to forbear,
but had joined with his father in complaining and crav-
ing justice, the court must necessarily have proceeded
With hina as a Capital Offender, according to our law, be-

j ing grounded upon and expressed in the word of God, in

Deut. 22: 20, 21.”

Biessings on the memory of the mother of Jolin Porter,
Jr., for this! \t was ver first born that was in peril, and
notwithstauding his vile abuse of her and his outrageous
couduct to everybody, she in her great love threw herself
betwixt him and the jaw, and saved bis life. Oh, mother’s
love, how strong ye are, when peril awaits those whom
yeenfold! Nothing can bend or swerve it. Irrespective
of worthiness or condition, it follows true as the needle to
the pole, while life lasts, and continues beyond the grave
to complete what it could not accomplish here.

The mother would not join her husband in “craving
justice”? on her son, and Jeft the old man alone with the

ourt of Assistants to do the best or worst he couid, which
Was bad enough, But the ‘divill’? that had set ‘John,
r.’*> on in the first place helped him break out of Boston
ail before his sentence was completed, and then he ap-
pears In a new role—appealing to the Britisti Commissiou-
rs for protection and punishmeut of those who had
isited him, It caused considerable of a strife on points
4 jurisdiction, but John Porter, Jr. dropped out of sight
jorever, Bo 2. 8,

- Will Soon Be Commence
ROSE MICHEL.

A MYSTERY.

In France one would not be surprised at. such an event
as we are about to relate; but that such things still occur
in sober, sedate England, and in these enlightened and
Christian times, is somewhat singular. A short time
since there came from somewhere on the line a mysteri-
ous basket, addressed to the station-master at Clapham
Junction, which, upon being opened was found to con-
tain a living child of some weeks in age, evidently sleep-
ing from the effects of a gentle narcotic. The station-
master was very indignant at what he termed the trick,
and ventilated some very tall oaths on the occasion, de-

claring that he would not even take the poor little crea-
ture inside his doors, A tender-hearted porter, however,
took the basket and child, and said that his “old woman’?
had @ baby, and could nurse the poor little deserted one
for a While at all events, and so took it home with him.
The poor, but kind-hearted wife was equally sympathetic
and pressed the little stranger to her bosom with motherly
instinct. On lifting out the clothes from the basket soon
alter, a very complete package of clothing was discovered,
evidently intended for the baby, aud a pocket-buok con-
taining £800. The porter had not been Jed by his kind-
heartedness todo a very unprofitable thing after all;
$4,000 does not come every day to swell the exchequer of
& porter’s family. The little fellow is said to be a charm-
ing baby, and must prove a profitable boarder. One can
hardly doubt as to which of the two, the station-master
or the porter, the mother would have inirusted with her
child.

Mrs. May Agnes Fieming’s New
Story Next Week.

BORROWERS.

There is nb necessity of our introducing them formally,
for everybody is acquainted with them, and who does not
Shiver with apprehension wheu one of them approaches ?

A habitual borrower haga very lean and luchrymose
appearance. Something like that of the stray dog which
prowls aroand your back door mornings it the Lope of
being able to steal a few crumbs out of your swill-bucket.

The manners of the borrower are deprecating. His
very step seems to be an apology for the fact of his ex-
istence. He holds his head well down, and tilts bis hat
over his forehead, and sits on only tke corner of the chair,
asif afraidto take the whole lest it might be offering
some disrespect either lo Lhe chair or Lhe company pres-
ent, ;

He hasa very plaintive sort of voice, asif the world
had injured him, but he had made up is miud to bear it
with fortitude. :

He is always in want of something.

The contented mind which is ‘a continual feast,” is not
for him. He doesn’t take itin his. Not at all.

Bat in spite of his meekness he is buld as @Jion when
he comes to get business. He asks you for whatever he
wants with an air which says, “Deny meif you dare!’
and his manner implies that by grautivg his request you
will be doing yourself « great favor. :

He will request the loan of your new buggy to take his
wife to ride jor her cough, when the roads are ankle deep
in mud, and he will feel injured and look martyrized if you
hint that mud injures varnish, aud that you prefer your
buggy should remain in the curriage-house.

Aud when he geis home and tells the result to his wife,
she will call you an old, stingy, mean-souled curmudgeon,
aud express the hope that the pbext Ume you ride oul that
horse of yours may run away aud smush that buggy into
Len thousand million pieces,

And then she cries and coughs, and says, brokenly, how
much good it would do her to ride; and off goes Lue bor-
rower lo try his luck Wilh another neighbor, and to relate
your defection in giowing terms,

lt has been truly said that you may doa man a thon-
sand favors, and if you reluse bin oue, le will forget the
thousand and never forgive you.

Just 80 with the borrower. You may lend to him all
your iife and get no thanks, and if you reluse him so much
as the joan of bean-pot he wiil be your mortul euemy to
the end of the chapter.

Your male borrower is always short of money, and he
is always eXpecting a large sunt by lhe next post. He
nay be proprieior of ho casiles in Spain, but if one may
credit him, he has profituble tvestiienis iu that vicinity,
and is always expecting to realize.

When he asks you for a hundred or two till his remit-
tances arrive, if you look grave, and speak of hard times,
and tell him you have nothinug to spare, he will raise his
eyebtews and inform you tiat when he gets **before-
hand’? he shall be glad; yes, glad to accommodate a
friend,

But the male borrower, as a nnisance, cannot be com-
pared to the female borrower. She is so far ahead of him
in disagreeablevess that comparison is odious,

We have had a long and distressing experience with an:
individual of this Kind. We have often had our souls tried
With her—with several of her, in fact.

And we would advise everybody who contemplates a
change of residence to inquire carefully before deciding
upon a locaiion if there are any borrowers in the vicinity,
and if so, to Keep aloof from the place, even if ihe reut in
some other pluce be ten dollars more a quarter, Fora
persistent, determined and capable borrower will cost an
obliging neighbor all of teu dollars a quarter, not to reckon
any charges on the annoyance.

Your female borrower comes upon you at all times and
Seasous. She is almost ompipresent, She will ring your
Goor-bell before you are up in the morning, and then
come round and rap on your bedroom windew, and tell
you *not to be scared; it is only she, and will you be so
kind as to hand her hall a cupful of saleratus out throngh
the window—she doesu’l want to put you to the trouble of
coming to the door! For if there is anything she detests,
it is making trouble for anybody!"

Later in the day she will want molasses, and probably
sugar, aud very likely butter; and before night she wiil
Waut a pair of flat irons and some starch, and a presery-
ing keitle, and a dose of castor oil for the baby, and your
chopping tray.

And before bedtime she will run in for a mess of yeast,
hers has soured, and will you be so kind as to let her have
a painful of flour till John can find time to open a new bar-
rel? For Jolin is reading the Beecher-Tiltou trial, and he
is So busy! sie can’t get a thing donel

And, oh, if you would just let her take Maria’s new
sash home for her Jane Aun to try on, she would be so
much obliged.

Aud will you be so good—she came near forgetting half
her errand—will you be 80 good as to oblige her with
your teapov? for she is going to have compauy to supper
to-morrow!

In the course of a week’s time your systematic borrow-
er will manage to get: most of your kitchen utensils, and
scores of articles beside, into her possession, and will be
obliged tocall on her for them. She will Jook immesur-
ably surprised at your demand, and declare she had for-
gotien all about it, but come to think she believes she has
got some flat irous of yours, and maybe a hulmeg grater!
Aud she will go home with you to heip you carry the load,
and a8 800n as she gets into your kiichen she will ex-
claim;

“There! E meant to have taken a bowl along with me
to see if I couldn’t borrow a little sour milk to make some
griddle cakes for tea!’

Aud what can you do bnt give her the milk, and lend
her a bow! in which to take it liome ?”?

For a few years past we have liad one borrower whose
assurance is a thing so sublime that it would be difficult
to refuse her anything. She has borrowed almost every-
thing we own, from brooms, mops, cluthes-w ringers,
stove-pipes, bedsteads, quills, and kerosene lamps, up to
shawls, dresses, stockings, faise hair, and whe fainily cat,
Which, unlike any other borrowed article, came directly
back, with the hair ou her back up, and indiguatisn in
her eye!

A week or two ago our borrower came after a sitting
heii—hers were not “broody,” and she had got fifieen
buf cochin eggs which niust be “sot”! immediately.

The next day she wanted a pair of bouts io wear over
to her Auut Nancy’s, aud she wanted our best ones, be-
cause Aunt Nancy was mighty particular. And when
they were produced, and siie made the atiemmpt to put
them on, and failed, she indignantiy demauded why we
didn’t nave a foot like other folks ? and then she looked
ruefully at the unfortunate boots, and drew consolation
from the thought which she expressed, “that perhaps
they would do for Freddy to wear, for his boots were get-
ling oul at the toes.”

Aud a week afterward our boots, or what had once been
our bovis, came home, battered, threadbare, minus eight
buttons and one lieel, aud we gave them to Freddy with
our Compliments,

The next day vur borrowing friend “run in,” to ask us
for a gridiron, aud to kuow if we wouldn’t be giad to let
Freddy have our pet horse to ride alternoons, to Keep the
crilter’s spirits down? And wetold her no—we wouldn't!
aud she got up aud left us, aud slammed the door behind
her! Aud we hope she wili never ran in agaiu! She is
welcome tothe assortment of articles in her Possession
Which she has borrowed of us if she will never come into
our dwelling again. She may have them and our bliess-
ing along with them.

Book, bewspaper and umbrella borrowers are pests to
society. They are very numerous, and what they borrow,
in nine Cases out of Len, never is returned; and in the
tenth case it might as we!l not be, for the books come
home lacking their covers and their title pages, dog-eared,
and greased with Kerosene, and blackened by dirty fingers,
and as for the umbreilas—bvut every body kuows how it is

With borrowed unibrellas!

Deliver us from borrowers! We think we could manage
to live hear a Sinall-pox hospitali—we could eudure a gas
manufactory—we couid stand a bone-bviling estublish-
ment—but a borrower is too much forus! We protest
against the whole tribe of them, aud protest with empha-
sis! KATE THORN,

A CARD.
Messrs. STREET & SMITH:

GENTLEMEN :—Piease allow me to state through your
columns—for the benefit of all concerned, especially those
who are constantly soliciting me for the products of my
pen—that I write stories for no other publication than the
NEW YORK WEEKLY. Yours truly,

NEw YORK, April 17, 1875. BURKE BRENTFORD.

 
a

 

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9%
ae

 

ire metres ania aerate tn ind le aan merino rrinaer rat

TO MAY.

BY MICHAEL SCANLAN,

 

 

 

 

As the sullen lion goaded to his hill-embosomed lair

Doth roll hos loud defiance oa the thunder-startled air,

The howling winter yielded to the fiery-fronted south,

Naissant and belching tempests from his devastating mouth;

While hot upon his traces pressed the vanguard of the sun,

Wild March, the rough and ready, shouting bravely, led them
on,

Beating back the icy legions which had held the earth in thrall,

While ten thousand ringing voices answered gayly to his call.

Then came his gentle sister, with her face of joyous pain,

Her eyes thro’ sorrow shining like the sunshine thro’ the rain,
And she siniled in benedictions as-the dawn of perfect mirth,
Like an oriflamme of glory, flew above the wakening earth;

AS she faded down the valleys, with the mists about her rolled,
We turned to greet the dawning which her presence had foretold;
And lo! like Morn advancing thro’ the gatewsy of the Night,

A fioral dream of beauty burst the May upon our sight!

Oh, May, to greet your coming all the sweet perfections meet,

The earth in throbbing verdure rolls beneath your fairy feet,

And blushes into biossom beneath your sun-bright eyes,

Till all the air is laden with love’s awaken! sighs,

And we breathe the grand infection, new, ecstatic
life,

Till our spirits rise, responsive, o’er the low degrees of strife,

And cry in exultation tho’ they’ve lain long cold and dumb;

“From the heart-consuming cities to the woods and fields we
come |”?

We have quaffed a deep libation and have touched ethereal
ways, ;

Till these cities seem but prisons in these soul-enlarging days,

And we turn to boundless freedom from their plotting, plodding
marta,

Shake their dust from off our garments, shake their cares from
out our hearts;

Break away from glare and shadow to the woodlands and the
streams

That have waved and sung so often to our spiritsin our dreams,

To climb the hills together and wander thro’ the dew,

Aud trip torgotten dances, as of oki we used to do.

Come, May, shake out your tresses—flower-gemmed tresses—to
the wind!

Let us leave corroding fashion and our wasted years behind;

Let us tread the rustic pathways, where the ruddy children
play,

Where the apple boughs are bending, blossom jaden, over the
way;

Let our spirits drink the rapture from thy secret founts distilled,

For we are from a desert where our wine of life was spilled

On the red sands, myriad mouthed, and we thirst and die for
drink—

Lead on, nor let us perish on the living waters’ brink.

Ho! blue enfolded mountain, we will rifle all your charms

And lie upon your bosom as in a lover’s arms;

We'll chase the flashing fountains as they tumble down your side,
And roll in sun and laughter thro’ the valleys green and wide;
And woodland paths entangled in wildering disarray

We'll part your close embracings in our reeling after May,

Aud the echoes of our fooisteps as we tread the forest hoar

_ Shall seem the distant footfalls of the days that are no more.

So, May, lead on the revels, far from spirit-cramping halls,

By the rivers rushing splendor, by the woods and waterfalls,

On the life-renewing mountains by the soul-uplilting sea,

Where wild, unprisoned nature holds thy floral jubilee;

Where ali is glad thanksgiving for the consciousness of life,

And light-heeled pleasures trip above the grave of buried strife—
We shall snatch some flashing moments to gem the iron crown
Of somber lite, whose honors, like its sorrows, crush us down.

The Widowed Bride

OR, THE

MYSTERY or GLENHAMPTON.

By Lucy Randali Comfort.
pS :
(“Widowed Bride” was commenced in No. 23. Back numbers
ean be obtained trom auy News Ageut iu the United States.}

CHAPTER XV.
THE RECTORY OF TREGARVAN.

The mid-day sun was shining gloriously over the range
of pills which slope precipitously down Lo one of the love-
liest sea-Coasts On ail the Cardiganshire shore, when the
rude, a nol unconioriable, jaunting car, which had met
Alice Percival at the obscure raiiway station, rambled up
to Tregarvan Rectory—a loug, jow building wiih a slated
roof, piciuresque stucks of vine-druped chimneys, ana
jatiiced windows, compietely vailed in clusters of Dlossom-
ing roses. A low stove wall surrounded the space of cul-
tivated ground which adjoined the dwelling, aud, through
yew trees und elms, beyond, was just visible the spire of
the pretty littie church, an edifice of reddish stone with
projecting buttresses of some darker material.

Alice Percival was very weary—she had been traveling

 

_ ever since curly morning, and a part of the previous day—

yet a feeling of pleasure tnrilied her heart at the signt of
this picturesque spot which was probably to be her future
residence,

“I know I shall tike Tregarvan Rectory,” shethought, as
the car stopped in front of the rose-covered porci, and a
sweet, muironly-looking woman of about forty came oul
to receive her, Alice could only see that her hair and eyes
were of a bright brown, and her figure plump aud com-
fortable to look upon, before she found herself warmly
greeted and welcomed to Tregaryvan.

“I am Mrs. Eskett,”’ said the lady, her rosy face beam-
ing with hospitable smiles, ‘and you are Miss Percival. 1
am very glad to see you, my dear! QOome in and see my
husband and your little pupils, who have been watching
for their governess to Come these two hours,”?

Sie Jed Alice into a low-ceiled room lighted by oblong
casements, filled with tiny diamond-shaped panes of glass
and lined around with books, where, ut a table literally
groaning with volumes, papers and pamptile's, sat a tail,
bali-headed man, who wore green spectucies, and had a
pen sticking in warlike fushion behind euch ear. His
Cval, Shiny at the seams, and belonging to some antede-
luvian cut aud pattern, hung loosely on his shoulders, and
his middle finger was steeped to the very bone iu ink,

“Ralph,” said Mrs. Eskett, “this is——?

“My dear,” interrupted the rector, who looked as if he
were intrenched behind a complete fortification of books,
inkstands and sand-boxes, ‘‘l’ve told you again and again
I would not see any of the old women before twelve
o’clock. How do wey suppose I’m to get my sermons
written if-—*

“But this isn’t an old woman, my dear,’ laughingly in-
terposed Mrs, Eskett.

‘Is itaman?? said the near-sighted rector, peering
with wrinkled brows over the top of a huge dictionary.
“Where are my glasses? I’ve got my sermon spectacles
on,” and he fumbled heiplessly around, sending a driit of
sheets of paper flying on the foor, like a maguified snow
storm. ‘fell him lo go about his busivess, Theresa, why
dom’t you? I can’t be bothered in the mourning? 1 have
all my inspirations in the morning. How would they like
il, if my sermons were as flat as stale beer? I tell you 1
Won't stand it??

He rumipied up the fringe of reddish gray hair that hung
Over his temples as he spoke, with the loak and manver
of a bailed lion! Mrs. Eskett, apparently quite accus-
tomed Lo his eccentricities, paid no attention whatever to
them, and walked straight up to him, leading Alice by the
hand. Her first action, when she lad fairly entered within
the folio and quarto fortifications, was to take of her liege
lord’s spectacies,

“Bul? cried the rector, staring at Miss Percival through
his protuberated light bine eyes, as if the gift of sight had
suddenly been bestowed upon him, it’s a young jady,”

“Of course it is,’ said Mrs, Eskett. ‘it’s Miss Perci-
val, the governess, whom Miss Hartford was so govud as to
recommend to us,’? -

‘‘How do you do, Miss Percival ?”? said Mr. Eskett, ris-
ing, although in the action a leaning tower of books top-
pled over. “Dim glad to see you—pray don’t mind my
bearishnuess—nobody does. I hope weshail be able to
Make you happy here. The girls are very nice little giris,
and | dare say they'll be ovedient.”

With these words Mr. Eskett sut down again, and began
to re-collect the scatiered sheets of manuscript, while his
wile led Alice away to the room intended tor her. 1t was
A Sweet littie clamber, under the very eaves of the house,
smelling deliciously of sweet clover and dried rose-leaves,
With curtains and drapery of suow-white homespun linen.

“Do you think you shail like it??? said Mrs, Eskett, who
had watched Alice’s face as she surveyed her new domain,

“Oh, 80 much!’ the governess answered, and Mrs, Es-
ao put her arms round her neck and gave her a genial

ss.

“Tam so glad you are pretty,’ said the rector’s wife,
“T like to looK at pretty things.”

“Am I pretty?” asked Alice, confused yet smiling—and
in the same instant the door opened and a little head,
thatched with hair the same reddish color as the fringe
overhanging (he rector’s temples, peeped in,

“May me come in, Mamma?” piped a small voice.

“Yes, come in, rebels,” said Mrs, Eskett, and the owner
of the head ran into Alice’s arms. - ;

“Din Phebe,” suid she; “Wim ugly, but Ican learn real
quick. Euily is pretty, but she can’t say her multiplica-
tion table. And Agnes is sullen sometimes.”

“Hush—h—il said Mrs. Eskett, hoiding up a warning
finger. ‘*Let Miss Percival discover the different charac-
teristics of her pupils for hersell,””

And she introduced two girls of eight ana nine, who
proved to be the before-twentioned Emily and Agnes.

Phebe, the frank little sprite of six, had spoken the
truth; she was “ugly? as far as personal appearance
went, with light biue eyes, aud hair by courtesy calied
auburn, the very feminine double of the rector of Tre-
gatvan, while a tress of hair calied “cow-lock”? stood
straight up above her forehead, utterly: rebellious to huir-
brush or pomatum pot, and her fair complexion was
thickly sown with freckles, Emily, the next, was like her
mother, regularly-featured and comely, with hazel eyes

a an

 

and sunny brown hair, while Agnes, the eldest, was a shy
child, shrinking behind Mrs. Eskett, and scarcely lifting
her eyes high enough for Miss Percival to perceive that
they were of a deep liquid gray, while her hair was nearly
black and her complexion as fresh as a wild rose,

“Now, children,” said Mrs. Eskett, when the ceremony
of introduciion had been duly performed, “run away and
leave Miss Percival in peace for a few minutes to unpack
her things and get ready for dinner. We are old-fashioned
people, Miss Percival,’’ she added, with @ pleasant smile,
‘aud dine at oue o'clock, 80 you see you have not much
time lo spare.’?

And she withdrew with the three little girls in her train,
while in the hali Alice could hear Phebe’s bird-voice
chirping:

“Oh, mamma, I love her so much!’ and Mrs. Eskett’s
iow tone replying:

“See that you show it then by being very attentive to
your lessons aud obedient.’

This was an auspicious beginning for Alice in her new
position, and atthe close of the dinner she felt that
Phebve’s favorable impression concerning her was shared
by the rector and his wife. So courteous, so ainiable
were they in their intercourse with the little governess
that ere she had passed twenty-four hours in the rectory
of ‘Tregarvan, her admiration for its inmates found ex-
pression ip a letter which she indited to her sister Rena.
This letter she gave to the rector, asking him if he would
not oblige her by sending it to the post-office.

The rector glanced at the superscription, written in
Alice’s delicate, legible ranuing hand: ‘‘Miss Rena Per-
cival, Glenhampton Castle, Glenhampton, Kent,’ and he
started as if the visage of some old familiar friend had
stared him suddenly in the face.

“Gienhampton Castle! Glenhampton!’ he repeated. ‘Is
your sister there, Miss Percival? Upon my word this is a
very ae Seen coincidence—very! Glenhampton Custle,
my dear Theresa—vyou remember!’?

“| remember that you did curate’s duty there one year,
when you were first engaged to me,” said his wife, good
humoredly; ‘‘and that I thought his lordship ought to have
bestowed the St. Hilda’s liviug upon you when the fat old
incumbent died, seeiug that he always professed to be
such a friend of yours!’’

“Gently, Theresa, gently,’ said Mr. Eskett. ‘‘Remem-
ber that it is not always the richest living in which one
can do Lhe most good. I have never seen any real reason
to regret that I came to Tregarvan, instead of settling
down at St. Hilda’s. And are you acquainted with these
Gieuhampions, my dear?’ he asked, turning to Alice,

“Tl know Lady Bianche Arden, the Earl of Glenhamp-
ton’s daughter,’ Alice answered; ‘“‘she was at school with
us at Hartford Lodge, aud itis her that my sister is at
present visiting!’

“Strange,” mufttered Mr. Eskett, the eyelids drooping
over his near-siglited orbs, “strange! And I had supposed
that that leaf of my life’s book was closed forever. We
never kuow how strangely the threads of existeuce are
interwoven—we Call Lhe great loom chance—yet every
Christian Knows that there is no such thing as chance!
Yes—it is pussing strange’?

“If you are acquainted with Lady Blanche Arden, of
course you know the story of the death of the little twin
babies—the tragedy that filled Gienhampton with gloom
for so many yeurs,”’ said Mrs. Eskett.

And as she spoke the same vision rose up before Alice
Percival’s memory that had flashed across the mind’s eye
of her sister as the Glenhampton barouche had rolied past
the gray portals of St. Hilda’s Church.

“To tue memory of Allegra and Katherine, twin daugh-
ters of Adelbert, Earl of Glenhampton,” with the words
that followed, clear to tell who have loved and lost babe-
angels: ‘Suffer little children to come unto me, and for-
bid them not, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven!’

“] never heard the story,” she said, turning to Mrs. Es-
kett. ‘Tell ine of it, please. Is it a secret?’ ‘

“Ralph must tell you,’’ said the rector’s wife, turnin
to her husband, ‘lt all happened while he was a curate
at St. Hilda’s doing the duty of an absentee recior, who
drew the income aud nursed himself and his gout at Hy-
eres! Don’t shake your dear old head, Ralph—you know
i’s all true, every word of it!”

“Would you like to hear the history of a romance in real
life, Miss Percival?” asked Mr. Eskett, mildly. “There will
be plenty of time to tell it before Tiomas comes in to get
your letter, and a8 your sister is now sojourning at Glen-
hampton Castle, it may be interesting to you.’

“1 should like it very much,” Alice answered; and then
while Mrs. Eskett took the little girls upstairs to impress
practiculy upon their miuds the first section of the pro-
verb: “Early to bed and early to rise”? the rector moved
his chair where the light frou the shaded lamp should not
fall upon his weakening eyes, aud, with Alice sitting in
the low wiudeow seal, opposite, began his story.

CHAPTER XVI.
THE RECTOR'S STORY.

“Let me seel’’ began the Rector of Tregarvan, after a
moment of sileuce; ‘it must be sixteen or seventeen
years now since I went to Glenhampton, to assume the
temporary charge of St. Hilda’s church, situated in its
near ueiguburhvod, at the request of Lord Glenhampton,
who was one of my sclioul friends in our earlier days, and’
my college chuin afterward, Have you ever seen Lord
Gienhampton, my dear ?”?

“No, sir, suswered Alice,

“Well, if doesn’timatterimuch, only you could better have
appreciated the contrast if you Kuew what a morbid,
gloomy person he is now, AS a young man he w, one
of the gayest, lightest-learted fellows I ever knew, with
a face like sunshine, and frank, free manners, that drew
friends around him as if by instinct. He married very
young—this, you must understand, was before I came to
Glenhampton—a daughter of Lord Morville, who.liad died
in Canada several years previously. She was a beantiful
girl, and as good as she was beautiful, lam told; but she
died in giving birth to twin daughters. And this was the
beginning of the trouble that has ever since huug over
the house of Gienhampton.

“They were pretty, liealthy little babes, and the earl had
them christened Allegra and Katherine, his dead wife’s
two names, The old servants have told me that it wasa
piteous sight tosee the young earl hanging over these
two motheriess creatures, who were all that was left to
him of the wife whose life seemed to have been nothing
buta brief, bright vision. He had them with him night
and day; he barely trusted them out of his sight for their
daily walks in the arnis of their attendants, He spent his
whole time in studying vague resemblances in their baby
features and innocent eyes lo the mother who had neyer
held them in her arms,

“Well, they grew and throve, when fate chanced to
throw Lord Glenhampton into the companiouship of a
handsome young widow, a Mrs, Eveiyn, the relict of an
East Indian officer, 1 don’t think he would have noticed
her for herself, for his whole heart seemed buried in Al-
legra Morville’s grave, but she was a skillful maneuverer,
and she won first his attention, then his admiration, by
the extravagant attachment she professsd for the twin
girls. Perhaps } judge the present Lady Glenhampton too
severely. 1 never saw her but once, and then I took an
instinctive dislike fo her. But, at all events, she took the
earl by storm. He thought she would prove a good
mother to his little ones, and he married her, scarcely
more than a year afier his first wife’s death.

“| dow’t know what the modern idea of it may be,’
said the rector, thougltfuliy putiing the tips of lis fingers
together, ‘but I call it a sort of legal bigamy when a
man, still loving a dead wife, marries auother woman
from any motive of interest or expediency. 1 told Glen-
hampton so, plainly, when he consulted me about this
second marriage; but what man ever takes advice when
his mind is once made up? Circumstances have proved
that. 1 was not altogether wrong, for—but I am antici-
pating my story,’? added the good man, catching at the
broken threads of his narrative, as he might grasp at one
of the falling books from his study-table, **ife married her,
and the first Change in his plans that she effected afier
she was Countess of Glenhampton, was to persuade him
that his health required a brief sojourn among the islands
of ihe Mediterranean. He was ill, but his malady was not
one which @ southern climate, or the winds which blow
over the orange groves of Sicily could exterminate, It was
a broken heart, not tuburcied lungs, which made his cheek
pale and drew the dark hollows round his eyes, But a
persistent woman Can accouiplish wouders, and to the
Mediterranean they went, Al the eleventh hour my lady
discerned that the voyage would be too difficult and
wearisome to the little oues, 80 they were left at ome, in
charge of trusted servants... Hartfield, the butler—poor
fellow, he is dead and gone these ten years—has told me,
many atime, with the tears in his houest eyes, of the
parting between Lord Gientampton and the little crea-
tures, Whom he dreamed so littie that he was never to see
again. My lady’sown child, by her first husband, was also
left behind—a bright little boy of two or three years old—
and it was just aiter the departure of the earl and the count-
ess that | came to St. Hilda, and assumed the temporary
charge of the parish, Ihave somewhere among my old
papers the letter Glenhamptou wrote to me the nigiit be-
fore he jeft England, commending, in terms of affecting
etreaties, the poor babes to my care and oversight. Well,
well, Heaven Knows I did iny duty, although uo one could
have ee lam getting in advance of my story
again

“The head nurse left in charge of the three children was
an elderly Weish woman, Elisou Polwheal by name—one of
those quiet, soltiy moving persous who say but very little,
yet always contrive to impress you wit au idea of their
strong, peculiar Cliaracter, She had been Mrs. Evelyn's—
I beg her ladyship’s pardon, the Countess of Gienhamp-
ton’s—nuurse, in years before, as Ihave heard, and was
trusted almost boundiessly. I myself thought that Elison
was the best persou who Couid be left in charge of the
tnree children, but it Ouly shows how liable we all are to
be mistaken iu our estimates of each other. No sooner
was the earl and countess safely in Sicily, than what does
Bison Poiwheal do but go and fall in love with a stupid
old gardever or bailiff, attacied to the place, although she
was a good ten years older than he, and from that time her
duties seemed only to claim a secondary part of her
attention. Idon’t think thatat first she actually neg-
lected the children, but they uo lounger received her un-
divided care, I was just about making up my mind to
write to Lord Glenhampton, advising him to empower me
to find some other less preuccupied guardian for the little
things, When one night in the twilight Elison Polwheal
rasied into my presence like a inad creature, tearing ler
hair, groveling on Lhe ground, and uttering sentences so
jucoherent that [ couid comprehend nothing whatever
of ir meaning, except that some great Calamity had oc-
curred.

“All too soon I jJearned what she meant. She had left
the children playing in the meadows, while she had just
been across the field !o intercept this swain of hers on
his homeward way. She had staid longer tlian sue meant,
The litle creatures had somehow strayed through a hole
in the fence of whose eXistence she was unaware, and
found their way down to the river side, aud she was only

 

 

 

in time Lo see them perish before her eyes.’

 

 

“Oh, how horrible!’ murmured Alice, involuntarily
Qrawing a long breath,

“It was horrible!’ said Mr. Eskett, slowly. ‘I shall
never forget Elison Polwheal’s horror and dismay. [ hard-
ly Knew what I said or did at first, but I summoned help
as soon as possible, and we had the river dragged as far as
practicable—it was au outlet of the Medway, not very
wide, but one of those stealthy, siuggisi streams where
there are deep, treacherous pools that the country-side
oe assert to be bottomless, and our dread was that the

ies Should have been caught and drawn down by the
whirling currentinto some of those hidden and unfathom-
able caverns, Ali our endeavors were in vain—and it was
not until a fortnight aflerward that the poor little corpses,
so altered by the action of the Water and the effects of time
as to be recognizable only by their garments and the gold
necklaces they had always worn since their birth, were
recovered soine miles dewn, where they had probably
been drifted in the disturbance of tlhe current subsequent
to an unusually severe storm of wind and rain, 80 that
before the Earl of Glenhamplon—detained by the sudden
illness of his wife, Who gave birth to a daughter on the
very day that the awful tidings of their bereavement
reached Palermo, where they were staying—could arrive,
his little twin girls were sleeping among the century dead
ancestors in the family mausoleum. Icould not tell you
the story of Lord Glenhampton’s frantic, unreasonable
grief, even wereltoattemptit. Fora season it reduced
him to the level of the maniacs whom we confine in soli-
tary dungeons. Suffice it to say that he has never since
held up his head.”

“And the child born at Palermo ??

“Was Lady Blanche Arden—a chiid whose grace, beauty
and affectionate disposition have failed to win for her in
her father’s heart the place her little twin sisters held. He
isa kind father—but the holiest and sweetest affection of
his nature lie sepulclired forever, and only the hand of the
Angel of Death can roll the stone away.”’

“And what became of Elison Polwheal? Did they dis-
charge her ??

“She did not wait to be discharged; she returned to her
native Welsh Irills, declaring frantically that she never
dared to jook upon her mistress’ face again. Nor did she,
to my knowledge. Sheis living uear Tregarvan now, in
the house where she was born,& woman over eighty
years of age, bedridden aud heipless, and daily longing
for death to come aud set her free, I visit her sometimes
aud read to her, but | confess to an uncomfortable feeling
of aversion toward her; and I sometimes think she mis-
trusis it. My wile can sometimes make her ialk, but with
me she takes refuge in curt monosyliables, as if the com-
mon people around her hold her in fear and dislike as a
wilch, for we are superstitious folks herein Wales. She
is weary of her life, but death does not always come when
he is most longed for, and I donot see but that she is
likely to live to be a hundred, for the Pelwheais were al-
ways a long-lived race.”

“But how does she live? Who provides for her ?? asked
Miss Percival. g

“Il believe Lady Glenhampton makes her a yearly al-
lowance in consideration of her faithful services before
the last terrible catastrophe. It shows that the countess
must have a Kind heart.’?

“Then she did not marry this farm-servant after all?”

“Oh, no; he went off to the Coulinent, and married
some one else, lsuppose; itis the general ending to all
such ill-assorted love affairs.”

“I should like to see her,’ said Alice, musingly.

“So you shall some time when Theresa goes up there on
one of her errands of long-suffering kindness. She isa
ghastly sight. If you are atall imaginative, she will re-
mind you of some one whom death has somehow forgot-
ten—a corpse marvelously eudowed with galvanic life,
But she is rather interesting, too, as a reiic of the past!
Now, tell me, honestly,’ said the rector, rousing Alice
from a reyerie into which she was unconsciously allowing
herself to drift, ‘tare you tired of my loug story?”

“Tired? Oh, no; 1 have been. more interested than I
can tell you. 1 wouder,”’ she added, “if Reva knows of
it??? . :

“Most probably she does, if she is, as you say, the
bosom friend of Lady Blanche.”

“It is not a family secret???

“Oh, no—not at all; why should it be? Only, of course,
it is not a favorite topic of Conversation with tne family,
for, as | have tojld you, Lord Glenhumpton has never re-
covered from the loss, aud it is his wife’s constant en-
deayor to cheer him, and induce hiw, as far as possible, to
forget the melancholy past.”

Mrs. Eskett came down at this moment, and the con-
versation took auother turn. But after Alice had gone to
her littie room that night, she wrote another long epistie
to Rena, in which she detailed, circuustautially, the story
she had that evening listened to.

“TI thought it would interest you, dear Rena,’ she
added, ‘for all such family histories have an interest of
theirown, And I distinctly remember—do not you ?—the
inscription in the beautiful old church by the wayside
where we slopped With poor grandpapa, the night he
died, when we read the names of ‘Allegra and Katherine,
twin daughters of Lord Glenhampton,’ and marveled, in
our childish fashion, over the beauty of the sculptured
marble angels. We did not dream then how curiously we
should be brought into association with those names
again, I through the memory of very kind friends here,
and you through the preseuce of the very scenes where
poor litle Allegra and Katherine were born and adied.

“Dear Rena, tell nr@teuly whether you are happy there,
among the grandeursg! Glenhampton Castle ? Sometimes
i thisk you would ssf been betier off to have taken the
situation of a governess soInewhere, and uever. comein
contuct with people and things that cannot always be
Within your reacii; bul you were ever more ambitious
than poor littie 1, and T must not venture to judge for you.
Oly 1 wish I could tell youhow very, very happy I am,
and how kind they all are to me, ALLIE.”?

CHAPTER XVII.
MISS PERCIVAL GOES TO LONDON.

Alice Percival would indeed have sufficiently compre-
hended the wide contrast between her sister’s life and
her own could she have seen Rena on this lovely Septeimn-
ber aflernoon, sitting on one of the carved rustic chairs
under the spreadiug boughs of an ancient beech-tree,
whose umbrageous foliage formed a@ complete canopy
overhead, with Lord Vere Temple lying on the grass at
her feet, Captain Evelyn leaning agaiust the trunk of the
tree, and Mr. Poyuings close by.

Lady Blanche Arden sat at 0 great distance, with Mr.
Alkenard sketching the opposite scene for her benefit;
but Lady Blauche was evidently quile a secondary per-
sonage in the animated little drama of real lile now being
enacted at Glenhampton,

From the windows of her own boudoir Lady Glenhamp-
ton watched the sceve with @ sensation of angry uneasi-
ness at her heart.

*Blanche,’? she had said that morning to her daughter,
“ig not your friend Miss Percival a good deal of a flirt?”

Blanche opennd wide her innocent dark eyes,

“Ol, uo, mamma. What can make you think 80 ??

“Her own conduct, my dear. Don’t you see how she
attracts our geutieman visitors ?”?

“Burt, mamma, itis because she cannot helpit. Itis
not her fault that she is beautiful and fascinating. Iam
sure Vere and Ernest cannot admire her any more than I
do. Rena always attracted people around her as if she
had been an enchantress.”?

Lady Glenhampton shook her head, unconvinced.

“PT don’t like having these enchautresses in my house,
Blanche, I am aluiost sorry )ou invited her here.”?

*Mamma!’?

“Aud L sincerely hope,’? went on Lady Glenhampton,
“that she will have the good sense not to prolong her stay
much farther than its appointed time.”?

‘“Manima, you are ungenerous now,’’ pleaded Blanche,
every impulse of her noble nature roused in behalf of ler
friend. ‘Rena has no home to go to—no connectious to
receive her,”’

“Ig that any reason that she should make a home of
Glenhampton Castie?” asked the countess, coldly.

“Bul, mamma, What has Rena done ??

“IL is nol what she has doue, my daughter, 80 much as
what she may do in the future.”

“7 dou’t understand you,’ said innocent Blanche.

Lady Glenhampton jooked at the young, puzzled face
almost pityingly. Ii seemed incredible that her daughter
should be 80 lwHorant ol tie Ways of the world,

‘“Bianche,” she said, “you don’t consider Ernest is be-
ginning to admire Miss Percival very much, and—”?

“Oh, mamnial’? breathlessly interrupted Blanche, “do
you really think so?) ‘Then it was not all my own imagin-
ation, as | feared. Would not it be nice to have Rena here
always???

“Blanche! Blanchel’? ejaculated the countess, more
sharply than she had ever before spoken to her petted
child, “if you would stop to reflect Jor one instant you
would Know low Vilally necessary it is for your brother
Ernest to marry @ wife whose wealth and family wiil add
new dignity to the honorable old name of Evelyn.”?

“But we are rich, mamma.’

“Yes, we are rich; but | Know too well, from what your
father has at different times let fall, that Ernest Evelyn
will never reap any advantage from the golden posses-
sions‘of the Gienlamptons,”?

“Mainma, surely that woald be unjust.’?

“Not as the world judges such things, ny child. Ernest
Evelyn is not Lord Gitenhampton's ehild, and your father
has already been most generous toward him. You are
the heiress of Glenlampton, my Blanche, and you only.”’

“Then I will divide it with him,’? cried the young girl,
passionately.

*‘My darling, that would not be right, neither would
the law allow any such uudue generosity on your part,
Ernest has his own future to carve out, and he can best
accomplish it by a successful matrimonial alliance,
Hush! there is Lord Vere calling to Know if you are ready
fur your ride, Don’t keep him waiting; the horses are at
the door.”

And Blanche, who had been standing in her riding-
habit of dark-green velvet, tripped away, her soft eyes
sparkling veveath the shadow of the long, black plume of
her hat,

But Lady Glenhampton had not judged it best to divulge
to her daughter the secret’ anxiety which was corroding
her heart—tie fear lest Rena Percival’s brilliant beauty
and marvelous grace should wile away from unsuspecting
Biancne the dearest treasure Of her giri-heart, Lord Vere
Temple’s allegiance,

“For, after all,” thought the countess, restiessly biting
her under Jip, ‘‘there is no regular engagement between
them as yet, and the iruest heart that ever beat would be
inveigied by the wilching ways of yonder little siren. Jt
is an Mmfatuation, and nothing more, but it may embitter
Blanche’s whole life nevertheless. Oh, why, why will
not fate Jet me be happy fora brief while, alter all that 1
have endured ??

Her head drooped on her hands, the lids fell heavily
over her eyes, and sumethiug like a groan broke from her
lips.

It was but too evident that the majestic Countess of

 

 

 

<4 THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. == 15

Glenhampton, surrounded as she was by wealth, luxury
and splendor, was not happy.

But there was oue consolation left to her. Ernest must
jolu his regiment in October to proceed to town, and one,
at least, of Lhe two impending dangers would be averted,
Lady Glenhampton resolved to endure lhe inevitable as
patiently as possible, in view of its brief continuance.
What, therefore, was her vexation and inward constern-
ation when Ernest came gayly into the breakfast-room
ove morning with an open letter in his hand.

“Congratulate me, mamma,’ he suid, with the uncon-
cealed giee of aschoolboy. “I’ve got another mouth’s
leave of absence.”’

“Upon my word that's jolly!’ cried Lord Vere. “You
know Iwas saying only the other day that our litue
circle here was too pleasant to Jose even one element.’

Lady Glenhampton smiled and tried to say something
poreeat and congratulatory, but the words died away on

ler lips, and Ernest read in the one single glance from
Rena’s momeutarily uplifted eyes that she was not indil-
ferent to his tidings. ,

“Fate is pitted against me,’? thought the countess,
while Miss Clive, sitting motionless in her accustomed
place, sitently watched the tides of youth and hope, love
and expectation eddying around her, herself lifted as far
out of its atmosphere as if she were lying under the shad-
ow of a coffin-lid.

But all things must come to an end, and so, in its ap-
pointed time, did Captain Evelyn’s month of absence—
the thirty longest days his lady mother had ever kuown,
as it seemed to her. Mr. Alkenard had long returned to
his chambers at the Temple; Lord Vere came and went,
and still Rena Percival stayed on at Glenhampton Castle.

“I can’t spare you yet, dearest,’”’? was Lady Bianche’s
coaxing plea whenever she made some faint allusion to
taking her departure. “I should be so lonely without
you.

And the red and brown leaves rustied down from wal-
Nut, oeech and elm, and the snow-wreaths of early winter
came, and the Christmas festivities filled the Quastie with
gayety, to which the only drawback was the earl!'s still
protracted absence on the Continent—and Easter followed.

The Countess of Gienhampton began to feelas if Rena’s
intimacy with her daughter must be broken up at ail liaz-
ards. lt had been dangerous at first, before she was ad-
mitted to the privileges of an almost acknowledged meim-
ber of the household—it was trebiy perilous now.

“Bianche,” said the countess, at the Juncheon table,
one giorious March day, as her daughier entered the
room a little pale and wearied from a long rambie in the
leafless woods with her friend Rena and Lord Vere Tem-
ple, ‘Il have received a letter to-day from my old friend
the Duchess of St. Burgoyue—a letter that interests you
somewhat!’

“I don’t know how it possibly can, mamma,” said
Blanche, laughing, ‘as I don’t think I ever saw her
grace.”?

“She has always promised herself the pleasure of pre-
senting my daughter at court, Blanche, when you were
oid enough to claim the distinction, and she writes me
that there is to bea drawing room the last of this month.”?

“Does that mean that we are lo go up to Lown, mam-
ma?

“Would you not like it, my love ?"?

“Very much, mamma, if Rena will go too.”

“I shall be very happy if Miss Percival will consent to
accompany us to London,’ observed Lady Glenhampton,
rather icily than otherwise, and Rena, in a few gracefully
ultered words, expressed her Llianks for the invitation 30
grudgingly seconded.

“1 see how it is,’ she thought, smiling at her own re-
fiection in the Opposite mirror. “Her jadyship wants to
interrupt the serene current of Captain Eruesi’s captiva-
lion, Lo say notining of any interest Lord Vere may be be-
ginuing to feel in pvor little me! Does ste imagine 1 do
not see through her? Well, London is quite as good a
field formy campaign as Glenhampton Castie, I’ve had
a delightful winter here, and now I mean to have an
equally charming spring in London, By the time that is
over | shall probably have some definite plans of my own,
which will relieve my iady couutess of wy unwelcome
presence.”?

These fancies passed rapidly through her mind as she
sat toying with her wineglass, while tle others were gayly
discussing the probabilities of a brilliant season during
the approaching spring. Blanche alone was silent, she
had drooped a lithe during the last few weeks, and Lady
Glenhamptou’s vVigilaul eye was quick to deleci the
change.

“She is not well,’ she thought. “Can it be possibile
that she sees how surely Vere Temple’s fickle heart is
drifting away from her? She must have change, at all
events, aud this London plan will make a most opportune
diversion in her favor.”?

“I've a great mind to go up to London with you,’ sald
Lord Vere. ‘if you will allow tne to beguime your escort,
Lady Gienhampton, I can easily write to my friends in
Nottinghamshire, and put off my promised visit there for
a few days.’”

“By no means,” said Lady Glenhampton, with an earn-
estness that was quile genuine; “i can allow no engage-
ments to be brokeu on my account. Dufour is ail the es-
cort we need, and the house in Grosvenor Square is ail
ready to receive us atbany moment. Perhaps, jater in the
season, you may join.us in London. By which time,”
Lady Glenhampton added, to herself, ‘1 shall have taken
specially good care to get rid of this aggravating little
siren, Miss Percival.” :

What a blessed thing itis that our thoughts are invisi-
ble to those who listen to our honeyed words!

Rena’s next letter written Lo her sister Alice contained
fn enthusiastic description of the palatial residence im
Grosvenor Square, whose splendors rivaled those of the
oid castle in Kent. ‘

The inspiring air of London, with the additional stimn-
lant of a prospective presentation at the Court of St.
James, failed to produce tie desired effect upon the health
of Lady Blanche Arden. She grew daily paler and thin-
ner; her strength, never very Herculean, waxed daily
less and less, until Lady Glenthampton grew alarmed, and
seut for Sir Morford Delville, the Esculapius of all the
most aristocratic circles,

Sir Morford, a tall, handsome gentleman, with Roman
features, a voice like a brooding dove, aud a manner of
extreme interest, caine accordingly, felt Lady Blanche’s
pulse with a finger as light as thistle-down, asked her
one or two iusinuatingly spoken questions, and “hoped
that this was nothing more than a Uifling indisposition.”’

“There, mamma,’ said Lady Blauche, “l told you sol”

But when the fashionable physician saw the Gouniess
Separately, he assuimed quite a different Lone,

“I don’t wish to alarm you, Lady Glenhampton,” he
said, courteousiv; ‘but Lady Blauche must leave Loudoun
directly for the sea-air.”?

‘But she is to be presented at court on Tuesday,” cried
Lady Gienhampton, aghast.

Sir Morford shook his head positively.

“Impossible!” he said. “She must be removed from
this foggy atmosphere atonce. 1 can’t Call it any special
disease, It is rather a general falling and giving way of
all the springs of life. ‘Take her to the seaside at once—
Brighton—Gravesend—I don’t care where—and if a few
days there do not build her up in some degree she must
go abroad.”

And Sir Morford penciled a prescription on one of the
perfumed leaves of his memorandum book, and departed
to the next aristocratic threshold which the vulgar pre-
sence of sickuess had presumed to invade, leaving Ludy
Glenhampton sorely bewildered,

Of one thing she was quite certain—the Drawing-room
must be postponed indefinitely—and, in order that no
time might be lost, she sal down at ouce and wrote a
telegram to Captain Evelyn, requesting him to meet her
at Brighton.

“} will have it as near likelome as possible for my poor
child,’ she said withiu hersell, “aud 1 will noé have this
Miss Percival in our train, Ican easily invent some ex-
cuse for leaving her here, and the speil her presence
seem toexert over Blanclie once broken, it will not be
difficult to get rid of her eifectually. Lady Carrisiey wrote
something tome about wanting a governess to take to
Paris with her, and Julia Fenwick is always quarreling
with her governesses. I can flud her a situation sie wiil
scarcely lave the face to refuse.”

Aud so, having safely dispaiched her telegraphic mis-
sive by the hand of a trusty servant, the countess joined
her daughter aud Miss Percival in the former's sitling-
room.

“Well, my love,’? she said, turning to Blanche, “Sir
Morford’s visit will have the effect of allering our plans
very materially, We must go down to Brighton in to-
morrow morniug’s earliest traiu—he thiuks you need sea
air.’

“But, mamma, the Drawing-room!”? cried Blanche, with
a face of surprise.

“I know it, but there will be other Drawing-rooms later
inthe seasou, You dou’t mind being disappointed for
once ?”?

“No, mamma, but—Lady St. Burgoyne who is coming
up from Balfour Castle ou purpose to present me,”

“I can write her an explanatory letter!’

“But Lam not so sick a8 lo necessitate So much haste
as this, mauma,’’ cried Blanche, with a puzzled face,

“No, darling, but you know Sir Morford’s apt to be
rather autocratic, and having once pliced you under his
care, it will be necessary that you obey his directions with
circumstantial exactness,”?

“Well, mamma, | will dojust as you wish,’? meekly as-
sented Lady Blanche, whose docility and sweetness of
temper were rather a coutrast to her mother’s somewhat
despotic temperament, “But how can Rena go? Her
dress is at the modisie’s yet.”’

Lady Glenhampton lifted her large black eyes, and fixed
them full upon the face of Rena, who gianced at her in
the same moment.

“Tam sorry,’ she said; ‘out it would be a great accom-
modation to me il Miss Percival would remain in Gros-
venor Square to take charge of things a little for Lhe pre-
sent.’?

“Mamma,’’ interposed Blanche, “surely the house
keeper——”’

“Blanche,” said Rena, with the crimson glow rising to
her cheeks, “pray do not deprive me of the pleasure of
becoming a convenience to your mother. Lady Glenuamp-
ton, I shall be delighted to be of any service.’?

“You are very kind,” said the countess, in the same
artificial tone. “If you wi!l beso Kind as lo ring for Lady
Blanche’s maid we can give all the necessary direclious
at once.”

Rena obeyed, moving with the slow haughtiness of a
princess, If she cowld at that moment have obeyed the
tumultuous dictatresef her own heart she would have
siruck the smiling, insvleat Couutess to the ground!

“She is making an upper-servant of me,” she thonght,
biting her lip uutil the blood started, ‘and Blanciie, in
her unconsciousness, never suspects if. You are deepen-
ing my indebtedness to you with every hour, Countess of
Gienhampton, but the day of reckoning will surely come!”’

And she resolutely put aside her own resentment while
she assisted Blanche with the numerous and hurried pre-

 

 

parations that were incident to her unexpected journey.

‘Dear Rena,” said the young girl, with her arms round
her friend’s neck, ‘‘you will come to us at Brighton if I
do not soon return ??

“How can I tell, Blanche?’ asked Rena, evasively.
“My future is not in my own hands. But one thing I
we, forget—my promise one day to be your bride-
maid,

. The paleness crept over Blanche’s cheek, and her arms
dropped languidly at her side.

“i see now how foolish they were, our scliool-day vows
and promises,” ghe said; in alowtone. “Ido not think,
now, that I shall ever need a bridemaid, Rena.”?

“Bianche, you are not so ill as that!’

“No, it isn’t that, Rena—but—somehow I don’t think
Vere cares for me as he used to do, and——”’

Her head drooped on her friend’s shoulder, and she
burst into a passionate fit of tears. Atthe same iustant
the door opened and Lady Glenhampton entered with a
sealed letter in her hana.

“Miss Percival,’’ she said, severely, “it is very wrong
of you to agitate Lady Blanche Arden in this mauner.
These tragic scenes nay be very romantic, but they are
quite inappropriate to an occasion like this.”

Rena sat pale and silent, saying not a word in her own
defense, while Lady Blanche, dashing the'newly-shed tears
oo ae eyes, broke oul into au eager vindication of her
riend.

“Never mind how it happened, now, darling,” said Lady
Gienhampton, only partially mollified, ‘1 don’t like to see
you wearing yoursel{ out with idle emotions—that is all.
Miss Percivai,’? turning to the elder girl, “I beg you will
be so kind as to give this note to the Ducliess of St. Bur-
goyne when she calls here, as she will probably do to-
morrow sometime. I would send it by a servant, did I
know when sbe intends to be in town. As itis, lam
compelled to trouble you.’

‘IL will be no troubie at all,’ said Rena, as stiffly as her
ladyship, while at the sametime slie could not help ob-
serving that Lady Glenphampton spoke to her precisely as
she did to Mrs. Carter, the Grosvenor square housekeeper.

“Another little lem to be remembered in my Lady
Gleuhampton’s favor when we have our final settlement,’?
she thought, calusly.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

 

The Right to Dramatize this Story is Reserved by the Publishers.

THROWN
ON THE WORLD;

——_— OR, —

THE DISCARDED WIFE.

By C. M. B.,

Author of “LADY DAMER’S SECRET,” “A
WOMAN’S ERROR,” “DORA 'THORN,”’ etc.

[Thrown onthe World”? was commenced in No. 15. Back Nos.
can be obtained from any News Agent in the United Siates.]

CHAPTER XLIX.

It was not long before Mrs. Rymer felt quite at
home in Lingholme. Her duties as chaperon, or
lady’s attendant, were not onerous. They consisted
chiefly in looking amiable and listening to Mrs. Gre-
ville. She was required to be in the drawing-room
when visitors came to dine with Mrs. Greville; to
answer any letters that the beautiful young widow
felt disinclined to answer herself; to go out with
her to dinners, balls, and parties.

“In short,” she said one day to herself, “it seems
to me that lam most magnificently paid for amusing
myself in every possible way.”

ther a novel way of looking at her duties that
had not, perhaps, occurred to a chaperon.

She was sitting one afternoon with Mrs. Greville,
when the conversation turned upon faces,

“T love beautiful faces,” said the mistress of Ling-
holme. ‘Iam sure it isa fortunate thing for me that
Tam notaman. Ishould have been in love with
every pretty face I came near.”

**And constant to none,” said Silvia.

“Certainly not. Did you ever hear of a butterfly
who spent its whole existence in the heart of arose ?
It loves every fair flower, sips the dew from every
crimson leaf, enjoys every fragrant blossom.”

‘You are not speaking seriously!” said Silvia.

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Greville, opening wide her
beautiful eyes, “

“Because I do not think any woman could reason-
ably advocate inconstancy,” replied the young girl.

‘*My dear child,” said Mrs. Greville, ‘I am not ad-
vocating inconstancy. I never advocate anything;
it is too much trouble. Isimply say what Ishould do
if I had been born a butterfly or a man.”

“J think most men are inconstant enough,” said
Silvia. ‘Ido not remember to have met many who
boasted of great fidelity as a virtue.”

Mrs. Greville laughed.

“There is a great deal of the butterfly in most
men,” she said; ‘*but we were speaking of beautiful
taces, I have made a collection of them—that is, of
photographs of them. Would you like tosee them ?”

‘Very much,” said Silvia; and Mrs. Grevile rose.

With the graceful, gliding motion so peculiar to
her, she went to one of the side tables and returned
with an album, richly bound in crimson and gold.

“T have the portraits of some of the loveliest
women in England here,” she said. “If Iwerea
flatterer, I should say that yours deserved a place
among the number.”

**Mine!” said Silvia, looking up with a startled
glance.

Mrs. Greville laughed.

“Yes, yours,” she said. ‘Do you not know that
your face is extremely beautiful ?”

“Tf had forgotten it, if ever [ knew it,” replied
Silvia; and there came ashadow so sad in the depths
of her beautiful eyes that Mrs. Greville was startled.

“When a woman forgets her own beauty, there has
been some grave sorrow busy at her heart,” she
thought. But one peculiarity of hers was that she
seldom, if ever, gave expression to a grave thought.

“A little flattery, in that case, will not hurt you,”
she said to Silvia; ‘tand there will be no harm in my
telling you thatI have no face in my book more
beautiful than your own.”

“Yet,” thought Silvia, wearily, ‘‘what has my
beauty done for me? Only helped to break my
heart and blight my life. If my face had not been
fair, he would not have cared for me, and I might
have been happy.” While Mrs. Greville, at her side,
thought—

‘‘Ah, my lovely chaperon has had her romance,
and it has not been a pleasant one.”

Then, sitting side by side, they examined the faces
inthe album. They came to one over which Silvia
hung enraptured, not entirely for its beauty, but for
the nobility of expression—the soul that seemed to
shine through the face, ‘

“You admire that ?” said Mrs. Greville.

“T do, indeed,” she replied, *tand yet——”

“Yet, what ? do not hesitate. What were you go-
ing to say?”

“Perhaps it may be indiscreet to express my
thoughts, but I was suddenly impressed with the
idea that this was not the face of a very happy wo-
man,

Mrs. Greville’s attention seemed suddenly and
hastily arrested.

“What makes you think so?” she asked, eagerly.

“T can hardly tell you why. All people take fancies
at times. There seems to me astory in that face. If
could fancy the owner of it having to pass through
some terrible sorrow—having a dark future and an
uncommon fate.”

“I hope not,” said Mrs. Greville. “That is Lady
Clotilde Dynecourt. I’ know but little of her; but
her husband was once a great friend of mine. I
have always liked him and admired him exceedingly.
I should not like to think there was any fate but a
bright one in store for his wife.”

“Some faces tell their ownstory,” said Silvia, sad-
ly. “This is the face of a noble woman, who will
look for nobility in those she loves; and, looking,
not find it,”

‘‘Why, you are more cynical than I am myself,’
cried Mrs. Greville. ‘*Kven I do not despair of find-
ing some nobility in poor human nature. I shall
watch Lady Clotilde’s career with interest, just to
see if your prophecy be a true one.”

Silvia repeated the name slowly.

; aoe Clotilde Dynecourt. Is she an English
ady ?

“Yes; she was Lady Clotilde Voyse before her mar-
riage. Lord Dynecourt is a most charming man. I
remember that I envied her when I heard that she
had married him.”

Silvia smiled.

“That is another of your terribly frank speeches,
Mrs. Greville,” she said, “That is an idea that
might have occurred to many women, but few would
have cared to express it.”

More than once that evening she returned to look
at the face that for her had so strange a charm.

How little she dreamed that the features she
thought so noble, so full of soul, so eloquent, be-
longed to the woman that of all the world she had
the greatest cause to dread, to pity, and to dislike.

How little she dreamed that Lady Clotilde Dyne-
court was her rival—had taken her place in the heart
of the only man she had ever loved!

How little she dreamed that the time was coming
va they two should stand arrayed against each
other.

A sudden whim came to Mrs. Greville.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

“T shall not pass the winter in oPugiana? ’ she s ais,
“To tell the truth, an English w inter is most detest-
able tome. I cannot support the fogs, the cold, the
frost, and the desolation. Sunshine is the greatest
blessing in all the world; and when one can afford
to go in search of it, why not have it ?”

‘Where should you like to go?” asked Silvia, anx-
jously.

*‘Anywhere where the sun shines, and the
bloom. Let us go to Italy.”

«Should you wish me. to go with you ?”

“Certainly. Where are your ideas of propriety,
my dear Mrs, Rymer. Am 1] toroam about the world
without a companion ?”

“But,” said Silvia, humbly, ‘I am afraid that I
should be so utte rly useless to you. I know nothing
of traveling; Ican speak no language but my own,
Tt am afraid that I should not be a pleasant compan-
jon.”

“T have no fear of the kind,” langhed Mrs. Grey-
ile. ‘As for languages, they are soon learned when
one lives where they are spoken. If we stay away a
year or two you will be a famous linguist. Then we
will go through a complete course of art education.
We will visit all the famous pictures and statues in
Europe. Ihave been educated several times, but I
have unfortunately forgotten all I learned. "There
is no cause for delay—we will start at once.”

Silvia hesitated. There was the boy, She had
been pining tor long months for one look at him.

“What is it?" asked Mrs. Greville, in her frank,
imperious manner. ‘‘I cansee a doubt in your face.
What is the doubt ?”

“*T should like to see my litle son,” replied Silvia.
“T should like to spend at least two or three days
with him before going abroad.”

“By all means,” replied Mrs, Greville; ‘‘go to-mor-
row, if you will. Ihave never cared for children
myself but ] ean sympathize with those who do. If

your boy were only a little older we would have him
ao nathL HKOIRS. He is too young yet to pay
visits. Go to-morrow, and stay as many days as you
like with him; we willhave everything ready to start
af once when you return.”

So on the morrow Silvia went. It was the second
holiday in her life, and thone) sorrow still preyed
upon her, though her life lay in ruins, her love be-
“pry ed, her future blighted, not even her fair hame
left to her—she could not help ieeling happier and
better than she had done since her betrayer had le ft
her.

The fresh air, the sense of freedom, and the hap-
piness of seeing her child again, brought the most
exquisite bloom to her lovely face. She dooked so
young, so beautiful, so attractive in her swect,
gentle grace, that she felt ashamed of the many ad-
moiring ‘glances that followed her.

“He they knew,” she thought to herself—‘if people
only knew my story, how they would loathe me. It
is Well for me that the true history of my life is not
told in my face.”

People might wonder why she shrank from obser-
vation, why she seemed inclined to hide from all no-
tice; but then hhow few could have guessed that the
lovely face hid a tragedy. :

flowers |

”

CHAPTER L. :

It was with joy that was almost pain that Silvia
held the boy in her arms once more.

“My little Cyril!” she cried, ina rapture of delight.
*sSoon, SO soon, you will be little no more.”

For the child was growing into magnificent
strength and beauty, The young mother trembled
as she looked into the beautiful face, it was so like
that of her lost love. Cyril had the same handsome
eyes, but in his there was no indolence, only fire,
energy and power. He had the same beautiful lips,
the broad, square brow, the clustering curls; in fact,

at would have been difficult to find a stronger like-
ness than existed. between father and son,

Again and again Silvia looked at him, aimost in
terror. Noone who had ever seen Ulric Rymer
could fail to recognize his son.

“Nature has told my secret,” said the girl to her-
self, ‘The secret that I would have kept with my
life she has told.”

Wtawwes more thana year since she had seen the
boy, and the difference in him bewildered her. He,
too, was overjoyed. Nothing seemed to weaken his
hove for his beautiful young mother. It was as
though he had parted from her yesterday, He ca-
xessed her in his graceful, loving way; kissed her
face, her hands, murmuring the while sweetest
words of tenderness to her.

“There isa balm for every wound,” thought Sil-
via; ‘“tallmy sorrows seem small while I have Cy-| t
Ta,

Yet itwas: terribly. hard’ when he smiled at her
with his father’s eyes, kissed her with his father’s
lips—when he spoke to her in that voice every tone
of which she remembered so well. So closely did it
resemble her. lost love’s that there were times when
She starled and thonght he must be near. He was
“gsrewingup, this boy for whom she had dreamed
such bright dreams, and for whom she had now no
hope a wt all. What would his inheritance be? That
of shame and sorrow. He would have no name, no
place.in the world, no father’s love or protection.

“You will have no one but me, my darling,” she
cried, clasping him in her arms. ‘And. oh! how I
will love you, to make up for this.’

She did not spend her whole time in caressing
him. There were arrangements to be made for him.
He was nearly three years old, and must not remain

wnder good Mrs, Carstone’s care much longer.

As she sat with him in her arms there came to her
no warning as the future of that child—a future of
which history still speaks,

At Hampstead there was an excellent school for
‘boys under the superintendence ofa clergyman and
‘Ris:wife. The clergyman himself, a learned scholar
‘and ‘a.geod man, undertook the elder pupils, while
his wifemanaged the younger. Silvyiaresolved upon
going to. the Rey. Mr, Hardman, and placing her
san under his care, She told him her husband was
‘dead,;:and she herself had an engagement out of Eng-
‘land, which might extend over many years. When
Cyril was three-she should like him to be taken en-
itirely under the minister’s care. Mr. Hafdman
Yooked earnestly at the beautiful face of the girl.

“T will undertake the charge,” he said; “and I
hope that your son may grow up like his mother.

Her face flushed with pleasure, but no toailte
‘ments ever made her vain; she had always the sad
afterthought:

“Tf they knew my story—if the world knew me
for what Iam, there would be no kind words for me
then.”

It was a great relief.for her to know that such an
excellent home and. excellent training awaited
Cytil. On the day following she took him to Hamp-
stead House, and Mr. Hardman was enchanted
with the child’s beauty. But the clergyman, said
little, He looked e¢ wnhestly at the patrician face, he
noted the air of high birth and breeding that seem-
éd to pervade every action of the child.

“TI have seen a face somewhere,”. he said, ‘*that
rises before me as I look at your little boy, Mrs. Ry-
mer.”

Silvia blushed, and then felf annoyed with herself
for having done so.

«‘¥ must be more careful, for my boy’s sake,” she
thon; ght; ‘for myself nothing matters. On his life,
if I can prevent it, there must rest no stain, I was
Pinecaneot am innocent; why should I blush for
another’s sin ?”

“T should like to understand plainly,” said Mr.
Hardman, ‘You may be absent for some years, and
letters fail at times. .What kind of training am I to
give your son, is he to be a man of business, or
what ?”

She never could accoun’ for the impulse that made
her answer:

‘“‘Let him have the training of a
in after years she was thankful for
words,

When Silvia had quitted the house, Mr.
turned to his wiie.

“Rymer!” he said, slowly; ; dc have
of the name.”

*‘Now have I,” said Mrs. Hardman; ‘‘but it is a
good name, I am sure.”

‘And I, my dear, have been accustomed to boys
too long to long to make any mistake. I can read
the signs of race as I can read the pages of a book,
and I tell you that that boy has some of the best
blood of England in his veins.”

Mrs. Hardman looked an cious.

ae hope it is all right,” she said.

“You may be quite sure of that. I would trust
that young mother’s face sooner than any other face
Pye seen, exce pt yours, my dear."

The lady smiled, She was a woman of sense, not
disposed to give way to foolish jealousy because her
husband chose to admire a pretty face.

*'Mrs. Rymer is a widow, I presume,” she said.

““Yes; and, unless I make a greater mistake than
ever I thought myself capabie of making, Mrs. Ry-

mer’s husband was one of old England’s aristocrats
—the boy looks as though he had had a peer for his
father.

Before Silvia had left Hampstead; she had made
every arrangement. She was to pay the whole of her
annuity for her boy, and he in return was to receive

the best education, food, and clothing. The allow-

ance Was munificent; but she wanted no money for

gen itleman;” but
‘having said the

 

Hardman

no reeolleetion

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

herself. It mes ased her generous heart that she
should give all to-her boy; it seemed to her some
kind of BOR ONAN for his father’s neglect.

That night, as she clasped him in her arms, she
covered his beautiful face with kisses and tears,

‘You have but me, my darling,’ she said, ‘in the
whole wide world. Your father took from you even
his name. I give you alll have in the world,” and
that thought Seemed to comfort her, It w as hard
work to leave hi im, and the young mother shed bit-
ter tears.

*Youmust not forget me, my darling,” she said.
“You must always remember mamma,’

The child clung to heras though he
what she meant.

“T shall love you always,
comforted her.

Then she was obliged to return to Lingholme.
There she found ey erything ready for immediate de-
parture, and Mrs. Greville anxious for her return.

ary hope I have not been too long?” said Silvia,

“No to speak truthfully, I did not expect you un-
til to-morrow. I know what mothers are wiih their
children. I see by your face that you have been
weeping bitter tears, As soon as we return to Ling-
holme, he shall come and stay with us.” *

A promise that Mrs. Greville kept, and the keep-
ing of which involyed many lives in one common
eatastr ophe.

Then they started tor Italy, and for the next three
years life was like a fairy dream to Mrs. Rymer, She
had always longed to travel, and for the opportunity
to study.. Now she had both, They visited all the
most famous cities in Italy, and Silvia made a point
of rising early. While Mrs. Greville was dreaming
away the pleasant morning hours, Silvia was busy
with grammar and dictionary. It was not long be-
fore she could read Italian as well as English,
and then she began to speak it, and, before Mrs.
Greville’ thought it possible that she had mastered
the rudiments, she was able to carry on an eloquent
conversation. Mrs, Greville was much amused at
her comps anion’s industry,

‘Are you qualifying yourself for a diploma?” she
asked.

“No,” replied Silvia, simply; ‘tbut I should like to
be clever, if I can, for ‘the sake of my darling boy.”

And Mrs, Grev ille, who, despite her gay ret y and
cynical philosophy, had something of a Wwoman’s
lreart, was touched by the answer.

There is no education so usetul as that acquired by
travel and observation. Before Silvia Rymer had
been long in Italy, she had made more progress in
general knowledge, in art, in literature, in biog-
raphy, than she could have made by quiet study at
home for many years. Jt never occurred to her that
she was qualifying herself to take a high position in
the great world. Her only idea was that when her
boy grew up, clever and accomplished, he must not
be ashamed of her. She must do her best to make
herself a companion to him. Mrs. Greville mixed
in the highest circles. Silvia had always before her
eves the example of some of the best-bre@ men and
women of modern Europe. No wonder she profited
by it, and that day by day she gained grace, dignity,
intelligence and sweetness. Day by day her deli-

understood

he said, and the words

and the mistress of Lingholme professed herself de-
lighted by the homage offered to her beautiful
companion.

CHAPTI ER LI,

Four years had passed since Silvia Rymer bade
adieuto England and her little son. Seldom had
time worked such wonders or produced such changes
asin her. She had left home beautiful and graceful,
itis true—gifted with a certain kind of tact that
stood in the place of cultivation; she returned one
of the most elegant and accomplished women of her
time.

What was ever so mighty as love ?—what love so
great as that ofa mother for her child? Had little
Cyril died, Sylvia would have had no object in life—
she would have been quite indifferent as to how that
life was spent. As he lived, her whole mind and the
strength of her whole soul was devoted to one object
—making herself a fitting companion for him. He
was to be agentleman, this noble, princely, beautiful
boy of hers,and she must. be worthy of her place as
his mother. For his sake she rose when others slept.
She studied indetatigably; she read, thought, and
pondered. For his sake she grasped eagerly at all
the knowledge it was possible to acquire; for his
sake she sought the conversation of wise and learned
men; for his sake she toiled through the rudiiaents
of education; s she read the choicest books, she deyo-

ted every spare moment to the acquirement of
knowledge. Her opportunities were great. Mrs.
Greville had no thought but to amuse herself. «It

vas always late when she rose; and Silvia, by dint
of perseverance in early hours, found that she had
something like half-a- day at her own disposal.

The result of her continual and industrious appli-
cation was something wonderful, When Lord Dyne-
court first saw her she was a lovely, simple, grace-
ful girl, something like a wild-flower untrained—ig-
norant, pure in heart and soul, but uncultivated and
crude in. her notions; now she was one of the most
refined and graceful of women. Her beautiful soul
shone in her face. There was a grace and elegance
inher words; asweet, Te fancy seemed to dictate
her bright thoughts. Th®fe were few subjects on
which she could not converse with ease and fluency.
In all matters connected with art, poetry, and lite-

rature, she was quite at home. She had a method
of expressing her thoughts at once, so simple and
so graceful, that the most gifted and intellectual
men found the greatest pleasure in talking to. her.
She spoke French and Jtalian with ease, ‘she could
read German; she had more than a superficial ac-
quaintance with modern literature. There was not
a picture of any renown of which she did not know
the history. She had always been beautiful, but the
loveliness of her face deepened; it no longer con-
sisted merely of shape and color, The spiritual,
clear expression was now perhaps the greatest
charm.

In short, a more beautiful, refined, graceful wo-
man than Silvia Rymer at this period of her life it
would have been difficult to find.

Mrs. Greville watched the change with great de-
light. She was too carelessly generous, too large-
hearted to either fear or dread any rivalry. Noth-
ing pleased her more than to hear her beautiful at-
tendant admired and complimented.

One thing, however, in Mrs. Rymer puzzled her.
Why did she invariably refuse all offers of marriage ?
Several had been made to her, some of them most
brilliant; one from a gentleman in Florence, whose
wealth and position were unexceptionable; but Sil-
via refused all with a quiet dignity that somewhat
bewildered the gay widow.

“So you have refused Monsieur De Laune,” she
said to Silvia. ‘*Do you know that he will succeed
to his father’s title and estates some future day ?”

Silvia smiled.

“Yes; I ought to know it, for you have impressed
the’ fact upon me every day since he first came
here.”

“For your own. good, Silvia,
him ?”

‘For such a simple reason, that you will Jaugh
when I tell y ou—because I do not love him.”

“Love!” repeated Mrs. Greville, in an accent of
most profound contempt. ‘I did not know that you
thought seriously of that kind of nonsense.”

It was Silvia’s turn to look up in wonder.

“Do you-not ? ?? she asked.

“No,” was the very candid reply, with a merry
laugh, ‘‘most eertainly not. Where should I have
been if I had even dreamed of such a thing ?”

“is it not an essential of life ?” asked Silvia

**No; or, again, where should Ibe? I have passed
my life without it. Inever loved any one or any-

Why did you refuse

 

 

thing except my own self.”

‘I cannot believe it,” said Silvia, hesitatingly.

“T assure you it is true. Thave ave ry kindly feel-
ing for most people. When it is possible, without
inconveniencing myself, I would gladly help any
one. For some people I have, I need’ not say, a
much more kindly liking than for others; but as for
love—I never did, and never intend giving way to
any such vagary.

“But,” said Silvia, looking * slightly shocked,
husban¢ lw hat of him ?

“Thad the greatest. respect for him,” said Mrs
Greville. “He was a kind, worthy man; but love—
why, Silvia, I was married before I was twenty, and
he was nearly sixty, 1 always’ consider myself a
sensible woman; when I was quite young I weighed
my chances very carefully, an¢ looked them in the
face, and saw plainly what they were. I was well
born, and had—so the world said—a pretty face; I
had good connections, and no fortune; my duty was
therefore, obviously, to look out for a "rich husband.
I told myself that there must be no nonsense over
love,”

Mrs, Greville paused, to laugh at the horrified ex-
pression of Silvia’s sace.

‘*] was very systematic '

*“*vour

 

in my method of proceed-
ing,” she continued. ‘As soon asI went into so-
ciety, [looked about for the wealthiest man in it.
This I found to be ‘Mr. Greyille, of Lingholme, a re-
tired capitalist, whose name was a pillar of strength
among wealthy men, Almost before I saw him I
said to myselfthat he would be the best possible
match forme.”

 

— - serene mer ma

cate beauty increased; she was unive sally admired, .

**But,* "interrupted Silvia’ ‘there is no romance-in
such a life.”

‘Certainly not. Romance beautifies literature, helps
to sell books; but if you want a peaceful life, keep
clear of it. I frankly own that when I was intro-
duced to Mr. Greville I did my best to fascinate him,
and in a short time I had the pleasure of finding that
I had succeeded; he made me an offer and we were
married. I know no two people who were happier;
we never, that I remember, had one disagreeable
word.”

“It is not given to every one to be able to crush
all heart, all “sentiment and desire for affection out
of their lives,” said Silvia,

The beautiful face glowed again with merriment,

“Because people are so foolish; poets, painters,
and romancers in general are to blame forit. Be-
lieve me, it is only an idea after all that the world
cannot go on without love,
this nonsense it would be better. Silly boys and
girls get their minds filled with absurd ideas about
loye, and they sacrifice all more sensible notions to
it. Someof the wisest and happiest men and wo-
men have lived without it, and have made no mur-
mur over their lives.”

“But,” remonstrated Silvia, ‘*you say you love
yourself. Is it not, at least, more noble to love an-
other, than to concentrate all your thoughts and
anxieties on self?”

‘“Self-preservation is the first law of nature,” said
Mrs. Greville, “30. that self-love must be something
like a virtue too.’

**You could never lose life or reason for love,’’
said Silvia, thinking of the wnhappy ladies she had
known,

‘“*No, indeed, I value both two highly. Now tell
me, Silvia, why have you sacrificed such a brilliant

career as the one lying before you if you would only
ce Madame De Laune ?”

‘Tam not like you. I could not marry without
ove. I should care little for money, for position,
rank, or any other advantage, .but J must. have
love,”

Mrs. Greville langhed good-temperedly.

“You are like all the other women I know, and
you will wreck yourself upon some rock. Did you,
then, Silvia, love your husband very much ?”

The delicate face flushed and the lips quivered.
Years had passed since the cottage on the Scottish
Jakes had been anything but a dree am, but it had
strange power to move ‘her. Not one hour of that
time was forgotten, not one pain, not one thrill of
happiness, not one moment of the bitter anguish and
shame. She remembered it all as though it had
been but yesterday. ~~Though life was brighter to
her, and had grown broad in a thousand new claims,
she still wished she had died betore she had discov-
ered the perfidy of the man she loved and trusted.

Other and more perplexing thoughts had come to
her. She was present one evening at a brilliant re-
ception given by an English peeress at Rome, and
the conversation turned upon a gr eat, law case that
was just attracting the attention of all England. It
was of an English géntleman who had married in
Scotlanda beautiful and accomplished woman, whom
he had plese to love very dearly... He had mar-
ried her in the presence of witnesses, according to
the Scotch formula. They had been known as man
and wife for some two years, and now, upon his ac-
cession to higher rank and title, he was endeavor-
ing to set the marriage aside.

[TO BE CONTINUED. j=-
—____—__ + @~ ——___

A. Wicked | Woman.

By P. Hanriiton Myers,

Author of ROXY HASTINGS, IRON FIST
SKY TRAVELERS, etc.

 

[“A Wicked Woman” was commenced in No, 22. Back num-
bers can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States. |

CHAPTER XXVI.

It was only two days after Miss Tempie had learned of
the compact between her aged father and Mrs, Braxley
that Frederick Orville came to announce to old Reuben
and his daughter the news of the downiall of all their
brilliant hopes.

Not only were they to learn of the loss of their ‘ereat
expectations,” but he believed it would prove that all
their means ot support Were gone, with the exception of
the few hundreds that they mignt have saved out of their
late income, for Reuben had disavowed the knowledge of
any papers which settled an annuity upon him, and Mr.
Orville did not believe there were any. So fully did lie
sympathize with them thatit was impossible for him to
appear in the presence of his friends wilhout some signs
in his countenance of tlre “2 intelligence which he

 

brought.

Old Reuben rallied him ‘on ownfiearted look, and
Lizzie, more quick of perception, caught the alarm from

the first mournful giance of his eye as it fell upon her—it
was So like the look with which he had told her a few
weeks before of her beloved uncile’s death,

“There is surely something wrong, Mr, Orville,” sie
said. You have brought us unpleasant news again.’

He broke it to them as gently as possible, hinting at pos-
sibilities, in which he did not believe, of some contingeucy
that might yet arise to change the doleful aspect of affairs.

Old Reuben was entirely overcome by the tidings, and
Miss Temple seemed nearly as much distressed though it
was chiefly for him, and she gave her first attention to
consoling and encouraging him.

“It isn’t much after all to lose what we have never had,
father,’? she said. “These were only expectations, you
know.”

“Ay, bnt the ‘lowance, Lizzie, the ‘lowance—that will
be gann Loo, and we shiz ut hev to go bock to the old cabin
agen.*

“Phe allowance! Lizzie had not indeed thought of the
loss of that, and she Jooked inquiringly at Mr. Orville,
who was obliged to confess the improbability of their be-
ing any annuity, as Mr. Temple had no papers to show ,
any such’provision. lie could easily ascertain, however,
atthe bank where Reuben’s account was kept, and he
went immediately on this exciting errand, leaving his
friends in a most painfulstate of suspense. They did not,
however, long endure this phase of their woe, for in half
an hour Orville returned and announced the realization of
their worst fears. There was noannuilty. The account
had been kept good by deposits from time to time, made
by Orlando Temple, and of course these had now ceased.

Reuben was in despair. He groaned and sobbed, and
heedless of the pain wiiich this exertion gave him, he got
up and hobbled across the room as if he would run away
from himself and from his grief.

“Iu's a’ gaun—a’ gaun, Lizzie,’ hesaid. ‘‘We are beg-
gars agen und paupers as bad aseyer. How could he ha’
dune it!”

“We never did, father! He never did!’ exclaimed Liz-
zie, energetic: illy, and with the tears streaming down her
cheeks. “There lias been Some mistake—or some awful
fraud,”

“I have sometimes thought there might have been a
mistake of this kind,’’ replied Frederick, gravely, whiie
both his companions turned eagerly tu listen to him.
“There Ig no duubt of the will which is in the surrogate’s
hands being a gennine document. Itis well authenticated,
and it bears date about four years prior to the one whuch 1
drew. Your brother never told me about it, and I sup-
pose he must liave intended to destroy it after the other
was signed.
his possession, he has placed the wrong one in the en-
velope and given it to Mr, Everts, and has burat up the
other.”

“‘Ay—that is loikely it, noo most loikely,’? replied Reu-
ben, eagerly, ‘‘and if a sinart, smooth-spoken lawyer
loike ee shouid so represint it to the surrogate perhaps
he’d mak’ it e’ roight noo after all, eh?”

Frederick smiled, and explained to the old man the
hopelessness of such an affort, and that words and con-
jectures could avail nothing against a written instrument
signed and sealed and authenticated with all the solemu
forms of the law. ;

He remained awhile with his friends, and then took his
leave, promising to come and see them again in a day or
two.

But Frederick retired, strangely enough, with a heart
rather lightened than depressed, for the spell of Lizzie’s
beauty was on him, and he had begun ‘to reflect. that the
loss of her fortune might be the gaining of a treasure to
him more valuable than the wealth of the Indies,

The vision of the unknown Capton Alton had haunted
his imagination ever since that day when old Reuben had
mentioned his name in conneciion with that of Lizzie,
and he had tortured himself by fancying that Miss Temple
was ready to accept, if she had not already accepted, his
offered heart.

But how did he know all this, he now asked himself,
Alton might have been repulsed, or if encouraged, or even
accepted, he might prove mercenary, and ready to recede
from his engagement, when he found into what a depth of
poverty the Temples had fallen.

_ True, even then Lizzie might not fancy Zim, or return
his love, but here at least was some ground for hope,
when he had literally indulged none before.

When he went home that afternoon he found his
mother’s favorite, Miss Vanbuskirk, there, expensively
arrayed—and Jooking her best (whieh was not very well),
and it pained him to see with what a pleased interest his
invalid mother watched the few common Civilities which
passed between them.

When she had gone, Mrs. Orville said:

“How fine looking Betsey grows, She is really almost
handsome; and she has just beer ing +
But, mother, it was confidential,’’ interposed Rose.

“Pshawt Fred ought to know, She wouldn't object to
that. She has just been telling us of an offer she has had
from Mr. Van Horn, her jawyer and agent. She says her
realestate has doubled in the last two years, and he
knows it, and she thinks he is mercenary.” -

“Has she accepted him ?’’ asked Fred,

“No—not yet. She put him off? replied the mother,
looking anxiously at herson. ‘Whata chance, Fred, if
you only cowld like her, She is sv fond of you, and it
would be such a help to us all,”?

               

 

Yes—there it was again! Poor, pliant, plastic Fred,

If there were less of

But by some mistake, having both wills in },

nee ee —
thinking more of others than of himself, feared that this
was really the path of duty for him after all.

‘J"]] think of it, mother,’? he said, and Jeaving her to
the happy visions which even this slight Concession con-
jured up, he retired to his room.

Reuben Temple meanwhile had rallied his courage in
view of the great affection whicn he was sure that the
Widow Braxiey felt for him, and he thought he began to
see the silver lining to his cloud.

They would marry and have a comfortable home—for
the widow owned her house and furniture—and Lizzie
should live with them and all would go well enough yet.

“We'll tak? a few boorders,’’ he said, ‘and we'll sell the
horses and woggins, and let Tom go, and—and—how
many hunders do ye say there is in the bonk ?””

“About four,’ replied Lizzie.

“Weelaweél. Thot isu’t mueh, but it will start us.
It's a pity noo, that we sent the last two hunder to feyther
Oustwanger, but thot canna be helped, and if waur
should come to waur, mayhap he’ll sen’ it bock agin,’’

This was not a pleasant picture for Lizzie, and the idea
of beingin any way dependent on the Widow Braxley
was particularly distasteful to her. She had, however,
not-much faith in Mrs, Braxley’s atlacliment, and Reuben
himself manifesfed a litle nervousness about testing it.

He proposed to wait until the next day before telling
the » dow of their changed fortunes, when he thought he
might feel better and have more courage,

She had been out ‘making calls” and diffusing informa-
tion about the wealth and grandeur of her lodgers when
Mr. Orville came with his budget of bad news, or she
doubtless would have obtained some clew to the secret of
which she as yet remained in blissful ignorance.

But it was inthe newspapers next morning; and soon
aiter breakfast, While Reuben was reflecting im what way
he should break the sad tidings to her, she came into his
room, quite pale, aud with the morning paper shaking in
her hand,

She handedit to him, pointing with one. trembling
finger,to the paragraph which told so much, and said,
faintly:

* Read that, Mr. Temple.”

Reuben, guessing at what was coming, held the paper
near his eyes for a moment, and then ata greater dis-
tance, And in his confusion came near turning it upside
down, when Mrs. Braxley, offering to take 1t back, said:

“The type is too fine for you, perhaps ?”?

“Ay, is it: too foine—yes, that's just if, Yell read it
for me, please, though J can guess Wa’at it is au’ 1 was
jist gaun to speak to ’ee about it. How the de’il they get
a’ these things in the papers, aud wa’at businéss it is or
thei rs is More than 1 can tell.” :

“Then itis true??? she asked, faintly, looking into Reu-
ben’s eyes. ‘

“True?! he repeated. ‘Read it—read it, woman, Mow
can I tell whether it is true or no, afere I hear ye read it?
it maun be very bod ef is werse than the truth, I can
tell ye that, though.” 7

Paintiy—very faintly the widow read the following
words: -

‘We published a statement a few days since, copied
from one of our cotemporaries, to the effect that the late
Orlando Temple had Jeft the bulk of his great estate to ta
brother and niece. This turns ont to be a mistake.

“The will has been submitted for probate, and with the
exception of some charitable bequesis—it devises every-
ihing to the amiable and accompiished widow of the de-
ceased, who, aS many of our readers are aware, was for-
merly Mrs. Mortimer Grenoble, and who has long been
distinguished in fashionable circles.

“No mention is made in the willof a brother or niece,
and itis presumed that the former report is an entire
mistake, growing out of some coincidence of names.”’

“Mistake! There’s na mistake aboot it!’ repiied Reu-
ben, wiping the perspiration from his red face, and pant-
ing like a porpoise; ‘but it’s my belief that there’s fraud,
and iniquity, an’ deevéltry aboot-it somewhere. That
there is! Aud that the amable an’ ?complished widdy is
al, the bottom of it—dang her distinguisiied bones, I say.
Wal’at did she come here for, Speein’ round, aud purtend-
in’ fo be somebody else, and to waut boord for an inter-
estin’ family of three? Ay—wa‘at did she do that for?”

“You had heard of all this before, then?) asked Mrs.
Braxley, in not quite her usual soft and cooing tones.

“Yes—but only yesterday—and I was gaun to tell ‘ee
lo-day—eyery word.”?

“And do you think it is true?”

“Mr. Owrville gives it a’ oop,’’ replied Reuben. ‘‘There
Nas an old will come to loight, and the other has disap-
peared, and the deil’s init a’. I canna understand the
muddle, an’ 1 deon't want to.”?

Mrs. Braxley gave expression to some words of sym-
pathy for her friends, but it was with a very absent look,
in which there seemed to be decidedly more of calcula-
tion than ef affection.

“It shan’t mak! any differencein my feelings for you,

Sary,” said Renben, ‘‘an’ we’il a a’ do very well yet.”’
A strange smile passed over tle lady's coumlenance,
and she asked with rather more eagerness than should
have belonged to true love, whether the “allowance” was
also lost, andon receiving an affirmative answer she
looked very serious, aud soon changed the couversation
to olher topics.

Wien she withdrew to attend to her household duties
it was by no means in her usual smiling mood, and Reu-
ben coniprehended that the signs were not auspicioas.

Thenceforward the widow's “attentions” to her lodger
grew ‘small by degrees and beautifully less.”

She did not bring him so many new tiniments or jellies,
but she brought his weekly bill, with great punctuality,
and when he hinted at the wedded state, she changed the
subject, and talked of the weather and current news.

CHAPTER XXVIL

Mr. Orville came up about twice a week to see his un-
fortunate friends, for the duty seemed clearly to devolve
upon him to counsel and aid them in their emergency.

No further thought was given to the lost estate—that

was Clearly gone beyond recovery—but how to make the
vest of their present position was now the question to be
considered.
Frederick suggested that they should take cheaper
quarters, as the price which they were how paying was
entirely beyond their means, and would very soon ex-
haust their little capital.

Miss Temple fully coincided with this view, but her
father seemed much disturbed by the proposition, and
said they must ‘wait a bit’? and see What would turn up.

He had already told Mr, Orville of his matrimonial en-

gagement, as will be remembered, and he did not hesi-
tate to say now before him that he still hoped to carry it
out,
*“Atany rate,’? hesaid, “Il wannabe the one to bock
out by roonin’ awa’ from her. Vii have it out with her—
ay—yes or no—to-morrow, and ifshe is feeckle and wants
to eat a’ her words of love an’ duty, #’in not the mon to
beg or whine aboutit, but I'l] tak’ it Oot in giving hera
piece of my moind, It shall be a’ settled to-morrow.”

On the next morning, therefore, Reuben bluntly
broached the subject to the lady when she came ou some
errand into his room, reminding. her, that she had been
“rather cool lately, aud bot quite loike herseif,’”’? and ask-
ing her if she meantto “slond oop to her engagement
with liim or not.”

The widow turned pale, and her hooked nose quivered a

I~DEX 2D CO

=.

sick of the city and every minis in it, and he wanted to get
back to the old home, which he w ished he had never left.

When Orville came again he was told of the decision at
which Mr, Temple had arrived, and Lizzie hoped that he
would disapprove of it and discourage it.

This he did not do,

“It may become necessary for you to go into the coun-
try,” he said to Reuben, “but I have been thinking your
affairs over, and | have another thivg to suggest. Mrs,
Temple ought to give you an allowance. sufficient to live
respectably on, aud, if you will permit me, 1 wili go and
try to persuade her to do so,”

Father and daughter both raised objections to this plan
as being too humiliating, but Mr. Orville talked his
friends into it, and not only so, but he made them quite
sanguine Of success, end then he went a step further. He
advised Mr. TVemple, who bore a striking resemblance to
i deceased brother, to go with liim aud see his sister-in-
aw,

‘She cannot then make the pretext of denying your re-
lationship,’’ne said, ‘and besides, if she ever had any af-
fection for her Jate husband, such a living representation
of him must revive it.”

“She las seen me close at hond,’’ replied Reuben, “and
looked me over moighty sharp, and Lizzie too. She
knows weel enough.”’

“Well, it will do no harm for her to see you again, and
it may do agreat deal of good. You need nol say a word
on business if you do not want to, but get yourself upin
your best style, and I'll come with acarriage for you at
four this afternoon, Come! She does not go out in these
days, and, of course, she must be at home.’”’

“She may not see you,’ said Lizzie.”

“IT think she 1

Mr. Orville ed his point. Reuben Temple was got
up in his best style, under his daugliter’s superintendance,
aud was brushed, ‘and trimmed, and manipulated until
lis patience gave out and he fairly drove his joint perse-
cutors, Lizzie and Tom Garlic, away,

“Pm not gaun to marry ‘her , am J; that I must be so
nice?’ he asked,

“No, father,” replied Lizzie; ‘‘but we want you to look
as much tike Uncle Orlando as possible, and you do now,
only you area great deal hiandsomer.”?

 

 

CHAPTER XXVITI.

The carriage came at half-past three o'clock, and the
very genliemanly-looking old nan was assisted into it by
Mr. Orville and Tom Garlic, and half an hour later was
assisted oct of it and up the steps of a stylish brown stone
house in Madison Avenue.

Mr. Orville sentin his own card only, and the visitors
were sliown into a magnificent parlor, which with its
fellow, and an extension room, all elegantly furnished, im-
pressed the simple-minded Reuben with an idea of gran-
deur and costliness sucli as he had hitherto supposed be-
longed only to kings’ palaces.

Mrs. Temple did not Keep them long wailing. She soon
came in, dressed in very elegant mourning, aud being tall
and stately, and graceful, her appearance was rather im-
posing.

But her air at this moment was not that of command.
She looked indeed a little frightened, for she had received
Orville’s card, and she knew him to be Reuben Temple’s
lawyer; and now, to her astonisument and alarm, she
saw Reuben himself, whom she instantly recognized.

Mr, Orville, who had risen and bowed, as slie entered,
at once introduced his companion as ‘Mr. Reuben Tem-—
ple, your late husband’s brother,’’,and the old man bow-
ing awkwardly said he was her ‘‘servant to command/*

Mrs. Temple slightly inclining her head toward hin
said, with what was intended to be an incredulous look,
that she had never heard her husband speak of a brother.

 

‘Very likely, madame,’ replied Frederick, handing @
chair, which the lady placed one hand upon, but did not
sitin. ‘Mr. Temple had some reasons for his reticence
on this subject, but to my persqnal knowledge he ac-
knowledged this gentleman as his brother; he visited him
frequen uly, and he made a liberal al Mowanee for his sup-
port.

“T shall not dispute a fact so well attested,’’ replied
Mrs. Temple, poliltely—though the look of anxiety had
not yet faded from her fine face—“but before we proceed
further, may lL ask ifthis isin any respect a business in-
terview; ifso, | must refer you to——”

“No, madame—nothing at Jeast which can require the
intervention of counsel,” responced Frederick, promptly.
‘My friend, W he with his daughter, has long enjoyed the
bounty of your Jate husband, and who had received from

 

him frequent assurances of being supported for life, now
finds himself, by what he cannot but believe an oversight
or accident, entirely unprovided for, and I may say quite
destitute.”

A wonderful change came over the lady's countenance
when Mr, Orville had proceeded as far as this. Her look
of alarm had entirely vanished; an expression of triumph
took its place, and she sat downin thechair by whieh
she had been, standing, and seemed prepared to listen

 

 

 

 

littie as she sat down in silence beside him, for although
she had fully made up her mind not to marry him, her
fears had conjured upan action atlaw for breach of
promise, and she believed that the frequent visits of Mr,
Orville, Reuben’s Jawyer, had something to do with this
imaginary suii.

So she replied yery blandly, assuring her crippled suitor
that she thought quite as much of him as she ever had,
(which Was strictly true), but that circumstances had
changed—

“Yees; weell know that,’ replied Reuben, keeping
down his wrath.

“And we cannot marry on nothing, Mr. Temple. We
have outlived our days of romance, you kuow ?”’

*Roomonse! I'm not book-learned, widdy,”’ le said,
“and I don't quite understand the word, but ifit means
truth, and honesty, and fair dealin’, one ofus has out-
lived ’em, sure enoof.”’

“Pray don’t get angry, Mr. Temple.”

‘“Deil a bit, widdy,’’ replied Reuben, bringing his heavy
fist noisily Gown onthe stand beside him; ‘but 1 must
say my say, and it is just this: When we engaged to
marry, Which was as movuch of thoy seekin’ as moine

“Oh, Mr. Temple!

“Yes, it was! A little moorif ony thing. I was thena
reech mon, for I had an income of three thousan! doolars
a year, thee knows that???

“Ves,? Ry

“And thee. knowed it then. AfterwardsI was still
reechier, I thought, and thou thouglit, aud thee Was more
fond of me then than ever.”

“Oh, Mr. Temple! Surely you do not think I was mer-
cenary?”?

“Nought of the kind, widdy; bnt I think thee was after
my money, and I speak it out plain.”’

Mrs, Braxley wiped her eyes and said it was very cru—
eruel to be so misjudged,

«When Ithought | had a hundred thousand dollars,
and Lizzie foive times that, did I want to bock out? Not
a bit of i, and noo it’s a’ gaun, thouw’st changed thy
moind.’

“As a matter of prudence only, Mr. Temple.
choice”?

“Ay—prudence. We conld ha’ coon vary weel. Wi’
the house and garden, and afew boorders, and Lizzie to
help, and our savings—but that’s a’ past noo. Task nout
of thee, noo, and wouldn’t morry thee if thou wast made
of pure goold, instead of vary. poor brass.’’

“Mr. Temple!’

“Ay—lI'll say my say, widdy, Since we are to part, and
thot is that I’m glod to berid of thee, and shall be sorrow
for the next mon thou makst jellies and linnyments for,
and that thou coomst over wi saft words,"?

The lady rose, weeping, or feigning to weep, but feeling
very glad at heart that nothing had been said about the
suit for breach of promise, and if she had made only soft
replies to her accuserin his presence, she made ample
amends for this self-denial after she had obtained the pri-
vacy of her own room.

Reuben would not have feit flattered by the epithets be-
stowed upon him after the door closed between them,
nor would he probably have cared 1uachif le had heard
them. ;

Of course after this Reuben would not have remained
under Mrs. Braxley’s roof evyenif.the prices had been
conformable to his means. But they were not, nor were
any other prices in the city or suburbs low enough for
their means.

There was nothing left for them but to go back to the
old hiome, and back Reuben said he should go

Lizzie protested and pleaded with him against such a
step, Saying thatshe wouid Jearnto be a millinerora
dressmaker, and would support herself and help to sup-
port him, and they would always live together.

But Reuben believed in none of those things.

 

Not from

 

Tie was

 

placidly to what further her visitors had to say.

“i cannot but believe,” he added at once, ‘‘that you
willesteem ita privilege to carry out the plans of your —
excellent liusband by placing these very near relatives of
his beyond the reach of want. Au annuity, equal to what
he allowed them in. his life-time, would but slightly im-
pair your very Jarge iucome.”’

“What sum has Mr. Temple been in the habit of giving
to lis brother ?’?

This looked encouraging, and Mr. Orville promptiy
replied:

“Taree thousand dollars a year.’

“Three thousand! And that when his own family actu-
ally lacked some of the—I will not say necessaries of life,
what might be regarded as necessaries for them.’?

Mrs. emple had in view a thousand-dollar shawl,
which had been refused for a birthday present to Elvira,
and a diamond pin of nearly equal value denied to the
cub Guy.

“Jf.you had said three hundred,’’ she added, “it would
have seemed more reasonable; but even then I should
acknowledge no obligation to perpetuate a fayor which
my husband seems intentionally to lave discontinued,’?

“| assure you, madame, that it could not have been in-
tentional—that he actually made a will providing largely
for them’’—Orville dared not say how largely—“and that

73."

“We will not discuss designs of which we know s0 little.
If Mr. Temple once made a provision by lus will for his
brother, and afterward destroyed the will, the last act was
prob: ibly quite as deliberate as tie first. fie has certainly
never imposed any obligation upon me to provide forhim,
for he never even informed me of his existence."!

“And you will do nothing for your brother-in-law ?)

“7 do nos quite say that—though we will drop these
fraternal titles, if you please, as 1 am neither disposed to
claim nor toadmita relationship made known to meat
so late a day and in so remarkable a manner.”

“Coom ava’, then, lawyer!’ exclaimed Reuben, ris-
ing in great wrath, for he had not fully understood the
speaker. ‘‘Dang my bones, if oi claim any relationship
either, for thot matter, So it’s as broad as it Is long, thot
is. Coom whoam, I tell ’ee! Coom whoam wi’ mel!

Orville laid his hand upon the excited man’s arm, and,
whispering a few words inhis ear, induced himto be
seated again while he sought to resume the conversation;
but before he could again address the lady, she said, sig-
nificantly:

“f must insist, Mr. Orville, that your friend be not de-
tained; and you may be quite Certain that any negotia-
tions in his behalf willfare better in his absence than in
his presence.”’

“‘] told ’ee so; she wants me awa',’’ rejoined Renben,
again rising; ‘and thou hadst better go, Loo, aud mak’
an eend on’t. She was polite aneugh thot day wheu she
coomed spyin’ us out, as Mrs. Ciiurchill, a wantin! boord
for an interestin’ family of three—ecod but she wast
Cvoom! coom! There’ll no good come o? this,”

Reuben hobbled out of the room, and to the hall door,
and Orville, following him, called .to Tom Garlic "to come
and help him lo the carriage, promising to join him there
in a few minutes,

Ile then returned fo the parlor, where Mrs. Temple had
remained awaiting him; butif he had still any hope of
accomp! ishing aught for his irascible client, it was dis-
pelied by the first words of Mrs. Temple.

“And this coarse man, you would persuade me, is the
brother of such a gentleman as my iate husband ?”? she
said, scornfully. “It seems to me. immeasurably more
probable that fie has palmed himself off upon Orlando as

such by virtue of an accidental resemblance, and that a
subsequent intercourse has fully exposed the fraud. This
also wouid account for the change in his will.”

Frederick earnestly, almost indignantly, combatted this
opinion, assuring Mrs. Temple that up to the very week
in which her husband had sailed for Europe he had been
in communication with Reuben.

“Very probable,’ shereplied. ‘He would not be likely
to make publit any imposition of that kind of which he
had been made the victim, and his visit to Yorkshire may
have been made with a view of testing the claims of this
pretended brother. The world is full of the history of ad-
venturers who have speculated on their resemblance to
rich or great men.”?

“But tis ignorant man——"

“lgnorance and cunning often go together,’’ was the
quick reply; ‘‘aud in that “he is illit erate, aud coarse, and
low, his mental unresemblance—if I ms iy use the word—
to Mr. Orlando Temple, more than negatites any claims
founded upon an accidenfal physical likeness.”’

“You have seen, at least, that he is not a syecophant—

“] have seen that he is a boor,*?

“You will do nothing for him, thea???

“TJ have notsaid that. If he is destitute, he has claims
upon the charity of the world; and if be will return, with
“his daughter, to the obscurity" whence they emerged, L will
do something for them there—of course not much, bué
something; aud that on condition that they never return
to the city, io play the part of neglecied poor relations.’®

“How much???
tion, for he knew what destitution awaiied his helpless
friends without some aid, and he was willing to accept,
in their behalf, even a litle from this hard woman,

Mrs. Temple reflected a moment, and then replied:

“Three hundred dollars a year sarang the life of the
father; halfof that sum to the daughter after his death;
but alw ays On the express condition that they Shall reside
at least three hundred miles distant from this city, and
that a single return to it by either of them, even for a day,
shall abrogate the bargain."

“Think of their helplessness, and of the comforts to
which they now have become accustomed through your
husband's bounty——”?

“If I think of anything, it will be of decreasing or with-
drawing this offer, which I shall assuredly do if it is not
thankiully and promptly accepted, with the conditions,”

Mrs. Temple. rose jrom her chair, and. looked at’ her
Watch as she Said_this, and Mr. Orville, aiso rising, said:

‘‘T shall advise the acceptance of it, of course, and will
bring you the answer of my clients within such time as
you may prescribe,”?

 

 

“Bring it this evening then; or, stay—I shall be en-

 

 

 

 

asked Orville, suppressing his indigna-

 

  

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

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gaged. To-morrow morning, at ten, you may let me know
whether your distinguished friends wiil condescend to ac-
cept this. money from me.”? ,

Mrs. Temple spoke satirically, and Frederick took his
leave, feeling that he had accomplished something for his
friends which was well worth the effort.

Hie found Reuben in the carriage, talking to Tom Garlic
on the ground, and telling him liow he had “upset his
dish by getting mod, and talking onpotitely to the painted
old lady,?? and wishing he had been discreet enougi to
hold his tongue.

She mout’a doon suntmat for us,’’ he said, ‘‘and if it
had not been more than a huuder a year, it would’a
helpit along: but it's allower noo, I doubt, an’ J must
tak? it oot in callin’ her hard names.’

“Not quite so bad, Mr. Temple,’ said Fred, sotto voce,
getting into the carriage by the old man’sside. “You Can
eall her as many hard names as you choose wlhien you
get back to your ‘country-seat;’? but, if you will go tlrere,
and stay there for the rest of your life, your loving sister-
in-law willatlow you three hundred dollars a year.”

“Three hunder! Coom noo! Thats something, isn’t
it? And after [spoke up tillher, too! I dooent think we
shonid ha’ done beiter nor that, if lf had been ever so
humbie. Three hundera year! It will be a good deal
Out there, mon, and will help along wonderful.”

“Sot will. I really do not see what you could have
done withoutit. It wouid certainly have been gratifying
to be able to reject all aid from such asource, but neces-
Sity Knows no law,’!

“Deed, sir—you speak the truth.
thaukful, (though net to her), and as to Nay We
its bought but wa’at we should ha’ doo y way. We
never want to coom back © this forsaken City, onless it
mout be to see.you. Lizzie would loike thot, 1 know, and
so would 1.”?

A thriil passed through the lover's heart, fur Lizzie was
still the sovereign of lis affections.

When they reached home and told the issue of their un-
dertaking, and told it too with evident exultation, Miss
Temple could no longer doubt thata return to their old
wretched home was all that remained to them, and al-
though she tried to sympathize with her father’s joy, she
was at heart miserable beyond expression. But since

even Mr. Orville approved this course she was sure it
must be proper,.although she now for the first time fully
realized the depths to which they had fallen.

Of course she could not separate from her father, but
until now she had ciung to the belief that there must be
somethiug she could do wich would maintain them in
the city.

It added to her depression, too, tosee that Mr. Orville
did not seem to manifest a desire that they should remain
in the city, Ror any poignant regret at their approaching
departure. She @id not give him credit for vailing his
real feelings in view of the hard necessity which was upon
them ail, and least of all did she suspect Lhat he was at
that moment her most ardent lover.

He talked gayly of the joys of country life, and ignored
all the hardships incident to their home of poverty, until
old Reuben, influenced by these rose-colored views of his
friend, forgot his lost fortune, and seemed contented and
evel happy. This was something gained, and Lizzie was
sure, on calmer reflection, tllat she ought to be very grate-
ful to her friend for it and for all that he was doing for
them,

Yet she began to look upon him with awe, asthe direc-
tor of their humble fortunes, and one whose word was
law to them in all things.

He was too far above her now in all respects to be the
object of any matrimonial aspirations, and she had never
in her more prosperous Gays discerned any sigus of his
desiring to awaken the sentiment of love in her heart.

Even then this ingenuous girl had considered Mr. Or-
ville very far her superior, and had often in her admira-
tion of his talent, aud his exceeding amiability, thought
how favored the lady would be on whom he should be-
stow the priceless treasure of his heart.

Such a state of mind is not far removed from love, and,
since it must be confessed, it had led to that culmination
in poor Lizzie’s case, thougi sie would not own it eyen
to herself. ;

She began to think now that it would not have been
presuming in hera few months previously to have hoped
for Mr. Orville’s addresses as a suitor, but, as we have in-
timated, she had not thought so then.

Now such aspirations she was sure would be preposter-
ous, and Lhey did not enter most*remotely into her calcu-
lations,

On the contrary, she began to long for the time of separ-
ation from him, for she was too sensible not to know how
dangerous to her future peace of miud was this daily asso-
ciation with so fascinating a man. In her old humbie
home, forgotten by him aud by ajl her new friends, she
believed she could efface his image from her heart, and
she did not wish to live where she could hear aught of his
attachment or marriage tu another.

Mrs. Temple was notified on the next day of the accept-
ance of her offer by her poor relations, aud she promptly
advanced a quarter’s installment of her small allowance
with the air ofa patron and a philanthropist—but she re-
iterated to Mr. Orville the assurance that the first in-
fringemeut of the conditions of her benefaction would be
followed by its withdrawal at once and forever. ’

Rose Orville hastened to visit her old friend.as soon as
her brother informed her of her abode and of her changed

. fortunes, and Lizzie who was delighted to see her, talked
freely and confidingly to her on all subjects except one.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Frederick Orville was inasea of troubles. They con-
fronted him on every side. His poverty, his hopeless love,
the dread of Miss Van Buskirk, his sense of responsibility
for the support of his mother and sister were so many
goads to his tortured heart, which seemed at times to
drive him wild.

Sometimes he thonght he would ent the gordian knot of
his difficulties by surrendering all his personal hopes of
happiness and marrying his cousin with her forty thous-
and dollars in city lots. Certainly nobody had any claims
upon his affections. He was not in any way committed
to Lizzie Temple, nor was he in any way responsible
for her misfortunes. He hadeven his doubts, and strong
doubts they were, whether she would welcome or recipro-
cate his love.

Why then should he not discard sentiment, marry
wealth, and setile down to an enjoyment of the material
coniforts of life?

Tsay sometimes he thought thus, but usually his better
nature triumphed, and-his heart rebelled against such
treason to its holiest and most noble emotions,

But theré was a lull about this time in the mild perse-
cutions which he had endured in regard to the gentie Je-
rusha. It was not that she had yet accepted the offer of
her agent, Mr. Van Horn, for she held that in abeyance,
as she was careful to Jet Mrs. Orville know, but Rose had
@ visitor and apparently a suitor in a respectable physi-
cian, a widowerof fifty, who had a good property anda
good practice, and who had no children, except & married
daugiiter hving in a Western State.

Dr. Boson was adull plodding fellow, but good-tempered
and amiabie, and he had a fine house, well furnished, in
an adjoiliug street, whence his first wife’s funeral lad
been attended about fifteen mouths: before.

Mrs. Orville had had her eye upon him ever since, as
one of tiventy possible suitors for Rose, and she lad been
very polite to him, and on one occasion when they met
sie had invited him to call.

He came once, and again—and yet a third time, and
then Mrs. Orville was sure the question was settled as far
as he was concerned.

To be surehe apologized for coming by saying that he
was very lonely at home in the evenings, but that made
the case still more clear.

Rose ier taled rallied about her lover, but when

We'll tak’ it and be

her mother talked seriousiy to her about if she. said the
idea was prep@Sterous. Hecould not medi anything,
and if he did it would not avail. He was fuil old enough
to be her father, and he had grandchildren at the West,
for she had heard him-.speak,of.tihem,.

Still Mrs. Orville hoped, and begged her daughter not to
decide against him uutibshe knew him better, as she really
might become much attached to him yet.

*Iv’s better to be an old man’s darling than a young
man’s slave,’’? she said, qdoting an old adage; ‘besides
fifty isnotold. Itis only middle life. Why lam almost
‘fifty myself and you do not call me old, Rose, Iam sure.’’

“No, not old, motier, but elderly, youknow, He would
bejust right for you now, mother, and you are still as
handsome as ever.”

“What nonsense, Rose!’?

“Would not you have him ?”?

“How ,absurd.to ask such questions! You know I
shoul’ never mafry if [ had the opportunity, and thaé I
neyer shall haves Nobody wauis a poor widow, even if
she Aas some Sslight'remains of her former good looks,”

Rose lauglied, and the subject was dropped,

But still Dr. Boson came. Not often, nor did he stay
late; nor was he yery poiuted in his attentions to tie
young lady,

He never saw her alone, he never even inquired for her
when he came in, and jis conversation was directed as
mach to the mother—aud to Frederick, when he was
ihere—as it was to Rose. 4

So they left off rallying the young lady about her vener-
able suitor, and began to consider that his calls were
really intended only as neigliborly visits, and that he came,
as he had said, Only because he was lonely at home and
wastired of his own company. But suddenly all this
changed, for one evening *‘the doctor’ startled Miss Or-
ville exceedingly by asking her to takea driye with him
the next afternoon on Long Island. .

Before the astonished girl could reply, her mother ac-
cepted the invitation in her behalf, assuring Dr. Boson
that the fresh air and a view of the country would be sure
to benefit her, inasmuch asshe had mot been outof the
city in nearly a year.

So Rose, although much embarrassed, accepted the
doctor’s invitation, no longer doubting now that he had
matrimonial designs, and thinking the opportunity at
least a good one to put an end to his pretensions. f

It was in vain that Mrs. Orville @ulogized the good doc-
for on that evening, and Jaid before her daughter the
many advantages which would result from her acceptin
him, }

Rose said it was simply impossible, and the saddened
mother resigned her new hopes witha sigh. Nor did she
heed it, when on the next day she saw ler Gaughter ar-
rayed fcr her drive withoat any extraordinary care.

The doctor did not seem to mind that either; he was in
exuberant spirits for him, and his well-groomed horse
een off as proudly as if he were aware of the unusual

1onor conferred upon him. ‘Tooneof the Brooklyn fer-
ries and across it they went, and then they took the road
to Bath, and an hour later Dr. Boson and Rose were walk-
ing on the beach and Jooking off upon the sea.

“Yon have guessed, Misa Orvyille,’’ he said, after boyish-
ly skipping a few flat stones, on the smooth water—for
Bath has no surf, and sometimes no waves—‘‘you haye
guessed that I had sumething special to say to you???

“N-no—yes, sir,’? replied Rose, liesitating, but not
much frightened; ‘‘but Il really think you had betler not
say it, doctor.’ ;

“Not say itl’? returned Boson, a little @ashed. “Oh, my
dear cilild, do not say that! You have guessed, perhaps,
what it is I would say ??

“I suppose so, doctor.’?

‘Indeed you could hardly have failed todose. You
couid not have failed to- notice my attentions to—to your
excellent mother. They have been somewhat marked,
I believe.”?

‘“Sirl’? replied Rose, insuch overwhelming amazement
thatshe could not possibly disguise it.

The alarmed doctor repeated his words, and in so doing
gave the young lady time to. recover her self-possession
and to think of a polite reply, and one which should not
divulge her mistake.

“I know, of course, that you have made us frequent
friendly visits, which have been very welcome,’ she said,
“but | did not know that they were more than ordinary
social calls.”

“And does not your mother suspect my—my hopes?”?

“Most certainly not, sir.’?

Tie doctor took off his hat, and wiped his reddened
forehead with his. kerehief. He looked most perplexed
aud enibarrassed, but not quite hopeless.

“[ do not understand then why you begged me not t
say it when you did not know what it was Iwas going t
say—when you did not even guess it,’’ he said,

“Oh—I—1.””

“But no matter for that now. It was a joke perhaps,

and I shail be most happy if you do uot discourage me
now, when you do know wkatl want. Il am a_ bashtui
man, as you know, and I really do not think | could bring
myseif to propose to your mother directly. I have taken
this method to find out whether you think she would
marry again, and above all, whether she would marry
me. You are such achild, yousee, I am not afraid to
talk to you. Would it meet with your approbation? Would
you fayor it? Will you propose it to her for me? Will
you 2?
. The doctor spoke so yery earnestiy,-and so rapidiy and
looked so much as @ Mau might be supposed to look who
was standing’in &2 powder magazine, aud saw the match
approaching which was to blow it up, that Rose could not
refrain from laughter, and having once beguu she gave
way to her mirth until its notes rang far and wide along
the beach.

But sie extended her hand frankly to her companion,
and said, between the peals:

“Excuse me, doctor, it is only because you look” so
solemn. I will favor your suit; ana | will propose for
you as you wish, though, of course, I cannot give you any
encouragement, as 1 do not know mother’s views, and I
am sure sie has not the slightest suspicion of your inten-
tions,”?

Doctor Boson was delighted now, though.far from. con-
fident, and he wondered greatly how it was that he had
failed to make himself understood by the handsome
widow, when he had thought all this while that his atten-
tions had been so marked.

He took Rose's offered hand, and shook it
thought he never would release it, saying:

“Tam so much obligeed to you. I—I hope.you will do
your best forme, with your mother who is you over
again.”?

‘rhe doctor’s ideas were getting mixed, but Miss Orville
Was sure that his heart was right, and that he was worthy
of the reputation which he bore for uprightness and amia-
bility.

The subject was still farther discussed by the widower
during the drive home, but he did not go into the house
on tieir return. On the contrary, after helping the young

0
oO

 

lady to alight, he Jumped Into his gig, and drove otf as
rapidiy as if he had been impelled by fear of pursuit, or,
still worse, of hearing a refusal shouted after him.

Rose went into the house laughing—she sat down and
laughed—and every time she attempted to speak, she
iaughed uutil she choked,

“[ think itis very cruei of you, Rose, to make fun of the
mau,?? Said her mother, “It was bad enough to refuse
him.”?

“But, mother—ha! ha! The doctor pro—po—po—ho!
ho!———”?

“Tle proposed, of course,
enough before.’?

“Bat he proposed—ha! hal hal for youl? screamed
Rose, laughing still more violently, and holding both her
sides,

Here was a scene.

Mrs. Orville would not believe it until 1t was several
times repeated, and then she blushed like a girl, and said
how utterly absurd it was, and of course sie never should
marry again.

Bul she acceptéd him the next day to please Rose and
Frederick, she said, who both approved of the match,
aud Doctor Boson was made the happiest of men by re-
ceiving a tiny littie note from Miss Orville as per promise,
informing him of the result of her negotiations,

{TO BE CONTINUED.]

ficial ite

Badly Matched ;

aot GNM,

WOMAN AGAINST WOMAN.

I knew that, Rose, well

By Helen Corwin Pierce,

{“Badly Matched’? was commenced in No. 11. Back numbers
can be obtained from any News Agent in the United States, j

CHAPTER LVII.

Lady Clara Delaney remained at the villa, and as she
retreated indoors after the departure of the best friend
cher hapless life liad ever known, she uttered a low, moau-
ing cry.

“A week—a whole week? Ol!
shall die of fear alone.”?

lt was a singular and lonely situation fora young and
fearful creature like Lady Clara to be left in. Herservants
were, With a single exception, ail Italians, as good and
true as the generality of their class, but no moreso. The
exception Was a littie Eoglish girl, whom Lady Clara had
foundinan utterly friendless situation in Romie, and
though she had never had an atom of experience as a
lady’s maid, being the daughter of an English sea captain
who had died at Rome, Lady Clara fancied her and pitied
her, and insisted on employing and befriending her.

She sent for this girl now to come and Stay by lier.

“I waut one Englisig honest, loving face to jook into,”
she said, plaintively, ‘and I don’t believe Ursula is such a
horrible coward as | am.’

The girl came gladly at the summons. She fairly wor-
shiped the little lady who had befriended her in the fright-
fulforeign city. She was amerry, cheerful -soul by na-
ture, and seeing that Lady Ostara needed cheering, kept
up a chatter that, simple as it was, was better for Lady
Clara than profounder conversation would have been.

When evening came, Lady Clara raug for lights and to
have dinner served in herown room. She had Ursula
Stay after that, and would not even Jet the girl go away to
sleep, So a cot was brought in aud a bed made up for her
there, ‘

Lady Ciara went to bed, but she could not sleep. She
lay tossing and.turning from side to side long after her
companion had passed into dreamland.

The house seémed to her im her nervousness horribly
still.

“| wish Ursula would even snore @ little,” she thought,
as she jay watching the flicker of the lamp on the table.

Suddenly a sound broke the dead sileuce—a sound like
the click of a door latch.

In an instant every nerve in Lady Clara’s body thriilea,
and shelay as still as if turned to acorpse. Only her
eyes moved, and they turned intuitively toward a door
which le@ from this room directly into the garden.
open! She had locked it herself early in the evening, but
it Was Open now. She had barely time to grow chillier,
than before at this. sight, when a figure ‘glided across the
threshold—a figure ima black velvet jacket and wearing
a velvet cap,

It did not need the greenish luster of those strange
eyes, turued glitteringly upon her, to tell Lady Clara who
this midnight-comer was. Some instinct of horror and
aversion always reyealed to her the deadly presence of
her remorseless enemy.

She fell back upon the pillow from which she had half
ifted herself, fainting with terror. She tried to cry our,
torouse the house, to wake Ursula, but she could not
breathe a sound. She was paralyzed with fear.

She saw the disguised widow bend over the sleeping Ur-

that it were over. I

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

her own face, as if in fear of inhaling any of that strange
perfume, whose sickening sweet odor floated even to
where Lady Clara lay. And still she could not move.
Every sense but that of seeiug seemed locked in a trance
of terror,

In a few moments the figure in the velvet jacket ap-
proached Lady Clara’s bed,

The eyes of the wicked widow scintillated with evil light
and eXullalion, as she stood and gazed down upon the
shrinking gir).

“Why don’t you scream or something?’ she sneered.
“T see you know me, aud know what you have to expect.
I’m going to jiave it out with you now for ail the trouble
you’ve made ine, you little white-livered thing, without
‘spiriéenough to figita mouse, How dare you cleat me
so long?”?

Lady Clara drewa long gasping sigh, and her eyes
moved alittie. That was all the sign of life she gave.

“I don’t mind telling you though for your consolation,”
the widow went on, **Lualif you Suvagiled yours hoarse
you wouldn’t be likely to rouse any one, There’s no one
in the house but us !hree, my dear, and you see how s/ie
sleeps—pointing to Ursula, The roar of cannon wouldn’t
wake her now. Therestare off at a festival in the town.”

Another long gasping breath from, Lady Clara, That
was why the house had been so unnaturally still.

“What asoft-hearted, credulous old thing your fine
countess is to be sure, and how greedily she swallowed
dear Percy Arnault’s letter. I don’t mind telling you, my
sweet, thatit was alla hoax. Iwrote that letter. Perey
Armault is notin Veniceatall, Heis somewhere in the
mountains picnicking with some Italian vrigands, to the
pleasure of whose society I had the honor of introducing
him, I found paper, ink and pen in his valise, and his sig-
net one of the robbers borrowed for me from his finger.’’

Lady Clara spoke at jast.

“What will they do with him? she asked in apiteous
voice.

“So you have not lost your tongue then?
ning to think you had.
do with him. Ihope they may roast and eathim, Que
thing is sure—you will never see him again. Come, get
up and dress; I can’t waitany longer. Theservants will
be coming back.’?

I was begin-

 

 

 

dawned,

vas =

Lady Clara wrung her little childish hands together.

“Where are you going to take me?” she pleaded. ‘Did
—did my husband—does Bruce——’’

“Did your husband send me for. you??? sneered the
widow. “Oh, yes, of course he sent me. He wants to
see you uncommon bad. Come, be lively.’

Giastly pale, with her teeth chattering, Lady Clara got

ut of bed.

Mrs, Bazel went toacloset and selected a short black
silk dress for her, and a velvet sacque trimmed with fur.

She had helped Lady Clara on with her clothes. She
put on her shoes for her, and laced them, all the time
Keeping up that sneering fire of taunts.

More dead than alive, Lady Clara submitted silently till
almost the last moment, then she said, recklessly:

“You are not come from Bruce, Mrs. Bazel. I believe
you mean to killme. I believe you want me dead. Look
out that I don’t come back and haunt you. I hope I
ean.”

The widow was not at all superstitions. A person of
steadler nerve it would haye been hard to find, but she
paled a little at that half-crazed outburst.of poor Clara’s.
The uext moment, however, she laughed shrilly:

“You bloody-minded creature how can you talkin that
gpenry way about killing and haunting people?’ she
Sald.

“But you domeanto Kill me.
Casue Udoipho. I was hid in the organ, and I heard you
aud Dorst talking. You hopéd my husband would kill
me when I discovered his secret; and youmeant the horse
you seut mefrom London should run away with me.
Then you furnished poisoned paper for my rooms at Cy-
press Cottage, and you tried to poison mehere. Don’t
you think, Mrs, Bazel, that it looks as if it was not a very
easy matier to kill me, poor little silly coward as lam?
I'm awfully afraid of you, 1 ‘know, but with all your clev-
erness aud boldness, with all your contriving and plot-
ling, you hayen’t made out to Kill me yet, and maybe you
wou’7t.”?

The bold and unscrupulous widow was fastening the
buttons of Lady Cilara’s sacque as she gave utterance to
this singular and for her lengthy and seusible speech. She
stopped and stared at herin amazement. Where did the
little coward get spirit enough to all at once say such dar-
ing things? For the first time she began -to wonder if
there was not some invisible and awiul Power that had
and could protect this frail creature from ali her machina-
lions, For the first time in her life, perhaps, something
like fear smote this Woman to whom fear was unknown.

‘“T should think you would take all these failures as a
sort of warning,’? Lady Clara went on, With that mixture
of childishnuess and audacity which was so strange,

Her enemy Jaughed.

“A warning! Of what pray?”

Lady Clara lifted her dark blue eyes solemnly.

“A warning to let me alone for fear of trouble to your-
self..? Mrs. Bazel langhed again.

“J'll risk it, any way,’’ she said.

She took Lady Ciara by the arm and Jed her unresist-
ingly to the door which led through the garden, and by
which she had entered.

“One of your own servants unlocked this door for me
when he brought in your dinner to-night, He thoughtI
was a lover of yours.’?

And Mrs. Bazel laughed again.

Atthe door Lady Clara stopped and hung upon the
shoulder of lier cruel enemy.

“Oh, let me liye, Mrs. Bazell’’ she begged, piteously,
“and I will forgive you everything. Let me live, and I
will go and hide myself where noone can possibly find
me. You may give out that I am dead, and J will never
contradict you.. You may marry Bruce, and I will never
come near you, orlet anyone guess wholam. What
have I ever done to you that you should want my life so?
Think -what it is todie. You must die yourself some
time, and then you will wish you had spared me.” .

With a savage wrench Mrs. Bazel tore those clinging
little hands from her shoulder. For a moment it was even
her impulse to strike the pretty, white face of her intend-
ed victim.

“There siall be noslip this time,’* she had said to her-
self. ‘I will take Clara Delaney where no ofe can inter-
rupt till allis over. Then I will wait till she sleeps, and
drop between ler lips one of Manzoni's precious globuies.,
If Ll am even seen with her or traced, they will not look
for me, but for a young fellow in a velvet cap and jacket.
Beside, tliere will not be likely to be any suspicion of foul
play. Manzoni said the symptoms were like those of
heart disease.’?

This was why the bold and cruel woman was taking her
victim away with her. She had taken possession of a
lonely, deserted hut near the seashore, and she calculated
upon beiug able to finish her awful work before morning

CHAPTER LVIII.

It was Victor, the acrobat, who was shot. He was
killed almost iustantly. He had mistaken the window,
and helped the wrong man to escape. The name of this
man was Steven Prowl. He was to betried at the com-
ing sessions for housebreaking. He had obtained a file
somehow, and by slow degrees had severed the bars of
his window, and was all prepared to make the attempt to
escape when the stone discharged by Victor entered his
roou.. He immediately conéiuded a confederate had
come to his aid, and in the darkness and storm explana-
tions were not to be expected. Steven Prowl reaclied the
ground outside the prison waitin safety, and, just as the
fatal shot struck Victor, was speeding off into the dark-
ness as-fast as his legs couligperry him.

As it chanced, he went { the left because it looked
gioomier iu‘that direction, which was just the way Car-
roll Beauchamp had bidden Vershon go.

Beauchamp was wailing néar, as he had promised, with
aclose carriage, and heaving the firing ran forwardin
great alarm to see if Version were hurt. He met Steven
Prowl running, and in the darkness easily mistook him
for Vershon.

“This way,’? he said, eagerly. “I have been waiting
more than au hour. ‘The carriage is:ciose by.”

You meant it there at

 

 

twas |

sula, Aud hold something to her nostrils while sue averied |

l don’t Know or care what they |

Steven Prowl had beguu to suspect that lhe was profit-
ing by some chance not intended for him, but he held his
peace and suffered the deceived Beauchamp to conduct
him to the waiting carriage. Once their hands touched,
and without knowing why the escaped housebreaker
shuddered as if he had touched the fingers of a corpse.

“You will find food and wine in a basket inside,’’ Beau-

| champ said, as he held the door of the close carriage open

for the other to enter. ‘We shail be several hours in
reaching our destination.”’

Steven Prowl entered the carriage without speaking.
Beauchamp closed the door carefully and mounted the
box. Ashe gathered the reinsin his Laud a sort of groan
burst from his lips.

“T wish it was over,’? he muttered.
dure the time till it is over.”?

He drove off at a sharp pace.
got down from the box. ,

“He may be still suspicious,” he said as he did this. “I
should have taken some of the food also, to deceive him.”

He opened the carriage and asked for-a piece of the cold
chicken and a bottleof wine, saying it was a bitter bad
night and he felt the need of food.

As he took what he had asked for from Steven Prowl,
he staggered and almost fell. “He. had detected the scent
of the wine on the man’s breath. He had already eaten
and drank of the treacherous contents of the basket.
Flinging away the wine and meat he banged the door of
the.carriage shut again, and remounted the box, shudder-
ing more than before.

“It will soom be over now,’’ he said, clenching his teeth
and lashing the horses into a furious gallop,

Some twenty miles away from the city Carroll Beau-
champ had @ smail estate, on which there was a kiln for
burning lime. Jt was toward this estate he was directing
his way. It was near morning when he reaciied his des-
tination, and since that one interchange of speech with
the occupant of the carriage he had not spoken with him.
The carriage drew up in the shadow of a wall a few paces
from the lime kiln, and Carroll Beanchamp descended
from his seat and looked about him. No one wasiu sigit.
The Jime-kiin even was deserted by the man Whose duly
it was to watch it. Lord Beauchamp had hired him to be
absent.

The wicked nobleman stood and peered about him in
the darkness guillily. Then he approached the carriage
slowly. He dared not linger. What he had to do must
be done quickly and at once.

He undid the fastening of
sudden wrench, drew it open.

“Were we are, Delaney,’ he said, in a forced and un-
natural voice.

There was no answer.

Shudderipg violenuy, he leaned forward and Jelé- within
the carriage.

He found what he sought. The wretch who had en-
tered it a few hours before, full of life aud hope, was now
a stiffened corpse. ;

Carefully averting his face, Carroll
this thing forth.

it was as much ashe could do to lift it out,
was a powerful man,

Setting his teeth hard, and witha cold perspiration
streaming from his face..he now essayed to drag his bur-
den up the ascent to the crater of the jime-kiln.

The night. was very dark, but the glow of tie furnace
Within showed at that gaping mouth.

Carroll Beauchamp fasteued his eye there, and laboréd
on with setlips, A few steps more and he stood looking
down upon that bed of fire,

His deep-set eyes gleamed with exultation as he looked.
Then with an awful shudder he drew forward the body
he had dragged up the hill fromthe carriage, and care-
fully looking away, toppled it over into the sea of flame
below.

“That brand will never betray me now.’’? he muttered,
as. he retraced his steps.

“How shall I en-

Suddenly lie stopped and

the door, and then, with a

Beauchamp drew

though he

—ooe

CHAPTER LIX.

Jt. was very late when Mr. Danvers returned home that
night after going with Sir John Frobish to see Vershon,
alias Delaney. But late as it was, Vida Chandos was still
up and waiting to hear the result,

The girl was very pale between anxiety and watching
so jate, but the lawyer almost started at the brilliancy of
her beauty. He could see that herlips were quivering
With suspense, so he to!d his story in the fewest possible
words—all the events of the day since he had parted with
herin the morning. He described his interview with
Carroll Beaucleaamp, he told of his call upon Sir John
Forbish, and the subsequent yisitto the prison to see
Vershon.

“And the scar was there?
self??? Vida exciaimed, eagerly.
must settle everything.’?

The lawyer did not contradict her; he did not tell her
the clever story with which Yershou’s wonderful inyen-
tive powers had enabled him to delude Sir John Frobish.
Neither did he tell her he had no prospect of getting Doyst

You saw the brand your-
“Oh, thank Heayen! that

 

permission to testify as queen’s evidence. He was RQ

 

an r

of misgiving. He had a presentiment that Vershon, alias
Delaney, would make them a great deal of trouble yet.

He had learned another fact during the day which he
concealed from Miss Chandos. The convict ship was to
sail the following Monday, and unless Sterne Beauchamp
could be absolutely proven to be himself and not Vershon
nothing could hinder his being shipped back to Van Die-
man’s Land, and the necessary action after that must be
very protracted and tedious,

He kept a cheerful and sanguine face to Vida, however,
and sent her to her bed almost happy. Long before she
was up in the morning the lawyer was to his office.

Arrived there, he found a note waiting for him, early as
i was, and the note was from Sir Johu Frobish, It ran
thus: :

“Come round and see me as soonas you getthis. There
isa@ man here from Van Diemau‘'s Land who says he
knows the real Vershon as well as he does his own face.
This lucky circumstance Will greatly expedite matters, I
imagine,”?

Mr. Danvers? face flushed.

“I don’t know what this means so soon,’? he said, and
crumpling the note into his pocket, he ran out of iis office
With a precipitation and haste his oldest clerk had never
seen him exhibit before.

AS he entered the magistrate’s private office Sir John
Frobish was conversing With @ man, the first sight of
whose large, flabby features, and pale, deep set eyes
struck the lawyer unpleasantly.

Sir John Frobish rose from his chair, smiling, with an
air of soft exultation.

“Mr, Danvers,” he said, waving his hand gently toward
the stranger, ‘this is Dr. Bemis, who was in charge of
the prison hospital at Launceston, Van Diemen’s Land,
when Vershon was there.”

Dr. Bemis bowed stiffly; the lawyer stared, and his
heart sank,

This was the man of whom he had heard Beauchamp
speak as hating him—as having done all he could during
that bitter time when he was trying to obtain his identi-
fication to hinder him. ‘This was the wretch who had
struck the sick man as he lay in bed, and whom Sterne had
found strength to half strangle in return for the insult.

Thelawyer did not take his eyes from Dr. Bemis’ face,
as he bowed to him mechanically.

“He looks capable of anything,” he said to himself, as
he watched the expression of the cold, pale eyes.

Dr. Bemis was a short, small man, with a very dispro-
portionately Jarge head, and large, flat features. His
eyes, on the Contrary, were small, and so deep set and
pale, beside being near together, as to give him a most ex-
traordinary expression. The whole aspect of the man
was, mean, hard and cruel.

The lawyer's heart sank lower and lower. It was evi-
dent this man had got Sir John Frobish’s ear, and that
his testimony would be directly against Sterne Beauchamp
he had searcely a doubt.

“Ahem!? said the lawyer, cautiously.
of you, Dr. Bemis.”

““Ah,’? smiled the gentleman, the smile half a sneer.

“You were not at Launceston, I believe, at the time Ver-
shon was branded for trying to escape, and half murder-
ing one of the prison guards in the attempt?’’

“I did not see him branded—no,*

“You did not see him—you never did see him before
that time?’ persisted the lawyer. ‘‘Vershon broke from
the men who were holding him, and snatched the brana-
ing iron from his torturer. He used this weapom so
effectually that he managed to force his way out of the
prison, and made his escape to the woods. It wasa week
before the soldiers who were looking for him returned to
the prison. You had come in that interval, and when the
manu whom these soldiers had broughtin was shown to
you, it was the first time you had ever seen him. Is this
not so???

The Jawyer spoke with considerable passion
ness.

Dr. Bemis’ leaden face took a sicklier pallor as he hesi-
tated. Sir John Frobish looked at him in surprise.

“IT am not in the witmess-box yet,’* Bemis said.
don’t choose to answer you, Mr. Danyers.”’

The tawyer’s eyes flashed.

“You dare not answer me in the negative. You know
that you never saw the face of the man they called Ver-
shon until he was brought to you in the hospital almost
dead, and so beaten and bruised that it would have been
impossible for the persons who had Known him best to
recognize a single feature of his face. If you swear to
anything different from this, Dr. Bemis, you will perjure
yourself, and the English law is seyere on the crime of
perjury, as you may be aware.”

Dr. Bemis bowed again, more stiffly than before.

“IT sha'n’t perjure myself, Mr. Danvers,’ he said, with
his disagreeable smile. ‘*Whatever I swear to, when the
time comes, there’ll be plenty others ready to swear to, if
you choose to send after them.’? And then turning to Sir
John Frobish. ‘lam at your service, SirJohn. Idon’t
care to be cross-questioned beforehand by this lawyer.”?

The lawyer stepped in front of him.

“Do you mean to swear that the man who wasin your
charge three years at Launceston, and who always, as
soon as he came out of that long unconsciousness, called
himself Sterne Beauchamp—the man you struck in the

ace, like a coward, while he lay sick, but, thank Heaven!
not quite helpless—the man who, sick as he was, was
roused by the insult to strength enough to nearly throttle
the miserabie life out of you—do you mean to swear, of
your own knowledge, that this man is the convict, Ver-
shon?’ }

Dry Bemis’ flabby face flushed a slow purplish hue—
something as it might have done when Sterne Beau-
champ’s fingers clenclied his throat. He looked at the
lawyer steadily and insolently a moment,

“T do mean it!’—with an oath. ‘Now, then, what???

The lawyer looked him back as steadily a level glance
ofscorn and contempt, that made even this villain wince
and drop his eyes. Then he turned to Sir John,

“When does this matter come up ??

The magistrate hesitated am nt.

“Dm willing to give you all tl ne possible, Danvers,”?

“Timel’? echoed Danvers, passionately—“‘the convict-
pie pats on Monday—it’s got to come up before that
day.’ ’

“When shall it be?’

‘Phe sooner the better—to-morrow.”

At this moment &@ man entered the room with a note
for Sir Jolin, It was from the governor of the prison they
had visited the night before. It brought the news that
two prisoners had attempted to escape in the night. One,
a lhousebreaker, named Prowl, had succeeded; the other,
the man Delaney, who was in prison on a charge of mur-
der, had fallen fifty feet upon @ paved court, and been
killed instantly.

As Sir John, after a pause, read out the note, a sick
blankness passed over Danvers’ face. He suppressed a
groan as he turned away.

“Tl expected he’d escape,’? he said to himself, as he
quitted the magistrate’s presence, ‘*but I didn’t expect it
would be such an escape as this, Hvyen the King of Ter-
rors joins against poor Beauchamp. Idare say Vershon’s
face is bruised out of recognition, and if it Isn’t, how is he
to be identified after he’s dead and buried? It increases
our difficulties tenfold. Carroll Beauchamp will doubtless
be ready to swear to the dead man now as his nephew,
and here is that villain, Bemis, ready to swear that Sterne
is Vershon. It’s enough to drive even a lawyer out of his
inind. But Vil fight them to the death. pat attempt to
escape Ought to convince anybody which is Vershon.”?

“T have heard

and eager-

acy

i

CHAPTER LX.

Not one feeling of compunction or remorse visited Mrs.
Bazel as she looked in Lady Clara’s young and, innocent
face, Slie never faltered in her frightful undertaking when
the poor Child pleaded for her life so piteously., She was
selfish, unprincipled and vicious to her heart’s core. It
weuld have been impossible for her to feel sorrow or pity
for any one but herself.

But Neniesis was onthe wicked woman's track already.
She had forgotten Ursula orelse She had imagined that
the stupor into which she had thrown the young girl
would jast longer than it did,

As she passed out into the darkness. wilh her savage
grip fastened relentlessly upon Lady Clara’s arm, Ursula
slipped from her couch. Shehad been awake aud listen-
ing Lo this strange scene some moments,

Fortunately she had lain down in a woolen wrapper,
aud had not removed her stockings, thinking Lady Clara
might want her to get up for something in the night.

Lady Clara had said truly that Ursula was not such a
coward as herself. The girl was very courageous, and
possessed some cleverness,

Without stopping now for shoes, and thanking her stars
that she had kept on her wrapper, and that it was of dark
cloth, she stole toward the doot, and guided by the sound
of their steps only, followed Mrs, Bazel.and her prey as
noiselessly as a cat, ‘

The thick darkness favored her, for if she had looked
back, Mrs, Bazel could not have distinguished her in the
obscurity.

The wicked woman was not to succeed in her abomin-
able task without fearful risk to herself.

As she followed the two, Ursula revolyed the situation
in hermind. She had overheard enough to guess that
murder was intended, but She had no suspicion that Lady
Clara’s strange aud cruel captor was not a man.

“ll see where he takes her,’? she said to herself, ‘‘and
then I'll run to the city for help. I can’t talk Italian much,
but I know a few words, andl think I can manage to
make some one understand me enough to come to my
sweet lady’s help.’?

She watched Mrs. Bazel and Lady Clara inside the lone-
ly lint, and ascertained by peeping through a crack in the
crazy Wall that there wasa fire inside, and on a rude
couch were spread some clean blankets, to whic! Mrs.
Bazel motioned her half-dead companion,

“You can Jie down there and sleep‘till morning if you
like,” she heard the disguised widow say, and saw Lady
Clara Jift her heavy eyes with a look of startled wonder
and awful questioning,

The widow met that look without blenching, and then
going to one corner of the hut, produced a bottle of wine
and a glass with which she approached the hapless girl.

“You lad better drink this,’? she said, pouring a glass
of the wine; “‘it will help you to sleep.”

With a sudden and most unexpected movement, Lady
Clara struck both the glass and botule from her hand.
They fell on the stone Moor and were shivered to frag-
ments,

The widow laughed queerly.

“Did you think it was poison, my sweet? Very well,
sleep withoutitif youcau, min no hurry to put an
end to your silly little existence. You are welcome to get
all the sleep you can out of to-night.’’

Lady Clara at first refused to Jie down at all. She sat
up onthe pile of blankets shivering and staring with
blank, awfully despairing looks in the fire, till Mrs, Bazel
said to her:

“If Thad any special interest in your sleeping, you
know very well I could stupefy you in two minutes just
as I did that girl of yours,”

bh

 

Then Lady Clara, worn out with her sufferings, per-
mitted her head to droop to the couch, but not to sleep.
She thought there was not the least possibility of her
falling asleep under the terrible circumstances, but Mrs.
Bazel knew better. It was near two o’clock now, and
nature would insist on a little indulgence from this ehild
of Jjuxury, and in spite of her terrors Lady Clara slept.

“Now is my time,’? thought the widow at last, moving
from the shadowy corner where she had been lurking
Waiting for this.

She looked like aghost, so white her face was, as she
came forward to the fire, and stood gazing gloomily down
at the sleeper.

Ursula had gone in the direction of the city long before
this. It was a strange story she had to tell, but she had
faith that some oné would }isten.

Lady Clara had falleninto the grasp of slumber while
she was resisting it; but she was too much the child of
pleasure to be unhappy in her dreams evennow. In her
sleep she forgot even her terrors. She smiled and mur-
mured a name, and oddly enough, the name she smiled
over in herinnocent forgetfulness, was her husband’s
false name—Bruce.

“Can she love him still?’? wondered Mrs. Bazel, passing
her left hand over her death-white face.

The right grasped the gold-stoppered vial which Man-
zoni had given her.

There Were three globules init. She dropped one into
the palm of her hand. It was very smalland transparent,
and looked like a drop of water.

Then she approached Lady Clara, taking the tiny pilt
between ler fingers, and stooping, watched for the resy
lips to part once,more that she might insert death between
them. They opened alittle. Lady Clara said distinctly
and pityingly, ‘Poor Bruce.’? Her enemy started, and
dropped the colorless globule,

*Really,’? thought the widow, "I must be getting ner-
vous. | have only two left now, forit would be hopeless
to think of finding that here.”?

But she groped a moment on the stone floor neverthe-
less, and could not help thinking of what Lady Clara had
said about the ‘failures’ she had madein her cruel un-
dertaking before now.

“I won’t Jose another if I have to hold her while I put it
into her mouth,’”? she said to herself, with a hard look in
the greenish blue eyes; and having secured the last but
one of the crystals, she once more approached the sleeper-

At the couch she stopped, and the same gloomy look
came back On her handsome, wicked face.

‘1 wonder,’ she said to herself, “if there is any pain. #
wish I had asked Manzoni if it caused any Ssuifering. #
believe it would scareeven me to see her writhe, ane
Know thatit was the death struggle. Hard asI am, &
never liked to see any one die. I certainly should not like
to see thisone. It would make me imagine afterwar@
that she was haunting me, justas she said she would if
she could. How strangely she talked to me. I did not
know she had such spirit. Once I was almost afraid of
her. And what was that she said about a warning ???

She mused a moment more. Then the cruel sneer again
crept to her white lip.

“[llrisk it; I’ve taken too good precautions to be-
caught. Now, then, it’s only a second’s work, with’
steady hand.’?

Not a muscle quivered this time. It was a steady, hard
eye that watched the next parting of those rosy lips. The
fingers were like steel that dropped the tiny death-con-
taining sphere between those little milk-white teeth.

Jt was done, and at the momenta gray shadow swept
up into the face of the murderess. She turned as if to
flee. Bold and wicked as she was for any deed, ana
though she had vowed to herself that she would see the
ending of this poor litue life this time without any mis-
take, she lacked the nerve to stand coolly by at the lass
and watch her victim die. :

“I think Vl go outside and wait,” she said, shaking
like a leaf.

But when she had got asfaras the miserable door of:
her crazy shelter she stopped as suddenly as if she had:
been shot.

“What if she should scream ?’?

She looked back. The sleeper had not stirredj but she
fancied she saw a sort of convulsive motion pass over the
sweet, white face.

“I shall have to go and stay by her till all is over,” she
said, her own face convulsing with an awe aud horror
such as it had never known before.

She forced herself to go back and stand near where she
couid watch every change in the innocent face, whigh she
imagined had already grown fearfully deathlike.

There was a fire, but it was getting low now, and the
single candle on therude shelf above gave but a strag-
gling ray. In that half obscurity the faces of both watcher
and watched wore a strangely set and ghostly appearance.
To the cold-blooded plotter, whose end was so nearly ac-
complished, this uncertain light, this rise and retreat of
shadowy effects, was simply horrible. But she was a
creature of, iron nerve, and she forced herself to endure
it. But suddenly a thought more fearful than any that
had gone before crossed her. She seemed to hear Lady
Clara’s voice saying:

aie Ican come back and haunt you, and I will if f
can.

Whatif she could? What if such things could be?

Mrs. Bazel was not superstitious, but her thoughts kept
recurring to that wishoef the hapless. girl with a frightfnt
fascination.

The light in theroom grew dimmer.
netism seemed on the watcher. The other Jay death-
ly still. The murderess was almost as still. The
gloom of the room -seemed to be creeping up near and
nearer to the two, and icy chills began to pervade the alr.

‘Twice the widow shivered.

‘“{ wonder if she is dead!’ she asked herself, with an
irrepressible shudder}; and, aftersome moments of awful
shrinking, she leaned nearer and turned her ear to listen
for the breathing which she hoped had stopped forever.

Her eyes by chance dwelt at this moment on the darkest
corner of the dim room.

Whiat was that rising out of the thickest of the gloom ?
A face?—the face of the girl she had murdered ?

Slowly it rose up, its great, wide, pale blue, ghostly
eyes staring at her glassily.

The widow tried to call it imagination, to struggle with
the evidence of her own senses; but there it was—a face
without a form, @ dim, ghostly, awful white face.

“She is dead, then, and this is her ghost!? she thought.
sae should I be more afraid of that than I wag of.

rer ??

But she grew colderand colder. Her limbs seemea@
turning to stone, her tongue to stiffen in her mouth. In
spite of her efforts to retain her senses, her really wonder-
ful hardiood deserted her in this supreme moment. She
was conquered literally by terror, and in the very act of
trying to move, to go toward that which scared her so,
she felllike a Jog upon tlie stone floor and Jay there.

For the first time in her Jife she had fainted,

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

A sort of mag-

~

ITEMS OF INTEREST,

xa~'The paraphernalia of an Indian recently
killed on Devil’s river. by a party of stockmen has been exhib-
ited at San Antonio, Texas, Mr. Johm Patterson being. the man
who assisted the Indian to shuffle off this mortal coil. The tray |
pings consist of a head-dress of feathers, beads, etc., to which w
trail of red flannel wasattached, adorned with eagle feathers,
and long enough to have swept the ground. Itis a. gorgeous
piece of architecture. ‘The shield: has several buckskin cover-
ings, very artisticallyarranged with plumes, stuffed birds, and a
little buckskin figure of a man, which is supposed to be an idof.
In the middie of the shield dangles. the flaxen scalp of a white
girl, worked in with beads and tied up with blue ribbon, like the
braid of a school-girl,

ka The ¢fforts of Prof, Leonard to obtain pos-
session of the fragments of the great meteor of February 12,
which fellin Iowa township, Iowa county, Iowa, have been
crowned with very flattering success. The portions found aggre-
gate about 125 pounds, of which he has secured over 100.. The
meteor does not appearito have consisted of asingle body, but of
twenty or more separate bodies grouped around a central mass,
whose weight was forty or fifty pounds, The pieces were scat-
tered over aregion aboutfour mileslong by one and three-
quarter miles in breadth.

4a>- The increase in the cultivation of beet-root
in Europe forthe manufacture of sugar is said to be causing
great loss to the cane-sugar plantersin Cuba, who have been at
an enormous outlay for machinery and labor to produce the fine
class of sugar that 1s exported from thence. Should the Euro-
pean manufacture and consumption of beet-sugar go on increas-
ing asit has done during the past four. years, serious changes are
are in the cane-sugar productions all over the West
ndies,

ka Rev. Dr, Halley, Pastor of: the Third Presby-
terian Church in Albany, Jately completed his fiftieth year of
service as a Christian minister, twenty. of which have been
passed in Albany, He preacheda sermon appropriate to the
oceasion, representations from all the city churches being pres-
ent. The sermon, from. the text, “I was young:but now am old,’?
was a characteristically fervent and eloquent effort.

ya~ A dentist in: Portland, Me., lately hada call
from aman who wassuffering from toothache. Gas was admin-
istered, and the dentist luid. hold of the aching tooth, when all at
once {he man arose and went forhim. Thedentist seized a chair
todefend himself, and called for help. About this time the man
“came fo,” and after an explanation allowed the dentist to ex-
tract the tooth, which he did, but without the aid of the gas.

4a- A new marine aquarium ona large scale is
about to be constructed in London, The site chosen is.apposite
the Broad Sanctuary aud: the Westminister Hotel. The design
comprises a summer and winter garden, a concert hall, refresh-
ment rooms, etc. The aquarium proper is to be 600 feet long and
240 feet wide, the largest tank being capable of holding no less
than 600,000 gallons of water.

kar M. Guizot’s library, an admirable selection of
books, atthe recent sale did not fetch the price it ought. Parisian
collectors are reported to be more anxious about the outside than
the inside of the books they buy, whereas Louis Philippe’s fa-
mous Prime Minister was just the reverse,. A fine collection of
French newspapers was bought tor the Congressional Library at
Washington,

4a The Board of Education of the City of Sacra-
mento, Cal., has adopted a resolution, by avote of five to two,
admitting a little Chinese girl to one of the primary schools in
that city. The girl in question is about eight years old, was born
in California, and has resided there continuously since her birth.

xa@- The sword and military trappings worn by
the gallant Capt. Davis, of Acton, Mass., who fell while leading
the column afthe battle of Concord, will be exhibited at the
Centennial celebration.in Philadelphia.

ka Before General Spinner retires, July 1, the
nimble-fingered money counters of the United States Treasury
will be called upon to count every centin the yault, amounting
to over a hundred million dollars.

4a Germany’s military forces, including those of
Bavaria, comprise at this moment 31,830 officers, 1,329,600 men,
314,970 horses, 2,700 field and 820 siege pieces of cannon,

sa A genuine palmettotree, the growth of South
Carolina, was displayed to admiring eyes at the recent Centen-
nial anniversary of the battle of Lexington, Mass,

kas Seven members of the House of Representa-
tives of Pennsylvania, elected last November, have recently
died. Four passed away before the meeting of the Legislature

 

¢

 

§
—_ ©

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

MAY-MORNING MUSINGS.

BY ADA ROWENA CARNAHAN,

Here let me linger, in this grove,
And rest beneath its shadow;

The robins blithely sing above,
The larks sing in the meadows.

A wealth of blossoms on the air
A wealth of sweets is throwing;
Against the gnarled roots everywhere,
Anemones are blowing.

The blue-eyed violets peer out
From all the thorny hedges,

And trailing May flowers cling about
The rough and rocky ledges.

The sky of May is deeply blue,
The sun of May is*shining,

And even the clouds have caught a hue
Of silver from their lining.

Ah, if our eyes were not so blind
In all life’s thorny places

And stony pathways, we might find,
I think, some tender graces!

Ah, if our eyes were not so blind
When clouds grow dark and lowery,
I think that we might see, behind
The gloom, the golden giory!
© heart of mine! in life’s hard way
Small beauty recognizing,
In such a wood, on such a day,
Tis easy moralizing.
But if I cannot see the stn,
Thick clouds from me dividing,
And if I cannot see e’en one
Fiowers ’mong the rough rocks hiding.

Then, O my God, my thanks are Thine
For faith that gives the knowing;
The hidden sun is still ashine,
And hidden flowers are growing.

Then, O my God, I give my love
For love that gives to mortals

Some glimpses of the world above—
Such days, the open portals!

JUDGE NOT.

» BY CLIO STANLEY.

Ihave chosen this title for theskefch Iam about to
write, because I believe we should be better Christians
ourselves if we remembered at all times that there isa
spark of Divinity in every hamanu being, however low he
may have fallen, and that a word of real kinduess may
effect what looks of scorn can never do,

dt was a delightful day in June—a day when life budded

-@ha biossomed in the meadow-grasses, burst into song in
the throats of the robius and yellow birds, and throbbed
with pleasant vigor in the veins of humanity! A day
made for enjoyment; and nowliere was its sweet gaiely

»more fully feit than in Dinorah Estlin’s little parlor,

2 bre She sat like a queen, surrounded by her loyal sub-

ects,

There was an indefinable charm in her presence, setting
her apart from that group of fair girls who had been her
playmates from childhood; she was self-reliant, yet ten-
der; proud, yet with ail the grace of humility underlying
her pride; a sort of princess lo those who loved her, but
a& very loving wonan to those whom she loved.

To-day she was radiant; her dark bine eyes were spark-
ling with glad, good humor; her rippling, gold-brown
hair, tied back with agay velvet ribbon, and falling, a
niiss of light and shadow, over her peach-bloom cheeks;
a overpay rare loveliness blossomiug in holiday splen-

ors!

. Next her, and resting her hand lightly on her knee, was
Vioia Wetherbee, a gay little coquetie, whose varying
moods were her chiefest charm.

Agnes Lorton, with her gray eyes, full of dreams, bent
lovingly on the face of her friend; and Josie Lansden,
who was making preparations to be married, and was, in
consequence, eure thoughtful than usual, completed the

roup.
“Well?” said Dinorah, her face growing a shade paler
as she waited fur the rest of the siory Viola had beeu tell-

“He was drunk,’ continued Viola, with a bard look
ee the beautiful mouth, *tand found his way into our

ouse by mistake, inquiriag for you, Dinorah!?

“For mel’? she exclaimed, iu utter surprise.
not Know the man!’

“I suppose you have forgotten that he was introduced
to you one evening last winter at Mrs. Lambert's. That
was the night when you talked with Doctor Franke, aud
grew so eloquent on woman’s missiou—to reciaim the
wancerer. He heard you, doubtless,’’ said Viola, withan
odd iitile laugh, “thought you kind-liearted, aud perhaps
wanted to borrow——""

**Hush, Vio! said Agnes, laying her hand lightly above
the red lips that were so carelessly letting slip words for
which she might some day besorry. “Gerald Norman is,

_ I believe, the victim of circumstances. I know that he
used to indulgein wines and other liquors, but he has

- been trying to get rid of the dreadful habit. For more
than a year I have not seen him intoxicated.”

. “But you don’t see him always,” returned Viola, who
was always a littie shy of Agues Horton’s goodness.

“Of course not,’? said Agnes, meeting Viola’s eyes with
a bright, brave luok. ‘But you forget he is bookkeeper
in the house in which my father is senior partner, and I
am quile sure father thinks he isin earnest. He prophe-
sies that with a little kind encouragement he will make a
good man. And why should not we be first to give it?”

“Pour goodness is above reproach, Agnes; but it would
never do for me to be friendly with hin when the whole
town is riuging with the story of his folly. If you put out
your white hand people will ouly say: ‘Al, charity covers
Beet of sins,’ but if J only look at him, smilingly,

rs. Grundy will lift her hands, and say so pathetically,
‘Didn't I tell you sol Birds of a feather flock together.’ ”

It was Josie Lansden who spoke next, when the merry

. Jaugh, which Viola had raised at her own expense, sub-
sided.

“Girls,” she said, whirling the diamond engagement
ring on her dainty forefinger, ‘‘and dear little Queenie,”
turning to Dinoralh with a pod oi her head, “Z think if we
were married, we should none of us like our husbands to
fraternize with Gerald Norman, lest they too might be
tempted into a drunken frolic; and so 1 say we ought to
discourage his advances. What do you say, Queenie?’?

“There is a fable about a maiden who worea white
dress and handled coals,” said Dinorah Estiin, “and,
while we are none of us above reproach, let us keep our-
selves free from suspicion. Let Gerald Norman prove
himsel{ a gentleman before he seeks our society!”

Her words were a trifle more distinct than usual, and
there was an expressive silence alter them. Ff

The windows were thrown open, the heavy silk curtains
louped back to let in the sweet suinmer air and sunshine,
and at the sound of a step on the walk every one turned
toward the window justin time to see Gerald Norman
eae the house, his face pale as death, and a dreary

ind of smile on his lips,

Josie Lansden drew back into the shadow, Agnes
blushed and dropped her eyes, Dinorah looked steadily
into the brown eyes that for one moment met her own,
while Viola Weatherbee, springing from one mood into
the opposite, leaned carelessly forward to drop her hand-
Kercliief at young Norman’s feet.

He evidently saw the dainty thing as it fluttered down
tothe pavement, but did not stoop totouchit. Viola
even thought he put his foot upon it.

“That’s the mark of a gentieman, isn’t it??? she said,
With a little cloud of anger in her eyes. “Il don’t know
another man who would refuse to pick up my handker-
chief if it fell at his feet.’

“Perhaps he recognized the fact that it did not fall
there,’? said Dinorah. ‘Don’t be pettish, Vio! You know
you deserved it for your inconsistency.”

“Well,’’ she said, slowly, ‘‘we have heard your decision,
Queenie, and hereafter I do not acknowledge his acquaint-
aucel

There was nota single protest, but with a new gravity
on her fair face, Dinorah Estlin bade her girl friends
good-by that allernoon and went away io sit and ponder
in her quiet little room.

“I wonder if I did right?’ she asked herself a dozen
times that night, ‘There is such a difference in our posi-
tions, perhaps | ought not to judge him. Iam rich, have
a happy home, and surrounded by good influences, and
have no wish denied, while Gerald Norman is poor, has
neither mother nor home, has fulse friends who seek to
lead him in the wrong way, and has, at the best, to deny
himself of many of the comforts of life. Is it fair that I
should sit in judgment on his actions ?*

It wasn’t fair, and she knew it, but she took twoor
three days to think about it, and at theend of that time
learned that Gerald Norman had withdrawn from his situ-
ation, which was both honorable and lucrative, and had
left ire place,

*

“But Ido

* * * * »

Two years afterward she was visiting at her uncle’s
house in Philadeiphia—and going out to church one Sab-
bath morning came face to face with the man she had
never quite forgotten,

She scarcely hesitated before she stood before him hold-
ing out her hand. ;

if any one had told her ten minutes before that she
would have stopped in the street and offered her hand to
a drunkard, with the wish that he should take it, she
would probably have laughed at the idea.

She had a vague feeling that she someliow had been the
cause of this man’s fall into poverty and disgrace, and
that consciousness made her less sensitive than she
Would have been at another time to her surroundings.

“Mr. Norman,” she said, at length, “I think I owe you
an apology. 1 spoke cruelly and thoughtlessiy of you once,
and have been sorry for it ever since.’’

He stared curiously in her face without speaking.

“Don’t inisunderstand me,” she said, wilh a littie trem-
ulo iu her voice; “1 am speaking to yon as I would speak
to a friend whom 1 had injured. 1 donot know if lam
answerable for your folly, but 1 would like to help you to
forget it.”

‘Miss Estlin,’’ he said, finally, when the mist had floated
away from his brain, ‘‘for Heaven's sake don’t stand
there and talk to mel Don’t you see 1 am in rags—a beg-
gar, fit only to be in the gutter?”

>

“I see no such thing,’ she replied, with a sweet serious-
ness. “It is 1 that am the beggar, for Lam going lo ask
you to take me to church.”

“You don’t mean that ?” he said, turning his face to-
ward her, white with a new-found hope.

Dinorah was almost frightened when she saw that look,
ut she would not leave him in doubt.

“J mean that L want to help youin any way!lcan. IfI
discouraged you once, let me give you encouragement
now.”

“Thauk you,’ he said. “If you will go on alone, I will
come and sit us near youas Idare, Perhaps next Sab-
bath I may come to your door and ask you to walk with
me.*?

Dinorah was very proud herself, and she understood
just what he /elt.

She walked quickly on, and, entering the church, took
& seat near the door. She did not turn her head Lo see
whether he had followed her, but when she went home
she saw him watching her from the other side of the
street. ”

The moment she spoke to him in the street, his moral
nature had received a healthy shock, his pride was not all
gone, and he resolved to be « man again, for——

All he wondered what Miss Esilin would say if she
Knew he had whispered to himself, ‘For Aer sake!’

She looked a hundred times more lovely to him than
she had ever looked before. How gently she had re-
proved him! How honestly and kindly she had spoken!

He did not come for her the next Sabbath evening,
though she waited for him, and ail tke time felt a litile
thorn in her heart at the disappointment.

_* ~ e * * * =

Two months passed. She was going home, and had not
seen him. She ventured to do then what she could not
have done a year before; she wrote a note to him full of
earnest warning and womanly sympathy.

And then she went home, and the first person she saw,
asshe was getting out of the carriage at her own door,
was Gerald Norman,

He had on a good suit, his face was bright and happy,
his step free and elastic, and altogether Dinorah felt a
litle thrill of pride run through her as she looed at him.

At last, when men who Knew him touched their hats in
the street, and fair women gave him their gloved hands
in salutation, he came one evening to see Dinoral Esilin.

She asked no questions, aud he vouclisafed no inlorma-
tion regarding himself; but when he went away atthe
close ofa very pleasant evening, he heid her little white
hand in his @ moment, and said:

“Do you think, Dinorah Estlin, that a good woman
conid ever learn to love me?’

Dinorah faltered, and her heart began fo beat very fast.

He saw the beautiful blushes that came to her cheeks,
and took new courage.

‘“*Pou are the very best woman I know, Dinorah. For-
give me for calling you that; but don’t say you forgive me
unless you think you Can some day put your dear handin
mine and say ‘1 love you.’’'

Tears and smiles were struggling in her face, but she
said yery softly: *l furgive you.”

He asked nothing more then, but—— Well, I did not
mean this to be a Jove story; yet somehow all tre stories
do turn out to be love stories.

Dinorah Estiin knew that her lover was a true man,
and asked no more than he gave, and the thought of his
love grew in time to be very precious to her. Aud when
he came to her six mouths iater, and held out his arms,
she did not refuse his embrace.

CURIOUS FACTS.

Scientific writers speak of the great ‘‘oneness’’ of the
earthiy system, and not without good reason. How many
of our readers ever pause to remark the singular resem-
blauce in furm which exists between the parts of the hu-
man body and many vegetable productious? How like
the human skull is the cocoanut, though it more closely
resembles that of the monkey—a hint, by the way, for
Darwin. The meat ofan English walnut is almost an
exact representation of the human brain. Cherries are a
fuc-similie of the human eye, and an open oyster and its
shell are a perfect image of the human ear. The shape of
a man’s body may be found in the various kinds of mam-
moth pumpkins. The open hand is discerned in the form
assumed by the scrub willows and growing celery. The
German turnip aud the egg plant are precise images of
the human heart. We might continue to cite examples
which, however, will suggest themselves to the thought-
faland curious mind, We may trace the formsof many
mechanical contrivances, common among us, to the pat-
terns furnished by nature. Thus the hog by the use of
his nose suggested the plow; the duck gave the first ship’s
model, the toadstool supplied the idea for the umbrella,
and the fungus growth on trees is the model for the com-
mon bracket. Our readers will find it easy and curious
to enlarge these comparisons,

———__ >0<+—_—_—___—_———_ ‘

THE FAIRY'S LESSON.

BY MRS. E. D. CHENEY.

Once upon atime there wasaking who was very de-
sirous of having a son, and at last he was so fortuuate as
to have a pretty little baby boy. When the baby was
born the king determined that his life should be the most
brilliant and prosperous of any prince who ever reigned,
and go he sent out orders to muke a great feast for the
baby’s christening, and to invite all the fairies, far and
near, to come aud bring their gilts to the young prince,
Now there were two fairies in the, kingdom who were
especialiy powerful. One of them was the young fairy
Albizond, who had a great spite against Lhe king, because
when he married his fair young bride he told her that she
wus more beautiful than any fairy in the land. Now, as
Alvizond believed herself to be the most beautiful of all
the fairies, she considered this remark asa slight upon
her, and she hated the king, and his fair young queen,
and the dear little baby. She concealed her hatred so
well, however, that the King did not suspect it, but in-
vited her with the rest to the feast. *

There was also a very wise old fairy named Sapientia,
who was very much attached to the king, because he had
always protected the fairy grounds, and never suffered
them to be plowed up, and she suspected that Albizond
would be plotting some mischiel, and so determined to
watch her.

The feast was splendid, and the fairles, with their
bright faces and gauzy wings, fluttered about the young
child, and every one promised him some blessing.

“His limbs shall be large and strong like the horse’s,’’
said one.

‘His eye shall be bright and keen like the eagle’s,” said
another.

“His voice shall be clear and sweet like a silvery bell,’’
said a third.

‘He shall eat of the richest food,’ said a fourth.

*He shall own broad lands from the rising to the setuing
of the sun,’ said another.

‘He shail have a library equal to that of the Caliphs of
the East,’ said a sixth. ,

“His horses shall be fleeter than the wind.”’

“His councillors shall be many and wise.”

“His bride shall be more beautiful than the houris,”

‘ oye cough shall be softer than the down of the eider
uck.

But while they gave these rich gifts to the young prince,
Albezond sat with a strange, ugiy smile on her lips, and
Sapientia said nothing. And the king began to be argry
with his old friend Sapientia, and said:

“Hast thou no gift for my son ??

“Wait a little,’’ she said.

Then Albizond rose up and went and touched the young
prince’s forejead with a finger cold as ice, and said:

“Oh, wondérfui child, what good will these gifts do to
thee—the limbs so strong and handsome shall grow paisied
for want of use. Thy eye shall not be opened to see the
beauty of the world. Thy clear silvery voice shall speak
nothing that men care to hear, Thy broad lands shall do
other men good, but not thee. Thy food shall become as
ashes to thy taste. Thy library shall be as dummy books
without meaning. Thou shalt not have courage to mount
thy horse. Thy councillors will not be heeded. Thy bride
awaits thee, but thou wilt never find her, and sleep shall
fly from thy downy couch. These curses I give unto thee
because of the pride and arrogance of thy father and thy
mother.

Then the king rose up in wrath at the young fairy, and
ordered his guards to seize her, but the window of the
palace hall was open, and she spread her light wings and
was floating afar off in the moonlight before they could
touch her.

Then the king and the queen began to mourn and sorrow
for tg young prince. Aud Sapientia raised her head and
said:

“For this have I waited, knowing that evil thoughts
were in the heart of Albizond; and now, on one condition
only, can I reverse her hard doom.”

“What is it? what is it?’ exclaimed the king and queen
and all the courtiers,

“That the prince step down from his high rank and be-
come as the humblest of his subjects.”

But at this the king was angry with Sapientia, and or-
dered his guards to seize her and carry her away to pris-
on, for daring to level the young prince with his humblest
subject; and Sapientia submitted to the king, who. shut
her up in a tower of the palace. Here she took the form
ofan old woman, and the king having granted her the
use of books, and pen aud paper, she studied and wrote,
day and night,

But the king and the queen, in their joyous life, forgot
all about the fairies, and the prince grew up amid all the
luxury and splendor which their fondness and pride could
devise. Everybody was bidden to wait upon him and to
seek only his pleasure. He was to walk or ride, to eat or
drink, to study or be idle, as suited him. Every wish was
gratified as soon as it was formed. ;

Aud so, when the young prince was about twenty years
old he was the idlest and the unlappiest man in the
kingdom. He was large and handsome to look at, but he
could not walk a mile without exhaustion; his food had
lost all relish, he was too timid to mount a horse, he
hated study, his sleep was restless and unrefreshing, and
his talk was so complaining and wearisome that people
ouly listened to him out of compliment. Flowers had no
charm for him, musie could not soothe him; his only la-
bor was to kill the time, and labor dire it was, and

 

weary woe. Tie most beautiful maidens surrounded him,

eat he was weary of their sight, and cared nothing for
them.

As he was lying on his silken couch one moonlight ev-
ening, weary and languid, halt listening to the droning of
the insects, and half-wishing he were a mere butterfly to
die with the summer, he heard a strange low laugh, such
as he had never heard before. *

He looked up, and there was a little fairy robed in
green, and just folding her gauzy wings after her long
flight. She looked at him with an ugly smile and said:

“Ha, my pretty prince! So my curse has worked well,
Isee. Your hand-ome limbs are just fit to lie on a couch
aud wish the hours away; your bright roe are heavy as
lead. What do you know of your great library? Aud when
will you ever find your beautiful bride? You who are too
lazy to seek her, and too selfi to love her when she is
found. Hat hal ha! Sir King! | have had my revenge,
and you will never lift the curse, for you are too proud
and too stupid to seek the ouly remedy.”

These and @ thousand other mocking words rang
through the brain of the prince, who had never heard
sucii truths uttered before, and they made him so angry
that he started up and tried to seize the tormenting fairy,
but Le found only a dead musketo in his hands, while the
mocking laugh could still be heard all around him in the
still moonlight.

He slept none that night, and rose in the morning so
restless that he could not stay a moment in one place, but
wandered hither and thither through the whole palace. At
last he came toa door, which he had never noticed before.
He tried it, but it was locked. His curiosity was excited,
and he shook the handle and called to know who was
there.

“Be patient, my son,” said a strange voice, ‘‘and I will
open the door.”

Surprised at this answer, he waited till the door opened,
and there he saw a wrinkled and homely old woman, sur-
rounded by books and papers.

“So you have sought me at last,” said she.

Not understanding this, the prince said:

“Who are you? and why should I seek you?’’

“Nay, tell me rather what ails thee?’ said Sapientia.

‘Nothing * said the prince, ‘but that I care for nothing,
love nothing, desire nothing, am nothing, and the day is
aburden too heavy to be borne. I did not know even
how miserable I was, till last night a strange, mockipg
voice roused me to anger, and then I began a restless
search after I knew not what. Canst thou tell me?”

“Yes,’’ said Sapientia; ‘‘a curse has been on thee from
thy birth—the curse of pride and ofselfisliness. There is
ouly one way to take it off. If thou wouldst be aman,
thou must live the life and do the work of aman. Thou
must become asthe meanest of thy father’s subjects be-
fore thou canst reign as a king.’’

“This is a hard saying,” said the prince.

“It isatrue one,’ said Sapientia. “Go forth alone
from tue palace into the forest; there shalt thou begin life
over again. I have no to say.”

The young prince went out from her, and for seven days
and nights he pondered over her words before he could
obey them, but he could think of nothing else, and life
was 80 wretclied that he resolved to try her counsel. So
ene night he stripped off his costly ratinent and put ona
rough peasant’s dress, and went out ou foot alone into
the forest.

Many atime hesank down weary on the ground, but
he still wandered on, and now he had so lost his way that
he could not go back if he would.

At last, overpowered with weariness, he sank down on
a mossy bank and slept moye soundly than he had ever
done in his downy bed. hen he woke the sun was
shining down through the green leaves, and he wondered
What this beautiful curtain was. <A sweet, glad song was
in his ears. He listened in amazement. He did not
know the robin’s chirp or the Jark’s carol.

He rose and wandered on, but he soon felt a strange
sensation. He hardly kney what if meant, but visions of
food and wine rose up before him. But no servant came
at his call with rich meats and costly cakes and fruits,
and he wandered on yainly seeking for some human hab-
itation, Thesun was high inthe heavens, and he was
almost dead with hunger and fatigue, when he came to a
woodman’s house. He staggered up to the door and
knocked. A woman opened it, and cried out:

“Why, the blessed suiuts, here is a man half dead for
lack of food.??

She helped him to a chair, and then set before hima
bowl of black broth and a crust of bread.

“Kat, poor fellow, aud thauk the Lord for His bounty!”
she said.

And the prince drank of the broth and ate of the bread,
and they were sweet as honey to his taste, and he won-
dered that he never had eaten of such food before.

“Will you let me stay here awhile?” he said.

“Yes, if youcan chop wood,” said the old woman, ‘My
man goes every day to the forest to cut wood for the king’s
iron furnace, and he wants a man to help him. You look
like a big, good-natured fellow enough. When you get
sume good victuals you'll be abie to earn your keep, |
guess. Go to sleep now, and to-morrow moruing I'll give

you an ax, and you can show what you can do.”

Ou a bed of straw the prince lay down and slept, and
when he woke lie saw the sun rising and heard the birds
singing, and he rose and went into the forest to labor.

Many a scolding he got that day, and for many days, for
his idleness, When the ax dropped froin his weary hands;
but his sieep was sound, and the black bread and broth
were delicious food to him, and he felt strength coming in
to his limbs, and hope and courage to his heart. And
then he began to see how fair was the forest, and the
green trees aud the flowers, and the rippling stream, and
he wondered whiy ina! arly journeys he had never
seen this fair and beautiful land. ; .

One day he went to the spring to fetch water for the old
Woman to wash,and at the fountain stood a young
maiden with her pitcher. Her little bare feet twinkled
among the green grass, and her fair curls blew about her
face in the wind, and the water ran over her brown hands
as she looked with wonder atthe new comer. Her foot
slipped as she gazed, and the water was spilled all over
her. The priuce hastened to help her to arise, and said:

“Are you hurt, my pretty maiden?”

“Oh, nol’? said she, laughing, and shaking the water
from her face and hair; ‘*but 1 have spilled the water. 1
must get some more.”

“Let me fill it,” said the prince, and as he handed it to
her she smiled and thanked him, and tripped away.

And the prince thought the lithe maid more beautiful
than any lady he had ever seen, and all night he dreamed
of her, and every day he met herat the fountain, and at
last he said to her:

“| love thee; thou art more beautiful than all the houris
in Paradise.’

Then the little maid returned his love, and promised to
wed him when he should have a house ready for them to
live in.

Then the prince worked day and night, only snatching
a few hours of sieep, sound as he had never kuown on his
downy couch, that he might build the house, and sie
spun and wove linen for the household. On the blessed
Sabbath they walked together through the forest, or he
sat by her side and they sang pleasant songs together.
One day he said:

“My house is finished; will you marry me to-morrow?
1 shall be the happiest man in all the world.”

When she consented, they went to an old hermit who
lived in the wood, and he married them, and they lived
together in the new house.

But the old man Said to them one day:

“You are happy in your love to-day, but you ought to
lay up treasures of knowledge for your old age. May I
come and read to you every evening ?”’

They joyfully accepted his offer, and every evening he
read to tem out of the sacred books; and the heart of the
prince was open to receive instruction, and every word
was precious to him. He said within himself:

“Five-and-twenty thousand books had my father in his
library, but not one of them could teach me as this holy
book of the hermit’s.”

He knew not that itwas the same book which was
chanted in his father’s splendid chapel every day, and of
which he had three hundred copies, in every language
and style in which it could be written.

So for five years the prince and his bride, with a pretty
baby which had been born unto them, lived happily in
their humble home.

The old king mourned greatly for his lost son, and for a
year and a day couriers went through all the country to
find him, but in vain, At last the King thought of old
Sapientia in the tower, and he went to seek her, and said:

“Oanst thou give me tidings of my son?”’

“How should I know aught of him whom you would
not trust to my care?”

“Ah, forgive me, good Saplentia, I have been punished
enough. ‘Tell me, I pray thee, if my son lives and! may
find him??? :

‘He lives,’? said Sapientia, “and under my guidance
the curse is passing from his life. When seven years have
passed I will restore him to thee,”

“No! nol I cannot wait,’ said the king; “let me see
him now.”

“What Ihave said cannot be changed. Seven years
from the day he left you I will come and lead you to him.
Now, farewell!’’

As she said this she rose from her chair, but as the king
grasped her robe she changed into a shining beetle and
flew buzzing out of the window,

* * oe * * * *

And when the seven years were passed a message came
to the king, bidding him meet Sapientia at the Hermit’s
Ceil in the forest. He went thither with all his attendants,
and found the old hermit bent over his books.

**) came to seek Sapientia,’’ said the king.

“And J,” said Sapientia, ‘wear many forms, for I am
Wisdom. Sometimes I am a gray hermit, sometimes a
loving child, sometimes a laborer in the field, but Iam
abways true to my promise. I will conduct you to your
son.’?

And he led them to the peasant’s hut, and the young
prince with his boy by his side and his young wife with her
baby on her breast were taking their evening meai.

The king did not know his son, who looked so strong,
and so brown, and 80 happy. until he drew near and
looked into his eyes and saw that he was, indeed, the son
whom he had lost.

“Ah, my father!” said the prince, “I have found here
my kingdom, my joy and my life. Do not take me
hence.”’

“Yes, my son,’ said the hermit, ‘the time has come
when, having learned the lessons of labor and temperance,
you must return to fulfill the duties to which you were
born. He alone is fit to be a ruler of the people who can
become one of them, and know their needs by heart. Only
be faithful in the palace to the lessons you have learned
in the cottage, and you will find the same strength and
peace there as here.”

But while the prince and the king were talking, the
ee young wife, who did not know till now that her hus-

and was the prince, shrunk back into acorner and

 

puried her face in her hands, for she said to herself:

“His proud father will never forgive him for marrying
& poor peasant girl, aud will take him away from me and
the children.”?

But in a moment the prince called out:

‘‘Amata, my wife, where are you? Come, that I may
present you to my father.’?

‘You will not desert us, then?’? said Amata.

‘Desert youl’? said the prince, as he kissed her rosy
lips, “the woman whom I love, and who is the mother of
my children, is to me more beautiful than all the houris
of Paradise,’? and he brought her with the lovely children
to his father, and said: ‘‘There are the treasures I have
found in poverty, and they are more precious to me than
all the jewels of the mines!?

Then his father ordered a Chariot for Amata and the
children, and a noble horse for the prince, which he
mounted without fear, and they rode together to the pa-
lace. When they came to the borders of the forest Sa-
pientia said to the king:

“Is not my word fulfilled, afd is not the curse lifted from
thy son? Remember, that for a prince, as for all men,
there is no way to health and happiness but through ear-
nest labor and loving service to others.”?

“Thou hast saved my son and my kingdom,” said the
king, “‘what reward shall I give unto thee?’

“Only call me to thy councils and follow my directions,”
she replied. And with that her old garments fell off from
her, and she changed into the most beautiful fairy that
was ever seen, and soared away into the sunshine.

The prince succeeded his father in the kingdom, aud he
never forgot the lessons Sapientia had taught him, and
Amata reigned with him. Andso he was the wisest and
happiest man in the land, and his people were peaceful
and prosperous. °

Sapientia is still abroad in the world, wearing many
forms as best suits her purpose of teaciing young and old
the best lessons of life; but Albezond was punished for
her spite and envy by the king of the fairies, by being
turned into a perpetual swarm of musketoes, always
buzzing and stinging and never welcome, but doing good
service by sometimes rousing peopie from their lazy sium-
bers and setting them to thinking over their foolish lives,
and to seek from Sapieutia the true way to amendment
and happiness.

fo

A RIVER | OF BLOOD!

An incident lately occurred in Paris which iilustrates
the excitable character of the French in a ludicrous light.
The waters of the Seine were suddenly seen to glow with
a@ crimson flush. People began to crowd the banks and to
look at each other in amazement. They looked at the sky,
which was cloudless and serene, curious suggestions ran
from mouth to mouth, and the lower classes of the me-
tropolis in large numbers were looking on at what they
now declared a river of blood! Sure enough, the waters
were strangely stained, and did not free themselves, but
continued to flow on of a scarlet color, thick like human
gore.

Superstitious old women began to wail; the end of the
world was at hand, some exclaimed; others declared that
the springs were pouring blood from the depths of the
earth; others that it was the forerunner of some awfu
| calamity. A revolution was at hand, the Bonapartists
were about to assert themselves, and a thousand and one
startling events were propliesied. ‘All the fishes were
bleeding to death,” bui unfortunately for this theory, the
Seine does not contain fishes enough to discolor with their
blood a good-sized wash tub. Still the crowd increased,
and conjecture ran wild. ¥

The police, as much in the dark apparently as the rest,
began to assemble in numbersto prevent any unlawful
outbreak ainong the excited people, for there was no
knowing what might occur, induced by superstitious
frenzy. Some susceptible women already ruslied hither
and thither, exclaiming “tA river of blood! a river of
blood!’ Two hours of this aspect of things had wrovght
the mob up to singular boisterousness.

But by-and-by the practical solution of the crimson
character of the Seine was made known. The govern-
ment officials at the store-houses up the river course had
been emptying hogshead after hogshead of condemned
claret into the river for some hours, which turned it into
wine and water. The government officials test and con-
fiscate all adulterated wine, and it seems that the collec-
‘tion had at last become so great that it was ordered to be
cleared out of the store-lhouses and emptied into the Seine.
This was done, and hence the crimson glow which had so
frightened the excited populace. As usual on such occa-
sions, the pickpockets reaped a rich harvest from the
turongs who were attracted tosee the Seine running
blood!

AN IRISH DESPERADO.

BY LIEUTENANT MURRAY.

Well may the inhabitants of the County of Kerry, Ire-
land, be proud of their lake scenery, so beautiful aud
widely celebrated, and whose charm consists in the grace-
fulness of the mountain outlines, the rich and varied col-
oring of the thickly-wooded shores, hung with gray rocks
and light green arbutus mingled gorgeously with moun-
tain heath and dark firs, These are not large deposits of
water, but are so located, and so delightfully surrounded,
that they must always bea great attraction to the tray-
eler.

There are three lakés connected with each other, nearly
in the very center of the County of Kerry, the surplus
water of which finds its way to the Atlantic Ocean by the
picturesque little river Leane, emptying at Castiemain
harbor on the west coast of Ireland. The upper lake is
but three miles long and a mile wide; the Middle Lake, as
it is called, is just about the same dimeusions, while the
Lower Lake, also known as Lough Leane, is ve miles
long‘and three broad, containing some thirty islands,
wooded to the very water’s edge, and forming a marvel of
constant verdure,

These numerous islands, there geing a dozen also in the
Upper Lake, have for centuries formed the secret hiding-
places of persons escaped from the police, especially of
those ventursome nalives who have devoted their time to
the distillation of illicit whisky. ‘The country is very wild
and sparsely inhabited about the lakes, aud the dense
woodsare full of tempting game, including deer in iarge
eer while the waters are prolific in various tribes of

shes,

On the abrupt hills and mountains all about the triplet
lakes the eagles annually build their nests, and one point,
a precipice seven hundred feet high, between the upper
and middie lake, is known as the Eagie’s Nest, where this
king of birds is seen at certain hours of the day, sailing
gracefully upon extended pinions over his nest, inaccessi-
ble to the foot of man. In going from. one lake to the
other we pass under the stone arches of the Old Weir
Bridge, built by the Danes centuries and centuries ago!

Most of the islands in the lakes, and especially those of
the lower one, are named after their fancied resemblance
to various objects or animals, such as Lamb Island, Ele-
phant Island, Stag Island, Otter Isiand, and the like. The
numerous inlets, or tiny bays, are of surpassing beauty,
and add a fascinating variety to Lhe whole scene.

The most beautiful of the islands which sleep upon the
bosom of the Lower Lake is that of Innisfallen, which
has been rendered famous by those graceful lines of
Thomas Moore:

“Sweet Innisfallen, fare thee well;

May calm and sunshine long be thine;
How fair thou art let others tell,

While but to teel how fair be mine.”

It was a soft June afternoon when the writer was last
there; still and peaceful was the scene. A flock of sheep
was grazing upon the rich herbage, while we strolled
about the crumbling walls of the old abbey, founded by
St. Finhian more than a thousand years ago. The ivy
and other creeping vines have nearly hidden the thick
stone walls, forming mountains of greenery beneath the
shadow of immemorial trees, some of them of marvelous
dimensions.

While we strolled over the deep rank grass of Innisfal-
len, our boatmen laid themselves down idly in the boat
Which had brought us across the lakes, and sang their na-
tional airs with yoices which only needed culture to be of
remarkable sweetness and excellence. From here we
visited Ross Island and the ruins of Ross Castle, the last
stronghold that held out against Cromwell, now ivy-grown
and decaying.

We reached the lakes, that soft June day, by the famous
Gap of Dunloe, a wild narrow pass of nearly five miles
in length, between the lofty hills known as Macgillicaddy’s
Reeks and the Purple Mountain. The little river Loe runs
through its whole length. By this route we passed the
Black Valley, so-called from its somber aspect, which is
quite tragic and imposing, even though one had not list-
ened to the wild legends told about it.

Our guide to the Gap was an intelligent man, who was
born in the neighborhood, and who knew every local
legend attached to the surroundings or any part of the
county of Kerry. We say he was an intelligent man.
His life of guide to visitors had brought him in daily con-
tact with cultivated men and women, and he had uncon-
sciously profited by the association, so that his language
was excellent, and his ideas pruned of the crudities to
which his neighbors were liable.

He pointed out to us as we came out of the Gap of Dun-
loe, and just skirting the Black Valley, the ruins of a stoné
cabin, which he said was once the home of Hugh Dolan,
or Red Hugh, as be was called in that region in times
past. The story had no particular elements of romance
about it, and was only remarkable from the fact that it
was absolutely true. There stood the ruins of Red Hugh’s
cabin, and to us it had more tian a passing interest after
we had listened to the guide’s story relating to the man.

Red Hugh had lived there up to some fifteen years ago
—lived there with a young wife for the last few months
before he was taken away to prison. He was a man of
some thirty years of uge, who had from boyhood been a
reckless character, and who put at defiance all law and
authority. He had been arrested more than once, and
imprisoned for brief periods, whic had only served to
embitter him more and more, ct

The police dreaded the man, for he was dangerous, and

 

 

had never yet been taken without great difficulty, and
much bloodshed, and many hard knocks, He was a large,
powerful fellow, and fought like a tiger. His greatest re-
corded crime had been the killing of a constable on one
of the occasions of his being arrested, He fought a half-
dozen of the police for an hour, and when finally wound.
ed and partially secured, he had struck one of his captors
a blow which proved fatal.

For this, upon a charge of manslaughter, when but
twenty years of age, he had been tried, found guilty, and
transported to penal servitude on a sentence of twenty
years. How it was accomplished, the guide Knew not,
but certainly after an absence of eight or nine years, Red
Hugh made his escape from Australia, and came home,
keeping himself “‘dark.’? He bound himself to Lilie Ma-
lone, a young girl whom he had left as a child living in
the Gap of Dunloe, and they lived together in the stone
cottage for nearly a year before the authorities got infor-
Mation of the returned criminal,

He was known, as we have said, to be desperate, a dan-
gerous man to arrest, and he had declared he would never
be taken alive.

The local police were in no haste to encounter Red
Hugh; they had not forgotten his character; and so the
man, though known to be an escaped convict, for a long
time enjoyed ai immunity from arrest. Finally, however,
the fact of his being in his old haunts could no longer be
ignored, and more than one attempt had been made to
arrest him, but without success, on each occasion the po-
lice being worsted and receiving some serious wounds.

Sir Jolin Hardinge was the presiding magistrate at Kil-
larney, 2 man of great firmness of character, a just aud
upright official, and one whom even rogues and outlaws
were forced lo respect. Of course he was aware of the
futile attem Which had been made to arrest Red Hugh,
and the crit character of the man, and he felt that he
had no right to send his officers into a danger which he
would not himself encounter; go he resolved to arrest this
dangerous convict himself.

Sir Jolin said nothing about this purpose to any one,
but mounting his horse he rode some miles from the town
to the Gap of Dunloe, and through the rough mountain
pass to te Black Valley. He kuew the locality very well.
As he approached the isolated spot where Hugh’s cabin
was, lie soon saw his man come to the entrance with a
gun in lis hand, Still he did not pause but continued to
come toWard him until within hailing distance, when Red
Hugh called out:

“Keep off, Sir Jolin, 1 know you.
you through the heart.’

“Dolan, are you afraid of an unarmed man ?”?

“lm not afraid of any man living, be he armed or un-
armed,’ was the sullen answer.

“Put down your gun, Hugh Dolan, I have come to talk
with you, not to fight you.”?

“You say you are unarmed.
tellalie. Itisn’t in you.”

All this while Sir John had been steadily approaching,
and now coolly dismounted from his horse and threw the
rains Over a post by the cabin door as though his visit had
been the merest occasiunal affair and nothing more.

Hugh regarded him with a sense of surprise, for he had
permitted no one to approach his cabin without a shot at
thein since his return to the valley.

“I want tocome in and havea talk, Dolan,’ said the
inagistrate, quietly, but firmly, to which, though he made
no auswer, Hugh seemed to accede by making way at
the door,

Red Hugh kept his gun in his hand, and looked
cautiously outside to be sure that SirJohn was not fol-
lowed by & posse of police. The magistrate understood
his movement and toid him that he had come alone. The
Lo men sat down upon a couple of rude benches opposite
each other, with a rough table between them,

“What have you come here for, Sir John?’ asked Red
Hugh, in a surly tone.

‘Il have come, Dolan,’? said the magistrate, calmly, as
he fixed his eyes upon those of the convict, “to arrest youl!
Oh, you need not start and cock your gun; you will go
quietly with me and by your own will,’?

“You arrest me, and without arms???

“Yes, because I shall show you that itis best for you to
give yourself up to me—best for you and ail concerned.
Put your gun away in the corner of the room.”’

Sir Jolin said this as he looked the convict steadiiy in
the eye with a resolution which carried conviction with it.
The man, to his own astonishment, did as le was bid!
Was it the superior will of the cool, determined mugis-
trate that exercised mesmeric power over the guilty man?
Perhaps 80; at any rate, he obeyed him instantly,

Then Sir John pointed out in his clear, decided way
that he, Hugi Dolan, would be arrested presentiy, if it
should require a hundred men to doit, but that he, the
magistrate, hud preferred to have the affair conducted
differently. It would be better for Hugh to submit to the
necessities Of the case and voluntarily yield. This would
be the part not of acoward, but of a brave man. Sir
Jolin also pointed out the fact that his legal punishment
might be miiigated, in a measure, by this means, and
finally told him to make up a package of whatever ie
chose to take with him, and to foliow him at once.

While Sir John had spoken he had kept his eyes full
upon those of the convict; he had gone along step by slep
in his remarks, of which we have only given the outlines,
with a decision and concentration of Will aud purpose that
had acted singulariy upon Red Hugh.

The man mused a while, then asked:

“What will my punishment be?

“] think a return to penal service, and with an added
term as punishment for yourescape. That is as far as 1
can see at present,’ said Sir Jolin, truthfully.

“I know you would not deceive me,’ said Hagh.

“Certainly | would not,” said the magistrate,

Still the convict hesitated, aud looked as though he was
partially bewildered.

‘‘Muke up your package at once,’ continued Sir John,
with his eyes fixed upon Hugh’s, ‘‘and follow me.”

“My wile is absent,’’ he said; ‘perhaps it is best so.”

While he spoke he went to asmall closet, and taking
out a few articies placed them in a handkerchief, which
he tied up ina bundle. Taking a purse from his pocket,
containing some money, he laidit upon the table for his
wile, and then turning to Sir John, who had never taken
his eyes off the man, he said:

“Sir Jon, no haud-cuffs, no disgrace before the people
of the Gap or down at Kiliarney.”’

“You are as free in appearance as I am,’ said Sir John.
“Go on in advance of me.”

The convict obeyed,

“That was fully fifteen years ago,’ said our guide, “but
I remember seeing Sir John riding through the Gap with
Red Hugh walking by his side, while all the people gazed
in wonder at 80 strange a sight. It seemed difficult for
them to believe their eyes.”

Hugh Dolan was placed in prison at once, and his case
soon assumed a different character, from the fact that one
of the police whom he had wounded, being thrown into a
fever, finally died. This complicated the charges against
the prisoner, for up to that event he would, have been
amenable only to the fulfillment of his first sentence and
the additioual period for his escape, but now he was ar-
raigued on the charge of murder.

He was tried and convicted.

It fell to the part of Sir John Hardinge to pronounce the
sentence, which he did with alldue solemnity, and with
an impressiveness which was long remembered by the
friends of the condemned.

Red Hough was asked by the jailor how he came to give
himself up to Sir John. Hesaid:

“1 could not help it when | looked into his eyes—that is
all 1 know!” and it is believed to this day in the County
of Kerry, that it was owing to the mesmeric influence of
the magistrate, a power which he is Known to have pos-
sessed to a strong degree during his whole life.

Hugh Dolan died upon the gallows,

Will Be Commenced
NEXT
MET es Se 1)
May Agnes

FLEMING'S

Keep off, or ll shoot

I don’t believe you would

 

 

ye

NEW STORY,

ENTITLED