Entered According to. Act of Congress, in the Year 1899, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington. D. C. Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter.

Vol. 54.

 

 

New York, August 26, 1899.

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

 

No, 45.

OFFICE:
238 William St.. New York

 

 

 

 

 

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There came a crash, and a vast amount of dust scattered to right and left as the balcony He drew from his buttonhole a gardenia and offered it to Angela.
collapsed. Angela jumped down into the arms outstretched to receive her.

He made his way to the mean stage door.

 

 

 

 

A STAGE HEROINE:

OR,

In the Glare of the Footlights.

By GERTRUDE WARDEN,

Author of ‘‘Her Faithful Knight,’ “The Haunted House at Kew,"

““An Angel of Love,’’ Ete.

CHAPTER I. and giggling, she held toward

“Ain’t ’e ’andsome, just? An’ a gentleman | haired young man.

every hinch of ‘im! The likes of him is too He, for his part, glanced quickly
good to be lookin’ at the portraits of painted down the road to see if any one observed him,
comparatively

play-actresses!”’ * and then, finding the

Two little factory-giris, with stunted forms| clear, he took the gardenia,
and pretty snub-featured faces under their | stuck it in his coat. Still laughing, he blew a
coarsély-woven shawls, loitered near the en-| Kiss to the giver of the
trance to the theatre in a manufacturing town | 40wn the street in the rain with an
in the North of England one wet morning late ated swagger in his long stride.
in May, and remarked thus loudly concerning Presently, however, when he was lost to the
@ man who was closely studying the frames | eyes of the factory-girls, he stopped before the
containing the photographs of members of a| window of an eating-house,
theatrical traveline company exhibited there, | frame of theatrical photographs was exhibited.

The object of the factory-girls’ admiration | They all represented the same
turned and smiled at them, whereat they red-| name was written in large letters on the card-
dened and giggled and nudged each other, af-| board between the pictures—‘‘Miss
Wrayburn’’—but there was

ter the manner of their kind.
He was an exceedingly, almost aggressively, | ence between them.

handsome young man, twenty-three years of Miss Angela Wrayburn, in an Empire gown

 

age, six feet two in height, and superbly built, |} 0f white satin, which

with a certain military swagger in his bear-| grate of her form, her hair dressed high, and
ing which went straight to the heart of the! holding a fan in her hand,
average young woman. | Lyons, looked a haughty and dignified beauty

His hair, of a brilliant auburn, curled closely | by comparison with the
round his well-shaped head, poised upon a| pinafore and short skirts, with abundant hair
throat and shoulders which recalled the Apollo |; falling untidily about her

Belvidere. His forehead was low, broad,| duced the same Miss

and white; his eyes, of a peculiarly lustrous} Nan in ‘‘Good for Nothing;’
dark hazel, were set far apart; the nose be-! series in Venetian costume,
tween» was short, straight, and purely Greek} trimmed cap upon her flowing tresses, showed
in outline, as were the full lips, shaded by a|a Juliet pretty enough to justify even Romeo’s
golden mustache, and the well-rounded chin. | love-sick rhapsodies, and youthful

The dazzlingly white, even teeth which he] appearance to satisfy the poet’s limitation as
displayed when he smiled completed the sub-/| to age—that terrible stumbling block to
jugation of the factory-girls. One of them} exponents of the part—‘‘She’s not
Whispered to the other, and, running across Lastly, as Ophelia, the same face, dark-eyed,
the road to a flower-shop, came forth almost] appealing, with sharply-cut features drawn by

immediately with a gardenia, which, red-faced | mental anguish, stared

which another

while yet a third

 

 

frame with an expression which went straight
to the heart of the spectator.

The auburn-haired young man, Francis
James Scott by name, studied each of these
portraits with the closest attention.

“By Jove, she’s a pretty girl if she’s any-
thing like these!’’ he murmured. “‘T’ve never
heard of her, but she must be a jolly good
actress if she can act her parts as she can
look them. Leading lady of a fourth-rate
theatrical company playing Shakespeare and
the ‘legitimate drama’ at Horley! That isn’t
much! But, to judge from her portraits, she
can’t be more than eighteen at the outside.
Who knows but what she may turn out a
Lilian Adelaide Nilson, and a gold-mine to
any man who knows how to advertise and ex-
ploit her properly? And what an attractive
gold-mine! I must*manage to scrape an ac-
quaintance, Shall I hang about the stage-
door and send her notes and flowers? She
looks the sort of girl to send them back. And
what am [I thinking of? have exactly half
a sovereign left and no notion what to do
when that’s gone! Yet I must meet her. By
Jove, that’s a notion! It’s Monday! This
theatrical crowd will be sure to run through
the piece they play to-night on the fresh
stage, and ten to one, as they will travel with
as few as they can manage with, they’ll en-
gage local supers. With my appearance, and

|} my six weeks’ experience as a super at Drury

Lane, I may be just what they want! Any-
how, I'll go round to the theatre and try.
Hang it all, a few shillings a week wouldn't
come amiss, and faint heart never won fair
lady!’’

He turned suddenly round and made his way
back through the wet and squalid streets to
the mean stage-door in a dirty lane at the

back of the theatre. On the way he paused |
before a slip of looking-glass in a shop win-|}
dow, and, taking off his hat, ran his fingers |

through his crisp curls and passed his eyes
over the reflection of his face and figure.

His blue serge suit, well cut and of a good
material, was beginning to show signs of
wear, and his cuffs and collar, though spot-
lessly clean, were frayed at the edges.

“Tt’s time I took some serious step,” he told |

himself, as he gnawed his nether lip impa-
tiently.. ‘‘I’m beginning to look confoundedly

down on my luck! Hard lines for a man of}

my appearance and my abilities to be kicking

my heels in a hole like Horley. And my aunt, |
whom I came to see, gone without leaving an |

address. It’s confoundedly hard lines!’’
Round about the stage-door of the temple
of the drama at Horley there hung the usual
small crowd of theatrical underlings, scene-
shifters and loafers. All these made way for
Francis Seott as he strode down the narrow
lane, his handsome head thrown back, his

shoulders squared, treading the ground with a}

peculiarly buoyant, springing step which was
characteristic of the man.

‘“‘Walkin’ along,’’ as one of the stage hands
sulkily asserted when Francis Scott brushed
him aside in passing, ‘‘as if the ’ole bloomin’
place belonged to ’im; and likely as not with-
out the price of ’arf a pint in ’is pocket!’’

‘Can I see Mr. Gunning?’ inquired Francis

of the stage-doorkeeper, mentioning the name |

of the manager.
“Not unless you’ve an appointment with
him. He’s busy re’earsing the soupers,’’
“That's right! That’s what I’ve come about.
I was to be here at eleven; it’s five minutes
to eleven now.”

 

 

Before he spoke Francis Scott’s sharp eyes
had caught sight of the paper pinned to the
notice-board at the entrance to the theatre,
which informed all and sundry that the supers
for ‘‘Romeo and Juliet’’ were to be rehearsed
at ‘‘eleven sharp.”’

The stage-doorkeeper looked at him doubt-
fully. The local ‘‘supers’’—as the slang of the
stage terms the supernumerary performers
whose duty it is to represent guests, crowds,
et cetera—were well known to him, and were
of a very different stamp from this splendid
young man in smart clothes, with a gardenia
in his button-hole. Still, if Mr. Gunning had
really engaged him as a super, it was no
business of his—the stage-doorkeeper’s—to in-
terfere.

“You'll find Mr. Gunning on the stage,’’ he
said, jerking his head in the direction of the
swing-door which led.into the. theatre.

From the wet, muddy and depressing streets
of Horley -the change to the dark and dirty
stage of Horley Theatre Royal was more de-
pressing still. Groups of ill-dressed slouching
men, and of slovenly young women, whose
shabbiness of attire was accentuated by at-
tempts at cheap finery, all moving clumsily

to the bidding of a tall, gaunt man in a long |

check ulster, a man who shouted and swore
at them, but whom they clearly regarded with
reverential homage, told Francis Scott that a

ioned school, and he stepped aside for a few
seconds to watch and listen.

manager, waving his long arms in the air.
‘What do you want to come Crowding down to

sides, and getting excited? Well, then, dis-
cuss it and get excited, and be hanged to you!
I never saw such a pack of funeral mutes in

i my life. And can’t the town of Horley raise
one man of respectable size, who knows how |
to dance a minuet or who can be taught? Mer- |

| cutio weighs fifteen stone—none of you little }

| chaps are equal to carrying him off when he’s
dead. Don’t they grow men in these parts over

four feet ten?’
This was Francis Scott’s moment, He was
a clever man, and he seized it.

“Mr. Gunning, I believe,’’ he began, stepping

boldly forward to the irate stage-manager ‘and
raising his hat. ;

“No, sir. I am not Mr. Gunning!’’ thundered
the stage-manager, turning upon him a care-
worn face with hooked features, a mottled
complexion, a great deal of untidy mustache
and hair, and near-sighted éyes behind a pair
of pince-nez. “T am not Mr. Gunning, but I
am somebody a great deal more important on
the stage at this present moment. I am the
stage-manager, and I want to know what the
—— you want, and who the —— you are?”

He roared the last words at his interlocutor;
but Francis Scott did not turn a hair.

‘*T am the tall super you are in want of, who
can dance-a minuet,’’ he answered calmly.
‘‘And Mercutio must weigh a lot more than
fifteen stone if I can’t lift him.’’

The stage-manager stared and hesitated.

““T don’t want any fine gentleman amateurs,
he was beginning, when Francis Scott inter-
rupted him.

“T’ve been a super at Drury Lane,’’ he said,
“T do it when I want to see the pieces for
nothing; and I am glad of the money, too,”’

 

he added with apparent frankness, “when I
am down on my luck.’’

The stage-manager looked him up and down.

“Smart London young gentleman who has
made the place too hot for him!” he decided
mentally. ‘‘What’s your name?’ he asked
aloud.

“James Francis,’’ replied the young man,
who had his reasons for suppressing his sur-
name.

‘“‘Well, take your place here to the left and
let’s get on with the scene. Perhaps you
know the play ‘Romeo and Julict’?’’

“Well!”

“That’s a comfort! You can help to infuse
a little life into these lumps. Now, show them
how to take interest in a fight, if you know
how. And, after I’ve knocked the supers into
shape, you’d better stay on and rehearse the
minuet. Have you ever danced in one?”

“Yes; at fancy balls, more than once.,”’

‘Good! The principals will be coming round
at half-past twelve to try the dance. Now,
let’s get on!’’

An hour and a half more of shouting, swear-
ing and gesticulating on the part of Mr. Row-
land Seymour, as the stage-manager elected to
eall himself, and of clumsy shambling and
shuffling on the part of the unhappy ‘local

| supers,’’ and then, on the stroke of half-past
| twelve, an effeminate-looking young man with
“super rehearsal’’ was in progress under the} i
direction of a stage-manager of the old-fash- |
|a weedy, pallid-faced youth in a shabby frock
| coat, rose with alacrity, and advanced, hat in
“Now then, you idiots!’’ shouted the stage-

dyed auburn hair, who had been sitting at a
table in front of the stage taking notes with

hand, to greet a lady who tripped on as gayly

|as though the Theatre Royal Horley on a wet
| day were an abode of sweetness and light.

the footlights for? Do you think the audi-|
ence wants to see your ugly faces? Can’t you |
understand that you are watching a fight, and |
discussing it among yourselves, and taking

‘Good morning, Miss Wrayburn,”’ said the
effeminate young man, ““‘What a stock of sun-
shine you carry about with you! You actually

|enliven even this dirty hole!

The lady laughed, and Francis Scott, watch-
ing her, caught his breath.

There was about Angela Wrayburn, even in
this early period of her career, for she was but
seventeen on that eventful day—a charm of
perfect health and*high spirits, a magnetic
fund of vitality and brightness, which seemed

'to radiate from her whole personality and to

infuse something of her life and gayety to
those around her,

She was extremely pretty, but therein lay
the least of her charms, Regular features,
abundant auburn hair, and a shapely figure
only added to the fascinations of a face that
change at every moment, eyes that expressed
every emction in turn, slender hands that
spokg as eloquently, and a voice of rare sweet-
ness and compass which lingered in the mem-
ory like a caress

Such was Angela Wrayburn; and Francis
Scott, looking upon her, marked her instantly
down as a victim.

“That is the girl for me!’’ he told himself.
“She can act and she can love. And she shall
learn to do both for me!’’

CHAPTER II,

“Here, Gunning. I’ve engaged a man to give
a tone to the supers, and to make the fourth
we want for the minuet.”’

“Oh, ah—very well! What’s his name?
Which is he?’”’

“That tall chap in blue, with the curly hair,
His appearance alone is worth two pounds a
week to us.”’

‘Why, he’s a gentleman!” ejaculated Mr.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

—_ a

Gunning, sticking a glass in his eye to stare
at Francis Scott. ‘‘What’s he supering at Hor-
ley for?’’

“Down on his luck, he says. But, from the
way he’s staring at Angela, I should say he’s
smitten with our leading lady!’’

“Oh, we don’t want that sort of thing, you
know!” Mr. Gunning was beginning in feeble
protest, when Rowland Seymour, who invaria-
bly bullied his manager and regarded him dis-
eeiagully as a ‘“‘confounded amateur,’ cut him
short.

“Stuff!” he said roughly. ‘“‘Why shouldn’t
the man be in love with Angela? It amuses
him, and doesn’t hurt her. We're all in-—love
with the child. I am, though I’m old enough
to be her father. You are, as much as you
know how; and, as to Graham Ford, he wor-
ships her, as he ought to. This fellow’s name
is Francis, and if he’s any good at all I shall
engage him for Paris and Charles the Wres-
tler at the end of the week instead of Barry,
if Barry gets as tipsy on Saturday next as he
did last week.”

“Just as you like, of course,’’? murmured Mr.
Gunning, a rich stage-struck young gentleman,
with what he called ‘‘artistic tastes,’ and ab-
solutely no ability. “But I can’t have Miss
Wrayburn worried.’

Miss Wrayburn, at the moment glancing
about the ill-lit, dirty stage, met the lustrous
dark eyes of the newly-engaged ‘‘super’’ fixed
full upon her face,

Angela was of.course accustomed to be
stared at. Since the death of her mother,
which had occurred when she was six years
old, she had been brought up by her father’s
brother, a country theatrical manager, and his
wife, who had. both shown the greatest kind-
ness to the little orphan, and had educated her
to the best of their ability. But it was chiefly
the education of the stage, and all little An-
gela’s early associations were theatrical. Her
mother, the spoiled darling of a family of po-
sition, had made a mad runaway match with
a handsome actor, thereby alienating her re-
lations and friends. ‘‘Handsome Jack Wray-
burn,’’ Angela’s father, had met his death al-
most on the Stage by a fatal slip in a fight
with swords; and when, two years later, his
widow had expired of heart disease in Paris,
whither she had taken her little girl on a visit
to one of the few friends of her youth who had
remained true to her, little Angela’s stage ex-
periences had begun again under the auspices
of her uncle and aunt, Mr. and Mrs. Egbert
Wrayburn.

Very early her inherited gifts, matured by
her daily associations, developed. Little Willie
Carlyle, in ‘“‘East Lynne,’’ Prince Arthur, in
“Kine John,’’ and all the other stock children’s
parts were familiar to Angela at the time
when other little girls are absorbed in their
playthings. She reveled in aeting, and the
vulgarities, artifices and tawdrinesses insepa-
rable from a stage existence failed to shock or
disgust her, since she accepted them as part
of the natural order of things.

Of self-consciousness she had _ absolutely
none. A love-scene to Angela was bad or good,
according to its capabilities for producing act-
ing effects; but it was immateria] to the young
girl which man played it with her ‘so long as
he could act.* Her uncle and aunt were thor-
oughly of the old theatrical school in the care
with which they guarded her. Now, during
their temporary absence touring in America,
they had allowed Angela to accept an engage-
ment as leading lady in Mr. Stanford Gun-
ning’s company; but this arrangement was
only made because ‘fold Rowley ‘'Seymour,”’
who had been for several years their stage-
manager, occupied a similar position with Mr.
Gunning, and because, furthermore, Angela
Was guarded by a ‘‘watch-dog” in the person
of a poor relation of the Wrayburns, Dorcas
Morley, a small, plain, freckled woman, neither
old nor young, who lived with the ‘leading
lady,’ and seldom let her escape from the cir-
cuit of her watchful vision,

It was thus a pair of very innocent dark gray
eyes which Angela raised to meet the steady,
glowing gaze of Francis Scott. Angela had
read but few novels, but among them had been
“Guy Livingstone,’ and ‘‘Cometh Up as a
Flower,” and “‘Under Two Flags,’’ and she had
never in her life seen any man who so per-
fectly suggested the heroes in those romances
—the tall, broad-shouldered athletes, with crisp
curls and drooping mustaches, the men whose
passions were powerful as their muscles, and
who crushed silver cups and women’s hearts
with equal ease.

Angela looked at Francis Scott, withdrew her
eyes, and then glanced at him again. She

> leave off staring at her. For
the first time in hér fife a man’s gaze embar-
rassed:- her and made her ill-at,ease. In the
dance that followed he had once to touch her
hand, and though she wore gloves, Angela
flushed at the contact with his fingers.

It was not wholly a calculated admiration on
the. part of the new recruit.
fore met any woman who excited so strong a
feeling of admiration within him, although he
had been in the habit of making love ever
since he had begun to realize woman’s charm,
and her weakness where a handsome adven-
turer was concerned. There was a grace about
that young girl’s movements as she raised her
arms and tilted her head proudly back in the
figures of the minuet, and a charm in her lithe
young figure, simply dressed as she was in
gray tweed and a black straw hat, which
seemed to transfigure her sordid surroundings,
and to mark her out among her dowdy-look-
ing ulstered and waterproofed companions in
some such way as Romeo expressed it:

“She shows a snowy dove trooping with crows,
As yonder lady o’er her fellows shows.”

_Those identical words were in the mind of
one person at least who beheld her. This was
Graham Ford, a well-bred-looking young man,
of medium height and good figure, but whose
face was so unmistakably plain that, although
he showed considerable promise as an actor,
he had to be content with small parts of the
type called ‘‘character’’ and ‘‘old men.’’ In
“Romeo and Juliet’ he played Juliet’s father
Capulet, and he was forced to listen nightly to
the abominably weak and inadequate perform-
ance of Romeo by Mr. Stanford Gunning,
while he, who longed to play even a stage-lover
to the fair Angela, was compelled to bully and
threater her in the»part of her father.

He was always playing Angela’s father, An.
gela liked to act with him, and liked him, too,
as a friend; but she had not the least suspicion
that the harsh-featured and somewhat taci-
turn young man whom she saw nightly dis-
guised in venerable white locks and flowing
beards would have cheerfully given his life to
serve her, or that at this very instant he was
purning with indignation because ‘‘that big
super fellow’’ was daring to stare intently at
his liege lady’s face.

“T-must try the balcony, Mr. Seymour,’ An-
gela presently exclaimed. ‘‘You remember that
dreadful balcony the week before last, that
wobbled so fearfully on the first night that I
couldn’t stand on it, and had just to crane my
head out of the window? Please let me see
that this one is all right.”” _

The order was forthwith given to ‘‘set’’ the
balcony scene. In the interval Dorcas Morley,
who played the insignificant partof Lady Mon-
tagu, came to Angela’s side.

‘What a splendid-looking man Rowley’s got
for the minuet!’’ she observed with some eager-
ness. ‘Who is he?” :

“Only a local super, I believe.” :

‘“‘s local super! He doesn’t look it. I won-
der Mr. Gunning has such a handsome’ man
near him. He ought to be playing. Romeo,
from his looks.” ees

“Oh, I never imagine Romeo big!’ protested
Angela. “I< always picture the ideal Romeo
slight and dark and olive-skinned.”

“Not like Mr. Gunning, any way!”

Angela laughed merrily.

“Mr. Gunning is like—nothing at all!’’ she
whispered. “But then he’s our manager, and
pays us our salaries, so we mustn’t complain.
Besides, he’s really very good-natured, and
puts up with Mr. Seymour’s bullying wonder-
fully. But I do wish he would dye his hair a
more life-like shade!”’ :

“He wants to make it that sort of reddish
auburn like the big man who dances in the
minuet!’’ observed Dorcas, her eyes wandering
across the stage again in thedirection of Fran-
cis Scott.

“Why, Dorcas,”’ cried Angela, ‘‘I shail begin
to think you’ have lost your heart to the big
super!”

“Tt’s a lot of use my losing my heart to a
super or to any one else, isn’t it?’’ asked Dor-
eas grimly. ‘‘Nobody would ever look at me
with you about. And, as to this man you call
a local super, I’m sure he is some gentleman
who has seen you from the front ana fallen in
love with you, and that he’s doing this to be
near you,”

‘Why do you tell me such a thing?’ ex-
claimed Angela, turning to look her little
friend and guardian full in the face. “It isn’t
like you!”’

A dull red tint overspread the face of Dorcas

Morley. Could she have answered that ques-
tion truthfully Angela might possibly have
been set on her guard, although indeed in af-
fairs of the heart advice and warning are
usually disregarded.
_» “— have told you about this man, and have
directed your attention to him because, al-
though he has hardly looked at me, I have
fallen in love with him at first sight, and feel
that I could do anything to serve him!”’

He had never be- ].

VOL. 54—No., 45.

 

 

In some such terms would Dorcas have an-
swered, could she have dared to speak the
truth. But as it was she changed the subject
by informing Angela that’ the balcony was
ready for her to try it.

A flight of rough ladder steps led up to the
platform from the back. @#he big auburn-
haired young man, whose appearance had al-
ready excited so much interest. and attention,
stood immediately beneath the balcony, and,
as Angela approached it, she perceived that he
was testing the supports. He stepped aside as
she reached the ladder and raised his hat.

“I beg your pardon,’’ he said gently, “but I
have been watching the men put this up, and
I think one of thern had had a little more than
was good for him. Anyhow, I don’t think the
Supports are safe. Will you take my hand to
help you up? I shall be standing here all the
time you are on the platform lest anything
should go wrong.’’ :

Angela looked up at him, slightly frowning.

To a girl such as she, brought up from baby-
hood among the traditions of the theatre, there
was something presumptuous in this address
on terms of equality from a ‘‘super”’ to a lead-
ing lady. She was momentarily inclined to re-
sent it, but, as she looked up into Francis
Scott’s face, her slight annoyan¢e vanished.
No woman had ever yet been able to look into
Ins face and remain angry with him, and the
expression of passionate admiration which lit
up his brilliant, dark eyes at that moment
might well have softened a harder heart than
that of seventeen-year-old Angela.

Instead, therefore, of snubbing him, as she
had half intended doing, she simply said
“Thank you!’’ and let her gloved fingers, rest
upon his long, soft, white hand, which, like
everything else about him, was admirably
shaped, and the touch of which stirred An-
gela’s heart with a curious thrill of excitement
ee anything she had ever experienced be-
ore.

The stage at the Horley Theatre Royal was
as dark by day as are the stages of most small
provincial theatres. No one noted the ex-
change of words between Juliet and the new
recruit, or saw him help her up the steps. No
one, that is to say, with the exception of Gra-
ham Ford, who, hurrying to the back of the
balcony to offer Angeia his assistance, found
her already mounted, while below, looking up
at her, Romeo-like, stood that abominably
good-looking fellow whom Rowley Seymour
had made the mistake of engaging.

But Francis Scott’s triumphdid not end here.
While the balcony scene was being set, the
manager, stage-manager, and most of the
actors had quitted the theatre, after the fash-
ion of their kind, and sought refreshment at
the bar of a neighboring hotel. The stage
hands, left without supervision, had bungled
with their task, and Francis Scott, who in the
pursuance of his desires and aims left no de-
vice untried, had contrived to displace one of
the supports to the platform upon which An-
gela was that moment standing.

Mr. Gunning, Mr. Seymour, and the pallid
youth in the frock-coat, who was known as
Mowbray,.and who combined the offices of as-
sistant stage-manager, call-boy, prompter, and
errand-boy with that of actor when there was

fany part bad’enough to be intrusted to him,

were all down by the table under the T-shaped
bar of gas in the middle of the stage against
the footlights. They were wrangling with the
resident stage-manager concerning the scen-
ery, and paying little or no attention to any-
thing else.

Suddenly a sharp feminine cry of alarm rang
out.. It came, not from Angela, who was lean-
ing over the balcony, but from Dorcas Morley,
who, from where she stood at the side, had
suddenly perceived that the _ carelessly-con-
structed edifice was swaying forward.

“Angela, Angela darling, take care!’’

Then came a crash, and a vast amount of
dust scattered to right and left as the balcony
collapsed. But behind the ruins, as though in
a tableau prepared beforehand, stood Mr.
“James Francis,’’ bearing aloft the slight form
of Miss Angela Wrayburn, who, as she felt
her footing slip, had jumped down into his
arms, outstretched to receive her, and so saved
herself at least a shaking and a scratching, if
not a more serious injury. £

Every one hurried to Angela as Francis
placed her gently on her feet. The leading
lady was pale and startled, but not in the least
hurt.—

“Thanks to that gentleman,’’ she said, ‘‘who
so cleverly caught me!”’ 2

Graham Ford would gladly hawe fought that
gentleman” at that moment. The sight of his
adored Angela in this interloper’s arms was
maddening indeed. For three months Graham
Ford had met her every day and acted with
her every night, and on Sundays had had at
least the delight of traveling in the same train
with her, but such a chance of winning her
regard had never fallen to his share.

But then Graham Ford was a loyal-hearted
gentleman, whose rugged features _ and
swarthy skin in no way suggested the delicacy
of his sense of honor or the depth of feeling
of which he was capable. To risk Angela's safe-
ty, perhaps even her life, by a device whereby
he might clasp her in his arms and earn her
undeserved gratitude would never have oc-
curred to Graham Ford, who would have suf-
fered much to save her the slightest incon-
venience. Suffering for other people, on the
other hand, by no meas entered into Francis
Scott’s scheme of existence. He was amused
and triumphant over the success of his
scheme, and bore himself admirably when all
eyes were fixed upon him as Miss W rayburn’s
preserver, contenting himself with bowing, and
murmuring, as he wiped the dust from the de-
bris of the balcony off his coatsleeves with his
handkerchief that he was ‘‘very glad he hap-
pened to be there.”

During the furious outburst of stage-man-
agerial indignation which the accident pro-
voked, Dorcas Morley contrived to slip across
the stage to Francis’ side. His. sharp eyes
had not failed to note that she appeared to be
Angela’s companion or personal attendant, and
he greeted her therefore with a dazzling smile.

‘“‘Will you let me thank you,” the little faded
woman said in trembling tones, ‘for saving
Miss Wrayburn? She is related to me, and lI
love. her dearly.’’ :

“No one can know Miss Wrayburn. without
loving her dearly,’ Francis Scott returned, in
those sweet, rich tones of his, which were as
good to listen to as he himself was good to
look at. “I can’t tell you how thankful I
am that I had the chance of being of the.
slightest use to her. But I feel sure you will
understand.’’

The emphasis on the pronoun, and the look
with which the words were accompanied, went
straight to the heart ef Dorcas. A bond of
sympathy was at once established between _her
and this superb stranger. It was clear to Dor-
cas that he loved Angela, but to be his con-
fidante even was something.

A little later, when the rehearsal was over
and Francis Scott was lingering among the
side scenes for a few -parting words concern-
ing salary and costumes with the stage-man-
ager, Angela paused near him on her way out,
with Dorcas in close attendance.

“JT haven’t thanked you properly for your
quickness and cleverness in catching me as you
did just now, Mr. Francis,’’ she said. ‘‘I
might have hurt myself seriously, for it would
have been a long way to fall. Thank you very
much.”’ ;

She had taken the trouble to find out his
name, or, rather, his alias, He noted that with
pleasure. ;

‘Please don’t thank me for such a trifle,
Miss Wrayburn,’’ he said, in a very low voice,
his brilliant eyes glowing in the semi-obscuirty
of the side scenes where he and Angela were
standing. ‘‘There is nothing in the whole
world I would not gladly do for you.”’

She drew back quickly, holding her head
high.

Thank you,’’ she said coldly, and would
have passed on toward the stage door but that,
he ee her by an imploring gesture of his
hand,

“Pray forgive me if I have said too much!”
he whispered.

“There is no need for forgiveness.’’

“But there is! Will you, to show you are
not angry, take this?’

And with that he drew from his button-hole
the factory-girl’s gardenia and offered it to
Angela,

She flushed half angrily, and, with a little
impatient movement of her hand, accidentally
knocked the flower from his fingers on to the
dirty stage. Before she had even time to _re-
gret her brusquerie, Dorcas Morley had
snatched up the flower, and; whispering to
Francis, ‘I will give it to her presently,’’ had
hurried Angela toward the door.

Out in the wet street Angela put up her um-
brella and glanced under its shadow at the
drooping gardenia.

“Tt was very impertinent conduct in a super,’’
she said. ‘‘But—but don’t throw the thing
away, Dorcas. We'll put it in water when we
get home. What an odd idea for a super to
wear gardenias!”’

“He has only become a super to be: near
you!’ exclaimed Dorcas. ‘‘And of course he
bought the flower.simply to give it to you. I
couldn’t be so hard toward a man who had
perhaps saved my life—and such a man!’’

“Well, give me the flower!’ said Angela.

 

(To be Continued.)
a

Lover or Husband?

OR

THE MADNESS OF JACKY HAMILTON.

By ADELAIDE STIRLING,

Author of “Tie Wolf’s Mouth,” “Nerine’s Second Choice,”
“The Purple Mask,” “Saved From Herselj,” Etc.

_ (“LovER OR HUSBAND?” was commenced in No, 38.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XVII. (Continued.)

Jacky Hamilton, working like a beaver, dis-
placed the pile of stones by, the light of her
candle, stuck on the ground. After ten min-
utes’ work she gave a stfled cry of joy. She
was in time, they were all-there! The thieves
should be robbed. and restitution made, and
Marchmont and the others should tremble at

the nod of a slip of a girl.

She took one glance at the contents of the
belt. Each pocket in it was stuffed with glo-
rious, shining things. But there was no time
to look at them. She could enly pray that Mrs.
Fareham’s diamonds were there. Gill would
know; she had seen them every night but the
night of the ball, when their unlucky possessor
had not liked them with her peasant’s dress.
For a moment Jacky was staggered by the
size and weight of the belt; it would not go
under her bodice as it had under Lesard's
coat. She buckled it round her waist, letting
it slip to her hips, and fastened her skirt over
it. It was not a good place, but it must do,
and luckily the belt was too tight to slide
bodily to the ground. The bulk of it worried
her as she looked back at the entrance, but
if she could not go through with it on it
would be easy to take it off again. There were
more things in the hole among the stones;
things in leather cases carefully bestowed;
things stuck carelessly in canvas wrappings,
damp and mildewed, She bent down over them,
a queer figure in her black satin gown to be-
in that place.

The candle flame shed a feeble light on the
high, vaulted roof, the slimy walls festering
with growths of darkness. It gleamed faintly
on the smooth swirls and eddies of the black
water that was oily for all its swiftness.

The mouth of the tunnel that led upward to
the wine cellar showed like a blotch of ink.
Jacky’s’ face, white with complexion bleach,
stood out like a cameo against the whirling
blackness of the water behind her; she looked
like a good deed in hell.

Absorbed, she leaned over
Should she take them, too? They looked like
the spoils of years. The wrappings slipped off
one under her fingers, and for a long minute
she stared. Inside lay a necklace made of
stones she had never seen.

They were clear and black, and they shone
with a dreadful, many-colored fire. Somehow
they were awful in that strange place at dead
of night; she feared them like a living thing
that was accursed. She dared not—literally
dared not—have such jewels in her possession,
even for a night. With noiseless haste she
wrapped them up and put them back, piling
the stones over them as they had been piled
before she displaced them. -Time was going
and she had none to spare. But she was not
very quick. These strange jewels had shaken
her nerve as they gleamed up into her face,
evil, full of temptation. The girl felt certain
they had been stolen from some wicked wom-
an; the secret of every imaginable crime
seemed to lurk in their fiery depths. She tried
not to think of them as she placed the top
stones carefully in their old order—and the
very candle flame refiected in the black water
seemed a pale image of them. By instinct she
knew they were fabulously valuable, but she
had no mind to meddle with such uncanny
things.

“Besides,’’ she reflected practically, ‘‘they
may be Marchmont’s own, and I should look
well if I found they were. The other things I
know about, and I'd better get off with them.’’

But at the very edge of the water, with one
foot on the first stepping stone, she paused
with a curious feeling that some one was near
her. She looked sharpjy round and saw noth-
ing; yet the terror grew on her.

Suppose Marchmont were coming down to
inspect his hoard; was there anywhere to
hide? Or must she be caught red-handed with
the belt round her waist?

Something drew her eyes to the side of the
cave nearest the cellar tunnel. There was a
rough natural ridge of rock sticking up close
to the wall, nearly as high as a man. Suppose
there was one of the gang behind it who had
watched her every movement,

“Tll know -if there is before I go!’’ she
Sneoe a with a kind of grim courage born of

ear.

Candle in hand, she marched over to the
ridge and peered behind it, standing on her
tiptoes. There was no one there.

Almost faint with relief she turned to go out
by the stepping stones again, and felt the
blood leave her heart in dear earnest.

There was some one coming! z

With a quick jerk she flung her candle from
her into the depths of the stream. In the
blackness she scrambled wildty over the ridge
of rock and flattened herself behind it till the
beating of her heart seemed to echo back from
the stone.

She looked up at the roof. There was no
light reflected there, not a sound but the run-
ning water, and yet she knew she had stayed
too long.

She slipped her hand to the matchbox in her
pocket. It was safe. If the worst came to the
worst she would not die in the dark.

The irony of that thought came suddenly
home to her. A glimmer of light was showing
over the ridge, very faintly, but surely. If she
were caught it would not be in darkness, but
the light would not be of her own providing.

She clenched her hands where she lay mo-
tionless, sure it was useless to remain hidden
when the light was. coming from outside and
from there her own candle must have been
plainly visible through those air slits in the
wall that she had forgotten like an over-con-
fident fool.

Without one hope of escape Jacky Hamilton
lay watching the growing gleam.

Suddenly there was the sound of a man land-
ing lightly on his feet after a long jump; at
that sound a weakness crept through the girl’s
body. She could have faced Marchmont—but
this was Lesard.

the packets.

CHAPTER XVIII.
A NIGHT OF HORROR,

“That night the empty corridors
Were full of forms of fear,

And up and down their echoing stones
Stole feet we could not hear.’’

Upstairs Gillian stood all ready for the start.
She had copied a little map of the roads from
the County Guide to use when they were out
of the radius she knew. Sir Charles’ ten-
pound note was pinned inside the bodice of her
dress; the small handbag was ready, with am-
ple room for the jewels, but there was no sign
ef them or Jacky!

Gillian looked nervously at the clock. It was
an hour and more since Jacky had left her;
it was too long, but she would not let herself
think anything had happened. Too anxious to
sit down, she paced the floor feverishly, and
presently remembered her father’s papers,
which they dared not leave. She went to get
them and saw on the top of the case that slip
of paper Jacky had scribbled.

“Tf I’m not back in an hour and a half, don’t
wait for me. Go straight to Sir Charles Vivian
and tell him everything. He will help you,
and I will join you sometime.’”’

“Join you sometime!’’ The girl who had
written it had meant after death and the
grave, for if she were late it meant she had
slipped and drowned. In sheer despair she
had sent Gillian to the only man who might
help her, so that she should not be alone at
Hamilton Place. But the girl who read it was
too sharp’for her. The meaning of the note
flashed on her, and her lips closed in a hard
line, though her eyes were full of tears.

“T’'1l not’go anywhere, if Jacky gets drowned
for me, for that’s what she meansi’”’’ Her
thoughts semed to fly in her brains. ‘‘What
a fool I was to let her go alone! But she
shan’t die—she shan’t.’’ She had the lamp out
and was in the passage through the red baize
doors into Marchmont’s part of the house as
she spoke. But her light feet could not keep
up with her heart, that had gone far ahead
of her into» that unknown passage where
Jacky was. If only she had read that note
first—the time was nearly up now!

Gillian’s throat swelled with the thought of
what might be happening to Jacky now, and at
the unbidden vision of it she said something
to herself just over a whisper.

“Wait, Jacky dear, I’m coming!
too far!’’

For if Jacky could die, so could Gillian. She

Don’t go

 

was standing at the side door almost before

she knew it, having flown like a ghost through

the silent house,

It was open wide to the rainy night, as
Jacky had not left it. Gillian did not think of
that as she stepped through it. But once
outside, she stopped as if she had been shot.
It was no accident that had stopped Jacky—
it was worse! She had been caught!

For behind her rose the sound of muffled
voices, furious, suspicious. Marchmont and
the butler had come into the little hall by the
curtained door from the other side of the
house; they had a candle and she saw them
plainly through the crack of the door,

_ Marchmont, scornful, unbelieving, but giving
in to the will of his servant, Brooks, sickly
white with exhaustion, his breath coming in
gasps, his face streaming with rain and sweat.

“IT tell you it’s true,” he panted. “I haven’t
trusted Lesard lately. I went over there to-
night to warn him, and I caught him instead;
and so did some one as well, or I’m off my
head.”’
| “*You say he’s here?’ Marchmont interrupt-
ed angrily.

“T say that when I got there I saw a man
hanging round, so I hid; and ‘Lesard must
have seen him, too, for the moment he was
gone out came my gentleman; and he’s here
now, for I followed him every step of the way.
If he’s after any good, why is he down be-
low?’’—pointing. ‘“‘He went in—I saw him:
and if we’re not quick we’ll never see him nor
the jewels again!”’

He stamped his foot with impotent rage at
the supineness of his partner. Conviction had
not_ yet come to Mr. Marchmont.

“Slippery devil!’ he said. ‘‘But, even so, he
dare not go against me. More likely he’s come
to get out of the way of that London fool.’’

“So he lights a lantern and lets-it shine till
I saw it when I was on the wall! Damn you,
Marchmont, have you no sense?” He brought
his hand down with a hopeless gesture and
dropped his candle.

“Be good enough to be quick, and look out
what you’re doing,’ said Marchmont furiously,
“Go and get another light and follow me down
into the cellar; we'll soon find out who’s right
—you or I!”

He turned, careless of the darkness, to the
kitchen stairs. Brooks was left to grope his
way back again to the lighted hall.

Gillian, with a queer calmness, as if she
were doing the most ordinary thing in life,
and were not certain that Jacky was not even
now at Lesard’s mercy, stepped after March-
mont. She could see him striking matches all
the way down the stairs. She was close be-
hind him as he got a candle out of the kitchen,
but out of sight by means of a friendly door-
way. She saw by his fast disappearing light
that she was close to the foot of the stairs;
also that a loose iron bar was on the door that
hid her. It was a flat, strong thing, not very
heavy, and without a tremor of a pulse she
took it from the stay that held it.

If Marchmont and Lesard were to set on
Jacky together they would be better without
Brooks; he was viciously cruel from cow-
ardice. If Jacky had managed to hide, and
the two men quarreled, they could fight fair—
without Brooks.

She stood quietly behind the jamb of the
open door and waited.

The quasi butler, hurrying downstairs with
one hand in front of his candle to shield it,
saw nething ahead of him but fleeting
shadows. He’ saw nothing still when a deadly
pain caught him across the knees and sent
him to the floor from the second step of the
stairs in a sprawling leap. Gillian heard the
dull crash of his fall, the thud of his head on
the flagged passage. After that not a sound,
not even breathing.

“Was he dead?’ She did not care; he was
out of the way.

His matches and candle had fallen to the
ground; she groped for them on her knees un-
til she found them. The man never stirred as
she lit his own candle and went on, leaving
him lying on his face. He was one less to
murder Jacky; that was all.

As she neared the wine-cellar she pinched
out her light lest Marchmont might be wait-
ing for Brooks. But the place was dark, there
was no one there, and only a cold rush of air
in her face told her the queer tunnel was open.
How had he managed to move the stone? It
had taken three of them the night Jacky had
followed.

That was the very thing that had finally
roused Marchmont’s unwilling suspicion. The
stone that had been so cumbersome was on the
floor; only the wine bin hid the gaping hole
into the tunnel. There was something wrong,
and, to do him justice, Marchmont was no
coward. If Brooks had been with him he
could have explained the mystery. He had
spent the afternoon carefully easing the fit of
the stone that blocked the aperture and had
extracted it with a crowbar. But the early
arrival of Marchmont himself from Wellford
House had alarmed him. He pulled the wine
bin in front of the hole and went upstairs,
locking the door behind him and carrying with
him the evening’s supply of wine, as a good
butler should. In his sudden distrust of Lesard
he had forgotten all about the stone, that he
had made fit loosely, because he foresaw that
if ever there were trouble it would be his part
to get the jewels and run. And in that event
there would be no three men handy to be lift-
ing stones.

But Brooks lay by the kitchen stairs con-
cerning himself with nothing.

Mr. Marchmont, apprehensive of trouble
from the only event of the day that was mean-
ingless, crept through the open hole. He had
been gone long enough for his light to be out
of sight when Gillian reached the place.

There was determination in her face as she
lit her own candle for just long enough to be
sure of the way to get in the opening. For
once she looked like Jacky as she blew out the
tiny flame and slipped like a cat into the
darkness of the square window-like aperture.
Even the slimy wall, the running water, did
not stagger her; almost confident, she stole
down the passage, for it was two against two
now. She put forcibly from her mind _ the
thought of Lesard’s great strength; nothing
mattered if she could only find Jacky. But
where, where was she?

CHAPTER XIX.

MURDER.

Where, indeed?

Alone with the man she had loved, separated
from him only by that bar of rock that pres-
ently he would saunter up to, and conscious
that she dared not trust in his mercy or his
honor for one second if he found her.

“And he will find me, for that’s why he
came in!’’

She thought dully, as if it were some one
else’s affair, not hers. She did not even trou-
ble as to whether he could hear her breathing
or not. Sooner or later she would see his
face, insolent and mocking, leaning over the
ridge that hid her. But the seconds turned to
minutes and the man did not move. Then a
sound she knew was loud in the stillness—he
was lifting the stones—the stones off the
jewels—and half those jewels were round her
own waist!

“He is making sure what I’ve taken!” At
the thought she quivered, wondering if he
would kill her when he knew what she had

done.
“Well, I’m damned!”’

The slow, unbelieving exclamation rang
thrdugh the place, and told her her hour was
come.

Very softly she raised herself a little, for at
least she would not meet him crouching; but
he made no movement toward her. She could
hear him fumbling among the things that re-
mained as if he could not believe his own eyes.

Suddenly he gave an angry little laugh, like
a snarl.

‘‘Marchmont,” he said softly,
has ‘marked the king!’ And I’m left!’ He
laughed again. ‘“‘Not by a long chalk, if I
know it,’’ he muttered just over his breath.
She heard him handling something that rat-
tled. ‘“‘Not by that. and by that!”

Open-mouthed, the listener leaned against
her slimy shelter.

He had said Marchmont!
have seen her light, or suspect her; he had
come only as she had done—to steal. If she
lay quite still would he go away without sus-
picion? Would she yet live to look on the sky
again?

She was more frightened now in her uncer-
tainty than she had been when she Was hope-
less. She tried to pray for help, but nothing
would come to her mind but two words:

“God—dear God!’’

She thought them frantically over and over,
and as she did a new sound caught her sharp-
ened senses.

Steps were coming down the passage from
the cellar and Lesard did not hear them.

The awful thought that it might be Gillian
come to look for her came over her, till she
remembered Gillian never could have moved
that stone.

“Well, Lesard!’’ said the sardonic voice, so
close at her elbow that she was certain March-
mont saw her. ‘‘May I ask what you’re do-
ing here?’’

“T’mn doing just what. you’ve done,”’ coolly.
‘“Tooking after the stuff. What did you do,’
insultingly, ‘‘with what you took?’

“Marchmont

Then he could not

 

r

ay

“Took! What do you mean?’ Marchmont
moved hastily to the displaced stones. ‘‘What
foolishness are you talking, and what right
have you to sneak in like this? How do you
know who’s outside looking at your light?
Brooks told me he could see it.’’

“Brooks told you that, did he?’’ lLesard’s
voice was very quiet, but one hearer at least
felt the danger in it. ‘‘Well, it was a lie.
Don’t you see I’m in my shirt?= My coat’s in
one slit, my waistcoat in the other. I’m
obliged to Brooks but I’ll settle with you first.
Get that belt and give me my share, or—well,
you’d better get it!’ significantly.

‘‘What belt? Isn’t it there? Yeu’re mad!’

Marchmont’s voice was all but a scream of
fury. He bent over the half empty hiding
place as Lesard had done, and, like a man
struck with madness, scrabbled in the hole
with his hands,

Lesard laughed.

“Isn’t it there? By —— that’s good—from
you! When did you take it, or did you let that
shivering fool Brooks get it?’’

But Marchmont, quite changed from the pre-
cise, annoyed, superior person he had been a
moment ago, had risen to his feet with a
furious ejaculation.

“If any one has it, it’s you!’’ he cried sav-
agely, and so quickly that.even Lesard was
caught unprepared. He seized him round the
waist with both hands, feeling for the belt.
Lesard jerked him off almost without an ef-
fort, but just.an instant too late. Marchmont
ao felt a hard, bulging packet under his
shirt.

“You’ve got it,’ he said as he went stag-
gering backward almost to the ridge of rock.
“Give it to me and I share it with you—and
then be well rid of.a sneaking liar.’’

“That’s enough!’’ Lesard’s voice was sav-
age now. ‘You are talking rot, and you know
it. I haven’t got the belt—I’ve got better!
You’re welcome to your wretched belt. I al-
ways thought you were in that black diamond
business, though you did show such a clear
slate, and now I know.’’ He pulled something
from under his shirt and dangled it in his
partner’s face. ‘‘Do you see these? If you do
you'd better take a good look at them, for
you won’t see them again.’’

Jacky expected an outburst from March-
mont, but for a long moment he was absolute-
ly silent. When he answered it was with such
difficulty that the words seemed to creak in
his throat.

‘“‘My black diamonds,’’ he said slowly; ‘‘the
cleverest bit of work that I ever did to go to
you.”’

*“*Exactly.’’ The mocking devil in Lesard’s
eyes seemed to have sobered Marchmont, for
he spoke with sudden frankness.

“Lesard, I give you my honor, I never
touched that belt! If you don’t know where
it is, I don’t. Put that necklace back and Ill
share all the rest of the stuff with you,
whether you have the belt or not. My luck is
in that necklace.”’

Lesard laughed.

“My luck’s in it now!’ he retorted. ‘As for
the belt, I came to take my share of it and
go. My share, mind you—no more. I’m sick
of hanging round here, and that detective’s
spotted me. But as you or Brooks have been
before me, I’m going to square it with this. I
don’t care a damn which of you has the belt,
now!’’

‘“‘Neither of us has it.
ask him.”

Marchmont was trembling where he stood,
but not with terror,

“Shakespeare, by George!’’ said Lesard with
a shrug. “But I’m not sitting in the gallery,
d’ you see? I’m playing the star. And I
wouldn’t believe one word you or your precious
pal said; not even on your honor!” with an
unpleasant grin. ‘‘And these will pay me well
for your little game about the others.” He
flicked the queer, black necklace so that it
gave out shivering gleams of green and red
fire, and in the candle light showed a brilliant
point of white luster in the center of each
dark stone,

“It was a low trick to annex these,” he said
lazily, ‘‘and you deserve to lose them.’’

Marchmont turned his head a little. Surely
he heard Brooks coming down from the cellar!
How slow the man was—did he expect him to
settle with Lesard alone! He slipped his hands
into his trousers pockets, and the right one
found something. Yet still he did not answer.
He was thinking of a trick he had learned in
Russia in his youth—a trick he had Kept
bright by constant practice indoors and out.
In South America he had killed a horse on the
run with it. And Lesard was standing still.

“Tf you take my diamonds—fH- -sive- - ,eu—

7 * he said at last.

can’t,”’ returned Lesard simply.
“You’d ruin yourself and not get me. I’m off
now. My regards to Brooks, and Ill settle
with him at my convenience. By the way,
Billy won’t work without me, so you'd better
get two new hands while you’re about it.”” He
threw back his head and looked at Marchmont
with amused triumph; then turned round nod.
ding farewell.

“You move another step and I’ll kill you!’’
There was real meaning, real menace, in the
sharp warning, but Lesard never even turned
his head. He knew Marchmont never carried
a revolver, and to-night was certain he had
none; for the man was small and his evening
clothes so exquisitely fitting that they would
have shown at once where he carried a pistol,
Mr. Lesard, for all his jeering, had sharply
inspected every niche of his opponent’s figure
as he stooped over the hole in the floor.

“T don’t think so,’ he returned indifferently,
for the only thing in Marchmont’s power was
to rush him into the black stream, and that he
lacked weight to do. Still smiling, Lesard
moved on, bracing himself a little to meet the
futile rush that might come from. behind.

But it did not come. Marchmont’s hand ine
stead came out of his ‘“pocket—he wheeled
where he stood; there was a peculiar short
whizz in the air and a furious oath from
Lesard, who turned, his right hand gripping
something that stuck in the point of his left
shoulder.

Marchmont had thrown a knife, long and
solid, such as Cossack herders wear. The
quick whistle as it sheered through the air
had been all that had kept it from Lesard’s
heart; he had ducked sideways just in time.

And now his face was the face of a devil,
every trace of humanity and decency wiped off
it. It was the real Lesard who stood staring
at the blood that soaked his shirt, holding
-that knife in his hand. The pain, the sight of
his own blood, maddened him. He looked at
Marchmont. He was so quiet that Jacky, who
had been expecting the report of a revolver
after Marchmont’s threat, thought it had been
bravado.

But Marchmont, who could see him, turned
to run. There was the quick sound of a leap,
a dull, queer sheering noise that Jacky did not
comprehend, and then a screeching cry that
made her jump to her feet. Only for the height
of her ridge of rock Lesard must have seen
her.

Sick and shaking, she fell back against the
wall. What had been done? What had made
Marchmont give that dreadful ery like a dy-
ing beast? Had Lesard killed him? Did she
hear him moan now, or was it her fancy? She
was half fainting with the horror of what she
could not see... The silence after that cry was
awful; and where was Lesard? Was she to
stand by and see killing, as she had stood by
and seen robbery? Surely it was her guardian
angel who made her limbs too heavy to stir,
her voice powerless in her throat; for outside
the work had been too well done for any girl
to check it. And outside Lesard threw down
a knife on the floor, stooped once more to the
hole and rified it, and walked away, stopping
only to put on his coat.and vest, never even
taking the pains to put out Marchmont’s can-
dle. He was going! And she, the only wit-
ness, was left in this awful place with a man
who might be dead or dying—be stunned only—
for she knew nothing of the knife. Lesard
was going—and she could not swear she had
seen him.

With a recklessness as good as his own she
moved to where the ridge was low, and looked
over it.

He was crossing the stepping stones gayly,
carelessly, with the old light carriage of the
head that she had loved. She watched him
drop on his knees and worm himself into the
opening, and then she saw why he had not
troubled lest Marchmont’s candle might shine
out through the air slits; he had blocked them
carefully with some stuff he had brought with
him, aided with his own coat and vest. A
soft, stirring movement behind her brought
her sharply round. Was Marchmont hurt, or
was he looking at her as she peered over her
shelter? 5

“My God!” said Jacky Hamilton.

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_ colder than he, who was warm still.

For there lay Marchmont on his back, close

to the edge of the stream; the front of his
white shirt was scarlet, and he was absolutely
Still, a little trickle of blood at his open
mouth, He had been stabbed. The knife that
had done it lay beside him on the rough stones.

Sickened, she stared at him, and then ore

6
man’s limbs were lax and motionless, and yet
she heard that movement of stealing feet that
drew nearer. If Brooks found her here alone
with that bleeding thing on the floor, with the
jewels strapped about hér, would he—she put
her hand sharply to her throat as though she
felt the hangman’s rope on it.’ She had not
even sense enough left to hide. 4

“Jacky!’ came a whisper close to
“Jacky, for God’s-sake, where are you?”

White, staring, Jacky turned and saw Gill.

“He’s dead—he killed him!’’ She could only
whisper in a dreadful, incoherent jabber. ‘“‘I
didn’t do it.” :

“Come out,” said Gillian gently. She stooped
over Marchmont and felt his heart, carefully
keeping her fingers free from his oozing blood.

“Don’t touch him!” Jacky muttered shudder-

her.

ng.

Somehow she thought that lax body might
be shamming, might start suddenly to life
and stab and stab with the knife that lay so
elose to its fingers. Then she cried out as
though she were only just conscious that
Gillian was there. ~

“How did you get here? Is he dead?’

“From the cellar. No, not yet, but I think
he’s dying.’’ She drew back and looked to see
that her fingers were unstained. “I saw it
all. Isaw him throw a knife and I saw Lesard
stab him. I came to help you, but I didn’t see
~you. I’ve been mad to know if you’d got out.”

“Come out now, quick!’ Jacky stood in the
middle of the floor, sick and reeling.

“We can’t go through the way I came,”
slowly, -

“Brooks was there; he may be awake by
now!’

“T’ll show you, only*come! We must get our

things and get out of this dreadful house be-

 

 

 

;

oo

. such a love as that?

   

fore any one finds him. Oh, Gill! he won’t die,
will he? ‘we can’t let him die. Lesard killed
him for the belt and it was I who had it. If
he dies I’m his murderer as much as Lesard!”

“What can we do?’ quietly. ‘‘And that is
all wrong! You could not help their quarrel-
ing. Come along; we can’t stay here; we must
get our bag and go. What are you doing?”
sharply. For Jacky was on her knees’. by
Marchmont; had soaked his handkerchief in
the icy stream and made a pad over the nar-
row cut in his shirt. Was it her fancy, or did
the closed eyes open ever so slightly? At the
perilous thought she rose swiftly, her hands
dabbled with his blood.

“I know what to do now,” she said hoarse-
ly. “He was a devil, but we can’t let him die;
we don’t want to be hanged.”

She knelt down by the roaring water, lean-
ing on one hand for safety while she washed
the other. In the gloom she did not see a
bloody print of her left hand showing clear on
the yellow stone floor. The right hand that
was washed first left only a mark of water;
she never thought of the other.

“Come,” she repeated feverishly, “I know
how we can get away from here and save his
miserable life, too, if we’re quick.”

Gillian followed her over the stepping stones,
clutching her skirt for guidance, out into the
free air of night. But they scarcely dared stop
to breathe it, for they must get unseen to
their own rooms while there was breath in
Marchmont’s body.

When they reached the side door it was open,
the house absolutely still; they met no one,
heard no one, as they groped their way to
Gillian’s room.

Jacky’s teeth chattered as she threw down
those jewels that had killed Marchmont. But
she smoothed her hair nevertheless, put on her
shoes, flung.a flannel wrapper over her dirty
dress.

**Pack everything; meet me outside the front
door in five minutes,” she ordered, ‘‘before
Gibbs has time to wake the servants. I’m go-
ing to tell her I heard some one scream.”’

But as she opened the red baize door she
knew there was no need to tell anything.

She saw Brooks limping down the staircase
after the flying housekeeper; they were roused
ee to the cellar. Brooks had found
ou

Gillian .saw it in Jacky’s face as she ran
back and flung her wrapper on the bed.

It seemed not a minute before they were out
in the rainy night again, running from that
house of crime. They had the jewels; they

were free; they held secrets enough to ruin
their enemies, and neither of them thought

for one minute of Jacky’s hand-print, marked
in blood on the cellar stones.

(To be continued.)

A Russian Romance.

By VIOLA TYRELL,

Author of “Master und Man,” “The Woman Page,”
“Colonel Luscombe,’ etc.

 

 

(“A RUSSIAN ROMANCE” was commenced in No. 37.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

 

CHAPTER XX.
RUSSIAN BLOOD.

No, I yearn upward, touch you close,
Then stand away; I kiss your cheek,
Catch your soul’s warmth. I pluck the rose
And love it more than tongue can speak—
Then the good minute goes.
—Browning.

To do Lucille justice, she had had no inten-
tion of having the interview with Edmond
Dmietroff that had so upset Francis that aft-
ernoon. On seeing Rodney Chesterton coming
up the drive, and well knowing that he had
no partiality for her society, she had retired
upstairs to her own room under the impres-
sion that he was about to enter the house.
When, half an hour later, she observed from
her window that Frances and Rodney were
strolling about the ground, she had gone down
to the drawing-room again to fetch a book,
fancying that she should find it empty. To
her great surprise, Edmond Dmietroff was
there, idly turning over the pages of a maga-
zine with unseeing eyes, and she then knew
that an interview between them, which she
had meant to ward off if possible was now
inevitable.

- Indeed, no greeting passed between these
two, a fact which in itself spoke volumes.

Edmond rose at her entrance, looking at her
with angry eyes:

“So you have come at last!’’ he remarked.
“T have been waiting for you.”

“You do me much honor, monsieur,’” re-
turned Lucille with a slight pend of her head
in greeting. “You will allow me to observe
that your fiancee is in the garden. But per-
haps you are not aware of the fact?’

“T have been aware of the fact ever since I
entered the house,’ answered Edmond, with-
out sO much as a glance in the direction of the
window. ‘I have not come here this afternoon
to see Miss Gregory—I have come to see yuu!”

“As I before remarked, you do me too much
honor,’’ said Lucille carelessly, selecting a
book from the table and preparing to leave
the room.

He placed himself before the door and barred
her exit.

“You need not think you are going to escape
by running away from me,”’ he said. ‘‘I have
no intention of leaving this room until I have
said to you what I wish to say!’”’

“Pray begin!” said Lucille, capitulating
gracefully, and sinking into a chair. ‘Only
let me implore you to have the kindness to
remember that it only wants five-and-twenty
minutes to seven o'clock, and I have yet to
make my toilette.’’

“Toilette! To make yourself beautiful in the
eyes of your lover, I suppose! What manner
of woman are you, I wonder! You were not
as cold as this when we last met, Lucille!”’

“There is ice as well as fire in my veins,
monsieur,”’ said Lucille; ‘‘perhaps the one is
less dangerous than the other.’’

“You mean that I had better leave the fire
alone? I have roused it once, have I not?’ he
cried, with a certain sense of exultation in
his voice which made her dread the scene that
was to come, and which would leave her, she
knew, with all her pride and strength sapped
and broken, like a reed that bends before the
wind. “Yes, I have roused the fire! I know
of what you are capable, you beautiful, marble
statue! Just for a moment you flung aside
the mask, and I saw in you, not only the wo-
man whom i loved, but the woman who loved
me. And do you think I am going to part with
By heaven! no! We be-
long, aS you-say, to the same country. The
same blood flows in our veins—now ice, now
fire. Ice from the winterland that gave us
birth—fire from thé love that we created our-
selves. I tell you I mean to have you!’’

As he stood there before her, dominating her
Strong nature by the greater strength of his,

 

Lucille began to tremble with a sudden, ago-
nizing pang of love and fear. What if she
could not save him, after all, this man whom
she loved? As she watched the fierce expres-
sion of his face, she seemed to see in him the
type of that masterful and often brutal aris-
tocracy that has made Russia the barbarous
country that she is. His ancestors had slain
women before now for refusing to gratify their
desires; and he and she, although meeting now
in a commonplace, English drawing-room,
were yet the distinct representatives of the
two types—slavery and aristocracy. The ty-
rant and the serf, both belonging to the same
winterland.of snow and ice and steel-gray
skies, were face to face under the guise of
ordinary man to ordinary woman. They were
on equal ground at last—he the lover, she the
loved. But whereas had they met under Rus-
sian skies and Russian laws, had he retained
his estates, and she her serfdom, although he
might have been the lover, it would have been
dangerous to refuse his love. Yield, or fear
the knout! That had been the motto of his
fathers. It might be dangerous to refuse his
love now, but not on the basis of inequality.

The irony of the situation was borne in upon
Lucille so acutely that she smiled faintly. The
positions were reversed now. It was she who
had the power to kill. And, as is almost al-
ways the case with one’s granted desires, the
wish for revenge had gone from her, and in its
place had grown up a great and passionate
longing love for the man who stood before her.

They were in the drawing-room at Glyn Ab-
bott now, and though they had met but re-
cently and their youth had been spent far
apart, certain memories of the cold land of
their birth were common to them both. A
mist of snow, the cry of wolves on the wind,
the terrified panting of the galloping horses,
mad to escape from the awful fate of being
torn limb from limb, the mounful call of the
dying swans, the keen air that cut like the
blade of a knife, the smell of the warm furs in
the siedge—all this they knew. Russia was in
their blood. 2

*“You can smile!’’ he exclaimed, as he noted
the expression of her face. “I am thankful
you can find something to amuse you in the
present situation—I cannot!’’

She looked at him again. His father had de-
sired her mother—desired her long and pas-
sionately. But he had loved her as a tyrant
loves a slave, with just that love, and no more.
She had refused to gratify him, and death had
been her portion. Was it not the irony of fate
that placed his son at her mercy now?

‘Tam not amused,’’ she answered coldly. ‘‘To
be loved has never amused me much. You men
are all alike. You want a plaything, and you
are never satisfied till you have got it and
broken it. If the plaything is given into your
hand you no longer care for it. It must be-
long to some one else to make: its ‘possession
piquant. An ordinary engagement does not
please you. A girl has given you her heart.
You asked for it, and now that you have it,
you do not want it. Who is it who says that
men are but children of a larger growth? I
do not think they are even that. They are
mere petulant, more capricious, more violent,
than any child I ever heard of.’’

“T want to ask you one question, Lucille,’’
said Edmond, taking no notice of her tirade,
“and that is, how dared you engage yourself
to Mr. Gregory ?’’

“Dared?” queried Lucille, her delicate nos-
trils dilating with scorn.

“Yes, dared. You do not love him—you love
me!’’

“Since when?’ asked Lucille, with a curl of
her lip.

“How can I tell? You have an unfathomable
nature. But the other night, when you told
me that you had felt the depth and mystery of
the strange bond between us, then I knew
beyond all doubt that you love me; that we
two were meant to be one flesh! You have
felt this as well as I. You have confessed it
by your eyes and in your voice.’”’

He paused a moment.

*“‘And yet, knowing this, you accepted Ralph
Gregory's offer of marriage! Possibly you did
it out of Quixotic motives. I do net know.
But rest assured that if you mean to keep to
your engagement, I do not mean to Keep mine.
I shall break with Frances as soon as I ean.
How can I go on playing the lover to her when
you are in the room? Sometimes I do not even
know that she is there. I am listening for a
sound of your voice—hoping for a touch of
your hand—content to be in the same air you
breathe. I haye fought against my love for
you in the past, but assuredly I shall fight
against it no longer. Why should I? People
who love each other as we do seldom marry
one another! We are free as air save for those
imaginary fetters that are so soon shaken off.
Good heavens! to be free and to take such a
love to one’s heart and make much of it.’’

“As you say, people who love as we do, do
not as a rule marry one another,” said Lu-
cille, sombrely, conceding the point of her love
for him without further attempt at conceal-
ment.

‘““‘Why should we hope to be an exception?”

“What is there to prevent us from muarry-
ing?’ he demanded. ‘‘Your two days’ engage-
ment to a man you do not love?’’

“You do not make much allowance for his
loving me!”

‘He is too old and grave for you. I dare say
he loves you in his way. You act on all men
like strong wine. And you do not even pro-
fess to love him!”’

“And is Frances to be left out of the ques-
tion entirely?’ asked Lucille, ignoring the last
portion of his speech.

“Frances? Pooh! She is a gentle, loving,
amiable girl, no doubt; but she has no “very
great depth or force of character about her.
She will console herself easily enough, no
doubt, and will,, I daresay, be Mrs. Rodney
Chesterton before the year is out.’’

“T am quite sure that she would be much
happier as her cousin’s wife than as Mrs. Ed-
mond Dmietroff,’”’ answered Lucille, with a
faint smile. ‘‘At the same time, please to un-
derstand, once for all, that I have not the
slightest intention of ever aspiring to the lat-
ter honor myself.’’

‘How incomprehensible you are, Lucille! And
yet you love me?”

a am incomprehensible—and IE love you.
es!’

“What reason can you possibly have for re-
fusing my love? Is it a Quixotic idea that
you _ are depriving Frances of happiness?’’

“‘No; because I do not consider that I am
doing so. You are a most unsuitable couple,
and I feel certain she will be happier with Rod-
ney Chesterton, who adores her, than she ever
roa be. with you, who never really loved

er.’’

“That part of the question can be set aside,
then. I think we can hardly put down your
refusal to entertain the thought of marriage
with me to inordinate affection for your newly-
made fiance.’’

“No. ‘Though at the-same time I do not
know a man whom I more thoroughly respect
and like than Mr. Gregory.”’

“Oh, I respect him! What has that got to do
with love?’’

“It ought to have a good deal to do with it.”

“Oh—in a way, of course! But it is a poor
thing when it-is set to stand alone. Love can
run when respect even cannot walk.’”’

“T do not love Mr. Gregory.’’

“Of course you do not! Will you tell me,
then, why you so persistently refuse to marry
me?”

“T will tell you—one day, soon. I do not
know exactly when. I have reasons that will
satisfy you.”’

“You will never give me a reason so strong
that it will prevent me from loving you.”’

“Shall I not? We shall see.’’

“In the meantime——’”’

“In the meantime—I love you!’’ answered Lu-
cille Saint Pierre, with a thrill and fire and
passion in her voice that set his brain on fire
with the thought of what might be.

And stooping her proud head, she laid her
lips upon his hand, as one who does homage
to her king.

 

CHAPTER XXI.
THE COUNTESS ALEXIA BEBROFSKA.

‘How tired we feel, my heart and I.’’
—Browning.

The Countess Alexia Bebrofska, as has been
before mentioned, was a distant relation, as
well as the self-constituted chaperone, of Sa-
bina Sobienski,

She had a very real affection for her charge,
but she stood in a little wholesome awe of her
sometimes, for occasionally Sabina Sobienski’s
proud nature would find the yoke of silence
laid upon it almost unbearable, and her be-
havior to all around would become so cold and
haughty and capricious that many of her old-
est friends would remark often among them-
selves that the whole pride and caprice of the
Sobienskis seemed to be centred in the last of
their race.

It had been all very well to be Sabina’s
chaperone when that chaperonage had entailed
attendance at numberless balls and countless
dinners; when, from morning till night, there
was always “something going on,’’ a phrase
dear to the Countess Bebrofska’s heart; when
one never need fear a moment of ennui, and
when one’s time was so fully and pleasantly
occupied that there was no room for bore-
dom; when residence in St. Petersburg was

 

only varied by visits to other cities, equally
gay and equally charming, and when life was
one long round-of perpetual gaiety and pleas-
ure.

The countess, a woman still handsome, al-
though verging on five-and-forty years of age,
was of an innocently worldly nature, fond of
all kinds of amusement and restlessly anxious
for change. She was a widow and had been
very devotedly attached to her husband, and
her genuine grief at his death had made her
plunge more than ever into the dissipations of
society in order to distract her thoughts, She
found it easier to stifle the pangs of recollec-
tion when rushing from one ball to another
than she did at the Chateau Sobienski, where
there was less than nothing to do from morn-
ing till night.

Alexia. Bebrofska told herself impatiently
that the intense solitude was preying on her
nerves, and was altogether more than she
could stand. What possessed Sabina to leave
the Russian capital at the very height of its
brilliant, winter gaiety, and bury herself in
such a place as the Chateau Sobienski, which
in the summer was scarcely bearable in her
aot. and in the winter was simply intoler-
able?

The place itself was magnificent in its gloom
and solitude, but its situation, perched high
up on the mountains, near an almost impene-
trable impasse, did not appeal to Alexia Be-
brofska’s heart. Neither did the great, sombre
rooms, heavily furnished after the fashion of
bygone years; nor did the famous boudoir
touch her, although it had been left just as it
was ever since Catherine the Great, that worst
of women and best of politicians, had spent a
week at the castle, in the days when the clat-
ter of arms and shouts of the soldiers were a
more everyday affair than they were at pres-
ent. And although Sabina had fitted up for
her discontented guest a boudoir for her own
usé, filled wi the most frivolous of French
furniture fresh from Paris, Alexia Bebrofska
refused to be satisfied with being buried alive.
Of what use was it indeed to live at all, she
asked herself dreamily, in a mediaeval castle
perched on inaccessible rocks that might in-
deed do very well for an eagle’s eyrie, but
which in her estimation was not fit for human
habitation? Of what use to sit in her flower-
filled boudoir and watch the little Dresden
china sheperdesses walking oat from a door in
the littl German clock to announce in the
silveriest and most imperturbable of tones that
another weary hour had dropped into the
bosom of eternity? When letters were delayed
for days at a time, and when the messenger
did arrive, he was found to be almost dead
from cold and exposure; when the only sound
in the daytime was the howling of the snow-
laden north wind through the impenetrable
impasse, and the only sound in the night was
the dismal cry of the wolves floating on the
oe that bore death in its winged and icy
eet?

‘‘My dear child,’? said Alexia Bebrofska one
morning, when she felt that she had borne
the intolerable solitude longer than Christian
fortitude really required of her, “shall you
consider me an arch traitor and deserter if I
tell. you that I am going to run away from
you for a little while?’

They were sitting in Alexia Bebrofska’s own
boudoir amidst every sign of modern luxury.
The walls were panelled in delicate-flowered
silks, and elegant trifles straight from Paris
littered every useless little table.

Sabina threw a startled glance at her com-
panion. She was disturbed out of the unnat-
hie apathy which was fast becoming a habit
to her.

“Surely, you would never leave me all alone,
Alexia?’ she said reproachfully,

“By no means, my dear! There are half a
hundred people perfectly willing at the present
moment to step into my shoes. It is merely a
matter of arrangement.’

“They will not be like you. Do you find your

shoes so very uncomfortable?’’ asked the
Countess Sobienski, with a smile,
“Perfectly unbearable, my dear!’’ returned

Alexia Bebrofska, with the most unexpected
anl brutal frankness. ‘How I have endured
them for two long months I do not know. It
is a life of the purest vegetarianism! Heav-
ens, what would I not give at the present mo-
ment to be a real turnip instead of an artificial
one! It is unnatural for a human being to
lead an absolutely vegetable life.’’

“My dear Alexia, I see nothing so dreadful
about it! -A little rest Pa

“Heavens!”’ said the .Countess Bebrofska
again; ‘‘a little rest!’ I take so much of it
that when I go to sleep I wonder if I shall
ever have the energy to wake up again!”

“The scenery is exqttisite, and you are a
woman of so many resources that I cannot
understand your finding the life so weari-
some.’”’

‘““Heavens!”’ cried the Countess Bebrofska for
the third time and with increasing crescendo
and impatience in her tones, “you talk of
scenery! Can one talk to scenery, can one live
on scenery? And besides, what is it, your ‘ex-
quisite scenery’? Look out at that window.
What do you see?. Snow. Look out at the
other window. What do you see? Snow. Look
out at the other window. What do you see?
More snow. Listen for a moment. What do
you hear? The snow beating against the pane.
Listen again, and for a change enjoy the
howling of the wolves and the shrieking of the
wind! It is a delightful place for a girl of one
and twenty, Sabina, or, at any rate, you seem
to find it so. But at five-and forty I confess
to wishing for a little more distraction.”’

“Shall I ask some one to stay here—a house
party ?’’

“No one in their senses would come here just
now. They would be buried in snow before
they got half way from St. Petersburg.’’

*“*You have heaps of books and work, Alexia,”’
said Sabina plaintively.

“The Lord knows I have! Ieread—I read until
my eyes nearly drop out of my head! French
novels, German science, English scrappiness.
I begin, say, at eight o’clock in the evening.
I read till I am in the condition I have just
described. I look at the clock. I have read for
just three-quarters of an hour!
knitting in despair. I knit till Iam almost un-
conscious! I look at the clock again. Twenty’
minutes past nine! And one cannot go to bed
before ten with any show of respectability. I
look for you! You are either with your father
confessor, or else immersed in reflections so
gloomy that I dare not interrupt them. For
eight lon, weeks have I endured this, Sa-
bina, and there have been more hours in those
weeks than I should have believed possible! I
assure you, my dear, my nerves will simply
not stand it, and if you will take my advice
you, will come back to St. Petersburg with
me.’

“T am perfectly well. I like the life. But 1
ean quite understand that it is dull for you,”
said Sabina, gazing meditatively into the heart
of the merry wood fire.

**Perfectly well! You have rings round your
eyes that. 1 could put my head through! You
eat nothing, you do nothing, you say nothing,
and in a short time you will find yourself in a
condition of mind where you will either take
to spiritualism or else go raving mad! Not
that there is much difference between the two
in my oOpinion,’’ added Alexia Bebrofska as an
afterthought.

“YT don’t think things are quite as bad as
that,’”’ said Sabina, with a composed smile.
“My intellect feels fairly safe at present, no
matter what it may do in the future.’’

“It will do very queer things if you go on
living here. Do come back to St. Petersburg
with me.”

Sabina shook her head. She did not speak
for a moment. The very name conjured up to
her the remembrance of the night when a
lover’s arms had pressed her to his heart—
when kisses had-been showered hot and fast
upon her lips—when eyes had gazed into hers
and seemed to possess her very soul. She
loved this dim winter solitude. This white
world full of snow appealed to a _ love-
sick soul that was weary of the world.
She liked tosit in the rich, sombre rooms
and imagine she was wandering down the
scented aisle of that fragrant conservatory
where Paul Zouroff had called her ‘‘queen.”
Most of all she liked to sit alone in the great
white drawing-room, where she had parted
from him, remembering every word of love,
every gesture of despair. She had heard noth-
ing from him since he left. No one knew any-
thing about him. What was the mysterious
secret that ruled his life? Had it anything to
do with another woman?

She put that thought aside from her. She
knew .that she, and she alone, possessed the
love of his heart and soul. It must, then, be
a political secret. re

If such were the case, there was a chance
that he might some day reappear—reappear as
suddenly as he had arrived that day when he
galloped up to her castle to bid her farewell.
They had parted there, and there should he
find her waiting, if ever he came back to her.
Waiting proudly and gladly for the one man
out of all the world whom she had chosen to
be her lover. She would forgive everything,
ask nothing, so that he returned to her. Her
love was wide and vast enough both to know
all and to forgive all. How many women can
say as much?

What did she want with the gay crowd of
men and women? To mix night after night in

 

I take up my

 

 

 

a world that was not to her taste? To smile
and talk platitudes to people she did not care
if she ever met again. She was living a fieffee
self-centered inner life that made the world
and its puppets a dull, unmeaning throng. She
would find the Tsar’s most famous ball less
interesting than an hour in her own great,
white . drawing-rcom alone with her own
thoughts.

Still it was hardly to be expected that the
Countess Alexia Bebrofska, a woman who,
though no longer in her first youth, could still
command a good deal of admiration from the
opposite sex, should have Sabina’s ideas and
thoughts. It was not to be expected that she
should be able to chain down a woman of the
world to this frozen white solitude in which
she herself delighted. So in answer to her
companion’s last question, she said:

“I shall be more sorry than I can say to
part with you, but I am not heartless enough
to beg you to stay where you are evidently not
happy. I will not come back to city life my-
self, because I like my mountain solitude, but
I will bid you godspeed and only hope that
you will rejoin me soon. I don’t feel inclined
for the gay world at present and should feel
like a fish out of water there... But go back
yourself, Alexia; it will welcome you with open
arms. It is always ready for the witty and the
gay, It has no patience with the tiréd and
sad.’

“You have no business to be tired and sad—
at your age,” said Alexia Bebrofska, looking
at the young Countess very kindly. =YouU
should leave that to older women, my dear.”

“To me it seems that it is the older women
who are gay,” said Sabina, with a mirthless
smile. ‘They have out-ived their sorrows, but
not their joys.”’

She rose abruptly as she said this and went
over to the window to look at the wide, white
landscape. Alexia Bebrofska followed her with
her eyes, but she dared not say more to her.
But when she was giving orders for her pack-
ing that night, firm in her intention to leave
what she called ‘‘a wilderness of wolves,’’ she
thought to herself:

“She is more in love with him than I thought.
What charm has Paul Zouroff exercised over
her to make her as devoted to his memory as
she is? Bah! what does it matter, after all?
She will in all probability never see the man
again. And what then? One does not die of

love.”’ :
(To be continued.)

 

 

-—

Items of Interest.

China and Japan furnish more than one-half
of the world’s supply of silk.

The annual average yield of each tea plant
is one pound and a quarter.

The hide of a cow yields about thirty-five
pounds of leather.

Fashionable society in Paris. has discarded
envelopes, and now folds its letters in the old
style, sealing them with wax or wafers.

A baby carriage with a fan attached is the
latest novelty. The wheeling of the carriage
operates the fan just above the child’s face.

Blue-eyed people are rarely color blind.
The gray-eyed are usualiy the best in distin-
guishing slight variations in tints.

The Queen of Madagascar has her best
dresses made in Paris, and some of them cost
several hundred dollars each; yet she always
goes barefooted.

A. self-acting electric switch for trolley
roads, which is operated by the motorman
simply touching a small lever on his car, has
been invented by a Phil@felphian.

Some of the companions of James Queereon,
of Huntington, N. Y., dared him to hold a big
firecracker in his hand until it exploded. He
held it, and the explosion shattered the second
and third fingers of his right hand,

A seedy scholar roams the streets of Paris,
and makes small bets that he can promptly
and correctly answer any question regarding
the history of France. Nearly all of the bets
he wins. That is the way he earns his money.

 

John Holland, a twelve-year-old boy, a resi-
dent of Brooklyn, induced a companion, Annie
E. O’Reilly, aged five, to put her eye to the
keyhole of a closed door and look at a new
toy he held in his hand. As she did so, with a
pistol loaded with a blank cartridge, he fired
through the keyhole. Her nose and eyes were
blackened with powder, and for a time it was
feared she would lose her sight.

 

3

_ Hailstorms have frequently caused great in-
jury to vineyards in Italy. A hailstorm was
about to descend on the villages near Monfer-
roto when the clouds were bombarded with
artillery and the hail was thus converted into
light rains.

Several years ago the body of John Hollings-
worth was buried at Tempe, Arizona. He was
almost bald at the time of his death, yet when
the body was exhumed, not long ago, his head
was covered with a luxuriant crop of hair and
his beard had grown fully thirteen inches.

A pistol came into the possession of Willie
Porter, aged nine years, of Coots, Kan. The
martial spirit stirred him, and he played sol-
dier. ‘‘I’ll shoot you!’’ he said to his little sis-
ter, and fired. The bullet passed through the
little girl and her mother, killing both.

Vhe child of Enoch Roland, of Chestertown,
Md., was taken ill at night, and the father
was leaving his home in quest of a physi-
cian. Two policemen mistook him for a bur-
glar and both fired their pistols at him, one of
the bullets lodging in his arm. The child died.

The most densely populated State is Rhode
Island, which has 318 inhabitants to the square
mile. Nevada has more territory for its popu-
lation than any other State. There are more
bee two square miles of area for each resi-

ent.

Swedish women are frequently employed as
farm laborers. Mothers who are engaged in
this work carry their babes strapped to their
backs, each in a leather bag. This plan ena-
bles them to use both hands at their labor,

: A very expressive verdict was rendered by a
jury in Bedford County, Va. The defendant
was on trial for horse-stealing. After a long
deliberation, the jury returned this verdict,
which the foreman solemnly read: ‘‘We find
the defendant not guilty, by a d— tight
squeeze.”’

 

Sixty-six years ago, when George John Stutz
was ten years old, his mother deposited $4,000
in a Baden-Baden bank, to be drawn by him
on reaching manhood. She died without in-
forming him of the matter. He came to this
country in 1849, and is now a market gardener
in Piscataway, N. J. He has just learned of

his good luck, and that the $4,000 has in-
creased to $75,580.
A learned Italian, resident in Venice, was

asked to translate for an American a local
paper’s account of an American victory at
the seat of war. The translator did this clev-
erly and closely until near the close of the ar-
ticle, when he thus rendered the description of
the music: “‘And the band played ‘The Flag
with the Stars on It,’ and ‘It Will be Very
Warm in the City This Evening.’ ”’

A young German and his sweetheart were
united in marriage by Justice Deuel of this
city. The Magistrate directed the groom to
procure a ten-cent stamp to put on the mar-
riage certificate. The groom produced a two-
cent postage stamp and tried to make that
serve the purpose. “No, no,’ said the Mag-
istrate, ‘you must get a ten-cent revenue
stamp.’’ “Oh, vot an egspense for such tam
foolishness!’’ exclaimed the groom, as he went
eut to buy the stamp.

The great force of the Mannlicher rifle was
accidentally demonstrated at Prague, Bohemia.
Two gendarmes entered a room at an inn and
placed their rifles in a corner, One of the
rifles. fell and was discharged. Its bullet passed
through a door leading to a room where a
party was dancing, killed one man and passed
through the bodies of five other men, all of
whom were seriously injured.

The mother of Isaac Helmes, a twelve-year-
old boy of Jersey City, gave him a nickel, and
he determined to have a good time. He bought
two cents’ worth of candy, and for safety put
the change on one side of his mouth, and then
began to munch the candy on the other side.
This proceeding continued for a few minutes,
until the three pennies became mixed with the
confectionery and_ slipped into his gullet.
A doctor took him by the heels, held him head
downward and shook the money out of him.

A shrewd and cautious thief had for months
been stealing the geese, chickens, turkeys and
pigs of John Thoblinski, of Red Hook, Dutch-
ess County, N. Y. He kept a close watch, but
never suspected the identity of the rogue until
the other day, when he heard one of his pigs
squealing. He saw an eagle carrying off the
little porker. He winged the eagle with a gun-
shot and then captured it
blanket over the bird.

 

 

1.—Queen Bess..... arene Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2.—Ruby’s Reward...... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
3.—He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not..

Julia Edwards
4.—For a Woman’s Honor....Bertha M. Clay
5.—The Senator’s Favorite..........

Mrs. Alex McVeigh Miller

6.—The Midnight Marriage....A. M. Douglass
%.—Two Keys........... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
8.—Beautiful But Poor.......... Julia Edwards
9.—The Virginia Heiress..May Agnes Fleming
10.—Little Sunshine.......... Francis S. Smith
11.—The Gypsy’s Daughter..... Bertha M. Clay
12.—Edrie’s Legacy...... Mre. Georgie Sheldon
13.—The Little Widow.......... Julia Edwards
T4:—Viclet LASIe. 660% vis esin sce © Bertha M. Clay
fice Dr. JACK. ceo <s. «....St. George Rathborne

iG Phe Matal Card 22.45 se oss s gerd ne
A novelization of the celebrated play
17.—Leslie’s Loyalty........... Charles Garvice
18.—Dr. Jack’s Wife./....Author of Dr. Jack
19:—Mr. hake of Chicago... :...5..... : é
Harry DuBois Milman

20.—The Senator’s Bride.............

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
21. A Peart 8. 101.42 os aes Bertha M. Clay
Me REATN Shes aa ins Ge twee as Charles Garvice

23.—Miss Pauline of New York......
Author of Dr. Jack
24.—A Wasted Love............ Charles Garvice
2.—A Little Southern Beauty......
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller

26.—Captain Tom.......... Author of Dr. Jack
27.—Estelle’s Millionaire Lover..Julia Edwards
28.—Miss Caprice........... Author of Dr. Jack
20. PREOOOLB i sais k ce beats Victorien Sardou
80.—Baron Sam............ Author of Dr. Jack
81.—A Siren’s Love.......... Robert Lee Tyler
82.—The Blockade Runner....J. Perkins Tracy
BS DETS BOs 6 ois oh tii vin ae cs Author of Dr, Jack

84.—Pretty Geraldine .............%.. ;
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
85.—The Great Mogul...... Author of Dr. Jack
BOs COOP oh vin bo oe cee sis Victorien Sardou
7.—The Heart of Virginia..........
J. Perkins Tracy
88.—The Nabob of Singapore........

Author of Dr. Jack
89.—The Colonel’s Wife...... Warren Edwards
40.—Monsieur Bob.......... Author of Dr. Jack
41.—Her Heart’s Desire........ Charles Garvice
42.—Another Woman’s Husband......

Bertha M. Clay
43.—Little Coquette Bonnie.......... :

3 Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
44.—That Dowdy........ Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
45.—A Yale Man............ Robert Lee Tyler
46.—Off With the Old Love..Mrs. M. V. Victor
47.—The Colonel by Brevet..Author of Dr. Jack

48.—Another Min’s Wife...... Bertha M. Clay
49.—None But the Brave....Robert Lee Tyler
60.—Her Ransom. ...sscesscvves Charles Garvice
Bl,—The Price He: Paige iii. .c soe ees E. Werner

52.—Woman Against Woman........

Mrs. M. A. Holmes
538.—The Old Homestead....Denman Thompson
B4.—Cleonatna. ei iee  akieaes Victorien Sardou
55.-—-Thrice Wedded...... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
56.—The Dispatch Bearer....Warren Edwards
57.—Rosamond...... Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
58.—Major Matterson of Kentucky..

Author of Dr, Jack

59.—Gladys Greye.....ceseeeees Bertha M. Clay
CO THS: COUNTY Bais bas Cis kk Neil Burgess
61.—La Tosca........+. Kd aecee e Victorien Sardou
62.—Stella Sterling.............. Julia Edwards

dealer, or by mail, postpaid, from the publishers,

 

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Examine this great list of stories and authors :

63.—Lawyer Bell from Boston......

Robert Lee Tyler

64.—Dora Tenney...Mrs. Alex. MeVeigh Miller
65.—Won By the Sword...... J. Perkins Tracy
66.—Witch Hazel........ Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

67.—Gismonda nets 4s ee be ee ead Victorien Sardou
68.—The Little Cuban Rebel....Edna Winfield
69.—His Perfect Trust....By a popular author

70.—In Love’s Crucible........ Bertha M. Clay
w1.—The Spider’s Web....St. George Rathborne
72.—Wilful Winnie.......... Harriet Sherburne
13.~—The. Marquise: ick eA Charles Garvice
74.—The Cotton King.............. Sutton Vane
45. nder Fire oe Oi bss be pee eee T. Py dames
76.—Mavourneen hata From the celebrated play
PASE IME) be chek eae sk Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
78.—The Yankee Companion. .Sylvanus Cobb,Jr.
79.—Majorie Deane...........02. Bertha M. Clay

80.—The Fair Maid of Fez............

St. George Rathborne
81.—Wedded for an Hour............

Emma Garrison Jones
82.—Captain Impudence..Edward Milton Royle
88-—The Locksmith. of Lyons........

Prof. Wm. Henry Peck
64.—Between Two Hearts...... Bertha M. Clay
85.—Lorrie; or Hollow Gold...:Charles Garvice
86.—The Widowed Bride...............

Lucy Randall Comfort
87.—_Shenandoah..............4.. J. Perkins Tracy
88.—Virgie’s Inheritance..Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
89.—A Gentleman from Gascony......

Bicknell Dudley
90.—For Fair Virginia...... 004... Russ Whytal
91.—Sweet Violet....Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
Bo FEU EDIT Vek 6 tk Ss eer wae Pen Sutton Vane
93.—A Queen of Treachery..... T. W. Hanshew

94.—Darkest Russia........ H. Grattan Donnelly
95.—’ Twixt Love and Hate...... Bertha M. Clay
96.—The Little Minister.............. J. M. Barrie
97.—The War Reporter........ Warren Edwards
MO SCT OIPE SE Gis visits eaceeeee ee Charles Garvice

99.—Audrey’s Recompense,
Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
100, 2S AN CO Baer is eats os) tae Francis S. Smith
101—A Goddess of Africa,
By the author of Dr. Jack

02.—Fair But Faithless.......... Bertha M. Clay
103.—The Span of Life................ Sutton Vane
104.—A Proud Dishonor......... Genie Holzmeyer
105.—When London Sleeps. From the cele-
DERCEG PIA 6.6 ovis aes ok Chas. Darrell

106.—Lillian, My Lillian,
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
107.—_Carla; or, Married at Sight......
Effie Adelaide Rowlands
108.—A Son of Mars..By the Author of Dr, Jack

1099.—A Heart’s Bitterness......, Bertha M, Clay
110.—Whose Wife Is She?............. Annie Lisle
j11.—Faithful Shirley...... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon

1IZ.++ ERO Cacele FING... sok aes os A. D. Hall
113.—A Crushed Lily.Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
114.—Half a Truth......... By a Popular Author
115.—A Fair Revolutionist,
By the Author of Dr. Jack
116.—The Daughter of the Regiment,
Mary A. Denison

117.—She Loved Him............. Charles Garvice
118.—Saved from. the Sea......... Richard Duffy
119.—An Ideal Love............... Bertha M. Clay

120.—The White Squadron..... T. C. Harbaugh
121.—Cecile’s Marriage..Lucy Randall Comfort

 

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122.—_Grazia’s Mistake....Mrs. George Sheldon
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POO

_ NEW YORK, AUGUST 26, 1899.

VOL. 54—No. 45.

 

 

 

«

I thought that time had. healed the wound
Of absence in my breast, Sa
And sought to hide the loneliness

And bade the longing rest;

} That place nor distance should recall,
. Nor near, nor far, the pain

 

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Sarefully state with what meee and vol-
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SIT—Are dupticated with-

of-
be

Of our last parting; but to-night
I know the seeming vain.

Glad that my old, dull heart responds
To all that yours may feel;

Joys with your joy, as it would grieve
Did yours one grief reveal;

And, as you leave for other scenes,
For distant, happier, lands,

My saddest thought, I was not there -
Again to take your hands;

6x

Do you like a horse?
I drive a span of black mares. There is so

 

 

_cations combined.

York Weekly has a larger cir-
culation than all other similar publi-

much to teach human nature in their horse
nature that I propose to tell you about them.
Fanny is young. I purchased her to mate
Dolly; this she does in size, color, points and
motion when she is steady. Her youth, how-

 

 

_A Stage Heroine \Serial)...........Gertrude Warden

The Broken Trust (Serial)............Bertha M. Clay

- Lover or Husband? (Serial)....... Adelaide Stirling

_A Russian Romance (Serial)..........--- Vioia Tyrell
Winifred’s Sacrifice (Serial)....Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
_ Her Faithful Knight (Serial)......Gertrude Warden

The Miner’s Love.......--....-...20:2-: ses
toute OF the Cireus.... 66.50. ns ms. ca

Dudley Barrington’s Lesson.-...............-

The Mark in the Bible...........-.-..--.---+- ;
“gteady, Dolly!”’........:--.. Cree: Harkley Harker
When Father Stays at Home.............Kate Thorn
Josh Billings’ Philosophy.............------- :

Pleasant Paragraphs.............- Charles W. Foster

MIRO Metre 292. 650002 ences J.D. R.
MEMEMMMR i002 5706 -..-<.~2%.- ......Mrs. Helen Wood
‘Items of Interest, Correspondence, Ete.

POEMS
“In the Orient.”
“Cupid’s Mistake,”
“Po Wish You Smiles.”
© Violet,” by Annie G. Murray. _

 

 

into the garden, Maud,
For the wintry days have flown;
- Come into the garden, Maud,
_ And see how things have grown.
_ Ihave planted pansies and sweet peas
_.. And morning glories there—
_ Come into the garden, Maud,
And see how my seedlings fare.”
He took her little hand in his
And they sauntered out to see,
_ And not a pansy had come up,
Nor a solitary pea; =
He took one look around, and then
He wildly tore his hair——
His next door neighbor’s chickens had

Preceded Maudie there.

- Rich rugs around her;
peri—in what Heaven had the swart Kahn
nd turbaned, found her?

finger-tips were henna-stained; —
tinged eyes listless;
uents sweet her sweeter body gained
‘Fresh charms resistless.

used to lift her nargile’s amber tip

With rosy fingers, _ a3 oe
Or raise cool sherbet to her scarlet lip,

Where love-dew lingers.

‘Chased, precious vessels held the sweetmeats

‘Phat often cloyed her; :
Gem-handled feathers fanned the fragrant air,
_ When heat annoyed her.

seldom spoke; but when her lute she took,
_ And softly thrummed it,
aught the bulbul’s note,

heard in some

 

 

: HG trude Warden, which
feel sure will delight all the ad-
ers of “Her Faithful Knight.”

ever, tingles in her veins. She is not steady
till after at least the first five miles of a drive.
Previous to that she is restive, wastes her nerve
in a thousand false motions, needs to be scolded
or coaxed and otherwise fussed with in a way
that makes her pretty self a continual bother,
Yet there is nothing vieious about Fanny; I
would not own a vicious horse any more than
I would do business with an insane man. 1
have an idea, now thoroughly proved by years
of handling horses, that no sound horse is
vicious. If a horse is nervously diseased, then
you have an ugly beast. Nervous prostration
in horseflesh very often takes the shape of
downright ugliness. Brain disease shows it-
self in a like manner. Ill-treatment, overwork,
under or over-feeding, idleness, the sequels of
distempers; these often produce nervous dis-
orders that in fact amount to insanity in the
horse.

Now when a horse is insane, he is a demon,
I hear fools talk of ‘“‘being afraid of no horse
that ever walked,” of feeling equal to ‘holding
any horse over which lines were ever drawn.”
All this is folly. If you will look at the next
white jaw-bone of any horse that has turned
to a skeleton in a vacant lot, you will see that,
against that gigantic lever of bone, when it is
full-rigged with muscles, no human hand since
Samson could avail if the horse should try his
great strength. Nowfanny is not crazy. She
is simply ignorant and coltish. é :

Dolly is ten years old. She steadies the team.
She knows a great deal. For five years I have
driven her in the city streets, the park, and
over the country hills. She has .traveled by
rail and water. She has seen fire, and pro-
cessions, and mowing machines. Nothing af-
frights Dolly. She understands English, though
she does not pronounce it so perfectly. She
knows when she is well off, and means, I can
see, to stay in our family while she lives. She
has already outstayed two mates. One mate,
Prince, exposed himself, and died of pneumo-
nia; the ether, Kitty, used her feet so care-
lessly—which Dolly never does—that she be-
came lame. Dolly is a jewel. I will pension
her on the farm when she is old, and, when she
dies, bury her beside old George in the flower-
ing meadow. _. See ea

You should see Dolly look about to rebuke
Fanny at her antics when standing ready for
a drive at the door; or when, on the road,
Fanny dances at sound of a wayside mowing
machine, Dolly gives her a pull, as much as

The meanest bizness that enny one kan fol-
low iz to trade in sekrets.

I have often notissed that all them folks
who go about the country hunting for work
are generally kussid afraid they shall find it.
The dead allwuss git more praizes than the
living. We don’t envy them, and ain’t afraid
to do the square thing with them.

Menny a poor man haz been obliged to feed
on honesty until he starved to deth.

All profuse people are selfish; they either giv
with the hope of receiving in return or to be
applauded. ~ os .

I notiss the best writers we hav allwuss
write for cash, and the poorest ones are satis-
fied with glory. — /

I never knu a man to fail in a good cause
who sot hiz mark hi enuff, and then went for
that chalk mark without enny regard to enny-
thing else.

~*~

May and June, after the buffalo bug and the
predatory moth miller have been laid to rest
-with moth balls, and turpentine, and oil of
cedar, and camphor, and black pepper, and
benzine, and all the other vile-smelling moth
antidotes, the female head of the family will
put in all her spare time in reading ads. and
‘deciding where she will go with her girls to
pass July and August.

Occasionally the male head of the household
will interest himself in this sort of thing, but
it is not a common occurrence. He is generally
content to let his wife do all the planning and
deciding in regard to the summer outing, pro-
viding she does not. levy too heavily on his bank
account. ,

She Is always looking for a place not too far
from town, so that ‘father’ can run down
every night and break up the dreariness of his
forced stay in the city.

All summer boarding places are ‘‘within easy
distance of the city,’”’ as everybody knows, and
the train service is invariably exceptionally
good. In that respect the woman who is look-
ing for a summer home can make no mistake.

It will take a couple of weeks to get ready for
the flitting, after the location has been selected.
“Father won’t want to go into the parlors,’ so
the furniture is all swathed in brown holland,
and the blinds are drawn down, and the shades
lowered, and the lace curtains packed away in
the linen press.
 “Bather will get most of his meals down-
town, so he won’t need the dining-table, and
can take his breafast just as well from the
kitchen-table.”’ And the table-cloth, and all
the other fixings, are packed off to the laun-
dry, to be returned in the fall, and father
chuckles to himself as he witnesses the prepar-

ations, for he has his own views in regard to
the way he shall keep house when those
women of his household are safely off.
The white spread and the embroidered _pil-
low-shams are removed from the bed where
father’ll sleep—if he should happen to get left
in oo some night—‘‘men do muss such things
u $0 ” 5 ye ;
‘Everything duly attended to, the wife and
her girls leave for Pine Lookoff by the sea, or
Cragville Heights in the mountains, as the case
may be, and she is happy in the serene con-
sciousness of duties well and faithfully done.
“Father is coming down every night if possi-
ple, ‘it is such a pleasant little trip, and it will
be such a delightful break to the wearing
labors of the day,’ and he’ll be expected to
pring fresh fruit, and new books and maga-
| zines, and all :

 

the news.

TO WISH YOU SMILES.

 

 

 

©

To wish you smiles where’er you go,
And ever fairest skies,

To bless your steps, from day to day,
Where’er your pathway lies.

I would not one unhappy thought,
Nor aught that I may say,

Should mar your pleasure—but you seem
So doubly far away!

I feel I need so much to-night
Your sympathy, your smiles—
That the tired spirit reaches out,
Across the years and miles,

To clasp the heart it loves the best,
Unwilling though it be,

To teach it how I feel its loss,
And bear it back to me,

**Steady, Dolly!’’

By Harkley Harker.

to say, ‘‘Behave yourself! Come along now!
Don’t make an ass of yourself!”’ And the other
maye will naturally calm herself, reassured by
the self-possession of her mate. *

Fanny will sag up against Dolly till their
sides touch, and the toueh seems*to tranquil-
ize her. I have seen Dolly pull at the connect-
ing lines, on some occasion of Fanny’s notions,
and jerk her own wise head the other way, to
help me on the fractious one’s bit, with all the
intelligence of a human creature. I have seen
Dolly stand on all her four feet, like a solid
black anchor, to hold down the young horse
when up in air. Dolly, however, has her
faults; she can be frightened, as a philosopher
can be. But, strange to say, I never saw her
give way to her feelings at the same time that
Fanny was excited. I have seen Dolly start, for
instance, at the rattle of a vulgar cart behind
her, her favorite excitation; but the moment
that she perceived that Fanny was alarmed
also, noble Dolly pocketed her own fears and
instantly calmed down; she seemed willing to
perish under the wheels of the oncoming cart
behind us, rather than indulge Fanny in her
skittishness. Dolly gets her tail over the lines
at times; this annoys her. Yet, even that she
will endure in silence if the other horse hap-
pens to be excitable at the same moment. I
honestly believe that Dolly would trig the team
if Fanny were to attempt to run away. Surely
a would if I were within speaking distance
of her.

Now, what a moral for a partnership. There
should never be two excitable men yoked up‘in
a copartnership. One should be like Dolly. The
man who steadies the team may not be quite
so showy, but he is invaluable as a balance-
wheel to the more energetic man. No one
brain is perfect.

He who is wise will link himself with an
opposite; not an offensive and antagonistic na-
ture, but one which will complete his own na-
ture by supplying some such defect as indicat-
ed in the case of the horses. It is a mistake to
take a fellow who is ‘‘just your kind;’’ most of
the failures of partnership result from such
an error. And it is a mistake to refuse to be
helped by the opposite characteristics in your
partner. I see that my mares are attracted to
each other. Fanny has increased the speed of
the team. Dolly is forced to trot up hill or be
left behind. I think each knows the benefit
that the other has contributed. If they do not
know it, I do.

And the world, the trade, recognize the value
of each man in a copartnership when they
‘make a whole team.’’ One man is approach-
able by some, the other by others; one man
is judgment, the other ‘‘push;’’ one man lends
credit and reputation to the concern, the other
drive and force. Happy are they if they know
each other’s value and stick together. This
they cannot do unless they mutually esteem
and trust each other, unless concessions are
made on both sides. Then the outcome of it is
anew man, unlike either, with the best. points
of both. The market keeps its eyes open for
the acts of such a house, They are both able
and cautious, alert and full of fire. Think this

over, young men just about starting in busi-

ness. Compromise every personality except
virtue and a true heart.

Josh Billings’ Philosophy.

I don’t like to see a young man painfully dis-
kreet. Thare iz grate danger ov hiz tireing out
before he gits thru life, and when he duz tire
as he hain’t got nothing under heaven to fall

ak on.

Prayers are good things, but if they had all
been answered thare would hay bin more
ruined than benefitted by them.

Poverty haz been called safe; but even pov-
erty haz to lock up its bread and cheeze or
looze it.

A pedigree iz a good thing enuff to hav in
the house, but iz a poor think to liv on; it
ought allways to be treated like a venerable
piece ov old cracked crockery, taken down
once in a while and dusted, and then sot back
karefully. = x

Mankind won’t work for nothing. They are
solid on this issue; men are even honest for
the fame or proffit thare iz in the transaction.

_ When Father Stays at Home..

By Kate Thorn.

But father has an entirely different pro-
gramme in preparation, and as soon as the
women are well out of the way he will put it
in running order. It isn’t to be expected that
any man’s devotion to his family will incite
him to run from his downtown office to catch
a car to connect with a train for Pawdunk
Corners, which never runs on schedule time
and is invariably gone when he reaches the
station. He doesn’t care to walk ‘‘a short
half-mile’ (it’s a mile and a half if it’s a foot)
over a sandy road, and at the terminus climb
a steep path of twenty rods or more to that de-
lightful cottage where his wife is staying—just
for the sake of sitting on the piazza in a ram-
shackle rocking-chair, which comes apart in
its anatomy every time one draws a long
breath. He doesn’t especially hanker after
being gnawed by boarding-house mosquitoes
all the livelong night while he is sleeping (7?)
in a lop-sided bed, with the springs sticking up
through the mattress, and the supposed curled
hair prodding him suggestively at every pore.
Not he.- He’ll do it Saturday nights now and
then, just for effect, but he will not settle to it.

He’ll tell his wife that his business is so
rushing, and with Jones and Wiggins and the
office boy all off on vacations, it isn’t possible
for him to get away.

And his wife is so sorry for father; and the
girls kiss him in sympathy, and ask for a little
money to pay some little expenses they have
in view; and they all agree that it is too bad
“noor papa has to confine himself so to work
this dreadful weather!’’

But if they could see poor papa as he dines
with the boys at the club, and goes to the sum-
mer theatre in the suburbs at night, and takes
delightful trips with Rugby in his yacht, with
Rugby’s pretty country cousins along, they
would lift up their virtuous feminine hands in
holy horror. And if they could witness the
merry “gander’’ parties held in those moth-
ball-smelling parlors where the odor has to be
killed with cigar smoke and the pungent fra-
grance of champagne, father would stand a
fair chance of being balder than he is now.

Lucky for him if they never come to know
how the charwoman, at a dollar and a half an
hour, prowls around the house, under the pre-
tense of clearing up after these parties, and
who appropriates whatever pleases her fancy,
could tell them tales that would harrow up the
soul of the wife who believes honestly that
John is digging away in that stuffy office all
the time she is away in the country!

And what that same charwoman appropri-
ates-is put down to the account of the vision-
ary burglars who went through the house one
night when father was so beat out with his
day’s work that he had to sleep downtown on
the office settee.

Oh, isn’t it a wonderful provision of the gen-
eral plan of creation that it is not possible for
the woman who is in the country to know
what her husband, who is staying at home in

 

the city, is doing to amuse himself?

 

 

 

L : : =
+7) (SORRESPONDENCEY,

$ ass 7
Fae g hd. 0. SECEERE Falee WER
ae 8s

OUR READERS,

Correspondents must sign name and address, not for pub-
lication, but because we refuse to answer anonymous
communications. All letters are presumed to be conji-
dential, and_are so treated,

Ray.—The following cement is said to stick
on anything: Take of clear gum arabic two
ounces, of fine starch one ounce and a half,
and of white sugar half an ounce. Reduce the
Zum arabic to powder and dissolve it in as
much water as a laundress would use to ren-
der one ounce and a half of starch fit for use.
Dissolve the starch and sugar in the gum so-
lution. Then place the mixture in a vessel
and plunge the vessel itself in boiling water,
and let it remain there until the starch be-
comes clear. The cement should be as thick
as tar, and remain so. It can be kept from
spoiling by dropping in a lump of gum cam-
phor, or a little oil of cloves or sassafras.
This cement is said to be very strong indeed,
and will cause glazed surfaces to adhere per-
fectly. It is useful for repairing specimens of
rocks, minerals or fossils that may have been
accidentally broken.

Harold.—You cannot expect a sensible girl
will give up a good situation to become your
wife when you have no home to offer her and
your salary does not amount to what she earns
at her business. If she could manage to retain
her situation after her marriage with you it
would be all right; but in some localities a
married woman is not eligible to the position
of teacher in the public school. Love is a real
and noble quality, but impulsive and impru-
dent love that does not look ahead or take into
account the necessity of bread and butter is
more of a blind passion than a sincere and
sensible attachment.

G. L. G.—The wonders of this age or century
are but faintly represented by the number
seven, if you mean the wonders derived from
science and engineering. Foremost stands the
steam engine and its wondrous work in de-
veloping power. The development of electric
power, light and transmission of language in
the telegraph, the telephone, the phonograph.
Then the opening of celestial space by the
great telescopes. The diving into the infini-
tesimal by the modern microscope. And as
works of engineering, the Mount Cenis Tunnel,
the Menai Bridge, the New York and Brook-
lyn Bridge, St. Louis Bridge, the ocean tele-
graph lines, modern ordinance, the Atlantic
racers, the transcontinental railways, and a
long list of lesser works of note.

Ww. M. T.—The following is an easy method
of breaking glass to any required form: Make
a small notch by means of a file on the edge
of a piece of glass; then make the end of a
tobacco pipe, or a rod if lron of about the
same size, red hot in the fire. Apply the hot
iron to the notch and draw it slowly along the
surface of the glass in any direction you
please. A crack will be made in the glass and
will follow the direction of the iron. Round
glass bottles and flasks may be cut in the
middle by wrapping round them a worsted
thread dipped in spirits of turpentine and set-
ting it on fire when fastened on the glass.

F. J. R.—A few years ago Captain Boycott,
the owner of an estate in Ireland, incurred the
ill-will of his neighbors, and they adopted se-
vere measures to indicate their displeasure.
Tradesmen would sell him nothing, nor would
they have ariy other dealings with him and
workmen refused to enter his service. AS a
matter of course this caused him great incon-
venience for a while, but terminated in a
breaking of the embargo. From this circum-
stance arose the practice known as “boycot-
ting,’ which is very often resorted to in other
countries when differences arise between em-
ployers and employed,

Lily.—Platonic means pertaining to Plato
(who was a philosopher), or to his school, or
his opinion. ‘Therefore, a platonic love indi-
eates a pure, spiritual affection subsisting be-
tween the sexes, unmixed with carnal desires,

and regarding the mind only and its excellen-
cies. The gentleman might mean to imply that
his feelings are somewhat warmer than a pla-
tonic friendship admits of, or he might mean
that there was not even the intellectual affec-
tion existing that he imagined there was xt
first. We must leave you to exercise your own
judgment in the matter.

Marianne.—To be a good conversationalist
does not mean a great talker. In conversation
you give and take—toss the ball of talk back
and forth. To be a goad listener is as great an
accomplishment as to be a good talker. Listen
intelligently, keeping pace with the talker’s
ideas by means of your eyes. A ready sympa-
thy and quick tact will make you interesting

.¥
t,t.

o/T

}

 

in society. ‘Very few people can be at the same-

time witty and popular. It takes art and tact
to be witty, yet avoid hurting feelings. The
would-be wit, who is always trying to be
funny at somebody’s expense, is a nuisance.

Laundress.—The proper test of hard water
is soap. When soap comes in contact with
sulphate of lime, as in washing, it curdles,
forming a new soap which will not dissolve,
and floats on the surface. The better test is
to dissolve a little soap in alcohol and place
a few drops in the water to be examined. If
it remains clear the water is perfectly soft; if
it becomes curdled the water is hard. To
soften hard water, sew boiled oatmeal in a
muslin bag and keep it in the water all night,

Viva.—To make almond macaroons, take
half a pound of sweet almonds, a coffee-cup of
white sugar and the whites of two eggs;
blanch the almonds and pound them to a
paste; add to them the sugar and the whites
of the eggs, well beaten. Work the whole well
together with the back of a strong spoon, and
then roll the mixture in your hands into cakes
of the desired size, dust sugar over the top
and lay them on a sheet of paper at least one
inch apart. Bake in a moderate oven to a
light brown.

Mamie A.—While it is perfectly proper for a
young lady to accept any article of jewelry
from her betrothed, she should decline pres-
ents of clothing or of money from him for the
purchase of clothing. In fact, we can hardly
reconcile womanly pride with the humiliation
of receiving money from a lover, to be expend-
ed in wearing apparel. Our advice is that you
decline any further cash presents, etc., from
the young man and do without the articles you
specify until after you have become his wife.

Mrs. F. A. W.—We think you are foolish to
let the matter trouble you so much. If the
boy really has genius, you may rest assured
that it is bound to make itself known sooner or
later, in spite of all drawbacks. For the pres-
ent, we think you can do no good by opposing
your husband’s wishes. The boy will doubtless
find a few spare hours to devote to his hobby,
and if he continues to make steady progress it
will not be too late in a year or two to obtain
for him the instruction that you think he ought
to have.

H. L. S.—You can mend the broken marble
statuette by means of a cement which you
may make at home. Take plaster of paris and
soak it in a saturated solution of alum, then
bake it in an oven, just as gypsum is baked,
to make it plaster of paris. Then grind and
sift it. To use it, mix with just enough water
to make a paste, and apply at once as soon as
it sets. It forms a hard composition very much
like marble, and takes a high polish. You can
tint it any color, and very beautiful ornaments
are made of it.

Unhappy Bessie.—It certainly appears as if
he had mistaken his feelings for you, and the
most dignified and sensible course would be
to speak to him straightforwardly on the sub-
ject and show him that you think an unwilling
lover worse than no lover at all. It may cost
you something to give him up now, but you
will escape greater unhappiness in the future,
for you cannot expect that he would be kinder
to you as a husband that he is now to you as
a sweetheart. :

Nellie.—Love-letters, in the full meaning of
the term, should never be exchanged, except
between betrothed lovers, and even then it
were well to avoid gush and allusions to af-
fairs of a personal character. Betrothals are
often broken, so to speak, at the very church
door, and letters of a ridiculous or unseemly
nature become dangerous possessions when in
the hands of a vindictive ex-lover. Hence love-
letters, however affectionate, should be care-
fully worded.

John H.—A beautiful transparent blue for
iron or steel is made by mixing half a gallon
of varnish with half an ounce of fine-ground
Prussian blue. Mix thoroughly. To clean
metals, take oxalic acid, one part; rotten stone,
six parts; mix to a paste with equal parts of
train-oil and spirits of turpentine. It will elean
ina way perfectly magical.

 

Dorothy.—Queen Victoria has had nine chil-
dren—Victoria, now Dowager Empress of Ger-
many, born in 1840; Albert Edward, Prince of
Wales, born in 1841; Alice, Grand Duchess of
Hesse, born in 1843, and died in 1878; Alfred,
Duke of Edinburgh, born in 1844; Princess
Helena, born in 1846; Princess Louise, born in
1848; Arthur, Duke of Connaught, born in 1850;
Leopold, Duke of Albany, born in 1853, and died
in 1884; Princess Beatrice, born in 1857.

Henrietta C.—The following lines from
“Lalla Rookh,” by the poet Moore, are doubt-
less those to which you refer:
“There’S a beauty, forever

bright,
Like aaa sunny lapse of a summer-day’s
ight,
Shining on, shining on, by no shadow made
tender,
Till awe falls asleep in its sameness of splen-
or.”’

unchanginegly

G. C. B.—The way to get employment as a
reporter or correspondent is to apply for it and
be ready to show what you can do. The fact
that you can write pleasing stories or articles
is no sign that you could fill the position of a
newspaper reporter or correspondent. A man
must, have a genius for news-gathering in or-
der to do that, and be able to work day and
night under the most disagreeable conditions.

Cc. D.—Aluminum is a white metal resem-
bling silver in appearance. It is very mallea-
ble and ductile, and may be beaten and rolled
into thin sheets or drawn into fine wire. By
hammering in the cold it becomes as hard as
soft iron, but may be softened again by melt-
ing. It forms alloys with most metals and is
largely used for articles of jewelry, for mak-
ing balance beams, astronomical instruments
and bells.

A. P.—As you are not engaged to the young
lady, you have not the right to request, or
even suggest, that she cease to correspond
with any of her friends, either male or female.
She is free to do just as» she pleases in such
matters, and if you wish to gain her love you
will refrain from assuming a right which has
not yet been accorded you.

Young Wife.—To make your lamp burn
brightly, soak the wick in vinegar before using
and put just a pinch of salt in the oil-well.
Perhaps the burner is not clean. This would
prevent any lamp from burning brightly.
Every part of the burner should be well
brushed to remove ali particles of dirt once a
week at the least.

Henry J.—‘‘Round Robin” is a name given
to a protest or remonstrance signed by a num-
ber of persons in a circular form, so that no
one shall be obliged to head the list. This
form originated in France, and the name is de-
rived from the words rond, meaning ‘‘round,”’
and ruban, “ribbon.”

Inquirer.—The word ‘periodical’ means
performed in a circuit, or in regular revolution
at a stated time; as the periodical motion of
the earth round the sun. A periodical means
any. publication which appears at regular in-
tervals; so that newspapers, magazines, re-
views and almanacs are all periodicals.

Bride.—The bride’s veil had its origin, we
believe, in the Anglo-Saxon custom of perform-
ing the ceremony under a square piece of cloth,
held at each corner by tall men over the bride-
groom and bride to conceal the latter’s blushes,
If the bride was a widow the veil was dis-
pensed with.

N. J.—We have given many freckle lotions in
these columns, but here is still another: Take
one cup of rich sweet milk, add half an ounce
of powdered Castile soap; simmer till creamy.
If very thick, add more milk and boil again.
When cool add the juice of a lemon. Apply at
night, letting it dry into the skin.

Reader.—Tinder was the chief means of
procuring fire before the invention of matches.
It was ignited by a spark from a flint, and was
then brought into contact with matches dipped
in sulphur. Tinder may be made of half-burnt
linen and of various other substances, such as
almadon, touchwood, or German tinder.

M. F. H.—The governor to an engine is an
apparatus for regulating the supply of steam.
When a machine is going too fast the balls
fly out by centrifugal force and shut off a por-
tion of the steam; when too slowly, they fall
back, and, opening the valve, let on the steam
again.

Nellie.—We would advise you to have a se-
rious talk with your betrothed and come to a
definite understanding with him, If he is un-
willing to wait for a year or so, as circum-

stances seem to demand, he is urworthy of —

your love, and you would do well to give him
his freedom.

Mrs. Jones.—To bleach almonds and other
nuts, pour plenty of boiling water over the
kernels and allow them to stand till the water
is cool enough to be handled comfortably.
Then the nuts will easily slip from their brown
skins while held between the fingers and
thumb.

Miriam.—While there is no harm in your
husband indulging in an occasional game at
eards with friends in his own home or theirs,
you are right in insisting that he draws the
line at playing for high stakes. Gambling in
any form, however small the stakes, is best
avoided. S

Frank P.—Nineteen is too early for a young
man to assume the responsibilities of married
life. If the young girl to whom you are en-
gaged loves you as devotedly as you believe, she
will wait until you have attained your twenty-
first year, and love you all the more for wait-
ing.

J. KF. J.—Roulette is a game of chance, in
which a small ball is made to move round rap-
idly in a circle divided off into numbered red
and black squares, the one on which it stops
indicating the result of the wagers permitted
by the game. Roulette is a French word,
meaning a little wheel or ball.

B. 0. D.—To remove rust from nickel plate,
grease the rust stains with oil and after a
few days rub thoroughly with a cloth moist-
ened with ammonia. If any spots still remain,
remove them with diluted hydrochloric acid
and polish with tripoli.

M. S.—Monaco is a small principality of
Italy, on the coast of the Mediterranean Sea,
The capital is a small town of the same name,
built on a rock promontory which juts into the
sea. It has-a population of about 12,000, and
is notorious for its gaming-tables,

Ignorant.—The Dead Sea gets its name from
the common belief that no living thing can
exist in its waters, but there are those who
say that such is not the case, and that fish
have been seen below the surface. Its waters
are intensely salt.

W. M. H.—Siesta is the name given to the
practice indulged in by the Spaniards, and the
inhabitants of hot climates generally, of sleep-
ing two or three hours in the middle of the
day, when the heat is too oppressive to admit
of their going from home.

R. D.—To eradicate pimples and blackheads,
refrain from all rich, greasy and very salt
food, and take a good preparation of sarsapa-
rilla. As an external application you will find
bay rum beneficial. Apply two or three times
a day.

Mattie S.—Corresponding with strangers of
either sex of whom you know absolutely noth-
ing is highly imprudent. We would advise you
to give up answering newspaper ‘“‘personals’”’
and seek some other and more profitable form
of amusement.

Jane.—The first woman raised to a throne
and invested with supreme authority was Sem-
jramis, Queen of Assyria. King Ninus surren-
dered his crown to her and caused her to be
proclaimed queen and sole empress of Assyria,
2017 B. C.

Noname.—Clearness and legibility are the
chief requisites, neither of which can be said
to characterize your writing at present; but
a little careful practice every day would soon
remedy those deficiencies.

B. H.—The Arctic fox shows the greatest
change of any animal in the color of its coat
throughout the year. In summer its coat is
dark blue and it gradually lightens until snow
begins to fall, by which time it is-pure white.

FE. M. J.—A person who deliberately opens
the letter of another with malicious intent, or
even through mere curiosity, violates the law,
and is liable, upon conviction, to be sent to
prison.

R. J.—To make a mucilage similar to that
used on postage stamps and envelopes, dis-
solve two ounces of gum dextrine in five ounces
of hot water and add one ounce of acetic acid
and one ounce of alcohol.

Wild Cat.—Laws of entail and primogeni-
ture existed in England before the Norman
feudal law; that is, before the time of Alfred
the Great.

Phil.—No doubt you would find gymnastic
exercise very beneficial. You should join some
gymnasium. It should not be difficult to find
one in your neighborhood.

B. &. C.—Glasgow is the largest city in Scot-
land, but Edinburgh is the capital.

Mrs. M. A. F.—March 3, 1894, fell on Satur-

day.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL 54—No. 45.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

he Broken Trust

OR,

A WOMAN’S SILENCE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of ‘A Wéaife’s Peril,’ ‘‘Lady Ona’s Sin,’ ‘‘Hand Without a
Wedding Ring,’’ ‘‘ Dora Thorne,’’ ‘‘ How Will It End?’ Ete.

(“THe BROKEN TRusT’’ was commenced in No. 39. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XIX.
ESTHER’S NOBILITY—LOVE OR HATE?
Sir Alan Aynsley waited some few minutes
before he replied; then he asked in a low voice:
“Can you not guess, Esther? Can you not
~ imagine how it is?”

As she stood under the darkling summer sky

“her keen instinct and vivid fancy quickened;

light seemed to break in on her.

“Tt cannot,” she said, “unless the man who
died at Otana was the real Alan Wayne, and
-you took his place.’’

He was not prepared for the wild outburst
of passionate sorrow that followed his words:
~“It was so. Alan Wayne died, and I took
his place and name.”’

She flung herself upon the ground; she buried
her face in the long summer grasses and wept
without control. :

“Hush, Esther,” he said, bending over her;
- *it was not so very wicked after all.’’

He tried to raise her from the ground to
still the tempest of grief. He could sooner

~have stopped the sea from flowing.

“Tt was not so very wicked, Esther,’ he said
again, when her weeping exhausted her, and
she laid her fair head against the rugged
trunk of an old pine tree.

“Do you know what you did?” she said.
“You broke my heart. You knew how dearly
I loved you, yet you wrote and told me you
were dead. Do you know,’’ with sudden pas-
sion, “‘that when I read that letter my heart
broke. If you deceived the whole world, if you
tried even to blind heaven, you should have
trusted me.”

“You were too good and noble for me to dare
to tell you of such a scheme,” he said,
humbly. :

“And you have deliberately and willfully
passed yourself off as the true heir of Cars-
dale. You have robbed Captain Chandos
hame, home and love, all to enrich yeurself!”’

“T have done it,” he said. a

“My God!’’ she cried, “that I did not die
years ago; that I have had to see the man I
loved brought so low—a_thief, a traitor.
would rather—ah! ten thousand times over—
have seen you die—have died with you—than
Know you capable of such a deed.”’

“Eisther, you will keep my secret?’

oa me think before I answer you,’’ she re-
plied.

“You must keep it!” he whispered, hoarsely.
“YT do not know, I do not understand the law,

- but I think the punishment for what I have
~~ done is death.”’

He knew it was not so, but he wished to ter-
rify her.

“Death!” she said; ‘“‘why, how can it be?’

“They might say I murdered Alan Wayne,
for I was alone with him when he died!’

“Did you?” she asked, fearfully.

ae een t Ow can you ask me; how

could you suspect me of anything so foul as

the murder of a sick man?’

“Tt seems to me,’’ she said,
have done is, perhaps, more foul still.
is worse—to poison.the medicine a si
drinks, to stop his breathing, or to break a hu-

- man heart? You have broken not only mine,
but what have you done to Lady Blanche?

What have you done to Captain Chandos?’

“Hush!”’ he said, again; ‘‘do not speak so
loudly; there is some one passing.” ;

The quick, rapid footsteps of a man going
down the path at the end of the pine grove—
footsteps that sounded clearly among the
rustling leaves.

_ “Who can that be?’ thought Sir Alan. He
_ Jooked after the man and recognized Lady Bel-
-mont’s footman.

“T. must go in,’’ he said; ‘‘give me your prom-
ise, Esther, that you will keep my secret.” .-
~ “T cannot promise,’ she said, coldly. ‘I will
eonsider what to do; it shall not cross my lips
until I have spoken with you again.’’

“Thank you,” he said. :

He tried to take her in his arms and kiss
her, but she waived him from her with the
dignity of an outraged queen; and-he shrank
back, knowing that he was not worthy to
breathe her name. : :

She went quietly up to her room. God in His
mercy grant that no woman may ever suffer
as she suffered then! :

All the agony of his death and his loss had
been nothing to this. While she believed that
only the grave lay between them, she used to
dream for long hours together of meeting him
in heaven. 7

Poor Esther’s ideas of heaven might have
horrified severe theologians. She had a de-
vout and earnest belief that God would give
her in another world what He had taken from
her in this. She had dreamed pure, beautiful
dreams of kneeling at the foot of the Great

White Throne, and showing her troth_ un-
broken, her heart unstained by a second love.
It was a double death. The man she had loved
was lost to her, body and soul. She could
never love, respect or esteem him again.
her no dreams of one pure spirit waiting for
her beyond the skies; no more dreams of see-
_ ing him in heaven whom she had lost on
earth; no more brave strife or patient waiting.

The man she loved stood in the savage clutch

of the law, in the Valley of the Shadow of
~ Death—according to her simple belief, in the

very mouth of hell.

Yet Esther was no ordinary woman. The
first sharp pang of finding that he had be-
trayed even her was past. There was no girl-
ish pining for a lost lover; no woman’s yearn-
ing for the love that would never be hers

“that what you
Which

-again; no human longing for happiness that)

she could know never, never more, Holier, high- | 2
er thoughts than these came to her. Vengeance! | and his love.

ah, yes, vengeance would be easy! She had
but to denounce him—to say who and what he
was. For him, there would be, if not the gal-
lows, the felon’s dock, the dismal jail, the
hatred and execration of his fellow-man; a
hardened life, followed, perhaps, by a wretched
death. Ah, no, not that; she had loved him.
She could not track him to death. Hers should
not be the first hand to fling a stone at him.
She had loved him; and, for the sake of that
old love, she must spare and save him. A jeal-
ous. woman would have doomed him
destruction—an angry woman would have de-
-nounced him. She was a noble woman, and
she did neither of these things.

She resolved to save him—to win him back
to honor and goodness—to persuade him to re-
store that which he had kept. For this she
would sacrifice herself. She would do that
which her whole soul loathed—marry him.
Once his wife, she believed she could grad-

wally, slowly but surely, influence him, and
make him at length repent of his wrongdoing.

She would think of nothing else—no other
plan. She could not stand by quietly and see
the iniquity prosper. She could not rest un-
til Captain Chandos’ wrong was righted. To
‘persuade Sir Alan now would be useless; but
if once she could be mistress of his destiny—
his wife—constantly at hand to suggest, to
counsel, and to advise, in time she believed
she could triumph. If, by dying a death of
torture, she could have undone his sin, she
would have died gladly. If, by going to the
farmost end of the world and living in exile
and sorrow, she could have brought him to
repentance and reparation, she would gladly
have gone. God, who read her thoughts, knew
that when she said to herself she would mar-
ry him, there was not one thought of human

| love in her soul; nay, humanly speaking, there

was only aversion, = _—s_«, 2
Another thing that decided her was, she had
fieard all that was said about Captain Chane-
dos and Lady Blanche. All along she had no=
ticed how the proud; beautiful lady shrank

from Sir Alan. Esther knew more of the great

of ;

world now—enough to assure her that the
daughter of Lord Damar had probably been
forced to accept the evidently unwelcome at-
tentions of Sir Alan.

She could prevent that wrong at least. Never
mind if he hated her for it; Lady Blanche
should not be sacrificed. She would enforce
her own claim, and he must respect it.

There was no need to see him again. She
wrote these words:

“I will keep your secret on one condition—
that is, that you keep your promise made to
me. I claim it and no other woman shall be
your wife. If you fail, I fail.”

And these words she gave to Sir Alan with-
out comment that day as she passed him on
the stairs. :

* * * * * oe ok

Lady Belmont’s footman piqued himself upon
his powers of captivation, and he had been
trying them for some time upon Lucy Flowers,
her‘ ladyship’s maid.

But Lucy was obdurate, and he felt it keen-
ly. The rest of the servants declared hand-
some John Thorne was quite the gentleman,
with his whiskers and eyes most beautiful;
but Miss Lucy steadily persisted in carrying
her head high in the air, and speaking of him
as “that young person.’’

She had one weak point and John knew it—
her love for gossip.

On the morning after Esther’s interview
with Sir Alan, John was called upon to assist
Lucy in packing and directing some boxes for
my lady’s milliner. John proceeded to tell her
that he had seen that sly, stuck-up governess,
who looked down upon everybody, out in the
pine grove with Sir Alan Aynsley.

“It was shameful,” Lucy Flowers declared,
and her hair stood upright. She was sd strong-
ly affected that John was obliged to administer
a glass of wine.

““Wait!’’ she said, emphatically. ‘“Wait until
my lady is in a good humor, so that I can tell
her a little news and see what happens to
Miss Esther Bruce.’’

CHAPTER XX.
“KEEP MY SECRET.”

Sir Alan Aynsley read the words Esther
Bruce had written with something like despair.
“She would keep his secret if he would keep
his promise;’’ that meant marry her. If he
would give up the woman he loved with such
desperate passion, if he would renounce all the
ambitions, hopes and dreams that by his mar-
riage with Lady Blanche would be realized.

 

1

|

No; he eould not give her up. Her face, in
its proud beauty, charmed him; he was hers,
body and soul. He loved her with a desperate
passion. He had dreamed of the time when
that haughty lady would be forced to show him
at least outward esteem and respect. He had
imagined her at the head of his table, the mis-
tress of his house, her beauty, her grace, her
talents should all be his,

And now, at one stroke, every hope was to
be blighted. No! Never!

Esther Bruce must be silenced, but not by
such means as these.

Still his position was a desperate one, and
he saw it clearly. If Esther spoke but one
word he was lost. He must temporize with
her, persuade her to be silent until he had
decided what to do. So he wrote a few lines,
saying:

 

For Mknew they were true.

to |

 

“Esther, for the old love’s sake, keep si-
lence, and give me time to think. I cannot
decide at once. I am bound by many chains.
For our old love’s sake, keep my secret until
you hear from me again.”

ick man/|., He Knew after those words she would keep

it until death.

In the morning Lady Belmont, who never
forgot a question, turned to Sir Alan:

“We were speaking of Esther Bruce last
evening,’ she said. ‘“‘I was going to tell you
she was my nursery governess.”

Then her ladyship gave all particulars of
Esther’s romance, how she had ‘‘almost died”
over the loss of her lover.

Sir Alan was touched as he listened. Bet-
ter than any other he could understand the
agony of Esther Bruce, for he had best under-
stood her love. Was it possible, he asked him-
self, that the woman who loved him so much
as to “almost die’’ for him would denounce
him and give him up to the law? He remem-
bered some lines that haunted him:

‘Hell knows no fury like a woman scorned.’’

Still, he would appeal to her once more—he
would try to buy silence. Women loved dress,
jewels, luxury of all kinds, He would offer
her them, and see what she said. That night,
when the dark, silent mantle of slumber had
fallen over the world, Esther Bruce went out
among the pine trees to meet Sir Alan.

All defiance had died out of him. He went
up to her and tried to take her hand, but she
drew it back, shuddering from his touch.

“Yet you will marry me, Esther?’’ he said,
reproachfully.

“Yes,’’ she replied, “I would marry you,
Paul. I will marry you—you are mine, and I
claim you.”’

‘“‘Do you know that others have a claim upon
me also?’’ he asked.

“You mean Lady Blanche?’ she answered.
“Yes, I know that part of your scheme is to
marry her, but you know she will never claim
you. There can be no mistake in such a face
as hers, and I tell you she dislikes, not loves,
you.

He hated, the very sound of the words, yet

‘Let us speak seriously, Esther. Believe me,
in everything save the life he cannot lay down
at will, Paul Lynne is dead—dead in his love
of honest labor; dead in his honor and in-
tegrity; dead in truth and principle—and, for-
give me, Esther, truth is better told, dead in
‘his love for you.”’

She started with a low moan of pain that
must have touched any heart less cold and
hard than his.

“Dead in his love for you,’’ he repeated. “If
you force me to marry you, and you can do
it, Esther—if you do you will be tied to a man
for life who will hate you, because you have
stood between him and his ambition, his hopes
You hear me, Esther—his love.’’

‘“T hear,’’ she replied, and even he shrank
from the pain in her voice.

“My boyish fancy for you is dead,’ he con-
tinued. ‘It died in the hour I saw Lady
Blanche; yet I have a kindly liking for you,
Esther. I will make you rich and happy, if
you will consent to keep my secret, and re-
lease me from my promise to you.”’

She stopped abruptly in her walk, and, turn-
ing, looked him straight in the face.

“What do you mean?’ she asked, her fair
face flushing proudly. ‘“‘Take care, Paul Lynne,
what you dare to offer me!’’

“T mean this,’’ he replied; “I do not love
you—not now—it is all past and gone. I love
Lady Blanche. She is beautiful, high bred and
nobly born. Married to her I shall win a high
position among my fellow-men. Married, as
you can force me to be, to you, I shall lose
every hope and I shall hate you for the loss.
Man’s hatred leads him very far. I cannot
say where mine may lead me.”’

She shrank, shivering from him as the cruel
words fell on her ear. Sank, for her strength
failed her, at the root of an old pine tree and
sat there, her white, despairing face turned to
the sky.

Ah, God! was it for this she had wept and
watched and waited? Was it for such a man
she had lain down in her youth and strength
and beauty, praying God to let her die. Was
it for the loss of such love as this that she had
wept through the long nights and refused to
be comforted? fg who had no earthly friend,
whose father lay buried over the seas, her
lover who stood before her with hate in his
eyes and cruel words on his lips. She, deso-
late ‘with the keenest sorrow woman can feel,
raised her face ‘to the darkling heavens, as
though she would appeal for pity there,

He stood in silence for some minutes by her
side.

“Msther,” he said, “be reasonable. I offer
you nothing that an honorable woman may not
aceept. Keep my secret, let me go free, and I
will make you rich. I will settle thousands
upon you, give them to you; and, perhaps, in

man than me.’’

He never forgot the despairing scorn of her
face as she looked at him

“So you offer to buy me. It only wanted
shame. I could pardon you that you have
ceased to love me. I can never forgive that

She rose with a sudden fiush of passion in
her face. :

: she cried. ‘I will not share your
crime.
not take your stolen gold!”’

“speak

lower; there is some one passing.”

He clasped her arm fiercely and held her un-

“Do you want to ruin me?’ he whispered.
“Talking of stolen gold. Look to your life,

He was ashamed of himself when he met
the unutterable sorrow of her dark eyes.
have given it a hundred times over to have
saved you from this.”
and he began to think he had gone too far.

“Do not mind what I said, Esther,’’ he whis-
a hair of your dear head, and you know it. I
will see—I will think it over again—what can
secret?’ he pleaded.

She had sunk down again at the foot of the
face.

at will keep it,” she said, hoarsely, ‘‘for a

that to complete your degradation and my
you have tried to bribe me.”

“Nol?

I will not compound a felony. I will

“Curse you!” he cried, savagely;
til the sound of footsteps died away.
Esther Bruce, if you defy me so.”

“My life!’’ she cried. “Oh, Paul, I would

She spoke as though her heart were. broken,
pered. ‘‘You irritated me. I would not harm
be done; in the mean time, you will keep my
pine tree with a look of death on her fair
time

‘“‘Betrayal means death,’’ he continued. ‘‘You
have loved me, Esther; your head has lain on
my heart; you would not like to destroy me,
soul and body, would you?’

“‘No,’’ she said, hoarsely.

“Then keep my secret a little longer, and I
will see what can be done. We must part
now. It is dangerous, these meetings—they
must not happen again. Swear to me that you
will keep my secret for one month, and then
I will see what can be done.’’

The old gentle look was on his face, the old
persuasive tone in his voice, he who had
threatened to kill her a few minutes since, and
a was harder to bear than his anger had

een.

“TI swear it. For one month I will guard
your secret as I would my life.’’

“Thank you,” he replied, bending down to
kiss the white, tortured face; but she shud-
dered and shrank from him.

Before he had reached the end of the pine
grove she lay with her face buried in the long,
wet grass, her heart, that had loved, suffered
and hoped, broken at last.

He returned to the house and silently re-
gained his room, all heedless of the unhappy
girl who lay out in the lonely night trying to
east the burning pain of heart and breast to
the dew-laden grass and sweet south wind;
trying to forget the cruel words that stung
and smote and stabbed her; trying to forget
how she had loved and trusted him. Waking
from -snatches of broken slumber, with his
kisses warm upon her face, his love-laden
words in her ears; woke to remember he had
ceased to love her—had threatened to kill her—
and that she was alone on earth.

The next morning, over a comfortable glass
of sherry and a wine biscuit, John Thorne told
Lucy Flowers it was high time his lady was
spoken to, for last night—he made no mistake
—he had seen Miss Bruce out again with Sir
Alan Aynsley, and that, too, at an hour when
all decent people were supposed to be asleep.

“T shall tell my lady to-night,’’ said Lucy.
“Such goings on should not be allowed in de-
eent families. My lady will soon settle that.’

CHAPTER XXTI.
A NEW DANGER.

The next morning, when Sir Alan joined the
ladies, he was surprised and not over well
pieased to see Miss Bruce seated by Laura
Trevor’s side, busily engaged in giving finish-
ing touches to the flowers.

He need not have feared. Esther never
raised her eyes or gave the slightest sign of
-recognition,

He passed by the little stand and her white,
slender fingers never trembled. She _ looked
deadly pale; the long night of agony out in the
cold and dew had left its traces, but no one
seeing them together could have dreamed that
Esther and the lover of Lady Blanche had
ever met.

He went straight over to Lady Blanche-and
began to show her some sketches that he had
that morning received from Carsdale—designs
for the furniture to be chosen for her boudoir.

Lady Blanche looked at them _ indifferently.
No true lady can ever be wanting in courtesy;
she was not that, but her manner told very
plainly the designs had no interest for her.

“You wish me to choose,’’ she said to Sir
Alan. ‘You say this is a Gothic chair, this
a Louis-Quatorze; they all seem alike to me.”

“At least you can tell which you prefer?’’
said Sir Alan.

“T have no taste,’’ replied Lady Blanche.

She took the designs and went over to the lit-
tle table where Esther and Miss Trevor sat
at work.

‘“‘Laura,’’ she said, ‘‘you have a genius for
everything. If you can see any difference in
these drawings, compassionate my ignorance,
and tell me which is the prettier.”’

Miss Trevor was highly flattered. She took
up the papers and expatiated at full length on
the merits of each.

‘““You have excellent taste, Miss Bruce,’’ she
said. ‘‘Do you think the Louis-Quatorze the
most suitable for a lady’s boudoir?’

“J decline giving any opinion on the subject,’’
said Esther, calmly; ‘‘it cannot possibly con-
cern me!”’

With the dignity of an empress she rose and
walked in her stately fashion out of the room.

“What impertinence!’’ cried Miss Trevor.

“There is more than impertinence,’’ . said
tee Blanche; ‘‘Miss Bruce never forgets her-
self.’’

“She looks ill and cross,’’ said Lady Belmont.
“She has never recovered the loss of that
Australian lover. I must really part with her
unless she alters.’’

Sir Alan had sat in breathless suspense,
fearing an explosion of wrath from Esther.
He would fain have snatched the drawings
from Lady Blanche. Cruel, hard as he was,
he would not have willingly wounded Esther
so.

“T never saw a young person fly out in such
a way before,’ said Miss Trevor. ‘She might
really have been flattered, Lady Blanche, that
her opinion was asked at all.”’

Sir Alan resolved at once he should leave
the hotel. It would be easy to say the next
morning his letters summoned him to London.
He was not safe between those two proud
wemen—the one he had injured and the one
he wished to marry.

Another such scene as this morning’s would
ruin him, he felt. Esther could not control
her jealous anger, and the observation of it by
others would lead to questions, and then it
was impossible to guess where the mischief
would end.

He would return to London and watch the
course of events: Esther must be silenced in
any case. All his thoughts and energies were
directed against her; he never dreamed of dan-
ger from any other quarter.

The next morning Sir Alan affected to be
deeply engrossed in his letters.

‘This is unfortunate. I will be obliged to
return to Iondon to-day,” he said, turning to
‘Lord Damar.

Lord Damar looked considerably disappoint-
ed, and Sir Alan understood the reason.

“Your lordship will do me the favor to re-
main here as my guest,”’ he said; ‘I shall not
give up my rooms, for I may return in a few
days.”’

His lordship looked very much relieved.

“Make haste back, Sir Alan,’’ he said,
shall be very lonely.’’ }

Lady Blanche bade her lover adieu with
graceful indifference. Esther flashed one fare-
well look at him from her dark, passionate
eyes. Miss Trevor openly lamented his de-
parture. Strange to say, although he loved
Lady Blanche the best, the sorrow in Esther’s
eyes haunted him.

Base, ungrateful, dishonoréd as he was, he
felt there was one in the world who loved him
in spite of all.

So he left pleasant, sunny Cowes behind him,
and went on to London, where a danger more
preety than the one he had escaped awaited

im.

And in the meantime Lucy Flowers had
found a favorable moment for distilling her
poisoned gossip into my lady’s ear.

Soon after Sir Alan had gone Lady Bel-
mont, in her own room, was. overlooking some
valuable laces, Flowers made the most of it.
She commenced
the wickedness of the world, and the deceit of
those to whom favor was shown, ending with
a devout thanksgiving that she was not as
others are.

Lady Belmont, who seldom listened to her
maid’s gossip, was at length attracted by the
continual repetition of the name Esther Bruce.

“What has Miss Bruce been doing?’ she
asked at length, emphatically.

eer

 

+ the years to come, you may marry a better

by a general lamentation on/

 

woe am sure, my lady. I do not like to name
such things even to you,’’ she said, delighted
to have found a hearing at last; ‘‘but I think
it is my duty to name it, as it is so much
talked of in the servants’ hall.’’

“Have the goodness to speak to the point,”
said Lady Belmont, coldly. ‘‘What has Miss
Bruce done?’

All the contempt and indifference died from
her face as she heard the artfully told story,
how, for some time past, it had been noticed
that Miss Bruce was setting her cap at the
baronet; but the crowning horror was that the
footman had seen Sir Alan out in the pine
grove with Miss Bruce when every one else be-
lieved her to be asleep.

Lady Belmont was simply horrified. She was
distressed at finding such treachery under her
own roof; but above all, she was disappointed
in Esther, her favorite heroine.

“It is quite sure to come to Lady Blanche’s
knowledge,’ said Flowers, ‘for her maid
knows it, and is safe to tell; indeed, my lady,
it is quite a scandal—a young person of her
age, too.’’

“Say no more about it, Flowers,’ interrupted
Lady Belmont; and the maid knew from the
tone of her mistress’ voice that she had ef-
fectually put a stop to Miss Bruce’s career.

Lady Belmont finished the laces, outwardly
ealm_and collected, inwardly dreadfully an-
noyed. She decided upon going at once to
Lady Blanche; it would be better to forestall
the maid, who was ‘sure to tell.’’

_ She found Lady Blanche alone in the draw-
ing-room looking happier than she had done
for many long days.

Lady Belmont told her story in few words,
softening it as much as she could. She ex-
pected tears, sorrow, or annoyance; but the
proud, beautiful face before her never lost its
gracious calm.

“I thought I had Wbétter tell you myself,”
said her ladyship. ‘Servants exaggerate so
dreadfully. Rely upon it, there is nothing in
it, merely a few compliments, such as gentle-
men pay to pretty girls. You are not angry
with Sir Alan, I hope, my dear?’

““Angry!’? repeated Lord Damar’s daughter;
“certainly not with Sir Alan; but I am very
sorry for your pretty governess, and I do not
agree with you. I think her a modest, well-
bred girl, and if she has been out at nights to
meet Sir Alan, there is something wrong, some
mystery or sin, which should be set straight.

“T cannot understand it,’’ said Lady Belmont.
“Tt thought the girl so romantically attached to
the memory of her dead lover that she would
never care for a living man.”’

“I have never seen her speak or look at
Sir Alan,”’ interrupted Lady Blanche.

“Nor have I,’’ replied Lady Belmont. ‘The
whole affair is a mystery to me.”’

“TI like Miss Bruce. Her face pleased me
greatly when I first saw her, so beautiful, so
true. I shall believe nothing against her un-
less she herself says she is guilty.”

“The most straightforward plan will be to
send for her and ask,” said Lady Belmont.

She rang the bell, and told the footman who
answered it that Miss Bruce was wanted in
Lady Blanche’s apartments.

In a -few minutes the young girl appeared.
She looked so pure, so sorrowful, so entirely
unlike a light, foolish coquette, that neither
lady cared to broach the subject on which
they wished to examine her.

“Sit down, Miss Bruce,”’ said Lady Belmont.
“There are some disagreeable rumors afloat,
and, as the servants are making a great scan-
dal, I thought it better to speak to you at
once.”’

Esther looked up in surprise, never dreaming
of what was to follow.

“Ts it true, Miss Bruce, that you have been
seen out after midnight with Sir Alan Ayns-
ley in the pine grove?’

Her fair face grew deadly pale; her lips grew
white and hot. Lady Blanche looked at her
fixedly the while:

“I do not believe it myself,’ said Lady Bel-
mont. ‘I cannot think one so young and so
fair can be such an accomplished hypocrite.
You wear mourning even now for your lover
who died in Australia.’’

Esther’s eyes fell on her dark dress. She
had not thought to change it, now the need of
it had ceased.

“It cannot be possible,’’ continued Lady Bel-
mont, ‘‘that while you wear mourning for the
man whose death so nearly caused your own
that you are scheming and plotting, seeking to
lure the promised husband of a true and noble
lady from her. Answer me, Esther Bruce.”

“T cannot,’’ she cried. ‘“I cannot answer.
Lady Belmont, do with me what you will!”

(To be continued.)

THE MINER’S LOVE.

One September morning, while the sun was
shining down in the mining town of Walong,
Ellen and her father came slowly along the
road.

Over in Gilt Creek a great strike had oc-
curred, and numbers of prospectors thronged
the streets and stood in groups at every cor-
ner. One rough miner turned and looked after
Ellen and her father and the old hand organ.

“This:’ere’s a city now, boys!’’ he cried.
‘Just look at the organ-grinder come to town.”’

“Give me a tune, old man!’ called out a sec-
ond miner.

“Let him alone, boys,’’ said a third.
blind.’

Ellen led her father down the narrow street
and piloted him safely through the noisy
crowd. As she turned a corner she spied an
unpretentious eating-house. :

“Dinner fifty cents,’’ the sign read, and she
paused before the open door.

“We'll go in and git some dinner, dad.
fearful hungry.”’

She led her father to one of the small tables
and slipped the organ from his back. Then
she drew an old red handkerchief from her
pocket and untied one corner. A little roll of
coins dropped out on to the table.

“Got enough, dear?’’ asked her father. His
quick ear had caught the click of the coins,

‘Lots,’ said she, shortly.

She hastily tied up the money, and going to
the counter ordered dinner for her father and
for herself—only a bowl of oatmeal and milk.

“T was pretty near starved,’’ said the old
organ-grinder, as he ate his roast beef with a
good relish. ‘‘Hain’t the meat good, Ellen?’

“Course it is!’’ answered Ellen, calmly tak-
ing a sip of milk.

“And the tomatoes and the rice puddin’ ?’’
added her father.

“Yes, dad; but don’t stop to talk,’’
daughter.

She soon finished her own simple dinner and
leaned back in the stiff wooden chair. Two
miners close by looked up admiringly. Her
eyes were large and black, as had been those
of her Italian mother, who had died when she
was born. Heavy braids of black hair were
wound round her head, and her cheeks and

lips were crimson. Her old straw hat was tied
down with a faded ribbon; her dark blue dress
was stained and shabby. She wore a blanket
shawl round her slender shoulders.

“We've had a splendid dinner, hain’t we?’’
said her father, rising and taking the organ on
his back

The young woman took her father’s arm and
led him to the corner of the street.

‘“‘We'll stop and play here, dad.’”’

Her father patiently began to turn the crank
of the old organ. She stood beside him, and
eagerly scanned the faces of the passers-by.
Few seemed to think the music was worth
paying for. A lady gave a coin, and a miner
carelessly tossed a quarter toward -them.

3ut their supper and a night’s lodging were
to be paid for, and very little was left in the
handkerchief. -

It grew late at last. The organ-grinder had
played through all his tunes.

“You are tired, dad,’ said BEllen, as her
father paused. ‘We'll go and find a place to
sleep.’’

“we don’t want no supper, do we, Nell? We
had such a hearty dinner.’’

“Yes, dad,’ said she, faintly.

“And it was late, too,’’ added the old man.
“Tt must ha’ been ’most three o’clock.’’

“Be you hungry, dad?’’ asked the daughter.
anxiously looking into his face.

“Not a mite,’ answered her father, very
cheerfully. ‘‘And s’pose I play a little longer.
Tain’t dark yet, is it? Let’s walk along.’’

They turned a corner and found themselves
in a side street in a quiet neighborhood. There
were curtains at some of the small cabins.

An open door gave a glimpse of a bright
Brussels carpet. Suddenly a young girl ap-

 

“He is

I’m

said his

 

 

peared at a window, and raising the sash,
very carelessly tossed out into the road a
beautiful, half-withered bouquet of hothouse
flowers.

Bllen quickly glanced up at the lady, who
was young and had fair hair. This much she
remembered always.

The bouquet rolled to the young girl’s
then stopped. She stooped and picked up the
flowers. They were only a little faded. Some
of the roses were quite fresh and fragrant.
It must have been a beautiful bouquet once.
Why did the young lady throw it away so
soon? .

it was nearly seven o’clock. Ellen and her
father had paused before a large hotel; the
space in front was crowded with men. Some
of them gazed at the girl who stood so pa-
tiently beside the old organ. Her hat had
slipped back, and her black hair lay in rings
on her smooth, white forehead.

feet,

?em,”’

She did not know how pretty she was, and
wondered why the men. stared at her so.
She knew she was tired and hungry. She
wished some one would toss them some money.

A young man came down the steps. He
wore a blue flannel shirt and his coat was
quite as shabby as the one her father wore.
He stood in front of the organ with his hands
in his pockets. For a few moments he did not
speak, but seemed to be listening tc the music.
And then his eyes fell on the fiowers.

““Where’d you git ’°em?’’ he asked, suddenly.

“Found ’em,’ answered the girl, quite as
shortly.

He came a step nearer and held out his hand.

“‘Let me see ’em.’’ She drew back hastily.

ar for ’em first. Ill sell ’em cheap,’ she
said.

He thrust his hand still deeper in his pocket,
then tossed some silver on the top of the
old organ. ‘Then he took the flowers and
studied them intently as he turned the bouquet
round, :

“Tell me where you got he asked,
pleadingly.

“Found ’em,’’ she said, again. “A lady
throwed ’em out the winder.’’

The young man said something under his
breath, then turned and walked away.

Ellen had seen the color come to his face and
a hurt look in his eyes. As she looked after
him he gave the bouquet a toss and it fell
in the muddy street, only. to be crushed the
_ instant by the wheels of a passing vehi-
cle.

““Hain’t there enough money yet?’ asked her
father, touching her arm.

“Yes, dad,’’ she answered. ‘‘We’ll go and
get some supper, and then we'll find a place
te sleep.’’

The little parlor of Mrs. Murphy’s lodging-
house was crowded with miners that evening.
Ellen left her father seated contentedly in a
corner, and stole quietly out of the front door,
She was so used to an outdoor life that she
felt suffocated in a small and close room.

Some one sat on the lower step, with his
head resting on his hands. He looked up and
saw her as she stood hesitatingly in the door-
way.

“Don’t be afraid,’’ he said, kindly.

It was the young man who had bought the
flowers.

She sank down on the steps and drew her
old shawl still closer about her.

““Tt’s cold out here,’ said the young man.
“Perhaps you’d better go in.”’

“T ain’t cold,’ answered Ellen; ‘‘I’m most al-
ways outdoors.’’

“Where'd you say you found the posies?’’ he
asked, suddenly raising his head.

“A young lady throwed ’em out, she had
yeller hair. It was a house with white cur-
tains at the winders. I didn’t set no price on
the flowers,’’ she added hastily, ‘“‘you needn't
have paid so much for ’em.’’

“T ain’t complainin’ of the price,’ said the
soe fellow. ‘They cost me a pile to begin
with.”

“Did you give ’em to her?’ she asked, cu-
riously.

“Yes,” he
too!’’

“They were faded,’’
solingly.

‘*Yes,”’ he said, bitterly.
hours.”’

His head dropped on his hands again.

“T wouldn’t care,’’ said Ellen, softly.

The young man glanced at her. Her eyes
were soft with sympathy; she looked so fair
in the moonlight.

“How old are you?’’ he asked, abruptly.

**Seventeen,’’ she replied, wonderingly.

“And you travel about with your father?’’

“Yes,’’ said the girl. ‘‘Dad likes to travel.
He won’t let me do nothin’,’” she replied,
proudly. ‘‘He says he can support me.”’

“Can you write?’ looking eagerly into her
pretty face.

“Yes. I was at school once.”

“T hain’t got no edication,”’ said the young
man, sadly, ‘‘and I want to get a letter writ.’’

“T'll do it,’’ she offered, eagerly.

“Will you, now?’ and the young fellow
sprang up. ‘‘Come on into the kitchen. There’s
never nobody there.’’

In a few moments he had brought her a
sheet of paper and pen and ink.

They were alone in the little kitchen that
was scarcely more than a shed, and the girl
seated herself at the pine table.

“Begin ‘Darlin’ Lizzie,’’’ said the young
man, leaning anxiously over her shoulder.

In a cramped hand and very slowly she
wrote: “Darling Lizzie.’’

“Tell her I love her!’’ he burst out. ‘Tell
her I’m going over to Red Mountain to-mor-
row, but she can write to me. Jim Conroy’ll
read me her letter. She needn’t say nothin’
but yes or no. Got it all down?’

“Pretty near,’’ said the girl. ‘You told me
such an awful lot.”

She was handling the pen awkwardly.

A bright color had come to the young man’s
cheeks. His hair was light, almost golden,
just the color of the young lady’s, HEllen
thought. She glanced down at the letter.
Would ‘‘Darling Lizzie’ say yes or no?

‘“Done?’’ said her new friend. ‘‘TVll take it
over to the post-office.”’

He sealed the envelope carefully and put it
tenderly in his pocket. Then he held out his
bronzed hand.

“Good-by; I’m much obliged to you. If I
don’t never see you again. I wish you good
luck.’’

As he passed her chair a five-dollar gold
piece dropped into her lap.

The next September Ellen and her father
found themselves once more crossing Red
Mountain on their way to Walong. She had
grown a little taller, but she looked much the
same. Her dress was still shabby, and a for-
lorn felt hat replaced the old black straw. But
her lips and cheeks were crimson with exer-
cise and health. As they came into view of
the town they passed a group of miners who
were out prospecting. One of them shaded his
eyes with his hands and looked long at Ellen.

“Give us a tune!’”’ he called out to the organ-
grinder, and the old man obediently set down
his organ and began to turn the crank.

Then the young miner came slowly toward
the girl and held out his hand. The girl knew
him at a glance, and her black eyes grew
bright with pleasure.

“T didn’t get no answer,’ he whispered.

Ellen looked sorry; then a curious gladness
came to her eyes. f

“Haven’t you seen her?’’ she asked.

“No,’’? answered the young man; ‘‘she don't
live here no more.” :

“T’m sorry,’ said the girl; “I writ it plain.”’

‘Twasn’t your fault.”

Then he looked at her admiringly.

‘*’*S’pose I come to see you to-night?” :

The organ-grinder took up his burden again
and as they moved away she smiled over her
shoulder at the young man with fair hair who
looked after her as he leaned lightly on his
pick.

A month later a clergyman at Walong mar-
ried them.

Ellen was very happy in her new home,
There were no lace curtains at the cabin win-
dows, for her husband was but a poor pros-
pector, with only his youth and _ hope. Her
father still played the old organ, but he kept
near home that Ellen might see him as she
glanced up from her work.

One evening during the winter her husband
came home and as he seated himself by the
stove drew a yellow envelope from his pocket.
Tt was old and worn by much handling and
bore numerous postmarks.

‘What is it?’ asked Ellen, quickly.

“An old letter fur me,’’ answered her hus-
band. ‘They said it had bin follerin’ me
‘round everywhere. I ha’n’t been in one place
long the past year. It ain’t much good now.
S’pose you read it.’’

She took the letter and tore open the en-
velope. There were only a few lines. ;

Tt began ‘Darlin’ Jim,” and was signed
‘Your own Lizzie.’’ It stated that the writer
would marry him at any time.

“Don’t look so!’’ cried her husband, as Ellen
grew deadly white. She did not speak, but
stood perfectly still with the letter clutched
in her hand.

But her husband threw his strong arms

nd her.
eet glad I didn’t get it!’’ he cried. ‘Don’t
you know I love you best? Nobody can’t take
your place now.”

answered, shortly; ‘‘more fool,
remarked the girl, con-

“She had ’em twelve

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

  

 

THE NEW YORK W2ERLY.

 

VOL. 54—No. 45.

 

 

 

CUPID’S MISTAKE.

 

Young Cupid lost his way
And came to me to find it;

He’d been a truant all the day,
But didn’t seem to mind it.

I put him in a hansom, then,
For home, and paid the cabby;

But my reward was what most men
Would call extremely shabby.

He got his bow and arrows out
And pierced my heart, nor tarried,

But drove away ere I could shout:
“Good gracious! child, I’m married.”

posite lpen: Greene merase

Her Faithful Knight;

OR,
For Phyllis’ Sake.

By GERTRUDE WARDEN.

 

(“Her FarrHrut KNieHT” was commenced in No, 80.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE USES OF ADVERTISEMENT.

The Hon. Darcy Derrick had taken a fur-
nished flat for the season. ;

It was not a fashionable flat, or an expensive
flat, or an abode that in any way realized that
luxury-loving young gentleman’s ideals of the
beautiful and appropriate. But misfortunes
had gathered closely over Darcy’s shapely
head since the time when he had with diffi-
culty scrambled out of a Cornish ditch on his
honeymoon journey in the preceding autumn.

That his sickly elder brother, Baron Derrick,
should have taken to himself a wife in the per-
son of a tall, handsome and _ healthy Irish girl,
just about the time when Darcy’s bride was
assisting his ignominious flight down a railway
embankment, was an unpleasant possibility
which had never once occurred to Mr. Derrick,
and that young Lady Derrick would shortly
present him with a niece or nephew, was an-
other cruel and unlooked-for blow on the part
of Fate.

“Tt’s bound to be a boy,’’ murmured Darcy to
himself, rolling his fine, blue eyes pathetically
upward to the ceiling as he lay in bed in his
new quarters on the day following the ex-
humation and opening of the coroner’s inquest.
“It’s part of my usual cursed luck that it
should be a boy.’’

He was, at the moment, quite without money
and was living upon debts, expectations and
Jews. The first were large, for he had ven-
tured and lost his remaining few hundreds at
Monte Carlo before Christmas, and had ex-
hausted his mother’s resources. But the hope
of obtaining possession of Mrs. Julius Knight’s
fortune supplied the second and satisfied the
third.

Private detective work was employment dear
to Darcy’s soul, and for which his plausibility,
his sympathetic manners and his swift cun-

 

ning peculiarly well adapted him. He had
learned a great deal more than the police

dreamed of in his peregrinations in the neigh-
borhood of Lockhart Cottages, and in order to
facilitate these researches he had taken this
furnished flat not far from the Addison Road
railway station.

Yesterday’s proceedings had affected his deli-
cate, sensitive organization painfully. The
mere notion of having the ugly secrets of the
tomb dragged to the light of day, and of being
forced to identify the changed and distorted
horror thus exposed as the woman he had
loved and desired for her beauty, filled him
with strong repulsion and shuddering sick-
ness. From the coroner’s court he had fled to
the West End and had endeavored, in such de-
lights as a dainty and expensive dinner at a
fashionable restaurant, a visit to a music hall,
and later to a dancing-room to drown the
memory of his afternoon’s experiences. At ten
o’clock this morning his head ached violently
and he felt extremely cross and thirsty; but
it soothed him to read, in the two Sunday
papers he had sent for, sympathetic references
to the ‘bereaved husband of the deceased Mrs,
Derrick,’’ who, ‘‘overcome by his emotion’’ had
fainted after giving evidence of identification
on the previous day.

Darcy loved to be referred to in the news-
papers, to which he assiduously sent para-
graphs concerning his doings at all times,
when he was not hiding from his creditors. He
possessed an immense scrap-book, with a pad-
lock, the key of which was never allowed to
go out of his possession, in which he had care-
fully pasted all printed references to himself,
either as the ‘‘Hon. Darcy Derrick,’’ under
which name he had published several tiny voi-
umes of erotic verse, characterized in one spe-
cially slashing notice as being ‘‘nastier than
Swinburne and sillier than the poet Bunn;” or
as ‘Sergius Trevelyan,’’ actor in the English
provinces and the United States, the critics of
which latter place declared him to be “the
most weak-backed, inarticulate, expressionless
and wooden apology for an alleged actor
among all the incompetent dudes of good fam-
ily annually foisted upon us by the played-out
old country over the water;”’ oras ‘‘Mr. Darcy,”
theatrical manager and author of what news-
paper men concurred in pronouncing ‘‘one of
the feeblest and worst plays produced upon
the English stage during the present century.’’

Far from being saddened or discouraged by
these unflattering references to his artistic
capabilities, Darcy spent many hours of his
leisure in reading them and gloating over the
censure so lavishly meted out to him.

“Only the French understand art, and only
the Irish possess humor,’’ he would say with a
pitying smile. ‘‘And only a genius belonging
to both nations, with an infusion of the Ital-
jan thrown in, can understand me!”’

Now that his name and station as the Hon.
Darey, brother to Lord Derrick, were made
public, he looked forward to becoming speed-
ily the hero of the hour by reason of his con-
nection with the ‘‘Hammersmith Mystery.” It
was probable that he would be interviewed,
and that wood-cuts libelling his features would
appear in the evening papers.

“T must get taken again,’’ he murmured to
himself as he stretched his arms out of bed
and helped himself to a tumbler of soda from
the siphon by his side. ‘‘None of my photo-
graphs really do me justice. Women-and giris
who read about my grief and my devotion to
my darling wife will sympathize with me much
more heartily when they see what I am like.
Of course the reproductions in the evening
papers are cruelly unlike. But with my fea-
tures they can’t go very far wrong”’

He lay back on his pillows, closing his eyes
as he thought about his prospects. He had a
trump card up his sleeve for the adjourned in-
quest, and in a week’s time he meant to play
it for all it was worth.

“TJ can quite understand Phyllis’ determina-
tion to possess herself, by hook or by crook,
of her aunt’s fortune,’’ he told himself. ‘‘No
doubt she still hangs on to the vain hope that
T shall go back to her, and supposes that the
money will be an inducement. If women only
knew the exact moment when we grow tired
of them, and had the sense to leave us then,
we should never learn to hate them. In all my
life no woman ever bored me more hopelessly
than Phyllis, and she never had the brains to
see it. When she learned how passionately I
loved her sister, how she must have hated her!
It’s extremely probable that she killed her out
of crazy jealousy and her infatuation for me.
My beautiful, proud, fierce Dorothy, the only
woman in the world for me, sacrificed to Phyl-
lis’ insane passion!’’

At the thought of the possible bliss with
Dorothy now forever lost to him, the ready
tears welled to Darcy’s eyes again, and he
rang his bell for his man, that the latter might
add some brandy to the soda by way of as-
suaging his master’s grief and his thirst at
one and the same time.

The servant, a slight, silent, foxy-looking
man, made his appearance, bearing on a tray
a card, upon which was inscribed the name:

“Mr. Jack Wyverley.’’

“TJ made the gentleman give his card, sir,’’
the servant explained, ‘‘as you particularly
told me you saw no one without an appoint-
ment. But he seems quite set upon seeing

ou.
yc -Show him in.”’

Wryverley and Derrick had parted company
at Monte Carlo in the preceding autumn. Hach
had staked and lost all he could raise on the
gaming-tables, but Darcy, by his mother’s
help, contrived to get back to England, leav-
ing his fellow-gambler penniless and lonely at
the scene of his losses. This, however, was
not Darcy’s fault. Niggardliness was not
among his vices; he loved money solely for
what it brought, and was always ready to
spend it upon his acquaintances. Friends in
the true sense of the word he had none. To
women, old and young, he invariably made

 

love—passionately, if they were pretty; platon-
ically, if plain. Men either envied him for
his easy love conquests, or despised him heart-
ily and declined to associate with him. But for
the approbation of his own sex Darcy cared
little. He disliked being alone, because it was
then impossible to talk about himself, and he
would tolerate the society of a male compan-
ion in the absence of anything feminine be-
tween the ages of five and forty-five; but, al-
though his incessant rambling talk was some-
times poetical and often paradoxically. witty,
he was incapable of.either feeling or inspiring
real friendship in the breasts of his fellow-
men, and sooner or later he tired of or quar-
reled with them all.

This morning he wanted to pity himself
aloud, and he wanted somebody to listen. <Ac-
cordingly, he greeted Jack Wyverley with
something approaching enthusiasm. The finan-
cial crisis through which the latter gentleman
had recently passed had not in any way al-
tered Mr. ' Wyverley’s appearance. He was
just the same short, thick-set, well-groomed
and well-dressed old-young man, of red face,
prominent, bloodshot, blue eyes, and fine, white
teeth lavishly displayed in a mocking grin, as
he had appeared for the last fifteen years.

“Well, Darcy, you ought to be perfectly
happy,’ he began, seating himself on the foot
of the bed. ‘‘Now that your complicated love
affairs have led you into a murder case, you
will be talked about. more than any man in
London for at least a week, which I take to be
your idea of happiness,”’

“Don’t chaff, Jack. It’s an awful business,
I can’t tell you what I have suffered.”’

“T should think so! Losing ten thousand a
year is enough to make any man suffer.”’

“Do you suppose I was talking of the miser-
able money? I shall get that right enough,
for my poor darling died intestate, and that
will is a clear forgery, But it is her loss, Jack,
that I feel. That can never be replaced!’’

‘‘Well, considering that in your six months of
married life with her you spent together ex-
actly one-half hour, during the course of which
she contrived to chuck you out of a train, your
grief really does you great credit!’

“You cannot understand. Dorothy loved me
intensely in her own way. But her jealousy,
when she was led to suppose that I had paid
attention to her sister, was such that for the
time she became a very fury, and would will-
ingly have killed either me or herself.’’

“From what I have heard, she had some ex-
cuse for her jealousy.’’

“None whatever. Her sister was nothing to
me. The poor, distracted girl had loved me,
certainly; but it was solely on account of her
re to Dorothy that I ever took any notice
o er.’’

Wryverley’s grin broadened. He drew a
newspaper from his pocket, and proceeded to
lay it on the bed and smooth its folds with
much elaboration.

‘Have you seen the Sunday Porcupine?’’ he
asked.

“No.”

“Tt contains a most interesting account, with
a portrait, of an interview with a little sou-
brette actress called Leila Mongomery. I rec-
ognized her in a minute as being the made-up
little person who forced her way past me up
to your compartment at Plymouth station
when I was seeing you off on your honeymoon
journey. It’s 4 most up-to-date interview, and
will send up the circulation of the Porcupine
by leaps and bounds. The headings alone are
worthy the money. Listen: ‘The Hammersmith
Mystery.’ ‘Interview with Leila Mongomery.’
‘She Believes in Phyllis’ Innocence.’ - ‘The Sis-
ters’ Hearts Broken by a Cowardly Seducer.’

‘He Marries Them Both.’ ‘A Fashionable Big-
amist.’ ‘Miss Mongomery Thinks It Was Sui-
cide.’

“Good, all that, for a beginning, eh? And

here’s the interview:

“It having come to the knowledge of the Sun-
day Porcupine that much light could be
thrown upon the Hammersmith mystery by
Miss Leila Mongomery, a representative of our
paper called yesterday evening upon that
young lady in her residence in Camberwell,
and was at once accorded an interview.

“Miss Leila Mongomery, who is a golden-
haired, vivacious, little lady, of exceptionally
prepossessing appearance, is at present ‘rest-
ing,’ in the theatrical parlance, having recent-
ly concluded a highly successful engagement
as principal boy at the North Stourton Thea-
tre. On the subject of the Hammersmith mys-
tery she is voluble and emphatic, and she dis-
played much womanly feeling and affection
when alluding to the accused and missing wo-
man, Phyllis Knight. We will give Miss Mon-
gomery’s racy talk verbatim:

“Phyllis was quite incapable of cruelty,’ she
declared, ‘and would no more have committed
a murder than I would. She adored her sis-
ter and constantly spoke of her. Sho and I
were together in a theatrical company about
a year ago. Phyllis was a fairly good actress,
but had only a small part. Among the male
members of the company was a fellow with
dyed black hair and mustaches, who called
himself Sergius Trevelyan. He went in ‘for
being a ‘“‘masher,’’ used to boast about his
family in a mysterious sort of way; but he
was a rank bad actor, and too fond of spirits.
He tried to make up to me, but I would have
nothing to say to him. He was living with
Phyllis Knight as his wife, having married her
while the company was playing a fortnight at
Sheffield; but all the company knew it was il-
legal, and that his wife was Miss Millie Clem-
ents, a well-known American opera singer. All
—that is, all but poor Phyllis, and when at last
we broke the truth to her, she went right off
her head. Of course we were all sorry for her,
but what could we do? She had fallen il and

‘had to be left behind. None of us knew her

sister’s address and Sergius wouldn’t give it.
Phyllis had a touch of brain fever, and nothing
was to be learned from’ her, so business being
business, we had to continue the tour with
some one else playing her part.

* ‘Very soon afterward my fine gentleman
Sergius Trevelyan left the company. We all
thought, of course, he had gone back to poor
Phyllis to see her through her trouble. But
not he! Several weeks later Phyllis came after
the company to find him, and I myself met her
on the towing-path at Richmond, so changed
I hardly knew her, pale and weak and thin,
hardly able to crawl, and almost in rags.

““*The brute had deserted her and left her to
starve, and we couldn’t even give his address.

*“*And when and where do you think I next
set eyes on my handsome young gentleman?
Why, at Plymouth station last September,
when I was acting at Davenport and came
over one Saturday for the day with the rest of
the company. There was a theatrical wedding
on, so we heard. The author and manager of
a shocking bad piece, ‘‘Love’s Right,’’. had just
been married to his leading lady, and they were
starting off on their honeymoon journey. Her
name was Miss Knight, so I was told, and he
was the Hon. Darcy Derrick, who had’come
into a heap of money lately on the death of his
father, and was going about the country call-
ing himself Mr. Darcy. I’m dead nuts on wed-
dings—no, I’m not married myself, nat much!’
and here Miss Mongomery shook her head
roguishly. ‘From what I see of you men you’re
not very well worth marrying!

“Anyway, I peeped into the compartment
reserved for the bride and bridegroom, and
who should I see but that scamp Sergius Tre-
velyan, and, as I thought, Phyllis Knight, only
looking every so much prettier than I’d ever
seen her.

““He’d left off dyeing his hair and he’d
Shaved his mustache; but I knew him in a
moment, and he knew me, too: You should
have seen his face change when I called out
his name. And you should have seen her face
when I said he was Sergius Trevelyan, and
that I was glad to see, now Millie Clements
was dead, that he’d done the right thing by
Phyllis Knight!

“ "The point was it was not Phyllis he had
married, but her sister, Dorothy, and I cer-
tainly spoiled his honeymoon journey for him,
for he never reached the end of it. You re-
member those paragraphs about a ‘Missing
Bride’ which appeared in the papers last Sep-
tember? Well, the missing bride was Dorothy.
She had rolled him down a railway embank-
ment on their way to Penzance, and while he
lay there stunned, she’d given him the slip and
escaped.

“*Then the next thing I hear is that poor,
dear Phyllis is accused of murdering her sister
for money, and what I say is, I don’t believe
it! That man Trevelyan, or warcy Derrick,
broke her heart, and it’s just possible grief
turned her brain and she committed suicide.
But if you come here and tell me that Phyilis
Knight was capable of committing a cold-
blooded murder, and on her sister of all the
people in the world, for a wretched bit of
money, I tell you you don’t know what you are
talking about. It’s the man in this case who
deserves hanging, and tarring and feathering
first. That’s my opinion, and I don’t care who
knows it.’ ’”’ .

“What do you think of that?’ asked Wyver-
ley, who had read aloud the interview with
the utmost enjoyment, putting the paper down
and looking over at Darcy. ‘‘Rather a slating
for you, old man, isn’t it ? I must say, though,
I think you richly deserve it, and you are so
fond of. getting yourself talked about that I
suppose you won’t mind!’’

But the Hon. Darcy did mind very much in-
deed. It was one thing to have his artistic
achievements disparaged and quite another to

be held up to execration and contempt as a
“bad actor with dyed mustaches,’’ fond of spir-
its and cruel in his treatment of women.

_ He tried to console himself and to convince
Wyverley by declaring that Miss Mongomery’'s
was the venom of a woman scorned. But
Wyverley only laughed at him.

“Vanity is a disease with you, my boy, that’s
the truth about the matter,”’ the latter assurea
him. ‘‘You’ll get cut in the clubs and chiyied
in the streets after this.’’

‘We'll call on Leila in her Camberwell re-
treat, and I'll get round her and make her
take it all back, and say the reporter was
lying,’ said Darcy.

With this end in view he executed a most
careful toilet, and chartering a hansom, per-
suaded Wyverley to accompany him to what
he called “‘the wilds of Camberwell,” in order
to soften Miss Mongomery’s feelings toward
him.

But Leila was the heroine of the hour. Every
copy of the Porcupine had been bought up, and
friends who had forgotten her arrived at her
rooms by omnibus, by cab, or on foot, to hear
at first hand her account of the events which
had preceded the ‘‘Hammersmith Mystery.’’

The arrival of Darcy’s cab was the signal
for quite a demonstration, and Miss Mongom-
ery’s little servant felt that the most sublime
moment of her life had come when she stood
upon. the doorstep and informed Darcy, in
shrill tones which resounded down the street:

‘“‘My missus won’t receive you, sir. ’Taint no
use your calling, for she wouldn’t demean her-
self by talking to sich as your’

“Hang the woman!’’ muttered the discom-
forted Darcy as he drove away from Miss
Mongomery’s door, followed by audible hisses
from certain of that lady’s neighbors and
friends. ‘‘I had better have recognized her in
the train that day. But Phyllis shall pay for
this!”’

 

CHAPTER XXX.
TRACKED DOWN.

An anxious week for Dorothy and Aylmer
passed between the opening of the inquest and
the adjourned proceedings.

Nothing of any importance was taking place
either socially or politically in London at the
time, and the ‘‘Hammersmith Mystery’ came
as a boon to newspapers in want of sensa-
tional ‘‘copy.’’ Dorothy’s short connection with
the stage enabled the reporters to allude to the
“Mysterious Death of an Actress,’’ and a life-
drama, which included among its dramatis
personae the heir to an Irish title and more
than one member of the theatrical profession,
necessarily supplied. headlines calculated to
double the circulation of any judiciously-con-
ducted journal.

To Aylmer it was infintely painful to hear on
all sides the woman he loved and reverenced
freely discussed, and to read items of infor-
mation concerning every detail of her life
chronicled in the newspapers. Public opinion
was very strong against Darcy Derrick, but
it was scarcely more favorable, on its femi-
nine side at least, to the woman who had mar-
ried the betrayer of her sister.

“Of course Dorothy Knight knew all about
it when she married the wretch,’’ Rosa Read
declared, and Rosa was but the mouthpiece of
the ordinary girl who speaks without thinking.
“But some women will do anything to get
married, and she almost deserved to be mur-
dered for it.’’

Dorothy grew hot and cold by-+turns when
Rosa discussed, as she constantly did, the ins
and outs of the ‘‘Hammersmith Mystery,’ but
she was wise enough to keep silent on the sub-
ject.

“T have nothing to say about it,’’ she would
remark. ‘‘But surely it is better not to judge
too harshly unless we know everything.”

In truth there seemed little need for so much
caution. Not one member of the little house-
hold at Ashgrove road appeared in any way
to connect that beautiful young widow, recov-
ering from an illness and still a little fragile
and nervous, with the alleged murderess, who,
with her supposed accomplice, was ‘‘wanted’’
for the Hammersmith inquiry.

The secret possessed by them in common
drew Aylmer and Dorothy very near together.
Daily it was necessary that they should meet
apart from the others, either in his study or
in the summer-house at the bottom of the gar-
den, and discuss the latest developments of the
case which, in his journalistic position, Ayl-
mer was among the first to hear. There was
no doubt that Leila Mongomery’s revelations
had made Phyllis Knight’s guilt seem only the
more probable, since it supplied a second mo-
tive, that of jealousy, for her grudge against
her sister. The more the story of Phyllis’ suf-
ferings was dwelt upon, the more natural it
seemed that she would detest the woman who
had become the legal wife of her child’s
father.

“It would be funny if it were not so horri-
ble,’’ Dorothy said to Aylmer, ‘‘that they want.
to take me and hang me for the murder of my-
self. Doesn’t all this talk about me as a possi-
ble murderess, all this dragging of my life to
the light, lower me in your eyes?”’

‘“‘How should it? It is Phyllis, not you, whom
they accuse of murder; and what I learn about
your brave, hardworking and unselfish life
makes me love you a thousand times more.”

She held up a warning finger.

‘“‘Haven’t I told you,’’ she said, shaking her
head sadly, ‘‘that you will drive me from the
shelter of your house if you. speak to me in
that way?’

“I know,” he said, ‘‘and you are right; but
when you come to think that very soon you
will pass right out of my life, it is a little
hard and difficult to keep silent.’’

They were talking in the summer-house, he
sitting on the table, his hands full of news-
papers, she leaning back against the wooden
wall of the little building. In spite of her grief
for her sister’s loss—a grief as deep and sin-
cere as it had been within an hour of Phyllis’
death, and as it would remain all her life—and
in spite of the terrible charge hanging over
her, into Dorothy’s face there had crept since
her coming to St. John’s Wood an added color
and sweetness, a dewy brightness of the eyes,
and a soft tremulousness about the lips, which
lent the finishing touches in which her regular
beauty had hitherto been lacking.

She never denied to herself that she loved
Aylmer Read. Her heart had gone out to him
on that first evening when he had dedicated
himself to her service. She loved him because
he had saved her; she loved him because he
believed in her; she loved him because he was
a man after her own heart, and her time for
loving had come.

All her acquired distrust of men vanished be-
fore her absolute faith in him. The little cold-
nesses and chilling speeches with which she
had been used to fence around her beauty, she
cast aside when with him; and her faith in him
was so absolute, her ideal of him so high, that

Aylmer had to guard his every look and word,

lest. the passionate delight with which her
presence filled him should outstep the boun-
daries prescribed for intercourse between a sin-
gle man and a married woman.

Even though she could never be his, he
thanked heaven that her marriage had been a
farce, and that it was Dorothy and not Phyl-
lis whom he had chanced to love, Dorothy
whose first love had been given to him.

He knew well that she loved him. She was
so grateful, and withal so sincere, that she
hardly attempted to disguise the feeling which
shone softly from her gray eyes and which
echoed through her voice when they were
alone together and she spoke his name. And
yet there they sat in the summer-house, hid-
den from the house by the laburnam trees,
through the lacy leaves of which the spring
sunlight danced on her beautiful face, and he
dared not touch her, dared not kiss those soft
lips, no longer tightly closed as of old, or fold
those strong, slender hands within his own.

“Yes, it is hard,’’ he repeated, ‘‘harder than
you think.”’

She leaned a little toward him, clasping her
hands tightly in her lap, while tears gathered
in her eyes.

“Don’t you think it is hard for me, too?"
she asked in a low, passionate whisper, ‘‘when
now for the first time I really love, to know
that through my own foolish, terrible mistake,
you and I can never be anything to each other,
and that I shall have to go away as far from
you as possible as soon as it is safe for me to
leave England.

"No! don’t move, and don’t attempt to touch
me, or I shall never forgive myself for telling
you. But won't it make you happier to re-
member afterward that I loved you in return?
That your devotion was not thrown away and
unappreciated? And can’t you see that loving
you makes the idea of that horrible man claim-
ing me a thousand times worse? And you
couldn’t come between us and save me. As he
told me once, public opinion, law, society, re-
ligion itself would be all on his side because of
that fatal quarter of an howr in the church
at Plymouth last September. Yet all that can’t
prevent me from laving you—and I do love
you, Aylmer, with all my heart and soul. I am
dreadfully happy in spite of everything when
you are near—no, don’t try to take my hand or
I shall stop—I grow lonely as soon as you are
out of the house, and glad before I see you,
knowing that you are coming back. I suppose
it would_be thought wrong for me to tell you
this, as I. am supposed to be married to some-
one else. But in my heart —f am married to

 

you, and I shall wear your ring as long as I

e

 

am alive. No! I forbid you to stop me or to
touch me! I am going into the house now, and [I
don’t mean ever to.talk like this again. Only
—I wanted you to know I am not ungrateful.”’

Here Dorothy broke down altogether, and
fled swiftly toward the house, evading his out-
stretched arms.

‘And Aylmer sat on the summer-house table
and thought, as well as a man can think with
every nerve in his body tingling with passion-
ate love and his heart thumping like a sledge-
hammer. All sorts of wild schemes flashed at
a white heat, through his brain, but the leading
idea in them all was that he and Dorothy
loved each other, and that the world believed
her dead. Once the hue and cry after Phyllis
Knight was over, and Dorothy could carry out
her intention of escaping with Cresswell to
America, what was there to prevent him (Ayl-
mer) from accompanying them thither? In
some of the States divorce laws, as he knew,
were elastic, and might be stretched to meet
Mrs. Derrick’s case,

It was outrageously unfair that she should
remain all her life bereft of the shelter of a
husband’s love through the treachery and vil-
lainy of such a man as Darcy Derrick. Ayl-
mer’s fists clenched instinctively at the mere
thought of the man. Hatred of him and over-
whelming joy at the knowledge of Dorothy’s
love elbowed each other in his over-excited
brain. Never in his twenty-eight years of
plodding, hard-working existence had such a
tempest of feeling been stirred within this big,
quiet-looking young man, with the herculean
frame, steady, brown eyes, and drooping, yel-
low mustache. He had been waiting for his
ideal, garnering up for her his stores of emo-
tion; now that he had found her and had
earned her love, he felt that he could sooner
part with life itself than with Dorothy.

(To be continued.)

Winifred’s Sacrifice.

 

By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon,

Author of “The Magic Cameo,” ‘Little Miss Whirlwind,”
“Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘Stella Rosevelt,” “Queen
Bess,”’ “‘The Golden Key,” “4 Girl in a
Thousand,” Etc,

 

(*WINIFRED'S SACRIFICE’? was commenced in No. 82.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers),

 

CHAPTER XXVII.

LIEUTENANT WOODMAN LEARNS BY WHOM
HIS LIFE WAS PRESERVED.

‘‘Perhaps,’’ Roger interposed before he be-
gan, ‘‘you will kindly tell me your name. I
think’’—with a smile—‘‘we haven’t been prop-
erly introduced, as yet, and I would like to
know who has been so good to me. I feel that
I owe you a great deal.”’ :

‘Well, possibly not more than I owe you, my
friend,’’ the man returned with a sigh, but in
a kindly tone, ‘‘for you have helped to shorten
the weeks during which you have been here
and which otherwise would have been very
tedious because of the absence of my partner.
Regarding my name, you may call me
Hawkins.’’

Roger knew, as well as if he had been told
the fact, that ‘‘Hawkins’’ was not the man’s
real name. However, it did not matter; it
would serve as well as any other by which to
address him and thus remove a certain feeling
of constraint which he had hitherto experi-
enced when he wished to speak to him.

‘“‘Thank you, Mr. Hawkins,’ he observed,
adopting it at once; ‘“‘and mine is Woodman.
I have-recently been appointed to serve at the
military post at——”’

“Yes, I found that out, Lieutenant Wood-
man, the day I ran across you, for I took the
liberty of rifling your pockets of papers and
valuables lest they come to grief; so, of course,
learned your name. Your rank, your straps
told me,’’ Mr. Hawkins explained.

“Now, regarding the last six or seven weeks,
which, for the most part, have been a blank
to you, is a story that is soon told,’’ he re-
sumed. “‘By way of preface I will say this
much in connection with my partner and my-
self—we are a couple of recluses, both from
choice and necessity—or at least have been;
what the future may hold for us remains to
be seen upon his return. We have been livin
in this isolated spot for about five years, an
I think + may safely say that there is not a
person living who knows the secret of our
habitation, although occasionally it has been
necessary for one or both of us to come in con-
tact with people and visit certain sections of
the world. On the day that you were injured
I was wandering abroad looking after my
snares. I heard the yelling of the Indians, the
shouting of the soldiers, the beating of the
horses’ hoofs, and surmised something of what
was happening. I had concealed myself in a
cave in the gully just as the -redskins swept
by and your company after them. Then fol-
lowed the engagement, and I saw you fall
after one of those copper devils fired two shots
in quick succession at you.’’

“You saw that?’ interposed Roger with a
quick, in-drawn breath.

“Yes, and I thought it was all over with you.
But I waited until the soldiers got the better
of them.”

‘Then they did worst them!’’ cried Roger
eagerly. ‘“‘Did they lose any more men?’ :

“No; but they wounded several of the In-
dians, although none were left by the way.
They’re a tough set, and never make a sign
as long as there’s a breath of life in them.
When they swept out of Sight, your men close
after them, I crept to where you lay and found
you terribly wounded but still living. I felt
sure that you would never stand it to be picked
up by your comrades, when they returned, and
carried miles by them into camp, so I resolved
to take you in hand myself and see if I could
save you. Besides, I was lonely and the care
of you would give me something to do to break
the dull monotony of my secluded life. Your
horse had also been shot—in the head—and in
falling had broken two of his legs. He, too,
was living and suffering greatly, and, as I
dare not fire a shot for fear of attracting at-
tention to the fact of my presence in the vi-
cinity, I opened an artery and he was soon out
of his misery.’’

“Thank you! thank you!” said Roger in a
moved tone. ‘‘He was a splendid fellow; I had
owned him for several years and loved him
ae I am glad he was not allowed to suf-
or

“Then I shouldered you and brought you here
to my den.”

“How far?’ questioned the young man with
deep interest, for he realized that he had been
no light-weight at that time.

‘‘Well, a mile or so; and you were something
of a tug,’’ replied Mr. Hawkins with a smile
as he read his thoughts, “but I am strong and
muscular, and I have managed even heavier
loads during my sojourn in this wild region. I
wasn’t so much appalled by the thought of
getting you here, as I was in view of what lay
before me and the responsibility I had as-
sumed, after I had made an examination of
your injuries. I found that the ball had hit
your breast bone, glanced upward and broken
your collar bone, tearing through your flesh
in a frightful manner and finally lodged just
under the skin on your shoulder. I have saved
the bullet for you as a souvenir of your ex-
perience with the redskins.”’

Roger drew a long breath, as he realized
from this vivid description how narrow had
been his escape; for he well knew that if that
ball had glanced downward instead of upward
it would surely have made an end of him.

“Tt was very fortunate for you that I hap-
pened to know something about surgery,” Mr.
Hawkins continued. ‘‘My father was a skill-
ful physician and surgeon, and insisted that I
should follow in his footsteps. I obediently
went through my course, but became so dis-
gusted with my experiences that I refused ab-
solutely to.continue in the profession. I found
that Materia Medica instead of being a science
was governed extensively by guesswork and
experiment, and I could not tamper with hu-
man life in any such way. Surgery, however,
I believed, in many instances, to be useful, and
my knowledge of it has helped me out of
many a scrape, and enabled me to help others
in a good many instances. Thus, you  per-
ceive, it was in my power to set your broken
bones and care for you more intelligently, per-
haps, than most hermits could have done.’’

“T certainly owe my life te you,’’ Roger
gravely observed as the man concluded, ‘‘and
I am more grateful than I can express—I shall
be glad to give you a more substantial expres-
sion aS soon as I am able to get back to civili-
zation.”’

“If you mean in the form of money, Lieu-
tenant Woodman, you may leave your. bank
account untouched; for, as you can readily
understand, a man situated as I am has very
little use for anything of the kind,” his com-
panion returned with a quiet smile.

“But, you may wish to go back into the
world sometime, and then it would not come
amiss,’’ Roger pleaded.

“Well, if I ever should there would be time
enough when I make up my mind to do so,”

said the man with the same smile as before.
“‘You may leave me your address when you £0
away and if, at any time, I find myself in need
of funds, I promise that I will appeal to you.’
“But,” persisted Roger, flushing, “I want to
do something for you now; I-—”
_ “I understand you, Lieutenant Woodman,”
interposed Mr. Hawkins in a friendly tone,

“but let me tell you that I have already had

ample reward for whatever I have done for
you, in the satisfaction I experience in having
saved so fine a fellow for the service of his
country. I am sure you are a West Pointer.’’

“Yes, Iam; but how could you know that?”
queried Roger in surprise,

“By your form; no raw recruit or common
soldier is ever developed as you are,
a splendid physique, you show your training—
such training as one rarely gets except at
at Point—in every bone, muscle and liga-
ment.”’

He would not allow Roger to talk any more
then, but left him to prepare the mid-day
meal, telling him that it would be well for him
to get a nap during his.-absence.

The young man was becoming deeply inter-
ested in this remarkable recluse. It was evi-
dent to him that he was no ordinary person;
he showed evidence of having been highly ed-
ucated, and there was much about him, in
spite of his rough appearance and rude sur-
roundings, which indicated that he must, at
some time during his past, have moved among
cultured people.. He had noticed that there
were quite a number of books, by standard
authors, on some shelves near him, and which
bespoke a taste for good reading; while, as he
glanced: about the room, he observed some
slight touches, here and there, which indicated
refinement of taste. There were some late
wild flowers daintily arranged in a glass upon
the rude table; there was a_fine collection of
mineral specimens disposed upon a shelf that
ran entirely around the room, while above
them were tacked, here and there, sprays of
brilliant autumn leaves.

After Roger had partaken of his dinner he
appeared so much brighter and stronger that
Mr. Hawkins told him he might try to sit up
for a few minutes if he wished.

He eagerly signified his desire to do _ 50,
whereupon the man arranged a comforter upon
the one rocker which the house afforded and
then assisted his patient into it, so easily and
dexterously that the effort did not weary him
in the least. *

He would not allow him to remain up long,

‘but promised him a repetition of the experi-

ment on the morrow if no ill effects followed
this experience. ’

Thus several days slipped by, every one
showing marked improvement, and then
Roger, whose mind had become proportionately
active, began to get uneasy and anxious to
communicate with the outer world.

He knew that his commander and comrades
must believe that he had fallen a victim to the
craftiness and cruelty of the Indians; while,
too, he was greatly disturbed in view of what
he knew Winifred and other home friends
must be suffering if the report of his supposed
tragic fate had reached them, as he felt sure
must be the case. ~

One morning he asked his new friend—for be-
tween himself and Mr. Hawkins a strong feel-
ing of friendship had sprung up—if it would be
possible to get a letter conveyed to his post.

The man thought a moment and then grave-
ly replied:

“Yes; I will manage it for you. You can
write your letter—or letters—tell your friends
that you are safe and doing well, and—as I
think you will be strong enough by the end of
another week—if they will send an ambulance
for you to Farlow Ranch on the tenth—this
is the first—you will report yourself in camp.”

“Farlow Ranch! That was the place we were
ordered out to protect; how far is it from
here?’ Roger inquired.

‘‘About five miles, as the crow flies.”

“But how am I to get there?’ exclaimed the
young man in a tone of dismay. “Cannot the
ambulance come here for me?’’

Mr. Hawkins smiled with secret amusement.

‘‘Hardly,’’ he replied, “and you will realize
why when I take you out to view the land-
scape o’er. There is but one way by which our
hermit home can be reached, and that is only
Known to my partner and myself; no team
could ever come near it. But that need not
trouble you, for I will see that you get to the
ranch all right; only be explicit about the
date—the tenth—for if they should send for
you before they would not find you.’’ x

The man sighed as he concluded and shot a
regretful glance at his patient, for he realized
that very much

that was pleasant would be ~

You have >

 

taken out of his lité when the young man re-
turned to his duties, for he had grown deeply

interested in and very fond of him while nurs- —

ing him back to health and strength. -

So Roger at once set about writing to his
commander and also to Winifred, telling them
of his narrow escape and his strange experi-
ence with his hermit friend, whe, in all proba-
bility, had saved his life.

His communication to his superior officer was
as brief as he could make it, but he indited a
long, loving letter to his betrothed, and telling
her that he would doubtless see her in the
near future, as he felt assured that he would
be allowed a furlough in order that he might
recruit his wasted energies. ;

This was the letter which had given Mrs.
Williams such a shock when she visited the
valley postoffice on that memorable afternoon
to pay for the lock box which she thought she
would no longer need; and we know how Mr.
Beresford discovered its existence and de-
manded its surrender to him, together with
the woman’s solemn promise that she would
preserve utter silence regarding the matter.

When his letters were finished, Mr. Hawkins
informed Roger that he would be obliged to
leave him alone for several hou while he
went to Farlow Ranch to find a messenger to
take them to the postoffice, and also to make
arrangements for the rendezvous on the tenth.

“That will not trouble me in the least,’
Roger replied. ‘I am only disturbed because
you have ten weary miles or more to travel
for me.’’

“That is nothing,’’

the recluse responded
with a careless smile.

“T often tramp more

than that while looking after my snares, for.

in this country, with so many of the redskins
about, it does not do to set them too near to-
gether or they might get wind of our retreat
here. So do not feel at all concerned; amuse
yourself as well as you can, with whatever
you can find in my limited quarters, and I will
be back before sundown.”’

When Roger passed him his letters he also
handed him a ten-dollar note.

“It is to pay the messenger and any other
expense you may have to incur,’ he explained.

His companion shook his head.

“You will pay the messenger when he has
done his work and the ambulance comes for
you,’’ he observed as he took the letters, but
rejected with a gesture the proffered bill; then,
with a word of farewell, left the place. —

Roger sought a book and tried to read when
he found himself alone; but, failing to get in-
terested in it, threw himself on his bed and
ere long was sound asleep.

He slept for a couple of hours, then arose -

and began to wander about the room, which
was lighted by three windows, rudely made,
although they looked out only upon rocks and
from which no view was obtainable.

He never had been outside its four walls,
and had not the slightest idea regarding the
situation of the queer abode. Mr. Hawkins
had only that morning promised that he should
soon go outside, but did not quite dare venture
the experiment for a day or two longer.

However, a-feeling of curiosity now pos-—

sessed him and he told himself that he might
at least explore the interior of the strange
hermitage.

Opening the only door leading from the room
he was in, he passed into one beyond and
found himself, as he had supposed he should,
in the kitchen.

It was lower than the adjoining apartment,
and had but one window, whieh also looked
out upon great boulders that effectually ob-
structed a view of the outer world. It had a
rude floor of unplaned boards, and its furni-
ture consisted of a table built against the
wall and which could be raised and lowered,
a couple of boxes that were evidently used in
place of chairs and a small stove. There were
some shelves on one side, and upon these there
was a limited supply of iron and tinware, also
a few dishes.

Near the one window there was a door which
led out among the boulders. Directly opposite
this there was another one—a smaller or half

door. ;
“Probably there is a closet or a place for
fuel there,” Roger muttered to himself.
Nevertheless he walked over to it and tried
to open it. It did not yield to his touch.
He was about to turn away indifferently
when he caught sight of an iron hook an
ring close to the beam at the top.

He unfastened it, swung the door back, and,
sure enough, at the first glanee the place
seemed-to be intended only for fuel, for it was
almost full of nicely split wood that had been
piled in the most methodical manner,

A second look, however, showed him a space
on one side just wide enough to admit of a
person crowding by, and the suspicion flashed
upon him that the place, after all, was of more

 

 

importance than it,at first appeared to be.

jf

 

 

 

 

 
A

 

VOL. 54—No. 45.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

oe
—

He stepped into this aperture and was sur-
prised to find that the supply of wood consist-
ed of only two or three layers neatly arranged,
and then he knew that it was only a blind, for
beyond there was a long black tunnel which
led—inclining downward—directly into the
bowels of the earth.

‘CHAPTER XXVIII.

WHEN THE MORNING OF THE “TENTH” AR-
RIVED THE RECLUSE PROCEEDED TO CON-
DUCT LIEUTENANT WOODMAN BACK TO
CIVILIZATION.

“Aha!” exclaimed the young man in a tone
of surprise, “this must.be the entrance to a
mine!” ‘

This conviction was strengthened upon ob-
serving, as he became somewhat accustomed
to the darkness, a couple of picks, together
With other paraphernalia belonging to a
miner’s outfit, leaning against the wall of the
tunnel behind the woodpile.

He felt considerable curiosity, to ascertain
what kind of a mine it might be, but began to
realize that he was trespassing upon territory
where he had no right to be, and had perhaps
discovered a secret which his good friend, Mr.
Hawkins, would not care to havé known.

Accordingly he beat a retreat-into the kitch-
en, closed and fastened the door, and, feel-
ing wearied from the unusual effort which he
had made, returned to the other room, where
he settled himself to his book again and -soon
became deeply interested in its contents.

A couple of hours later Mr. Hawkins reap-
speared, and, bearing in his hands a large bas-
Ket which evidently contained a store of good
things, for, through its crevices, Roger caught
sight of cranges, apples, eggs and vegetables
of various kinds. ;

“Well, Lieutenant Woodman,” he observed,
greeting him with a friendly nod and smile,
“your letters will be on their way to-morrow,
and now you may look forward to an early re-
lease from your confinement here.’’

_ “Of course, I shall be glad to get out again,
although I have had no occasion to complain
of my place of refuge; and I assure you that
you will have my everlasting gratitude for
your kind care of me,’’ Roger heartily re-
\turned.

“T have had ample compensation, my young
-friend, in the consciousness of having won
quite a victory against heavy odds, and in the
enjoyment of your companionship since you
began to mend,’’ said the recluse. ‘‘And now’”’
—with a glance at the basket—‘‘we will have
a feast of good things. I confess I am hungry
after my walk in the crisp November air.’’

He at once began to prepare the meal, and
in less than an hour set before his companion
an appetizing repast of broiled chicken, veg-
etables and fruit, with delicious coffee, all of
which he had prepared with the skill and dis-
patch of an experienced cook.

The following morning Roger begged that he
might be allowed to go outside, saying that he
longed for a sight of the sky and a breath of
the outer air.

He was much stronger, his arm and shoulder
were fast getting back to their normal condi-
tion, while he was conscious of a vigor cours-
ing through his veins such as he had seldom
experienced in his life.

Mr. Hawkins regarded him gravely for a
moment; then he observed:

“Lieutenant Woodman, my habitation here is
a secret to all the world, except to my part-
ner and myself,.and we have sworn to each
other that we will never divulge it until we are
ready to abandon it forever. Now, I am con-
scious that you want and need air and sun-
shine, but, while I am assured that I can rely
upon your honor as a gentleman and a soldier,
I feel obliged to ask you to give me your word
that you will never reveal to any one the lo-
cality of this our mountain eyerie; for, when
I take you out and let you look, you will see
that it could be located, although’’—with a
quiet smile—‘‘to the casual observer it might
seem a difficult point to attain.”

“My good friend, I most cheerfully accede
to your request. I should be ungrateful, in-
deed, if I could betray your confidence in the
slightest degree,’’ Roger earnestly responded.
.“That is just what I expected of you, young
man, and had it not been for a feeling of loy-
alty to my partner, I should never have asked
the assurance from you; and now,’’ the reeluse
added as he arose, “I will take you out and
show you a view such as I will warrant you
have seldom, if ever, seen.’’

He led the way through the kitchen and out
of the door which Roger had observed the day
before, first, however, having taken the pre-

 

 

 

caution to protect him from the keen Novem-
ber air. ;

As the young man stepped forth from the
dwelling he found himself in a narrow passage,
with great rocks and boulders all about him,
moe the house itself also seemed like a great
roc

Indeed, it was constructed out of rocks; the

' Spaces between which had been spanned by the
trunks of small-trees and then ingeniously

 

covered or filled in with earth and smaller
boulders and stones, and among which grasses
and bushes had grown, or been planted in such
a way that no one would ever have dreamed
that it was the abode of human beings, for
even the windows which admitted light to it
had been so effectively concealed as to escape
detection.

Turning to the left Mr. Hawkins began to
mount upward by a succession of small boul-
ders which nature might have piled there, but
which, upon studying their position carefully,
Roger felt sure had been put there for the pur-
pose which they served.

Up and up they went between almost per-
pendicular walis until they all at once came
out upon a plateau or a great barren surface,
like a shelf set in the side of the mountain,
that overlooked an expanse of country below
and tall peaks beyond which drew an exclama-
a of mingled wonder and delight from our

ero.

Behind and above them the eminence they
were on towered higher and higher for hun-
dreds of feet, while to all appearance they
stood upon an overhanging ledge from which
at the first glance thére seemed no way of es-
cape, either up or down.

Below them the wall or face of the mountain
appeared to be almost perpendicular, and at
the base of it there flowed what was now a
river, but which at the time that Roger met
with his accident had been only a_ small
stream.

Beyond this the fertile country stretched for
miles to other mountains, while midway, look-
ing like the toy houses of a child, could be dis-
tinguished the building belonging to Farlow
Ranch.

“This is marvelous!” ejaculated Roger, in a
wondering tone, “but how in the name of all
that is wonderful did you ever scale this
mountaih to make a dwelling here, much
more to bring my inanimate body to what you
have rightly termed your ‘eyerie?’ ”’

“That is a secret to which only one other
besides myself holds the key,’ Mr. Hawkins
smilingly replied. ‘‘But sit down,’’ he added,

‘as he motioned toward a convenient boulder,

“rest yourself and get your fill of air, sunshine
and view. It is a glorious day, and the pic-
ture which Nature has laid out before us is
from this point one of the grandest I have
ever seen.”’

Roger obeyed the command to sit, for the
ascent had been quite a tax upon his strength,
while he breathed in the pure, fresh air and
basked in the sunshine which flooded the spot
2 & warmth and cheer that gladdened his

eart.

“It certainly is grand!’ he replied to his
companion’s observation; ‘“‘but’’—with a glance
around upon the barren rocks which showed
no signs of vegetation, save a growth of low,
stunted pines and spruce—“‘I cannot imagine
inva you have ever existed in this desolate
place.”’

“That is easily explained,’’ said Mr. Hawkins.
“You will observe that, lower down near the
base of the mountain, vegetation is quite lux-
uriant. Many ef the trees in yonder belt of
woodland bear nuts of various kinds in abund-
ance, and there are many ways of making
them useful for food. There are also many
varieties of berries and small fruits which
grow luxuriantly. These gathered in their sea-
son and dried or put up in jars or bottles are
nutritious and delicious the year round. Yon-
der stream is full of fish; the woods abound in
game, while, by means of a canoe, when the
stream is swollen, as at present, we can make
the town of in a couple of hours, and
where provisions of all kinds can be obtained.
Farlow Ranch, ten miles away, can also be
easily reached in the same way and by a walk
of five miles.”

“(Do you go often to Farlow Ranch?’ queried
Roger.

‘“‘No, very rarely; only when an emergency
“drives me there,’ his companion returned;
too frequent visits would subject me to too
many questions which [I might not care to
answer. I should not have gone there yester-
day, only I knew that the place is more easily
reached from your post than any other point
along the river, for no vehicle could get over
the rough ground without a liability to acci-
dent, to say nothing about the jolting for
you.”

Roger wondered how he was ever going to
make the five-mile walk to Farlow Ranch over
this same rough ground; but he did not put
the question, for he had the utmost confidence
in the good friend who had already proved
himself so competent to overcome difficulties.

They spent a couple of hours on the plateau
enjoying the sunshine and conversing upon
various topics, and then went below for dinner,
which to Roger’s sharpened appetite seemed
the most delicious meal he had ever eaten.

Afterward he had a long and _ “refreshing
sleep, and on waking found Mr. Hawkins read-
ing beside a rude table, upon which there was
a chessboard, with the men arranged ready for
action.

 

 

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He gave a laugh of satisfaction as he
espied them, whereupon Mr. Hawkins looked
up from his book and nodded knowingly.

“You said one day that you liked chess,’’ he
observed, ‘‘so I fished among my partner’s be-
longings until I found his board and men. I
thought they would help to pass away the
time while we are waiting for the tenth.’’

They played several games, and afterward,
when the recluse arose to prepare their even-
ing meal, he put a recent paper into‘the young
man’s hands.

““You were too tired to read last night,’’ he
said, ‘“‘so I kept it for this evening.”’

Roger seized it eagerly and was soon ab-
sorbed in its contents. It seemed an age since
he had heard anything from the outside world,
and what he read now only served to increase
a hundred-fold his impatience to get back to
camp among his comrades once more:

Every day after that they went together to
the plateau, sometimes taking a book along
from which they would read aloud in turn, but
often pausing in their occupation to discuss
various questions which suggested themselves
while Roger wondered, more and more, what
possible affliction or necessity could have
driven this man into the wilderness to become
such a recluse. Every day only served to prove
more clearly that he was far above the aver-
age man, that he possessed rare qualities of
mind that had been highly cultivated and that
he had seen much of the world and good so-
ciety.

He was often very sad, and now and then
would drop some remark which led Roger to
surmise that he had met with bitter disap-
pointments in life.

But he never referred directly to his past
nor spoke of any relatives or friends save his
‘“‘partner,”’ who was still a nameless quantity,
as far as our hero was concerned.

Since his host had intimated that their abode
and their object in burying themselves in that
strange locality, isolating themselves almost
wholly from all mankind, was a secret, the
young man rigidly respected it and never once
exhibited the slightest curiosity regarding
their identity or affairs.

In spite of Mr. Hawkins’ indefatigable ex-
ertions to help his guest kill time, the days
seemed interminable and to creep by at a
snail-like pace, and yet Roger realized that
the man had been very wise to detain him as
he had done, for, although, he continued to
gain rapidly, he knew that it would tax his
strength in no small degree to make the jour-
ney that was before him.

At last the morning of the tenth dawned,
and right gloriously. Mr. Hawkins served a
nice breakfast about eight o’clock and _ in-
formed Roger that he was ready to accompany
him upon the first stage of his expedition.

“And now, Lieutenant Woodman,” he said as
they were about to start, ‘“‘the time has come
when I am forced to let you into another very
important secret—that of how to leave and en-
ter this retreat; but’—looking him earnestly
in the eye—‘‘as before, I feel that I can trust
you implicitly.’’

Roger extended his hand and met his look
frankly and steadfastly.

“Mr. Hawkins, I am blind and dumb to
whatever I may see or hear, and there is my
hand upon it,’’ he said with earnest candor.

The man grasped it warmly.

“Thank you—you are an honest fellow and a
gentleman,’’ he said, adding with evident emo-
tion, ‘‘and I am more sorry than you will ever
know that you are going out of my life, for
you have made a bright rift in the dark clouds
that envelope mine, during the few weeks that
you have been with me.”’

“And you surely have been my _ good
‘genie;’ now pray tell me what return I can
make for what you have done for me,” said
Roger in a tone of grave appeal.

“Don’t mention anything of the kind, my
young friend, for you have made the two
months just past the happiest that I have
known for many years. Ah! I once had—’’

He cut himself short and drew himself up
sa a resolute air, but he was white to his
ips,

Roger saw that some tender yet painful
memory had been aroused, but_he possessed
too much delicacy to seek to penetrate the
mystery that enveloped him.

“But is there nothing that I can do for you
in the world to which I-am going back? Can
I bear no message to any one from you, or
transact any business for you?’ he questioned
earnestly. :

“T wish there was, Lieutenant Woodman; I
would gladly intrust you with it, for I ean
understand something of how you feel; but no
—I am practically dead‘to the world and all
whom I have ever known and—and must re-
main so for all time. Now’’—with an _ effort
and a proud uplifting of his head—‘‘are you
ready ?”’

It was as if he had reached a point beyond
which he could not go, and Roger felt his
throat swell, in spite of his manhood, in view
of some secret sorrow which had _ evidently
ruined a great and good man’s life.

“All ready,”” he responded quietly, while his
glance wandered around the humble room,
where he had faced a critical turning point in
his own life, in a mute farewell.

Mr. Hawkins turned, bidding him follow,
passed out into the kitchen and opened the
half door which has been previously mentioned
and beyond which Roger now saw two miners’
torches standing upon a shelf, lighted and
ready for use. One of these the recluse hand-
a Roger, the other he appropriated to him-
self.

Then, passing by the pile of wood, he direct-
ed his companion to close the door behind him
and after him, keeping as close as he could in
order that he might get the benefit of both
torches, for he might find the way they were
going rough and uneven in some places.

(To be continued.)

THE MARK IN THE BIBLE

“Of a verity. Herr Magistrate,” said the Pri-
vate Counsellor, ‘‘you have just given a strik-
ing proof of the Possession of those powers of
induction and deduction that characterize the
born judicial investigator. If this infinitesi-
mally small detail had escaped your attention
there is little doubt -that the culprit would
have remained forever undetected. But who
knows? Since we are on this subject, I could
tell you a strange story, stranger even than
the one you have just related, in which I
chanced to play the role that it is your duty
to assume officially. I, too, once discovered
a culprit, and under circumstances so extraor-
dinary by means of a clue so slender and im-
probable that the more I think of it the more
the whole affair seems like a genuine miracle.
I don’t refer to it to exalt myself, for I should
have discovered nothing without the direct
interposition of Chance—or Providence, if you
prefer the term.”’

“Your preamble,’ replied the Magistrate,
“has already greatly excited my curiosity. I
hope you will relate the incident.’

“Willingly. But let us first adjourn to the
library. I know you are an admirer of rare
tomes, and I must first show you mine. Don’t
be afraid they will take me away from my
tale; on the contrary, they will lead us di-
rectly to it, and in the most natural manner
possible.’’

The two men passed from the dining-room
where the above conversation had taken place
into a well-filled library—four walls of shelves
bristling with formidabie folios.

Every colleetor of books has his specialty,
and that of Private Counsellor Otto Grotius
was Bibles. He boasted of being the possessor
of several editions not owned by the richest
theological library in Germany—that of
“Georgia Augusta,’’ in the ancient university
of Gottingen. The Magistrate, anxious to get
to the story, did not, perhaps, admire as they
deserved to be admired, the *venerable illus-
trated edition of the Holy Scriptures, issued
about 1456, by Gutenberg and Fust; Luther’s
first Bible; the polyglot edition of Plantin;
that of Aldus Manucius, and many others. At
last the Private Counsellor took from_ his
shelves two shabby, though modern-looking
volumes, and said, with a sarcastic smile:

“T have kept these for the last; they are the
bright, particular jewels of my collection.’’

“What? Call this cheap reprint of the last
century a jewel?’

“Just so, my dear guest, and for a double
reason. In the first place, the edition was
given to my father by the great Frederick
himself, who had condescended to ornament
one of the two volumes with marginal notes,
more witty, indeed, than reverential, as might
be expected from the illustrious friend of Vol-
taire. In the second place—and to this, Herr
Magistrate, let me call your especial attention
—because the other volume bears between its

 

 

leaves, as a mark, this bit of yellow paper,
commonplace looking enough, by itself, but
with which nothing could induce me to part,
since it gave me the clue to the terrible and
mysterious tragedy to which I have referred.”

“This time,’ ‘interrupted the Magistrate, “I
trust you will not keep me in longer suspense.”

The Private Counsellor sat down and thus
began:

in the spring of 1798 I married, and the Frau
Private Counsellor, my beloved departed wife,
brought me as her dowry this little estate of
Soberg, which we readily chose as our home,
seeing that it is equally distant from the
capital and the summer residence of his high-
ness, the Grand Duke. You have been kind
enough to admire our old garden, laid out after
French models, with its box-bordered walks,
its yews trimmed pyramid wise, and its mar-
ble deities pretentiously clothed in operatic
costumes, but I have not ventured to lead you
further afield to show the useful after the
beautiful, the commonplace vegetable garden
after the_ ornamental part. I now regret it,
for it is probable you have never seen a
haunted house, and I could have shown you
one there, or at least, one reputed to be such.

There is nothing forbidding in the aspect of
this insignificant structure where my valet as-
sures me that he meets souls in pain. It is a
one-story stone cottage, whose thatched roof
is starred with stone-crop, and whose front is
entirely hiuden with honey-suckle, jasmine
and Bengal roses. If one happens to enter one
sees that the windows are no longer glazed,
that the fireplace is filled with fallen plaster,
that the inside partitions are so worn as to
show the lath and that the walls are crum-
bling under the combined action of mildew and
saltpetre. This queer structure has for a long
time been used as a convenient storage for
potted plants and garden implements. None
of my servants would consent to live in it, or
even go near. it after nightfall.

When we moved to S—— this cottage was oe-
cupied by the gardener and his wife.

His name was Josias. He was an old Pom-
eranian cuirassier whom my father-in-law had
taken into his service, and whom we retained
in ours. Should I live a thousand years Josias’
features would never fade from my memory.
He was about fifty, tall, with strong, muscu-
lar body, and with what is called a ‘‘square’”’
head. His heavy eyebrows met, making a
straight line across his face. He wore no
beard, but had thick red hair. If there is
any truth in physiognomy he was ambitious,
obstinate, and not at all sensitive. It seems
that several times he had tried to improve
his worldly condition, but had always failed—
@ circumstance of which he was accustomed
to complain bitterly.

“Still, E am bound to be rich,’’ he would add;
“T can’t tell how or when, but some day for-
tune will come—it will come.’’

He was a hard master to those employed
about the place, and seemed to take a delight
in tormenting animals, beating the dogs, for
example, not apparently out of anger, but be-
cause it gave him pleasure. On two occasions,
wher interlopers had climbed over the garden
wall, he had broken their legs with his gun.
The servants hated him, and the peasants
declared ‘that he cast spells on the cattle, and
that if he looked at a young girl in a certain
way she would from that moment fall under
his diabolical influence.

Josias had married late in life. His wife was
younger than he, and, without being aware of
it, increased his unsavory reputation. Not that
she was suspected of doing anything wrong,
but she was believed to be-the victim of her
husband’s occult practices. Blonde, pale, with
light blue eyes and sofi cheeks, she trembled
before her spouse as a poor bird trembles that
has been fascinated by a serpent. Besides, she
was subject to lethargic fits. Sometimes she
would remain for days wrapped in a strange
slumber so closely resembling death that when
she was first attacked they came near burying
her alive. :

Such were husband and wife. Not having
any special charge to make against Josias,
who was active and honest, we never thought
of discharging him, and attached but slight
importance to the reports that had gained cur-
rency concerning him.

Josias, besides his work in the garden, had
certain tasks assigned him in the house. One
Saturday, the day of the week he usually de-
voted to waxing the floor of my library, I
happened to enter the room suddenly, and sur-
prised him standing near these shelves in the
act of reading this Bible. On hearing me come
in he closed it hastily, but, as the passage
seemed to interest him greatly, not before
marking the place with a bit of paper he had
in his hand, the very piece you are now look-
ing at, and which has on it an expense account
for the first week of the month of July, 179—.

I said nothing, seeing from his agitation that
he thought he had been indiscreet. He put
the volume back in its place, and as it was
not this one that had been annotated by the
great Frederick, I never thought of taking out
the mark.

And it is here, that the
mystery begins.

The next day being Sunday—take notice of
the date—the cook not having seen anything of
Frau Josias, and becoming alarmed, went over
to the cottage in the kitchen garden.

She found the unfortunate woman stretched
on her bed, white and rigid, her eyes wide
open and the pupils dilated.

“A lethargic attack,’’ remarked Josias, with-
out the least emotion.

The advisability of calling in a physician was
suggested, but Josias would not hear of it.

“No, no! I haven’t any money to throw
away. She’ll come to all right, as usual.’’

Three days later, when the body began to
decompose, he at last consented that a doctor
should be sent for. The latter said at once
that the woman was dead, which did not seem
remarkable considering the precarious condi-
tion of her health.

A month before—note this fact also—Frau
Josias had fallen heir to quite a nice little
sum of money and had at once willed it to her
husband.

You will no doubt ask, Herr Magistrate,
what connection there is between these events
and the mark in the Bible. Have patience.

The Counsellor stopped a moment to enjoy
the interest manifested by his auditor in the
narrative, and then proceeded:

After the death of his wife, Josias, rich to
the amount of several thousand thalers, left
us and set up on his own account in the Dis-
trict of Fechler. We subsequently learned that
Fortune, so long waited for, continued to smile
upon him, and that he had become burgomas-
ter of his village.

He was never seen again at Soberg, and
never visited the burying ground where the
body of his wife rested.

In fact, the burying ground itself soon disap-
peared. It was so damp that miasma arose
from it night and day, invading the neighbor-
ing houses and feeding the wandering fires
that after dusk misled and frightened belated
travelers. ‘It was first ordered to be closed,
and ten years later was altogether obliterated,
a new strategic road having been surveyed
across it.

In the month of July, 1809, the mattock was
first used, and some bones brought to the sur-
face. One morning, when the diggers were
about getting to work, they noticed an old
beggar woman who had got into the graveyard
through a hole in the wall, and was engaged
in picking up the dead branches of trees or
worm-eaten pieces fallen from the wooden
crosses that marked the graves.

Suddenly she sprang backward in affright
and gave a terrible scream. They ran up to
and questioned her. She could only succeed
in making them understand by a few disjointed
sentences that she had seen a skull moving
along the ground.

“Look, it moves!” cried the terror-stricken
woman. °

Every one started back instinctively. True
enough, on a heap of htuman remains and
stones a skull came bouncing along, propelled
by some strange energy.

One workman was of the opinion that the
rector should be notified. Another—a more
virile intellect—ran for a doctor. I was also
sent for, and reached the spot as soon as a
physician.

He first ridiculed the cowardly superstitions
of the bystanders, then stooped down, picked
up the skull, and inside it found a toad that
had got into the cerebral cavity through a
narrow opening, and was vainly trying to get
out of its prison.

**You see,’”’ he said, laughing, ‘‘the—’’

But he did not finish the sentence. A second
discovery checked the words on his lips, and
froze the smile on his face—a long steel spike
as slender as an upholsterer’s needle was im-
bedded in the occiput, and must at some time
have passed entirely through the brain.

‘‘Hoh, hoh!’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘a clever as-
sassin that! Death instantaneous, no effusion
of blood, and, thanks to the hair, no visible
trace. My predecessor no doubt attributed it
to the rupture of an aneurism.’’

How to find out the name of the murderer
and that of his victim?

In this portion of the cemetery the laborers
had demolished ’four graves and thrown the
remains into a single heap. ;

The tombstones were the only means of iden-

Herr Magistrate,

- tification left.

 

One of them bore the inscription:

“‘Here lies Cornelia Josias.’’

How to find out? Find out I was resolved I
should!

Suddenly a thought flashed through my brain
like lightning.

The two names stood before me as if printed
in. letters of fire. 3

However, it was only a personal conviction;
proofs were necessary.

I ran up and shut myself in the library—the
very room in which we now are.

I opened a book—this Bible.

The proof was there. I no longer suspected.
I no longer merely believed—I knew.

The next day the representatives of the law
presented themselvs at the residence of Josias,
whom they found alone eating his supper.

A police officer accosted him, placing his
hand on his head, on the very spot, in fact, in
which the nail had been driven through his
victim’s brain, and said:

*‘Josias, you have killed your wife.”’

The wretch shuddered, and with chattering
teeth replied:

“Yes, yes. God hath avenged her—the book
—the book—I am choking——”’ and fell dead,
struck by apoplexy.

And now, Herr Magistrate, open the Bible at
the place where I opened it on my return from
the cemetery—to the page that Josias himself
marked the day before the crime. Here—
Judges, chapter iv., verse 21, read.

The Magistrate took the volume and read as
follows:

‘“‘Then Jael, Heber’s wife, took a nail of the
tent, and took an hammer in her hand, and
went softly unto him, and smote the nail into
his temples, and fastened it into the ground,
for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died.’’

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O VIOLETS.

BY ANNIE G. MURRAY.

She wore them as she passed,
These violets of May,

Poor violets! they are now outcast
And flung away.

But, to their fading loveliness,
Although my dream is o’er,

My quivering lips I softly press,
They are the flowers she wore.

O violets, but yesterday
Blooming on the heart of May.

A CHILD OF THE CIRCUS.

Above the homely little inn which stood
alone in the romantic valley in the midst of
budding hedges and high firs the moon was
slowly climbing.

In the upper story a window was wide open,
and a@ man’s dark figure was distinctly out-
lined against the bright square of the window
frame.

Wolfgang Hermes had been a late guest. He
had disturbed the host in his night’s rest, and
had been obliged to leave his luggage in the
traveler’s room, where it was of no use to him.

The small oil-lamp which his host had
placed for him on the table threw a dim light
over the shabby contents of the humble little
attic room. He stepped back from the win-
dow, drew a chair to the table, and took out
his pocketbook. He turned the leaves over
and took from it a letter, which he slowly un-
folded and read thus:

“My Dear Son—Although I am accustomed to
your extravagance, your last letter threw me
into the greatest astonishment. Certainly you
are quite correct when you write that-since the
death of your sister Gretchen I have cherished
the wish to find a young girl who would fill
her place in a measure; but that the child of a
playing troupe will do this I cannot~*believe,
Nevertheless, for love of you I will make the
attempt and see whether this Wiarda is suited
to family and. domestic life. You may, there-
fore, bring me the foreign girl, dear Wolf, and
in any case it will be a good thing to remove
her from the life which she is leading.

“You must then in your turn promise me to
listen afterward to your mother’s voice when
She speaks of matters of vital interest to
you. You may safely confide in me, for the
eye of Jove is keen, and what love could be
greater than that of a mother for her only
son?’’

Deeply thinking, Wolfgang folded the letter
again. He had known that his mother would
lay no obstacle in his way. Now he could treat
seriously with the director of the troupe. How
high would he put the price of Wiarda’s free-
dom? Certainly she was the star, the centre
of attraction of the whole. Well, the morn-
ine’s dawn would bring the answer, and
wearied out, he sought his night’s rest at last.

The next day, with music and singing, the
company entered the quiet valley, and pitched
their tent in the village street. The director
squatted, with high-raised knees, on a three-
legged stool, and a box, gray with dust and
dirt, served as a ticket office.

“A bad business, Bob Macky,”’ he said, with
a glance at a clown stretched out in the straw
behind him.

“But Wiarda,’’ with a click of his tongue,
“she always draws.”’
“Stupid fellow!’’ sounded a peevish voice
from a corner of the half-dark room, and an
impetuous young figure came forward from the
Shadow. A pair of great, shimmering dark
eyes shone from the small, pale, southern face
down on the speaker. ‘“There!’’ she said,
snatching up a bunch of-straw from the
fround with her small, brown hands and
throwing it at his head, ‘‘A little refreshment!’’

“Thank you, thank you, mademoiselle!’’ he
Said with mocking courtesy. ‘“‘The present is
certainly princely. Ah, who is coming?’’

With a nimble spring he was at the box,
ready to pocket a possible installment on his
backstanding pay.

*“Tickets—first class, two_ shillings;
class, one shilling; third class, sixpence;
standing room!” rattled off the director.

*T only wish to speak to you,”’ returned the
gentleman addressed. ‘‘Let me enter for a mo-
ment.”’

‘“‘Without permission, entrance is strictly for-
bidden,’’ declared the clown. ‘‘You must take
a ticket.’’

The intruder threw him a silver piece, which
disappeared with astonishing quickness into
his trousers’ pocket.

“Ah, Herr Hermes! That
Hermes, who will take me away with him!”’
exclaimed Wiarda, rejoiced as she ran to the
newcomer and offered him her hand.

“Who talks of taking you away? I think I
have something to say about that!’’ interrupt-
ed the director, raising himself to his full
height and frowning. ; 3

“Certainly you have. But you live in very
unpleasant circumstances,’’ said Wolfgang,
thus opening a way for‘his proposition.

“Sir, we are artists;’’ stormed the director,
turning an angry red. :

‘Would you like to go with me, Wiarda?”
asked Wolfgang, filled with that deep interest
which from the first had drawn him to the
peculiar child.

Yes!’ she exclaimed with shining eyes. ‘‘I
would like to travel. I would like to see lands
and cities, and to learn to understand all that
is great and beautiful.’”’

‘Let us try, Herr Director,
agree on this matter over a
wine.”’ ;

The director was no hater of good things,
and when he returned with Wolfgang a few
hours later, the latter had gained permission,
with the aid of a hundred marks, to take
Wiarda away with him.

* * * * * ok s

‘‘My dear child, are you still asleep?’’ said
Frau Hermes, a few days later, as, with irre-
proachable cap on her silvery hair, she looked
into the pleasant guest chamber which she had
assigned to Wiarda the night before for a
sleeping-room. ‘‘Early to bed and early to rise,
you know, and your coffee is getting entirely
cold.”’

Wiarda blinked sleepily at the speaker.

“Bob Macky always brought me my coffee in
bed,’’ she complained, -while she took an India
shawl from her trunk and wrapped herself up
in it.

Her wealth of dark hair fell
She twined some strings of pearls through
and remained standing before the great
glass, which occupied haif of the side of
room, as one lost in a dream,
tion of her own beauty.

“You look charming,

second
no

is indeed Herr

to see if we can
flask of good

down.
it,

loosely

Wiarda,”’ said

him a joyous good morning.

“J do not think it suitable to deck yourself |

in the such theatrical gear,
chided Frau

“T have nothing
ging her shoulders. 5

“Then you should bind up your hair and
leave off the pearls,’’ was the reply.

“She is yet only a child, mother.’’

Wolfgang sought to appease his mother,
while Wiarda hastily loosened the pearls from
her hair and threw them to the ground, where
they rolled noisily round her.

‘“There!’? she cried with excitement. ‘**There!

But I have no need to braid my hair and wear
fashionable clothes that pinch me and take
away my breath. [I am a player’s child, and
you will make nothing else than I am out of
me!”’
* Such scenes occurred frequently, and Wiarda
grew to be a strange, reserved girl, with a
look of longing ever in the great, shimmering
eyes.

Gradually her outward appearance greatly
changed under the pressure of Frau Hermes’
will. In the long, dark dresses which were al-
ways fastened up to the throat, she appeared
to the least advantage, and the hair, tightly
plaited and smoothly parted on top, took from
her face that charm that had been peculiar
to it.

So with Woifgang,

daytime with
Hermes. 5
else,’’ said the girl, shrug-

whose eyes were always
so susceptible to beauty, gradually the first
warmer feeling faded away and left room for
only a brotherly interest, while in Wiarda, the
naturally impulsive and affectionate nature
being repulsed, was created an underlying bit-
terness, which was increased by the lack of
return which Wolfgang made to her adoring
fondness for him.

Little by little a state of war grew up be-
tween her and Frau Hermes. Wiarda could
not succeed in conducting everything with that
painful regularity which Frau Hermes, acecus-
tomed to the severest order, wished. She could
not comprehend that the weal or woe of a
household depended upon the correct comput-
ing of the milk bill or the re-weighing of the
meat and butter. All that meant nothing to
her, so long as the breakfast table was deco-
rated with fresh flowers and the evening board
with lights.

Thus had a struggle arisen which, though
earried on in silence, embittered both women,
and left the stamp of discontent, making it

 

 

pier |
the |
sunk in admira- |

| they gazed at it.
Wolf- |
gang as she entered the dining-room and gave |

 

ERonee for them to lead a happy family
ife.

Frau Hermes hoped to aid matters by en-
larging her little circle. She had a young
friend, Magdalen Mertens, who, since the
death of her mother, was comparatively alone.
Frau Hermes thought that the maidenly
charm and genuine womanliness of the girl
would work -with favorable influence on
Wiarda, while her loving mother’s heart pre-
dicted, when she thought of Wolfgang, a
happy future for him with pretty Magdalen.

“You are going to have company,”’ said Wolf-
gang one day to Wiarda,

She turned from the window.

“Indeed! Who is coming?’’ she asked, fixing
her weary eyes on his handsome, open face.

‘‘Magdalen Mertens, a very charming young

ner.
He laughed a little and stroked his mus-
tache.

Her eyes darkened.

**‘When will she arrive?”

‘To-day. I think. She is an orphan, a dis-
tant relative of my mother, and is said to be
very pretty.’’

: can guess! Light,
chubby face!”

She slurred over the words.

The girl pressed her brow against the cold
pane and began softly to weep.

“What is the matter with you? Are you ill?’
he asked, and drew her toward him and
stroked the dark hair,

She clung to him for a moment, clasping him
with both arms, then tore herself away and
flew from the room.

Magdalen arrived the same evening. She
was a dainty little blonde, and had indeed the
smooth hair, parted back from a rosy Madonna
face. She breathed an atmosphere of peace
and cheerfulness, and seemed a creature made
to love and be loved.

With quiet pleasure Frau Hermes noted the
deep impression that this lovely girl made on
Wolfgang, who joined more and more in the
family reunions and visits, during which he
had formerly remained in his room, studying,
if not claimed by his widening practice.

Only Wiarda mantained toward their guest
a repellent demeanor. She was a quiet but
close observer of the events about her, and
as the intercourse between Magdalen and Wolf
grew more intimate, as Magdalen won the un-
divided love of mother and son, Wiarda grew
more gloomy and reserved, while at times a
dangerous light glittered in her eyes,

Her passionate nature revolted at the re-
straint of good manners in which her foster-
mother had so carefully instructed her, and at
last there came an unrestrained outbreak of
her violent disposition.

“TI cannot endure you!
me?’’ she said angrily
when the unsuspecting girl entered her room,
“Go away! Ido not want to see you! Go! Do
you not hear me? [I hate you more than I can

#5

say!

“Why, Wiarda!’’ said Magdalen,
and the swift blood flew to her face.

“Go away!”’ cried Wiarda, beside herself.
shall go mad if you stay!”’

Alarmed, Magdalen fiew from the room, and
in much distress entered. the neighboring one.
There she paced restlessly up and down, and
finally seated herself by the piano. Her hands
wandered over the keys in a soft prelude, and
she forgot the insult she had received in the
sweet melody of song. She had still cause to
be happy.

smooth hair,

What do you want of
to Magdalen one day

startled,
say

I cared not for power nor jewels,

Nor for that which with money is bought;
I longed for a heart full of love,

And in you I have found what I sought.

Lightly and tenderly sounded the soft tones
of the girlish voice; the heavy portiere which
separated the room from the others of the
suite was drawn aside by a man’s hand. Wolf-
gang entered and stood by her side.

“Was that intended for me, Magdalen?’ he
asked softly, and looked passionately down at
the blushing face. Then he seized her hands
and discovered that she was trembling. ‘‘Mag-
dalen,’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘will you marry me and
be a doctor’s wife, my dear companion all the
days that are left to us?’

She leaned her golden head on his shoulder
and her lovely face was transfigured with the
light of love. :

“Yes,’’ she said softly, and he drew her into
his arms and kissed her.

Frau Hermes was overjoyed.

“We will celebrate their betrothal becoming-
ly,’’ she said, and ordered champagne to be
placed on the table at evening. j

“What is the matter?’’ asked Wiarda, suspi-
cicusly, when she saw the festive prepara-
tions.

“Why,
asked in surprise.
are betrothed.’’

Wiarda reeled and caught at a chair for sup-

do you not know?’ Frau Hermes
“Wolfgang and Magdalen

ort.

7 “Indeed!’’ she said, and grew a shade paler.
Then while a mist swam before her eyes, “I
congratulate them,’’ she added hastily.

“Thanks,’’ returned Frau Hermes, coldly, as
she settled her new cap before the mirror. ‘“‘It
can be made public now.”’ 13 Sy

The evening passed happily, and Wiarda’s
lack of interest in the proceedings was noticed
by no one but Magdalen, who was reminded
of the scene in the morning.

It might have been midnight. Magdalen lay
wrapped in sweet slumber, when it seemed to
her that her light curtains were parted, and
she looked into a pale, agitated face, framed
by a sweep of long, dark hair, in which bright
glass pearls shone as precious stones in the
moonlight, whil@ a pair of great, feverishly-
glittering eyes, mysterious in their dark
depths, were riveted on her—W iarda’s eyes,

Magdalen screamed and the figure withdrew,
while a small object fell with a clinking sound
to the floor. 3

A moment Magdalen saw her standing there

in the full moonshine with a ghastly pale face,
and in a strange, glittering dress hung with
golden links and chains, then vanish silently
fr the room.
Was it only a shadow—a dream? She threw
herself restlessly on her couch. Presently she
heard the house door close. She arose and
hastened to the window. She opened it, and
the soft night breeze entered.

Below, on the street, all was still, but by the
dim light of the lanterns she saw a shadow

it along the houses.
eiWintda!” she called. ‘‘Wiarda!’’

The name was lost erg Lee

ring, Magdalen closed the window.
oreWhat can be keeping Wiarda?”’ asked Frau

rmes the foNowing morning.
a Somes I only dreamed,’ said Magdalen,
“but it seemed to me last night that I saw
her standing before my bed with floating hair
and bright pearls in it and shining eyes—and
she must have dropped this.’’

Thereupon she drew forth a small, keen dag-
ger and laid it upon the table. Horror-stricken

and, shiv-

i was so frightened,’’? continued Magdalen,
“when I awoke, that I screamed, and she drew
back and left the room. A little later I heard
the click of the house door.”

“Your guardian angel has preserved you!”
exclaimed Wolfgang, and he bent and kissed
her. ‘She has gone to her own,” he added;
“she belonged to the world of glitter and span-
gles, and it was folly to tear her away
from it.”’

ee ea cos

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTEK.

EVIDENTLY A BILLIONAIRE.

Mrs. Hayseed—‘‘Who is this Mr. Citiman who
is comin’ here to board?’’

Farmer Hayseed—‘‘I don’t know exactly, but
he’s rich as all possessed. Some relation 0
tussell Sage or Vanderbilt, I reckon.”

Mrs. Hayseed—‘‘How d@’ye know?”’

Farmer Hayseed—‘‘He didn’t ask a durn
question about rates.’’

WELL-POSTED CATTLE.

Fair Maiden (a summer boarder)—‘‘How sav-
agely that cow looks at me.”

Farmer Hayseed—‘‘It’s your
mum.”

Fair Maiden—‘‘Dear me! TI knew it was a lit-
tle out of fashion, but I didn’t suppose a coun-
try cow would notice it.”’

EARLY SUMMER.

Mrs. Gadd—‘‘How are you passing the time
now, Mrs. Gabb?’’ :

Mrs. Gabb—‘‘Oh, I’m dressing and undressing
with the weather.”’

STYLE VS. COMFORT.

Mrs. De Style (first day on a farm)—‘‘Hor-
rors! Our host is going to eat dinner in his
shirt sleeves.”’

Mr. De Style (mopping his forehead)—*Thank
heaven! Then I can, too.”’

A POWERFUL MOTOR.

Wife—‘‘Dear me! How are we ever to get
through this crowd? We’ll miss the train.’

Husband—‘‘Raise your umbrella and walk
ahead. I'll follow.”

red parasol,

 

WILLING TO STOP.

Matron—‘‘Mr. Nicefello, I dislike to scold, but
I really must. You ought to know better than
to keep my daughter standing in that cold
front hall half an hour, saying good-night to
her, as you did last night, and as you do every
time you come. ‘This morning she had a terri-
ble cold, and her lungs are not strong, you
know.”’

Mr. Nicefello—‘‘My goodness! Is she sick?”

Matron—‘‘No, but she’s had a narrow escape.
Now these long-drawn-out good-nights have
got to stop.”

Mr. Nicefello—‘‘Indeed, they must, my dear
madam, I'll go right out for a clergyman.”

IN FIVE ACTS.

Bilger—‘‘Which of the new plays did you go
to see last night—the three-act farce or the
five-act tragedy ?’’

Roommate—‘‘Hem! Lemme think, Was I
drunk when I came in?’’

“Yes, you were.”’

“It must ’a’ been the five-acter.”’

A BAD SIGN.

Mrs. De Flatte—‘‘We must move away from
here at once. The janitor is desperately in
love with our daughter.”’

Mr. De Flatte—‘My stars!
know ?’’

Mrs. De Flatte—‘‘Ever since she graduated
and came home to live he has been considerate
and respectful.”’

NO HOPE THERE.

Mr. De Seiner (on being introduced to Adored
One’s Mother)—‘‘Pardon me, madam, but have
we not met before? Your face seems strangely
familiar.’’

Adored One’s Mother—‘‘Yes; I am the woman
who stood up before you for fourteen blocks in
a street car the other day while you sat read-
ing a paper.”’

How do you

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES,

AN INCIDENTAL.—Hibbs—“‘See that strik-
ing-looking girl there? She married millions?”

Hobbs—‘*‘Who’s. the insignificant-looking fel-
low with her?”

Hibbs—‘‘Oh, he’s the man
Philadelphia North American.

ACHIEVING HIS AMBITION.—“‘And by the
way,’’ asked the old schoolmate, “‘what has
become of Mosely, who used to talk so much
about devoting his life to uplifting mankind?
Did he go into the ministry ?’’

““No,’’ answered the other schoolmate, “he
is in the elevator business.’’—Indianapolis
Journal.

BOSS’S MESSAGE TO BOY’S GRAND-
MOTHER.—‘‘Mr. Higgs, ean I get off this aft-
ernoon? My grandmother is dead.’’

“Yes, you may go; but tell your grand-
mother that she will imperil your financial wel-
fare if she dies any more this summer.’’—Chi-
cago Record.

SO THOUGHTFUL.—‘‘Mr. Brinkler is an aw-
fully nice man, mamma.’’

‘Is he?’

**Yes. Out on the porch last night he said to
Sister Lou, ‘Aren’t you cold? and then he
wrapped the sleeve of his coat around her.
Wasn't that thoughtful? And his arm was in
it, too.’’—Cleveland Plain Dealer.

DIVISION OF LABOR.—Close-Fisted Parent
—‘‘T tell you, my son, it is a great deal harder
to spend money with good judgment than itis
to make it.’’

The Young Man (not so close-fisted)—‘‘Well,
father, let me take half the burden off your
hands. You make it and I'll spend it.’’—Chi-
cago Tribune.

ALAS! YES.—Mrs, Bjenks (severely)—‘‘There
is absolutely no exeuse for polygamy. One
wife is enough for any man.’’

Mr. Bijenks (softly)—‘‘Yes. One
much for some men.’”’—Somerville Journal.

EVERY LITTLE HELPS.—Mawson — Do
you find it cool at that river park?”

Billets—“‘Oh, yes! There’s always a little
air coming from the _ band.’’—Philadelphia
North American,

A QUESTION ANSWERED.—‘I wonder. why
Peace is represented by a dove?’’ asked one of
the men at the conference in Holland.

“IT don’t know,’”’ answered the German dele-
gate, ‘“‘unless it’s because a dove’ll get scared
and hide quicker than almost any other ani-
mal.’’—Washington Star.

she married.’’—

wife is too

 

SWEET POTATO CUSTARD.

Boil until done one pint of sweet potatoes
ana while still hot add to them one-half pint
of butter and mash well. Now add one-half
pint of rich milk and press it through a col-
lander. . Cream the yolks of four eggs with one
cup of sugar and add to the potatoes; flavor
with nutmeg and one-fourth cup of brandy;
then add the whites of four eggs beaten to a
high froth. Bake in a pie pan lined with paste
and without a top crust. When done sift pow-
dered sugar over the top.

SOUTHERN MOLASSES PIE.

Mix together three eggs well beaten with one
cup of sugar and three tablespoonfuls of melt-
ed butter and a little powdered ginger. Put
one cup of New Orleans molasses on the stove
and when it boils add the egg mixture grad-
ually, stirring all the time. Remove and pour
in a rich crust and bake.

PUFF PASTE—REMARKS.

Puff paste requires a quick oven and even
heat. Remember, as much depends upon the
baking as the making. A marble slab, rolling
pin and a cool room is the secret of success in
making pastry. Always use freshly-sifted pas-
try flour and the best butter, which must be
washed well before using. All good pastry
should stand twenty-four hours. _Before you
begin to make your paste have two bowls on
the table by you—one with hot soapsuds and
the other with cold water. Wash your hands
in the hot suds and rinse them in cold water,
but do not dry them; this prevents the butter
from sticking to your hands and the bowl.
The dough should be ice-cold when put in the
oven.

PUFF PASTE,

One pound of sifted pastry flour, one pound
of fresh, sweet butter, one teaspoonful of salt,
one teaspoonful of sugar, white of one egg and
one cup or more of ice water; scald a large
bowl, then fill it with ice water and let it stand
until the bowl is thoroughly chilled; then put
the butter into it, and wash by working it
with the hands until the water and ice be-
comes soft and elastic. Press the water into
the butter until it assumes a waxy appear-
ance and is tough, like putty. Take off a piece
of butter the size of an egg; make the rest
into a flat cake and ‘pack under ice water.
Heap the flour in the centre of a marble slab;
make a hollow space in the centre of it, and
put into this your lump of butter size of an
egg, Sugar, salt and white of egg. Work this
lightly together with your thumb and finger to
a paste, adding the ice water and the flour, a
little at a time. Mix the whole well together,
incorporating it very gradually. Save out about
two tablespoonfuls of flour to knead it with,
and when all is. worked in, knead it as you
would bread until perfectly smooth. Then roll
it out under your hand into a long roll and cut
into half. Sprimkle the space of a square foot
of the slab with a little flour, and roll out
each half with a floured rolling pin into a
sheet one-half inch thick. Wipe your cake of
butter dry and lay it in the centre of one
sheet; dredge quickly with flour and cover
with the other sheet. Flatten it lightly with a
roller. Roll it lengthwise in a long, thin sheet.
Keep the edges even while rolling and always
roll from you. Fold in evenly at first the sides,
then the ends; turn the paste around so that
the folds will run to and from you. Roll from
you again, fold as before, wrap in a floured
towel and stand away in the ice box fifteen
minutes; then roll and fold twice again, and
again stand in ice box fifteen minutes: Do
this four times. Allow to remain in ice box
over night and it is ready for use.

FPRITTER BATTER.

Add one egg and one tablespoonful of olive
oil or cream to puff paste.

 

VOL. 54—No. 45,

 

PUFF PIE CRUST.

If you wish to use puff paste for pies, there
are a few things to remember. To begin with,
it shrinks, and should therefore be cut a trifle
larger than the pie plate, which should never
be greased. If an upper crust is to be used,
roll it larger than the pie pan and cut several
holes in the top to let the steam escape. Roll
your paste out one-fourth inch thick; then
roll it up, like a jelly roll, and cut from the end
of the roll, Pat it out flat and roll it to loose-
ly fit the pan. Put in your filling, wet the
rim, place your top crust on and pinch it close-
ly, but lightly, together. Bake until brown,
and when done slide it into a china pltae,

-~o<——_____

DUDLEY BARRINGTON’S LESSON.

Milly Barrington was only eighteen when she
came to live at Holly Lodge. Very young to
be married, said the gossips of the neighbor-
hood; still younger to assume all the cares and
responsibilities of a household. And there
were not lacking doleful prophets, who de-
clared, with eyes rolled up and mouth drawn
down, that Mrs. Barrington never would ‘eet
on’’ with the old gentleman.

“He is so fastidious,” said one.

‘So difficult to suit,” said another.

“His ideal is so impossibly high,”’ declared a
third.

But to their surprise—perhaps a little to their
disappointment—Milly and her father-in-law
were the best of friends from the very first
moment in which they looked upon each oth-
er’s faces.

Milly was so anxious to learn, so eager: to
comprehend the ins and outs of the great,
roomy old house, so ambitious to excel every
housekeeper in the neighborhood, that the old
gentleman said, with a smile, to his son:

“Don’t let your little wife undertake
much, Dudley.’”’

And Dudley Barrington
yawn:

““‘There’s no danger of that, sir. The ladies
of Holly Lodge have always been first-rate
housekeepers, you know. And if a woman is
at work, she isn’t spending money foolishly,
or gossiping.’’

Mr. Barrington’s keen, blue
his son sharply for a moment.

‘Do you think Milly is addicted to either of
those pernicious practices?’ he asked.

“They come. natural to all women, don’t
they?’ said Dudley, shrugging his shoulders.

*“Not to all!’’ said his father.

And in his secret soul he wondered if Dudley
ken: really worthy of such a jewel as Milii-
cent:

So the weeks went on, and Milly stood
bravely to her helm, until one bright October
day the old gentleman, chancing to pass the
low kitchen window, where the vines made a
screen of moving shadow, looked smilingly in
to where his daughter-in-law was at work.

“Have you got a glass of cool milk for me,
little: girl?’’ said he.

Milly brought the milk promptly.

‘See, papa,’’ she said, triumphantly pointing
to the table, ‘‘what a baking I have done to-
day! Three apple pies, three loaves of bread,
a pan of biscuit, a cake and/a dozen plum
tarts!”’

‘Bravo!’ said Mr. Barrington. ‘‘But, Milly,
why are you baking? Where is Hannah?”

‘“‘Hannah wanted her wages raised,” said
Milly, rather soberly, ‘‘and Dudley said it was
all nonsense keeping a girl when I was so fond
of housework. So she has gone.”

“But are you fond of housework?” he asked.
“In itself, as an abstract thing, I mean?’

““Yes, papa,”’ Milly answered, with some hesi-
tation. ‘‘But I’m a little tired this morning. I
rose early and swept the house through before
breakfast, so as to have time for the baking.”’

“You are a good little girl,’ said the father-
a “But we mustn’t let you work too
lard.’’

*“Papa,’’ said Milly, with downcast lashes,
and a deep shadow creeping over her cheek,
“I’ve been thinking for some time that—
that a

‘“Well?” said Mr. Barrington, encouragingly.

“That I should like to ask you for a little
money,”’ faltered Milly.

‘““Money!”’ he echoed, in surprise.
Dudley give you all you want?”

Once more Milly hesitated.

“He wants to know what everything is for,”’
said she. ‘“‘He thinks fifty cents is too much
for ribbon, and he says hats ought to be had
cheaper than three dollars each, and he
declared it’s all nonsense to buy kid gloves
when cotton will do as well. And I do need
another hat since the rain spoiled my best one,
but_ I don’t like to ask him for it.”

“Do you mean to say,” said Mr. Barrington,
leaning his elbows on the sill, ‘‘that you don’t
have a regular allowance every week?’

“No, papa,’ said Milly, lifting her prettily-
arched brows. “Dudley says women dolii’t
know how to use money, and that a wife should
always receive every cent she spends from her
husband. And, I can tell you, papa, because
you are so kind to me—I am so ashamed to
have him think me extravagant, and I really
need so many little things that men haven’t
any idea of. It’s a little hard sometimes.”

Mr. Barrington took his purse out of his
pocket and laid it on the window-sill.

“‘Here, little girl,’’ he said, ‘‘you have earned
the contents of that a dozen times over?’

Milly reached up to kiss him through the
vine leaves.

“Oh, papa, you ate such a

He only patted her cheek in reply.

“Dudley don’t know what a treasure he has
got,” he pondered, as he kept on his walk up
to the front veranda, where a great chestnut
tree was showering its blooms over the steps,
and the balmy sunshine slept on the painted
floor. ‘‘He is making a“Circassion slave out
of that dear little woman.”’

And he took his book and stretched himself
comfortably out in the hammock for his even-
ing’s reveries.

It was the next day that his son came to him
in the library, where a little firé of logs had
been kindled, for a chilly northeast rain had
blown all the yellow maple leaves away, and
the sunshine was obscured in driving clouds.

“Well, my boy,’’ said his father, kindly, ‘‘tyou
are off to the city, I suppose?’

“Yes, sir,’”’ said Mr. Barrington, junior—a
tall, straight, handsome young man, with a
brown complexion and sparkling eyes. ‘‘And
before I go perhaps you~ had better give me
a check if it’s convenient.’’

“A check?’ said his father. ‘‘For what?”

“Tm about out of ready cash,’ said Dudley,
earelessly, ‘‘and a little spending money would
come very handy for current expenses.”

“Ah! And what are you going to buy?”

Dudley looked at his father in amazement.

“I need a summer suit, sir,’ said he,
‘‘and—”

**Yes—yes,’’ nodded the old gentleman, “And
how much do you pay for a summer § suit
now ?’’

“Oh, forty dollars or so,’”? answered Dudley.

‘‘Forty dollars or so!” echoed Mr. Barring-
ton. “‘Isn’t that rather vague?’’

“A fellow never knows exactly——”
Dudley.

“Ah, but you ought to know!’ interrupted
the old gentleman. “And, now I am on the
subject, you buy your clothes of Jenkinson,
don’t you? Aren’t there cheaper places?”

Dudley ignored the question and said:

“I’ve a little bill at the cigar shop to settle,
ent are some new books I should like to
read.’’

“Just send in the bills to me,”
gentleman; ‘‘I’ll pay them.”

“The bootmaker, sir——’’

“You must try and-not be too extravagant
with your boots. Young men have so many
fictitious wants, nowadays. 3ut, as I said be-
fore, let all the bills be sent to me. And as
for spending money, here is enough for the
present.’’

He drew out a five-dollar bill and handed it
to his son. . Dudley stared at it in amaze-
ment.

*“T expected a check, sir,’’ said he, somewhat
discomfited.

“Did you?’”’

“Tt isn’t agreeable to be put on such an
allowance,’’ went on Dudley, sharply. “I’m
not accustomed to it.’’

“Not agreeable, eh?’ said his father, com-
fortably adjusting his feet on an embroidered
rest. “Then why do-you practice the system
with your wife?”’

“T give her all that she needs to spend,” said
Dudley, coloring up.

“And I have given you all that you need.”

*T am a man!” said Dudley.

**‘And she is a woman,”’ retorted his father.

*“T am the manager of your warehouse, and
I*claim my honest remun€ration as such,”
eried Dudley. ‘SI am no beggar. There is not
a penny that I ask for .that I do not earn.”

“That is Millicent’s case exactly,’’ said.the
wise old advocate. “She does the work of the
house and does it well. She is an economist in
every sense of the word. Is it right that she
should receive merely her board and clothes?
Is she not entitled to a regular allowance to
spend as she pleases? Do not think me a med-
dlesome old fogey, my son,” he added, rising

too

answered, with a

eyes regarded

‘Doesn't

darling,’ she said.

explained

said the old

 

 

 

 

es tie

and placing his hand kindly on his son’s shoul-
der. “But I have been observing all these
things, and I merely wanted to give you a per-
sonal application of this lesson in political
economy. You see how it humiliatés one to
beg humbly for the money that one has hon-
estly earned—to be called upon for an account
of every penny one wishes to spend. Don’t
put your wife into such a false position as
this. Treat her as one of the firm of Barring-
ton & Co.”

Dudley stood still a moment, pondering; and
then he said, earnestly: :

“T will, sir. You are right!’’

And Milly was delighted, that very day, to
receive a check for an ample sum of money
from her husband.

‘Is it all for me?” she cried, with glittering
eyes.

“Yes, all,”” Dudley answered, laughing.

“But what am I to do with so much money?’

“Lock it up in your desk, dear,” he an-
eSwered, ‘“‘and spend it for your needs as they
occur.”’

“But I never had so much before all at one
time!’’ exclaimed the amazed Milly.

“No, you never had, more shame to me,’
acknowledged Dudley. “But I have come to
the conclusion, Milly, that you are no child to
be given a dollar or two at a time. You are
my housekeeper, and deserve your regular sal-
ary. I shall give you twenty-five dollars for
your own personal expenses at the beginning
of every month, and you shall use and econ-
omize it as you choose. The household ex-
penses, of course, will be paid out of the com-
mon. stock.”

Milly clapped her hands joyously.

“OQ Dudley, I never felt so rich in all my
life,’’ said she. ‘‘Now I can dress like other
women and give a little money to the church,
and help the poor, and feel independent! And
[ can lay by a little, too, Dudley, every month!
Oh! 4 shall see what an excellent manager
I can be!’’

Dudley Barrington looked at his young wife
with a sharp prick of conscience at his heart.
Why had he never made her so innocently
happy before? Simply because it had never oc-
curred to him.

And Milly ran eagerly to her father-in-law.

‘“*‘Papa!’’ she cried, ‘I am to have twenty-five
dollars a month all for my own self, and never
to give account of a penny of it, unless f
please! It is Dudley’s own offer. Isn’t he
kind ?’’

And Colonel Barrington smiled and patted
her head, and answered with a touch of sar-
casm:

‘Very kind, indeed!”’

> @<4——__—_—

PECTS ATTE TELCTSALSAELAEITACCHA PODER PHT
Sou ND
HH ts

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Hifi ; i} WT
PAUAVDDEAARSLOSOAASSIAD BRS)

 

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

By special arrangement with the manufacturers we
are enabled to supply the readers of the ‘‘New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of all garments
described and illustrated in this column at TEN
CENTS each. When ordering patterns please be
particular to mention the number of the pattern and
size wanted. Address Fashion Department, ‘The
New York Weekly.’’ Box 1,173, New York City.

I shall be very glad to answer to the best of
my ability any questions that my lady read-
ers may care to put to me as to questions of
toilet. So, if you are puzzled in any way, don’t
hesitate to appeal a6 me for such advice as I
am capable o ivin ou.

™. giving YO" HELEN WOOD.

ABOUT COLORS.

As people grow older they are often able to
wear colors which in earlier days would have
proved unbecoming. Green, for instance, may
be unbecoming in girlhood, but later on cer-
tain shades of this color may be chosen with
distinct advantage. Blue, violet and pink,
which are charming on young girls, frequently
prove most unsatisfactory to women of middle

 

 

age, To a fresh face-biatkK is—otten—mest be
coming, but it is far less so to elderly-women
unless relieved with cream or white lace, satin
or net, or some pretty color. if a woman
looks well in black she generally looks her best
in it, but though this color is becoming to the
figure, giving it an appearance of slightness,
or at least comparative slightness, it is try-
ing to any but very fresh complexions. How to
relieve black attire with white or certain col-
ors is a matter of importance to all sensible,
middle-aged women.

tS In ordering patterns be sure to give size and number

NO. 1954, LADIES’ WAIST.

As represented, this waist was made of dark-
blue foulard silk, plain and figured, The waist
was made of the
figured silk, ex-
cept for the vest,
tucked at the top
and plain and full
below. Where the
front was opened
it was turned
back and the re-
vers faced. At the
neck was a broad
collar effect of silk
and velvet com-
bined; this ex-
tended across the
back also. The
sleeve is peculiar;
it has an inside
seam reaching p..
from wrist to arm- = ,,¥
hole, and an out- ,3 4
side seam which Z2/#,
does not extendZZ
below the elbow. 4
The wrist is fin-¢ =
ished by a fancy . 7 ye
cuff, the shoulder by a ruffled epaulette, The
pattern is cut in sizes 32 to 40 inches bust meas-
ure. The medium size requires 3% yards of ma-
terial 32 inches wide.

NO. 1968, LADIES’ SHIRT WAIST.

Stiff front effects are in great demand for
wear with Eton jackets, and many women pre-
a fer them at all

times. Our model
may be either
stiff or soft, ac-
cording to the
material em-
ployed. The pat-
tern is so marked
that the front
may -be a fac-
Simile of a man’s
shirt bosom, or
may be as repre-
sented in the
larger drawing.

The bands on
f-<ither side of the
ts Td wa / front may be
ft eee, ra wey either tucked or
Ni sar plain, starched or
Wj BS AAS not. All shirt
' HW SS materiais,
an i) “as well as silks
and woolen fabrics, are suitable for this gar-
ment. The pattern is cut in sizes 32 to 42 inches
bust measure. The medium size requires 23%
yards of material 32 inches wide.
(All patterns published in “The New York Weekly”
will be sent to our readers for 10 cents each. Address
FASHION DEPARTMENT, “New York Weekly.’’)

Emily J.—It depends upon whether your com-
plexion is dark or fair; if the fermer, reds and
browns and yellows would be suitable; if the
latter, grays and greens and blues would be
more appropriate. I do not understand whether
by “‘bigger’’ you mean taller or broader; light
colors make a slim figure look fuller, but dark
ones give height.

Mrs. D.—To stiffen straw hats, put one pen-
nyworth of. gum arabic into a little boiling
water, and when dissolved brush it well into
the straw. Allow it to dry slowly, and the
hat will look as good as new. Should the straw
be black, it will deepen the color by adding a
small quantity of black ink,

Widow.—Although. custom. has ordained that
the bride’s dress shall be of some white mate-
rial, the rule is frequently departed from. In-
deed it is beginning to be held that white shall
only be worn by young maidens; middle-aged
women and widows wearing other shades, such
as lavender, steel-gray and other light colors.
In the case of a widow it is bad taste to make
an ostentatious show, although that does not
mean that the dress and surroundings need

 

be shabby.