AN INGENIOUS DETECTIVE STORY,

By NICK CARTER,

*Nian Against Ma

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BEGINS NEXT WEEK.

 

 

 

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, tn the Year 1901, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congrese, Washington, D. C.

OFFICE.
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New York, November 16, 1901.

 

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She was dancing a second time with Sir Horace_ Vere.

veins; her supreme contempt stung him to the quick

THE FORSAKEN BRIDE

By Mrs. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘‘Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘The Lily of Mordaunt,” ‘‘Audrey’s Recompense,”’
‘That Dowdy,” “Queen Bess,’ ‘‘Wild Oats,’ etc., ete.

CHAPTER I.

A WIFE’S MALEDICTION.

A dewy
mist, no
the rich,
of the

It was a night of unclouded beauty.
freshness filled the silent air. No
cloud, no speck or stain obscured
deep arch of heaven, or hid the glory
diamond stars, that
‘‘Wander unwearied through the blue abyss.’’

The broad, full moon rose bright and lumin-
ous over the masses of dark, glossy foliage,
which comprise the immediate surroundings of
Leamington Towers—a huge turreted building
of brick and stone, whose ivy-mantled walis
bespeak the weather-stain of age, and present
an imposing and picturesque appearance,

The grounds are laid out with exquisite taste
and elegance. The long, smoothly-graveled
walks are overarched with wide-spreading,
luxuriant trees. The broad, green lawn is sur-
rounded by choice evergreens, trimmed into
fanciful figures and devices, which make gro-
tesque Shadows upon the velvet turf beneath,
as the queen of night, rising higher, sheds her
golden glory over all, revealing also number-
less pieces of gleaming statuary, which rise
weird and ghostlike outlined against the dark
foliage; and fountains, too, whose musical
waters seem chanting their vesper hymn be-
neath the starlit sky.

Leamington Towers itself was ablaze with
light, from the top of its graceful, fretted tur-
rets to the broad marble steps which led up to
the grand entrance hall, whose rich and taste-
ful furnishings gave a faint idea of the ele-
gance awaiting one beyond.

A brilliant festival or reception is
celebrate the election of Sir Dudley
to the peerage.

The “royal patent,’’ creating him Barl Dur-
ward, and thus elevating him to a position in
the Upper House, or House of Lords, had only
recently been received, and had occasioned
great rejoicing in the object of this honor, and
among his sympathizers and friends.

It was a position for which Sir Dudley had
toiled early and late, and over the success
which had at last crowned his efforts he was
now very exultant.

In the grand drawing-room at Leamington
Towers—all white and gold, excepting where
the rich and gorgeous flowers made vivid con-
trast, and filled the air with their fragrance—
the triumphant master stands ready to receive
his guests, when they shall arrive, to tender
him their good wishes and congratulations.

He is a powerfully-built, handsome man, of
about thirty. But his face has a hard, cruel
look—a look which tells of cunning plotting,
and of a fierce intolerance of anything which
stands in the way of his pride and ambition,
that repels one at a glance.

about to
Durward

 

His eyes are black and piercing, and harbor
a fiery gleam in their dusky depths, which is

not portentous of good to any one or anything, |

which may arise to thwart him in any of his
darling schemes or desires; though just at
present they are very bright with the triumph
of success.

_His nose and mouth are large and coarse; his
lips are sensual in their expression, and hab-

itually curved at the corners with a sneering |

expression not pleasant to behold.

He stands there in the
rious room beneath the blazing? chandelier,
hands clasped behind him,” his
proudly back, and his thoughts full of that
day when he shall go up to London, take his
long-aspired-for seat in Parliament among the
nobility of the land, and bend every one to his
will by the power of his eloquence and his in-
domitable perseverance.

His father had been an impoverished baronet,
with neither energy nor pride. After his death,
and upon coming in possession of the estate,
Sir Dudley had bent all his energies to the
improvement of the fallen fortunes of the
house. His ambition knew no bounds; he was
determined to rise to the very topmost round
of the ladder of wealth and fame, and honor,

Everything he touched turned into money.
He improved and extended his estate, until it
became one of the finest in the country. He
then began to aspire to political honors,-was
elected as Member of the House of Commons
for his borough, and acquitted himself therein
most honorably.

This, however, did not satisfy him, and he
determined to apply for letters patent, which
would create him a peer of the realm. The
success of his undertaking we already know,
and we will now return to him as he stands
in his princely home awaiting further honors.

A door at the farther end of the magnificent
room softly swings open, there is a moment of
stillness, as if some one standing upon the
threshold hesitated about the propriety of ad-
vancing; then a lovely apparition glides noise-
lessly forward, and finally halts just beside
the proud master of Leamington Towers... A
daintily-gloved hand is gently laid upon his
arm, and a voice, sweet as the music of fairy
bells, says:

“Dudley, I am glad of your victory. I hast-
ened down before any one should arrive, that
I might be the first to congratulate you.’’

He started at the words, and his face
changed in a moment from its look of triumph
to a bitter sneer.

“Oh, you congratulate me, do you? I sup-
pose you do not feel in the least elated at the
prospect of occupying the position of an earl’s
wife.’’

He turned fiercely upon her as he spoke, and
his eye never softened nor did ‘the least spark

his

His heart beat fiercely and his hot blood tingled in his

 

| power to

center of that luxu-|

head thrown |

 

‘*Bessie, |

of admiration or affection light up his coarse
features, as he beheld the fairylike vision be-
fore him.

“No, no, Dudley; you know that I have no
Selfish feeling in the matter,’’ she returned,
with a little sob, and shrinking from him as if
he had struck her a blow. ‘‘You know,”’ she
added, ‘‘that I am only glad for you.’’

“Glad for me, are you? And pray, what
good will all your gladness do me?” he said,
harshly.

“T thought, Dudley, that you would be}
pleased to know that I shared your joy,’’ she
answered, mildly, yet with a gentle dignity
which became her well.

She was fair, and sweet as
blush rose.

Her form, her rounded arms and dainty
hands, her graceful shoulders and delicate
neck, her small head, surmounted by its bur-
nished hair, the tiny, shell-like ear, the sweet}
mouth and deep blue eyes, were all simply
perfect. And with all this, added to a fault-
less toilet, it was evident that not a fairer
vision would grace the grand old halis of
Leamington that night.

But so much beauty and loveliness had no
soften the ill-natured man at her
side; indeed, her very presence seemed to ag-

the sweetest

 

|gravate him, and to drive away ali the pleas-
}ant thoughts- which had been his companions

ere she entered.

He laughed harshly at her last words.

“Yes, share my joys and honors, yeu should}
have added. Honors are plenty just now, and/|
you are welcome to share them all, madam;
but I would inform you that I have precious
few joys at present, and expect to have less
in. the future,’’ he concluded, bitterly.

She cast down her beautiful eyes, and sighed
wearily,

“You know,” he continued, sullenly, ‘‘that|
what I hoped most for of all things has’ been}
denied me.”’

“T know, my husband, to what you refer,’’
she answered, sadly. ‘‘God has seen fit to
leave us childless—has withheld from us that}
which would perpetuate our name, and give us|
great joy beside. The bitterness has been as}
great for me as for you. He knows how I
would love little children—your lfttle children,
Dudley; but—but——”

“But what?’ he demanded, fiercely.

*But perchance the future may have some-
thing better in store: for us,’’ she answered,
with downcast eyes.

“The future!’ he sneered> “that has been
your cry for the last ten years. The race has
been accursed, I believe, through either you
or me, that there should be no heir to inherit
these broad lands, and the honors which are
fast crowding upon us,”’

Lady Durward took a step forward
looked eagerly into her husband’s face.

His fierce and angry words had seemed al-
most to crush her at first; she had grown pale
and sad; her bright face had lost all its joy,
and ther attitude was: drodping and listless.
But a sudden inspiration seemed now to ani-
mate. her.

*Dudley,’’ she said, ‘‘would you. give me back |
your love, and treat meas in the old happy |
days if you' had your wish? Your love,’’ she
added, the color flaming into her pal& cheeks,
her bosom heaving, and her eyes lighting, ‘‘is
the one thing in this world for which I care
most. What are honors, wealth, station, with- |
out some one to lean upon and to love? I}
should be —happier than a queen,. stripped of |
everything which the world bows down to and |
worships, could I have undisputed reign in|
your heart! Dudley, won’t you give me back |
the old love? Ah! I thought you would be}
tender to-night, when the future looks so}
bright, and you know I love you—I love you |
so fondly.”

and

 

|} care
| contribute t® your ambition.

; you

fear | am very ill again. I shall not live

to see the dawn,”

How could he resist those sweet, dewy eyes,
raised so pleadingly to his? How could he
sist the appealing touch of that little trem-
bling hand laid so gently upon his arm, those
quivering lips, and the love-light which
lumined that faultlessly-beautiful face?

But he only laughed a heartless,
laugh.

‘*Love!’’ he said.
never knew-what the word really _meant.’’

‘You did—you know you did! Oh, why do
you torture me thus?’’ burst in a passionate
ery from her now pale dips.

Why, indeed, when it seemed as if the
gels above must have loved her tenderly,
she stood there, so fair, so pure and true?

But only a mocking smile curled the lips of |

the icy-hearted man at her side.

“You used to be kind and tender to me, Dud-|

early

ley,’’ she moaned, ‘‘in the of
married life; you used to call
ing names, and smile upon me.”’

**Yes,’’ he returned, carelessly,

days our

“T like things

to go smooth, and pet names and caresses, as |

you call them, cost nothing, provided you gain
your end thereby. But one gets tired of those
things after a while.”’

“Tired of those things—are you tired of me, |

Dudley?’’

Lady Dudley Durward’s eyes were very hard
and bright as she asked the question.

“That depends upon what you mean by be-
ing tired,’’ he said. ‘‘You are very pretty and
graceful, and one likes to pretty things
around. You are very useful, too, in my house-
hold, for you entertain my friends unexcep-
tionably; you make a fine appearance
and every one is loud in
miration of the charming Lady
am not tired of that, Madeline.”’

“But you are tired of me personally—you are

see

wearied of my presence, your heart has ceased |

to overflow with affection toward me, and you
for me now only so far as I am able to
An enviable po-
bitterly.

?

sition mine
*Pshaw!
“ANG: now,

is truly,’ she exclaimed,
Madeline——’’
she interrupted, her voice
heaped upon you, you would gladly annul the
tie that binds us—you would cast me off if
could, as Napoleon did poor Josephine,
that your ambition, like his, might be
fied, Is that what your growing coldness to
me means?’’

“T don’t see
noxious subject,

ob-
un-

pursuing this
the earl! said,

the use of
Madeline,”’

easily, and an angry frown clouding his brow; |
“things are just as they are, and nothing can

help them, as I see

‘Answer me,” she interrupted,
a steel-like glitter in her lustrous eyes, while
an imperative tap sounded upon the floor from
the dainty, white-slippered foot. ‘‘Would
be rid of me if you could?”’

His lordship lifted his eyes in mock surprise |
thus |

at her passion. He had never seen her

before.
She had ever been gentle, docile and
3ut

heart,

patience and submission. :
spirit was aroused; her with all
her self-respect
was at stake, and all the most
féelings of her nature were trampled upon.

as a

Her indignation made her gloriously beauti- |
emotion |
pleased, her husband, while at the same time it}

ful, and the very Ivelty. of her
made him reckless as to his reply.
“Well, then, my lady,’’
fire in his black eyes, “‘‘have your answer if
you will, and the consequences be upon your
own head.
perpetuate my name, heart or no hearty love

or no love, wife or no wife. But, unfortunate-

 

} No,

re-

il- |
sneering |

|
“Lady Durward, I think I}

an-|
as |

me by endear- |}

abroad, |
their praise and ad-}
Durward. I}

ris- |
ing higher with pain, ‘‘that honors are being |

satis- |

passionately, |

you |

loving, }
bearing his slights and neglect with unvarying |
now the gentle
its |
| wealth of affection, had been outraged beyond |
|all power of endurance;

| wife sacred |

he returned, a wicked |

I would stop at no lawful means to}

1 will not be silent,” she said, as he lifted

his hand to stop her.
i

and
his
in-

hay, the days of
the measures which he adopted to attain
}end might not result so favorably to my
} terests in this nineteenth century.”’

A despairing cry, which seemed wrung from
|a breaking heart, echoed through that lofty
room at these cruel words.

There was a moment of utter silence, while
that wretched wife and hard-hearted husband
| stood facing each other; then, ‘“‘Enough, Dud-
ley Durward,’ came from the white, stiffen-
ing lips of the beautiful, outraged woman.
|The slight, graceful form was erect and
haughty; the classical features were stern and
set, all the love-light and pleading eloquer
| were gone from the lovely sapphire eyes;
sweet voice was strained and hoarse.

“Mnough, Dudley Durward,’ she repeated;
“too long I have suspected and dreaded this,
but now I am foreed to acknowledge that I
am dethroned from your heart, if a heart you
|have. I am a wife disowned in ail but a name.
|I am degraded to. a position worse than the
lowest outcast who roams the streets—an un-
loved wife, an incumbrance in the house of her
husband—a burden, a clog in the wheels of
| his car of ambition. Surely, I know of no more
wretched creature in existence! A thing, pret-
ty and graceful, needed to complete the adorn-
ment of an establishment! Something to pam-
per one’s pride by making a fine appearance
abroad and entertaining well at home! A
mere piece of machinery and useful only as
such! Dudley Durward——’”’

‘No, I will not be silent,’’ she cried, as he
lifted his hand to stop her. ‘‘I will speak now,
for the first and last time. You have broken
my heart—a heart that loved you tenderly and
well, with all the strength of a first warm at-
You won me from my happy home
with your smooth and honeyed words, you
cheated me into making an idol of you, you
wove your spells about me until I had no will
but your will, no thought byt to please your
every caprice. For this weary, waiting, trust-
ing heart you have given me ashes in return;
by your coldness and neglect, by your selfish-
ness and heartlessness, you have crushed and
blighted my life, and to-night, you have
quenched the last remaining spark of affec-
tion in my bosom, and now, over my dead
heart, I say that henceforth all your fondest
hopes may turn to ashes in your grasp,
may——’’

“Madeline!
you will be unfit

Napoleon have gone by,

| tachment.

are wild! Calm yourself, or
to receive our guests,’’ Lord
Dudley said, sternly interrupting her, though
he was considerably startled at having aroused
such a tempest in his usually gentle and sub-
| missive wife.

She laughed at his words;
breaking, mocking laugh! All
sweetness which had greeted his
ears for so many years, gone out
involuntarily he shuddered to hear it.

“Yes, yes,’ she said, ‘‘no doubt it would sad-
ly wound the pride of the Lord of Leamington
[ to have his guests mistrust that a do-
mestic gale was blowing upon this, of all
nights. But, guests or no guests, my lord, you
have ruptured a volcano, and you cannot stay
its fury until all its lava-tide has been ex-
pended. You know there is no fury like

you

such a heart-
the silvery
accustomed

of it; and

| Towers

**A woman scokned;’

| and now listen, and may my malediction follow
you while your heartless heart beats within
your bosom. May you never again know the
love of a human being. May you have hon-
lors, empty honors, until your very soul loathes
them. If I should die—and I pray I may—
may no other woman call you husband; no
child ever greet you by the name of father;
when you reach the height of your glory,
may ruin and despair encompass you, and until
| your latest breath, may the wail of this, my

 

 

FULL OF THRILLING INCIDENTS,

W

 

 

 
 

 

b

 

er

she saw her sunk

 

 

 

 

 

broken heart—your cruel work—ever sound in!

your ears and haunt your dying pillow.” ;

The last words rose upon the stillness of that
lofty room into a wild, piercing cry, that was
almost a shriek; and before the astonished
man could recover himself enough to speak,
the fairylike figure, in its robes of shimmer-
ing brightness, had fled. leaving him wonder-
ing whether he had dreamed it all, or whether
his beautiful but slighted wife had lost pos-
session of her senses. A

CHAPTER II.
THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH.

Madeline, Lady Durward, with her seething |
brain and broken heart, fied in her festive
robes from her husband’s sight, out into the
grand hall, up the wide, magnificent stairway,
through the upper corridor, up still another
flight, on and on, until she reached at length
the great observatory at the top of the towers
—only one crushing, crazing thought in her
brain: she was an unloved wife—a wife dis-
owned in all save a name—and that even would
be denied, could only lawful means allow.

She threw herself, moaning and quivering
with pain, upon a velvet couch, where she lay
like a bruised and crushed flower, her hands
clasped tightly above her aching heart, her
eyes wide and tearless, and almost glazed with
the agony she was suffering. Her face was
like chiseled marble, and drawn with deep
lines of pain, ;

Surely this could not be the bright, beautiful
woman, who, half an hour previously, Fad
glided into the presence of her husband with
the tenderest emotions swelling in her heart,
and with words of joy and gongratulation upon
her lips!

A century of blighting, withering torture
seemed to have passed over her; it seemed,
as she lay there, as if she never could have

“—~pbeen young, or happy, or gay.

A band of red-hot iron seemed bound about
her brow, and a dagger plunged into her heart,
which she had no power to withdraw, while
every nerve and fiber of her being were like

“so many deadly serpents stinging her to mad-

ness. :

Five, ten minutes passed, and she lay there
like a statue, only now and then a deep, shud-
dering sob would burst from her white lips;
then the sharp clang of the hall bell came
sounding up through the corridors, and as if
some battery had electrified every nerve, she
suddenly sat upright.

“This will not do,’ she murmured, wearily,
as she wrung her hands until the costly gloves
were rent in a dozen places. , :

“No, it will not do. I must go down. His
guests must be entertained, his reputation sus-
tained; the happy wife of the new earl must
rejoice and make merry with his friends, that
not even a breath of suspicion taint the bright-
ness of his fair fame,” she cried, bitterly.

Then, clasping her hands above her burning
brow, she sobbed: . Fa

“Oh, God! Wilt thou let me live and suffer
thus? I will not,’’ se exclaimed, rising and
pacing the room with nervous steps. “I can-
ot ear it. Why was I born a fate like
this?’’ 2 ;

“Ah,’’ she murmured, her eyes growing wild
with excitement, ‘“‘when I went down to him
with so much of love and joy in my heart,
when the cup of hapiness seemed full
and. just at my lips. when the light of a new
dawn seemed breaking through the clouds
of the past, when I had so trusted to add to
his triumph and joy by the blessed tidings I
had to tell him, when I had kept it all in my
own heart so long, so that should he gain the
victory it would only lift him higher, or should
he have to encounter disappointment he would
have been comforted. But he has _ dashed
every hope from my life, he has mowked and
scorned me, he has heaped insult and injury
upon me, until every moral obligation which
bound me to him is snapped asunder.”’

She stopped in her pacing, and lifting one
convulsed hand in threatening, said, sternly:

“Woe unto you, Dudiey Durward, and woe
it will be, for just so sure as you have blighted
my life, just so sure have you blotted out
every joy from your own future. I hold the
secret of your destiny inemy hands, and I will
keep it, I will hug it to my heart, I will treas-
ure it up as a miser does his gold, until you
have reached the very pinnacle of your glory,
and then | will use it to hurl. you into the
deepest abys ~arkness and torment.

dering what dreadful thing had happened to
make her dear lady look like this.

Her efforts, however, were soon rewarded by
a light, bright as it was false, leaping into
the iovely eyes,
becoming more animated and natural.
still stood alone. His brow was troub
his heart heavy.
peal forth the warning of arrivals time after
time. Now the sound of many voices came to
him from the dressing-rooms; there was a
rustling of silkén robes upon the stairs, sweet
notes of laughter from merry maidens mingled
with the more subdued tones of dignified ma-

trons,

Still the mistress of the Towers came not.
Would she leave him to do tHe honors alone?
Would she dare bring this shame upon him in
this hour of glory? Had he driven her des-
perate, and made her reckless of the conse-
quences should she refuse to receive his
guests?

More and more anxious he grew; a fever of
impatience and wrath seized him; it would
never do to have a breath of scandal touch
him; his fair fame must not even be clouded
by a shadow, and domestic difficulties, of all
charges, must never be laid at his threshold.

The servant threw wide the door and an-
nounced the first arrival.

Just at that instant a graceful, sylphlike

gure glided to his side from-~the opposite di-
rection, and the lady of Leamington Towers,
calm, beautiful, and regal as a queen, stood
in her place ready to receive her guests.

Lord Dudley had time to heave a sigh of re-
lief and bestow one glance upun his wife ere
he turned to greet his friends, but that glance
made_him conscious of some wonderful trans-
formation in her. What it was he could not
tell; it was something to be felt rather than

seen.

A chill thrilled every nerve as he looked at
nr He had never seen her so beautiful be-
ore.

Her brow was as calm as if no thought of
trouble had ever ruffled the smooth.sea of her
life. Her eyes glowed with an intensity of
light that dazzled him. Her cheeks wore the
loveliest flush. Her tones of welcome, as she
greeted her guests and responded to their con-
graiulations, were clear and sweet, her smile
winning, her manner cordial and gracious.

Where were the effects of the tempest which
had so recently swept over her soul? There
Was not now so much as the troubled quiver
of an eyelid, nor the trembling of her hand.
Not a fold of her elegant attire was misplaced,
and she was as perfect as it was possible for
a human being to be made.

Was she the same woman who had so wildiy
denounced him half an hour previous, or had
he dreamed it? :

Surely there were depths to her character
which he had never yet fathomed, and he was
becoming unpleasantly conscious of the fact,
while her malediction, still ringing in his ears,
made him almost superstitious regarding the
future.

Lady Durward opened the bail with Sir Hor-
ace Vere, a distinguished-looking man, some
six years younger than Lord Dudley, and who
was, during the coming season, to take’ his
seat also in Parliament.

It was a well-Known fact that he had been
an ardent admirer of Madeline Rochester in
the days of her girlhood; and although she
had never given him an opportunity to pro-
pose for her hand, yet she had always been
eonscious of his preference. Report said,
moreover, that for love of her, he had re-
mained a bachelor ever since.

What imp of mischief impélled* her to open
the ball with him, and feel a sense of rest
and security in his presence; it would be hard
to tell; but, true it is, that as she looked into
his grave, truthful eyes, which even yet had
not forgotten to beam tenderly upon her, she
unconsciously felt that some cruel fate must
have blinded her youthful vision when she had
turned coldly away from his love, and given
her heart into-the keeping of Dudley Durward.

Not once during the evening did Lady Dur-
ward condescend to notice her husband’s pres-
ence by word or look; not once did she touch
his hand as they moved through the dance,
nor accept his escort upon any occasion; not
once did her pure, clear eyes meet His in the
old, trustful way, nor the sweet lips curve in
the familiar smile. Z

It galled him more than he was willing to
admit, especially when he saw her chatting so
brightly -with her old admirer, Sir Horace

2

 

wildly.
atures
was ae Mena IS

—words which even

“Oh, heave continued, mar
ver thought t one '. Goa
suffer thus... An! I

test word yf love
Are tamped 5 i
. ¢verm his heartiess crucity to me now cannot
efface, What is there left to live for with no
Kindred to smooth my pathway with their
sympathy? Father and mother, brothers and
sisters, all gone. “I am like the tree stricken
and blasted by a thunderbolt, all its heart and
life burned out by one fell stroke, and only
the lifeless trunk left standing, a blackened
monument of Heaven’s wrath.”

Wilder and wilder grew her agony; she
paced back and forth the short length of the
room, like an enraged lion in his cage. Her
bosom heaved as if her heart were seeking to
burst from. its prison, her temples throbbed
visibly, and the delicate veins upon her fair
brow stood out hard and knotted.

“What have I done?’ she went on. ‘*‘What
dire sin have I or my ancestry committed, that
I should be so accursed? Have I failed in a
single duty? Have I swerved in my allegiance
a single iota? Never! For more than a dec-
ade of years ‘I have lived but for him, sac-
rificing every thought of self, that his path
might be free from thorns and strewn only
with flowers. I have poured out all the wealth
of my heart and nature at his feet; and for
what? That he might absorb it as the desert
absorbs the dew, that it might be trampled
upon, scorned, and insulted, mocked and jeered
at, until frail humanity can endure no more.
But the future—the future! Ah! he little
dreams how dire will be his puniShment. Ha!
ha! ha!”

The wild, hysteric laugh rang out with al-
most maniacal mirth, and then died away ina
moan of anguish, heart- breaking enough t
melt the stoniest nature. ‘

Again the sound of the hall bell came clang-
ing up to her ears. :

She had forgotten in her woe that it had
rung once before, but now she remembered,
and her wandering thoughts came back to her
duty with a shock that calmed her almost like
magic.

She covered her eyes with a long, shudder-
ing sigh, as if to shut out all thought of the
fearful ordeal through which she had just
passed; then she left the place and sped with
nervous tread te her own room.

As she opened the door of her boudoir, all
brilliant with light and beauty, her maid
sprang toward her with an exclamation of
terror.

“What is it, my lady?’’ she cried.

Lady Durward walked to the large pier-4
glass and looked at herself, and a weary, bitter
smile curved her lips as she beheld her re-
flection there.

Surely this wan, haggard creature, with her
lusterless eyes, and delicate features distorted
by pain, could not be the brilliant and lovely
vision who had so shortly before gone forth
with eager joy to be the first to congratulate
her husband upon his newly-acquired*thonors.

“Do not make any disturbance, Bessie,’’ she
said, as she turned away from the sight. ‘I
am faint, and 1 fear almost ill, but you must
do something for me quickly, for it is utterly
impossible for the mistress of Leamington
Towers to be absent from her guests_on such

a night as this.”

-““What can I do, dear lady? What shall I
get you?’ Bessie asked, anxiously, as_ she
and removed the

ne
a so hi
now §

upon my

chafed the little coid hands
torn gloves. J

“‘He has been breaking her heart again, poor
dear,’’ was her mental comment, as she noted
the wild, haunted look in her lovely eyes, and
saw that she was shivering as with cold.

“Get me something hot to “drink, Bessie—
anything to quicken my blood,’’ Lady Durward
said, sinking wearily into a chair, ‘“‘rouge my
cheeks, and lips, and try to make me look as
mearly like myself as possible.”’

The faithful girl flew to do her bidding, ad-
ministered a steaming cordial, which warmed
her chilled blood, and set it circulating more
naturally in her #weins.

Under the skillful fingers of the maid a false
color soon bloomed upon the wan cheeks and
pale lips; a few deft touches, and the some-
what disordered attire was made straight, a
fresh pair-of gloves encased the little, trem-
bling hands, and Lady Durward wearily arose
to again go down to her guests.

Bessie gave one pitying glance into her face
as she was turni ‘away, and exclaimed, as

, lusterless eyes. ,

“Good heavensy madam! Don’t look that
way, or every y will think your heart is
broken, when, on this night .0f all others, you
should be most joyous and glad—wait!”’

She dashed into the dressing-room, and soon
returned with a little silver flask and a spoon
in her hand.

She poured out a few drops and held it to
her mistress’ lips.

‘Lady Durward mechanically swallowed it,
and Bessie then, wetting her fingers with the

memory, and which}

| Vere, who followed her every movement with

j his eyes

" = tla the
ae

we a2ablnawled war,
Was Otue W iat f

; , when she had thought but ; ;
him; and now he noticed, for the first time,
that every item of her dress had been chosen
with a desire to gratify him.

He tried to quiet his conscience by thinking
that it was only da little quarrel, which wouid
wear away, as many other slight unpleasant-
nesses had done, and he would smooth every-
thing over with a few timely words of affec-
tion and praise.
~ “You outshine yourself to-night, Madeline,”’
he whispered, as they passed each other, late
in the evening, in a quadrille.

She was dancing a second time with Sir Hor-
ace Vere.

A cool look of scorn, a little lifting of the
haughty head, a slight curving downward of
the beautiful mouth, was all the return his
unusual compliment met with, as, with a gra-
cious smile, she reached out both hands to her
partner and was whirled into place.

His heart beat fiercely, and his hot blood
tingled in his veins. He could ill brook any
opposition, and her supreme contempt stung
him to the quick; but it was evident that
henceforth the Countess of Durward could not
be insulted with impunity. The reserve force
of her character was being developed in a
way not at all pleasant to him, and the even-
ing was anything but a@ comfortable one to
him, despite the glory attending it.

Everywhere he heard the praises of his wife
sounded, and notwithstanding the presence of
many charming young maidens and belles, the
hostess of Leamington Towers was pronounced
the most lovely woman present.

But, oh! the bitterness of death was in the
heart of the gentle ,Madeline. The weary
hours were like a thousand years to her; and
when at length she was released from her du-
ties, and free to seek the solitude of her own
apartments, the overstrung nerves gave way,
and swoon after swoon wrapped her tortured
heart in the kindly mantie of unconsciousness.

} at
ae

asi itdan to

ao}

so

CHAPTER III.
Z “SHE WILL LIVE, PLEASE GOD.”’

Three months passed.

Lady Durward continued ill during all that
time—so ill that she could not (or would not)
leave her apartments, «and passed her time
gazing absently from her window upon the
distant hills, interspersed now and then with
ra little reading, writing and sewing.

Once and once only her husband paid her a
svisit.

It was about a fortnight after their recep-
tion, when she was beginning to recover from
her first serious attack,

He had missed her bright presence from the
beautiful rooms below, and from his table;
nothing seemed complete ‘without her; there
was a dreariness and a desolation about the
house that oppressed him as nothing had ever
done before. :

He longed for the sound of her voice, her
cheerful laugh as it used to echo, through the
spacious. halls. And though he felt somewhat
guilty regarding his treatment of her, yet he
doubted not but that he should conquer in the
end, as he always had done; and everything
would go on smoothly as before.

He suddenly remembered that Madeline had
expressed a wish to possess a certain book.
He took some pains to get it for her, and,
armed with this, and a dainty basket of choic-
est fruit, a very,unusual attention for the auto-
crat of Leamington Towers to perform, he en-
tered her boudoir one bright morning tag in-
quire concerning her health.

Lady Durward received him with a calm,
quiet dignity which totally routed his com-
posure, it was so’entirely different from any
reception which she had ever before given him.

He was somewhat startled by her appear-
ance. There was not a vestige of color in
her face or lips, and the hand which lan-
guidly plied the needle in a delicate piece of
embroidery, seemed almost transparent. A
weary, hunted look was in her eyes, which
seemed to smite him every time she turned
them upon him.

He affected, however, not to notice her al-
tered manner toward him, but asked her kind-
ly, as he set his gifts before her, if she were
improving.

“T think so,’’ was her brief reply, while she
deigned him- neither word nor look of thanks
for his offering, ignoring it utterly.

“Will you be able togride with me to-mor-
row?” he asked. -

“Thank you, no,’’ she replied, bending on him
a look of surprise. :

When had his lordship ever asked her to ride
with him before? Surely not since the days
of their early wedded life.

The thought occurred to him as it did to her,
an e colored vividly at the remembrance,

 

liquid, gently bathed her eyes, inwardly won- :

and, man of the world though he was, a feel-

;
|

ahd the beautiful countenance }

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

ing of embarrassment stole over him that a

| could not conquer.

He could not understand his wife in this new |
phase of her character. She who had hitherto}
been so gentle, loving and lovable, seemed now |

| congealed into a block of marble.

In the great drawing-room below t p ear] |
and }
He had heard the hall bell}

 

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ran to regret that he had been quite |

: 7 S
| truthfully

 

“When will you be able to take the air?’’ |
he went on; ‘“‘you cannot expect to gain}
strength shut up within doors.”’

‘““‘What do I desire of strength? I told you
I ‘hoped I should die,’ she cried, a touch of |
passion in her voice.

“Pshaw, Madeline! those were rash words of
yours; you must forget them.”

She must forget, and there seemed nothing
for him to regret! ;

‘Forget!’ she exclaimed; ‘‘when my reason
fails me, then, may be, I shall be able to for-
get; when my pulses cease their beating, then,
perchance, my heart will cease to ache. No,
Dudley Durward, neither now nor any other
time while I live can I forget; you have said
words to me that can never be unsaid; you
have broken my heart, its love having no fuel
to feed upon has burned to ashes and gone
out. You-have disowned all affection for me,
made the sacredness of our relations a mock-
ery, and.a thing to be despised. Why shou.c
you seek to keep up the farce longer? I pray
you, let this, your first visit to me, be your
last. Since you have made me a wife in noth-
ing but a name, a wife only in name will I be
from henceforth.’’

“What am I to understand by all this, Made-
line?’’ his lordship asked, astonished beyond
measure at her words.

“T mean that if I am ever able to resume
my position in your house again, that I shall
strive to fulfill it, to all outward appearance,
to your ¢redit and satisfaction.’’

‘““What!’? he demanded, sharply.

“Do you not understand yet?’ she asked, a
shadow of annoyance clouding her brow.
‘Since I must still bear the title of Countess
of Durward, I shall endeavor to appear before
the world in a’manner befitting my position.’

“Is that._to be your whole duty?’

“That henceforth will be all the duty I owe
you; further than that, you are to expect noth-
ing of me,’ she answered, coldly.

“In that case our domestic relations will be
very harmonious,’ he sneered, with some bit-
terness.

“Do you talk of harmony, when your own
hand smote all the chords that bound us until
they broke?’ she demanded, her fair face
flushing for the first time during their inter-
view. -

“Am I to understand that you intend to live
in the same house with, and will bestow
your presence upon me only when you are
obliged to do so to save remark, that you
will preside at my table and fulfill your duties
as mistress in my home, only to keep the
breath of scandal away? Am I to understand
that you will accept only the commonest cour-
tesies of life from me, and that only in the
presence of others?’’

Lord Durward’s heart beat more rapidly now
than it had done before in years. He could not
readily yield all his hold upon this beautiful
woman, who had keen his wife for so many
years. He could not give up anything will-
ingly which wouid contribute to his comfort.

“IT mean just that, Dudley. You yourseif
drew the line for me when you said that
was ‘useful in your household to entertain
your friends,’ that I was an ‘embellishment to
your establishment’ “with my ‘grace and
beauty.’ I cannot promise to retain those lat-
ter attributes,’’ she said, bitterly, ‘‘for they
are liable to fade, but while they do last I
will endeavor to make the most of them for
your sake. While I must bear your name, 1
will endeavor to bear it creditably.’’

*‘Madeline, are you turned to stone that you
talk thus?’’ he asked, regarding her in wonder,

‘“‘Almost, I thfhk,’’ she said, sadly and wear-
ily. ‘Think you,’’ she added, ‘it would not
turn a loving heart to stone to be told you
were nothing to one to whom you had given
your soul’s deepest homage to be tolerated |
only so long as you contribute to
ambition?” :

“Pray, who told you this?’ “he demanded, |
feeling guilty at heart, yet striving to speak
bravely.

“T have but to use your own words in reply:
‘I would stop at ho lawful means to“perpetuate
my name, hearts or no hearts, love or no love,
wife or no wife.’ ”’ ~-

The Barl of Durward regarded her with a
sullen fire in his eyes.

‘Will nothing move your determination?’
asked, gloomily. ;

; e begen, then raisin:
i moment
Aushirne ,
former ¢ eauty, dies oy
ily retract all that you said n t
dreadful night—unless you can give me the
first place in your ‘heart with no reservations
or regrets. I will not be second—selfish, cal-
culating ambition has no right to supersede
the sacred affection which a husband should
feel for his wife. I have given you myself—all
that I am and have, and I will not be satis-
fied with less in return.. Oh! Dudley,’ she
cried, reaching out her clasped hands*#in pas-
sionate longing to him, “if you could love me
thus—as you promised you would when you
won me—I could live again. I could love you
with a passion that would enrich your whoie
future life.’’ .

How could he resist that i yoman as she
sat there in her pale beauty, her hands
clasped in supplication ,her whole soul reach-
ing out after him, her deep, pleading eyes de-
vouring his face, seeking for one answering
spark of affection! How could he resist those
delicate, quivering lips, and her hungering
heart, which seemed animated for a moment
with renewed hope!

But, no, it was not in the power of his
craven nature to return such a wealth of love
as she had showered upon him all her life.
She knew it could not be, even as she looked
upon him, for there was no answering light
in his gloomy face; his sullen glance wavered
and fell before her pure, eager gaze, and she
saw that if he gave her hope it would only
be a false one, for he was false-hearted and
cruel by nature, with no love for any one or
anything but himself and his own emolument.

*‘No,”’ she sighed, without giving him time
to reply, her hands falling listlessly apart,
the light fading from her eye, and hope again
dead within her heart. ‘‘No,’’ she repeated,
“‘T can read your soul, and I know it can never
be. Even now you are saying in your heart,
as you have said a hundred times before, ‘she
stands between me and my highest ambition,
and I know you have learned to hate me as
you hate anything which comes between you
and your selfish desires.’’

He would have spoken, but she stopped him
ae motion of her white hands, saying mourn-

ully:

‘*‘Words are useless now between us, Dudley;
leave me, please, for it can do no good to pro-
long this interview.”

And the false-hearted man
her. without a word, stricken dumb with as-
tonishment that she should have been abie
thus to read the dark thoughts of his soul.

And so three months came and went.

Lady Durward Kept her chamber, growing
weaker and weaker, seeming to have no desire
for life, seeing no one, and speaking to no one
but her maid, and to all appearances she was
gradually fading from earth.

She never met her husband—scarcely saw
him, except as he passéd her window in his
strolls through the park, and she never asked
after him or spoke his name.

One wild and stormy night Madeline called
her faithful maid to her bedside.

‘“‘Bessie,’’ she said, “I fear I am very ill
again. I think I shall not live to see the dawn:
Go for nurse Foeley.”

Bessie wept, and begged her dear lady to
have courage and not give up all hope, and all
would yet be well,

“T have no wish to live; but go—go for my
old nurse,’’ she commanded.

Away sped the anxious, frightened maid, and
ere long the white-haired, motherly nurse was
bending tenderly over the fair, frail woman,
whom, in her infancy, she had carried in her
arms and tended-upon her bosom.

She begged her“ladyship to let her inform the
earl that she was worse, that he might call
the physician.

But, even in her suffering,
terly as she replied:

‘No, no; let me die in peace, with only those
whom [I can trust around me.”’ :

A fearful storm was raging without—the wind
howled and moaned with maniacal fury; the
rain poured and beat against the time-worn
walls “of the towers, as if the heavens were
weeping in wild sympathy with the sufferer
within.

In that solemn chamber . the
nurse and faithful maid bent, with white,
seared faces, over their lady’s couch, where
life and death hovered, battling with each
other for the victory.

The clock on the observatory above solemn-
ly tolled the midnight hour. There came a
blinding flash of lightning, then a deafening
roar of thunder, which shook those massive
stone walis to their very foundations. The
very elements seemed as if venting their
ae over the wreck of a young and lovely

e.

One! came booming out with a dismal,stroke,
and still that anxious watching—that terrible
suspense!

Two! Will the wretched night never end?

 

he!

she hesit2te
ek Wixtts

turned and left

she smiled bit-

gray-haired

 

| cast its shadow over

1}.

another's |.

| could hardly raise the teacup to his lips.

-with sympathy,

-cup with a

Three! There was a cry of agony, a gather-
ing up of all the vital forces, a prayer, a sob,
then the white face settled into peace.

The lightning grew faint, the thunder rolled
away in the distance, with low, sulien mutter-
ings; the clouds parted, the stars came out
and smiled as serenely over the earth as if
no such thing as woe or suffering had ever

Hz

Morning broke! It found Lady Durward
faint, pallid, dying—so the distracted maid and
nurse believed, as they aroused his lordship
and dispatched a groom for medical aid.

The earl came up and looked upon his wife;
it could not disturb her now in her unecon-
sciousness.

Her white face, over which the shadow of
death hung, startled him as nothing else had
ever done in his life, and a guiltv feeling, like
that of a murderer, stole over him, making
his heart sick and his soul quake with terror
within him.

The physician came, felt the almost pulse-
less wrist, shook his wise head gravely, but
administered powerful restoratives, and: did
what he could.

A week passed of unceasing watching, of
careful, anxious nursing. Old nurse Foeley
scarcely moved from her darling’s side, while
faithful Bessie hovered around with tireless
devotion. ~

Their unwearied vigil was at length reward-
ed by seeing the deep blue eyes unclose and
rest upon them in a look of recognition.

Bessie’s faithful heart relieved itself
sigh of thankfulness.

“We have saved her,
please God,’ she said,
Foeley.

The white lips moved.

Bessie bent over to catch the faint whisper
which came from them.

“You have observed my she
asked.

**Yes,

“You
spect?’’

“Yes, dear mistress, my life shall be devoted
to the fulfillment of your every wish; but,
God willing, I hope to spend it in your serv-
ice,’’ Bessie returned, with quivering lips.

“But I am so tired of life, Bessie,’?’ moaned
the suffer.

““God give you rest and peace; but you must
not think of dying. You have been very ill,
but you are better now, and it would be wrong
to wish for death when life still holds so much
for you.’’

‘Do you think so, Bessie?’ she asked,
fully.

“T know it, dear lady; now take this nourish-
ing broth and then rest.”

Cently, as the mother feeds her child,
girl fed the poor sufferer, who was too
to have any will but to obey her.

Then she closed her heavy eyes and slept.

TO BE CONTINUED.

in a

she will live,
to Nurse

nurse;
reverently,

instructions?”

dear lady.”

will continue to do so in every re-

wist-

the

ill

i oor

The Girl from the Country

By ERNEST DE LANCEY PIERSON.

(“THE GIRL FROM THE COUNTRY” was commenced in
No. 2. Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdcalers. )

ee

CHAPTER VII.
SHADOWS -OF THE STORM.

“Wal, I shorely expected to see Ben,show
up here this morning,’’ remarked Mrs. Bass-
ford;.as she presided at the breakfast-table
that morning behind the brown ‘Rebecca’
teapot. :

The old man shivered, and bowed his head
on his breast. Rhoda, pale from want of sleep,
could not fail to notice that he was deeply
moved.

Something serious troubled the old man;
something had happened in his room the night
before with which Ben was connected, and
which her father, wished to keep from her.

He seemed: to ave aged ten years during
the night, and his hands shook so that ae

e
if only to avoid
his -wife, but she
only rifling with the

and th

made a pretence of eating,
alled ; count by

x

v's lets for him
miserable. Ah! if he wou }

trouble to her, she migh

if nothing more.

“T ’spect Ben must have went off and got
a job, which is a mighty good thing for all
hands,’’ said the parrot voice at the head of
the table. ‘‘Though I guess whoever hires him
ain’t gettin’ no treasure. This farm ain’t biz
enough for more’n one to work anyway, and
he never was wuth his salt. What d’ye think
about.it, Si?’’

“Eh? he responded, looking up as if waking
out of a sound sleep.

“Be ye deef? I axed ye what ye think of
Ben goin’ off this away?’’

“Oh, yes, yes—I guess
lapsing into thought again.

‘““My land o’ Goshen!” bringing down her tea-
crash on the saucer; ‘‘what ails
ye, anyway, and makin’ sich foolish remarks?
Now 1 come to look ye over, I see ye look
mighty peaked. It’s ‘a mess 0’ gentian ye
need, and ye shall have a good bowl of it to-
night. Rhody, as yer always’ bottomizing,
mebbe ye can turn yer gift to some account
when yer pore father’s ill.’’

“T’ll get it, mother,’’ said Rhoda.

“Well, see that ye do, and before the sun
is shrivellin’ of it up; ’tain’t no account when
it’s withered. I don’t know but what ye’d be
better for a little on it yourself.’’

"Oh, no,?* hastily, “I’m all’ right, I
didn’t sleep well last*night.’’

“If you was to spend five or six hours over
the washtub or iron-board, ye wouldn’t have
no trouble in sleepin’,’’ replied Mrs. Bassford,
with cutting emphasis.

“IT had a wakeful time myself,’ said Gil-
bert Warden, cutting off any further remarks
from the presiding lady. “Il heard a strange
noise——’

Rhoda, who had hardly exchanged a word
with him during the meal, cast a frightened
look at his face, for she had seen her father
start as if he had been given a blow at the
apparently innocent remark of the young man.

Warden, though he could not understand the
situation, comprehended at least that he had
put his foot in it, and hastened to retrieve his
error.

“IT suppose it must have been
that was wailing to go home. I
take me some time to get used

sounds.”’

Rhoda cast a grateful look at
he found it impossible to engage her in con-
versation. When she did answer a direct re-
mark, it was always in a monosyllable, until
finally he gave up the attempt.

“T wonder if she is coquetting with me?’’ he
thought, not alittle irritated that she should
treat him so coldly after their pleasant-and
friendly ecOnverse of the day before. ‘I sup-
pose there are coquettes in the country. as
well as in the city. To blow hot, then cold, is,
after all, the improved plan of the fair en-

slaver.”’
Then, as he looked at the pure outlines of
turned on him her full

her face, and as she

glance, he was angry with himSelf for ever
suspecting that she was anything but the very
soul of sincerity and truth,

“Why are ye walkin’ so wobbly, Si?’’ Mrs.
Bassfoard’s shrill voice broke in on his revery.
“Why on airth didn’t ye tell me that ye had
trouble, and I’d fixed ye up so ye wouldn't
go about all spraddled out as ef yer legs was
made o’ taller? Why, ye don’t look fit to do
farm work to-day.’’

“Don’t intend to do any, mother.’

‘Better go to bed, then.”’

“Can't do that, and don’t need
Promised Squar’ Hawkins——”’

He paused a moment, and his voice shook.

“T promised him,’’ he repeated, ‘‘that I’d do
a little arrand for him up to town;’’ and then,
as if to cut off any further discussion, he
lumbered unsteadily out of the room.

‘Don’t forget that there gentian!’’ screamed
Mrs. Bassford, as Rhoda was slipping away.

Rhoda approached her father in the barn,
where he was hitching up his one _ horse,
Brown Betty, to a light spring wagon,

“Papa,’’ eagerly, ‘‘you are really not fit for
a journey to town. Why could I not go in
your place?’

He looked at her
moment, and then
laugh.

“Gosh all hemlock! You and mother seem
to think the old man ain’t fit to stand on
his hind legs to-day. I wonder what put that
notion in your heads. Don’t you people be
seared none! I kin out jump and out run the
hull bilin’ o’» young men in the neighborhood,
just as I be, and ask no odds;”’ and as if to
prove his claim _to athletic prowess, he leaned
against Brown Betty, breathing heavily, while
his face paled under its coat of tan.

Rhoda saw that it was useless to remon-
strate with him when he had made up his

”

so, drowsily re-

only

a stray cow
fancy it will
to the farm

him, though

to, anyway.

face for a
discordant

flushed
into a

eager,
broke

Vol. &7—No. &

mind to go, sick as he appeared to be, so she
adopted another tack, with the hope of find-
ing what the trouble was that had changed
him so in a few short hours.

“And what of Ben, father? Have you learned
anything that would explain his disappear-
ance? Last night I heard—I thought I saw——’”’

But she did not finish the sentence, for the
old man had tottered over to her and laid
his hand on her arm.

“Rhody, I ain’t been the
to ye, have I?’’ he asked, in a shaking voice,
as he brought his gray head close to hers.

“You have been the best, the kindest father
in ail the world!’’ cried the girl, the tears
gathering in her brown eyes, and then her
arm was about his neck, and old Si was trying
hard to keep back his own tears, while she
could feel his heart throbbing painfully against
her breast.

“I’m glad to hear ye say that,’’ said Si, in a
choking voice as he drew back and then laid
his great, toil-worn hand on her brown hair
in a clumsy caress, ‘fand I know ye’d do
anything to please your poor old father,
wouldn’t ye?’’ :

“I’m sure I would. You have hardly need
to ask that,’’ replied the girl, eagerly hoping
that he was about to confide in her what this
was that vexed his spirits.

“Then promise me that whatever ye seen
and whatever ye heard last night, ye’ll forget
and never whisper a word about it to a livin’
soul,’’ he said, very gravely.

“But, father, if you would only tell me,”’
she pleaded.

“TI ain’t a-goin’ to tell ye nuthin’. I ask
you to promise to say not a word of what ye
might have fancied ye seen or heard last
night. Come, now, promise that ye’ll forget

wust o’ fathers

su

“Certainly, if you wish it,’’ she said, slowly;
“TI will not say a word to any one.’’

“That’s enough. I believe that I can trust
ye to keep a secret, an’ I believe ye’re one
of the few women the world that could
do it.”

Then, before

in
she could say another word,
he had leaped into the wagon, and, with a
echirrup to Brown Betty, drove out of the
barn, leaving the girl to stare after him, and
to wonder what it was that made him so anx-
ious to keep her quiet regarding what she had
heard and seen the night before.

She watched him sadly until his bent figure
was lost to view among the trees.

“He fears to tell me what it was that hap-
pened last night, and I know that Ben must
be at the bottom of it,’ she murmured. ‘Poor
old father! I only hope that he will come
safely back, for he looked too worn and ill
to attempt that journey to town.”’

She was turning away with a thoughtful
face, pondering over what she had heard her
father say, when a high-pitched voice inter-
rupted her revery.

“Wal, me little rose o’ Sharon, and how do
we find ourselves this mornin’ ?’”

She turned to face the one being she detested
more than any other in the world—Jed Hawk-
ins, He was arrayed in a black and white
plaid suit, his vest spanned by a brassy watch-
chain of amazing thickness, a “Scarlet tie in
which was thrust a doubtful jeweled pin that
resembled a bloated gooseberry, and a high
eollar that lifted his scrubby chin high im air.

She stood for a moment staring at this ap-
parition that had broken in so rudely on her
thoughts.

“Rather neat, this!’’ accepting her glance as
quiet admiration, as he twirled around to fur-
ther display his sartorial elegance, while with
one hand he smoothed his red hair that
glistened with pomatum. ‘I knew you’d be
pleased with this rig,’* he went on, glibly. ‘“‘I
guess no city feller could give me his dust in
this get-up.”’

“What is it you want?
gone to town,’’ she said, unable to conceal an
expression of disgust.

“Old man away, eh? Well, so much the
better. Old folks ain’t got no business to come
snoopin’ ‘round when young folks is sparkin’.’”’

“What is it you want?’’ she repeated.

“Thunder! ye needn’t look as ef I’d come
to invite ye to a funeral. I come to see you.”

“Well, you see me.”’

‘How you do take a feller up, to be sure!’’
with a laugh. “I want to talk to ye on a
matter of some importance.”

She was about to return an. angry retort,
when she heard the sound of Warden singing
in the direction of the house.

“Come in’ here, then, and I will hear what
you have to say,’ for she did not want her

My father has just

 

yet not

one of

new acquaintance to come upon them

v €
thoughts | aitog

ther liking to be alone with
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“Now, then, what is it that you had to say?’
asked Rhoda, coldly, as she seated herself on
the shafts of a farm wagon.

‘In a hurry, be ye?’’

“Yes, for I’m worn out, and I want to take
a rest.”

“Considerin’ that I see ye so seldom, ye
might spare me a few minutes now an’ then.
Look here, Rhody; and his grotesque face
became suddenly grave, “I don’t want to be
made a fool of any longer.’’

“Indeed!’’ wondering what she had done to
create a condition that already existed.

“Yes, a fool of!’ a flush spreading over his
freckled face. ‘‘Here you an’ me has been
promised for years, and is supposed to be
keepin’ company with each other. And yet
you runs at the sight of me as ef I was a
infectuous disease. That ain’t right. That
ain’t the way to treat a feller that would do
anything for ye. Now we may as well have
it out now as never, and find out jest where
we stand. I ain’t goin’ to be nobody’s door-
mat, I ain’t!’’

Rhoda looked on the ground, and a frown
puckered up her smooth brow. What answer
should she make? She knew that her father
owed Squire Hawkins money which he could
not pay, and they might be turned out in the
world without a home if he chose to press his
claim. She was being forced to the wall; she
knew not which way to turn. After all, she
must try and hold him off for a while longer,
with the hope that something would happen
to extricate her from the predicament. As for
marrying him, the idea seemed to become
more loathsome to her day by day.

‘‘Jed,’’ she said, after a pause, ‘‘I wish you
had come any other day’ but this, for I am
far from well, and should be in bed rather
than here.”’

“There ye go again!’’ he replied, suddenly.
‘Always puttin’ a fellow off with some ex-
cuse.”’

“But don’t you see that I am ill, and wor-
ried to death? Why don’t you be reasonable?
Come again in a week, and you shall have my
answer.’”’

She did look pale and worn out, but all the
lovelier for that, he thought, as she sat there
in an attitude of careless grace that found
favor even in his eyes.

“Well, ye do look done up,’’ doubtfully, yet
struck by the plaintive tone in her voice.
‘“Ain’t mad at me, be ye, Rhody?’ drawing
nearer to her, his long face looking very
serious as he attempted an air of tenderness
that rendered his grotesque features even more
striking.

I am not angry with you; why should
? said the girl, listlessly.

“Then why do ye keep a feller off all the
time? We’re the sickest engaged couple in
the hull shootin’ gallery. Never walk out to-
gether, nor nuthin’. ’Tain’t a square deal,
nohow,” and the old sullen look came back
in his face. ‘‘But, there, you ain’t like the
other gals in this place, so it ain’t for to be
expected that you’d do things like them at all.
My! but you do look like a angel settin’ there!”
and before she quite knew what was to follow,
he reached out his long arms to draw her to
him, at the same time bending his face down
so close to hers that she felt his hot breath
on her face.

“Ah! I got you now, you little fox!”
leered, exultantly. ‘I think, after courtin’
for two year, I’m entitled to some reward.”

“Let me go!’’ she panted, struggling to free
herself; but Jed only laughed shrilly, and did
not relax his hold. In the grasp of those long,
wiry arms, she was but a child.

“Coward!’’ she cried, a look of loathing and
contempt on her face. ‘I I have not been
mistaken in you. It is the act of a cur to
bully a woman who is alone and defenceless.’’

Then, as he was about to stoop and kiss
her, she freed one hand, reached up to a whip
set in the dashboard of the nearest wagon,
and, before he could interrupt the movement,
struck him full in the face with the heavy
stock.

With a groan he
there motionless, a
his forehead showing
fallen.

Rhoda was quivering
if she had killed him!
She hurried out of the carriage house, and
ran to the old well beside the barn, and, draw-
ing up a bucketful of water from its moss-
covered depth, filled a great dipper and hur-
ried back.

Jed lay silent in the same position, just
where she had left him. It was only when
she had dashed the contents of the dipper in
his face that he opened his eyes.

he
ye

see

sank to the floor, and lay
scarlet fleck of blood on
where the blow had

What

sc

with excitement.

 

“Oh, Jed, forgive me for having hurt you!”’

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

i.

 

t

}

the two was to

 

 

Vol. 57- No. 5

eee

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

‘She said, bending over him in an agony of
- contrition.

He looked at her with a malevolent scowl,
unmoved by the beautiful penitent face be-
fore him. e smiled, disclosing his yellow,
oo teeth, then laboriously got up on his
“You struck me, and, bein’ a woman, I can’t
strike back,” he said. slowly. ‘“‘But> wher
you’re my wife, as you shall be——’’

She drew away from him, frightened by his
calm air and the serious way in which he
spoke. ‘““‘When you are my wife,’’ he repeated,

[ll settle this little matter to my own satis-
faction.”’ 5 ;

“I shal never be your wife!’’ she said, a
flush of color coming into her pale face, and
she stood before him in an attitude of de-
fiance. So, -

“Oh, yes, you will; whether you want to or
not, or whether you love me or not, it will
be all the same in the long run.”’

“TI don’t know what you mean.”’ :

“You'll know soon enough,”’ with that exas-
perating grin still on his face. ‘‘You’ll marry
me in a month’s time, or there’ll be trouble
for you and yours. So make up yer mind that
I’m goin’ to have my way, or you and old Si,
and the whole push, will go down in the crash,
never to git up again.’’ oe

d with this warning and threat, Mr. Jed

“ Hawkins stumbled: unsteadily away, and was’
lost sight of behind the farmhouse.

She- watched him go with a strange tremor
at her heart. He spoke so confidently, seemed
so sure that she was to be his wife! The very
thought sickened her. His wife! . ;

_ What deviltry was afoot that Made him
speak with such confidence? He could crush

_ them all, he said. Her. father, too, would fall
= om unless she consented to sacrifice her-
elf.

A feeling of faintness overcame her; she
felt too weak to make her way as far as the
house and seek her own room for rest. Her
limbs trembled as she staggered forward to-
ward a pile of hay that filled one dark corner
of the carriage house, supporting herself by
holding on to the old farm wagon. When she
reached it, she sank down exhausted, and the
merciful waters of oblivion carried her away
from her present troubles, and the fears that
awaited realization on the morrow.

CHAPTER VIII.
SQUIRE HAWKINS THREATENS.

- “Now, what is this mystery, anyway? Why
are you hustlin’ me off into a dark corner, as
if we was a pair gf conspirators?”’

It was Squire Hawkins who said this, in a
peevish voice, as he stood in the shadow of
the carriage house, with old Si Bassford at
his elbow. $

“Well, I didn’t want the women folk to know
about it,’ said the old man, with quivering
lips. ‘‘We are sure to be alone here, and it’s
much cooler than the house.” 3

‘“‘Hum!”’ growled the squire, who, after dust-
ing off a soap-box, so as not to impair the

loss of his broadcloth suit, consented to sit
own. ‘Yes, it is cooler here,’’ wiping his pur-
ple face with a red handkerchief as large as
a tablecloth. ‘“‘Now, then,’ sticking his red
thumbs in the armholes of his stiff white
waistcoat, “‘fire away.”

But Si showed no desire to ‘‘fire away,”
though his lips moved now and then,
word issued from’ them.

The squire looked him over keenly.

“My, but you look peaked,’’ was his com-
ment. ‘‘Been hittin’ off the rum too much
lately ?”’ ~

Si smiled sadly, and then with a mighty
effort he managed to blurt out, while his worn
old face worked convulsively:

Hawkins, that there tax money is

for
not a

“What d’ye mean by lost?’ in a voice that
sounded almost threatening in the ears of the
poor old man before him.

‘ “Just what I say,’’ was the reply, in a weak
tone.

Hawkins walked up and down before him,
eyeing him in a way that made Si tremble.

“Well, how was it lost?’’ demanded the
squire, aggressively.

“— hid it away, meanin’ to take it up to
the bank to-day. When I went to look for it,
it was gone,’’ and here he hung his head and

bent his eyes furtively on the ground.

ye

2 5. in your sleep and re-
oved it yers

got up
: said the squipe, - with an.

If," s

=

attempt © re - od 2
It was lost on Si, who sat hunched up on
‘the wagon-shafts. é

“T set out this mornin’
the neighbors, and see if they wouldn't lend
me enough money to make the sum good.”’

to make a round of

“And found them all. broke, I take it,’ re-
plied the other, with a loud laugh. ‘Didn't
like the security ye offered, and small blame
to ‘em.”’

Old Si was silent, and when he spoke it was
as if he were talking to himself.

“Then I thought of you, and hearin’ you had
come over to the house, I drove back, and
here we are.”’ :

“Yes, here we are, and a mighty nice mess
you’ve got me into!’’ angrily. ‘‘If this gets
out, why, I'll be blamed ’cause I didn’t take
‘the cash to the bank myself. Say, this ain't a
game you're playin’ on me?’ with a look of

suspicion in his watery blue eyes. 4

“Do I look like I was playin’ anything?’
asked Si, mildly.
“You don’t appear in a very sporty mood,

. and that’s a fact. But I know you're in deep

water and in need of money—— :

He got no further in his speech. The shriv-
elled up old man was on his feet in a second,
and drew himself up with flashing eyes.

“You mean to insinerate that I took that
money—that I kep’ it?” and the tears rushed
to his eyes—‘‘you, Squar’ Hawkins, what's
known me, man an’ boy, for forty year?” ¢

“There, there! Don’t get yer dander up,”’
replied the othér, soothingly. “I .am_ not
a-makin’ any insinerations, on’y it’s mighty
queer that, havin’ lost this money, you can't
tell how ye lost it,’ with a keen look that
still savored of suspicion. :

‘Well, it was took, and that is all there is
about it,’’ replied Si, doggedly. :

“And what do you propose to do about it?”
asked the squire, as he squatted down on the
soap-box he had vacated a moment before.

“T callated to ask ye to lend me the money.”

“Oh, ye did, eh?” with an unfeeling snicker.
“And what is the security ye have to offer?’

He seemed to find delight in the old man’s
anguish.

‘‘Wal,-there’s the farm——’’ :

“That's good! that’s good!’’ and the squire
roared with laughter, which showed him to be
a very kind-hearted and sympathetic gen-
tleman. ‘‘Why, you know that you mortgaged
the place to me for almost its full value. I
on’y did it to oblige ye, bein’ a neighbor, an’

. I’m booked to lose on the transaction if I was

to foreclose to-morrow. Lend ye more money
on that old shack!’’ jerking his thumb in the
direction of the farmhouse, which was visible
through the open door. ‘‘Well, not unless
you've struck oil on your barren acres, or
found pay ore in the cellar, which ain’t in
nowise likely. I guess, though, you have for-
got about the mortgage, as ye didn’t make
the last interest payment. It was just that
that I wanted to see ye about; and now, in-
stead of gettin’ any money, I’m met with a
demand to lend ye some more. Oh, no,” shak-
ing his head firmly—‘‘not for Joesy, if he
knows it!”

Old Si’s troubled face was the picture of
despair. He sat so bowed on the wagon-shaft
as to appear half his size, while his worn old
hands moved restlessly.

“Then I don’t know what is to become of
us,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, as if ad-
dressing some one at his feet. ‘I don’t know
what will bcome of us,’’ he repeated, in a
voice that would have melted a heart of stone.
*T’m so old—so worn out, -too!’’ and a tear
rolled down his cheek, that was furrowed as
the rind of a melon. ;

Squire Hawkins possessed a heart. Rather
sluggish in its action, rarely inclined to gen-
erous deeds, but still a serviceable organ.
~“Come, come, old skate! don’t give way like
that!’ he said, as he came forward and struck
the old man playfully on the back. ‘‘There is
a way out of this, and I tell ye it ain’t doin’
no small favor for me to come to the rescue
of a man in your position, who mebbe won't
live to pay the money back.’’

‘What is it? What is it?’ asked Si, his face
lighting up as he stealthily wiped away the
tear from his cheek with the back of his
hairy hand. ‘I’m sure I’d agree to anything,

squar’, ef ye’d lift me out o’ this hole I’ve
got into.”

‘Would you indeed?” replied Hawkins, with
_@ erin. ‘‘Then I'll pay this tax money—de-

sit it in the bank myself, for I don’t mean
o run any more risk.’’ -

**Yes, yes!”

“The conditions are that Jed marries Rhody
a month from now—or we'll say six weeks,
for good luck. Ah! you don’t seem charmed
with the proposition,” as the old man’s face
fell, and he became again sad and listless,

Si muttered some unintelligible words, and

looked profoundly miserable.

“You know we made it up long ago, that
marry,’’ continued the squire,
‘an’ you seemed to fall in with my views on
the matter. I tell ye it ain’t doin’ the boy

with him. Now, he’s a bit wild, and he needs

to make him walk Spanish.”’

“Yes, yes,’’ murmured poor old Si, with his
eyes on the ground. “But she ain’t the kind
what can be drove into marryin’, if so be as
she is ag’in it. Try to force her to do any-
| thing, and she balks.’’

“No force about it,’ continued the squire,
suavely. ‘‘I’m about to do something for you
that any prudent business man would steer
clear ef. Jed has set his heart on marrying
the girl, and I know his moral health would
improve if he got her. Ah! what was that?’
Swinging around suddenly on his heel and
peering into the far shadows of the carriage
house. “I heard a sound—a voice.”’

“Must ha’ be’n the bull heifer in the stable
pevonte said Si» staring in the same direc-
ion. .
‘“Mébbe so,’’ and he returned to the charge.
‘Now, then, without any shilly-shallyin’ an’
dilly-dallyin’, let’s come at once to the point.
You have dodged the question long enough,
an’ Jed is gettin’ wild about it, and ready
to go to the dogs if the question ain’t settled
one way or another. I'll pay the tax money,
and I’ll drop the mortgage, provided that in
six weeks Rhody is his promised wife and the
date of the weddin’ is set.’’

The old man drew a long breath, and twist-
ed uneasily in his seat.

““As I said before,’’ he muttered, ‘‘she’s not
one that can-be forced.”’

“Who said anything about force? It’s a plain
proposition, and she, bein’ endowed with a pile
of common sense, will have brains enough to
see what side her bread’s buttered on.”’

“And if she won’t agree?’ and the old man
looked up into the apoplectic. face wistfully.

“Well,” replied the other, slowly, “I am
making this advance as a prospective father-
in-law. As a mere outsider,’’ with subtle sar-
easm, “I would not think of taking such a
liberty,’’ and he turned on his heel and walked
to the door, leaving the old man to digest
as best he might his unpleasant ultimatum.

“Well, what do you think about it?’ asked
Hawkins, a few moments later, as he wheeled
about and stood before Si again.

“What can I promise until I have had a
talk with her?’’ :

“True enough; and see that you put it in
the strongest light. I value my boy’s happi-
ness more’n my own, and there is the makin’
of a man in him if he is taken in hand in
time by a good woman such as your daughter.
She may not be over fond of him, but he’s
got a good heart, under a rough shell, and is
wuth a dozen dudes rolled in one, and don’t
you forget it!’’ with a swell of fatherly pride.

Si made a wry face, which he was careful
that the proud father should not see.

“And if, through no fault of mine, she re-
fuses——”’ he began.

“She won’t—she won't!”
surance.

“But I must have time,”’

with an air of as-
quavered the old

man.

“The hull six weeks if ye want it,’ said
Hawkins, loftily. “But by that time I must
know for sure. If it’s ‘no,’ why, it’s a ques-
tion of pay up or git.’’ With this elegant
speech as a tag, Squire Hawkins nodded, blew
his nose noisily, and waddled out into the
sunshine and was gone before old Si could
say another word.

“He means what he says, and he'll do it,
unless she consents,’’ he said, musingly. ‘“‘She
don’t like him, and never will; but,

boy. Well, I'll put the case to her in plain
language, and she shall

dig out a livin’, I'd throw the squar’s prop-
ersition in his teeth and be hanged to him!’’
with sudden vehemence. Then his voice fell.
‘“‘But I’m too old to put up a good fight, and
he has me in a corner,
the thing through.” :

He rose unsteadily to his feet and moved
toward the open door. For a moment he
wstood blinking in the sunlight.

“‘T won't tell her just yet—I’ll wait,” he de-
cided. ‘“‘There is time enough, and sunthin’
—sunthin’ might turn up,”
into the farmhouse by the back way, to seek
his room and rest his throbbing head, and
ponder over what he had heard.

The sound of his shambling steps had just
died away when out of a far corner of the
carriage-house a figure appeared. It was that
of Rhoda Bassford, who, awakened from

 

sleep, had heard-everything. She sat down
On tre“VeR tet Sy tire Seales “TR Fuso va-
eated, and with her elbows resting on_ her
knees buried her face in her hands. Upon
her developed the duty of extricating. the
family from the dangers that encompassed
them. She must offer herself up a sacrifice
to save her father and the old home. Ah,
if anything else had been demanded of her
but this! To marry such a clod, as false
and mean and cunning as he was stupid. It
was too much! And yet she knew that the
squire’s threat was not an idle one. He be-
lieved that his son’s happiness in life de-
pended on the marriage, and he was_ not
averse to making threats to bring it about.
But was her life to be wrecked for the need
of a few dollars? Was she to be bought with
a price, like a superior specimen of live stock?
She could refuse, of course, and she knew
her father would accept the situation without
a word of rebuke. But what would that re-
fusal not entail? Their home would be lost,
where the old man had lived all his life. He
night be even sued, if the squire’s malev-
olence went so far, for the misappropriation
of the town’s tax money. The theft might
be brought home to Ben, who had surely
taken it; in short, they would be all involved
in endless misery and disgrace.

“And I can shield them all,’’ she whis-
pered, as her eyes dilated, and the full force
of the situation bore heavily upon her. ‘“‘But
no, I cannot! I cannot!’ rising hastily and
pacing up and~down the room, clasping and
unelasping her hands nervously.

ere
‘**You do not love me, no;
Bid me good-by and go;
Good-by, good-by; ‘tis better so;
Bid,me good-by and go!’ ’”’

It was the voice of Gilbert Warten she
heard singing somewhere about the house.

For a moment the troubled look left her
face, and it became suffused with a tender
melancholy. :

“Yes, ‘better good-by and go,’’’ she mur-
mured, dreamily. ‘‘Why did he come here at
all, to bring me only discontent? And yet it
has all been so pleasant—too pleasant by far
for my peace of mind, And, if there were only
‘Some other way out>»of this maddening diffi-
culty that threatens to crush us! If I were
to speak to him——’’ Then she laughed nerv-
ously at the idea. ‘‘A perfect stranger and on
a question that involves a few miserable dol-
lars! No, I must try and fight my way out
alone. We have six weeks of freedom left.
Much can happen in that time,’’ and, faintly
cheered by the hope, she crept up to her room
to worry her tired brain over the problem, sick
at heart and weary of everything.

TO BE CONTINUED.

SMILER’S HEALTH-LIFT.

BY MAX ADELBER.

They are in the midst of a big lawsuit down
in my village between Dr. Smiler and the rest
of the population of the town of Pencader.
The doctor, it seems, had a large tank placed
on the top of his house from which to_supply
his-bathroom, and so forth, with water. The
water had to be pumped up about fifty feet
from the cistern in the yard, and the doctor
found it to be a pretty good-sized job, which
would cause him constant expense. So, after
thinking the matter over very carefully, one
day an idea struck him. He built a room over
the cistern and put the word ‘‘Sanitarium’”’
over the door. Then he concealed the pump
machinery beneath the floor and rigged up a
kind of a complicated apparatus with handles,
and hinges, and a crank, so that a man by
standing in the middle of the machine and
pulling the handle up and down would operate
that pump.

Then the doctor got out circulars and pub-
lished advertisements about ‘“‘Smiler’s Patent
Health-Lift,’’ and he secured testimonials
from a thousand or so people who agreed that
the Health-Lift was the only hope for the
physical salvation of the human race. Pretty
soon people began to call to see about it, and
old Smiler would rush them out to the ‘‘Sani-
tarium’’ and set them to jerking the handles.
And when a customer had pumped up fifty
rallons or so, Smiler would charge him a

uarter and tell him that three months of that
kind of thing would give him muscles like
Jim Jeffries or Bob Fitzsimmons.

And he would push the project among his
patients. If a man was billious, or had a
toothache, or was afflicted with rheumatism,
or membranous croup, or measles, or yellow
fever, or cholera- morbus, Smiler would turn
him in at the Health-Lift and get a quarter
each time: The thing became so, popular that
he had to enlarge his tank -and put in a
smaller pump; and he not only got all~his
pumping

 

-
. =

just such a good, firm-willed young woman |

any good to have her playin’ fast and loose| did it paid him about $1,500 a year for the}

| privilege: It began to look like. an uncom-
monly soft thing, and everybody. was con-
tented and happy.

One day, however,

day for months in order to cure himself of in-
digestion, jammed the handles down a
too hard, and broke the board upon which he
was standing. As the board gave way it
plunged Mr. Maginnis into the cistern, and
just as he was sinking for the third time
Smiler fished him out with
the end of a clothes prop. As soon as the
water was drained out of him, Maginnis said:

“T didn’t know you had a cistern under that
floor. What did-you do that for?’

‘“‘Why, to keep the air moist. It is healthier
than dry air.’’

“Tt looked to me as if there was some kind
of a pump under there.”

“Oh, no,’’ said Smiler,
levers of the Lift.’’

“Mighty queer,’’ said Maginnis, thoughtfully.
“Tf that isn’t a -pump then [I don’t know one
when I see it.”

So a few days later Maginnis came around
with a lot of other patients, and found the
doctor out. They determined to investigate.
They pulled up a couple of boards, and as-
eertained the facts about that pump. Then
they cross-examined Smiler’s servant girl, and
learned about the truth, and then they went
home mad. A consultation was held, at which
every bilious and rheumatic individual who
had been working the doctor’s pump used
violent language, and talked about murder
and sudden death. Finally they resolved to
prosecute Smiler for damages and for obtain-
ing money under false pretenses. It is
thought by good judges that by the time the
court gets through with Smiler that will be
about the unhealthiest Lift for him that he
was ever interested in.

NINA’S PERIL.

were

By Mrs. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER,

Author of “The Senator’s Bride,” ‘Little Coquette Bonnie,”
“Pretty Geraldine,” “Lillian, My —
“4 Crushed Lily,’ etc., etc.

“those are only the

(“Nina’s PERIL” was commenced in No. 50. Back num-
bers can be obtained of all newsdealers. )

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE ARREST OF NINA.

Miss Drusilla looked profoundly vexed and
annoyed at her niece’s answer.

“Nina, you are certainly a most unmitigated
little simpleton! I really have no patience
with you,” she remarked. “It was ridiculous
for you to think of blotting yourself out like
that for Talbot Strangemore. He is not worth
it, indeed, no man is worth the sacrifice of a
woman’s life. I.have always despised men,
and my nephew’s conduct has only made me

 

; k mebbe, |
as his father says, there’s good stuff in the/!

L ; decide for herself. |
Oh! if I was on’y young and strong enough to

and means to force}

and he slipped |

dislike them worse. What was he, what kind-
ness had he ever done you, that you should
have given up your life for him? I wish he
had. died before he ever came back to make
all this trouble. I am sure I hate him, even
if he was my brother’s son.”

“So do we all,’”’ Kitty muttered, under her
breath, but not so low but that Nina caught it.

She looked reproachfully at them both.

“Oh, Aunt Drusilla, oh, Kitty, please do not
talk about my husband like that! I used to
love him so much,’’ she pleaded.

“And love him still, eh?’’ the spinster asked,
half-vexedly, half-pityingly.

“Oh, no, no, no,’ Nina tried to say, but a
great sob rose in her throat and choked her.

“You need not try to tell me a fib, child. I
know just how weak and silly women’s hearts
are. Go on loving your husband as much as
you like. Perhaps he will turn out more
worthy of your love some day. I wish I knew
where to write to him now. He ought to come
home to you,’’ Miss Drusilla said, thought-

in hor-

little |

a crooked nail iny

 

fully. t
“No, not for worlds''’’ Nina gasped
Soe. “Do not gene for lim, please

dT. = m
he ht ciild, you
place is by your side to
you,”’ said the old lady, impressively.

Something in the tone and air struck Nina.
She looked up inquiringly.

“What do you mean?” she asked, and Miss
Drusilla felt that no task she had ever under-
taken in her life was as hard as that which
lay before her now. a3

“TJ cannot tell her the whole truth. I wiil
temporize with her,’’ she finally decided, and
so, looking as calmly as she could into the
pale, sweet face, she said:

“T mean that Talbot ought to be here to
silence any malicious tongues that. may wag
over that dyingy falsehood of Sibyl St. Alban.”

There was a minute’s silence. The pale face
on the pillow grew, if possible, still paler.

“Does any one credit that cruel story?’ she
asked, faintly, and suddenly Kitty flung her-
self down on her knees by the bed.

“Oh, Miss Nina, darling, you can prove that
you did not do it, can’t you, dear?’ she cried.
“What time was it when you*went away that
night, because the murder was not committed
until midnight, and if you can prove that you
went away before that time no one can be-
lieve aught against you.” :

“Indeed, Kitty, I do not know what time it
was when I went away. I was so wretched, so
humiliated by my own madness that I took no
thought of time!” : ;

“But after you sent me away, Miss Nina,
you went away at once—that was the way,
wasn’t it, darling?’’ Kitty asked, anxiously.

“Let me think a moment, Kitty.’’ She put
her hand to her brow in a bewildered way,
then answered. ‘‘No, I did not go away then,
for after you’ were gone Mrs. St. Alban
came into my room to talk to me about my
husband.”’

‘“‘The- viper!
say about Talbot?’

T will

‘eq fim

snieia ana f

What could she have had to
flashed Miss Strangemore.

“She wanted to tell me how unhappy they
both were, and how I had ruined all their
lives by marrying Talbot. She wanted me to
consent to a divorce that he wanted to have
so that he might marry her,’’ Nina answered,

bitterly.

“The she-devil!’? Miss Drusilla cried, vio-
lently. “How did she dare talk to you so?
She was brazen-faced indeed! I hope you or-
dered her out of the room, Nina!”’ ;

“T asked her to go, I think, but not until I
told her that she should have Talbot for her
own soon,” the girl answered, wearily.

“You meant to consent to a divorce?’ the
maiden lady cried, aghast, and all the pride
of the Selwyns flashed from Nina’s eyes as she
answered:

‘““No, never!’’

‘What, then?’’

“JT meant to throw away my life, and so set
him free and make him happy.”
“But you were committing

Did you think of that?’

“Perhaps so, I don’t know. I remember that
I asked God to forgive me when I sprang into
the cold water.”’

“You went away directly after that woman
left you?’ the lady asked her, anxiously, and
her heart sank when Nina answered, sadly:

“No, not just at once. I was_so hurt, so
shocked at the thought that Talbot actually
contemplated divorcing me, that I sat_like one
stunned for some time, going over and over in
my mind the humiliating thought. I rose at
last mechanicaHy, put some dark garments
on, and went away down to the shore and
flung myself into the sea.’’

“But after all it could not have been mid-
night when you went, Nina,’’ said Miss
Strangemore, and the tremor of deep anxiety
struck the girl oddly.

“Indeed I do not know, I cann@®remember,”’
she said. ‘‘But it does not matter very much,
I suppose.”’ ‘

They turned it off as lightly as possible, but
their strange questions, their confused an-
swers, awakened her suspicions. The truth
began to dawn upon her mind.

She sat up in bed looking almost unearthly,
with her great, startled dark eyes and her
deathly white face,

‘You are frightened over something, both
of you. Is it about me?” she asked.

And then Kitty went and sat down behind
her on the bed and put her arms about the
slender form. Nina turned her face to her.

“Can anybody punish me, Kitty, because I
tried to kill myself?”’

‘No, dear—no one but God, and He will for-
give you if you ask Him.”’

In a minute she asked another question.

“Can any one punish me because that dread-
ful woman said falsely that I killed her?’

“Not if you can prove that she lied,’ Miss
Drusilla answered.

“But if’—and all in. a minute. a ghastly
change came over_the lovely, stricken young
face, “oh, Aunt Drusilla, what if.I cannot
prove it?’

a deadly sin.

 

done for nothing, but the people who’

t * * * * * * *
It was all over. They never quite remem-

 

bered in what words they had told her the
truth, but they never forgot the wail of agony

; — oe from her lips as she put her white
SHEN ‘hand to her throat and said,
ve old Mr. Maginnis, who |

had been practicing at the Health-Lift.every |

with an awful
shudder:

‘They will try me for murder and then they
will put a rope around my neck and hang
me!

Then there had followed another season of
blank unconsciousness. This time Miss Dru-
silla had not lifted a finger to help her back
to life. She had sternly forbidden Kitty, too.

“We both love her,” she said. ‘‘Let us have
mercy upon her. ~~ Let us pray God to take her
suffering spirit back to himself.’

It did not seem to them that they were do-
ing wrong, they were wrought up to so high
a pitch by the dread of the future. They
stood by her senseless body without lifting a
finger and “they silently implored Heaven that
she might never awaken from her swoon. But
their wild wishes were not to be granted.
The vitality in the girl’s young frame was not
exhausted yet. She struggled back to life un-
aided, and then they realized all that lay be-
fore them, the peril, the danger that they
must try to avert.

“We must hide her,” they said to each other.
“We will take her back to Dr. Fielding.
He is strong and wise. He wili tell us what
to do.’’

And for the first time since Talbot went
away his aunt regretted that he had left her
no address to which to write.

“J shall be a remorseful, broken-hearted
wanderer all over the wide world, and it is
not likely that I shall ever return here,’’ he
had said, and in her wrath against him she
had let him go, not foreseeing this moment
when she should vainly long to warn him of
his wife’s peril.

* ot * * * * aS ca

The first gray beams of dawn were begin-
ning to glimmer in the sky when three
heavily veiled women stole out from the por-
tals of the great house and went swiftly and
silently down the long avenue.

But fast as they went the law had traveled
faster. Two men came in at the tall gate—
men in official clothing, with hats drawn over
their brows as if ashamed of their mission.
One advanced and laid a heavy hand upon one
of the veiled figures leaving the house. She
gave a startled cry and drew back, but he
held her fast.

“Mrs. Strangemore,
for the murder of Mrs. St.
in an official tone.

you are under arrest
Alban,’ he said,

CHAPTER XXXII.
TALBOT’S SUSPICIONS.

All unconscious of the portentous events hap-
pening at home, Talbot Strangemore pursued
his wanderings from city to city, from clime
to clime, in restless search after that fabled
Lethean stream in whose waves one may bury
all the woeful memories found too heavy to
carry through the pilgrimage of life. Oswald
Ferris bore him indefatigable company in his
strange pursuit.

He was a very peculiar man, this Oswald
Ferris, with his tall, proud form, and dark,
Corsair-like beauty. He was a brilliant con-
versationalist, and shone in society, although
after all, men liked him best. Vomen like
Virgie Mason shrunk from him without a rea-
son why, but Sibyl St. Alban had been hand-
and-glove with him for a brief season. She
had taught him

“All the cruel madness of love,
The honey of poison-flowers,
And all the measureless ill.”

The little coquette had scarcely understood
the nature of the man she had fooled with
such charming grace in the early days of her
widowhood, when, having been debarred from
the pastime for some months, she entered
upon it with new zest and pleasure. Ferris
had been a splendid subject, too, for he seemed
so ignorant of womanly coquetry and was so

4ealous, passionate, and intense that he was a

constant amusement to Sibyl. She greatly en-
joyed ‘‘playing this big fish’’ as Cameron and
the others phrased it, enjoyed it, systemati-
cally, until Strangemore joined them, then as
her slighted lover said, she threw him over.

She was tired of him, and here was another
subject, that was all Sibyl thought about it.
She did not think about the adoring heart, the
; the passionate undisciplined na-

ies AG WOT ;

; fo engeaiice that rose
from the of his dead iove He had
served her purpose, and she was done with
him. She bent herself to the delightful task
of winning Talbot Strangemore from his chiid-
bride. at home, and forgot all about Oswald
Ferris, save when she was reminded of his ex-
istence by the reproachful glances he flashed
at her, and by words he sometimes uttered
whose barbed point had semed to be aimed at
her heart, and which stung her by their truth,
but did not move her to repentance, because
she was entirely cruel and heartless.

So now this man, whose heart and soul she
had wrecked so heartlessly, was an exile for
her sake, hating all.women because this Circe
born without a soul had made a plaything of
his heart and flung it back to him when weary,
broken, ruined and worthless from the pas-
time of an hour.

He was not a pleasant companion for Talbot
Strangemore now. All his old brilliant gifts of
talk and manner had deserted him. He had
grown moody, dull, distrait and restless be-
yond measure. Once he had loved books, but
he never opened one now. He spent hours and
hours in long solitary walks. Strangemore
rallied him a little drearily on his deep de-
pression,

“Do not give yourself up so wholly to your
sorrow,’ he said. ‘It is wrong to speak ill of
the dead, but after all, Mrs. St. Alban was
not worthy of the feeling we both wasted on
her. That truth has come home to me, al-
though too late for my happiness.’’

They looked deep into each other’s eyes,
those two men whose lives had been ruined to
please the vanity of a beautiful, heartless but-
terfiy.

“That is the bitterest part ofyit,’’ said Os-
wald Ferris, low and bitterly. ~‘‘l have lost
myself for her sake, and after all she was not
worth it. Oh, how I fooled myself with the
thought of making that dainty creature my
bride. She promised it. She took my ring, my
gifts; she let me hold her in my arms, she
suffered me to kiss her face, and to toy with
her soft gold hair, and after all she was false.
She was only feeding her vanity with my ad-
miration, and by and by, when a new victim
came, she dropped me as coolly as if I had
been a soulless clod, instead of a man mad for
love and thirsting for vengeance. Was it any
wonder I was wrought to frenzy when she
lavished her love and her smiles on you, when
she even dared try to divorce you from your
fair, sweet bride? Oh, my God’’—he paused,
abruptly, with a startled look, as if in his pas-
sion he had uttered too much.

“Why did you not tell me how she had
wronged you, then, while she was making a
fool of me?—doubly a fool, for I had known
her wiles before,’’ said Talbot, with biting self-
contempt.

“Did you think I wore my heart on my sleeve
for daws to peck at?’’ demanded Ferris. ‘No,
I was too proud. I bore all in silence, save
that now and then I reproached her with bit-
ter looks and barbed words, which she re-
ceived with tacit defiance. 1 wondered then
why she had no conscience. I often wonder
now why she had no fear. Did she think she
could drive a great, strong powerful animal
mad with impunity?”

“She knew that the animal in this case had
a soul,” said Strangemore, with a rather
dreary smile. ‘‘Women expect men to bear
such wrongs as yours, mon ami, with meek-
nesS and equanimity. You would not have
harmed that gilded. butterfly, would you?
Nay,” he added, springing to his feet, while a
terrible suspicion smote his brain, ‘“‘You did
not hurt her, did you? You, whose wrongs were
so deep that your brain was half distraught
with rage and resentment, you did not strike
the dagger into her white breast, did_ you?”’

The suspicion and the words were born to-
gether, and with such suddenness that Ferris
was for a moment staggered by them.

He recoiled before the excited speaker with
a marble-white face and a startled hunted
look that was almost like guilt itself in his
blazing eyes. Strangemore believed that he
had detected the murderer of Sibyl St. Alban.

“My God, Ferris, then it was you that com-
mitted that dastardly deed!’’ he cried.

Ferris had recovered himself now. He
turned upon his accuser with passionate de-
fiance. ,

“How dare you, oh, how dare you, accuse me
of the heinous crime committed by your own
wife?’ he exclaimed, hoarsely. ‘‘Have you for-
gotten that she, too, was maddened by her
wrongs?—wrongs that you had inflicted upon
her in your mad worship of her rival! Have
you forgotten that. Sibyl St. Alban’s dying
deposition laid her death at the door of Nina
Strangemore? Have you forgotten the letter
dropped by yqur wife in the room of the mur-
dered woman? ave you forgotten her flight
that was a tacit admission of her guilt?’’

He hurled the angry words one after another
thick and fast at his accuser, and each charge

asnes

 

 

 

fell upon Strangemore’s heart like a hailstone.
He recoiled with an exceeding bitter cry:

“Oh, God, to think that my folly and mad-
ness brought all this upon my poor young
wife! Would to God I had died before my re-
turn home!’’

Ferris regarded him cynically, with a dark
and lowering expression between his brows.

“If your wife had only killed herself instead
of sending her rival out of the world, too, how
pleasant it would have been for you,’ he ob-
served. ‘‘You could have married Sibyl and
been happy after all.’’

He shrunk from the lightning
eyes of his companion.

‘“‘Hush,’’ Strangemore said, hoarsely.
not throw my folly and sin into my face.
cannot bear it. No, I could never have mar-
ried Sibyl even if Nina’s desperate suicide had
left me free to do so. I loved my young wife
from the first moment we met after my rett
At the first sight of her pure young face the
wicked infatuation that Sibyl had fostered
died within me, and a pure.wand holy love for
my neglected bride took its place. If Sibyl had
not formed that mad scheme for coming to
Selwyn Heights and ruiz > my wedded happi-
ness all would have gone well with me.
should not have been caught in the trap she
set for me, Nina would not have been driven
Gea pers =; nothing would have happened as it
did!

And then he added, hoarsely:

‘But, so help me God, Ferris, in spite of all
the awful evidence against her, I cannot be-
lieve that Nina, my wife, was guilty of that
terrible crime. Some dreadful mystery hangs
around that murder—a, mystery that Sibyl St.
Alban -hid behind her false declaration that
Nina had killed her. It was some other hand
that drove that dagger home in her breast.’’

And looking steadily at the downecast face
of Ferris, he said within himself: “Thou art
the man!’”’

But he did not again charge him with the
crime. Some instinct told him to be wary. He
said to himself that he would watch Ferris
closely, but in silence, for some token that
should convict him of his sin.

flash in the

CHAPTER XXXIII.
TALBOT’S DREAMS.

Talbot brooded more than ever over the
memory of his dead bride after those words
e Oswald Ferris. That night he dreamed
oO er.

Not that he had not dreamed of her before
in his dreary, remorseful exile, for there were
few nights when her image did not brood
above his pillow. But his visions of his poor,
wronged Nina had been most unsatisfactory
ones. She appeared to him always cold, proud,
repellent, as she had been after she over-
heard the foolish confidence he had reposed
in his aunt. To-night there was a change.

Sometimes Talbot fancied that it nad been

a real vision, not merely a dream, that came
to him that night, it was so strangely real.
. He had not retired, he had merely dropped
into a doze over his book, when the form of
Nina rose clearly before his mind’s eye, and
the beautiful, despairing young face, with its
hollow, pleading, dark eyes, made an inefface-
able impression on his memory. Her golden
hair floated like a veil over. her shoulders, and
her delicate white hands were raised and
clasped as she murmured in tones of agonizing
entreaty:

‘“Tatbot, my husband, come to me! I need

Talbot Strangemore started forward to in-
close that suppliant figure with his arms, but
they only clasped the empty air. The vision
had dissolved, faded, even while the low, en-
treating tones seemed to tremble on the air.

‘‘Nina!”’ he cried, but no voice answered him
back. He saw that he was alone, that his
lamp had burned low, and his book fallen to
the floor. He looked at his watch, and saw
that it was midnight, the hour when restless
spirits revisit the earth.

“Was it her restless ghost come to summon
me to the other world?’’ he asked himself with
throbbing pulses, and a certain sense of pleas-
ure came to him with the thought.

“By that token I know that she has forgiven
me,” he thought. ‘She knows now all my
sorrow, all my repentance, all my love, and
she forgives me and summons me to join her in
that dark, mysterious Beyond, whither she se

rashiy prec

st ara tated. rere ‘

hora WAS to. hire in 2 C3 ha
nged wine Been ihe denevetanti: Tit
that < world where she was gone. He
knew it would be sin to take his own life, yet
for a moment the temptation came over him
almost too strongly to be resisted. The beau-
tiful vision seemed to beckon him away, the
voice seemed to draw him by invisible chains.

“She needs me,” he said to himself, and
he was only held back from throwing himself
into the blue waves of the sea that flowed be-
neath the windows of the old chateau where
he was staying by a sudden warning thought:

“T must live to track Oswald Ferris down to
conviction for his crime, and clear my darl-
ing’s name from the shadow of a sin before I
go hence to join her.’’

So he whispered to Nina as if she were pres-
ent in spirit and could hear him, that she must
wait a little while until his mission on earth
was accomplished before he was ready to join
her in the spirit world. Then he would come
to her, oh, so gladly.

After that day he watched Oswald Ferris
furtively but closely. He was determined that
he would ferret out the secret the man had hid
so cleverly, leaving a lovely, innocent, un-
happy girl to bear the brunt of his sin.

“The coward, the villain,’’ he said to him-
self many times, and he was haif tempted to
take the wretch by the throat and throttle
him until he confessed the truth.

But calmer thoughts prevailed. He knew
that it was necessary to hide the suspicions
he had once imprudently uttered, or Ferris
would fly with his guilty secret to the utter-
most ends of the earth.

“T must bide my time. I must watch and
wait, even though my little Nina is calling
me to join her in the other world,”’ he thought,
and no prescience came to him that Nina still
dwelt upon this lower earth, and that by one
of the strange and wondrous operations of the
mind a miracle had been accomplished—that
Nina, kneeling on the hard floor of her cruel
prison cell, her pride, her resentment, her cold-
ness all beaten wn by her unutterable woe,
had sent her sou! ery for him ringing across
leagues of sea and land that divided them,
ringing on, and on, and on, until it reached
his heart.

cirer

TO BE CONTINUED.
on Es SE oN

THERE are four sorts of readers—hour-glass
readers, whose reading runs in and out, leav-
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but only to give it out again as they got it,
and perhaps not so clean; jelly-bag readers,
who keep the dregs and refuse, and let the
pure run through; and diamond readers, who
cast aside all that is worthless and hold only
the gems.

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Pilgrim’s ProgressS.....seesssees By John Bunyan,
The Master’s Mission...... By Rev. W. C, Stiles
Marvelous in Our Eyes,
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What Is Christ to Me? and Other Sermons,
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Would Christ Belong to a Labor Union?
By Rev. Cortland Myers, Pastor of
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The Story of Queen Esther,
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The Forsaken Bride (Serial)...Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
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ANOTHER INGENIOUS DETECTIVE STORY.

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There is an irresistible charm about a
really clever detective story, in which the
cleverness is not confined exclusively to the
officer who is endeavoring to run down and
expose the lawbreakers. Inthe story we are

to begin next week, it will be noted that the
resourceful Nick Carrer had to contend with
a very artful foe, one almost as ready and
ingenious as himself in devising methods to
outwit an enemy, We are confident that our
readers will find much to admire in the well-
constructed narrative of —

MAN AGAINST MAN;

The King of Smugglers.

By NICHOLAS CARTER,
_ Author of “Run to Earth,” “Tr Across the Atlantic,”
“The Old Detective’s Pupil,” “Weaving the Web,”
“Gideon Drexel's Millions,” ete., etc.

The story is most effectively told, and at
once enchains interest, which increases as
_ the narrative progresses, with exciting ac-
.tion in every chapter. The denouement is
_ Startlingly dramatic, when the chief conspira-
tor, believing himself triumphant in kis ras-
cally scheme, is suddenly overwhelmed by a
discovery which proclaims the braggart’s
utter defeat.

wa
=_°o-

HOW TO STUDY.

Nobody can be sure of having imbibed clear
ideas on a subject unless he has tried to put
them down on a piece of paper in independent
. words of his own. It is an excellent plan, too,
_ when you have read a good book, to sit down
and write a short abstract of what you can
remember of it. It is almost. always worth
while to read a thing twice over, to make sure
that nothing has been missed or dropped on
_ the way, or wrongly conceived or interpreted.
- And, if the subject be serious, it is often well
to let an interval elapse. Ideas, relations,
statements of facts, are not to be taken by
storm. We have to- steep them in the mind,
in the hope of thus extracting their inmost
essence and significance. If one lets an inter-
val pass, and then returns, it is surprising
how clear and ripe that has beconie which,
‘when we left it, seemed crude, obscure, full
of perplexity.

2 2 or

‘DETECTIVE SHORT STORIES.

_ It is our intention to publish, from time to
time, as we can find space for them, a series
of exceedingly clever short stories descriptive
of strange and extraordinary crimes, The first
of these, entitled ‘‘No Alternative,’’ appears in
the present issue, and it is of a character to
certainly arouse deep interest. It will be ob-
hat women figure prominently in these

erefore calculated to en-

as male readers. _

Carefully state with what number. and vol-4

| front hall weeping. All this for politics.

If your heart could throb for me,
Even for a moment’s space,
With the love I feel for theé
Gazing on thy glorious face.
If the passions that I feel
Found response within your breast,
Years of anguish could not steal
Memories that I had been blest.

If that slim white hand could twine
Lovingly about mine own,

Though ’twere but the fleeting sign”
Of a fondness felt and gone.

Though there dwelt a farewell token
In that light caress from thee,

I could live not quite heart-broken
Knowing you had once loved me.

“If you men do not stop talking polities, sir,
leave the room!’’

It was a gentle lady’s exclamation of dis-
gust over the hot dispute of two friends, one
her husband and the other her brother. The
parlor had resembled a bear garden for a
half hour. The two gentlemen were ready to
eat each other. They forgot not only their
kinship but even their good manners. It is
singular, but one of them called the other
“an old protectionist swine,’’ to which the
accused retorted, ‘‘You are a free-trade cut-
throat, that’s what you are!’’ Then they

parted, the sweet and genteel sister of the
‘“‘swine’’ aforesaid, taking the arm of her hus-
band, ‘‘the cutthroat,’ and going out into ane

e
facts being that the ‘‘swine’”’ once in his life
had owed his life to. the ‘cutthroat,’ who
snatched him from a burning railway car.

Of course they got over it. Why, yes, after
election. But what’s the use of all this? Who
is bettered by it? And, for that maiter, do
men entirely get over such things? I think
not. The memory rankles like a sliver, long
after the most of the wood is pulled out,

And when you soberly think of it, what do
you care about the success of.a candidate?
I mean in comparison with the friendship of
your brother-in-law! Suppose you. break
friends for a year with your own brother, and
yet Mr. Snooks is sent to Congress. Does
Snook’s high honor there in Washington make
up for the schism in the family?

Fan hard!y know the honorable Snooks at
all; surely you have not to live with him. But
a good friend’s smile is daily bread to the
heart. The heart starves without it. It’s all
folly. It’s the one mean thing in American
politics that we so often get mad on orebefore
election days. :

A year ago a pretty girl on our avenue was
to’ be married to as fine a fellow as there is
in town. At a ward primary her father and
this young man fell into a dispute over poli-
tics. The boy held his own in argument as
well as he could, and, being a bright young
man, he turned the laugh on his girl's father.
It wasn’t a bad laugh, but he turned the
point of a capital story well at the old man’s
expense. The listeners roared. That was all.
But these young people are not married yet,
though it was expected a year ago they_were
on the very eve of a fashionable wedding.
The laugh did it, all in our set believe.

The heat of politics just before election re-
minds me of the burning of a pile of shavings.
Flash! How hot a fire they can make. But
it is scor out, ,and nothing is left except

?
ut

 

a mere handful of whi ashes. -Flash
wil! set hild’s skirts on fire 1 burn
WS ne s Vili not P

one from freez on a ; Sha
ings cannot kindle coal, or make_an.enduring
fire. Is it not so with political anger? It
is not patriotism. It will not send a man to
fight. in his country’s battles. The fellow
who gets mad is often the slowest in time of
need Yet who of us has not been scorched
by the fiery anger of politics?

ané
eee

winter's night

A Few Fac

By Josh

Vulkan waz a blacksmith; he done the iron
and brass work for the gods and goddesses oy
mithologikal times.

He waz born lame and traveled one-sided.
Hiz fust appearance at Olympus, the hedquar-
ters ov the heathen deitys, excited so mutch
disgust and alarm that Jupiter, the boss ov
the place, kaught him bi the nap ov the neck
and let him drop down sudden upon the earth.

He fe sum two hundred miles, more or
less, at the rate ov a frackshun over one mile
in a minnit, and when the struck he plunged

sum six feet in the earth, and was dug out bi
sum shephards who were feeding their flocks
in that naborhood. e

This drop did not improve the phisikal helth
or appearance ov Vulkan, but in a fu weeks
afterward wé hear ov him starting a black-
smith shop, well stocked with tools, in a_ cave,
away down under the oshun, bi the kind per-
mishun ov Neptune, who was the proprietor
of that seckshun of kuntry. —

Here~-Vulkan made to order whatever the
gods and goddesses wanted, such as brass
bulls with steel eys, who could bellow natral
as life, and dig up the earth with their feet,
and tost things with their horns.

He made a pack of hounds, with keen nozes,
to follow the track ov the stag and wild boar;
he made common dogs that would tree a coon
every time, and he made armor for heroes
that whole rigiments of soldiers could not
stand in front ov.

He even made men who could wink, and use
profane language, and smoke, and who could
win prizes at a foot race.

From that day to this the world has pro-
duced no sutch a blacksmith as Vulkan was.

IF!

BY MITTIE POINT DAYIS,

If those eyes so darkly glorious,
Kindled as with mine they met,

I should hold myself victorious,
Even though you did forget.

I could give the lifelong passion
Of a thousand meaner souls,

For one hour’s brief adoration
Over thine to sway. control.

If ambition lured you upward
To the pinnacle of fame,
You might have: my yery heart’s blood
Could it write that honored name.
And if—if you earlier died, love,
Though my love were naught to thee,
One dead leaf from off thy grave, love,
Would be all the world to me.

Before Election.

By Harkley Harker.

Cold principles may well have. two sides.

There is less excuse in getting mad over
“‘principles’’ than over candidates. You are
for free trade, I am for protective tariff.
Very well; let us match our pennies over it
in good nature. The most efficient stump
orator is he who can discuss with good stories.
Some years ago, in a Boston hotel, two stu-
dents stood drinking at the bar on the night
before the election of a governor of a certain
State, not Massachusetts. They got in the
wine, and then got in the blows over the char-
acter of this gubernatorial character. The
result was a Stab. The poor boy who struck
the blow cried out:

“Send upstairs for _Blank,”’ naming the can-
cidate, who happened to be in the hotel. ‘‘He
will defend me. I struck to avenge his
honor.’’

They hurried upstairs, found the lawyer

candidate just taking a carriage for an even-
ing train home.
“What in the name of Jupiter do you come
to me for with the vulgar row? I didn’t ask
him to commit murder for me. Go on, driver.
It is time for my train.’’

You fellows who think a candidate for any
platform of ‘principles’ will have principle
enough to defend you the day before election
—to say nothing of the day after election—
are sadly mistaken.

How foolish one feels the next day for all
unseemly heat shown over the election. We
all hurry dewntown to business, no matter
who is elected, just the same. The factory
whistle blows, the wheels turn, we take up
our daily grind, and forget it all. The bets,
the rows, the wounds, the nervous waste is
all over. The world moves on just the same.
If a man has made a fool of himself, he feels
doubly foolish the next day. How many
things we wish we had not said! “If Robin-
son is elected I'll eat a peck of dirt!” ‘If
Jones is defeated I'll sell my store and move
out of a town that at

We see, the next. day, our consummate folly.
Men laugh: at us. The before-election ‘‘ifs’’
are the funniest of all prophesies. One of the
best known men in all America said, before
a recent Presidential election, that if a certain
man won he would “give away his plant’’ in
a certain city; ‘‘for it wouldn’t be worth keep-
ing in six months.” Five years have passed.
The dreadful man did win; but the rich man
has not given away. any of his plant, and it
is now more valuable than ever,

But keep it

 

 

Boys, be proud of your vote.

clean; Do not soil it with anger. If you live
as long 2s you should,
is iY ‘ lections J you ose One ¥
I i als : Se
good cheer..and--manly «charity. about every
one of these - contests. Differ, and yet be
friends. Respect another man’s opinions, and
he will respect yours. Keep cool, and do not
harm your own business, your own happiness
or life, for the sake of any man as candidate.
God preserve the old Republic for a thousand
glorious years. —

ts About Vulkan.

Billings.

But the most remarkable thing in the life
and adventures ov this deformed hero ov the
anvil and tongs, was his domestik relashuns,

Natur made him as ugly as she knu how,
but Venus, the goddess ov luv and buty, be-
kum in luv with him and married him.

This iz another strong proof that-thare iz no
telling what a woman is a-going to do next.

From the days ov Eve down to the gradu-

ated skool miss ov yesterday, and from Venus,
the pet lam ov Olympuss, down to the demi
monde oy the present hour, woman haz all-
wuss done, and allwuss will do, just az she
pleazes. And she may do as she pleazes for
what I care.
_ This match ov Vulkan and Venus iz the most
ill-assorted one on reckord, even amung the
gods and goddesses, who were in the habit ov
doing the most ridickilus things we hav enny
ackount ov.

But in most all the extravagant and curious
kreashuns ov mithology, are to be found sum
shrewd and well-concealed moral which iz well
worth stripping ov its fabulous coatings and
using for praktikal purposes.

But, take them az a whole, the entire in-
voice ov wooden gods and goddesses, from
Jupiter, the individual who made thunder and
spit it out az he would tobacco juice, and his
red-hot war-wife Juno, clear down to the low-
est-priced specimen ov bombastik fancy on the
list, fails to excite in me anything but the
most supreme disgust.

I would rather hav the genius ov a haff
dozen live Yankees to kreate mirakles or wod-
den nutmegs with, than to have all the brass-
mounted heroes and heroines that were ever
marshaled on Olympus, :

Abominable People.

By Kate Thorn.

Of all the people from whom we pray to be
delivered, deliver us from those who are al-
ways seeing resemblances!

Everybody knows them—you all have one
or more of them among your acquaintances.

When they come into your presence,. they
put on their glasses—most of them wear
glasses—and subject you to as rigid an in-
spection as they would subject a horse which
they thought of purchasing, and which was
suspected of being spavined or foundered,

They will examine the texture of your skin,
the droop of your eyelids, the curve of your
mouth, and the freckles on your nose, and
by the time you are nervous enough to fly,
they will come out with .an opinion,

“Why, bless me! how much you resemble
your Uncle Aaron!”’

Sometimes your grandfather, or father, or
Aunt Polly, or Sally, is the one to whom it
is said you bear a resemblance, and, as a
general thing, all. these relatives are very
ugly, and of course you feel intensely flattered.
It is the business of these abominable people
to make you feel that you are a monstrosity.

They will expatiate on your appearance, and
wonder if you are well.

Don’t you look a little yellow around the
eyes? Are you sure you are not bilious? You
ought to take some bitters. Then they will
want to know if you are as fieshy as usual,
and they will exclaim because you are fat, or
because you are lean, as the G&se may be.

If you have a small waist, they will suggest
tight lacing; if a large one, they,;will ask

 

 

-|if you are not afraid of dying of the dropsy.

And they will remember some remote ances-
tor of yours who had it.

If you are getting past thirty, they will ask
if you dye your hair, or suggest that your
false teeth make you look ten years younger.

Then, they will begin to reckon up your age
by the birth of Mr. Jones’s Ned, or Mr. Rob-
inson’s. Ellen, or by the cold Friday, or the
hot Monday#or some other event of equal im-

-portance,. and equally well fixed in the calen-

dar.

You are too pale, or too red; you should
wear green, or pink, or blue; in short, any
eolor but the one you have on. That is dread-
fully, unbecoming!

When they have done with your personal
appearance, they will turn their attention to
your friends and relatives. If you: have any
relations who are not quite respectable—and
who has not?—they will be particularly anx-
ious to know about. these same relatives.

Has your cousin Dick secured a divorce from
his .wife yet? or, is it really so, that your
husband’s uncle’s cousin’s wife is suspected
of poisoning her mother-in-law?

Then they sigh, and roll up their eyes, and
advise you not to feel bad-about it, and in-
form you that nobody is responsible for what
their relations do.

And, if you are a man, you feel as if you

would like to kick them soundly; and if you

are a woman, you wish their grandfather had
been hung, so you could twit them of it.

But theré is no redress, and it is'one of the
evils that must be borne,

_ you'll go through a

 

 

OUR READERS.

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

Linten, Englewood, N. J.—Caius Cesar
Caligula was the third emperor of Rome. He
was born at Antium on August 31, A. D. 12,
and was put to death in Rome on January
24, 41, in revenge for his numerous. cruelties.
He possessed an insane thirst for blood. He
rarely slept more than three hours out of
the twenty-four, and often paced the halls
of his palace all night longing for the day
to come. He caused many intimate friends
to be put to death on the most frivolous pre-
texts. When ill, some friends had vowed to
the gods to give their lives for his; when he
recovered he ordered them to commit suicide.
When there were no. criminals to be torn
by the beasts in the arena, he ordered vic-
time to be selected from the spectators and
had their tongues cut out that they might
make no outcry. That his meals might be
made more enjoyable, he sometimes ordered
men to be put to death before his eyes, and
while he ate he insanely laughed at their
moans, and derided their cries for mercy. He
built a temple in which there was a life-size
statue of himself as the presiding deity and
officiated at his own altar, at once the god
and the priest. He made his horse a con-
sul and had the animal attended by lictors
and arrayed in all the appointments of office.

finally meditated the slaughter of half
the Senate and a large number of the nobles,
when he was assassinated by some of those
he had doomed to death, in the fourth year
of his reign.

M. W. R., Tripp, S. D.—Here is a well
recommended recipe for quince and lemon
jam: Peel, core and slice quinces, reserving
the parings and cores for jelly. Put the
quinces over the fire in just enough water
to cover them, and stew until they are soft.
The allowance of sugar should be three-
quarters of a pound to every pound of the
fruit. It will take a good while to reduce
the quinces to the requisite softness, and
they must be stirred and beaten often with
a stout wooden spoon. When the fruit is
well broken in pieces, add the sugar, and at
the same time put in the juice of one large
lemon for every two pounds of’ the fruit.
Boil ten minutes after it has again come to the
boil, and after the kettle has been removed
from the fire add the chopped peel of one
lemon for every five pounds of the conserve.

D. D. S., Peoria, Ill.—Damsons should be
gathered for preserving just before they are
fully ripe. To preserve damsons, make a
syrup of clean brown sugar; clarify; when
perfectly clear and boiling hot, pour the
syrup over the damsons, having picked out
all unsound ones and stems. Let them
remain in the syrup two days; then drain it
off, make it boiling hot, skim it and pour it
) : I main

 

er the gain af them re mmoeth

in the preservi

simmer ge nth

I reduced ai ick or rich. '
pound of sugar is necessary for each pound
of plums. Once more clarify the syrup, and,
when boiling hot, put in the plums, Let them
boil gently, and when done put the fruit in

jars, filling up with the syrup.

WwW. W., Clay City, Ky.—You are entirely
too friendly with your_sister’s fiancé, and it
is not strange she has become jealous.
Both you and he deserve the censure ad-
ministered by the aggrieved lady. It was
no excuse for you to say that you ‘‘meant
nothing serious’’ by seeking his attentions
and society at every favorable opportunity,

y wm

tne S}5

wife intense annoyance and grief. He must
be a very thoughtless fellow to thus neglect
the lady to whom he engaged. She has
certainly received sufficient provocation to
break the engagement. ,

L. P. Dolan, Troy, N. Y.—The threat, “I'll
cook your goose for you,’’ originated in the
time of Eric, King of Sweden. He had begun
a siege against a certain town, but, his force
being unequal to the service required, was
obliged to desist... The inhabitants in derision
hung out from the walls a goose on a pole.
Eric returned with reinforcements, and, in re-
ply to the challenge of the heralds, observed
that he had come ‘to cook their goose for
them,”’ and proceeded to storm the town, and
finally succeeded in making it very hot for
the inhabitants,

Rosabell, Atlantic, Iowa.—l. To remove
freckles, wash the affected parts frequently
with a liniment composed of equal parts of
sweet oil, limewater and spirits of ammonia.
—Distilled elder-flower water also an -ex-
cellent application for removing freckles. The
skin should be bathed with it for five or ten
minutes, and washed afterward with clear
water, night and. morning. 2. The gift of
reading a person’s character from the hand-
writing has been denied us.

W. Cornell, Alameda, Cal.—A philatelist is
a person who is fond of collecting and classi-
fying postage stamps. The word is derived
from the Greek word “philos,’’ a friend or
lover, and ‘‘ateleia,’’ exemption from taxation.
Taxation, at the time it derived its name in
Greek, was enforced by issuing a small printed
piece of paper or check, for the same purpose
that the postage stamp is now issued.

is

is

Cc. L. P., Eagle Lake, Minn.—Here is a sim-
ple and effectual remedy for hoarseness: Boil
two ounces of flaxseed in one quart of water;
strain, and then add two ounces of rock candy,
half a pint of syrup or honey, and the juice of
three lemons; mix, and then boil together.
Let it then cool, and bottle for use. Take one
cupful as warm as you can drink it, before go-
ing to bed.

Jocelyn, Olivet, Wis.—The couplet is by
Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, and appears in
her verses, ‘‘To the Imitator of the First
Satire of Horace.’’ The quotation reads thus:

‘Satire should, like a polished razor keen,

Wound with a touch that’s scarcely felt or seen,’’

Annie, Halifax, N. S.—It is usual for a lady,
when a matrimonial engagement has been
broken off, to return all costly presents re-
ceived from the gentleman to whom she was
affianced. Still, we agree With you that he
who demands their return is a mean fellow.

Jackson, Willow Creek, Mo.—To remove
varnish or old paint from woodwork, apply an
emulsion formed of two parts ammonia shaken
up with one part of turpentine. This so soft-
ens the paint that after a few moments it
can be scraped or rubbed off.

 

with the result that you caused his affianced |

Cleveland, Ohio.—This corre-
spondent is engulfed in debt, and wishes to
| transfer his business and property to his
| wife, so that.it will escape his creditors. We
eannot aid him in this matter by any sugges-
tion intended te enable him to defraud his
ereditors.

In Trouble,

W. Coswell, New York City.—The destruc-
tion of the Windsor Hotel in New York City,
by fire, occurred on March 17, 1899. Several
lives were lost.

A TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE.

A shocking experience of a hair-raising order
was endured by Philetus Dorlon, the oyster-
man of Fulton Market, New York City, and
thus he narrated the nerve-trying events:

‘Some years ago two acquaintances and my-
self started in a small boat on a fishing ex-
ecursion to Keyport; N. J. .I don’t know what
sort of a fishing ground it is at present, but
at the time of which I speak there were fish
in abundance to be caught there.

‘‘We made a successful run from the me-
tropolis to Keyport, at which place we ar-
rived just as the shades of evening were gath-
ering around, and at once began to look about
for an abiding place during the night, as it
was our intention to make for the fishing-
grounds early on the following morning.

“There was but one house on the beach, and
that was an unpretentious fisherman’s hut,
and having made our boat safe, toward this
humble domicile we took our way, and I at
once knocked for admittance.

“The door was opened by a man of most
forbidding appearance. He was almost a giant
in size. His face was swarthy, weather-
beaten, and seamed by ugly sears, and his
black hair hung in tangled masses around his
broad shoulders.

***Can we have a bed for the night?’ 1 asked,

“He looked searchingly at our small party,
and then replied in a gruff voice:

***T s’pose I can give you a place to sleep, if
you are willing to put up with such accom-
modations as I can afford, but you won't find
any luxuries in this shanty. Come in, and I
will do the best I can for you.’

“Accordingly we entered and seated our-
selves on an old sea-chest, the furniture con-
sisting only of a pine table and a couple of
oak stools. A fishing net lumbered one corner
of the room, and oars, boathooks, and other
implements used by fishermen were scattered
around in various places.

‘**T s’pose you are hungry?’
when we were seated.

“We intimated that we were...

“Well,” he went on, ‘I can give you.some
pretty good fried bacon and eggs, and that’s
about the best I can do for you.’

“Accordingly he proceeded to prepare supper
for us, and furnished us with a repast to
which we did ample justice, :

“The meal was discussed in silence, and
after if was over our host said, with a hid-
eous attempt at a- smile:

‘**T don’t have many visitors here, and I
s’pose I shouldn't have had you if you could
have found any other place. Folks ain’t gen-
erally very much pleased either with my ap-
pearance or my accommodations, but I can
assure you of one thing, which is that those
who lodge with me generally sleep soundly
enough.’ : : :

“The latter portion of this i
thrill of horror through my frame. Il cculdn’t
help feeling that it had a sinister meaning.
However, I tried to dismiss every feeling of
suspicion, and argued myself into the belief
at last that I wronged our host greatly in thus
judging him. 3

“It was about nine o’clock when we decided
to retire, and, taking up a lantern, the fisher-
man ited the way into the only other apart-
ment which the 1bin } : This ¥ i

room, *

he continued,

speech sent a

 

icn fa i been LAY
+7 : T ‘on
and mn ; ne : yt ;
Pve ‘got t r wi S away just new.
Whe: S e he Sleeps in this bed, and I
use the other. You are the largest man of
your party,’ he continued, looking at me with
a grim smile, ‘and you’d better take this bed
and let your two friends occupy the other.
As for me, I ain’t over particular, and I'll
bunk on the floor of the cabin. This is the
best I can do for you. Good-night!’ and in
another moment he was gone.

“Again the old feeling of doubt and distrust
took possession of me, but I did not impart
my.suspicions to my companions for fear that
they might prove to be ill-grounded, in which
case I should have become the laughing stock
of the party.

“My friends bade me good-night, and I pro-
ceeded to disrobe and tumble into bed, but
inot to sleep. I could not shake off the fear
which possessed me, and for more than two
hours I lay listening to the loud snoring of my
fellow-voyagers on the other side of the par-
tition. Nature asserted herself at last, how-
ever, and I-fell into an unquiet sleep.

“T must have slept some hours, going from
one unpleasant dream to another, until at last
I awoke from a horrid nightmare, in which I
thought our host was astride of my breast,
holding a Knife at my throat.

“A cold perspiration stood upon my brow,
and every nerve was unstrung. It was useless
to think of going to sleep again, and 1 was
on the point of arising from*bed to dress my-
self, when suddenly a strange sound from the
adjoining room struck my ear. It was such a
sound as that evoked when steel is drawn
across a whetstone—the sound of sharpening
a knife.

“Trembling with terror, I arose cautiously
from bed, and placing my eye at the keyhole,
gazed fearfully into the adjoining room. Hor-
ror! There was our host sharpening a long,
formidable knife by the light of a lantern.
His features wore a look of stern resolve, and
ever and anon, as he stopped to test the edge
of the knife across the ball of his thumb, a
grim smile stole across his sinister features.

“T forgot to state that previous to ratiring I
had piled against the door of my room every
bulky thing that was movable, so that the en-
trance of anybody must at least awaken me.

“Now, my first impulse was to awaken my
companions, who were still snoring loudly. I
discarded this idea at once, however. I ar-
gued that any attempt to arouse them would
precipitate matters at once. They. would be
stupid from sleep and almost helpless, while
here was a giant armed with a formidable
weapon, while we had not ever a stick to de-
fend ourselves with.

‘IT determined to try strategy.
way back to bed again, I crept between the
sheets. I had determined to wait and watch.
My plan was to lie quite still until the villain
approached my bed with murderous intent,
and then to throw the bedclothes suddenly
over his head, grapple with him, and _ yell
lustily to my friends on the other side of the
partition.

‘“T had not long to wait, although it seemed
to me an eternity.

‘‘Presently there was a pressure against the
door of my room. It yielded inch by inch,
and then the arm of the murderer revealed it-
self, and I heard him mutter:

*“**Curse the luck! The fellow has barricaded
his door! I promised him he should sleep
soundly, though, and I will keep my word if
£.-can!”*

‘Little by little he cautiously forced the door
still further back, till at last he crowded his
body through the opening and stood revealed
in all his hideousness, brandishing his murder-
ous knife in his right hand, while in his left
he carried the lantern, the luminous side of
which he held toward his body, so that its
rays should not awaken me.

“My breath came quick and hard. I could
hear the beating of my own heart as I awaited
his attack.

“Cautiously he approached the bed till he
stood directly over me. The decisive time had
come, and I was just about to throw the bed-
clothes over his head, when I saw him elevate
his left arm as though reaching for something.
I followed the direction of his hand, and the
weight of a mountain seemed lifted off my
heart when he grasped a ham, a row of which
hung just over the bed, took it down from its
hook quietly, and departed as noiselessly as
he had entered.

“T shall never forget the mortal terror [ felt
that night, nor the relief which followed my
discovery that he had been sharpening his
knife to carve a ham for our breakfast, and
never again will I judge a man by his looks,
for I afterward ascertained that our host was
one of the best fellows living, a man who de-
lighted in doing good instead of evil—who
had risked his own life time and again to save
the lives of others, and who was famed for his
hospitality to belated strangers.

 

Groping my

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

Vol. 57—No. 5

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ©

 

 

 

 

(“PHE BRANDED Foor” was commenced in No. 3.

CHAPTER V. ;

THE COMMODORE’S CONFESSION.

It was a fair, stately woman of not quite
forty years whose presence wrought so fear-.
fully upon the commodore. ;

She had been the most beautiful debutante.
of her first social season, and none had taken
her laurels from her before she was married;
and she was a beautiful woman still.

A keen abserver might have detected the
mark of a great sorrow upon her calm fea-
tures, but it was of a sorrow so heroically
borne that it left no trace of bitterness either |
in her appearance or in her nature. ; ;

She was Mrs. Robert Schuyler, for sixteen’
years the widow of the commodore’s elder,
brother, :

Impelled by that wonderful and safe guide
of women, feminine intuition, she had never
been able to like the commodore, and their
relations during this long period had been
merely formal and polite. They had seldom
seen each other, and had never exchanged
visits of more than the briefest duration. Of
late, however, the crushing afflictions that had
come upon him had aroused her womanly
sympathy, and her face showed naught but the
sincere and deep shock that his frenzied mes-
sage had caused her.

*““Jerome,’’ she said, going toward him and
extending her hand, “I am deeply...grieved.
Your note found me just stepping into my
carriage. I have abandoned my errands and
eome here at all possible speed, hoping to find
that your alarm is a delusion.

The commodore pretended not to see her
outstretched hand. He compelled his muscles
to do his bidding, and hastily turned the chair
against which he had leaned.

“Sit down, Lucia,’ he said, huskily,
excuse me for just a moment.

He went to the door and summoned the
servant, to whom he said: ,

“Somebody will call before long with a mes-
sage, or a parcel, from Dr. Krafft. Do not ad-
mit him—or her. Tell the messenger to wait.
I must not be interrupted on any pretext
whatever.”’

He. closed the door and once more faced his
sister-in-law, but the consciousness of what
he must say came over him with such ap-
palling force that he stood rooted there and
groaned aloud.

*“Jerome!’”’ exclaimed Mrs. Schuyler, spring-
ing up in great alarm. She supposed that he
was suffering physical pain, and went im-
pulsively toward him.

At that he suddenly recovered his power of
movement.
~ “Sit down!’ he hoarsely commanded, re-
treating from her and warding her off with his
hands. ‘‘Sit down, Lucia, and gather all your

“and

 

 

 

ee

strength? You will need it, need it, every

pontine ~ eet eh pe

‘Alarmed quite as much by his manner as
by what she supposed to be manifestations of
his illness, Mrs. Schuyler obeyed.

There was one more moment of pause, dur-
ing which the man’s soul shrank within him
and sought for some way to avoid the scene
he had brought about.

A flush of startling brightness suffused~his
haggard cheeks, and he caught his breath with
a quick gasp.

Then he strode toward her and halted, with
a marble-topped table between them, upon
which he rested his left hand, while he raised
the right impressively.

“Lucia,” said he, speaking rapidly, but in a
jow, clear tone, “I am a monster of wicked-
ness, a criminal of the blackest type. You
are startled; you do not believe——”’

“T am sorry for you, Jerome,’ she inter-
posed. -‘‘You are very ill, and your mind has
taken on morbid fancies. Do not give way to
them——’”’

“Stop, Lucia! I can eudure anything but
your generous sympathy. Do not inflict me
with that.” A

“But, Jerome—”

“Stop, I say! I will not hear you. You must.
listen to me! I have called you here for that
purpose, and I do not mean to talk to you in
general terms. The trouble is, it is so hard
to say the words. But-I will say them. Listen,
then, Lucia. I am a murderer, and my victim
was my brother, your husband! Worse than
that, ay, a thousand times worse—I abducted
your child.”

Mrs. Schuyler’s eyes distended and her face
paled terribly, not because she had the faint-
est belief in his wild words.

“Insane!’’ she whispered; ‘“‘grief has made
him mad!’’ ‘

He heard her.

“— regret to say, Lucia,’ he added, “that I
am in complete possession of my mental fac-
ulties. If I were not, I might forget. For
sixteen years I have carried this frightful
secret with me, the secret of murder and ab-
duction. I repeat, that you may believe, I am
the murderer of your husband, and the ab-
ductor of your child, pretty little May. Now
that I face death I cannot-——’”’

He stopped, for she had risen: Shock, in-
eredulity, doubt, an awful fear that his words
were true, were struggling for mastery in her
mind, and the dreadful struggle was reflected
in her face.

His words had brought back the tragedy of
her young days with startling vividness. It
bewildered her. She could not believe, she
could not deny, for her re-awakened sorrow,
the supreme anguish of her life, choked her
héart. It could tind expression only in an
imperfect echo of his words:

“You—abducted—my—child?”’

Then she recoiled from the dreadful sug-
gestion, for it was impossible of belief, and
once again she was convinced that the com-
modore was mad.

With that feeling came naught but profound
pity for him, and it illumined her face with
a wistful expression of sympathy.

“Don’t!” he gasped, putting both hands _be-
fore his eyes and half turning his back. —‘You
will kill me before I can convince you. Don’t
look at me in that way! Sit down again,
Lucia, and listen to my frightful story. Say
nothing, I beg you, and shut your eyes rather
than look at me. Convince you I must, and
when you believe, you may send for officers
to-arrest me, if you will.”’

A sudden terror seized upon Mrs. Schuyler.
It began to break upon. her that perhaps he
was telling the bitter truth. Apprehensive and
utterly speechless, she sank back into the
chair and kept silent and motionless until his
story was ended.

But she looked at him, There was no longer
in her eyes the womanly sympathy he dreaded,
but a growing horror which seemed to nerve
him and enable him to speak with fluency that
was lacking when he was pleading for hope
with the doctors,

‘Tt is the old, wretched old story, Lucia,”’
he-began, ‘fof lust for power and position. I
had money enough, all that a reasoning man
should desire. I could have lived in luxury
on what my father left me of his immense
fortune, but, as you remember, my father was
given to olf world notions. He had not only
accumulated money, but he had established
an estate, with its town house and country
houses, its parks, its game preserves, and all
that goes to make the life of a wealthy gen-
tleman complete. When it came to a division
of this estate he followed the traditions of
his fatherland, and gave the principal part
to his elder son. I was the younger. Mine
was a generous share, ample, as I have ad-
mitted, for the needs and desires of a fair-
minded man; but I was not and never have
been a fair-minded man. I envied Robert
this city residence; I envied him the posses-
sion of Hillcrest, where my father had es-
tablished his lordly mansion, where he main-

| manifestations of what I envied more,

| nature.

 

tained much the manners and customs of an

A ROMANCE

oF A

non STRouS

TERSONAT! ON
FRAUD

er

A famous AYTHOR

Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

English squire. But these things,

the city
house and Hillcrest,

were but the es
an
that was Robert’s position as head of the
house. His was an unassuming, unambitious
Mine was bold, proud, self-seeking.
I longed for homage. We were not recog-
nized in high society in those days, you re-
member. That triumph my father, with his
new wealth, had not gained. Robert, content
with ample means, happy in your love, would
not have cared for it. I dreamed of it and
was irritated that the head of the family
should not seek it. If Robert never sought
to rise, it was inevitable that I should remain
in the background, for my fortune was smaller
and I was not the head of the house.

“Oh, as I look.ba@k upon it, how petty,
how miserably mean those envious desires of
mine seem! But they worked upon me, Lu-
cia, they festered in my mind until my whole
being was poisoned, a then—— But I must
remind you of one other feature of the prop-
erty arrangement. According to old-country
custom, my father drew his will so that the
main estate would pass to Robert’s child. It
was only in case of the death of poor Robert
and his daughter that the property would
come to me.

“Painful as it is to you, I must now recall
the circumstances of your husband’s death and
the supposed death of your daughter. You,
and the world generally, understood that Rob-
ert, little May and her nurse, Lucy Millburn,
and I went out upon the Hudson for a sail
in the small. sloop yacht that at that time
was a part of the Hillcrest property. As a
matter of fact, Robert and I went alone. It
is known that the sloop capsized, and you
and everybody supposed that Robert, May, and
the nurse were lost, and that I, picked up by
a passing steamboat, was the sole survivor.
The yacht did not capsize by accident. I
managed that. It was easy, dreadfully easy,
for Robert knew nothing of the management
of a boat. I was a first-rate sailor. Robert
could not swim. I was at home in the water.
Those two facts gave me my advantage, and
I made fatal use of them. From the moment
when I caused the boat to overturn I saw
to it that no help could reach my brother. If
seen from shore, it must have looked as if l
were trying desperately to save him. In real-
ity I kept anything he might cling to away
from him and let him drown!”

The commodore paused, choking, but the
horrible tale was not done, and the steady
gaze of those startled eyes in the chair before
him warned him to continue to the tragic end.

He caught his breath and resumed, huskily
now, but with the same fluency and even
more directness. :

“T had intended that the nurse and the child
should accompany us. Lucy and her mother,

| Hester Millburn, were both in my secret. They

had to be, else I could not have accomplished
my purpose. Understand this clearty, Lucia.
Both these women, Hester and her young
daughter, knew that I meant to kill my
brother and his child. You never realized it,
but Lucy Millburn was employed. by you as
nurse at my recommendation, and I recom-
mended her because I meant to make this use
of her. I had sworn to Lucy that I would save
her, and I would have done so, fF think. At all
events, I meant to then, but at the last moment
she became frightened and balked. She ab-
solutely refused to embark with us. I could
not compel her to; and, moreover, I saw that
if that was her temper, it would be safer to
leave her on shore. So I changed my plan in
a hurry and had her slip away with the child
to her mother’s tenement in New York. She
and her mother promised me that I should
never hear from them or the child again—
and they have Kept their promise only too
faithfully. Of course I paid them extravagant-
ly. What became of them I know not. They
have been as completely lost to me as if all
three had gone to the bottom of the sea. But
when my boy died—”

For a moment the commodore could not go
on. Now, perhaps, he would have welcomed
the ray of compassion from Mrs. Schuyler’s
eyes that at first he had shrunk from.

It was not there. She was still looking in-
tently at him, but it was as if her features
had been frozen with horror.

There was nothing for it but to wipe the cold
cant from his brow and conclude as best he
could.

“T was in the city when a telegram announc-
ing the last awful blow came to me. On the
instant I suffered a fearful revulsion of feel-
ing. For sixteen years, nearly, I had lived my
life, recognized, ay, honored, and had never
experienced a throb of remorse that could be
dignified as repentance. I was suddenly over-
whelmed with horror, maddened into a des-
perate desire to make such reparation as I
could at a late day, and, before I returned
to Hillcrest to look for the last time upon my
dead boy, I put an advertisement in the Her-
ald personals for Hester Millburn, to whose
care your child had been committed.”

He paused here to take from a pocketbook
a newspaper cutting, which he laid upon Mrs.
Schuyler’s knee.

She did not touch it.

Silently, motionlessly as before, she gazed at

im.

“Tt has brought no answer,” the commodore
continued, returning to his former. position.
“The advertisement has appeared several
times without result. Solely in the hope that
she might see it and come to me I have re-
mained shut up in that hell upon earth, Hill-
crest! I knew ‘that a serious illness was upon
me, and I had begun to despair. Yesterday
Il came suddenly to a conviction, baseless it
proves, that: I could be cured. I closed Hill-
erest at once and came here. It was only to
hear my doom pronounced by a judge of physi-
cal ailments whose opinion I must respect.
Death is just behind me, ready to strike!
And now you have the truth. God help me,
you must believe it!”

The tale was done, and, with hands clasped
across his brow, he waited,

For a full minute there was deathly stillness.

He heard his heart beat, nothing more.

Not so much as a rustle or a breath from
the woman he had so terribly wronged.

Then the tension was broken.

If he had nerved himself to face a tempest
of righteous anger he had misjudged the
woman.

More startling than curses, more stagger-
ing than heavy blows, were the sounds that
brought the tragic stillness to an end,

CHAPTER VI.
SOMETHING TO LIVE FOR,

A low, fluttering moan, long drawn and
vibrant with the most intense agony.

fate truth had possessed Mrs, Schuyler’s
mind, 3

Like a dagger that wounds, but cannot kill,
it had entered her heart, and the anguish it
caused was too profound for words.

She knew not yet what to think.

All her consciousness was centered upon the
irreparable loss of her husband, and the loss
of her child, that might have been repaired.

It is the deepest: natures that suffer most.
With her at this trying moment was a vague
feeling that she had not known in all these
years how much she had suffered, had not
known till now, when it suddenly appeared
that one cause of her woe had been needless.

Her child, winsome little May, had not per-
ished in the rolling waters of the Hudson; she
might have been restored to her, and had not.

It almost seemed an.added cruelty that this
monster should tell her of it at this late day.

But as yet not even her thoughts were as
clear as this, and no words passed her lips.

 

It was not merely Mrs. Robert Schuyler _who 1

sat there, tearless. ‘It was the Mother Heart
whose moan of infinite distress vibrated on the
air and smote the wicked commodore to the
depths of his black soul.

it brought about his utter collapse.

His limbs refused to support him longer, and
he sank in a groveling heap upon the floor.

“My God! Lucia,’ he sobbed; ‘‘spare me!”’

This..gave her. emotions definite form and
made it possible for her to speak.

Rising, queenly in her passion, she looked
down upon him in withering scorn.

“Oh! you worse than criminal!”
slowly; “you coward! Spare you? Have you
spared me in all these years? Have you done
one thing to atone for the unspeakable wrong
you inflicted upon me? And would you have
me believe that you now make this confes-
sion from any desire to help me? No! it is a
lie, Jerome Schuyler,. You confess merely be-
cause you are such a craven coward that you
dare not face your Maker without this pre-
tended repentance. You think to delude the
Almighty, to. escape the lasting punishment
He will mete out for your sin by groveling to
me! That is why you confess, and you torture
me anew in the cowardly hope that such a
fright-inspired confession will ease you of your
burden of sin before you pass the gates of
death!’’

“You mistake me, Lucia,’ groaned the
wretched commodore; ‘‘you mistake me. Re-
member how I told you that months ago I
sought in the only way left to me to find——”
_.‘“Make no protestations to me!” she fiercely
interrupted. ‘Tell me one thing—does my
child live?’’

‘Alas! I do not Know!’’

“Then cease all this frantic babbling of
death. Live! for you have something to live
for! Find and restore my child!’

‘““‘Would that I could live, Lucia! But the
doctors tell me that I am doomed. Any mo-
ment, they say—probably very soon. Heavens!
I may die before we finish this dreadful
scene!’

His voice quavered with the fear of death
that was upon him. He did not look up, but
remained on his Knees, his hands before his
face, his whole frame palpitating.

She gave him one glance of unutterable
scorn, and ‘turned away.

Through her anguish, rising above her just
passion, a new thought was working its way
to her consciousness.

What if, indeed, he should die suddenly?

_ Despite the awful torture he had just now
inflicted upon her, he had raised one tiny
spark of hope.

Her child had not perished in the river.

Little May had been abducted; she might,
then, be now alive. :

If he should die this minute, with him would
go that tiny, almost impossible hope.

‘‘He must not die till he has told me more,”’
she thought, as she walked slowly to the far-
ther end of the spacious room. ‘Agitation
may be just the thing to bring about the final
catastrophe. Oh! well, he merits that death
should come while I stand accusing and con-
demning over him! But he must not die until
he has given me at least as much advantage
as he would have in searching for my child.”

With this there came a tenderer feeling.
Maternal love was evoked, and passion gave
way to it.

“Tt is not for me to condemn,”’ she thought
further. “I must not be merely the tigress
robbed of her young. Wronged as I have
been, I must leave the judgment to unerring
Providence. It is my part to think solely for
my child, my darling May—now, if she lives, a
grown woman! He says he has tried to find
trace of the woman to whom May was con-
signed; but he is frenzied and has been so for
months. He may have overlooked the plainest
means of discovering the woman’s where-
abouts. I must keep my mind clear and think
for him, and meantime I must be careful not
to excite him further lest he prove to be alto-
gether useless in this quest to which the rest
of my life shall be devoted.”’

Having thought for some moments in this
strain, and having paused long enough to get
her emotions ant®thoughts under what she be-
lieved to be firm control, Mrs. Schuyler re-
crossed the room and stopped in»front of the
commodore, who still Knelt sobbing where he
had collapsed.

“T wish you would rise, Jerome,’’ she said,
sadly. ‘‘We must talk further. I want you to
clear your mind of all fears. Forget what I
said a moment ago, and try to help me.’’

Slowly, abjectly, and not daring yet to face
her, he struggled to his\feet and sank into a
chair. ih ¥ age

“T cannot ask you to forgive me, Lucia,’’ he
stammered, but there was plain intimation in
his tone that he did ask forgiveness.

A dreadful torrent of loathing rushed over
her at this.

The suggestion of forgiveness was almost
too much for her resolution to be calm.

“Do not ask it!’’ she hastily cried. ‘I cannot
forgive—not yet. I am human.”

She stopped abruptly and once more devoted
her splendid will to getting her emotions un-
der control,

“J deserve your hatred,’’ he whined.

“Yes,’”’ she answered; “‘but we will not speak
of what you deserve. It is what you can do
that must be thought of. Tell me about this
Millburn woman. What do you know about
her?~ Who is, or was, she? How did you come
to know her? Remember, the slightest point
of information may prove valuable now.’’

“God knows,” said he, “I would gladly tell
you all you want to know if I could, but I can
add little to what I have already said.

“T came upon Hester Millburn during one
of my journeys when I was roaming about
the world as a young man. I was in quest
of adventure as much as anything else, and
she figured in one of the most exciting inci-
dents of my life. I will not stop to detail it,
for how I rescued her from’a perilous situa-
tion can be of no consequence at this day.
I will only say that I did not know who she
was; she was an entire stranger until that
adventure was over. She had suffered horri-
bly, but I’saved her from worse to come, and
in her gratitude she declared that ever after-
ward her services should be held absolutely
at my command. You may see clearly what
kind of man I was that even then I took ad-
vantage of her feeling to exact this awful
promise, intimating to her clearly at the time
that I might not be serupulous in what I
should ask of her. Even then I was beginning
to foster the idea of the crime of which I have
told you.

“TJ have told. you that Lucy Millburn, Hes-
ter’s. daughter, was -in reality my servant,
though she was.actually engaged in your nur-
sery. The day before my crime Hester came
secretly to the neighborhood of Hillcrest,
which proved to be a fortunate move for me
when Lucy refused to carry out her part of
the plot by taking the child with her on the
yacht, I saw Hester then, and made the ar-
rangement of which I told you. She took my
money and disappeared. Not one word have
T heard of her or the child since that day. I
wish it were otherwise. If she had only black-
mailed me during these years! But she has
been true to her.compact. I could see only one
way—to advertise.”’

Mrs. Schuyler listened intently. She was
trying to analyze what he had said, with a
view to seeing if there was the shred of a
clew which might be followed. 2 :

As she said nothing, he added, hesitatingly:

“7 could not bring myself to do so, but you
might employ private detec——’”’ ;

“And subject myself to countless impos-
tures!’’ she interrupted, indignantly. “I can-
not wonder that you were too cowardly to
trust your secret to a detective; but for other
reasons I shall not do so. I must find this
Hester Millburn; but when I find her, how
can I trust her? What reliance can be placed
upon a woman—a mother, too—who would lend
herself to so monstrous a crime?”

“T can only assure you,’ replied the com-
modore, ‘‘that if you find Hester Millburn she
will tell you the truth. You can depend abso-
lutely on that.”’

Once again her aversion for him, her wound-
ed affections, rose in a tumult. Her question-
ing had been in vain. He was now as=power-
less to help her as he had been all-powerful
to hurt her in years gone by.

“Wretch!”’ she exclaimed in sudden fury.
“You would have me take one criminal’s word
for the truthfulness of another! You have
added to my years of sorrow this unspeakable
torture for nothing! Ah! how I hate——”’

He was cowering before her as if he saw
in her an avenging angel.

The sight of his abject quailing stemmed
the torrent of her wrath, and in its place
came not pity but measureless contempt.

Then her lacerated heart yielded as sudden-
ly to another feeling, and the tender mother-
love returned.

With that welling in her breast, and kind-
ling hope, in spite of the apparent impossibil-
ity of realizing it, she could not berate’ this
quivering wreck.

“Heaven forgive me!’’ she ey
must think of nobler things.”

Then she addressed him.

“You have nothing to fear
said. ‘‘So far as is possible
weakness I forgive you my widowhood, the
loss of my child, your years of silence. My
hate could not punish you, and such forgive-
ness as 1 can render will not help you. You

she said,

whispered.

from me,’’ she
to my human

may know that you have darkened the cloud

 

 

that you cast over my life sixteen years ago.
If while you live any slight thing occurs that
you think may lighten it, I depend upon you
to tell me without delay. Live,
as you can, Jerome. I shall not disturb you.
You have my sorrow to live for.”’

She turned and left him.

When she had come to the door and was
about to open it, she was arrested by an
inarticulate-cry.

Looking back, she saw him upon his hands
and knees, trying with trembling fingers to
pick up the newspaper cutting that he had
given her.

She had not looked at>it, and it had fallen
unperceived to the floor.

“Stay!” he gasped. ‘‘About Hester Millburn
—if I should die—you can identify her!”

He worked himself painfully to his feet and
shuffled toward her, holding out the slip of
paper.

Mrs. Schuyler advanced breathlessly to meet

im.

“See! see!’’ he went on, speaking in thick,
almost incomprehensible accents; ‘‘the adver-
tisement. - You overlooked it.’’

As well as he could manage with his shaking
forefinger he pointed to the first line of print.

She was so absorbed in wonder and so
startled by what she read that she failed to
note the significant change that was coming
over him.

A physician would have known, but she saw
only a few strange words that suggested much
but told little to her.

She looked into his wavering eyes.

“Tell me!’’ she exclaimed, excitedly. ‘‘What
does it mean—what does it mean, Jerome?’’

Mrs. Schuyler had taken the paper, and just
as she made her inquiry, the commodore
grasped at a chair and fell helplessly into it.

Thinking only of her child, she did not note}

his appearance. She saw only his slowly part-
ing lips.

TO BE CONTINUED.

NO ALTERNATIVE.

BY NICK CARTER.

CHAPTER I.
A STARTLING TRAGEDY,

“You must have some reason, Ferson, for
these misgivings. If, as you say, you cannot
help feeling that there is something wrong at
the Courtland National Bank, you certainly
should have definite grounds for the suspi-
cion=”

“Grounds, Nick, old friend; but not definite
grounds,’ was the reply. ‘‘That’s just the
trouble, and just why I have called on you
for aid.’’

“Do you mean that you have suspicions
which you cannot verify?”

‘“‘Which I have not yet verified,”
the other.

This other was one of the United States’
bank examiners, John P. Ferson, a prepos-
sessing man of middle life; and that afternoon
he was seated in the office of America’s
greatest detective, Nick Carter, the two hay-
ing long been personal friends.

Nick indulged in a rather quizzical smile at
the above correction.

“But which you mean to verify with my
assistance?’ he inquired, dryly.

“That’s just about the size of it, Nick.”’

“You rather interest me, Ferson,” said
Nick, little dreaming what a terrible tragedy
this interview was to preface. ‘‘When did you
last investigate the affairs of the Courtland
National Bank?’’

“Six months ago, Nick.”

With what result?”

“The books and cash appeared to be all
right, and the bank on a sound footing. In
so far as my examination of them went, it
was perfectly satisfactory.’’

“Why, then, do you suspect
wrong?’ ;

“Because, Nick, the human eye sometimes
betrays what the human hand may craftily
conceal,’ Ferson gravely answered.

“What do you imply by that?’

“Tt mean, Nick, that I did not like the look
in Tom Rexford’s eyes,; when I entered his
bank six months ago and announced that I
was about to examine his books and the funds
and securities of the bank.”

“Rexford is the cashier?”

Yom.

“Did he know you were coming to make the
examination?”

“By no means. You know we nearly always
spring these examinations without notice.’’

“Did Rex offer any objections?”’

“None at all, Nick,’’ replied Ferson, gravely.
“But, as I have said, I did not like his eye.
I was irresistibly impressed that my visit
was seriously inopportune. His nervousness
for the time, moreover, did not escape my
notice. As usual, I first examined the funds
on hand, of which I made a careful count,
After this had been done, Rexford seemed to
be more at ease. One other thing, please, be-
fore you interrupt me. I noticed that there was
little delay on Rexford’s part in producing all
of the funds, the most of which were brought
from the vault; but the fact that he did not
leave the bank, and my previous observations
led me to carefully :watch him, and tended to
persuade me that things were not all right.’

“At what time did you enter the bank to
make the examination?”

“Just at the close of the day’s business,”’

“Clerks all there?’

““No; some of them ‘had gone. In fact, néarly
all of them had left before I departed.”

“Are your apprehensions based only upon
your observations of Cashier Rexford at that
time ?’’

“Hardly!” and Ferson smiled gravely.

“What more?’

“The fact is, Nick, that I was so seriously
impressed with these misgivings that, a week
later, I privately put a shadow upon Rexford,
with a view to learning something about his
habits.’’

‘Who was the shadow?’’

“Jim Herrick, the detective.’’

**What has he reported?’’

“The report is not reassuring,’ said Fer-
son. “He tells me that Rexford is a very
high-roller, that he has speculated heavily
at times, through some third party whose
identity the detective has not yet been able
to discover, and that he lives far above the
income he is reputed to have.’’

‘“‘Humph! is that so?’

‘Herrick has supplied
liable evidence of all this.’

“Ts Rexford married?’

“No. He is a bachelor of about forty, and
has a suite at a well-known hotel.”

“Has he ever had money left him?’

“Not that I can ascertain.”

*“Wio are his gentleman’ friends?”’

“tie may be found almost every afternoon
with the brokers who haunt the Waldorf.’’

“Ah, that also is suggestive,’’ said Nick,
thoughtfully. ‘Are there any indications that
he may be contemplating matrimony?’

‘Rather to the contrary, according to Her-
rick,” said Ferson. ‘He is openly friendly
with a rather Bohemian set of stage beauties,
and on terms of intimacy with Laura Getch-
ell, who’ is president of the Ladies’ Institute
for Savings and Investment. Possibly he may
have a matrimonial eye upon the latter; I
cannot say.as to that.”’

‘What style of woman is Miss Getchell?’
“She is about thirty-five, very handsome and
stylish,’’ replied Ferson. “She is also
woman of much business capacity, or
never could have started
and brought it to its
prosperity.”

“Then it is on a solid basis.’’

“The last investigation, made by one of the
State examiners, shows it to be all right.”

“Good for Miss Getchell!’’ smiled Nick.
a rulé, these women’s banks have not proved
successful. Does this ome come under the
jurisdiction of the State Board of Examin-
ers ?”’

“Yes, of .course.”’

“Are you acquainted with Laura Getchell?”’

“Not personally. I have seen her, however.’’

Nick sat in silence for several minutes, star-
ing at the floor.

Presently he looked up and said:

“What leads you, Ferson, to appeal to me
for aid in this matter?”

“Because I want the help of a man of the
keenest discernment,’ Ferson promptly an-
swered. ‘‘To-morrow I am going to make an-
other examination at the Courtland National
Bank, and I want you with me at the time.
As a matter of fact, Nick, I have become in-
fernally nervous over these misgivings of
mine. I fear that something is escaping my
notice. It twice has come to my ears that
my work is not entirely satisfactory to the
Comptroller of the Currency at Washington.”

“Oh, pshaw!”? exclaimed Nick. ‘‘That’s ab-
surd! You are one of the most expert ac-
countants in the country.’’

“At all events,’ protested Ferson, rather
sadly, ‘‘I have been seriously tempted to re-
sign my position. Work and worry have made
me nervous before this matter came up, and
now——’”’

corrected

anything

me with very re-

she

present condition

then, as long!

a |

this woman’s bank |
of |

*$As |

t

| ‘Well, well, Ferson, I’ll take a hand with
| you in this matter,’’ Nick again interposed,
| cheerfully. ‘‘And perhaps we can settle it be-
tween us. You say you will make the ex-
amination to-morrow ?”’

“At what time?’

“We will go up there at

suits your convenience,”’
_ ‘I would suggest the same time as before,
just at the close of the day’s business. The
conditions, in that respect, then, will be the
same as before.”’

“A good idea, I think.”

“And don’t you think it well. to arrange
our visit when President Kramer is likely to
be absent?’’

“That is one reason why I selected to-mor-
row,’ replied Ferson, ‘‘Kramer is in Wash-
ington this week.’’

“Ah, is that so?’’

“TI was informed only this morning.”

“Very good!” exclaimed Nick. ‘‘Call
at one to-morrow. afternoon and I will be
ready to accompany you. In the meantime,
make sure that Rexford does not learn that
you are in the city.”’

*“‘Never fear, Nick; I ghall insure that.’’

The Courtland National Bank occupied the
first floor of the Evans Building, in Twenty-
third street, and enrolled among its deposit-
ors many of the leading merchants of that
section of the city.

Just as one of the clerks its
door the following afternoon, Examiner Fer-
son and Nick Carter appeared in the corridor
of the building. The clerk recognized the
former, and at once admitted them to the
bank, and Ferson immediately led the way to
the cashier’s private room.

They found Rexford seated at his desk, a
tall, clean-cut, handsome man of forty, with
a pale complexion and a pair of searching
black eyes.

He started slightly when the two men en-

any time that

here

was closing

+ tered, then quickly tossed away his cigar and

rose to his feet,

“Hello, Ferson!’ he exclaimed,
ruptly. “‘How are you?”’

“How are you, Mr. Rexford?’ bowed Fer-
son. “Shake hands with Mr. Wilder, one of
my assistants.”

“Glad to know you, Mr. Wilder,’’ nodded the
cashier, extending his hand to Nick, and re-
garding him quite sharply.

Nick modestly bowed, and murmured a brief
response. His features are so familiar to
most New York bank officials that he had
taken the precaution to disguise himself; and
he appeared to be a middle-aged man, with
sedately benignant eyes back of his gold-
bowed spectacles.

“To what do I owe this visit, Ferson?’’
quired Rexford,
iner.

Ferscn smiled and laid aside his hat.

“I seldom call except on business,’’
plied. ‘I wish to annoy you
examination here.”

“What! Again?’ cried Rexford, laughing,
“Tt seems but yesterday that you with an-
other made examination of affairs here.”’

“It was six months ago, Mr. Rexford.”’

‘Dear me! is that so?’’ smiled the cashier,
waving his visitors to chairs at a near table,
“T had no idea it was so long ago.’’

“Six months yesterday, I believe.’

“Well, well, it does not matter,’’
ford, producing a box of cigars. “I am per-
fectly agreeable, and will do what I can to
assist you. Will you start in with a smoke?
Join us, Mr. Wilder. Ill instruct my clerks
to let the books remain on the desks. Pres-
ident Kramer happens to be out of the city
just now.”’

“Yes? Indifferently
he lighted ‘his cigar. ~

Rexford bowed and withdrew to the
office of the bank.

Nick leaned across the table,
the arm of his companion,

“You do your work as usual, Ferson,”’ he
said, softly. ‘‘Pay no attention to me. I wish
chiefly to notice the movements of this cash-
ier.

“Do you suspect anything ?’’

“T have the same impression that you had,”
Nick quietly answered.

At the end of ten_minutes the cashier re-

turned. -
“If you will join me, Mr, Ferson, we
and securities in here,”

bring the funds
“You may use my table

said, affably.
desk.”’

“Very well,’ nodded Ferso1 risins

‘I have let the clerks go,” added Rexford,
as they Srocecteq ty ies. Rae
fix up the accounts before opening ty
morning. How do you like th
Wilder? It’s a brand I receive
Havana.”’

“Splendid flavor, Mr. Rexford, though
cigar is rather stronger than I
smoke,’’ smiled Nick.

Rexford laughed and entered the huge safe
with the bank examiner.

Nick took the opportunity to glance about
the main inclosure.

He did not quite fancy this abrupt dismissal
of the several clerks, though everything ap-
peared to have been left undisturbed.

Presently the two emerged from the vault,
and carried several boxes of securities to the
cashier’s room, which was at a farther end of
the main inclosure.

Nick pretended to busy himself at the desk
of the bookkeeper.

From the conversation which reached his
ears from the cashier’s room, he knew that
Ferson was looking over the securities and
making a tabulation of them.

At the end of five minutes Rexford
came into the inclosure.

Though he kept his own back turned, Nick
watched him by means of a small mirror
palmed in his left hand.

The cashier certainly appeared uneasy.

Twice he glanced in Nick’s direction, then
nervously visited the cage of the receiving
teller, and a moment later he went to stare
out of one of the rear windows of the bank,
as if with a passing interest in the gloomy
area. at the back, or the grim rear wall of a
lofty building fronting on the street below.

Finally he turned sharply about and went
back to his private office. =

“You will be busy here for five or ten min-
utes, Ferson,’’ Nick heard him say. ‘I wish
to run out for just a few moments, to can-
cel an engagement which your visit prevents
my keeping, I’ll not be absent longer than
ten minutes.’’

‘“‘All right, Rexford,’ Ferson replied. “I
shall be engaged as long as that, surely. Sorry
to have compelled this change in your plans.”

“Oh, don’t mention that,’’ exclaimed Rex-
ford, lightly. ‘‘It is of no consequence, only
I don’t want to keep a party vainly waiting
for me. I will soon return.”’

Then Nick saw the speaker smilingly emerge
and hasten from the bank.

Nick instantly followed him, slipping off his
disguise as he went.

He found it perfectly
man,

Rexford hastened to a swell saloon less than
two blocks away, there ordering a drink and
saying a few words to its proprietor, The reé-
sponses of the latter reached Nick’s ears, and
seemed to give color to Rexford’s representa-
tion,

“All right, Tom,’’ was the reply. ‘Sorry
you can’t go, yet to-morrow will do as well.
Very kind of you to come and let me know.”

Nick was forced to conclude that, if any
scheme really was in operation, it was decid-
|edly well planned.
| His errand done,
| ward the bank.
| His step appeared to be nervous and hurried,
| yet his fine, dark face betrayed no perturba-
tion.
| As he neared the bank building, he seemed
|to anxiously scan the interior through the
| broad windows, which were several feet above
the level of the sidewalk.

“T more than half believe
to discover whether I am still
Nick to himself.

The thought crossed the
just as Rexford reached the
of the building.

He scarce had set foot upon the wide granite
steps, however, ‘when a startling incident oc-

curred.

The janitor of the building came rushing
out, colliding heavily with Rexford, nearly
‘throwing the latter from his feet, and crying
loudly, in accents of mingled horror and dis-
may:

“Oh, my God! Go into the bank—into the
bank, Mr. Rexford! A man has just shot
himself! He lies dead on the floor!”

Nick Carter had reached the steps before
the last word of the horrified janitor was
fairly uttered.

The impression on Tom,Rexford’s face was
that of a man inexpressively startled and dis-
mayed.

Both Nick and he rushed up the steps, and
thence through the corridor nd into the
bank.

The great apartment
and as silent as a tomb.

Both entered the inclosure at the same
moment, and simultaneously beheld the shock-
ing evidence of the awful tragedy there en-
acted. :

Prostrate upon the floor, within six feet of

rather ab-

in-
again turning to the exam-

: he re-
with another

said Rex-

responded Ferson, as
main

and touched

will
he
and

t cl2al \
direct from

the
usually

again

easy to shadow his

 

Rexford started back _ to-

that ‘he is trying
in there,’’ said

detective’s mind
broad entrance

was utterly deserted,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
“|@ ward the _ several

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vol. 57—No. &

 

 

the open safe door, lay the dead body of
Bank Examiner Ferson, with his ghastly face
upturned, his arms widely extended, and his
brains oozing from a great bullet hole in the
side of the head.

Prostrate“upon the floor, almost in touch
with higs?right hand, lay a revolver, evidently
the weapon with which the man’s life had
been taken.

_CHAPTER IL.
THE WOMAN IN THE CASE, —

“Merciful heavens!’’ cried Cashier Rexford,
the moment his eyes fell upon the lifeless
ion on the floor; ‘‘Ferson has killed him-
se 4,

“Or been killed by another!’’ said a cold
voice at his elbow. ‘

The cashier wheeled about like a flash, and
glared for an instant at the stern, white face
of the speaker.

Though his own features.were almost hue-
less, there still lingered in his eyes an ex-
pression of dismay and horror for which Nick
Carter, in the light of his instinctive suspi-
cions, could not easily account.

Why Rexford should have manifested Such
surprise and dismay, if there was indeed a
deficit in the bank funds, and he for any rea-
son a party to Ferson’s death, was a question

not easily answered. :

Yet Nick felt perfectly sure that neither his
_ surprise nor dismay was feigned at just that
moment.
entirely assumed.

“Killed by another!” gasped Rexford, in re-
ply. “‘You surely do. not think he has been
murdered!’’

“Don’t you think so, Mr. Rexford?’

“T scarce can think at all,’’ was the sharp
response. ‘‘Who are you, sir, and why do you
pick me up in this way?’

“TI am picking up a scarlet thread—not you,
sir,’ said Nick,.quickly. “‘My name is Nick
Carter, and I'll look into this affair from the
start, Mr. Rexford, if it’s all the same to
you.’ ~

Rexford instantly pulled in his horns,

“Goodness! I recognize you now, Detective
Carter,” he cried. ‘“‘Thank God that you are
here so prompily! ‘Take the reins, by all
means, sir! And if there is any question of
murder here, look first of all for Ferson’s as-
sistant, who seems to have vanished. I left
~them alone here less than ten minutes ago.

\ Till see if he has made off with any of the
securities.”

“One moment!’’ cried Nick, sharply. ‘Do
you refer to Mr. Wilder?’

“The same—yes,”’

“Don’t bother about him, then,’’ commanded
Nick. “I saw him in the street all of ten
minutes ago, and spoke with him.”

As a breath of air ripples for the fraction of
a second the calm surface of a pond, sv a
swift sigh of relief and satisfaction momen-
_tarily changed the expression on Rexford’s
tace.

It did not escape Nick’s searching scrutiny,
however, afid the detective instantly decided
that Rexford was eased by this assurance
that Ferson’s assistant had left so quiekly
after he himself had departed.

“You are quite sure of that?’’ demanded the
cashier.

‘Perfectly so. Wilder cannot possibly have
had any hand in this man’s death, if it in-
. deed is a case of murder.”’ e

“Tll at least make sure that nothing is
missing,’’ cried Rexford, hurriedly entering
the vault, from which he almost immediately
emerged and hastened to his private room.

Before this, however, the bank had begun
to fill with curious and excited observers,
drawn by the spreading news of the tragedy,
and Nick Carter now followed Rexford’s ad-
vice and took the reins.

To summon the aid of several policemen,
to exclude the crowd from the bank and
from the broad corridors outside, to make a
cursory examination of the body on the floor,
and of the slight evidence superficially pre-
sented, and then to start an inquiry into the
matter—all this was very speedily accomplish-
ed by a man of Nick Carter's energy and
rare executive ability. : -

_ It will not be necessary. to present verbatim
the testimony he evoked from the several
vpeted questioned, nor to describe in detail
is study of the grewsome evidence at hand.
The main results of the half-hour’s hurried
work may be summed up in a few words.

Ferson was found to have been shot

,* ~ 5 e sion t e€<
mawwares &

Re -

The weapon witl
eommitted was a .44-calibre
Colt make. : sep
- Neither upon the body, nor in its position,
was there any evidence to definitely indicate
whether the crime was that of murder or sui-
cide. E
That the hair about the wound was slightly
burned showed that the weapon must have
been held at very close range, possibly in the
hand of the man himself. pe

This quickly gave rise to the belief, in the
minds of several persons admitted to the
bank, that Ferson had for some reason com-
mitted suicide, a theory strongly sustained by
the fact that, as far as could be learned, he
was alone when the deed was done.

Of all the observers, Nick Carter alone
was not ready to adopt this theory.

Payson, the janitor, who had discovered the
body, testified to having been~in the main
corridor of the building when he heard the
report of the weapon, a statement corrobo-
rated by a gentleman with whom he had been
talking at the time,

This was about a minute before Rexford
and Nick met him rushing out of the bank
building. r

“At first I could not tell from what room
the sound had come,” the janitor explained
to Nick and the group of men and officers
surrounding the great detective. “But I felt
at once that something very terrible had hap-

ned.
PW hat did you do?” demanded Nick. |

“TJ ran through the corridor, sir, looking to-
doors, to-see if anybody

had
of the

which the deed
revolver,

_e¢ame out.’ ¥
- “You saw no one?”
i = Not @& -soul, sir

E Then I thought there
-might have been trouble in the bank, and I

rushed in here. I instantly detected the smell
of gunpowder, and on approaching the lattice
window yonder I saw this man on the floor.”

“Did you see any other person?

- ‘“‘No, sir.’’ ‘ eS

“Did you see any person leave the bank af-
ter the shot was fired?”

“No person did so, sir, I will swear to
that,” said Payson, confidently. “It would
have been impossible for one to have done so
by any of the corridor doors without my see-
ing him.’’ =

‘““And the windows are all secured as usual?
said Nick.

“Yes, s ae :

“There is a rear cellar door,. Detective Car-
ter, leading to the area out back,” suggested
one of the bank directors, who had recently
arrived upon the scene. -

“J already have examined that, and I find
conclusive evidence that the door has not been
recently opened,” repligd Nick, not a little

“mystified by the crime,” despite his grounds
for suspicion. - b 4

“PWurthermore,’” continued Nick, “‘we have
thoroughly searched the rooms and _ closets of
the bank and find them unoccupied. Do you
know, Mr. Payson, of any other mode of exit
which a possible criminal could have used?’’

“No, sir, I do not,’’ said Payson, promptly.
“There are only the front doors, the small
cellar door, and the windows.”

“It is very evident that none of these were
used, and unless——’’ 3

But what Nick would have added was in-
terrupted at that moment by the appearance
of a new person on the scene.

‘This was a fashionably-dressed woman of
splendid figure, and extraordinarily handsome

face.

She had hurriedly entered the bank, fairly
forcing her way through the crowd at the
doors and about the officers stationed there,
and had quickly entered the inclosure in which

the group of men still were standing over
John Ferson’s lifeless body. ¢

‘Though the woman’s face was very pale,
it, took on a look of intense surprise and re-
lief the moment her eyes fell upon the tall
figure of Tom Rexford.

“Oh, thank God!’ she impulsively cried,

| ‘hastening toward him, and apparently obliv-
| fous of the men now observing her. “Oh, Mr,
- Rexford—Tom! They told me you had~been
~ killed—murdered’’

Rexford had sprung forward and taken both
her hands. :

“Told you I had been killed!” he exclaimed,
in manifest amazement. -

“Yes, yes!” she “eried, ‘hhalf-fainting, half-
sobbing. ‘‘That’s what I was told, Tom!

The report just came to me at the bank, and}

- I thastened here at_once. Oh, I am so re-
lieved at finding you unharmed.”

“Contain yourself; be calm,” said Rexford,
—eN: “Here, take this chair. The news you
Teceived was distorted by its bearer, or by
hers. it is one of the ban aminers who
dead. has committed suicide.’”’ _

Oh, how shocking! How shocking!’
The woman’s tearful eyes had been turned

They were too natural to have been |

 

just |
ar, gnc pis déath must haye |
- gee

been

 

the ghastly figure upon the floor, and as

if this hideous picture only was needed to |

overcome her, she suddenly buried her face
= ad handkerchief and fell to weeping vio-
ntly.

Assisted by “the bank director mentioned,
Tom Rexford raised her to her feet and led
her out of the inclosure; and Nick Carter
deere saw them send her away in a Car-
riage.

“Whe was that lady?’ Nick quietly asked
of the director, when the latter rejoined him.
ac that was Miss Getchell,”_ was the reply.
‘She is the head of the Ladies’ Savings Bank
out back here.”

Nick’s mobile features did not betray his
sudden startling train of thought.

“Out back here?’ he inquired, indifferently.
“Yes, in the building yonder,’ nodded the
director, ‘‘It fronts on the street below.”

“Ah, I see,’’ murmured Nick. “Is
Getchell a friend of Mr. Rexford?’

_ “Said to be,’’ bowed the other. “In fact, it
is intimated that they are to marry, sooner or
later. What do you make of this affair, Mr.
Carter?’’ ; i

“Suicide!’”? said Nick, promptly,
now saw Rexford drawing near,
edly is a case of suicide!’’

But already, with a very shrewd design of
his own, this great detective had said just
the opposite of what he now firmly believed.

Miss

when he
“Tt undoubt-

CHAPTER ‘III.

_ RUNNING DOWN A SHREWD KNAVERY.

Before leaving the Courtland National Bank
that afternoon, Nick Carter telephoned to
Chick, his assistant, to join him there. -

And when Tom Rexford left the bank at
six o’clock that evening, after Ferson’s body
had been removed and the news of the sui-
cide given out to the press, the handsome
casher had at his heels a far more clever and
capable shadow than. Detective Jim Herrick
ever dreamed of becoming.

This. shadow, of course, was Chick Car-
ter. a

Rexford went straight to his rooms at his
hotel, however, and did not receive a caller
nor leave the hotel until he returned to the
bank again at nine the following morning.

his- was reported to Nick by Patsy, an-
other of his aids, who had been detailed for
this purpose.

Niek, meantime, had prepared the way for
a design which he now had in mind.

A wire to Washington had brought on that
night an expert accountant, and the exami-
nation begun by Ferson at the Courtland Na-
tional Bank was resumed the very next morn-
ing by Examiner Clark. :

In this examination Nick also had a hand,
again disguised as before, and using the name
of Wilder. :

The work was concluded that afternoon, and
the examination showed that the accounts of
the bank were correct, and the amount of cash
and securities right to a cent.

This was precisely what Nick Carter had an-
ticipated,

And he took occasion to express to Rexford
his satisfaetion over the result, and his sor-
row for the lamentable suicide of Examiner
Ferson.

Rexford displayed neither satisfaction nor
relief at this expression of the ostensible ex-
aminer’s approval.

Taking an opportune moment that after-
noon, Nick, unobserved, accomplished another
move in the case.

He admitted by a rear cellar door what ap-
peared toe be a gas-fitter, who carried a sec-
tion of pipe and a bag of tools.

The gas-fitter, however, was Chick.

At three o’clock Nick shook hands with Rex-

ford and bade him good-day, then bowed him-| masonry, and hastened softly up the stairs to

| his own private office.

ee of the cashier’s office and left the
ank,

Just after dark that same evening, Chick ad-
mitted Nick to the cellar by the same rear
door, which Nick then secured as usual.

“Well, old man, what news?’ whispered
Chick, surveying the great detective by the
light of a single ray from his pocket-lantern,
which alone broke the Egyptian darkness of
the cellar.

“No additional news, my boy,’ replied Nick.
‘We have to wait for that,”

“Here?”

oe es

All night?”

“Ali night, Ch

constantly shadow him. if he

with the
and

communication
Patsy will come here

ge

“What about the Ladies’ Bank?’

“Two of the State examiners will begin an
investigation of the accounts there at nine
o’clock to-morrow morning,” replied Nick. ‘I
have provided for all that, and I don’t much
expect any new developments before that time.
J thought I would be on the safe side, how-
ever, and remain here all night.”

“T should say so!’

**Ail we can now do is to make-ourselves as
comfortable as possible, and await results.”

A sleepless night in a dark cellar is not
conducive to comfort, taken at its best, but
the two detectives made little account of their
weary vigil.

party I
inform

broke the long silence.

When the first gray of dawn at the single |
window which the place afforded announced |
the coming day, the steps of the janitor were |

heard on the floor above.

He had no duties taking him to the cellar
under the bank, however, and Nick gave but
little attention to his movements.

As a matter of fact, the janitor was merely
cleaning up the rooms and the bank, as usual,
before the opening of the day’s business,

At the end of three hours more the con-
fusion overhead told Nick that the clerks were
arriving. ~

Consulting his watch, the detective found
that it was then half-past eight.

“The hour approaches, Chick,’ he _ said
softly. ‘‘We ‘had better lie low from now on.
We soon should know what my deductions are
worth.”

“T would back them with my
Nick,’’ Chick quietly laughed.

The daylight from outside now'served_ to
to partially dispel the darkness of the cellar,
yet, in the semi-obscurity that remained, ob-
jects were only imperfectly discernible.

In one corner, nearly opposite thé rear door,
which was reached by ascenditig several stone
steps, was a number of boxes containing some
old books and files of the bank.

Back of these cases the two detectives found
a tolerably safe place of concealment.

Nick was shrewd enough, however, not to
venture moving any of them.

Crouching silently behind the boxes, the two
men grimly waited. :

A little after nine o’clock, just the time
Nick had anticipated, their vigil was re-

varded. ’

A quick, cautious, hurried step fell upon the
stairs in the opposite corner,

Then the tall figure of Tom Rexford, the
bank cashier, appeared on the cellar floor.

Against the surrounding twilight, the white-
ness of his pale face appeared like that of
marbie.- It was evident that he had stolen
down there from the bank above.

A glance about the gloomy cellar seemed to
reassure- him. Hastening to a part of the
wall a few yards from the rear door, he
quickly pushed back what appeared to be a
solid portion of the rough masonry, so cleverly
constructed and fitted to the wall that the ex-
istence of such a door would easily have defied
ordinary inspection.

The aperture revealed was lower than the
slabs of slate paving the area back of the
building, and it disclosed a dark passage about
three feet wide and five feet high, which ex-
tended in_the direction of the building occu-
eel by the bank of which Miss Laura Get-

whole pile,

chell was the chief director, the rear elewation
of whieh was about twenty feet from: that of
the Courtland Bankebuilding.

That it entered the cellar of the other build-
ing also, and had been secretly constructed for
some infamous purpose, Nick Carter_had not
a doubt.

Rexford scarce had pushed open the portal,
when a quick step and the rustle of skirts

# were heard from within the passage; and al-

most immediately a woman joined him in the
cellar, and within ten feet of the watching
detectives. ”

The woman was Laura Getchell, and her
face was as ghastly white as that of the man
she had so hurriedly joined.

“Did you just get my signal?’ she cried, in
rapid, excited whispers.

“Yes!” was the reply, made with equal
haste and caution. ‘‘What is the trouble?’

“he examiners are at my bank!’’

“The devil you say!” ‘

“They came only a few moments ago. My
God! you don’t imagine that anything is sus-
pected, do you?”

“No, no; it cannot ‘be,’ cried Rexford,
softly. “It is only -a eoincidence that it so
quickly follows the examination. here. How
much are you short in securities?’

“Nearly two hundred thousand, as
know! I let you have more than hal
sum the day before yesterday.”’ ,

you
that

 

|tion for Savings and Investment,
| pDlacently entered.

 

have staved off the examiners here by means
of it, and they think my affairs are all correct.
Here are two hundred thousand in securities,
with which you can do the same, if you can
get them safely into your cash box.”’

“Oh, I ean-do that, Tom!’ cried Miss Get-
chell, with vehement haste, as she accepted a
package which Rexford gave her. ‘But I
referred chiefly to the murder of Ferson! Do
you think anything is suspected?”

“No, no; impossible!” said Rexford. ‘Even
Nick Carter is convinced that the man com-
mitted suicide. You make the examination of
your books and cash- show up all right, and
you are safe enough as regards the other.
Why on earth did you kill Ferson, anyway?"
a Why?” hissed the woman, derisively.

What else could I do? It was his life or our
own inevitable exposure and arrest. There
was no alternative! Why have you not called

on me to learn the facts?’ \

“Because 1 have not felt it was discreet to do
so quite yet. What are the facts? State them
quickly! We must not remain here too long!”’

“The facts!’”’ echoed Miss Getchell, with bit-
ter intensity. “They may be stated in a
breath. When you got Ferson’s assistant out
of the bank, as you said you would do if he
had any suspicion of you, I followed your in-
structions and attempted to place in your safe
the securities which you said you needed to
cover your deficit.” a

“JT accomplished that much, Tom, and suc-
ceeded in reaching the safe unobserved, Fer-
son being then in the side room, where you
had left him. I saw that his assistant had
followed you from the bank, the moment I
came from this cellar, after getting the funds
you had said you needed.”’

“But what about the murder?”

“When Istarted to come out of the safe,
and was about to'hasten down her¢é and back
to my own bank [I heard Ferson suddenly
ee. private room.”

“Yes?

“He was coming to the vault after the re-
mainder of your funds. Good heavens! don’t
you see my situation?. I could not get out un-
seen. I had but one resource. It was a case
ef kill him or be caught there!’’

“I see!- I-see!’

“I nerved myself for the deed, and waited
till he came by the edge of the vault door.
Then I shot him dead! My God! I never can
forget it! And I then ran down here, and
back through the secret passage, closing the
doors behind me. That is how it happened,
Tom! My God! you don’t imagine that the
truth is suspected, do you?”

“No, no! On my word, I don't!”

*‘After it was all over, and I had settled my
nerves again,’’ the woman hurriedly cCon-
tinued; “I came round to your bank, and pre-
tended to have heard that you had been killed.
Don’t you see, Tom? 4 did that in order to
throw suspicion from myself—from both of
us, Tom!”’

“Yes, yes, I see!’’ cried Rexford, hoarsely.
“Tt was a good idea. Go back! Go back now,
and put your cash in shape to avert any sus-
picions. I feel sure that we are both safe
enough. Get rid of your examiners to-day,
and the other crime will soon blow over.
Hurry back, I say! I will call at your rooms
this evening. Go at once!”

he woman needed no further bidding.
Fiercely clutching the package of securities
with which she had been provided to meet the
suddenly-arisen emergency, occasioned by
crafty Nick Carter himself, she stepped down
into the darkness of the secret passage, which
lay some feet below the cellar and the area
outside, and disappeared in the direction of
the Ladies’ Institution for Savings and In-
vestment,

Rexford

instantly closed the door in the

The design of this secret passage, and of
these two conspirators, by which they sup-
plied one another with cash and securities at
a needful moment, is too obvious to require
extended explanation. In: th€ examinations
which followed Nick’S work of that day, it ap-
peared that both banks were thousands of dol-
lars short in their accounts.

And it was now plain enough to Nick, why
Rexford had been dismayed and surprised by
the death of Ferson. %

“Well, Chick,’’ he said, grimly, after Rex-
ford had returned upstairs, “I think may
F ‘eed to net our birds!’
odded

: ay, Nitk- he said; briefly
ord jooked up in Surprise whe
men entered his room. :

“Hello, Carter!’’. he exclaimed. ‘‘What do
you want here this morning?’

“J want you, Mr. Rexford!’”’ said Nick,
eoolly. “I happened to overhear that little
interview in the cellar just now!”’

Rexford made a dive for a telephone on his
desk, and Nick made a dive for him. That he
intended to give some warning to his con-
federate, Nick had not a doubt; but the move
was easily prevented, and a pair of bracelets
fixed on the criminal’s wrists.

Leaving him in the custody of Chick, Nick
immediately proceeded to the Ladies’ Institu-
and com-

n ihe two

He found Miss Laura Getchell talking with

'one of the examiners.
Hour after hour passed, and not a sound, %

“Well, /Miss “Getchell,’”’ he said, quietly;
“have you made up your cash this morning?’

She started quickly, looked him in the’eye
for a moment, then turned whiter than the
lace at her throat.

‘“‘My cash?” she faintly gasped.

“T mean, have you included in it the pack-
age of securities just received from your con-
federate in Grime, Mr. Tom Rexford?’

The woman tried to nerve herself, but the
effort proved vain. Without a word in reply,
and before a hand could support heft, she
dropped like a figure of lead upon the floor,
hueless and unconscious.

Within another half hour both she and Rex-
ford were behind prison bars, safe to receive
their just deserts.

“Oh, the scheme dawned on me quite
quickly,” said Nick, when commenting upon
the case with friends that evening. ‘“‘Rex-
ford’s delay in producing all of the back funds
for Examiner Ferson on previous occasions;
the latter’s suspicions, and Rexford’s own ac-
tions in my presence; his dismissal of all the
clerks, his inviting Ferson to occupy the pri-
vate office out of view of the vault, and his evi-
dent wish to get me out of the way, that the
safe might again be approached by himself or
another; the close location of the other bank,
and his intimacy with Laura Getchell, its
president—all this quickfy led me to suspect
the scheme that was being operated.

“To verify the suspicion was an easy matter,
It became only necessary to force Miss Get-
chell to balance her accounts in the presence
of an examiner. That compelled her to call
upon Rexford for a return of some of her own
securities, as well as a loan from him, and I
have now found that they had a secret signal
wire between their offices.

“T rather think,’’ Nick added, grimly, ‘‘that
the accounts of both will now be balanced in
quite another fashion!’

He was right, as it proved; yet it is doubt-
ful if any other detective would have had such
ready discernment as that of Nick Carter, in
so obscure a case as this.

THE BLUSHING TREE.—Among the many won-
ders of the vast Florida swamps there is noth-
ing more surprising than the blushing tree.
It actually blushes when the rain falls upon

he mysterious and beautiful glow of color
which it assumes in a rainstorm baffles de-
scription. When the cool rain. drenches a
tree, a changing of color is noted. Gradually,
yet unmistakably, the green hue gives way to
pink. In a few minutes the green fades from
sight. Only in a few half-hidden spots, be-
neath broad branches and on its trunk, is
there a tinge of green to be seen. The tree
is as pink as the cheek of a healthy girl.
After.an hour or more, when the shower is
over, the wonderful tree assumes its familiar
green once more. As- it is changing back to
emerald, the spectator suddenly realizes the
secret of the phenomenon, Certain tiny in-
sects, and not the tree itself, change color.
These peculiar parasites are possessed of the
power of chameleons. In the bright warm
sunshine they are greener than the tree on
which they live. But when the chilly rain
falls upon them they contract their tiny backs
and become.a pretty pink in tint. Millions of
these change the tint of the tree and impart
to.it a blushing aspect.

———$ <0 a

RESPONSIBILITY.—Few people take a just
view of responsibility, appreciate its meaning,
its obligations, or its mission. It is neither
an honor to be styuggled for nor a burden to
be shunned. Neither in one way nor the other
does it lend itself to the selfish instincts of
man. It exists, not for the pleasure or the
pain of the individual, but for .the welfare of
the community: What the world needs, what
every organization needs, what every family
needs, is that each individual shall fill the
niche, and perform the work, and bear the
responsibilities for which he_is_ best fitted,
whether we are pleased to call the post high
or low, humble or honorable, .

 

 

 

THE CLIMBER,

BY FRANK WALCOTT HUTT.

How should he know, who hath not won
Sure victories from sun to sun—

How can he know, who hath not tried
The peril of the mountain side.

What strength of arm is his—what zeal
In combat with the brave to deal?
What prowess and what skill he hath
To find his footing on the path—

To cling and cling, and always keep
His hold of faith along the steep?

Who tries is also tried. Who dares

To seale the heights, their danger shares,
But on the cliff’s uneven face

He finds each day a higher place.

His strength expands; he thrills to knew
How broad the breathing places grow;
And every hour some gain is found,
Some view from wider vantage ground.

A Splendid Man;

THE CROWN OF CHANCE,

By Effie Adelaide Rowlands,

Author of “Brave Barbara,” “A Woman Scorned,” “A
Kinsman’s Sin,” ‘A Girls Kingdom,’ etc., etc.

(“A SPLENDID Man” was commenced in No. 1, Back

numbers cau be obtained of ali newsdealers.)

CHAPTER IX.

As Meg had conjectured, Lady Sara carried
her husband off to Paris.

“T am sorry to be ampay,” Colonel Therpe
wrote to the girl, ‘‘but it is quite impossible for
Sara to return to Winstone this side of Christ-
mas. It grieves me to feel that nothing has
been discovered to clear up the mystery of
that girl’s disappearance. I am not sure that
I have been wise in leaving you behind, Meg,
but you can join us in a day if you feel in-
clined to do so.”

Meg wrote back to her father a simple, lov-
ing letter.

“T won't say that I don’t miss you, dearest,
because when you are away I have a yearning
for you all the time; but, after all, you see
there is really no reason for you to be here,
now that our autumn arrangements have been
all upset, and I think you are very~wise to
keep Sara away as long as possible. The rec-
tor was here this morning, discussing, as
usual, the one sad subject that*has haunted
us all this past, long week. There is no doubt
that this poor creature is dead, though we
have no proof of it. I wish we couid have
found her; it would have been a comfort to
me to have been able to lay flowers on her
grave, and to know that she had gone to her
rest not unforgotten.

‘“‘EWverything is going on very well here, with
the exception that poor Briggs has developed
a sharp attack of rheumatism. Mrs. Briggs
assures me that he will not be fit to be out of
the house for quite a fortnight, and she fur-
ther assures me that his temper is ‘that awful
there’s no abiding him!’ and that if it had
not been for Mr. Johnson she believes Briggs
would be ‘ranty mad.’ I consider we are very
lucky to have such an exceptionally superior
man as this Johnson seems to be. I have been
making up little romances in. my mind about
him. You know I am fond of this sort of
thing.”’

And then, with some other details,
closed her letter.

She reopened it, however, with a_ slight
biash, and at the bottom she scribbled:

‘ had a letter from Mr. Latimar this’ morn-

lis : Y rx

is me thi Dn has been very bdusy

Meg

he

nily material difference to him. Le

down a magazine with one his la rti-

in it. I am not wholly with him in his

but he certainly writes remarkably
well.”’

Meg herself walked to the village to post
this letter.

Her thoughts during this walk centered en-
tirely upon Cuthbert.

She had a longing upon her to open her
heart to her-father, yet this was so impossible
in a letter, and, indeed, if she paused_ to
analyze the position of affairs, she really had
nothing to say to her father. If Cuthbert’s
letter had conveyed. something more than his
words expressed, something that had illumined
the day for her as though a glorious summer
sun had fallen hotly upon her, this, after all,
was an exquisite, personal feeling, something
that she alone could understand.

This week of thought and solitude had only
served to deepen the girl’s confessed interest
in and affection for Latimar. Indeed, she had
a tender sensation of gratitude toward him,
for remembrance of him had served to temper
the sad atmosphere that still clung about Win-
stone,

She was not absolutely alone in the house.
One of her father’s cousins, a comfortable,
placid, old lady, had at once responded to
Colonel Thorpe’s suggestion that she should
stay a while with Meg. But this gentle woman
possessed a personality without points, as it
were. Though Meg and she were much to-
gether, she never once approached within
touch of the girl’s real existence; in fact, Meg
realized this day, with something like sur-
prise, that the only times in which she had
lost consciousness of both sad and sweet
thoughts had been such times as she had
spoken with Andrew Johnson.

It was evident that he had not misrepre-
sented himself in one sense. He was a man
who knew his profession to his finger-ends.
“A man with stuff in him,’’ as Briggs tersely

ut it.
at a little consternation had been created
among the workers ruled by Briggs when it
became known that this autocrat had actually
permitted himself to be advised on more than
one occasion by Johnson; and now that Briggs
was ill, the younger man had stepped quite
naturally into his superior’s place.

As Meg returned from posting her letter in
the village she met Andrew Johnson, evidently
bound in that direction: He carried a small
portmanteau in his hand, and wore clothes
which Meg instantly remarked were more in
accordance with what she felt was his proper
attire,

He would have passed her, lifting his hat
only, but she stopped him and held out_ her
hand. It was ddne so naturally that Andrew
Johnson could not but respond, and as he
held that little hand in his for an instant he
was conscious of an extraordinarily keen sense
of pleasure.

He had not realized until this moment how
pretty Meg was. ‘

The late October day was chilly, and her
maid had brought out some furs for her to
wear. The soft, gray chinchilla made a har-
monious setting to her clear coloring.

He noted that she had gray eyes; he had im-
agined that they were dark brown. He liked
gray eyes.

‘Are you going away, Meg
asked.

Quite naturally, also, she addressed him as
an equal.

“T am coming back to-morrow,” he answered.
“JT want to see my mother this evening.”

‘Does your mother live in London?’ Meg
asked.

“Yes; in the northwest of London.”

“T hope you will not be tempted to remain
away,’ Meg said, with her delightful smile.
“Tmagine the state of Briggs’ feelings.”

He laughed, and all his face lit up.

“Poor old Briggs! It is hard that he should

be tied to the house. He is so full of en-
ergy.”’
“Tt would be terribly hard if you were not
here,’’ Meg smiled. “Did your ears burn yes-
terday, Mr. Johnson? I was having tea and
hot cakes with Mrs. Briggs—such delicious hot
cakes, by the way; she talked about you the
whole time. It seems that you are a ‘real’
man, according to Mrs. Briggs.”

They both laughed.

“That is satisfactory, at any rate,’’ he said,
and then he raised his hat again, and with a
bow passed on.

The dogs that were Meg’s constant compan-
ions turned to run after him, but he sent them
away, and once again they exchanged smiles.

Andrew stood a little farther on and watched
Meg’s figure pass out of sight.

She walked well, not jerkily nor mincingly,
but with firm steps, carrying her head proudly.

He suddenly switched round and knitted his

Mr. Johnson?”

brows. :
“Sometimes I think I am a fool,”’ he said to
himself.

 

 

 

He got into the train with that same im-
patient expression ruffling his face. Then,
with a sigh, he opened a newspaper and was
soon engrossed with other thoughts,

At one of the intermediate stations, just as
the train was leaving the platform, the door
of his carriage, a third-class compartment,
was opened swiftly, and a man fell rather
than jumped in.

He was in. hunting attire, and had evidently
done a fair amount of heavy riding.

As he picked himself up he looked
and recognized Andrew.

“By Jove, Clithero!”. he exclaimed; “‘haven’t
seen you for ages, dear old chap! W here
have you been hiding? Was talking about
you the other day. I actually stayed at your
old place, Stone Manor. Nice family, the
Smalleys!”’

Andrew smiled.

“T don’t know them,” he answered. ‘They
re my tenants, not my friends. Had a good
day ?’’
~ “*Ripping,’’
cropper, as
another

across

said the other, ‘‘only I came a
you see. I’m going back to get
mount; only just caught the train.
Staying with the Percy Dayes—you know
them, don’t you?”

‘Used to know them,’’ said Andrew, quietly.

The other man was eyeing him quietly.

‘Looks all right,’’ he was saying to him-
self; ‘‘does not seem to have gone under so
completely; yet, according to the Smalleys,
Clithero was at the last squeak.”’

“Hope Lady Janet is allright,’ he
aloud.

“Thanks; my mother is very well,’ Andrew
answered.

‘Please remember me to her,”’ said the other
man as the train drew up at the next station,
‘and, I say, Clithero, look me up when you
are in town, will you? A wire to ‘The Rag’
will always find me.”’

They nodded, and he passed down the plat-
form out of sight.

Andrew stared after
expression on his face.
ae man brought back all the past so viv-
idly.

“Have I been hard with Robin?’ he asked
himself. « ‘‘After all, it is a question of tem-
perament. I dare say if Robin had been in
my place just now he would have crept under
the seat rather than have challenged curiosity,
if not pity. It does not hurt me. This fel-
low is only one of a crowd who have helped to
bring us to our present condition. How many
times has he been put up at the old place, I
wonder? And did it give him a pang to stay
there and see that same place filled with
strangers? Bah! if it were not for my mother
I would turn my back willingly on everything
that once belonged to me; but for my mother’s
sake, and, perhaps, for one other reason,’
Andrew said to himself, restlessly, “‘I must
make an effort to reinstate ourselves as soon
as it can be done.’’

He had a strange feeling of unreality upon
him as he whirled in a hansom up through
the streets toward Regent’s Park.

The noise of the traffic made a
sound in his ears.

The atmosphere oppressed him; he
with almost a sigh of relief to the
brance of Winstone.

It was cold there now, but it was wide, free,
fresh, invigorating.

The autumn afternoon was fading into even-
ing as his cab drew up at the little gate of
the house where his mother lived.

Like himself, she had ceased to use her
proper title; she was known, as he was, by
their second name—Johnson.

It was believed by her friends that Lady
Janet Clithero was traveling abroad, and this
was what Andrew had urged his mother to
do; but Lady Janet had expressed a great
longing to settle in London, to make a tiny
home, and Andrew had thoroughly understood
what had lurked in his mother’s heart. She
had wanted some little corner, where Robin,
her youngest and her dearest (he whispered
this to himself without a single pang of jeal-
ousy) could-come to her; for Robin certainly
would never have troubled himself te find his
mother in any out-of-the-way corner. And
Andrew had consented to this arrangement
because he had hoped vaguely that his broth-
er’s selfish nature might have been taught a
little lesson when he saw to what straits he
had reduced his mother.

A woman’s figure was walking to and fro in
the little garden as Andrew passed through it.
Though it was chill and misty, she wore
: 1 } i ightiy : nt

said,

him with a strange

buzzing

turned
remem-

at a : do ; haw

she si and ik sd at And

usly. as he came up the path.

He lifted his hat and passed on.

“So that is the actress, I suppose,’”’ he said
to himself. ‘‘Certainly she is attractive. How
startled she looked.”

And then Andrew forgot everything save
that his mother’s arms were about him, and
that he was holding her to his heart,

Just as she lavished the whole wealth of
her love upon Robin, so_he would have laid
down his life for his mother. He adored her;
he knew all her-faults, all her weaknesses,
but she still remained the dearest that the
world as yet had given him.

“How nice to see you, Andrew,
said; “but your train was late,
expected you quite an hour ago.”

“We were a little late, and it is a long drive,
renee: but it is very nice when one gets

ere.”’

He stood and looked about the room, which,
though small, had that indescribable element
and charm inspired by a womanly presence.

They had taken the house furnished, but
Lady Janet had scattered a few of her re-
maining possessions about her. It was em-
phatically the room of a refined woman.

She noted how appreciative his eyes were.

“IT am so glad you like it, darling,’ she said;
*“‘T confess I find it very cozy. I only want my
dear boys with me, and then I believe I should
a as happy here as I have ever been in my
ife.”’

Andrew took his mother’s hand
it to his lips.

He adopted a bright air as he chattered on,
and tried to answer all the many questions
she put to him, but in reality he was con-
scious of a dull, tired feeling at his heart.

It hurt him to watch his mother flit about,
helping to arrange the table for their evening
meal; it gave him a pang to see her delicate
hands stained with work. It seemed to him
that she had grown much thinner, and that
her gown was rather shabby.

When he was alone in the
lotted to him he allowed his
expression to have full play.

There were times, indeed, when Andrew took
himself sharply to task; when he doubted if
he had done the wisest thing, even if he had
done the right thing; he knew that he had
estranged himself and his mother from several
members of their family who would have had
it in their power to have made life easy in a
material sense for Lady Janet.

He knew that his attitude was denounced
as absurd, quixotic, by his brother; but, then,
the man who could plunge headlong into such
a sea of dishonorable debt as Robin had done
was searcely the one who would be likely to
appreciate any kind of effort made to clear
that debt.

As-he looked from the window and saw that
girl’s figure still passing restlessly to and fro
in the gloaming, it jarred on him that any
other creature had the right to share even this
modest home.

“Perhaps I shall be able to think out some-
thing else,’’ he said to himself, as he dressed
for @inner. ‘‘The money that comes from
Stone Manor is a fair amount, and, with what
I can add to it, should, in the course of a few
years, considerably reduce the sum that has
to be worked off. I suppose by this present
arrangement mother will almost live rent free
here, yet I don’t like it. I shall not say any-
thing to disturb matters just now, but I shall
try and work out some other plan for her.”’

Lady Janet fluttered about her boy tenderly,
and he declared that he had never eaten such
a delightful dinner.

The blinds were still up, and the light shone
out into the gloom of the garden.

They were speaking of Lady Janet’s tenant
when Andrew realized that the girl was still
out of doors.

‘What is it? Is she studying a new part?’
he asked, with a faint smile, ‘‘or is she in
the habit of doing this sort of thing?’

“Out in the garden now!’’ exclaimed Lady
Janet. “Oh! how imprudent of her. I will go
and bring her in.’’

But Andrew rose.

“Not you, mother; I will go.
what is her name?”’

‘Miss Manning. Miss Doris Manning.”’

the mother
surely?

and carried

little room al-
feelings and his

By. the way,

CHAPTER X.

Andrew passed out through the little porch
to the garden beyond. He went up to the fig-
ure dimly seen in the darkness.

“J beg your pardon, Miss Manning,”’ he said,
in his direct way, “but I am deputed by my
mother to ask you to come into the house. She
considers it most unwise of you to remain out
here. It is, in fact, much too cold,’”’ he added
on his own account.

Dot looked at him.

“Thank you,’ she said. “Mrs. Johnson is
always most kind. Ill come in right away;

 

 

 

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-4+— in such a fixed way.

‘

 

 

 

Vol. &57—Noe &

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

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but,’ she paused, and he could see that her

8 fingers were working nervously in the fringe

of her shawl, “but it is so close indoors, I—I

- don’t feel. as if I could breathe.”’

Andrew looked at her keenly.

Though by the accent of her voice she be-
trayed herself to be of the humblest origin,
there was something in that same voice that
touched him. Instantly he said to himself,
“This girl is in trouble!’ He knew that feel-
ing so well -himself, that restless fever, born
of anxiety, that made even the most spacious
room seem prison-like.

“Still, I think you would be wise to come
in,’’ he said; ‘‘this mist is very heavy.’’ :

He turned with a bow to go back to the
house, and he found that Dot followed him.

they stood a moment in the hall, he
‘looked into her eyes, and a second time he
felt a wave of sympathy for her.

She certainly was very charming to look at.
He quite understood that his mother should
have been drawn to this quiet-looking girl
who yet had something picturesque about her,
-Vaguely he wondered why she looked at him

As a matter of fact, Dot took herself to task
for this as she turned and mounted the stair-
case to her own rooms.

“I’ve got Robin on the brain,’’ she said to
herself, impatiently. ‘I imagine everybody I
see- must be him.’’

Her room reached, the girl flung aside the
shawl and continued her restlesS pacing to

and fro. i

“Oh, it hurts, it hurts!’’ she said to her-
self once, and she stood and looked about her,
whispering to herself, ‘‘I’m frightened!’ Then
this mood passed and
again,’even angry. ‘‘Why doesn’t he come?”
she asked herself. ‘‘I can’t stand this sort of
thing. If it’s not settled by to-morrow Ill
cut it all” ,

Her room was directly above that one in
which Andrew and his mother sat chatting.
In a little while he noted that measured tread
pacing to and fro.

“What do you know of this girl, mother?’
he abruptly asked. —

Lady Janet looked an inquiry.

“You mean Miss Manning, dear? I don't
know very much, except that she sings and

_—acts. She tells me she has been in America

the last two years, and has come home now
for rest, and I believe also because some one
belonging to her has died lately and left her
some money. She is handsome, is she not?’

Andrew paused. ; :

“Yes, decidedly so. Refined looking, too, but
her voice is not refined, mother. She has the
real nasal, cockney note mixed with broad
Yankee. It is not very pleasing.’’

Lady Janet colored. 2

“J really think she is a very nice girl,’’ she
said; ‘‘she certainly is very quiet. That is to
say, lots of people come to see her on busi-
ness, and she has telegrams and messenger
boys every day, but she only has one visitor,
her lawyer.”’ si
~ “She does not look quite happy,’’ Andrew
said, thoughtfully.

“TI wish she would sing to-night,’ said Lady
Janet; “I am sure you would be delighted
-with her voice. She is going to Have it proper-
ly cultivated. Ah!’’ added Lady Janet, ‘“‘there
is the bell. I thought I heard the sound of
a cab. I expect that is Miss Manning’s law-
yer.”

The door was half open, and, without in-
dulging in any undue curiosity, Andrew natu-
rally glanced up as the maid admitted Miss
Manning’s guest.

Then his brows contracted sharply, and he
leaned forward to catch, if possible, another
fang of the man’s figure ascending the
stairs.

As Lady Janet went to fetch Andrew her
latest letter from Robin, he stood a moment,
ruminating by the fireplace.

“Could he have made a mistake?”’

~himself, or was the man w had just arrived
the person he had seen at Winstone Abbey.

When the maid came in he asked her what
name Miss Manning’s guest had given,

“That was Mr. Cuthbert Latimar, sir,’ the
girl answered. ‘‘He’s Miss Manning’s lawyer.
He’s been here twice or three times before.’’

Andrew’s frown lingered.
. The man was certainly the same, but this
was the first time that he had been told that
Latimar followed the legal profession.

His first objection to his mother’s tenant
sprang into life again, stronger than before.

“This is altogether out of the question,’’ he
said to himself; ‘‘I cannot bear even the
Seem Ot aay. ,mother associating with this

he asked

.

she became impatient]

dare say in some of the old books they could
show you that photograph now. dy Sara
must be rather young to be married to Colonel
Thorpe.”’ ;

“She looks quite.a child,’ said Andrew;
‘“vyounger, in fact, than Miss Thorpe; yet, I
feel sure she must be considerably older.’’

“Yes,’’ said Lady Janet, meditatively, ‘“‘be-
cause it must be nearly eleven years ago@*"sSince
she was presented. I attended that drawing-
room, I_remember.” Then Lady: Janet looked
at her son with a rush of color to her. cheeks.
“Oh! Andrew, I had almost forgotten to tell
you, but when I went out the other day to
get my marketing, I met your-Aunt Clara
driving in this direction. I turned away my
face at once, I was so afraid she would recog-
nize me.”’

Andrew said nothing, only the determination
to change his mother’s scheme of living he-
came more and more fixed. ;

The sound of a closing door and a hurried
footstep passing down the path outside came
at this moment to tell them that Miss Man-
ning’s visitor had gone.

The sound swept Andrew’s thoughts swiftly
away from his present surroundings back to
Winstone.

A little while before, he would undoubtedly
have asked himself, in his usual direct fash-
ion, why he should be in the least annoyed
that Cuthbert Latimar should be visiting with
this actress. He would have told himself that
it was no business of his, if, indeed, he had
troubled about the matter at all; but he did
not take that view now; he felt extraordinar-
Hy resentful toward Cuthbert.

He went back in his mind to that afternoon
when he had stood and watched Meg and this
man ride away from the Abbey together;
something had stirred in his heart then, some-
thing so nearly approaching envy that it had
startled him to realize it.

knew the meaning of that strange envy
now; he knew the meaning of that restless-
ness that had stolen into his veins the last
few days, troubling the placid tenor of his
life, forming itself into a kind of reproach.
It signified a longing to stand.on equal ground
with this girl, a longing to Speak with her.
ride with her, walk with her, as Cuthbert did.

It was a pang of en that could not be de-
‘nied, for Meg’s face- s so eloquent, and he
knew that for Cuthbert Latimar she had a
place apart in her thoughts.

his was no new thing to him, and yet to-
night it forced itself upon him painfully. With
that lastrvvision of Meg haunting him, it jarred
him to have to confess to himself that she
could find something precious in a man whom
his instinct had already singled out as com-
monplace and insincere.

“Tf you will forgive me, mother,’ he said,
hurriedly, “‘I think I will take a turn in the
garden, and smoke, before I go to bed. I
must get back by an early train,’’ he added.

Lady Janet sat a moment in thought after
he had passed out, then she sighed, and acting
on an impulse, she ascended -the stairs- and
knocked at the Goor of the room above hegs.

“T have come to sceld you,’’ she said, in her
gentlest fashion.  —~ Pe

Dot was sitting before the fire, her elbows
on her Knees and her chin plantedwin her two
hands. She looked white and very tired, yet
there was a dogged expression about her
mouth and her eyes were excited.

“You kKfiow you’re much too good to me,
Mrs. Johnson,” she said, turning her head and
arising to her feet, ‘“‘but I’m all right. It
takes more than a cold to do me any harm.’’

“You have your voice to think of, remem-
ber,’’ said Andrew’s mother. ‘

Dot threw back her head with a funny sort
of “jerk.

 

“Oh, now I can be independent, if I like,”’
she said; “I can shunt the stage and live like!
a lady.”’

Lady Janet winced, as she frequently did. |
at the girl’s rough tone. ies

“Did your lawyer bring you
then?’’

Dot nodded her head.

““Yes,’’ then she caught her breath; “I sup-
pose it is. good news to get fifty thousand
pounds? There’s lots of people would do any-
thing if they could get “AS much, wouldn’t
they ?’’ s

Lady Janet’s delicate face colored.

“Fifty thousand pounds! Oh, that is a great}
deal of money,’’ she said. ‘‘And that is what
you have inherited?’

““Yes,’’ said Dot, recklessly, ‘‘that’s what I’ve
got, and I’m not quite sure,’ the girl added,
almost unconsciously, ‘‘that I’d not be a lot
better without it.” .

_ There was something in her mood that was

good news,

 

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incam Ay

BOA r r—lanet:,nevertheless.,

 

Ww Came ~“ariarew tid
Lady Janet seemed as if she had something
to confess to him. Remembering how sternly
he had written about his brother, he felt more
than half convinced that his mother had gone
against his will.

“Where is Robin now?’’ he asked.

“He comes to London very shortly. He tells
me, Andrew,’’ Lady Janet added, eagerly,
“that he has a very good chance indeed of ob-
taining some clerical work. These people he
has been traveling with appéar to have con-
siderable influence.”

“May I see this letter?’ asked Andrew.

His mother hesitated. ee

“Yes, dear, if you wish to, of course,’ and
that made Andrew draw back.

“No; you can give his news to me,’’ he said;

“but, firstly, answer one question, and don’t}

look so alarmed, dearest,”’
added, tenderly. ‘It hurts me to see you
afraid of me. Is your reason for not wanting
me to see that letter, mother, because you
have been sending Robin some money?’

“It was only a very little,’ Lady Janet said,
eagerly. ‘‘Some that I had saved. He did not
ask me for it, Andrew, but I knew that he
must be needing so many little things. These
people are very kind to him, of course, but he
cannot be indebted to them for everything,
and he is coming back on purpose to get
work, Andrew. I assure you he is! He writes
so hopefully, and he sends many affectionate
messages to you.”

Andrew gave a quick sigh.

“T must meet Robin,” he said; ‘‘I suppose ne
would die rather than come down and see me,
so I shall have to go to town next week
again.”’

Lady Janet sat turning her boy’s letter over
and over in her hand nervously.

“Robin feels your position very keenly,’’ she
at last said.

“T am glad. he feels something,’ Andrew
drily answered. He could not repress this
remark.

“And, after all, dearest,’ the mother said,
looking up at him, “it is not what you ought
to be doing,-you Know it!” | ;

“Are we to beat out that old subject once
more, mother? Go back to a year ago. hink
of all those months in which I tried to get
something to do, something compatible with
the world’s view of a gentleman. Think how
-Many promises of help were forthcoming, and
how, one by one, those promises faded into
nothing. You know how the disappointment
ate into my heart. If Robin does not like
my present position I am sorry for him; but
I would infinitely rather sweep the street than
play with life in the way that he does.
don't cry, mother, dearest,’ Andrew added.
He went down on his knees beside her and he
drew her into his arms. ‘‘You misunderstand
me; you think I am hard with Robin; that I
have been always very hard with him. Some-
times I think I may have been a little hard;
but, then, mother, you see Robin was left in
a sense a responsibility to me; when father
died he was only a lad, and I felt he was
one that needed a strong hand over him. Yet
to please you I let him go his own way. Re-
member how many professions he has played
with’ He was nig 4 to be one thing one day
and another thing the next, and in the end he
just drifted into indifferent idleness. Where I
reproach myself,’’ said Andrew, rising to his

feet, “is that, instead of having devoted my-
‘self as I did to the property, I should have
turned my attention more closely to Robin.

Wesshould not be where we are now, mother,
if I had done so. But it never entered into
my mind to-suppose that he would be so mad
as to do the things he has done. Conceive
a boy without a penny in the world gambling
to the extent Robin did.’’

Lady Janet had dried her tears. .

“But all that is done with, Andrew,’ she
said, _half-fretfully; “Robin is more than
sorry.*®- aa
_ “Is he?” asked Andrew, grimly. ‘‘Ah! that’s
just what I don’t know. If he were really
sorry, mother, he would not have left you at
that time, to trail about the world with a
party of moneyed strangers; he would have
given some sign of * And then Andrew
checked himself, si

The sight of that delicate, worn face, stained
with tears, hart him beyond measure.

“Let us drop this subject, darling,’ he said.
“When Robin comes to London we must meet,
and I promise you that if he is prepared to
take his share with us in reducing this heavy
load of debt he will not find me unsympa-
thetic. I want to tell you all about my life
at Winstone. I have such a dear little cot-
tage; I wish you could see it.”’

the young man

“Your father’ and I stayed at Winstone Ab-.

bey twenty-seven years ago,’’ Lady Janet said,
with a faint smile. ‘It belonged to old Sir
Henry Thorpe then, who was the uncle, I be-
lieve, of Colonel Thorpe. I remember that-we

| were all photographed out on the lawn. I

~

No,.

the older woman felt that there was trouble,
as Andrew had said, lying at the girl’s heart.

“T suppose this will mean a change in your
arrangements, Miss Manning,’’ she said.

“"Yes,’’. Dot answered. “I think-I shall have
to leave you. I don’t want to go, but I fancy
I shall have to. It all depends on circum-
stances.’’

Lady Janet remained to add a few more re-
marks, and then went downstairs again.

She was waiting for Andrew when he came
in from the garden.

“Just imagine,’’ she _ said,
brought the news that Miss Manning has in-
herited fifty thousand pounds. I am afraid,
Andrew, I feel a little envious.’*

Andrew did not smile, he only held her hand
in his caressingly. He could not have ex-
plained why this news should impress him,
save that he still had that lurking doubt in
his mind about Cuthbert.

As he kissed his mother, however, and sent
her up to her room to rest, he took himself
to task a little.

“Here I am at my old tricks,’ he said,
‘rushing wildly to conclusions without having
facts to go upon! Because I don’t happen to
have been told that this.man is a lawyer, I
am ready to believe that he is masquerading
here for some doubtful purpose of his own.
It certainly is a little tough on him that I
should take away his character when I abso-
lutely know nothing whatever about him. And
when I come to think of it, I don’t see why
I should have been told what his profession is.
One thing is pretty certain, however,’ An-
drew said to himself, finally, and a little grim-
ly; ‘‘he may be a lawyer, or he may not, but
I believe I hate him, and I know I envy him!”

TO BE CONTINUED.

“that lawyer

a

AN ODD COURTSHIP.

4
BY T. A. C.

~

“No, sir, we esteem the distinction gredtly;
but I am bound to confess to you that we
have other designs for our daughter.’’

“But, sir, Ella——’ And for a moment the
young man’s face twitched with emotion.

He was a Sstraight-limbed young fellow, with
none of those effeminacies too often-affected
by youth on the threshold of manhood—just
a well-made, clear-eyed lad, upon whose coun-
tenance there was the stamp of honesty.

This*was borne in upon old Mr. Trevail as
he glanced at him. Nevertheless his voice
took on an added touch of displeasure, and
his mouth and chin were set in something
more than their native firmness.

“Ella,” he said, emphatically, ‘thas at this
juncture nothing whatever to do with the
matter. You came to ask me for permission
to pay your attentions to my daughter. I
thank you for the honor, and I refuse. There's
an end to the business!’’

“May I see Ella?’’

“My dear sir, you are unreasonable! No—
you may not see Ella! Miss Trevail is
this moment engaged in the garden, and will,
I know, prefer not to be interrupted. Mr.
Godolphin is with her. It’s beautiful
summertime in the garden,’’ added the
man, with grim cynicism.

Mr. Trevail did not iatend to be maliciously
cruel; but cruel he was.. This last assurance
fell upon Bob Reede with chilling effect. Ella
was in the garden with Jim Godolphin—Jim,
with his pretensions and affectations, his
money and his much-heralded prospects! With
Jim Godolphin! Then it was all up with him!

Robert Reede had never been quite certain
about HEila Trevail. True, she had been

old

in his company; she had given him the “ex-
tras’’ at the Old Guards’ ball, ana had often-
times inspired him with hope.

Then Mr. James Godolphin—all rattle and
brilllanece—had returned to his native town
with stories of exploits which made him a
hero in the eyes of all but a few sceptics who
remembered the Jim of other years and
not think the had very much changed.
had not, even according to his own stories,
quite effected the world’s revolution, but
had, he averred, made certain portions
that world ring with his fame.

Ella Trevail came within_ the
this fascinating creature.
ness to Robert,
evident desire to propitiate Godolphin, that
had at last persuaded the young fellow to
present himself with his formal request to
her father.

With James Godolphin in the garden!

“Then»the whole family,” thought Bob, ‘‘are
in the conspiracy!’’ 7

No—not the whole family. As Bob went out

of

glamour
It was her cold-

 

from the study, angered; bitter, chagrined,
a hand caught hold of his arm.

“T am so sorry, Bob! I am so sorry!’’

It was dear littl -.Mercy—Mercy whom. he
had romped with in the orchard a hundred
times. What a quaint little golden-haired
rogue she was then! And what a rippling
merry ring her laugh had!

“T am so sorry, Bob!’ she repeated.

How had she known? And how tenderly
sympathetic was this graceful child—her eyes
gravely raised to catch the glance of his own!
Bob could have kissed her! -He went out,
thanking ter and thinking of her.

Yes—Miss Ella Trevail was at that moment
with Mr. James Godolphin in the summer-
scented garden; and Mr. James Godolphin
was arrayed in what he used to .call “his
killing garb.’’ Rob Reede was actually the
subject of their conversation.

v no, Mr. Godolphin!’ And there was
an arch inflection of outraged surprise thrown
into the voice. “‘How could you ever have
imagined it? I engaged to Mr. Reede! How
ridiculous!’ And her pretty mouth was con-
tracted into an affection of supreme con-
tempt!

Poor Bob! Had he witnessed this little
scene he might well have contrasted it with
the many occasions on which she had ap-
pealed to him as though he were the only
guide her life possessed; he might have re-
membered those evenings in the conservatory
when old Mr. Trevail was willingly unob-
servant; he might have recalled the half dozen
instances on which she had impetuously al-
lowed the name of ‘‘Bob’’ to escape her; and
he might even ‘have remembered, too, that
she once declared that their tastes entirely
harmonized. .

“Poor Mr. Reede! He is still very much
of the boy, isn’t he?’’ And she gdzed with
apparent approval at the inimitable Godol-
phin, a veritable

“curled Assyrian bull,
Smelling of musk and_ insolence.’’

James had his cards to play. He had a
desire to know how much in hard cash Ella
would be worth in the matrimonial scale.

But this open, flagrant and fragrant flattery
was the death of his own caution. He was
intoxicated by his environment—by the sweet
scents of the flowers and the caroling of the
birds, as much as by the beauty of the
woman. ;

In a moment he was protesting, assuring,
asservating, his voice nicely attuned to ro-
mance, his whole manner instinct with de-
yotion.

So Ella Trevail. was won; and Mr. James
Godolphin was wondering how much the “old
boy’’ would stump up as a dowry. 5

In her little room upstairs Mercy Trevail
sat, thinking pitifully of poor, disillusioned
Bob Reede.

* * a 8 * * f
it was another summer day. The oppressive
air was heavily charged with electricity. The
observer of atmospherical portents wondered
how long it would be ere forks of lightning
would fiash out from the blue-black cloud
masses, and heaven’s artillery waken the
echoes of the wood, shaking hill and dale with
its thunder. :

“4 single traveler walked blithely along the
road, careless of these menaces and possessed
only by his own thoughts.

“Ah,” he said, ‘over there old Trevail lived.
I haven’t seen the place since the day when
Jim Godolphin married Ella. Poor old Jim!
He was a rascal, I know, he was nothing but
a. fortune hunter. But a fortune was nec-
essary to save him from falling into disgrace.
To have to tell all his cronies that his tales
of riches and adventure were falsehoods, bom-
bastic lies, the children of his fertile imagina-
tion—that would have been an ordeal he could
not face.’’

There was now an ominous growling over-
head, the first premonition of the impending
storm. The traveler heeded it not. He was
still too engrossed with his recollections.

“JT wonder what poor Jim’s thoughts were
when he discovered, after old Trevail’s sud-
den end, the value of the securities he had

ne *

|intrusted to him as a dower for his daughter

to be realized after his death. Jim, of course,
was too conceited to seek any legal advice.
Who would have thought, however, that the
cld man was such a fool—that he. whom. we
all kelieved to be the most careful of the
carefuls, could have been so easily caught
by the speculative mania, and venture nearly
all he possessed in the foolish hope of secur-
ing. big dividends.”’

~The. atmosphere became closer still, there,
was 4 sulphurous secent“in the air. The very
birds stopped their song in expectation of the
deluge. Still the traveler heeded not. Neither
did the merry company, whose cheery laughter
eame to him with a welcoming sound from
the gardens and lawn surrounding the pretty
house but a few score yards away.

“And so Jim had a bad time of it with
Ella. Tom Simpson told me last night that
first he tried the game of tyranny with her.
She soon revealed a side to her character
neither he nor I had suspected. ’Twas a Cat-
and-dog life, made bitter by quarreling, at-
tempts to avoid creditors, the eternal worry
of debts, and the uncertainty of to-morrow.”

A lightning flash played dimly across his
eyes, and presently a quick discharge, like
the rattle of a body of sharpshooters, pealed
lightly along the sky.

“Well, weil—poor old Jim! He’s gone now.
What a strange and dreadful affair that ac-
cident was! Wonder whether Ella really loved
him! Mrs. Simpson says she is very friendly
now with this stock broker chap, who has
made his home here—Mclintyre. Well, 1 wish
them both luck. And what of Mercy—sweet
little Mercy? She’s a woman now, of course.
What kindness she showed me on the day
of that great trouble! I have thought of it
a score of times since.’’

The man stopped in his walk, musing, strok-
ing his short beard, possessed by an unuttered
thought that gave him evident pleasure.

“T wonder,’ he thought, as if .providing a
key to his thought, ‘‘what Mercy is like? I
wonder if she remembers me?’ :

The sharpshooters’ quick rattle was now in-
terrupted by the roar of heavier weapons.
The evanescent flashes were quicker, more
dazzling, more ominous of danger. The rain
began to fall in heavy, spattering drops.
Away in the trees the birds crouched fear-
somely, being joined every instant by some
belated and terror-stricken mate.

There had been a cry of half-amused fear
frorn the joyous group in the grounds around
that pleasant house. Heedless of the old-
fashioned warning never to take shelter un-
der a tree during a thunderstorm, they now
ran for the hedge.

“Well, I needn’t get wet,’’ said Bob Reede,
rousing ‘himself from his reverie as he noticed
the rain spots on Ris coat. And he, too,
stepped to the roadside. A well-foliaged, arch-
ing tree sheltered him from the gathering
storm, now sending down a thick, splashing
rain, and a hedge divided him from the merry
people whose laughter had reached his ears.

Suddenty he heard his own name.

“Yes, Mercy, Bob Reede has returned. You
know he™inherited all his aunt’s money, and
he has added to it since. He would make
a very desirable husband, wouldn't he? Mrs.
Simpson, whom he has called upon, told me
that his first words were of me.”’

A rippling laughter accompanied this in-
formation—a laugh Bob had once thought to
be the very music of the spheres, but which
he now found to be harsh, metallic, callous.
Instinctively he shuddered.

 

| bridesmaid

this |

“Ah,” thought he_ grimly, “‘somebody’s

t | walking over my grave!”’
at |

“Well, Mercy, how would you like to be a
a second time?’ :

“Ella! What do you mean? How can you
say such a thing? You have led poor Mr. Mc-
Intyre on, until he regards you almost as en-
gaged to him!”

YVhere was a_ tremor
touched Bob strangely.

“"Twould be more manly
than to play eavesdropper here,’’
Still he remained.

“You little donkey!’’ came the unpleasant
tones of the elder sister. ‘“‘Do you think
poor gawky McIntyre could cut any sort of

in this voice that
to face the rain
thought he.

|figure beside B ReedeX And Mrs. Simpson
pleased—or had seemed to be pleased—to be} Sete SOmee rer i 7 DP

tells me he looks so handsome, with his tanned
cheeks and golden mustache and beard.”
“But, Ella, Ella, what would you do? Don’t
you know that three or four weeks ago you
were laughing about him, telling the story
of his love-making, and imitating the man-
ner in which he spoke to you. told you

 

did |
He |

ne Bob

her assumed indifference, her |

then that you were cruel to him, and that
Bob Reede deserved something better.’’

The storm raged with full fury now?
listened only the’ more _ intently. His
mind had gone back to that day when the
same voice, a little less full, with a little less

but

;melody in it, had whispered, “I am so sorry,
of | Bob.”’

Bob.

“Well, Mercy, I shall‘ tell Mr. McIntyre that
his attentions are undesirable, and shall
marry my old sweetheart, Bob Reede. That’s
what 1 would do.”

“Ella, Ella, you are wicked, wicked——’”’
“You little idiot; what is there to cry about?
Why, I believe you care for——’’

The sentence was never completed. The
storm, furious at its own long restraint, had
dispatched a lightning bolt with malicious in-

 

 

tent down upon a giant oak on the other side
of the road. There was a hissing, rending
sound, and then, after a pause, the tree fell
with a great crash. .

The women and girls had
frighted steps into the open, heedless of the
rain and the gowns which it would spoil,
clustering together with hearts beating
tumultuous alarm.

Bob had not moved.
he was safe; but one of the out-reaching
branches of the uprooted, dismantled giant
had fallen upon the outskirts of the
which had sheltered both Ella and Mercy as
well as himself, and he was buried in the
mass of boughs and leaves.

He could not restrain a cry.

With this last effective act of malice the
storm abated.

“There’s somebody hurt—I know there is!’’
exclaimed a voice. Bob again recognized the
pretty cadences, all the prettier now because
attuned to alarm.

There was a rustle of skirts to the hedge-
side, then a face possessed by a deep con-
cern peered over. He knew that face, too—
Heaven bless it!

“Yes, yes—there is somebody hurt,’’ the
owner of the face exclaimed. There was an-
other quick little rustle. He heard a gate
unlatched, then the patter of little feet on the
wet road, and somebody was kneeling on the
green at his side. His eyes opened.

“Oh, 1 am so sorry!”’

“TI remember when
Mercy.”’

“Bob, Bob—dear old Bob, are you hurt?’

“Not one whit, but it’s fairly dry here on
the grass, and—I like to have my head held
like this.’’

Mercy had got his head on her
was wiping his forehead.

_ Suddenly there was a strained, anxious note
in her speech, and, moving away from
she rose.

run with af-

you first said that,

‘““How long have you been here Mr. Reede?’’ |

“Just as long as you, dear.

Bob thad now risen—for he had been thrown
down more by the unexpected nature of the
attack than by violence—and he held
tightly in his arms.

“Mr. Reede!
The voice was now half indignant,
treating.

Mr. Reede had_jn recent years developed
masterful temper.

“J don’t know how I dare, but this is what
I'm going to do—I am going to kiss my sweet
little Mercy.’’ And, without further parley,
Bob suited the action to the word.

half

“Oh, Bob, Bob,’’ exclaimed the girl, shrink- }

ing in fear

“She © will
darling.”’
making.

The sun had shot forth a bright, gladdening
gleam which fell on another face, peering as
Mercy’s had done over the hedgerow.

“How dare you, sir! Loose that lady—she
is my sister!’’

“And my future wife!’
his head.

“Bob Reede!”’ gasped Ella, glancing
her and comprehending at once that
there that she had talked a little too
with Mercy.

““‘Yes,’’ replied Bob with assumed jauntiness.
“Thanks for your hearty congratulations.”’

It was Bob who was cruel now.

*‘And may I.in return,’’ he said, ‘‘heartily
felicitate you on your engagement to Mr. Mc-
Intyre?”’

“Yes,’’ said she curtly, braving herself
return a defiant look to Bob’s smiling gaze.

Meanwhile Mercy was crying on Bob's
shoulder, half joyously, half remorsefully, re-
flecting both on her own ‘happiness and on
Ella’s resentment.

“Forgive me, Ella,’’ she whispered.

“Forgive you, little stupid! What, for mar-
rying Bob Reede? What nonsense! Ah, Bob,”
she added, still more defiantly, ‘‘we were bound
to have you in the family! Still, you needn't
tell Jack of your frst failure.’’

Bob laughed good-humoredly. He did
grudge ‘her the triumph of this reflection.
“T ‘have,’ he whispered to the head on his
shoulder, ‘‘my sorrow-laden Mercy.”
“But Um not sorry ‘now, Bob,’’

arch whisper.

‘‘what will Ella say?’’
congratulate us fervently, my
He was spirited now in his love-

quoth Bob, raising
around
it was
frankly

to

not

came an

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

DRESSED TO KILL, BUT DIDN'T.
Jack—“Calling on Miss Brighteyes pretty
regularly, I notice.’’
George—‘‘Y-e-s, rather.”’ dé.
Jack—‘‘How does your suit progress?’
George—‘‘Not so well as I thought it would
—latest English cut, too.’’

NOT OF THE UPPER TEN.

Mrs. Nexdoor—‘'I have found out one thing
about that Mrs. Newcomer. Whoever she is,
she has never moved in good society.’’

Mr. Nexdoor—‘‘How do you know that?’

Mrs. Nexdoor—‘‘She shakes hands as if she
meant it.’’ ’

ALWAYS IN STOCK.

Professor Longhair—‘‘I read in a newspaper |

that there are some remarkable specimens of
petrified wood in this neighborhood. Can you
tell me where they are to be found?’

Resident—‘‘Hum! Lemme see. What
petrified wood?’’

“Natural growth turned to stone.’’

‘“‘Hard?’’

‘‘Hard as rock.’’

“Won't burn, eh?’

“That's the kind.” ie

“Go down to the next corner, sir, and turn
to your right. <A little way on you'll see
Catchem & Cheatem’s kindling wood yard. I
got a load there last week.’’

is

A FAMILY AFFAIR.

De Note (atthe theatre)—‘‘That orchestra
that plays between the acts is excruciating.
It’s enough to drive folks out.’’

Lobblounger—‘“‘The leader is a brother of
the man who has the saloon next door.”’

TO CLEANSE THE ANARCHISTS.

Stranger—‘‘Why are those dirty anarchists
so howling mad at that inoffensive-looking
minister ?’’ ?

Resident—‘‘He
church.’’

“Hum! I don’t see anything in such an in-
vitation to rave Over.’’

“Yes, but he’s a Baptist, and knows that a
wash would do them good.”’

NOT BRIBED.

Citizen—‘‘People are saying that
bribed to put through that thieving
behalf of the Graball Company.’’ é

Legislator, (haughtily)—‘‘Huh! Who would
there be to bribe me, I should like to know?
No one, sir—not a living soul!’’

Citzen—‘‘But that company——’’

Legislator—‘‘Why, I’m the company,”’

SENSIBLE AT LAST. ~
Aunt Wayback “What kind of a thing do

you call that you’re wearing?’

City Niece—‘‘Why, that’s my bolero jacket,
aunty.’’

Aunt Wayback—‘‘Well, I must say that’s
sort o’ sensible. The front folds back so you
won’t drop the Vittles on it.’’

NO FORETHOUGHT.
Wayback—“‘Some folks ain’t got sense

wants them to join his

you were
bill in

Mr.
enough to come in when it rains.
that long-haired chap with his arms
bundles ?’’

Mrs. Wayback—‘‘No; who?’

Mr. Wayback—‘‘Doh’t know; but he is down
there at the old pond paintin’ a picture of that
tumble-down mill. He might know that mill
wasn’t built right, er it wouldn’t a’ been al-

full o’

 

 

The Principal Characteristics

Of the Nickel Plate Road, which make it the popu-
lar line for the traveling public are competent train
service, fine roadbed and courteous employees, The
Nickle Plate Road is the short line between Buffalo
and Chicago. The great Pan-American Exposition
this summer will present unusual attractions... The
Nickel Plate Road will be in position to accommo-
date this travel with safety, speed and comfort.
Write, wire, phone or callon L. P. Burgess, N. E.
P. A., 258 Washington Street, Boston, Mass.

FOUR B

in |

He had thought that |

lap, and )

him, |

her |

How dare you—how dare you?” |
en- |

a!

 

=e
|lowed to go to rack and ruin. Now I s’pose
he’ll go off an’ put up one just like it, and
lose every cent he’s got.’’

Mormon Bishop—‘‘Then you refuse to be-
come my wife?’’
Mormon Maid—‘“‘T
an unlucky number.’
Mormon Bishop—‘‘Oh, that’s easily arranged.
I'll hunt up some one who is not superstitious,
|and then you can be No. 14!”

SURE TO MAKE.

Chief Clerk—‘‘Here’s an order
goods from a Western man whose name I
ean’t find in the books, but I guess he’s all
right. He says he’ll pay for them next ‘round
uo

_ Head of Firm—‘‘Huh! These cattle men
just as likely to lose money as to make

Chief Clerk—‘‘This isn’t a cattle man.
an undertaker.”’

HIS KNOWLEDGE OF BROOKLYN.
Brooklyn Mdn—‘‘Have you ever been
Brooklyn?”’
| Coachman—“No, sor. Oi niver waz in
|} Brooklyn but once, an’ thin Oi struck the
|} wrong ferry an’ got only to Jersey City.’’

A MORMAN ROMANCE.
|

must. Thirteen is such

tree |

for a bill of

are
ae?
He’s

in

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

 

* Sare TRANSIT.—Mrs. Crimsonbeak—‘‘Here’s
an account of a party traveling 10,000 miles
| without losing his trunk onee”’
Mr. Crimsonbeak—'‘Oh, I know; the
Was an elephant.’’—Yonkers Statesman.
POLITELY PutT.—Anxious Father (from top
| of stairs)—‘‘Say, Mary Jane!’’
Mary Jane—‘‘Yes, papa.’’
Anxious Father—‘‘Is it eleven o’clock yet?”
Mary Jane—‘‘Yes, papa.’’
| THE EpiTor’s Victim.—Nubbs—‘‘He
| into the editor’s office like a roaring lion and
, came out like a postage stamp.”
Bubbs—‘How was that?’’
Nubbs—‘‘Licked.’’—Detroit Free Press.
Not HER CHoIcE.—‘‘So May refused
young M. D.?’’
“Yes, she says she isn’t quite sick enough of
her maiden name to have a doctor.’’—Phila-
| delphia Bulletin.

A HUSBAND’sS TROUBLE.—Employer—‘‘What’s
this I hear, Mike; your wife has left you! I
am very sorry.

Mike—‘‘Ah,_ sor,
that.’’

Employer—‘‘ Worse?

Mike—‘‘She
Sunday News.

party

went

that

she might do worse nor
I don’t see how?’
44 -

might come back, sor.

—N.

His Provup Boast.—‘‘No, sir,’’ exclaimed the
loud-voiced drummer in the smoker, ‘I’m
proud to say that no house in the country has
more men pushing its line of goods than
eurs.”’ ;

“What do you sell?’ asked a curious one.

“Baby carriages.’’—Syracuse Herald.

THAT HIRED GIRL AGAIN.—‘‘Do the Smiths
keep a girl?’’

“No. They ‘hire a good many, but they don’t
keep them.’’—Philadelphia Evening Bulletin.

JACK AND THE BABy.—Eleanor—‘‘What was
the baby crying about just now? Did he want
the moon again?’’

Carolyn—‘‘No; Jack
smile with
Evening

A FuLu Boy.—‘‘Children,”’
while instructing the
“vou should not attempt any
but simply be yourselves, id write what
in you. Do not imitate any other person’s
writings or draw inspiration from outside
sources.”’

As aeresult of this advice Johnny Wise
turned in the following composition:

“We should not attempt any flites
but rite what is in us. In me thare is my
stummick, lungs, hart, liver, two apples, one
piece of pie, one stick lemon candy and my
dinner.’’—Baltimore American.

was trying to make him

the glove stretcher.’’—Philadeiphia

Telegraph.

said the teacher,
in composition,
flights of fancy,

ciass

is

of fancy,

asx

WAITING A FAVORABLE TIME.—‘‘Did you
the old man for his daughter?’’

“Not: yet.”

“Why not?’’

“T’m going to wait until he begins to feel
the benefit of his fall advertising.’’—Cleve-
land Plain Dealer.

> © ine

 

Did you see}

MAN’S VOICE IN THE HAREM.

(H. E. Armstrong in Ainslee’s.)

é‘Perhaps the strangest place where the
American graphophone has found a welcome
is the harem of the unspeakable Turk.e No
man may enter there except the lord and
master, but he has graciously permitted the
voice of man to be heard in the marvelous
American talking machine. ‘No entertainer,’
says an American resident of Constantinople,
‘was ever so popular asthe graphophone, al-
though the harem has alWays been well sup-
plied with musical instruments. For a long
time, as I am informed by a dealer, it was not
clearly understood why so many more grapho-
| phones per capita were used in Turkey than
in countries where the monogamous marriage
is in vogue, and where the prevailing ethics
Banction intercourse among ladies and gentle-
men.

 

 

FLORIDA AND CUBA.

The popular route is via the Southern Railway
Double daily service New York to Savannah, Au-
gusta and points in Florida. Perfect Dining and
Sleeping-Car Service.

FREE FOR A TWO-CENT STAMP

While they last, we will send to any address, on re-
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copy $f 64-page book entitled

‘‘FAMILY MEDICAL ADVISER.”

This book has been compiled with great care, and
the value of the opinior’s and instructions contained
therein will be found invaluable. Every family
should have a copy ofthis book in case of emergency.

Remember, all you have to do is to send us your
name and address and two-cent postage stamp.

HAND BOOK LIBRARY, P. 0. Box 1173, New York City.

APIOLINE
Ca aoe ee
For LADIES Onty.
RELIEVES PAIN AND ISA SAFE,
RELIABLE MONTHLY REGULATOR
Superior to Apiol, Pennyroyal and Tansy.
$1.00. Druggists or P. O. Box 2081, N. Y. City.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mention New York Weekly.
HICHESTER'S ENGLISH

ENNYROVAL PILLS

Original and Only Genuine. SAFE. Always reliable.
\ LADIES, ask Druggist for CHICHESTER ’S
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ty lars, Testimonials and “ Relief for Ladies,”
in letter, by return Mail, 10,000 Testimonials.
Sold by all Druggists. Chichester Chemical Co.,
2240 Madison Square, PHILA., PA.

Mention New York Weekly.

Cash forYour Real Estate

no matter where it is. Send description and
cash price and get my successful plan for finding
cash buyers. W. M. Ostrander, North Ameri-
can Bldg., Philadelphia. See my full page ads.
Munsey’s, McClure’s, and all the big magazines.
Mention New York Weekly.

 

and Liquor Habit cured in 10
to 20 days. Nopay till cured.
Write DR. J. L. STEPHENS CO.,
‘ Dept. F 8. Lebanon, Dhio.

Mention New York Weekly.

 

An Old Nurse for Children.

MRs, WINSLOW’S SOOTHING Syrup should always be
used for children while teething. Itsoothes the child, softens
the gums, allays all pain, cures wind colic, and is the best
remedy for diarrhea, Twenty-five cents a bottle.

y

 

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~ POISO
Address KENT MEDICAL INSTITUTE, 327 Houseman B

 

Mention New York Weekly.

certain cure fora affliction. WRITE TODAY.
ldg, Grand Rapids, Michigan

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

yt

Lied

oe

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

es

 

 

 

MY CREED.

 

BY MARY ASHLEY TOWNSEND.

 

I believe if I should die BS
And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie
Cold, dead and dumb to all the world con-
tains,
The folded orbs would open at thy breath,
And, from its exile in the isles of death, |.
Life would come gladly back along my veins.

I believe if I were dead 5
And you upon my lifeless heart should tread,
Not knowing what the poor clod chanced to

be, ’
It woul. find sudden pulse beneath the touch
Of him it ever loved in life so much,
And throb again—warm, tender, true to thee.

I believe if on my grave,
Hidden in woody depths or by the wave,
Your eyes should drop some warm tears of
regret, :
From every salty seed of your dear grief,
Some fair sweet blossom would leap into leaf,
To prove death could not make my love for-
get.

I believe if I should fade
Into those mystic realms where light is made,
And you should long once more my face to

see,

I would come forth upon the hills of night

And gather stars, like fagots, till thy sight,
Tued by their beacon blaze, fell full on me.

I believe my faith in thee,
Strong as life, so nobly placed to be,

I would as soon expect to see the sun |
Fall like a dead king from his height sublime,
His glory stricken from the throne of time,

As thee unworth the worship thou hast won,

I believe who hath not loved
Hath half the sweetness of his life unproved;
Like one who, with the grape within his
grasp,
Drops it with all its crimson juice unpressed,
And all its luscious sweetness left unguessed,
Out from his careless and unheeding clasp.

I believe love, pure and true,
Ts to the soul a sweet, immortal dew
That gems life’s petals in its hour of dusk,
The waiting angels see and recognize
The rich crown jewel, Love, of Paradise,
When life falls from us like a withered husk,

 

 

The Concealed Treasure.

“Tt does seem as if all the bad luck comes at
once,’ Mrs. Seabrook complained. ‘‘First, the
wheat crop failed last year; then I got down
with the influenza and it took every. penny
we had to buy medicine and pay the doctor’s
bill; next the barn burned down just after the
insurance had run out; then after we had
raked and scraped to pay off the mortgage
and thought we should be able to breathe
freely once more, you had to break your leg
end be laid up at harvest time; and now,
with the Hill Farm to be bought for a mere
nothing, we have to sit by and see some one
else carry off the prize.”

After setting forth this appalling array of
disasters, Mrs. Seabrook leaned back in her
chair and heaved a prodigious sigh.

‘Why, mother, that bad luck didn’t all come
at once; it came gradually,’’ said Ann, sooth-
ingly, though her eyes danced.

Mr. Seabrook, from his lounge in the corner,
listened as to an oft-told tale. “It is hard
lines; sure enough, wife; still, things might
have’ been worse,” he said.

 

“T should like to know how?” she asked,
tartly.
‘Don’t you remember, mother,’ consoled

Ann, “how you've said over and over that the
mortgage was a stone around father’s neck?
And it’s paid. And then you got. well from
the influenza—Lucy White‘s mother died;
father’s leg is healing so that he will soon be
able to walk again; and you have me and
father, and we all have one another.’’
“Goodness, child, how you do rattle on! Of
course I know that we have much to be thank-
ful for, but I insist that we’ve had more than
our share of misfortunes, with very little to

 

 

sat was shaded from the sun, because the

 

 

encourage us.’’ Having had the last word,
Mrs. Seabrook departed for the kitchen,

Ann’s needle flew in and 01 :cross the heel
in her father’s sock. _

‘Lideclare_t helieve T actu a& ta
and I thought I never shovid! f suppose it's,
all in knowing how; most anything can_be

made interesting if we'll only think so.” Mr,
Seabrook smiled indulgently. It was plain
to see that Ann was the apple of his eye.

‘Father,’ she asked, presently, “do you
thinkeI ought to sympathize more with mother
about our troubles.’’

“T think,’ answered her father, thought-
fully, ‘‘that your mother needs to be cheered
up and taken out of herself more than any-
thing else; she has brooded over our misfor-
tunes until her nerves are upset. You should
help her in every way you can, because the
hardest part comes on her.’’

“T~do try, father} do you think I’m any
comfort to her?”

“Of course you are;
optimist.’’ :
i what is that, please? Anything aw-
ul?’’

“‘An optimist is one who looks on the bright
side of things.’’

“Oh! Well, that is easy to do; the really
hard thing is to look on the dark side. Some-
times, when mother gets unusually down on
her luck—imagines we are on a short-cut to
the poorhouse with nobody to head us off—I
try to be blue about it just to keep her come
pany; but the first thing, I know I am hoping
for better things in spite of myself. Some-
thing inside of me seems to say that every-
thing will come right if we just give it time.”’

“That is why you are such a comfort to
your old dad.’’

Ann beamed on him affectionately, and,
leaning over, deposited a kiss On the tip of
his ear. :

“Tf anything could make me“discouraged it
would be that you ean’t have the Hill Farm
when you’ve wanted@it so long. It’s queer, and
I know you’H laugh at me, but I have a feel-
ing that we'll manage it yet, some way. It
doesn’t do any harm to hope we'll get it,
does it? = ‘ :

‘Wishing is first cousin to hoping, you
know,” laughed her father; ‘‘and if wishes
were horses, beggars might ride.’’

Mrs. Seabrook now appeared in the doorway
holding an empty basket. ; 3

“Ann, suppose you run down to Wilson’s
lot, and try to find some blackberries for sup-
per. Seems as if we had to skirmish around
to get enough to eat even, nowadays,”’

Ann sprang up with alacrity.

“Just the thing, mother; I should love to
go; I’m in the mood for blackberrying. And
I know where there are some big, juicy, quite
ripe ones.”’

An hour later, the basket well filled, Ann
crawled through an opening in the fence that
divided Wilson’s lot from the roadway, and
sat down on a big stone to rest.

Just across the road was another large
stone, similar to the one upon which she was
sitting, except that it rested perpendicularly,
its broad{ flat surface being at the side in-
stead of on top.

The two were called the ‘halfway’ stones,
because they equally divided the distance be-
tween the town on the west and the cliff on
the east. ;

But the stone opposite Ann was different
in still another particular, for a rude _ but un-
mistakable likeness of the great Egyptian
Sphinx was cut into the side toward the road.
while a curious ribbonlike band, _which
seemed to spring from the head of the Sphinx,
ran downward on the right of the picture
until, doubling on itself, it waved irregularly
across the stone and came to an end at the
upper right-hand corner.

Beneath this band, just before it ended at
the edge of the stones, two minute arrows
were engraved, one after the other, pointing
outward.

Ann recalled the excitement, now nearly a
year ago, that had attended the making of
this picture.

One hot afternoon, Mr. Pool, an artist who
had spent several summers in the neighbor-
hood, placed ‘this camp chair in front of the
stone (then as smooth as its mate across the
way), impaled the handle of his big red um-
brella in the earth beside it, and began to
cut into the hard surface with steel instru-
ments.

This routine was repeated many afternoons,
until curious onlookers assembled at his back,
making remarks’ and asking questions.

And ‘though he worked in silence for the
most part, the few answers he vouchsafed to
one eager questioners were strictly to the
point.

He was chiseling a picture of the Sphinx;
he worked in the afternoon rather than in the
morning when the particular spot where he

you’re a first-class

light in the afternoon was better suited to
his purpose; ahd his reasons for cutting a
picture on a stone at the roadside, rather than

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

Vol. 57—No. &

 

 

|

concerned nobody but himself—unless, indeed,
some person chose to make it his especial
business.

All of which mystified the questioners more
than ever, as perhaps he intended that it
should. For some of them had never even
heard of the Sphinx, and, forthwith, there
was much surreptitious consulting of encyclo-
pedias. But they found only that the Sphinx
was not a real person or thing, but a myth,
a sort of riddle in itself; that its supposed
image had been hewn out of the rock years
ago, and left on the sands of the desert, no-
body knew why; and that it was a fad among
artists to copy it in painting and sculpture.
So most of the curious went their ways, shak-
ing their heads sadly at the ‘“‘crankiness’”’ of
the ‘‘mad artist.”’

It did seem as if the man were not quite
Sane, so determined was he to work on after-
noons when the sun shone fiercest. In vain
did Mrs. Merriweather, with whom he board-
ed, urge him with motherly kindness to take
the cool of the morning for his work, remind-
ing him that he was far from strong, and to
run such risks was simply tempting Provi-
dence. But even she lost patience with him
at last, and let him go his own way. So
when he took to his bed on the completion
of the picture, she was scarcely surprised,
though she nursed him carefully. He grew
weaker steadily, and died within a fortnight.
The day before he died he called Mrs. Merri-
weather to his bedside and gave her a check
for five hundred dollars on a city bank.

“This represents all’ the money I have in
the bank,’ he said; ‘and when I am gone,
and the necessary funeral expenses have been
paid, keep what is left of it for yourself.”
_Mrs. Merriweather carried out these instruc-
tions faithfully, even generously; for she
marked his grave with a neat headstone, bear-
ing an appropriate inscription: Yet there were
those who said that she was a good manager,
and that the greater part of the five hundred
dollars remained in her_possession; also, that
it was a pity that, as Mr. Pool had no near
relatives, a part of the residue, at least, might
ust have gone to the new hospital in High-
Ville.

After the artist’s death there was a slight
revival of interest in the picture on the half-
way stone. Several persons professed to
think that there was a ‘‘deeper’’ meaning to
it than was apparent; something about bygone
ages, or his own life, or his religious beliefs.
But the practical-minded laughed at these the-
ories, and soon the Sphinx by the roadside
was all but forgotten.

When Ann was sufficiently rested she rose
from her seat on the stone, took up the basket
of blackberries, and was about to resume her
walk homeward, when her glance wandered
to the field across the way. Then she gave a
little gasp, and stood staring into the field for
a full minute; and, finally, she set her basket
down again and said, weakly:

“Great Goodness!’’

For ther, cutlined on the dark green earth,

was a gigantic Sphinx, made by the shadows
of an irregular cluster of trees and bushes;
more than that, Silver Brook emerged from
the shadow at the top of the great head, ran
downward on the east side, doubled on itself,
wavered across the field, and was lost to view
in the northeast corner, which corresponded
exactly to the upper right-hand corner of the
stone. Ann compared the shadow Sphinx with
the stone one, giving w@y to little bursts of
joy as the points of interest proved similar to
one another. She ran into the field back and
forth over the shadow, and followed the brook
to the edge of the field.
_. Lo think that I should be the one to guess
it! Oh, how surprised and glad everybody will
be!” And Ann laughed aloud out of the full-
nesS of her heart. But, as she turned home-
ward the thought came that, after all, she
had learned nothing definite; that she had
nothing to tell except that the picture on the
stone was apparently a copy of the shadow on
the ground. If there was a ‘‘deeper’’ meaning
to it she had not fathomed it; she firmly be-
lieved that there was something more, though
what it could be she did nofeven attempt to
guess; but no one else would believe it unless
she could prove it. So, though she was almost
bursting with the secret, she determined to
say nothing about the matter to any one until
she had investigated it further.

It was not surprising that Ann should em-
ploy original methods in the performance of
her duties that evening, though her vagaries

$ wT ~~ 3

 

 

 

in a studio where he could be comfortable,

 

te lifted the basket, then set it down sud-
enly.

“It's as heavy as lead! Don’t tell me that’s
all blackberries! Ann Seabrook, what's’ in this
basket—rocks?”

“Look and see for yourself,’’ and Ann danced
into the next room and collapsed joyfully into
a-.chair beside her father.

Mrs, Seabrook followed, bringing the can,
which she had removed from the basket of
berries.

Then Ann told her story.

Next she flew fer Mr. Randolph, a lawyer
friend of her father; and when she got back
to. the house, accompanied by Mr. Randolph,
several neighbors, scenting something unusual,
had come in.

So the story was told again, after which the
lid of the can was pried off with a chisel,
and Ann took from it a sealed envelope ad-
dressed to “The Person Finding This Can.’’

Under the envelope was a chamois-skin bag,
well filled with golden eagles. The envelope
contained a letter which ran as follows:

“Having no kindred, and knowing that I
am ill of an incurable disease, I take this
means of disposing of my property.

“It is my wish that the money in this can
shall be divided into two equal portions, one
portion to go to the Highville Hospital, the
other to the finder of the can.

“T am not mentally unbalanced, as some
will imagine, but do this because I prefer to
leave to chance that which I cannot decide
for myself. There are, doubtless, some needy
persons in this neighborhood, but I have no
means of finding out who they are; it pleases
me to think that some such person will find
this, perhaps by his own ingenuity in follow-
ing up the clews I have prepared. I know it
is possible that a dishonest person may find
it and appropriate the whole of the contents
to himself, but I have faith in the integrity
of the average human being, and take the
risk. ARTHUR POOL,

‘Witnesses:
“MARTHA MERRIWEATHER,
“ELLEN BURKE.’’

Thus it came about that many persons were
made comfortable and happy by the contents
of the old rusty can. For, though it did not
contain a fortune in the general acceptation of
the term, it was sufficient to put the hospital
on an independent footing, to enable Mr. Sea-
prook to-pay off his indebtedness and buy the
Hill Farm, and to give Ann an education.

Perhaps the person most disconcerted by the
turn of events was Mrs. Merriweather, who
bemoaned her own shortsightedness in not
“smelling a rat’? on the occasion, some weeks
before Mr. Pool’s death, when he asked the
signatures of herself and her handmaiden as
witnesses to a ‘“‘legal document.’’

A Case of Mistaken Identity.

BY MAORILANDA.

 

 

 

In the flag-decked. atrium of the Casino a girl
was standing alone, under the gallery, watch-
ing the brilliant spectacle with wide-eyed in-
terest; it was her first evening in Monte Carlo.

Fair women of ali nations were laughing,
chattering and smoking around her; the girl
was absolutely lost in the novelty of the scene.

The doors at the end of the entrance hall
were open, and led straight to the Salle de Jeu,
or gaming hall. The windows toward the sea
were wide, and above the ceaseless clink of
money Mona could hear the soft lap of the
Waves upon the sand. :

“How wonderful! Oh, how wonderful!’ she
said to herself, as she stood watching, afraid
to enter. ,

“Ts this really I?” "With a sigh of regret at
the thought of the distant, merry New York
home circle she left the Casino and went out
into the starlit night,

She paused a moment on the terrace to listen
to the music, and leaned over the wide bal-
ustrade looking toward Cap Martin. :

““Good-evening,’’ said a lady’s voice behind
her. “I see you are not yet blase enough to
have lost interest in the view; to me, aiso, it
is always beautiful. But surely, why are you
here alone?’ :

Mona had turned in surprise.

“Madame—l think—I, am sure you must be
makine some mistake,’ she said, hesitatingly.

My e child! What do you n n?’’ eried

Lil

 

were rather trying to Mrs. Seabrook’s already
overburdened nerves ,
idn’t min her sal x the blackberries
h,”’ -she he sband, plaintively, }
he hed excuse for putting | dj
uli. £ 2O6und a-dab of ; in Black- |

wing S ceedeup aiterward! And there she sat
ail through supper like one in a trance, her
eyeS as big as saucers. And after supper she
kept dodging into the pantry and behind doors,
so’s I wouldn’t see her laugh; and when I de-
manded an explanation,.she only said: ‘Oh,
mother, don’t ask me! I just can’t help it!’
And with that she burst out again.’’

Early the next morning, the breakfast work
having been finished after a fashion, Ann once
more crossed the fields toward the halfway
stones. The sun was already high in the
heavens, and no shadow Sphinx rested on the
green turf. Ann had not expected to find it;
she understood now why the artist had
worked on the picture in the afternoon instead
of in the morning.

She knelt in front of the Sphinx picture, and
examined it critically, noting each detail of
the curious figure, and tracing the ribbonlike
band to the edge of the stone. Here she came
upon the tiny arrows pointing outward.
Surely, since the picture was an exact copy
of the shadow and brook, with the exception
of these. arrows, might not they mean some-
thing of importance?

She remembéred that on maps the currents
of streams were,sometimes indicated by ar-
rows; but in those cases the arrows pointed
down stream, while here they pginted up
stream. Slowly it dawned upon Ann that if
the arrows were intended to convey any in-
formation, the point of interest must be in
the direction which they indicated, which was
toward the source of the brook. Acting upon
this conviction, somewhat blindly, it is true,
she alae the brook into the woodland be-
yond,

Soon the bed of the stream became narrow-
er and the banks more irregular; tall trees
hung over it, interlacing their branches from
bank to bank, and wild grapevines dropped in
graceful festoons, making natural swings.
Ann had followed the same path many times
before, but never with the sense of delightful
expectancy that now possessed her. She could
not have explained what she was looking for,
but, sustained by her naturally buoyant tem-
perament, she believed that she would clear
up the mystery of the Sphinx picture; if not
to-day, some other time. She might have to
search for a week, or even longer, though
how she could keep it to herself all that time
ee eae of a riddle to her than the quest
itself.

She, pushed steadily upstream, keeping a
sharp lookout for ‘‘clews,’? with occasional
excursions into nearby thickets for berries to
fill the basket on her arm. When the noon
hour came she dispatched her simple luncheon
of brown bread and butter and blackberries,
then scrutinized the brook for a clear place
from which ,to get a drink,

A little further-up, and across the stream,
she spied some huge bowlders’overhanging the
bank; they were partly covered by vines,
which were nourished by the abundant spring
of water that gushed from their midst.

Ann picked her way lightly across a fallen
log and quenched her thirst“ at this natural
fountain. Suddenly, her foot slipped, and, to
save herself from falling, she caught at the
vines, tearing them partly away. 5

Stepping backward to regain her balance,
she saw sOmething that set her heart thump-
ing furiously.

“Great goodness!” she exclaimed, once more.

Roughly scratched on the bowlder was the
inevitable Sphinx, similar to the picture on
the halfway stone, save that the ribbonlike
band was not there, and beneath the figure
was the word “Finis.”” She had come by acci-
dent upon that for which she might have
searched a lifetime without success!

Ann tore away the remaining vines, trod
down the undergrowth at the base of the
bowlders, and peered beneath them. A small
natural shelf of rock projected outward a few
inches. She cleared away the stones and
dead leaves that clogged the opening and,
thrusting in her hand, brought out a rusty
tin can. The lid of the can was soldered on,
and painted upon it in plain characters was:

“To be opened in the presence of a lawyer
by the person finding it.’’

“Something definite at
Ann, dizzily.

Some time afterward Ann entered the
kitchen of her home, and set the basket of
blackberries down beside her mother.

‘Here are some berries to make your mouth
water, mother,’ she said.

“Well, get a jar and put them away.”

“‘T’m so tired, mother; you do it!”’

At the tone of suppressed excitement, Mrs.
Seabrook looked up. Ann’s eyes were dancing,
her cheeks were flushed, her breathing hur-
ried; she looked anything but tired.

*You do act so queerly, Ann. Very well,
I’)! do it if you won't.’

last!’’? murmured

 

‘be the meaning of it ail?

 

The lady laughed in rtled mm: ; ad
looked at the girl with frightened eyes

“Princess, has anything happened?’ she
asked, in a low, mysterious voice, laying her
hand on Mona’s arm.

‘“— do not understand you,’’ answered Mona.
*T am not a princess.’’

The-lady pulled her firmly, though gently,
into the circle of Hight, peering anxiously at
her the while.

“You must be mistaking me for some one
else,’’ persisted the girl, drawing away from
her questioner, half thinking she was mad.

“Tt would be dangerous for you to say that
sort of thing to anybody else, and it is useless
to me,’’ said the stranger suddenly. ‘“‘Do you
think I, who have known you for the past ten
years, could be mistaken? You are not the
princess! For to-night only, or for how long,
may I ask?” And with a light, scornful laugh
she moved quickly away ana -disappeared
among the crowd. i .

“Well, that’s mighty strange!’” exclaimed
Mona, as she lost sight of the lady and began
to regain her presence of mind. ‘‘What can
Is she mad? Well,”
giving herself a little shake, ‘‘I cannot stand
guessing here all night, I shall go right away
and tell Floy.”’

Just before she reached the end of the ter-
race a boy came rushing down the broad steps,
three at a time.

“Oh, Miss Muir,’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘could you
leave this book at the Villa des Lauriers? It
is for some Americans from Chicago, and
rather important. I want to go to the féte at
Old Monaco to-night, and shall not have time
to do both.’’

“TJ will gladly take it for you,’’ answered
Mona ‘‘As pass along the Boulevard du
Nord it will be no trouble.” a

“That’s jolly,” said the boy. ‘‘Here it is;
TV’ll do as much for you another day; have not
the time now even to say ‘thanks’ properly!”

He was off like a shot, after thrusting the
packet into the girl’s hand.

Mona reached the Villa des Lauriers, and
according to the concierge’s. instructions,
mounted to the premier etage. On pressing the
bell the door was immediately opened, not by
a French bonne, but by an American girl of
about her own age. :

To Mona’s amazement this girl instantly
flung her arms round her neck and pulled her
inside, talking volubly all the time, and almost
strangling Mona in her ecstatic delight.

“Oh, good gracious!~ Who would have
thought of meeting you in Monte Carlo, of all
places in the world. Come in. Oh, come in
quick, we are all here. Now tell me_every-
thing, I want to know right away. How do
you like being married? What does it feel like.
to be a Princess? Is it just lo-ovely as we
used to guess it would be? Fancy your really
being one after all! My, it is cute!”’

Mona’s breath seemed taken away as she
was thus, metaphorically speaking, hustled
into the little salon. Here an elderly lady em-
braced her warmly, and Mona was. passive;
but when a gentleman would also have taken
possession of.her she made a vigorous protest.

“Oh, you are all making a mistake!’’ she
eried. ‘‘Stop, stop!”

“A mistake!’ they chorused. ‘Oh, oh!”

“T really do not think I have met you be-

see said Mona, half laughing, half fright-
ened.

“Olive, how can you?’’ cried the girl, re-
proachfully.

“Perhaps we ought to treat you in a more
dignified manner now. Is that what you
mean?’’ asked the old gentleman.

“Tf so, good-evening, princess,’’
with a low bow.

There was a slight pause as Mona began to
realize the awkwardness of the situation.

“Good-evening,’’ she. answered, shyly, and
then felt that the commonplace remark had
made matters even worse.

“Oh, it is not that,’’ she cried at length with
a little rush of words. ‘‘Don’t you see, I am
not the Princess you take me for. I am an
American——’”’

Their laughter interrupted her,

“We know that,’ said the younger. man, scof-
fingly. ‘‘Considering: you were engaged to me
for six months before you married this prince-
ling, it is hardly likely we should make a mis-
take in either your nationality or identity.’’

“T-was never engaged to you,’’ flashed out
Mona, indignantly, ‘‘or married to any one
else; My name is Mona. Muir; my-:mother
brought us to Europe for the sake of; my.:sis-
ter’s health... We only left New York city two
months ago.’’

For answer the young man caught up a lamp
and held it over her head; his amazed sister
followed suit.

“Well,” she exclaimed, ‘‘this is mighty cu-
rious! I would not-have believed there could
be two people in the world so much alike—

said his son,

 

Mona could see from their faces that they
a not quite convinced, in spite of her de-
nial.

“Hubert Lestrange asked me to leave that
book with you. See him, and ask who I am!”
Indignant at their disbelief she flung the book
on the table and left the room, leaving them
Standing in various attitudes of astonishment,
the lights held high above their heads.

Mona went straight to her flat, the comi-
cality of the scene hardly striking her as much
as the awkwardness of it all.

She lived in a tall apartment house, near a
partly-ruined church—a place where dead
bodies sometimes lay in state.

Mona passed the entrance with a shudder,
and ran swiftly up the worn marble stairs to
the fourth floor; she entered with a latch-
key, and went immediately to her sister,
whose eager voice called instantly for news.

“Oh, Mona, what fun!’’ she laughed, When
she had heard the little adventure described
in the most minute detail.

“What an illustrious sister I possess. Fancy
your marrying a prince and jilting a young
man from, Chicago all before you are twenty!
If ever you are mistaken again lead them
on and find out more about it. How I should
like to see your double. Oh, what a joke they
will think it at home!’’

“T am afraid they will imagine we are in a
dangerous place,’’ said Mona, seriously. ‘But
mother did say, ‘Go where you like on the
Riviera,’ and Monte Carlo is so much more in-
teresting than Cannes. Well,’ springing to

her feet, ‘‘we must talk no more to-night,
Floy; grow strong quickly and then we will

try to find the real princess.”’

She kissed her young sister and held her
firmly in her arms for a minute or two; there
were moments when Mona’s_ responsibilities
weighed upon her, and she longed for her
mother’s delayed return.

“You must go to the atrium, Floy. to see it
all, though you are too young to be admitted
to the Salle de Jeu, Iam afraid. How I should
love to play, if only to learn what it feels like.

I just love experimenting. Good-night, Sleep
well.’’
~ * * * * * * *

_The two girls spent the winter very quietly,
living in the primitive manner of the South;
going to market every m@rning for themselves
and. making merry over their housekeeping.

After some few weeks the interview with
the Chicago Americans faded in Mona’s mind;
neither of the girls ever met any one who in
their idea Mona could have been mistaken for.

The féte day of Ste. Dévote falls on January
27, and the American sisters went together to
watch the quaint religious procession wend its
way from the old town to the chapel in thé
ravine, where, according to the legend, the
body of the Christian maid Dévote was guided
to its burial by a dove.

It was too cold for Floy to venture out in
the evening, so Mona hurried down alone
“just for a minute,’’ to see the annual burn-
ing of the fishing boat, as a propitiatory of-
fering to Neptune, as has been usual for the
last century or so. It looked a mysterious cer-
emony carried out in the darkness of the
strange ravine.

The priests blessed the boat, then it was
fired, and gradually the flames mounted higher
above the palms, until they reached the flag-
decked masts. The huge crowd was forced
back in a larger and larger circle by the heat
of the blaze.

To Mona each face seemed more strange
than the last, as she watched the excited,
glistening eyes of the people around her, their
quaint features exaggerated in the light of the
flames.

Unknown languages and patois sounded on
every side, for the peasants came from far and
near to witness the ceremony.

Suddenly Mona felt an arm put firmly
through hers, and a man drew her away from
the outskirts of the crowd.

“fT know I am breaking my word, but I do
not care; I am absolutely reckless,” he said,
with a strong foreign accent. ‘‘Hush, ‘do not
answer me. Do what I ask this once, then
we will part again—forever. I tell you, you
must,” he said, as she tried to interrupt him
and make him set her free.

An open carriage was waiting; he lifted her
in as he talked. ‘To the Casino, vite!’’ he

said to the cocher. The man obeyed, and
started up the hill at a furious pace.
‘Tt is useless to protest,’ he said. “I tell

you if you refuse I will shoot myself here at

 

 

and yet no relation.”
f « a

2

A floral weather prophet is the marigold.
When the day is going to be fine, the flower
opens about 5 or 6 o’clock in the morning;
but if wet weather is to ensue, the marigold

does not open at all.

Madame Malconti, of Florence, the _ re-
nowned teacher of vocalism, says that sing-
ing is a most healthful exercise; it develops

and strengthens the chest and lungs, and
every girl should be taught it.
George Sawyer, the English circus man,

is a wit as well as an expert equestrian. On
being asked what steps he would take should
a certain wild beast break out of his cage, he
promptly replied: ‘‘Blamed long ones.”

A worn or soiled Bank of England note is
seldom seen. This is because no note of this
bank is ever reissued by the establishment.
When cashed, it is kept, and put aside for
destruction, The average term during which
a note remains in circulation is about a month.

David Evans, who recently died in Car-
marthenshire, Wales, loved to witness execu-
tions, and collected many relics of murderers.
When Calcraft, the public hangman, died,
Evans applied for his job, but was refused.
He set up a gallows in his own house, and
it was his habit to invite his friends to test
the noose.

The strongest
vegetable food.
rather than his

animals exist entirely on
It is the ferocity of the lion
strength that makes him
formidable, An elephant is a match for sev-
eral lions, and is a vegetarian. The animals
with most speed and endurance—the horse,
the reindeer, the antelope and others—are also
vegetarians.

A real hero died recently at the South Bar-
bara Mission, in Southern California, at the
age of sixty-three. During the yellow fever
plague of i878, Father Aloysius Wievex, with
twenty-one other Franciscan priests, went to
Memphis, and there ministered to the suffer-
ers, white and black alike. Father Wiesex
was the only one of the twenty-two who sur-
vived, and because of his service in the
fever-Stricken city was known as the “Hero
of Memphis,” although the title distressed
rather than pleased him.

a ag

NTTUTERTTEMTITH

          
 
   

 
 

UIA a

     

a

— i

  
    

ITF LTH
ANDY TSODDUOOTOTOSIL NW

EDITED BY MRS. HELEN WOOD.

 

By special arrangements with: the manufacturers
we are enabled to supply the readers of ‘‘The New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of ail garments
described or 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 1,178, New York City.

 

FASHION NOTES.

Corduroy is to be popular this winter, and
many blouses of the material are to be seen.
The corduroy comes in all colors. Many of
the waists are made with yokes, pointed and
plaited below the points to give fullness, and
others more simply. White corduroy waists
are most attractive. Two of these, which are
well bloused in front and button in the back,
are very striking. One has the effect of a
broad-shaped box plait in the front, perhaps
four inches wide at the top and tapering
gradually and but little to the waist, where
it doubles under to form the blouse. Another
white waist has three groups of side plaits

at the neck, and carried down but a short
distance, and the fullness blouses in at the
waist.

Violet is a shade quite becoming to auburn-

 

your side! It is enough surely,’’ he added,
} erly id 2 : t Kk oO h? =riFft

OF : il

he what |! d

The romance of the South s ned ;
awakened a- corresponding spirit in Mona.
ae what may, be what it might, she would

oO it.

“Yes, or—no, which shall it be?’ he demand-
ed again, grasping her wrists.

: eee she answered, promptly.
eS td

‘“*Here—take this.”’ He pulled out some
notes from his pocket and stuffd them into
her hands. ‘Go to the Casino—the further
trente-et-quarante table to the right—place
as this card tells you, and bring me the re-
sult. Do you understand what it means? I
am discovered; they are on my track! To-
night is my last chance of escape. I will not
go back to Russia—in the end it must mean
Siberia. If you win for me to-night I live.
But remember—I will keep my word to you.
If ee lose—well, you are still more free, that
ig RL

‘They drew up at the Casino, and as he
helped her from the carriage Mona felt the
barrel of his revolver beneath her hand.

“Here is your admission ticket. Now go—
remember, it is my life you are playing for.’’
He left her at the door of the Salle de Jeu.

“JT shall wait on the terrace; come to me
when you can,’ were his last words.

Mona glanced back before the door swung
behind her, but he had disappeared.

The room was thronged with a brilliant
crowd, for it was the busiest hour of the night.
Every table was in full swing and surrounded
by players.

Mona felt intensely excited, but she fol-
lowed her instructions implicitly.

Was it the prince’s own system, she won-
dered. Who was he? Why did he not come
himself? Would he recognize that she was not
his wife upon her return? Above all, shouid
she win? His very life depended on the turn
of the cards.

She glanced round. Was any one else play-
ing for such a stake? She nerved herself to
begin; then the magnificent room and the
throng of players seemed to vanish. Mona
forgot herself utterly; all she knew or cared
was that the pile grew beneath her eyes.

Suddenly she looked up, rato in hand, and
saw the Salle was growing empty, only a few
tables were still working. The clock was in
sight, and she saw that she had been playing
for hours instead of minutes.

She felt a sudden shock of horror. Was
she, too, subject to the gambling mania?

And the prince, where was he?

She gathered up her gold, unconscious of the
comments of the few remaining bystanders.

Mona went swiftly from the room and out
into the still beauty of the cool night. Her
heart was beating strangely as she reached the
wide terrace.

The prince was standing at the end, strain-
ing his eyes out to_sea. She went rapidly
down toward him. He turned and-came to
meet her, his face haggard and drawn with
the long suspense. : 5

To him it meant life and pleasure—Siberia
or death.

Mona said nothing; but, with her own young
face as set as his, held out her roll of notes

and gold.

“You have won! Thank Heaven! You have
given me my life! Hark!’ A distant roar fell
upon her ears. It was the midnight express
entering the tunnel of Cap Matin.

He turned swiftly back and caught her in
his arms. ;

“Why were you not always thus?’ he cried.
“But I keep my word. Farewell forever!’
He kissed her passionately, then set her free
and bounded down the sloping path to the
station. : ¢

Mona stood alone in the moonlight.

“But what

 

> @—<+—_——

Items of Interest.

In Arizona there are 1,700 Indians who own
farms.

It is a remarkable fact that few savages
have ever been known to stammer,

Soldiers in the Italian army are each al-
lowed half a gallon of wine every week.

Ants have been burrowing under the brick
pavements of Council Blufis, Iowa, and re-
moving the sand. One street, for a distance
of several blocks, has thus been rendered un-
fit for travel.

Captain Berniex, of Quebec, is planning an
expedition to the North Pole. He will take
with him large kites fitted with cameras.
These will enable him, even if he fails to get
to the Pole, to take photographs of many
points which he cannot reach.

 

 

; Soit material The beit is of

haired ladies. A pretty gown worn by a
maiden with Titian locks is of violet silk
| i j the skirt trimmed with bands of
; i The vist is made

daenghnie 5 apne the nde $ ede cbr ciate ence np ainag tokens — DAS

   

black - veivei
ribbon falling in long ends to the edge of the
skirt, and a soft loop of the same as a finish
to the sailor collar. :

Gloves for the elbow-sleeved gown are shown
with lacing of gold or silver cord from waist
to elbow on the outer seam. The same thing
is seen in shoulder length gloves, and the
lacing is not only decorative but also useful
in fitting the gl6ve to the arm and keeping
it in place.

Flannel waists, which are out in full force,
have in many instances the plain colors
trimmed with plaid. In some of the blouses
the plaid is used only as a piping, and in
others as lapels, cuffs, turnovers to collars,
etc.

White alpaca of fine quality is excellent for
petticoats of the much frilled variety. The
material launders well and makes an accept-
able change from silk and muslin.

Hats composed of the feathers of brilliant-
hued tropical birds and those of ebony plum-
age are included among the season’s millinery
novelties,

Handsome silk petticoats are embellished
by fine tucking and accordion plaiting.

 

oF In ordering patterns be sure to give size and number,

 

No. 2,631.—LADY’S SEVEN-GORED SKIRT.

To be made with one or two circular flounces,
and an under plait at the back.

The seven-gored skirt is a favorite
a smart example of which is shown in the
: illustration. The

skirt has a very
slight train, per-
forated for mod-
erate or walking
length. Each
gore is moderate
at the top, fit-
ting snugly over
the hips; just
below the knee,
where there is
a gradual wid-
ening, giving the
approved flare,
which is further
emphasized by
the addition of

model,

two shaped
flounces. The
skirt may be

made with a sin-
gle flounce, as
shown in small-
er view. Cloths,

f A ie light - weight
woolens and cotton fabrics are alike suitable
for this garment. he pattern is cut from
22 to 32 inches waist measure. Size 24 requires
8% yards of 42-inch material, when made with
two flounces.

No. 2,610..—GIRL’S DRESS.

This pretty
model for a
young miss is
composed of
ruby «red mo-
hair, trimmed
with white
soutache braid.
There is a
smart little
blouse, having
bishop sleeves,
and a _ sailor
collar opening
upon a chemi-
sette that can
be of any mate-
rial preferred.
The skirt,
which is per-
fectly plain at
the top, has a
shaped flounce
that flares at
the hem. The
pattern is cut
trom ¢ t.6°12
years. Size 8
requires 3%
yards of 42-
inch material.

 

a »

 

(All patterns published in ‘'The New York
Weekly’’ will be sent to our readers for 10 cents
each. Address FASHION DEPARTMENT, ‘‘New
York Weekly.’’)

 

 

 

Ll

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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