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“ Fo

NEW STORY BY BERTHA M. CLAY BEGINS NEXT WEEK.

 

 

Vol. 47.

Se

 

ANGELS.

 

BY ANNIE B. SPEARING.

 

Though we cannot see them,
They’ll come at our call;
God gives them the power
To help each and all;
They come in our dangers,
They come in our fears,
They come in our sorrows

To wipe away tears.

With Conscience’s white fingers
The way is smooth paved;

When heeded, her whisper
From sin has oft saved;

Resolye isan angel,
When foand by her side,

And stern should he be,
To banish fierce pride.

There’s sweet, homely Patience,
And beautifnl Grace,

We need them each moment,
Let’s give them a place ;

For earth-hurts are many,
And longings are vain,

And striviugs are useless,
Without this fair twain.

Look sharp at young Impulset
Till he’s understood ;
He may be au angel—
He is if he’s good;
So often the satans
Put on angel-guise
To find out the spirit
One needs watchful eyes.

Love, God’s brightest angel,
Rich blessings will bring,
in her prre bogom, -
Is no evil thing;

Then let us call ever,
To her ever cling,

For Peace, gentile angol,
Abides ’neath her wing.

God’s angels are countless ;
Each thought toward the right
Isa white-winged spirit,
To lead us to light
Then let as possess them,
The great and the small,
The beautiful angels,
Who wait but our call.

ae 4

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year

Office 3! Rose. St. :
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

 

HH}

i
Hi

 

WEDDED, YET NO WIFE:

A Lscap in

>

 

By MAY AGNES FLEMING,

Author of ‘*Carried by Storm,” ‘‘ Norine’s Revenge,” ‘*Shaddeck Light,”
**A Little Queen,” Ete.

 

{“‘ WEDDED, YET NO WIFE”. was commenced in No. 50.

Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }

 

CHAPTER VI.
THE DAWN OF THE FOURTEENTH OF APRIL.

It was the thirteenth of April, and late in
the afternoon. Sunshine flooded the. quiet!
streets of Bloomsbury, and the windows. of
Half-Moon Terrace, happening to face west- |
ward, were all aflame with the golden light |
of the sky, a sky as blue as though Half-Moon
Terrace were in Venice, instead of the parish |
of Bloomsbury, London. It was an arc’ of |
dreary brick boxes, and had only one side of |
the way, the other being mews. And in the |

 

cal piece, the “Battle of Bannockburn,” with

a fiery sunset in the background, and the faces |

of Sir William Wallace, and Robert Bruce,

|
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}

 

|

\
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and King Edward I., all ablaze with crimson |

lake and gamboge, from the lurid glory in the
skies. I am not positive that _ those

august personages were all at the battle of}

Bannockburn; no more was the. artist; they
were in the picture, however, the Scottish
heroes, in very short kilts, and standing none
too strongly on their legs, the royal Edward,
ferocious of ASpPES and in scale armor, and
breastplate. an helmet. Like most other
geniuses, Mr. Mason was unappreciated—the
“Battle of Bannockburn” wouldn’t sell, and

three |

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1892, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

New York, October, 22, 1892.

Entered at the Post Office, New

Two Copies Fiv

Three Dollars Per Year,

 

York, as Second Class Matter.

No. 52.

e Dollars.

 

which is of the hue called sandy, is tightly | day. He had not said a word, as you may sup- | cried Duke,

most wretched: mother, have pity on her, a helpless babe.

 

 

Willson a =

Spangle himself takes. the lovely
young Grecian prince, who, going for

 

his morning bath in the Agean Sea,
is, lured to the Coral Cave by the
songs of the Sirens. Tinsel plays Nep-
tune; and one scene is in six com-
partments, with six different actions
going on at once. That: will be a poser
for the machinist, I flatter myself.
it’s» a great piece, Rosanna; and we
will have to work double ‘tides before
the machinery is finished.”

Mr. Mason dashed in his skies and
clouds energetically, feeling guiltily
all the while that his accusing angel
in the parlor was about to bring him
to book.

“I don’t want to hear about your
Coral Caves and. your Venus_thing-

 

 

amies, Duke Mason,” his .sister. re-
torted, sternly; “it is bad enough to
know that. such sinful; things exist,

and that my own brother is risking
his eternal welfare among. them. I
want to know what you mean by that
odious habit you have contracted. of
sitting for hours and staring at noth-
ing, like an idiot. It means. soime-
thing—don’t tell me, sir—I know
better !”

“Then I suppose ét means laziness,
Rosanna,” Duke answered, good-
humoredly.

“Tt means more thaa laziness, though
that’s bad enough. You know what
the pious and wise Dr. Watts says:
‘In works of labor and and of——’”

“Oh, dear! Yes, Rosanna, I know;
don’t repeat it,” groaned Duke.

“But. it isn’t? laziness; it’s worse,
Duke!” in her cruelest voice. “Don’t
prevaricate to me.. You have fallen in
love,”

If Miss Mason had said, and truth-
fully, “you have committed a murder,”
her brother could hardly have looked
more alarmed and guilty. Was it love,
to be haunted by day and by night by
one beautiful face, to wear an opal
ring. in a pocket-book, and have a
secret hidden from an only sister?
Guilt was there, and guilt told,

“T see I am right,” Rosanna said,
aiter-a-thrilling penny “Duke, who
is the young woman?”

“Upon my word, Rosanna, there is
no young woman. That is, there isn’t

 

—she doesn’t—I mean——”
Rosanna shook her head bitterly.
“That sounds yery plausible, no

Duke, ‘but it doesn’t
deceive me. There isn’t—she doesn’t,
indeed! Oh, Duke, have I brought
you up to this time of day, and In-
stilled the catechism into you, only to
see you’ come to this? ‘The theater
was bad enough, but to fall in love!
And next you'll want to get married!
Duke, I command you—— Who is
the hussy?”

doubt, brother

 

Help me now, and may Heaven reward you!”

“"here’s. no’ hussy in the case, and
I’m not in love, and I don’t want’ to
get married. Good gracious, Rosanna!
J what crime will you suspect’a fellow
= Of next? Upon my word and honor,”
in a paroxysm of torture, “T

pinned in alittle knot at the back of her head,,| pose, of the adventure of the night of the| haven’t a notion of getting married now, or

Her dress, old and faded, is daintily clean, as
is, indeed, everything about her, except, per-
haps, Duke, whom she loves, and prays for,

and tyrannizes over, as some women do over

the men they like best.
Thereis a, tradition..extats, .that, all old
maids, ab some epoch in their lives, could have

| married, if they had’ willed it; and there is

the Dark.

still afether ¢ruél tradition, that ‘all old
maids want to be married. Miss Mason tri-
umphantly vindicated her sex in both these
particulars. No man had ever asked

she wanted to marry,
you, in a glow of honest pride—a woman who
was an old maid, pure and simple, from
choice. She despised men; she despised most
women, too—weak, purposeless beings, with
no higher aims than their husbands and their
children. She had: no weakness herself: she
had no pet dogs or cats; one engendered fleas,
the other was of thievish propensities. She
cultivated flowers; the windows are full of

ithem at this moment, and very beautiful they

are amid the London grime; and she loved
children, and she was a devoted sick nurse.
Miss Rosanna Mason was a Christian of the
austere Sort, who looked upon theaters and
ball-rooms'as the threshold of .perdition, and
a low-necked dress the first step to ruin. She
was a thoroughly good and earnest woman in
her way, which was a very gloomy and ascetic
way. If you were sick, she would sit up with
you night after night, knowing no weariness,
asking no reward; and in the dim watches,
when the pale lamp flickered, and your spirits
were at their faintest ebb, she would’ read
aloud to you, in a cruel voice, of the awful

her to}
marry.him,and-no man-had ever.Jived,.whom.|
I hold \her up betore |

| twenty-fifth of March. Very few people felt
| tempted to pour the story of their follies into
| the vestal ear of Rosanna, and he had hidden

the opal ring deep in the recesses of his
| pocket-book. ‘He had told nobody of that
| strange adventure, and he had contracted a
| custom of thinking about it a great deal.

The fair, proud face of Miss Olivia Lynd:th
rose very often between him and the canvec,
|and haunted his dreams. What had become of
her? Had she married the baronet—he was a
baronet, Duke supposed—or had Robert turned
up? Of course not; Robert was drowned. It
was all darkly mysterious. Just at present he
was wondering how the young lady’s escape
had come to be discovered so speedily; it was
the missing key did it, no doubt.

It had been the missing key. Mrs. Grimshaw
had found herself unable to sleep that night
on account of it. Had the spirit of the slain
cavalier whisked it off, or had Miss Lyndith
anything to do with it? After tossing several
hours, Mrs. Grimshaw grew desperate—got up
—stole to the young lady’s chamber to see
that all was safe. The door was unlocked, the
bed unslept in, the young lady gone. Half an
hour after, Mr. Lyndith was tearing along to
the station in search of his ward.

“Tt J. J. Quill got hold of the story he’d
work it up in a five-act melodrama, and make
his fortune,” thought Duke. “J. J. has done
all the dramas they've played at the Britannia
for the last fourteen years, except what I’ve
cooked over from the French. She said if she
ever needed me, she would send for me again;
I hope she won’t; Rosanna might find it out,
but then I would like to see her once more.

 

How handsome she looked, standing up there,

)

the artist had given up historical painting,

particular brick box, where Mr. Duke Mason |and gope in for the Royal Britannia, which |

terrors of the Last Day, and the burning tor-;| and defying that old Turk, her uncle!”
ments of such lost and worldly souls as your-;| Mr. Mason unconsciously assumed a defiant |
self, until your blood curdled: and your hair| attitude himself, as he thought of it.

 

 

had set up his household gods, he had a| yielded him an income of forty-five shillings a |

chimney-sweep for neighbor in the attic, and
a lame cobbler who kept a shop on the first
floor.

Mr. Mason’s domicile consisted of four di-
minutive rooms, a kitchen, with a bedroom off
for his sistur and housekeeper, a parlor, with
ditto for himself, and. a dreary, unplastered
apartment, also opening off the parlor, which
served him fora studio; for Duke was an
artist, as you have been told—scenic artist,
his little sign over the door informed you—
assistant scene-painter to the Royal Waterloo
Britannia. He was also second violinist, he
likwise went on, and played a witch in “ Mac-
beth,” Second Grave-digger, etc., and such

owerful parts. Being an adept in the mrench
anguage, he moreover adapted the »plays of
that nation, diluting them with insularvirtue,
and straining the French morality a good
deal, in order to suit. British stomachs. He
also painted portraits, when he got them to
paint, so that you perceive Mr. Mason was a
gentleman of brilliant parts and great versa-
tility of talent.

He stands in his painting-room this sunny
April afternoon, hard at werk. The ugly, baer
roof is flooded with sunshine, and walls are
covered with the works of Duke’s facile brush.
Conspicuous among these is his great histori-

 

week.

This afternoon he is at work on a huge
square that oceupies all une side of, the room,
and he is standing on a ladder, putting in
skies and backgrounds,
huge chaos of rubies and. purples, and ultra-

i

|

Close, it looks one |
| missionary to the heathen,

marine and gold leaf; from the door-way it |

looks like a grotto set in golden sands, and in |
a strong lime light will no doubt come out in |
dazzling splendor to the eyes of the frequenters
of the Britannia.

In the parlor adjoining, the shabbiest and |
most spotlessly neat of parlors, Miss Rosanna
Mason sits sewing. Her work is not fancy
work; she does not look like one of your}
frivolous creatures who give their weak intel- |
lects to gold beads and Berlin work; it is—
don’t let me shock anybody—it is a pair of
Duke’s trousers which she is mending.

The full glow of the yellow sunlight floods |
Miss Mason as she sits and sews in its glory, |
and if you are a frivolous person, you will
hover aloof, and gaze with awe and silence.

She is a lady of that age which is delicately
mentioned as uncertain; she is fifteen years
Duke’s senior, and Duke is five-and twenty. |

She is tall and spare, as maiden ladies usually |
are: she has high cheekbones, and thin lips, |

and deep-set eyes, and a Roman nose, and a
tremendous frontal development; and her hair,

 

; rose.

brought him up since boyhood, and slapped
him, and scolded him for his good, until the
poor little fellow’s life had been a misery to
him? She had meant him to be a preacher, a
and lo! here he
was, at five-and-twenty, a play-actor. It was
Miss Mason’s bitterest cross, but she bore it,
as we all, saints and sinners, must,

The afternoon sun dropped low; Miss Mason,
glancing out at the crimson golden radiance
yonder in the west, opined that it was almost
time to go and get tea. Duke must depart for
the “regions of darkness,” as she always
thought of the Britannia, at half-past six,
and the pantaloons were done. She glanced at
their wearer. and her grim face grew a shade
more grim.

“At it again,” thought Miss Mason; “he’s
growing worse every day.”

Duke was not doing anything very wrong—
in fact, he was not doing anything at all. He
sat perched on the top of the ladder,

Duke stood in awe of her; hadn't she| Mason saw him, and laid down her work.

 

his| are five-and-forty young women, dressed, or |

Miss |

“Duke,” his sister said, in a deep bass.

Duke started to his usual position, and laid |
hold of his brushes in some trepidation. It |
wasn’t likely his sister could read his thoughts, |
but Duke wouldn’t be very much surpised to|
find that she could,

“Duke!” repeated Miss Mason, in her deep-
est tones, “let there be an end of this. Tell}
me what it means.”

“An end of what, Rosanna? Do you mean |
this scene? Well, I’m bringing it to an end |
as fast as Iecan. I suppose those big fellows
do make a mess, but there’s no help for it. As |
to what it means, it’s the Grotto of the Venus |!
Aphrodite, and the piece it is for is a new |
thing, and will make Tinsel & Spangle, if |
anything will. It’s called the ‘Coral Caves of
the Dismal Deep;’ and there are six acts and |
thirty-seven scenes; and it all happens ander |
the sea. In the ballet, in one part, where the |
Venus Aphrodite rises from the ocean, there |

 

brushes and palette unused, staring very hard | rather undressed, as mermaids and sirens, and |
at nothing, and whistling a pensive accom-| that sort of people dancing around her in a|

Peder to his thoughts.
1

abit of his; this day-dreaming, a habit con-|the D. D.’
tracted since his late visit to Lincolnshire. That | and a_ tripod.
was over three weeks ago now, and, as_his| course, by Miss Annetta de Courcy—in
sister said to herself, he grew worse every! bosom of her family, Mrs. Ann Bullock—and

It was quite a new | blaze of golden fire.

I appear in the ‘C. C. of |
myself, as a Triton, with a tail |
The Venus will be done, of |

| dreadful possibilities involved.

the Mr. Mason, firmly.
{all that, but I’ll see her farther first! I’! run

| ever—— Oh, there’s the postman! Don’t mind,

Rosanna, I'll go.”

Duke bounced off his ladder, and rushed to

the door. The postman handed him two let-
ters, both addressed to himself. Rosanna
Mason had never been guilty of epistolary
ifollies, any more than other follies, ‘in her
| lite. One was from Tinsel & Spangle, reprov-
| ing him sharply for recent unpunctuality, and
|commanding an early attendance. in the. or-
|chestra that-evening on pain of a beavy fine.
| Duke flune this to, the farthest corner of the
|room, and glanced at the other. Slippery
| white satin paper, a faint odor of perfume, a
delicate, spidery female hand, a blue wax
seal, with crest and a motto. All the blood in
Mr. Mason’s arteries rushed into his face;
land there stood Rosanna—that frigid vestal
virgin, with piercing eyes fixed on that furi-
ously blushing face. She saw his look, and
answered it with stinging sarcasm.

“Oh, don’t mind me. Read your letter, by
all means, and then tell me, when I ask you
who it’s from, that ‘there isn’t—she doesn't’—
that ‘there’s no lady in the case’—and’ that
you've ‘no notion of being married.’ Don’t
mind adding afew more falsehoods ‘to your
already overburdenéd conscience. Read your
letter, unhappy young man, and tell me it’s
from those play-actor men, who employ you
in their godless work, if you dare!”

One glance of scorn and sorrow combined,
|and Miss Mason stalked out to the kitchen.
| With a sort of groan the badgered scene-
painter opened the dainty missive, and read:

 

 

 

| “You promised to cone to me, if I should ever

want you, The time has come when it remains for
you to keep that promise. If you have any pity for
an unhappy, friendless girl, you will come, at three
o’elock to-morrow morning, to the address below.
Be at the area gate at that time, and you will confer
an deathless obligation on her whom you once so
generously served. ), ie”

 

4

There was an address at the bottom of this
note—the number of a house in Park Lane.
And the blood left Duke’s face, and a cold
thrill ran through him, as he thought of the
Did she want
him to run away with her again? Wasn’t it
a penal offense to elope with an heiress? He

| wasn’t sure—his knowledge of Blackstone was

foggy. And she would want him to go to
France with her, and his reputation was at

stake, not to speak of his tinie; and what
would Rosanna—no, be couldn’t bear to think
what Rosanna would say to such horrors as
this.

He folded the letter, and thrust it deep into
the cavernous depths of his biggest pocket,
and looked distractedly out at the red light in
the sky. At three in the morning! Why, there
was something unholy in the very hour—it
smacked of gunpowder plots and secret assas-
sination. If’ he were seen hovering about a
gentleman’s area, at three in the morning,
what would the policemen who guard Park
Lane dream, but of burglary? And if he were
caught leaving the house with the young lady!

“T won’t leave the house with her!” resolved
“She’s very pretty, and

 

 

 

 
  

 

 

Pony

 

 

THE NEW YORK

ee a ee a

away with nobody any more. Adventures are’ matter of life and death tome. To-morrow—

all very well, but I’d rather take part in them
on the stage of the Britannia than in private
life. I’11 go—I would bea brute to refuse—and
what excuse will I make to Rosanna? Not
that it matters much, for she won’t believe
me, let me fabricate what I please.”

He rose, and paced softly up and down the
parlor, feeling like the wretched conspirator he
was. He gould hear Rosanna bustling about
the kitchen, the clatter of cups and saucers,
and the general preparation for tea.

“I’ll have to stay out all night,” mused
Duke. “I couldn’t sleep if IT went to bed,
What can she want? I thought she promised
to marry Sir Vane Charteris. It was bad
enough to runaway with a young lady. It
oe be worse to run away with a baronet’s
w fe.”

“Come to supper,” called Rosanna, and Duke
went meekly out to the kitehen, which was
also the dining-room, and with all his wrong-
doing palpable in his face. How was he to
arin€ weak tea, and eat slices off a stale quar-
tern, with that secret on his mind, and that
letter buried in his pocket? He rose after two
or three gulps swallowed spasmodically. Ro-
sanna, eating with the powerful appetite of
strong virtue, that can relish weak tea and
stale bread, saw all his confusion.

“You needn’t sit up for me, Rosanna,” the
artist said, with nervous hurry. “I sha’n’t be
home to-night. Tinsel & Spangle have been
blowing me up for laziness, and I shall work
double tides to make up for it. I shall work
at the Britannia until three or four this morn-
ing, and—ah—good-evening, Rosanna,”

Ties were not at all in Duke Mason’s way—
this was a mild one, but still it nearly choked
him. And, of course, Rosanna did not believe
one word. She listened, and ate on in ominous
silence, making no response to the fraternal

ood-night; and Duke drew a long breath as
i. closed the street-door behind him, and hur-
ried on his way. A blue, silvery haze filled
the streets, through which the gas-lamps
twinkled. One or two early stars shone up in
the blue, and a cloudless sunset irradiated the
town. Duke took an omnibus, and reached the
Royal Britannia at an earlier hour than he had
done for weeks, and Tinsel & Spangle con-
gratulated themselves that their blowing-up
had done their second violinist good.

All through the five acts of the melodrama
that night, Duke's thoughts were away in
Park Lane, and he played false notes, and
sometimes forgot to play altogether. It wasan
unutterable relief when the curtain fell, and
the audience poured out into the starlit night,
and he was free to think as he pleased. It was
just eleven. He turned away from the theater,
and his feet half-unconsciously took him to
Park Lane. He found the house he sought
easily enough—a big, black-looking house—
many lights gleamed along its aristocratic
front. A little farther down, a long string of
carriages blocking the way, told of a gay
party.

“1 wonder if she is at it?” Duke thought.
“J wonder why she couldn’t have fixed one in
the morning, instead of three? How am I to
get through the next two hours?”

The moon was shining brilliantly, the stars
were numberless, the night mild as midsum-
mer. This, at least, was a consolation; he
thrust his hands into his surtout pockets, and

lodded leisurely along, whistling plaintively.

hat could she want of him? Would she
carry him off to Paris? Any human _ creature
persistent enough could. always do as he
Boe with poor Duke. Was Rosanna asleep
y this time, or still keeving vigil?

“It’s my opinion Rosanna cculd sit up for a
month, without a wink of sleep, and be none
the worse for it,” thought Rosanna’s only
brother. “I wonder if she really sleeps at all?
She may, but it’s like the weasels, with one
eye open. For Rosanna Mason to snore a long
winter night ri Sop in forgetfulness of the
world and its wickedness, must simply be im-

ossible. If I do run away to Paris wits Miss
yndith, Ill never, dare to face her again—
never!”
wo! by the pumberless city steeples. Duke,
lighted a cigar} and seated himself in an open

square, where the trees made long shadows |‘

in the moonlit grass, and the lamps waxed
dim in its silvery rays. What a strange, lon
night it was—-would he ever forget Cicada
how was it going to end?

Half-past two! He started up. He was a
couple of miles away from Park Lane—it would
be three when he reached it. Still smoking,
he hastened on. One or two “guardians of the
a vl glanced at him inquiringly—one or two
belated pedestrians he passed, a few hansom
cabs tore by him with the haste of abnormal
beurs, but the aristocratic streets of the West
End lay very still under the stars. A feeling
of awe came over the young manas he glanced
up at that glorious sky, and thought of Him
“Who keeps the vast and silent city while it
sleeps.”

The big black house in Park Lane loomed

up before him as the clocks tolled three. All
was dark and quiet now. The string of car-
oors off

ears had vanished—the party three
had broken up early. He leanei against the
area railing, looking up at the dismal, un-
lighted mansion, when a cold hand was sud-
denly and swiftly laid on his. He started, and

barely suppressed an exclamation; he had
heard no sound, yet here by bis side stood a
woman

“Hush!” said a voice; “not a sound! You
are Duke Mason?”

“T am.”

“Tell me the name of her who sent for you?”

“Olivia Lyndith.”

“Thank Heaven! Come down—tread softly.”

He descended the area steps, and stood beside
‘her. She was a tall young woman, but she
was not Miss Lyndith.

“I am the child’s nurse,” the girl said,
seeing his surprise. “Take off your shoes,
The least noise may betray us.”

Duke obeyed. Her description of herself was
rather unintelligible, though. The child’s
nurse! and “hat had he to do with children?
Miss Lyndith wasn’t a child by any means,
What did she mean? :

There was no time to ask questions. He re-
moved his. shoes, and followed her into the
basement regions, up a flight of steps, and
found himself in a lofty-domed and carpeted
hall. The moon’s rays shone brightly, and tall
marble statues gleamed like ghosts in its
light. A great staircase, carved, and gilded,
went up in majestic sweeps to the regions
above. A thick, soft carpet muffled the tread
as Duke followed her to a second stately hall,
hung with pictures, and lighted by a large
Maltese window. Many doors were on each
side: one of these she opened, motioning the
wondering Duke to follow, and he found him-

- self in a spacious and elegant antechamber,
dimly lighted by two wax candles—an apart-
meut more luxurious and heautiful than any
the scene-painter had ever beheld.

“The Coral Caves .of the Dismal Deep are
very charming abodes, no doubt,” he thought,
“but for permanence give me a big black house
in Park Lane.”

“Wait here,” the girl said, laconically. A
second after, lifting a heavy crimson curtain
that draped an arch, she let it fall, and dis-
appeared.

“It’s uncommonly like the Arabian Nights,”
mused Mr. Mason, taking a seat upon a velvet
fauteuil, “where Mr Abou Hassan falls asleep
at the gates of Bagdad, and wakes to find
himself in gorgeous chambers, and_ beside the
dazzling Princess of China. I shall awake
presently, no doubt, and hear the men in the
mews over the way rubbing down their horses,
and the little chimney-sweep up stairs start-
ing on his morning’s work.”

He paused. Again the curtain was lifted
by the servant, and this time Miss Olivia Lyn-
dith herself appeared: Duke rose. She wore a
flowing white dressing gown, her abundant
hair hung loose over her shoulders, her large
eyes looked bigger and blacker than ever in
her small, pale face. Again she took his hand
in both her own, as on that memorable night,
when they had parted, and looked at him with
her dark, solemn eyes.

“] knew you would come,” she said “I knew
I might trust you. I have sent for youon a

 

-pink ray

nay, to-day—is my wedding-day.”

“Oh, indeed!” Mr. Mason responded, feeling
that politeness required him to say something,
and wondering if young ladies generally re-
garded their wedding-days as matters of life
and death, and what she could possibly want
of him in this state of affairs.

“I am. surrounded by enemies, who call
themselves my friends, and in whose power I
am, I am going to marry a man whom I nei-
ther love nor respect—a man whom If fear,
For myself, it does not so much matter. I
don’t care what becomes of me—” there was
a desperate recklessness in her tone and lock,
that suited her words—“but there is one in
this house whom I do love, whom I wish to
save fromthe men who have made my life
miserable, It is a child. To obtain possession
of her, [ have promised to marry the man of
my guardian’s choice. This very day, imme-
diately after the ceremony, I start for Italy,
and she remains behind in the power of Geof-
frey Lyndith. I cannot trust him—I will
not trust him—her life would be blighted,
as her mother’s has been. She must be
removed out of their knowledge and out
of their power. That is why have sent
for you; | have notafriend I dare trust—
they are all my uncle’s friends, and her
birth is a dead secret. Will you take her away
with you to-night? Will you keep her, and
hring her up as your own?—you and your sis-
ter. You shall be well paid. and, if it is ever
in my power, I will claim her. Don’t refuse;
have pity on me, her most wretched mother;
have pity on her, a helpless babe. You havea
kind heart—you helped me before. Help me
now, and may Heaven reward you!”

She clung to his arm—passionate tears stood
in her proud eyes. Duke stood absolutely
transfixed.

“You shall be well rewarded. See! here is
this pocket-book; it contains one hundred
pounds, all I have now, but I will send you
more. Take it, take it. You will not refuse
—you cannot. Wait one instant, and I will
fetch her.” 4

She darted away. Duke stood looking
blankly at the Russian-leather pocket-bonok in
his hand. A child—her child!—his head was
in an utter whirl.

She came back in a moment, holding in her
arms a bundle wrapped in a shawl. She flung
this wrap back, as she came close to Duke,
and he saw the cherub face of a Soap toe child.

“She has been drugged to keep her quiet—
she will not awake for an hour. See what a
lovely little angel she is! Oh, my darling! my
darling! my darling!”

She covered the baby face with passionate
kisses. With her wild, loose hair, her wilder
eyes, her frantic manner, she seemed like a
creature half-distraught. On the instant, far
away in the honse, they all heard the sound
of an opening door. Theservant appeared in
alarm.

“Miss Olivia, do you hearthat? He must
go! Mr. Lyndith has the earsof a cat, and
the eyes, I believe. Give him the child, and
let him go, for pity’s sake!”

She absolutely took the child from the arms
that pressed it so convulsively, wrapped the
_ closer around it, and caught Duke’s

and,

“Come!” she said,
ose.” :

“Be good to it! be good to it!” Miss Lyn-
dith cried; “as you hope for salvation, be good
to my child!”

She sank down in a great carved and gilded
chair—a small white figure, and burying her
face in her hands, her suppressed sobbing
filled the room. So Duke’s last glance saw
her as he qaitted it. Beyond that “oh, indeed !”
he had not spoken a word—hehad not been
five minutes in the house altogether. Like one
in a dreamy swoon, he followed the nurse
through halls and stair-ways, until once more
they stood under the stars.

“Put on your shoes,” the girl said; “you
will find a cab-stand over in that direction.
The baby will not awake until you get home.”
he pressed the | bila upon him. © He took it
mechanically-*mechanically descended the area
os, looked back, and found the gir] gone.

What was he todo? It would never do to
stand there and be discovered by a passing
policeman, with a suspicious bundle in his
arms. Still like a man in a dream, he started
forward in the direction the girl had pointed
out, found the eab-stand, and in five minutes
more was rattling over the stony streets,
Bloomsburyward. Then he opened the shawl.
Day was brightly breaking, and the first little
stole in and kissed the lovely
sleeping face, framed in tiny flaxen curls.
baby! and he was taking it home. This
was how the ‘adventure of this night had
ended. And he had said he would be painting
at the Royal Britannia until daylight.
“Powers above!” thought Mr. Mason, his
heart seeming to die within him. “ What will
Rosanna say?”

CHAPTER VII.
AT ST, GEORGE’S, HANOVER SQUARE.

The sun was just rising, as the hansom tore
through the quiet streets of Bloomsbury, wak-
ing the peaceful rate-paying, respectable, third-
class inhabitants from their slumbers. Sun-
rise was a phenomenon Mr. Mason had not
witnessed in the course of his checkered exist-
ence—getting him up inthe morning before
eight being one of Rosanna’s bitterest crosses.
He looked at it now, at the golden radiance in
the east deepening and deepening until the
whole sky was glorified, in much the same
way aS men on trial for life note the carved
rails of the dock, the hats on the spectators,
and the bonnets in the gallery, while waiting
for the awful answer to “Guilty or Not
Guilty?”

And still the child slept peacefully, sweetly,
like one of Correggio’s smiling angels.

He reached Half-Moon Terrace—he paid and
dismissed the cab. He met the little black
sweep whee merrily, as he started on his
day’s work, and who gave him good-morning.
Duke shrunk guiltily even from him, The cob-
bler on the first floor was opening his shop;
he, too, looked askance from the young man
to the bundle, closely muffled now in the
shawl.

Rosanna was sure to be up; didn’t she
always rise at some dismal hour in the bleak
and chilly dawn? Duke set his teeth, and
opened the kitchen door; a man can die but
once; as well face the ordeal first as last.

He stalked in, and confronted his sister.

If it were possible for Miss Mason to look
more uncompromisingly awful at one hour of
the twenty-four than another, it was at this,
Her thin face seemed cut in gray stone, her
lips were more rigid, her eyes more steely, her
spare figure more angular, andthe milk of
human kindness in her breast a little more
strongly acid than at other seasons, The Iron
Duke himself, or Jack Sheppard, or any uther
hero, might have qnailed before the scathing
glance that fell upon the intruder.

The pale daylight streaming in through the
one window gave Duke a ghastly and unnat-
ural look, perhaps, for she continued to stare
speechlessly, first at him, then at the bundle.

e set his teeth a little harder, and opened it.
If you have to jump over a precipice and break
your neck, shut your eyes and take the lea
|at once; the torture ends sooner. He flung o
the shawl, and the sleeping child lay revealed.

“Duke!”

Only one word, but the tone! In some such
voice of anguish may the great Napoleon, at
St. Helena, looking back at one disastrous
day, have exclaimed, “ Waterloo!”

“It’s not mine, Rosanna—I swear it’s not!”
Duke cried out. “T never set eyes on it until
within the last two hours.”

“Not on it, perhaps—but its mother——”

“Nor its mother either—so help me! until
|three weeks ago! Good gracious, Rosanna!
‘what a mind you must have to suspect a fel-
low in this way, without giving him a chance
to explain! I never saw the child until it was
given to me—no, forced upon me, by Jove!
two hours ago: and its mother, if she he its
mother, I met for the first time, three weeks
ago, down in Lincolnshire.”

“there's not a moment to

 

 

 

 

“And yet you fetch the child home! Mis-
feo young man! Do you expect me to be-
ieve sucha story as this?”

“T expect you to believe the truth. Don’t
stare at me in that uncomfortable way, Ro-
sanna, as if you were the Gorgon’s head. If

ou’ll take the child, I’11 shut. the door, and

ell you the whole story. I don’t know what
to do with it; and there, it’s wale
Miss Mason took the baby. Even Achilles
had a vulnerable spot somewhere in his heel
and Miss Mason had one in her heart; a child
al We found its wee there at once. She took
it with wonderful tenderness, and_ removed
the shaw! altogether, a real India shawl, she
saw to her great amaze. aye

The little one opened its eyes—two big blue
eyes, and looked with a baby stare of wonder
up in her face, If was the prettiest little thing
conceivable—a child of a year and a half or
more, with little chiseled features, a rosebud
mouth, and beautiful blue eyes, crystal clear.
A baby girl with dainty embroidered under-
clothing, a little blue-silk dress, the hue of
her eyes, and a gold chain and locket round
her neck.

Curiosity overcame every other feeling, even
virtuous maiden indignation, in the breast of
Miss Rosanna.

“For Heaven’s sake, Duke, what does it
mean, and who is this child?”

“That’s more than I know. I don’t know
her name, nor hér age, any more than the
dead. All I know I'll tell you now. But first
you may keep those things.” He drew ‘forth
the pocket-book, “There’s a hundred pounds
here, which her mother gave me, and bere’sa
ring, also given me by her mother. Now don’t
look like that, Rosanna! Miss Lyndith’s a
great lady, whuse very flunkies, I dare say,
would look down gn me.”

“ Miss Lyndith! I thought
ing of this child’s mother,
said, in a spectral voice.
“Solam. If there’s anything wrong it’s
not my fault, It’s a very queer affair from
first to last, and much more like one of the
five-act dramas at the Britannia than the
events of real life.”

And then, while the little one lay in Miss
Mason's arms, and gazed about her with sol-
emn, baby eyes, Duke went back to the 25th
of March, and told the story of that night, all
he had seen, all he had heard. This was the
cause of his dreaminess, his absence of mind,
the change she had noticed in him. Then he
produced the nate of the previous afternoon,
and gave it to her to read, and related all that
had befallen him from three o’clock until now.
His sister listened breathlessly. She had
never read a novel, nor witnessed a play in
her life. She had never been in love, she had
no data to fall back upon, that might help
her to realize this story.

It was like hearing Greek to her. All she
knew was that Miss Lyndith, be she ever so
rich, was a@ young woman no better than she
ought to be, and that this child in her lap
was doubtless the offspring of ——. But she!
looked down, and the ra face broke into
the beautiful smile of babyhood, and two lit-
tle fat hands held themselves up,

“Polly want her bek-fas.” g
The little silver voice went straight to that
vulnerable spot in Miss Mason’s chain-mail
armor. Perhaps if Nature had never meant
her for a wife, it had meant her for a mother.
A glow came actually into her tallow com-
lexion; she raised the child, and pressed it to
er vestal bosom.

“You’re the prettiest little thing I ever
saw in my life. My little pet, tell me your
name.

“Polly,” whispered the child. “Polly want
Dozy.”.

“Dozy.” i
Rosatne looked helplessly at Duke. Duke
sat astounded to hear the midget speak at all.

ou were speak-
uke?” Rosanna

  

Y;
tiently. , “Polk nl
oe Polly want to get

“Po y
abst: y; “put Polly down, Rosanna. Let’s
see if she can walk.”

Polly could walk very well. In her blue silk
ress and flaxen curls, her gold chain and
locket, her glimmering bronze boots, and silk
stockings, Polly looked a thorough baby aris-
tocrat from top to toe. at.
“Like a small duchess, by George!” said
Duke, adenicies'y 5 “a fellow might make his
fortune if he could paint her. She looks like
ao Lyndith, too, about the nose and chin,
and——
“Duke,” his sister said, sternly, “never let
me hear the name of that young person from
gues lips again. We will keep the child ;” her
ard face softened, as she looked at the tiny
beauty in blue silk; “but speak no more of a
creature who tells you this is her wedding-day,
who is called Miss Lyndith, and who owns
this child to be hers. She has reason to be
thankful, poor babe, that she has been snatched
from that sink of corruption, the fashionable
world, at so early an age.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

MISS PAULINE

OF
NEW YoR EK.

BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE,
Author of ‘‘ Doctor Jack,” “ Captain Tom,” “ Baron
Sam,” Ete.

wh 4 ss

 

(‘Miss PAULINE OF NEW YORK” was commenced in
No. 41. Back numbers can be obtained of all News
Agents.] ;

 

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SHADOW OF THE CUCHILLO.

This is the moment when Colonel Bob brings
to bear his tactics. He and his men have up to
now taken no part in the encounter, for the
time was not ripe, but when the others reach
the point that they are fighting like tigers
over the breastworks, the occasion has come
for the second detachment to get in its work.

At a word from the colonel his men pour a
withering fire upon the foe—not those who are
in the advance, for that would subject their
friends to the leaden hail, but a contingent of
rioters that hurries up to the assistance of

their companions gets the benefit of the volley.
Bewildered, panic-stricken, they hard
know what has come upon them, or in thick
direction to flee. Enemies to the right of
them, enemies to the left of them, enemies
behind them’ volley and thunder. Some rol]
over upon the ground in their despair, while
still others turn and scamper away as though
a legion of fiends pursue—scamper off without
weapons, without hats, without everything
that made them so bold but a minute before.
They are lucky indeed who are able to thus
save themselves. Some of their comrades lie
upon the field of battle who will never more
lead the charge or diminish the aguardiente
flask, for they have been met in the midst of a
crime-stained career by Death on a pale horse.
Colonel Bob has made a good beginning, but
Colonel Bob is not satisfied. He knows his
friends are being hotly beset by the fellows who
have gained the breastworks, and his idea
now is to descend upon these worthies from
the rear, with the fury of the hurricane that
‘sometimes sweeps over the Sierra Madres,
coming out of that mystic gulf, the scene of
romance and history.
His first act is to bend down and seize upon
one of the torches; having grasped this, he

 

 

“Perhaps it’s her nurse,” he suggested. “| fi rushes headlong for the
think now, I heard Miss Lyndith cail the|! 2, for a re ae
name ‘Rosie,’ in the inner room.” 7a | thing, under : milar

“Dozy, aida." repeated the child, imp: shoutin as he ran,

 
 
 

ut the kettle on,” Duke muru.ured, |

waves the flambeau around his head until the
current of air causes a bright flame to spring
up. Norisit the only torch regenerated; a
number of his:followers have profited by his
example, and at least half a dozen lights are
circling through the air at the same time, de-
scribing all manner of parabolic curves, and
ae like meteors flying in zigzag fashion
through space. Bee

AU this has occupied but a fraction of a min-.
ute, and then the torch-bearers lone toward
‘the line where the desperate hand-to-hand
erues\e oes on—leap that way, bearing the
blazing light in one hand and a ready revol-
ver in the other, for they are determined,
these men who fight for Miss Pauline, that
the right shall triumph on this night.
Nor do they leap forward in silenee, but with
loud Yankee chem yhat have on Many ocea-
sions sent dismay into the hearts of enemies
The Mexicans ean ear them coming—they see
the waving torches and the determined men
who bear them, and would fain flee from im-

nding peril, but having engaged the foe in

ront they now find themselves, as it were,
between two fires, the fury of which threatens
annibilation.

A lesson is needed that will count—these
men are no better than .the brigands who
infest the mouptain passes—indeed, many of
them are, no doubt, members of such gangs,
called upon by Senor Lopez, who may ve con-
nected with some secret party of revolution
that is organizing against the Diaz govern-
ment, for as ever been the hot-bed of
revolutions.

The crash, when Colonel Bob and his men
come in contact with their enemies, is like a
sharp and distinct clap of thunder, only more
disastrous. Men areseen running in all direc-
tions, firearms rattle, and that terrible shout-
ing continues, as though the Americans would
add terror to the flight of their defeated foes.
That shout is the last sound that enters the
ears of more than one poor wretch, as death
comes and bears him away.

Ah! the field is won—the victory theirs!
Colonel Bob ceases not his work while a
single member of the opposing force can be
found in arms, and the terror of his presence
makes itself felt as he rushes hither and yon,
bearing the flaming torch and the blazing
revolver.

Gradually the sounds of battle die away;
the men of the New Mexican sheriff cease
fighting, because they can no longer find ene-
mies against whom they may launch them-
selves, -
All that can be heard besides the conversa-
tion of the victors as they look over the field
to ascertain how many of their number have
gone down, are the cries of the wounded, some
calling upon their patron saint to relieve their
agony, others bitterly cursing the hated grin-
goes who have triumphed in the fight for the
possession of the famous El Dorado.

Colone! Bob suddenly awakens to a startling
fact, that eves him much uneasiness, He
eannot find his comrade, Dick!

  
 

exico

become of him in the melee? Surely the flying
Mexicans could not have carried away the
leader of their enemies,

Only under certain conditions, where Dick
must have been senseless, could this have been

ossible, and Bob cannot conceive that such a
hing has taken place.

He rages around, seeking information, and
at last strikes a clew. Dick was seen heading
for the house of the chief engineer just when
the last line of the Mexicans broke and fled,
so it looks as though he might be there,
Without waiting longer, Bob Harlan rushes
away and a minute later enters th

 

Who has seen Denver? What could have; W

VOL. 47—No, 62,

ee ——

case is,

grasp of his enemy. At the moment
chances to be watching Dora, from whom it
is indeed hard for him to keep his eyes, since
all the world moves and has its being, ac-
oe to his way of thinking, about her fair
gure. Ee Wes
A 3
in time t :
realizes that it is the maid of Mexico—lovely
Juanita. He sees bere ing between Barcelona
n e

and Dick Denver just to receive in her
bosom the murderous cuchillo that is launched

forward, intended for the American.

A ery of horror rings out—even the bull-
fighter appears half-stupefied at what he has
done—at t. oer , with which fate steps
in ren lf and Dick Denver.

he stricken girl staggers and falls across
the form of the Mexican. Then a human figure
flies at the bull-fighter like a crazy thing; it
is Dick, who has been more than ever aroused
by the sight of Juanita sent ee and
dying to the floor at the hands of this fellow
—Dick who now assaults him with irresisti-
ble power, who dazes the Mexican by the
brillianey of his actions, and presently crushes
him to the floor with several sledge-hammer
blows that render the humiliated and doomed
athlete almost senseless.

Bob is on hand by this time, and proceeds to
clap some steel bracelets on the wrists of the
bull-fighter, so that he will not be able to do
further damage. Heaven knows he has already
done too much in his reckless fashion. k

One figure Colonel Bob has not noticed
before—it is that of Miss Pauline, who has
been standing just beyond a table. She now
darts forward, and when Dick turns after so
quickly disposing of Barcelona, he discovers
her bending over the fallen girl, Eee s
ae trembling hands to stanch the flow o

] .

“Was—he—hurt?” the Mexican girl gasps.

“Dick? No, no—you saved him, dearest
Juanita.”

“For you.+I ought to hate you, Pauline
Westerly, for you have stolen what I thought
belonged to me, but I cannot do it; where I
would hate I love—I know not why,” gasps
the stricken girl.

Dick reaches her side—upon his face is ‘the
deepest concern, but Juanita smiles.

“It is just as well—] could never have lived
and been happy, knowing a loved her. Now
I have save hy for your Pauline. I gave my
life—’twas all 1 had. . This is fate—it was my
destiny to suffer.” .

The fierceness of her disposition seems to
have utterly vanished, just asa quiet often
rests upon nature after the storm has done its
worst and quite exhausted its powers.

A groan is heard, but it does not proceed
from the dying girl. Senor Lopez struggles to
raise himself, and manages to gain a position
where he can look upon the face of his child—
bis lips move, and-they hear him utter strange

ords:

“It is the decree of fate! She saves him for
the other. Come closer, you against whom
Manuel Lopez has fought so bitterly—come to
my side and hear the news I would tell you.”
: biek turns upon him—Pauline is already
there, and Colonel Bob, having coolly tossed
the little professor into a corner under the
table, where he sprawls and groans and utters
all the jaw-breaking words his scientific lexi-
con contains, while begging for mercy, finds
a place near by where he can hear what is

said.
The old Mexican’s strength is fast leaving
him, ana it is only a question of time when he

 

  
 
  
 
 
  

\ ndicate a rate
ye sort. That arouses Colonel
d by when there is any

e house.
Once inside the door-way, he pauses to listen,
t indica

0 bring the lit-

must yield up the ghost. He realizes this him-
self, and musters ail his powers to aid him.
“Pauline Westerly, tefore I die I would
hear you say you forgive me. The fierce desire
to see my family regain its old time prestige
must be my only excuse for doing what I have
done. With the Ei Dorado in my hands I
could have stirred up al] Mexico, and perhaps
ey myselt in the chair the usurper Diaz

 

me, but some-

pa his tongue now.
ght has struck him that the
or John, that bull-dogof a
naturalist, may be in the house with the in-
tention of running off with Dora, and the idea
is so staggering that it has actually taken his
breath away.

At any rate, it has not deprived Bob of his

wers of locomotion, for he gets over ground
na way that is surprising, and in a few mo-
ments bursts upon the scene.

It is essentially and peculiarly dramatic, for
the characters engag form a complete com-
pany. That tragedy has also entered into it
can be seen at a glance, nor is the comie side
missing—Dora attends to that.

The combatants are those old-time bitter
foes, Barcelona and the man against whom he
holds such a bitter grudge, the man for whom
he has waited so long, the man who has on
several occasions done him up handsomely—
Dick Denver.

Just now the ex-horse-tamer seems to fight
under a disadvantage; he has been wounded
in the battle outside, and does not ess his
usual strength, while the bull-fighter is ren-
dered fierce and dangerous by the fury that
controls him. These two, locked in each
other’s arms, stagger about the room, but the
fact is very potent that Dick will meet his
Waterloo unless he isable to bring to bear one
of the wrestling tricks learned during his cow-
boy days. .

This does not constitute all the dramatic
scene. :

Stretched upon the floor is Senor Lopez,
with the blood oozing from a wound in the
breast. The pistol that did the awful work is
not three feet away from his hand—it belongs
to Barcelona, and the Mexican has by some
terrible accident shot his employer just as the
man the builet was intended for leaped upon
him. ; f

Bending over the fallen Mexican are two
female forms, one being an old woman, the
other a young girl whose face and figure
betray the beautiful Juanita. Where they
have come from isa mystery; but perhaps,
knowing something of the mission of the
senor, they have entered the house looking for
him: some other motive may have stirred
Juanita to action, some deep feeling of the
heart. for she isa girl] of singular impulses.
- Colonel Boh’s gaze does not stop here; he
looks for something beyond. Dora -where is
the only and delightful Dora? A ery reaches
his ear in a voice he knows, and, turning his
head, Bob sees a sight that causes a hooked grin
to spread over his face—a sight that is cer-
tainly humorous enough to-cavse a_ heart
laugh, although serious for one poor individ-
ual.

Dora is there, very much there; she holds
in her hand arevolver which this same Colonel
Bob gave her recently with which to defend
herself. Dora has taken a few lessons with
this weapon, but she is woefully at sea re-
garding its use, and although she swings it
around in a truly dramatic style she has neg-
lected to draw back the hammer.

Crouching before her is the little bug-hunt-
er, who dodges his head in great alarm every
time that weapon comes in line with his eyes,
all the while keeping up a jargon of beseech-
ing exclamations, calling upon all the gods to
witness the fervency of his devotion, and
anon begging the adorable, the charming
Dora not to murder him in cold blood, he
whose only fault is in loving her not wisely
but too well.

Quite a strange scene, taken all in all—trag-
edy and comedy combined. Colonel Bob hardly
knows whether to laugh or look serious. He
‘sees that his comrade is in rather a bad pre-

 

all pride is leveled. I beg that you will for-
ive—it is easier to do because all of my plans
Lave proven failures.” ‘

Pauline is a woman, and had this man don
her twice the injury that he has, yet would
she forgive. Has not his child given her life
to save the man she Joves for the woman she
should hate, according to all natural laws?
“Rest in peace, Senor Lopez. I cannot com-
prehend how a man of honor can war upon a
girl for the sake of power; but Heaven has
seen fit to baffle your purposes, and far be it
for Pauline Westerly to cherish feelings of
malice against a defeated enemy. Lonly grieve
because this wicked scheming has broug! it one
ou love to pain and sorrow, perbaps death,
oor Juanita!” and she strokes the luxuriant
hair of the Mexican maid tenderly as she
oer while over the face of the dying girl
there passes a look that is akin to holy love.
The old senor experiences a new sensation—
tears flow from his eyes—he weeps.

“Strange, mysterious decree of Providence,
that one should die to make the other Pappy.
Who can say the hand of Fate is not in it all,”
he mutters.

Dick and Bob exchange glances. Surely the
old senor must be ee e cold hand of ap-
e raves! They con-

eee dissolution ;
tinue to listen, and hear more strange things.
“Senorita Pauline, I am about to make a
disclosure that will give you joy and yet bring
perhaps the keenest led I solemnly assert
that 1 did not myself suspect the truth until
very recently, and it was my intention to utilize
the fact if the plans which culminated so
disastrously this night failed to place me in
session of the mine.”

Pauline hears and holds her breath in sus-
ense. What news can he impart that will
ring to her the greatest of joy and the keen-
est of suffering?

“T learned in Paris what your mission was,
and having already an inkling of the truth,
I set about discovering facts. Years ago, for
reyenge upon your father, I hired a woman to
st «1 away your little sister Beulah; it was
believed she was drowned; I myself never

when I paid her. Years later this same wo-
man entered my eniploy again—she brought
with her achild to whom I took a strange
fancy—I adopted her.” :

“Merciful Heaven!" cries Pauline, bending
upon the dying Juanita a look of startled
eagerness and supreme anguish—“that child—
Juanita——” H

“J have since discovered is the Beulah
stolen from your father in the past. n-
toinette Duval, stand forward and testify to
the truth of my words.” E

His voice is husky—the dampness of Geath is
on his brow anda glaze seems to dim tle
fierceness of his black eyes. At his words the
woman advances—her face is shrunken but
shows traces of former beauty, for this French-
woman in her younger days was very meee

“What Senor Lopez has stated is the truth,
every word. “MonDieu! I hope I may be pardon-
ed for the part I took in the wicked business,

is none other than Beulah, whom I carri
away years ago from the Westerly home where

 

 

 

 

Scrofula .

In the Neck.

The following is from Mrs. J.
» W. Tillbrook, wife of the Mayor

   

years old, two years ago had a
scrofula bunch under one ear

 

| dicament, and makes one step toward helping
him, when he hears Dick say:

“Stand back, Bob, I want to manage this
ee alone if can. Stand back, old fellow.”
- Though loth to do so, hecause he sees Dick
hardly in condition to engage in such a desper-
ate business, Bob stands and watches.

of McKeesport. Penn.

Willie Tillbrook.

  

which the doctor lanced and it
discharged for some time. We
then began giving him Hood’s
Sarsaparilla, and the sore heale@ up. His cure is due
to HOOD'S SARSAPARILLA.
very robust, but now seems healthy, and daily grow-
ing stronger.”’

 

 

‘The two men struggle with the power of
giants, and Barcelona, seeing a companion
near by, ready to give his antagonist assist-

 

‘

 

and,tone the stomach. Try them. 25c.

 

 

 

 

; ance, if necessary, realizes how desperate his —

Suddenly he twists himself free from the |

am thrills eb: he turns his head just
o ‘see a figure ms him, ie .

olds. I am proud but when death hovers near, ,, .

doubted it, for the woman swore to the fact

I swear by all that I hold sacred that this girl —

“My little boy Willie, now six —

He has never been

  

 

   
  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  
 
   
   
    
 

 

HOODS PILLS do not weaken, but aid digestion |

 

 

 

 

 
   
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

VOL, 47,—No, 52.

i

 

~ eaatsa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #>~

 

 

 

 

I was employed asa nurse. Look upon her,
Mam/’selle Pauline—for she is your sister.”

Her words are followed by a scene of emotion
as Pauline bends over Juanita and taking her
in ber arms kisses her fondly, her tears falling
like rain drops on the upturned-olive face, so
faultless in its rounded contour—the one so
fair, the other so dark, and yet sisters.

“Now I understand why I could not hate
you—my sister. The good Virgin put it into

_ my heart to let love reign instead of hatred.
sad rope ie is a sweet pleasure to die for

» feelin

be happy aga
Th

“It is eee feel as though I could never
nl” Pauline sobs, ;
_ The old senor has fallen back, and Dick
with one glance sees that he has away.
Can Se done to save her?” he says,

e worse than ever before in his life.
It is useless—I know that I have received

_ my death; alittle while and I shall pass away

from you. Sister—let me die in your arms.”

Pauline only weeps as she gathers the small
but beautiful figure close to her heart—she
has searched for Beulah in many lands over
the sea, and at last finds her, but oh, the ter-
rible pain of this meeting that is but the pre-
cursor of the sad parang.

“| have some knowledge of medicine—let me
aren ont can be done,” says Colonel Bob,
gravely. :

The girl looks at him gratefully, but shakes
her head.

“It would be useless—besides, when I re-
moye my hand froin the wound, life goes out.

Give me afew more minutes to look into my

sister’s face; oh, how stran it all seems—-

how happy I am to know that there is some

‘| one who loves me, who will think of me.”

Pauline weeps more violently than before,

_ Dick winks very hard to keep back the tears,

while the valiant Colonel Bob, to hide his

| emotion, turns and makes a rush toward the
little naturalist who has ventured to show his

head and shoulders from under the table, but

who vanishes within his shelf much after the

manner of a tortoise drawing in head and feet
in times of danger, when he sees that fierce
terror of NewMexico descending upon him,

__As Colonel Bob, enh | furtively drawn the
sleeve of his coat across his eyes, turns again,
he sees that all is over; Dick is leading the
io fainting Pauline from the room, fol-
lowed by the hysterical Dora, while An-
toinette Duval bends over the lovely motion-
less form of the girl who gave her own life

_ to save that of the man she loved.

>

   
    
  
     
 

_ shy of women folks in general an
a ee in particular after this.”

Dick,

 

CHAPTER XXIV.

EXIT MISS PAULINE—ENTER MRS, RICHARD
DANVERS.

Where the tumuit of battle raged such a
short time before, a fearful silence reigns. Men
go about with lanterns, searching for the
wounded, who are carried into one of the mine
houses to receiveatteution from the company’s
doctor, who most certainly earns his good
salary on this night at least. The dead are
removed at once and quietly buried, and they
are not all on the side of the Mexicans,
either. It has been a sad night for El Dorado,
but the lesson has been so severe that it may

_. be effectual. :

Dick has been deeply affected by the sad

_ scene he has just witnessed, but when Dora
_ has led her sobbing mistress away to her room,
_ he hurries outside to see about certain things
_ that should be done, and is just in time to see
| @ figure come sprawling
{| landing in a mud-hole with asplash, while the

voice of Colonel Bob calls:

rom the window,

“Hope that will teach you a lesson, you imp
of London assurance—I reckon pea. M fight
the charm-

ou’ve killed him, my dear fellow,” says
whereat the New Mexican sheriff
aughs eet ; f

“What! kill that audacious fellow Pa
irl he
Why, he’s one of the kind

1

wants to make love to every pretty
sees? Impossible.

Peetthat (have nine lives—there, look at him limp

 

~

 

 

 

a late st le.
{| Thus fhe night

 

_ you can bull

away. Ta, ta, my little cock-of-the-walk; your
plumage is badly soiled. Hypnt up some one

“Exeunt Protenter. John,” says Dick, and

then begs his comrade to come out and lend a
helping hand. A storm is rapidly ppepeehian,
an ley

before it bursts upon the va ever
wounded man to be found should be_ provide
with shelter, wnile the fallen must be placed
in their last resting place.

The sorrowful task is done at last, and then
with a swoop the gale is upon them; rain falls
heavily, the artillery of heaven crashes with
detonations that shake the foundations of the
mountains, while the flashes of electric fire are
terrifying.

It lasts nearly an hour, and a deluge falls that
converts puny mountain brooks into raging

oe: torrents—then the tropical storm moves away

over the high peaks that enclose the valley,

and again silence broods over the scene of the

passes away and morning
comes at last.. A new day has dawned for the
great mine—peace with honor has been gained
and now that thescheming brain of the old
senor is stilled forever it will doubtless last.

A mournful task awaits them-—all that is
earthly of poor Juanita must be consigned to
mother earth. No tears are shed over Senor
Lopez, but the scene is very sad when the plain
coffin, made on purpose and containing
Pauline’s lost sister, found only to leave
her forever, is lowered into the grave already
prepared,

An hour previous Colonel Bob officiated at
a little affair out in a lonely wood, and when
the y returned with a satisfied look their
number was lessened by ane—Barcelona the
bull fighter had paid the penalty of his crimes.

Of course our friends have little beart for
scenes of pleasure, but after mature consulta-
tion it is thought best all around that Dick
and Pauline be married by the padre who has
officiated at the mine, They will not make
the occasion one of merriment—Pauline’s

merves have been too recently aad Toe
<

_ the Prefect of

surance
_ failure.”

’

wounded for that, but it is better that Dic
may be recognized as the controlling spirit of
the mine.

They sit together ina room of Alexander's
house talking over the situation. Dick, it may
be noticed, has something on his mind; several
times he starts to speak and by accident is
interrupted ; it does not take much to_ inter-
rupt him at present to all appearances.

ven Bob notices this fact, and wonders
what ails his once cheery comrade. A man
should not appear so gloom on his wedding-

. Perhaps he realizeshow unworthy he
is of the girl who has promised to become his
wife; perhaps some little incident in his past
looms up to torment him; but Gob still has
the utmost faith in his chum, and will not
believe he could do wrong,

Somehow the conversation takes a retro-
spective turn, and Pauline in a reflective way

says: i
aT has always appeared strange to me_ that
aris, with all the force at his
command, was unable to supply me with any
information concerning Beulah. He seemed
fident that he knew where Antoinette
val might be found, and gave me every as-
of success, but it wound up in a
“Are you quite sure of that?” asks Dick.
- She looks at him in some surprise,
*Why certainly—he failed to keep his
promise,”
“What was that?”
“To send the message to the hotel by the
hour I was to leave.”
alt did not come?”

aes

Bob pricks up his ears—he holds his breath
like a man who has suddenly remembered
something that quite astonishes him.

“What if it arrived after you left, Pauline?”

“It was to be sent to the station after me.”

“T saw aman running after the train—he
had just missed it—he waved aloft a small
acket that looked like a letter. Perhaps
hat was a messenger from the prefect.”

2 pack ob whispers, looking

‘ket !”
strangely scared as his hand begins to slowly

creep toward the pocket of his coat—the same
he wore when going on board the steamer.

Miss Pauline shakes her head negatively.

“T cannot believe it, Dick, for orders were
left that he shculd send the message by tele-
graph, at my expense, at Havre.”

: “Perhaps an expensive business, if it was
ong.

“Sixteen francs, eight centimes,” mutters
the wretched Bob, resolved to at once throw
himself upon the mercy of the court and plead

guilty.
__“ What!” demands Dick, wondering in turn
if his companion has become slightly de-
mented.
The Sheriff of Secora County stands up.
“Miss Pauline, I throw myself upon your
merey—I am the one to blame—I alone,” he

says.
“You?” gasps Dick. ‘
reals, my dear colonel,” says Miss Wes-
terly.
“Yes, you are killing us Dy inches—do
speak !” exclaims the irrepressible Dora,
“That message arrived during the night—I
received it, paid for it—sixteen franes, eight
centimes.

“TI thrust the little packet into my pocket,
fully intending to hand it overto Miss Pauline
in the morniag and recover my advances,”

“You forgot it,” almost shrieks Dora.

“I changed my coat for a rough pea-jacket
in the moruing, and to-day is the first time I
have had that same coat on since the day
we left Havre. They have always accused
men of carrying letters they were sent to
mail, and this time I’ve put my footin it
sure enough, Miss Pauline, I’m very sorry,
and if 1 can redeem myself in any way, you
can’t treat me too roughly.”

She smiles at the woe-begone countenance he
shows—it makes little difference after all,
since things would no doubt have gone in the
same way while Senor Lopez fanned his
hatred and envy into a white flame.

“We areall liable to errors of judgment,
Bob. I shall not be too hard on you. One
question—have you the message yet?”

“I feel something crackle in my pocket—
yes, here it is,” and after having lain all
these weeks miele reposing in a man’s pocket
the message of the Prefect of Paris is drawn to
the light of day—Bob holds it aloft trium-
phantly. f

“Here it is, Miss Pauline—allow me to de-
liver it. I’m worse than the district messenger
boys in New York, about whom so much fun
has been written.”

She shakes her head.

“No, as a penalty I shall compel you to open
and read the message,” she says.

Colonel Bob smiles once more.

“Lucky dog that I am to get off so easily.”

He breaks open the end of the blue envelope
and takes out the enclosure it has contained
—unfolds this latter and holds it up so that

upon the page.

They wait—every eye is fixed upon the
colonel's face. He begins to read—the mies-
sage is brief, like most telegrams, and to the
point.

**¢ Antoinette Duval is with Senor Lopez. His
supposed daughter Juanita is the lost Beulah. We
have also discovered—Richard Dauvers. He is——’

“Great Heavens, and I never dreamed it,”
and Bob strikes his forehead with his hand.

“Proceed, my dear colonel—if we can find
him we n.ay be able to make our position sure
by some sort vf partuership agreement,” says
the girl from New York, when to her amaze-
ment Bob Harlan eee a shout and slaps his
hand down upon his knee as he exclaims:

“Good! good! ‘A partnership agreement’—
what d’ye think of that, Dick? Fine, clever
idea, eh? My dear tee 3 lady, you——” and
re auother fit of laughing almost chokes
him, og

Pauline looks toward Dick in despair,

“Can't you manage to control him?” she
asks, when to her surprise Dick laughs loudly
00. Z Fog Ie
“Bob, behave yourself, sir. Finish readin
the prefect’s message, and then support ey
sir, for I believe I will have to faint.”

This admonition and warning gives Boba
little backbone, and he sobers up.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Pauline.” Then,
with a twitching at the corners of his mouth,
he continues: “The proposition to draw this
Danvers into a combination would seem very
reasonable, only for the fact that I’m
afraid he has already committed himself, and
is pound hand and foot.
you sly raseai?”

Dora giggles. Miss Pauline looks amazed.

“Is it possible?” she almost gasps.

Dick bows his head.
Wa Behold the miscreant at your feet,” says

ob.

“You are Richard Danvers?” continues the
fair inquisitor, atmost reproachfully.

“I did uot purposely deceive you. Years ago
my name vecame Dick Denver among the cow-
oys, and 1 have fallen into the habit of usin,

it except when signing legal documents,
knew tuat both you aud the senor here were
bunting for me—after | met you I learned this,
and uy chum Bob—biess his dear innocent
old soul!—told me that he had been hired by
Lopez to find Richard Danvers, and he meant
to do it—thougn he changed his mind after-
ward.”

Bob groans dismally.

“I never would have expected such treat-
meut at your hands, oid fellow. To think of
me telling you how warm 1 was always get-
ting upon the trail of the lost Richard Dan-
vers, and jou all the while chuckling in your
sieeve at the absurdity of the whole affair.
I’m free to honestly confess that the job of
forgetting the message is one on me, and this
is another joke; but, Dick Denver, I’ll never,
no never forgive you for it—as long as you are
a bachelor.”

Dick shakes his head and smiles.

“My good friend, you must believe me when
I say | nad only a desire to benefit the cause
back of my action. When I cameto know
Miss Pauline, and found myself tumbling
head over heels in love with her, the thought
struck me that perhaps she might believe it
was the great mine I wasafter instead of Miss
Westerly.”

At this point the young lady in question
shakes her head with a vigorous negative, as
though she has never conceived such an idea;
but Dick goes on as though he means to tell

 

 

 

all.

“I imagined she would be more apt to think
this if she Knew whol really was, and made
“sin mind to keep my identity a secret until
I had won her affections,”

“You wretch!” says Bob, frankly. -

“Precisely, my dear fellow; but they tell us
that all’s fair in love or war, and I meant it
tor the best. 1 was determined to win Pauline
—and, you see I have done it. All I want to
hear now is that none of you think I have
committed a crime.”

“Mercy! I look on it as a really cute thing,
and it ends just like a play,” declares the only
Dora, bubbling over with enthusiasm and ex-
citement, for Bob has argued her into ee re
as he does, that when the padre unites Dic
and Pauline he might as well make a: double
job out of it. ‘

The colonel grasps the hand of his comrade,
and while he squeezes it declares vehemently
that it would have to be fore ten times
as grave as this that would make him feel
that any wrong had been put upon him—that
his words have only been chaff, and that after
all the affair has terminated about as well as
it could.

Dick turns to the fair girl.

“And you, Pauline—do you forgive the little
deception?” he gently asks.

Miss Westerly has been surprised—she can
hardly comprehend it as yet—her name will
be Danvers then, instead of Denver—but what
difference does it make when the man she is
about to marry will be the same Dick?
“Freely and fully—in fact, there is nothing

to forgive, Dick. You have had your little
fun, and on my part I make sure of the mine
j between us. The worry lest Mr. Danvers might

 

the daylight entering at a window may fall].

 

Haven’t you, Dick,

 

 

change his mind and desert to the enemy,
giving Senor Lopez control, has kept me awake
on more than one occasion, I can assure you,”
Pauline says.

“For that I beg your pardon, and assure you
it will not happen again.”

“He means to be an exemplary husband,”
declares Bob.

“Well, don’t you?” demands Dora, quickly.

“T reckon you can trust me. There comes the
good aa up the street. Ladies, summon
your best nerves to the surface for the oc-
casion.”

A chorus of exclamations break forth, Mrs.
Alexander having joined them with her hus-

nd,

“I know I shall be stupid and forget to make
the proper responses,” declares Dora.

“You?” exclaims Miss Pauline.

Dora is confused with blushes, while the
colonel roars with laughter.

“You see,” he says, “we made u
this morning—at least I did, and Dora was
convinced by my reasoning—that there was no
need of making two separate jobs out of the
business—we could1’t do better than follow
such a good example, so we decided that Dora
shall become Mrs. Bob Harlan this A. M.”

The surprise over, Pauline congratulates the
girl who has been so much like a companion
and sister to her, always as faithful as the
needle to the pole. Then the padre is an-
nounced; and here we must drop the curtain
on the quiet little scene, for the magician in
clerical robes, and armed with authority, has
by a few words created Mrs. Richard Danvers,
ne Seren to the past Miss Pauline of New

ork.

our minds

[THE END. ]

A brilliant story, by the popular favorite,
BreRTHA M., Cuay, will be begun in our next
issue,

 

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

On The Brink.

By Mrs. CATHARINE A, WARFIELD,

Author of “‘The Household of Bouverie,” “The
Calecroft Property,” “The Romance of
the Great Seal,” etc.

[On THE BRINK” was commenced last week.]

 

CHAPTER III.
A SOCIAL EVENING—THE OFFER AND REFUSAL.

“What success did you meet with among the
finny tribe, Herbert?” asked Laurence, after
the first civilities were interchanged, and the
lamps had been lighted.

“Very poor indeed,” was the answer; “yet
the gentleman who accompanied me came
back laden with spoils,”

“Let me further inquire, what could have
induced you to leave your library fire this bleak
March day to engage in asport that I have
often heard you say was no favorite of yours?”

“A little heart-ache that I sought to beguile,”
was the reply, accompanied with a faint
smile.

This was enough. Laurence dropped the
subject, but fixing his eyes on Mrs, Herbert,
saw that her cheek was crimson.

Fortunately at that moment the beautiful
infant was brought in, and in eager admira-
tion of his newly acquired accomplishment of
stepping alone, the brow of Herbert lost for a
season its look of care, Kneelye on the carpet
with extended arms, the lovely mother re-
ceived the little Ernest with caresses and ex-
clamations of delight, after every ‘successful
effort in his new line. And the sweet and in-
nocent expression of her face would have
made the fortune of an artist, could he have
caught it, and had he wished to portray the
purity and perfection of maternal love.

There was a general cheerfulness prevailing
at the tea-table which was yet foreign to the
private feelings of each individual, All talked
and laughed as matters of course, but the
sources of mirth were not within,

After tea Leonard came in, as was his even-
ing custom, and as he was perfectly unac-
quainted with the subject that agitated the
minds of his companions, and brought to the
reunion a flow of real spirits, his appearance
was a very great-relief,

From the moment of Leonard’s arrival, the
conversation flowed in a brilliant and con-
stant stream, from the lips of the friends.
are discussed a book, recently given to the
public, with no acknowledged author, lumin-
ous, refined, and eloquent, to an extent al-
most unknown, even in this astonishing age.
It had not failed to make a deep impression
on the mind of each, but different according
to their natures.

Herbert and Leonard inclined to the same
view- of its merits, and the ideas it advanced,
while Laurence took altogether different
grounds. It chimed perfectly with his belief.

“Itreminds meof a ee orcentaur,” said
Leonard; “beautiful, divine in the commence-
ment—animal at the conclusion.”

“The comparison is just,” said Herbert, and
as he spoke, he fixed his eyes, beaming with
approbation, on Leonard. “Ever continue, Ed-
ward, to reject every doctrine calculated to
degrade humanity. It isa fault I sometimes
think in our religion itself, otherwise so beauti-
ful in its doctrines, that man is made to feel
too bitterly the degradation of his mortality.
It is a favorite theory of mine, in common
with the ancients, to exalt man in his own
opinion—not as he is, but as he might be.
is book is indeed

“¢A4 enp which foams
With ruby wine, and yet holds bitter dregs.’ ”

At this moment Marion Herbert beheld, with
astonishment and admiration, the striking
resemblance, which in the fevor of feeling,
Herbert’s face for a passing instant assumed
to that of Leonard,

The same upcast and lofty brow! the same
expression of the flashing eye—the wreath-
ing lip; but in a moment the glory was gone,
aut she marveled much how, under any cir-
cumstances, the prerity molded and_ plainly
featured face of her husband could so re-
semble the beautiful and perfect countenance
of the young enthusiast before her.

It was late when Laurence arose to £0, but
Leonard lingered; he had still something to
say, and was glad when the ice was broken
by Mrs. Herbert.

“When did you see Leda Grey?” she asked.

“I met her this morning in a bookstore, and
had the pleasure of glancing over Shelly's

ms with her. How Soop tel y
inte the fine fancy, the subtle ideality of that
true poet! Rare and surprising girl. I cannot
wonder that she is so worshiped.”

“She is very beautiful, too,” said Marion.
“I know no one to compare with her in that
respect.”

“And I—but one,” said Herbert, fixing his
a with a grave sweetness on the face of his
wife,

It seemed not so much a wish tocompliment
as a thought spoken aloud involuntarily, for
he continued gazing upon her, as if lost in re-
flection, and the silence was unbroken for
some moments. Leonard, too, sat as if dream-
ing, loge rae in the fire intently, until start-
ing suddenly up, ina way not unusual with
him, he broke out with one of his peculiar
soliloquies:

cee tes
I had in the
called thee independence
man’s truest monitor—I

I never knew thy sting till now!
vanity of my boyish philosophy,

the friend of virtue—
boasted that the labor

she enters | a

engendered by thee, gave tone tothe mind—
health to the body, self-respect to the manner.
Keen enjoyment of every pleasure. All this I
believed (for else T would not have spoken it)
as long as self was alone concerned. But now
that I have involved the happiness of another,
Poverty, I cursethee, Old friend, I would fain
part company witb thee forever !”

“What a rhapsody,” said Herbert, smiling.
“Come! let us have something more in the
same line.”

“Yes, you may laugh, Herbert, in your sar-
castic way, for situated as you are, I cannot
“oe that you can feel with me, You have
held mammon under your thumb until you
forget he isa god. You know not how lam
tempted to fall down and worship him.”

“And all this apropos of Leaa Grey, I sup-
pose,” said Herbert, still smiling gravely.

“Indeed it is, Herbert. Marion! I have al-
most determined to give her back her troth.
It is not just, that Ishould hold her in chains,
when the prospect isso far and dim of any
release. Her bright youth must not wither
away under the sickening shadow of hope de-
ferred, nor can I ask her tostep from the
pedestal she now occupies, to share with me
toil and rivation. 1 crave for her, wealth,
position. would surround her with flowers,
ee books, incense, worship of every kind.

would be to her the giver of all good, the
anticipator 0“ every desire. She should not
know that sorrow existed.”

“This is the language of true love,” said
Mrs. Herbert, with enthusiasm.

“This is the language of vanity, Leonard,”
said Herbert, calmly, “not of affection—nor
could the wealth you crave fence out from
her heart even one of those dark sorrows you
seem to think afraid of its presence. Death,
illness, infidelity—these are things over which

old has no control. Yet you are right in de-
erring your union under existing circum-
stances, until independenceshali have crowned
your exertions. It cannot be long, with in-
dustry and talents such as yours, before this
will come to pass, and if Leda Gray loves you,
as I believe she does, she will not repine for
the luxury she foregoes for your sake. Do not
fall into the narrow and vulgar error of sup-
posing riches a sure source of happiness.”

“When I look back upon my past life,” said
Leonard; “the destitute condition in which my
father left me at a tender age. and remember
that, without an avowed friend or relative on
earth, I received the best education our first
institutions could afford; received not only
this, but a wardrobe ever supplied with fairy
hands, remittances more ample, and more
regular than those of any other youth of for-
tune even—and after passing through my col-
legiate course and study of the law, found
myself supplied with means in the same mys-
terious way sufficient to support me during
the first years of probation—when I reflect on
all these circumstances, I sometimes dream
that Iam a child of fortune, and that the
golden shower will yet fall.”

“Do not trust to this, my dear Leonard, I
pray you,” said Herbert with agitation. “I

ave no donbt the mystery could be explained
ina very commonplace way. Continue your
noble, and unremitting exertions, without any
reliance on the same mysterious sources. I am
sure—that is, Iam well convinced—all aid from
that quarter is at an end.”

These allusions to the education and life of
Leonard were new to Marion [lerbert, and
strongly arrested her attention, in connection
with the manner of her husband.

A suspicion for a moment crossed her mind,
that Herbert might have been this unseen
benefactor, but on comparing the ages of the
two men, between whom there existed not
more than nine or ten years of difference, she
felt this was improbable. Yet, accustomed as
she was to the expression of her husband’s
countenanee, she felt convinced that he held
some clew to the elucidation of this mystery—
and wondered that Leonard had never enter-
tained the same suspicion. A summons from
the nursery caused her to retire, and abruptly
the friends were left alone.

They drew nearer to the smoldering fire, and
entered at once into that frank and contiden-
tial conversation that can hever occur in the
presence of a third person, however. intimate
with both interlocutors.

“I have long apprehended obstacles of this
sort with regard to your union with Leda
Grey,” said Herbert, “and am prepared to ob-
viate them, as far as it lies in my power to do
so. It was with this view I drew up a paper
—which I entreat you, Leonard, not to refuse
me the poor satisfaction of accepting”—and as
he spoke he rose, and unclosing a cabinet in
the recess near him, took from its shelves a
folded documcnt. He turned and placed it in
the hand of Leonard, who received it in silence,

“But before you open it”—lJaying his hand on
his arm—“ listen to me,” he said, “listen to me
as though I were your brother.

“You know it was a sort of hobby of mine,
Leonard, at one time, to set aside the rents of
certain property designated in the deeds you
hold” (Leonard started) “for a purpose which
I have since abandoned. I have seen, with
regret—and astonishment—the wasteful and
improper application of funds left for public
uses—and have within the last year, deter-
mined to apply the same means to individual
benefit. It is a sort of superstition of mine,
that every man of certain wealth should devote
a tithe of his property to foreign benetit,
whether in a divided or concentrated shape
must depend on hisownjudgment. Mine leads
me to the last opinion, Leonard. I love you
better than any man on earth—your happiness
is infinitely dear to me, and I clearly foresee
the fatal effects a disappointed passion will
leave on a mind so highly strung as yours.
The property mentioned in this paper will
ensure you peace of mind, in the midst of your
arduous struggles; it will keep the sting of
anxiety from your heart, and nerve you to ex-
ertion, from the confidence that privation will
not embitter the life of her you love, a woman
every way worthy of you, which is saying

much,”

It is not possible to describe the affectionate
and earnest manner in which these words
were spoken, or the efiect they produced on
Leonard. Yet after a momeunt’s hesitation,
during which his changeful countenance re-
vealed his deep emotion, he cast the unopened
deed upon the flames, and . watched it until it
was reduced to ashes. '

“Leonard, you sbould not have done this,”
said Herbert, in a choked aud reproachful
tone, rising as he spoke and turning away.
“it is not thus friendship, devotion such as
mine, should be repaid.”

“Herbert,” said Leonard—‘“dear, honored
Herbert, forgive me if I have offended you—
but I could not do otherwise. ‘There is some-
thing here"—smiting his breast—*“ which forced
me to act as I have done. Had this even been
wanting, your own counsels would have been
sufficient. Have you not often warned me to
accept pecuniary aid from no man. Have you
not said the tie of brotherhood alone justified
the species of obligation you now wish to
impose on me?”

erbert turned abruptly—as if about to
speak-—-but checking the words that rose to
his lips, he stood silently gazing upon Leon-

rd.

“Herbert, have you not repeatedly told me
that. my independence of character, my power
of self-denial, my unbending pride, were qual-
ities that endeared me most to you? hose
very qualities for which you prize me now,
would be destroyed were I to accept your gift.
It was not with any view of eliciting such
offers that I laid bare my condition, nor would
your esteem survive their acceptance. We
could not be to each other what we are now
were this pecuniary obligation laid like a bur-
den on my soul; and more than gold, heyond
even the live of woman, I value your friend-
ship, my beloved Herbert.”

As with a simultaneous impulse, those two
fond and affectionate men cast their arms over
each other’s shoulders, and the tears of the
younger bedewed the breast of the elder and
sterner man as.he strained him to his heart.

“In a few days, leonard, you will know all,”
said Herbert, turning from his embrace. “The

 

secret of your early life is in my possession,

 

 

and a better understanding on your part may
then arise.”

Leonard listened eagerly, expectantly.

For a moment Herbert leaned against the
maniel-piece in an attitude of aeep thought,
then resuming his remarks, he said:

“A crisis approaches in my fate as well as
yours, Life itself hangs with me, on a most
uncertain tenare. You know, Leonard, I am
not a man to survive my happiness.”

“Herbert, what—what does this mean?”

“Ask me not now—but remember—should I
leave my son unprotected in this world, it is
to you I bequeath him.”

“Are you ill, Herbert?” asked Leonard,
eagerly. “Have you any vital malady that
threatens a fatal termination? or—oh, Heaven,
have I not horribly misunderstood you?”

“A few days will determine all; yet, what-
ever happens, I will sce you again before the
dark hour comes. Ay, | trust, many times,”
he said, attempting to smile—for that cold
and ghastly expression had nothing of mirth
about it. “Now leave me, Leonard. It is late,
and after the fatigue of the day, I need repose.
Good-night.”

Repose! Alas, there was none that night for
the aching heart and head of Herbert; but the
author of his misery slept quietly beside him.

Her thoughtless nature had taken no serious
view of the folly of her course, and the
anguish it entailed on him who loved her so
devotedly. Indeed, imprudent as her conduet
had been, she rested secure in an innocence as
yet unshaken, and took to her breast the sweet
and novel sensations that the flattery of Ellory
had excited, as'a child will fold in its bosom
a poisonous serpent, unconscious of its venom.

She was not a woman of much force of char-
acter—this quality had never been built up in
her as it required to be by circumstances and
reflection. Yet she wanted not propriety of
feeling, and sweetness of disposition.

Her education had been faulty, and her
greatest error was incapacity of self-govern-
ment. She required a guide. Herbert had suf-
fered her to go in society alone, or with others
)selfishly, he now thought,) because he ais-
liked so much the glare and bustle of the
werld. He had placed no control upon her in
any way; and reposing a noble confidence in
her truth, and affection, the idea of jealousy
had never entered his mind. An old and val-
ued female friend of his, with whom Marion
had been in the habit of going in society, had
first entreated him to accompany her, and on
being presseu for areason, gave at last frankly
and firmly, the attentions of Ellory as a cause
of her request. He had, in consequence of this
suggestion, gone, as we have seen, to the ball
with his wife, and then satisfied himself that
those attentions were indeed too marked, and
accepted with too evident pleasure. Since then
he had been revolving in his own minc the
course he should pursue, and seeking from

rayer and philosophy the knowledge how

est to regulate his conduct toward his erring
wife.

———__——

CHAPTER IV.
ANONYMOUS LETTERS—THE DENOUEMENT.

It has been seen that Grant, in his own way,
exhibited almost as much interest in the
defeat of Ellory’s schemes with regard to Mrs,
Herbert, as Laurence hinself. Yet their mo-
tives were widely different. Friendship  ani-
mated Laurence, hatred was the main-spring
which moved the phlegmatic Grant. He deeply
detested Ellory. The very beauty of his person
was loathsome in his sight, nor did he spare
any occasion of casting upon him the weight
of his bitter sarcasm. A hatred so deep could
not exist without a cause, and this may be
told in a few words,

In his early youth Grant had fervently loved
a beautiful girl, by whom, however, his pas-
sion was not returned; aud who subsequently
married a Soutberner of wealth, and removed
from her native city. He heard in a few years,
with great anguish, (for his was one of those
cold and constant natures that can gather
force to love but once, and whose interest in
the once-beloved object never perishes) that
she had forsaken husband, children, home, to
fly with alover whose name was Ellory. They
went to Europe, and for some time he lost
sight of them, not caring, indeed, to trace a
career so full of error. >

Many years afterward he received a summons
to attend the death-bed of a poor woman,
accompanied with a plain sing. inclosing his
hair, which he had given her in their happy
days of courtship.

The ring of Essex never moved Queen Eliza-
beth more deeply. He followed the messenger,
and found in a miserable den of iniquity all
that remained of the beautiful being he had
once worshiped. Her hours were numbered—
yet ske had time to speak of her grievous
wrongs, to manifest true repentance, and to
give into his hands the letters of her betrayer.

“These,” she said, “will reveal his perfidy—
keep them until the time comes when they
may be used to preserve another from confiding
in his false promises. Avenge me, Mr, Grant,”

And so she died.

He had long preserved this package of let-
ters, keeping ae the while his eye on Ellory,
who had not before dared so desperate a game
as he was now playing. He deemed the time
had come, and i: closed them to Mr. Herbert,
without a conment, desiring him to read
them with attention, and keep them until
called for. He affixed no name to the few lines
traced on the envelope.

The letters told a continuous tale of false-
hood, deceit, and even brutality.

By a strange coincidence, Mr. Herbert re-
ceived on the morning following his conversa-
ticn with Leonard, another anonymous note,
inclosing a letter, directed to Mrs. Herbert.
The handwriting of the note was evidently
feigned—but on comparing the direction of the
letter intended for his wife with those inclosed
ip the package, he saw at once that the char-
acters were the same.

“On returning last evening from Mrs. Davenant’s
party,” soranthe noteinclosing the damning evidence,
“~T found that an accidental exchange of hats had
been eflected.* On examining the one Thad brought
away, in order, if possible, to ascertain the owner,
and remedy my mistake, the inclosed letter fell from
the lining. As no (lew existed to the owner of the
hat, and as none could be gained without a formal
advertisement, and as [shrank from the dishonor of
readiug the sealed note within, I thought it best to
send it to you with this briet explanation.

That Herbert was deeply pained and morti-
fied by these eviderces that interest and atten-
tion were drawn to his situation, need not be
asserted, in the certainty he now possessed
that the wife of his boson had stooped to a
clandestine correspondence. He resolved to
seek from her an explanation of her conduct
on the evening of that day. Should matters
have indeed gone so far as to quench every
spark of duty and feeling in her breast, he had
resolved to commit the fatal error of suicide,
and before he left home in the morning he had
carefully prepared the weapon designed for his
own destruction. He absented himself the
whole day on pretexts of business, but in
reality spent but a few moments in his office,
rere Tost oe shun the eye of man, to wander
alone in the su>urbs of the city, and along the
banks of its quiet river, indulging in bitter
reverie. It was quite dark when he returned
home, and going at once to his library, he
threw himself on his sofa and remained thus
for more than an hour, perfectly immovable,
and covering his face with his hands. Nor
was it until he heard the voice of his wife
that he roused himself from his dreadful
apathy to the fulfillment of his task, uncon-
scious until that moment that lights had been
brought and his supper arranged beside him,
while he lay absorbed in anguish.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

oe

oo

Most people dread a journey between points even only
afew hours apart. on account of the tire and worry and
exhaustion that attend such movement, especially in the
summer time. The water trip between New York and
Boston, via the Fall River Line, however, is absolutely
restful and refreshing, completely reversing this experi-
ence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

en ET

 

 
     

Austyn Graham.

’ contrast of characters, artistic development of plot,

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

<coxt THE NEW!

 

 

 

ORK ‘WEEKLY. ©

 

 

 

 

 

 

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 22, 1892.

 

 

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- © © .e@-e «= 3,00)}5 COPI@B  -« «¢ «#.¢+ «©

 

 

 

The closing number of VOLUME XLVITis before
the reader, and next week we shall begin

VOLUME XLVIII.

Several attractive features have peen planned for
early presentation in the new volume, some by
authors who have never before written for the NEW
YORK WEEKLY, and others by established favorites.
Among the contributors whose works will appear
are
Mrs. May Agnes Fleming.

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.
Julia Edwards.

Bertha M. Clay.
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.

Emma Garrison Jones.
Mrs. M. V. Victor.

Margaret Blount.
Helen Corwin Pierce.

Lieutenant Murray.
Charles T. Manners.
Hero Strong.

Helena Dixon.
Francis A. Durivage.
Annie Lisle.

 

The opening attraction of the new volume will be
@ literary gem from the pen of the renowned

BERTHA M. CLAY,

ENTITLED

FOR A WOMAN'S HONOR

 

This new romance is marked by the graceful
terseness of style, vigorous dramatic action, graphic

and the other equally commendable and. striking
features which are universally recognized as an ex-
quisite combination seen to the best advantage in
the entrancing emotional stories of BERTHA M.
CLAY.

The hero is favored with wealth and position, and
being the soul of honor himself, is not of asuspicious
nature. He therefore readily becomes

THE DUPE OF PROFLIGATES,

and is romantically forced into a position certain to
bring shame, as he believes, to

AN IMPERILED YOUNG WOMAN.

All the heroism of his brave and unselfish nature
is incited by the peculiarly distressing cireumstances,
and imagining that he is inspired to perform

A CONSCIENTIOUS DEED
HE IS SOON HOPELESSLY
ENTANGLED IN CUPID’S NET.

 

Be sure to readin No.1 of our new volume, next
week, the initial chapters of this brilliant and de-
lightful story, the latest effort of the great novelist.

It will be succeeded by other first-class serials, as
goon as space will permit; and our readers are as-
sured that no efforts will be spared to make the con-
tents of VOLUME XLVIII equal in excellence and
variety those of any preceding volume.

ieee

COURTING.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

 

 

Courting is a luxury; it is sallad, it is ise-
water, it is a beveridge, it is the pla spell ov
the soul. J

The man who has never courted haz lived in
vain; he haz bin a blind man amung land-
skapes and waterskapes; he has bin a deff
man in the “land of hand-orgins, and by the
side oy murmuring canals,

Courting iz like 2 little springs.ov soft water
that steal out from under a rock at the fut ov
@ mountain, and’ run down the hill side by
side singing and dansing. and spatering each
uther, eddying and frothing: and kaskading,
now hiding under .banks, now full ov sun and
now full ov shadder, till bimeby tha jine and
then tha go slow.

IT am in favor ov long courting; it gives the
parties a chance to find out each uthér’s
trump: kards; it iz good exercise, and is jist
as innersent as 2 merino lambs,

Courting iz like strawberries’ and cream—
wants tew be did’ slow, thenryu git the
flaver.

Aza ginera) thing i wouldn’t bragion uther
gals mutch when i waz courting) it mite look
az tho yu knu tew mutch.

If yu will court 3 years in this wa, awl the
time on the square, if yu don’tsa it iza
leetie the slikest time in your life, yu kan
git measured for a hat at my expense, and pa
for it.

Don’t court for munny, nor buty, nor rela-
shuns. Theze things are jist about az onsartin
and unprofitable as publishing a pictorial
magazine, and liabel tew bust at enny minnit.

: for the vartue and bissness thare is in her;

court her for.a wife and for a mother; court
her as yu wud court a farm—for the strength
oy the sile and the parfeckshun ov_ the title;
court her as. tho she wasn’t a fule, andua
nuther; court her in the kitchen, in the par-
lor, over the wash-tub, and at the pianner;
court. this wa, yung man,.and if yu. don’t git
a good wife and she don’t git a good husband,
the falt won’t be in the courting. Bis
Yung man, yu kan rely upon Josh Billings;
and if yu kant make. these rules wurk, jis
send for himand he will sho yu how the thing
is did, and it shant kost yu,a cent.

A GOOD INVESTMENT,

BY HARKLEY HARKER.

 

 

 

 

That’ man is wise who invests in the love
of boys and girls.

That is, ifan old man would do a good
thing for his own family, he willso treat
young people whom he meets in the world
that, after he is dead and gone, these same
young people shall say: ,
“That man was kind to me.
to his children.”

“Your father befriended me when I was a
friendless youth. Now your father’s children
shall never lack for a friend while I live.”
“Your father made a man of me. I would
almost die to pay the debt to any of his kin
who survive him!” ;
“Do you know why I come into your house
and offer to help nurse your sick babe? Be-
cause, when my young husband and I were
strangers in this great town years ago, and
our first-born was. stricken. down like this,
your mother—God bless her!—came and sat
with me in more than neighborly kindness, Oh,

madam, she was like a mother to. me that
night in my trouble! I want to pay the debt
to her daughter. Now let me hold the. child
while you try to sleep a little.”
This sort of interest is priceless. You cannot
call it seven per cent. One never knows what
per cent. the bonds of gratitude bear in
generous young hearts,
One cannot call it a semi-annual interest.
There is no telling just when it. may be paid.
Indeed, some of the bonds may be basely re-
pudiated; there are souls mean enough for
that, who would skin your children though
you clothed and fed those very souls years
ago. But, for all that, there are other bonded
debtors, high-minded and chivalric sons and
daughters of honor, who, will pay back to
our children’s children some sixty, some a
fitndbed fold, what you did for them, when
they were young, friendless, and struggling.
Perhaps it does not seem to you, Sir Money-
bags, that your descendents willever need
such investments. You think of your tin trunk
in the safe deposit vaults, your houses, and
mines. Perhaps these thoughts encourage
our hard-heartedness toward the clerks and
junior members of-your. firm; you care noth-
ing for them but as you can use them, You
have nosmiles for pane merchants, young
lawyers, or any of “the young fry” who swim
around you in the great pond of commerce
where you are a gormand. #e
And itis quite likely that to-day you are
literally independent. ut to-morrow is.com-
ing. You may live to see the day when an em-
ployee who loved you could have saved your
commercial life; but when one who never got
anything from you but his bare wages in legal
tender would let you.die. ‘there is in an at-,
torney’s hearta loyalty. that cannot be pur-
chased with money. If that’s true of lawyers,
I think it is true of the rest of the human
race, ~The junior members of the firm will be
standing in the office when your son and heir
enters to say: | ,
“Father's dead.”
“Yes; so we hear,”
“He left a will.”
“Yes;.so we hear.”
“Well, well. A
Iam. the son and_heir.
How stand things?” .
“Confound you, young man!
ters at last. We obey. only the law.. We never
received favors. Wehave none to bestow..”.
And these once office-boys can do—what can-
not they do? And you cannot even stir in your
silent house. Oh, there have been young men
so.schooled by kindness that they were a law
in themselves, and took, the widow and. or-
phan on their broad shoulders, carrying them
for many a royal day, . as ,
A schoolboy has a bad memory for rules of
grammar, but an astonishing memory for the
alpable meanness of the teacher. The favorit-
isms, the partialities, the vinegar-tempers,

I will be kind

You are very cool about this.
What is there left?

to-know-that!” These things are very bad in-
vestments for the teacher.

College professors have lived to be painfully
aware that they have made some wretched in-
vestments in the shape of needless ill-wills of
the young gentlemen under their care. Years
after the college boy has become a great mer-
chant, and the college wants money; as he is
an influential senator, and the old professor
wants to be president, and needs the senator’s
vote.

If you live on the same street with a public
school, quite likely you are annoyed by the law-
less urchins who swarm over your fences and
poach on your orchards. It is very easy to
make bad investments with the whole school-
ful of future citizens. Swear at them. Throw
astone or two. Report them to the police.
Get mad at them, and “go tell the teacher and
their parents.” In one term on can geta
name for being “the meanest old curmudgeon”
the boys ever saw. It. is only necessary: for
you to forget that you were ever a boy yourself,
and, quite likely, if. you have not kept your
heart young by unselfishness, you can easily so
forget. And then, as the boysof to-day are the
men of to-morrow, working at your side, they
have you down to a fine point. It is astonish-
ing to a man of fifty years how soon the strip-
lings of yesterday have come alongside him in
the race of life. Fifty. years old will not ac-
knowledge that he is aging yet; he is only in
his prime, and never felt younger. Buta new
generation is treading on his heels, and re-
members how recently those heels were lifted
up against them. Now look out.

Boys recognize hunor, high-mindedness, and
the justice of merited rebukes; they are not
sorry that they were deservedly punished.
But. all this must be indeed high-minded.
There is no one whom it pays so well to treat
with honor, with. frankness, with truth, as a
growing boy or girl. You see, old man, the
fut»re belongs to them, not to you.

They are to live, you are to pass away.

Let.a family physician invest in the affec-
tions of the children,

people with great consideration.
They are the coming men of his church,
Let.a politician.keep the. respect. and good-
will of the young Republicans and young Demo-
crats.
good land,

in the sight of. his offspring.
divided.
third and fourth generation.
gatherings for the sake of the old house.

holy hour of meditation.
one, we agree, when we say,
such a father and such a mother !’”

 

Court a gal for fun, for the luv yu bear her,

We are mas- |

-| past nine o’clock, and you are in such a s

the “ You-are-a-dunce |!” and “ Any-fool-ought- |

Let apastor of achurch treat -his young

They are the uncrowned kings of this

A wonderful investment is a father’s honor-
avle life—lived clean, kind, and just for years
It is a sort of
common property. for all the family. And it is
different from railway bonds, for it cannot be
“Father’s good name” is owned by
them all in jointure, and so entails to the
Even the home-
stead may be sold “to close out the estate,”
and each of the heirs takes. his portion to go
his way. There will never he any more femd'y

ut
the. memory of parental] nobility unites them
all, in thought at least, in many asweet and
“Children, we. are
‘Thank God_ for

On the whole, the longer I live, greedy old

 

man that I am, the more 1 am induced to be
kind to the children; to run after young peo-
ple and try to win their love, for my old
friends seem to be dying off in avery lonely
sort of way; to seek and savea fine young
fellow who is just beginning to drink, for he
is worth saving, and the sight of him by and
by I think will make me very happy.

I like to give a start in life to.a young man

who has a Jittle family and is worthy of help;
not,enough tospoil him, but just enough to
save him from despair and assure him of suc-
cess. You see, I have had about all, that this
world can give, and as J cannot live life over
again, I would like to see some one else en-
tering just where I would if I could. Let) me
see them eat and laugh, for my food does not
taste very good now, nor can I laugh very
long, I want to leave a good road behind me
when I go, and the bridges all safe. .,
I think the meanest devil who lives. to-day
is the monopolist who wants to make_ it very
hard for any one to live after he has. got
through, If such a man should chance to look
back here, after he is gone into. eternity, he
might shudder to find what an investment of
ill-will in all who knew him he managed to
Roar, his children. God forbid it to me and
mine

 

 

IN A HURRY.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

Suppose you are a woman. -

Suppose you have promised to ride at eleven,
with dear Fitzherbert.

He has: been attentive so long, it must be
that matters are coming toa point at last.
You feel very sure that he will propose to-day.
Of course you feel a ‘great anxiety to look
well on this momentous occasion. That is per-
fectly proper. Every woman’who expects to
be, proposed to, before ae by a young man
who has ten thousand a year, and, elegant
side-whiskers, wants to look well.

You rise early in the morning, and begin the
day with a will. Breakfast is late. It always
ison all great days. Why, we don’t know.
We’. are no. logician, and. only. state facts,
without trying to explain them:

Nobody about the house seems to realize
that there is anything remarkable or im-
portant on hand. Nobody divines that the
grand crisis of your life is so near!

Bob, your youngest brother, compliments
you on how becoming horns are to your head
referring to your curl-papers, which you
have kept in your hair, that it might curl the
better; and mamma gently reminds you that
your face is not clean—referring to the cold

cream and'glycerine which you have not yet
washed off. :

Papa has acold in his head, and his eyes
are weak, and he wants you to read the
market reports in the morning paper. You
comply in nervous haste, and miscall half the

words, and confound the 8 pact of potash. with
the price of indigo, and get molasses, and
gunny bags, and white lead, and green meats,
mixed up in inextrieable confusion. Papa
looks surprised, and takes off his spectacles,
and wipes them, to make sure that he has
Jeard correctly.
here is between a pair of spectacles‘and the
uearing of a. person who wears them we are at
a loss to conceive, but we have observed. that
when a wearer of glasses is not quite certain
as to whether he has heard aright, he invari-
ee ‘takes off his spectacles for a polish.
‘ou get through with the markets, and

then xpu are in, for the column of “Financial.”
‘You blunder“®hrough it somehow, and are
released with the information that you don’t

jread nearly as well as you did three years

™ Adah a detains yo
out Bob’s new jac i

maid, wants you to write a letter for her to.
the “ould mither,” who is bedridden, over the

u to help about cutting

, 2h) e
: know
ready by eleven,

; 5 - that, you hardly,
what to do first. You must be read
for you have heard Fitzherbert say, over and
over again, ‘that if there was anything he de-
tested, it was an vaunceaa) person,
You let out your hair, and wash, the d
cream off your face, and adjust your frizzes,
and by that time you find that the morning
dampness has straightened out three of your
prettiest curls, and you get an iron hot,
and burn es fingers just where you feel
sure he will be likely to kiss them, and you
singe your hair so that it smells horribly, and
you resort to heliotrope, and wish that you
ad been born of the other sex, so that you
could say some big words over your difficulties.

You put on your new fall suit, with its
delicate ruffles and its dark blue trimmings,
—so becoming!..and. before you fasten the
basque you button your boots. Off come the
buttons, snap! snap! as fast as you try to pull
them into the button-holes. They must be
sewed on, for Fitzherbert greatly admires a
neat foot! You have heard him say so more
than once.

You get aneedle, and it isn’t big enough,
and you get another, and it is too big, and
when you have pitched upon the right size at
last, and the buttons are about half sewed on,
the needle breaks, and the sharp point goes
under your thumb, and out spurts the blood,
and makes an ugly red spot on your exquistie
overskirt, and you wash jit out in the wash
bowl, and find that your dress. material
shrinks and cockles horridly, and _ that
treacherous dry-goods clerk, of whom you
bought it, assured you with his hand upon his
manly breast, that it would wash like a piece
of white muslin!

But then, perhaps, his ideas of the way in
which apiece of white muslin should wash
may differ from yours. You try to pin on

of nervous. puxiey

refuses to go nen the many thicknesses,
You give it a forcible push, and it breaks,
and down goes the chain with which it is con-
nected, and your watch along with it, and it
strikes on the floor, and dashes out the
crystal, and breaks the mainspring! ~

ou are vexed enough to cry, but you reflect
that crying makes your nose red, and that
your darling Fitzherbert would never propose to
@ woman with a red nose, and you swallow
down your lachrymose inclinations.

About this time you discover that the drap-
ing is out of your overskirt, and a bow on
the corsage is just dropping off. You remedy
these defects, and are putting on your bonnet,
just as you hear the rumbling of wheels on
the gravel below. Your heart beats like a trip-
hammer, and you. arein such a hurry that
yee get. the wonderful structure of lace

ounces and French imagination on hind part
before, and never discover. it until yon have
got. the, bow all nicely arranged, and three or
four.of your best curls sweetly mixed up with
the blonde lace, and velvet, and ostrich. tips,
and other things, over your forehead. _.

The. door-bell rings impatiently, and Sally
comes to tell you that:

“Misther Fitz is ,forninst the door, and
would you plaze cum down quick, for the
bastes is, unaisy,; and achawing their own
heads off, to be sure.”

You, hurry your bonnet on as it should be,
snatch up your gloves and parasol, and then
discover that you have not put on your cuffs.
You look,for them in frantic haste—stimu-
lated by the sound of pawing gravel by the
horses, and. impatient..‘Whoas” from their
master, ene

Your. face is burning crimson, and . Fitzher-
bert admires pale beauties, On, those . cuffs!

| bed, and the other under it—but the sleeve-

What, possible connection }

et, and Sally, the house- |,

sea. ¥oapcity- tye xg Ate 93 : J
~~ When you get to your chamber, it is half- |.

your ruff—ruffs are so stylish!—and the pin.

ae —

buttons are pileaing}

No time to look for them—your must wear
our old ones, and your only consolation there-
oris the thought that it will make it easier
for the horses. |
You take a final look in the glass. Mercy!
what a red face! You dust on a little powder,
in.too much of a hurry to see whether it shows
or not,

Down stairs you hurry, to find a small well
dug at your front door by those impatient
horses, and Fitzherbert a little cold and: dis-
trait, which makes you a good deal more so,

You take only a short ride, and talk princi-
pally about the weather. val
You part at the door with a cold adieu. .
You rush up to your chamber to have a good
cry, but first you look in the glass. Heavens!
there is a plain streak of that abominable
chalk right down your left cheek! The side
which was next to him! and you saw him
looking hard at your face more than once! |
Oh, dear! dear! it all comes of beingin a
hurry ! '
Next day you see him riding by with Eva
Gore. A week afterward an ill-natured gos-
sip tells you that she heard her brother’s
wife’s sister’s aunt’s olcest son say that he
heard. Fitzherbert’s mother say that her son
said he never, never, never would marry a
woman who pained So there!

And you know that Fitzherbert dyes his
whiskers, and touches up his eyebrows with
India-ink; but then he is a man, and men
have aright todoas they have amind to!
It is only women who are expected to be true
to nature!

*

CURIOUS MARRIAGE CUSTOMS.

_ Along the northern and north-eastern coasts
of Scotland there are many towns and villages
whose populations consist mainly of fishing-
folk. These people live as a class unto them-
selves. They have their own peculiar customs
and their own deep-rooted superstitions.
Among these, marriage is the occasion for
many a strange ceremony which is unknown in
other classes of society.
On the shores of the Moray Firth—the spot
need not be more specifically localized—there
is a flourishing little village of some fourteen
hundred inbabitants, consisting chiefly of
fisher-folk. Every autumn at the close of the
herring-fishing there is a succession of wed-
dings in the village, and the superstitious and
uniform customs associated with these cere-
monies are interesting and somewhat unique.
The young man and maiden do not court in the
orthodox fashion. Their method is much more
prosaic, and what is characteristic of one casé
may generally be accepted as characteristic of
them al], There is, of course, an occasional
instance of genuine good old-fashioned court-
ship, but that is rather a rare exception.
“Mother,” said one young man on his return
from a successful herring: fishing, “I’m goan to
get merrid.”
“Weal, Jeems; a’ think ye sh’d just gang
an’ ask yer cousin V arack.” And as he had no
particular preference, he went straight away
to ask her. l ;
' “Wull ye tak me, Marack?” was the brusque
and business-like query which he put to the
young woman inthe presence of her sister
ella. bea re
But Mary had promised her hand to another
that same evening.
**I canna tak ye, Jeems,” was herrelpy ; and,
then, turning to her sister: “‘Tak ye ’im, Bel-
lack.” And the sister took him.
Here’ is another instance; and the difference
of method is not very pronounced.’ Meg was a
young woman of some nineteen summers, fairly
ood-looking, as the majority of the girls are.
e was visitiz _ neis House, when |
her mother pu door and ad-
dressed her:
**Yer cous

 

 

 

        
  
  
  

nel ae
her head in at the

  

y is' doon the*hoose askin’

‘if-ye’l) hae ’im.” —~ 3
“Tell ‘im to come an’ ask,” is Meg’s sensible
answer. And when: Danny forthwith comes

and ‘repeats the request, Meg: simply says:
6b) _! Danny.” a ul : 5 ' -
These specimens, with slight variations, are
of the most common occurrence. The young
folks sometimes have no immediate expectation
of receiving an offer of marriage. They may an-
ticipate a ‘‘Wull ye take me?” from some one
when they think their turn has come; but as
often as not they have no indication before-
hand of who the particular swain is to be. It
must not be supposed that the young man is
always successful in his advances. There is
at least one authentic case in the village where
the would-be proposer was refused by five suc-
cessiye young women in the course of the same
evening. ;
When the offer of a young man is accepted,
he is said to be “contracted,” and there is no
delay in carrying ow eae the other ne¢essary
formalities. They forthwith go through the
ceremony called “beuking,” which is the local-
ism for booking. The beuking consists simply
of entering the names of the contracting par-
ties in the registrar’s book for proclamation,
The enka usually takes place on a Friday,
and as a rule the invitations to the marriage
are given upon the same evening. The invita-
tions are issued in a simple and primitive
manner. Tke bridegroom chooses a best-man
and the bride a best-maid, and these two im-
portant functionaries, having received instruc-
tions, proceed to bid the friends of the respec-
tive parties to the wedding. They go from
house to house and verbally deliver their mes-
sage, the best-man going to the bridegroom’s
friends and the best-maid to the bride’s. An
one who receives an invitation of a later date,
or by any other method, views .it very much
in the nature of a “piper’s bidding.”
A peculiar and somewhat oriental ceremony
takes place on the evening before the marriage:
this consists of the washing of the bride’s feet.
A few of the he principal female friends
only are invited to this ceremony; and although
it is viewed as a solemn. rite, without which
the marriage would be incomplete and unlucky,
yet it must. be confessed that the ordeal is
usually carried through with considerable
levity and good-natured fun. The bride asa_/}
rule just. dips her feet in the tub, and the
washing is at.an end. But the ceremony does
not end there. The young woman, on the with-
drawal of her feet from the tub, drops a ring
and a shilling into the water, whereupon there

possession of these articles. The one who
secures the ring will be the next to get mar-
ried, and the finder of the shilling. will have
the most of this world’s goods and gear. In the
excitment and fun which ensue, there isarush
to the chimney for soot, and a general attempt
at blackening each other’s faces takes place.
When the fun is at its. height, an expected
visitor is ushered into the room. This proves
to be the bridesroom, who approaches the
bride, and’ in.a very matter-of-fact way hands
her a pair of boots which he has purchased for
her. , Inside one of the boots: there is a small
present for the bride, .consisting of seven.or
eight shillings in silver for her own particular
use. Before the party breaks up, all present re-
ceive. a general invitation, to breakfast on the
morrow—that is, the wedding-day. Other ver
| bal invitations to breakfast are also issued—
some to the house of the bride’s, and others
to the house of the bridegroom’s parents. This
concludes the ceremonies of the evening.

On Friday the marri is celebrated. It is
always on a Friday, which is a curious rever-
sal on the popular superstition attaching to
that particular day. ca

ited bi.
ee

Curt glass should be first. thoroughly washed
and dried, then rubbed with. prepared chalk,
using a soft brush and being careful. not to
| neglect. any of the crevices. This will give it a

 

 

You pounce upon them at last—one on the

 

_ English coronation service. In that used

“year that he produced any very

is a struggle by the girls.who are present for |.

“VOL: 47—No. 52.

 

Correspondence. |
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS,

ne

not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
sigued to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers.

 

t 4 ‘
P. H, D,, Zaleski, Ohio,—ist. In regard to railroads in
France, Germany, Russia, and most countries of conti-
nental Enrope, everything connected with their manage-
ment is organized on a systematic plan, and conducted
with strict uniformity, while in England and America
the Government has comparatively little do with a
railroad after 1t has authorized its Construction, and de-
tined the powers ee
France, particularly, the Government attends te
the minutest details of the construction, main-
tenance, and operation of every railroad. Which is the
better system is the subject of much dispute at the pres-
ent time, Our space)in this departinent is too limited te
give, even in brief, the arguments on either side. 2d. In
France the railroads are placed under the superinten-
dence of a en department known as the Board of
Engineers of Bridges and Public Ways. Each depart-
menthas its chief engineer. We presume that the ap-
pointments are made by the Board named, and for a cer-
tain number of years. 3d. The West. 4th. Lawyers are
not agreed upon the subject.

L. C. D., Dublin, Ind.—tst.. Nitric acid isof great im-
portance in getting metals from ores, and joins with
bases to form nitrates, which are of greater value than
the acid itself. 2d. Itis sometimes given in weak doses

as amedicine, and it is also nsed as a caustic. It is tonic
and antiseptic. Asis well known, largely diluted with
water, it forms a good acid drink in low forms of fever.
Giyen the acidity of lemon juice, and sweetened, it is
said to be an on cecaranae y in hooping-congh. The
dose fora child one year old is a dessertspounful every
hour; for an adult, a tumblerful during the day. To save
the teeth, the mouth shonld be washed after each dose.
3d. Nitric acid, in the state of vapor, is considered use-
ful, for destroying contagion, and hence has em-
ployed for purify ng jails, hospitals, ships, and other in-
fected places, but latterly it has been supe

other disinfectants, ; Mie ;

having control of it. In

or flask for holding liquids. In medieval church Latin
it usually signifies the vessels that contained the conse-
crated oils hallowed by the bishop on the Thursday be-
fore Easter. ‘the word ampulla cecurs peta in the
Queen Vic-
toria we read: ‘The anthem being, concluded,
of Westminster, taking the ampulla and spoon
the altar, holdeth them raid pouring some of the oar
oil into the spoon, and with 1t the archbishop anointeth
the queen in the form of across. .', .) Vhen the Dean
of Westminster layeth the ampulla and spoon upon the
altar.” The word is pronounced am-pul-la; the accent on
the second syllable. > , ;

Young Scholar, Macon, Ga.—tist. Alexander III., com-
monly called “The Great,” died after a reign of less than
thirteen years, and before he had reached the age of
thirty-three. When asked to name his successor, he said
that he left his king to the strongest. 2d. The Amati
was the name of a family of violin makers who flourished
at Cremona from about 1550 to 1692. ‘he violins made by
this family are distinguished by their small size, ex-
quisite finish, and the mathematical proportion of the
parts. Their tone is soft and sweet, but deficient, it is
thought, in intensity, owing to the flatness of the model.
3d. According to one authority, Andrea and Nicolo
een two brothers, were the first Italians who made
Violins. : : Be yh ee y

Mc@., Seneca, Kansas.—The following recipe for an ex-
cellent whitewash will be found to answer on wood, brick,
and stone, nearly as well as oil paint. Of course itis
much cheaper. Slake half a bushel of lime with boilin
water, keeping it covered during the process. H ie
and add a peck of salt dissolved in warm water; three
pounds of ground rice, put in boiling water, boiled
to a thin paste; half a pound of yore é whit-
ing, and a pound of clear glue, dissolved in warm water.
Mix these well together, and let the mixture stand for
several days. Keep the wash thus prepared in a kettle,
and when used put iton as hot as possible, with white-
wash or painters’ brushes. : ¢

Mabel H., Norwich, Conn.—Peter Von Winter, the Ger-
man composer referred to, died in Mupich on October 17,
1825, Althongh at 10 years of age he becamea violinist
in an orchestra, and some ten years later a director of the
German opera at Mannheim, it was not until his 40th
ly} ed tl Pe ie Se a Foret
uently he composed more than y ras, a grea

aaier of iimban, symphonies, and miscellaneous es.
As a teacher of vocal music he was Snenly ent, His
opera of “Tamerlan,” is considered one of his best.
Lavinia, Freeholi, N.J.—The Feast of Tabernacles was
one of the three principal festivals among the Jews. It
commenced on the 15th of the month Tisri, correspond-
ing with the 30th of September, and lasted seven 8,
during which people dwelt in booths formed of the
boughs of trees. It was instituted in commemoration of
the habitation of their ancestors in similar dwellings
during the forty years of their pilgrimage in the wilder-
ness, Pats

Leviticus, chapter 23. ; .
+ P

0. P. M., Natchez, Miss,—“‘Lady Bird” was written by
the English authoress, Lady Georgiana Charlotte Fuller,
ton in 1852, after her conversion to the Roman Catholic
Church. As anarrative of her religious struggles it at-
tracted much attention. Her first novel was ‘Ellen
Middleton,” which Spyeres in 1844. Her father was the
first Earl of Granville. She married Capt. Ale er
George Fullerton in 1833. She born in 1812.

R. R. R., New Brighton, N, Y.—Rovert Napier, the
Scottish engineer, supplied, in 1840, Samuel Cunard witn
his first four steamers. He also built, in 1856, the iron
steamer Persia, he son of a blacksmith, lhe preferred
serving an ae ner to that trade to going to col-
lege. At the Paris Exposition of 1 he received the

oe gold medal of honor, and the decoration of the
egion of honor, ,

E. D. C., Castana, Iowa.—Ist,. Edmund Hodgson Yates,
the English novelist, was born in 1831. 2d. Mates’ father

was an actor, and he himself was for several ore _the
theatrical critic of a London daily paper. He has write
ten several dramas, 3d. His novel of “Black Sheep” was
bo diy in 1867. 4th. He lectured in the United States in

Lydia, Indianapolis.—The Indian ‘head on the one-cent
coin referred to, was taken, it is said, from a picture of
Pocahontas, who saved Jokn Smith’s life. In 1860 the re-
verse had a Wreath of oak with a small shield sees
the ends at the top. ‘there has been, we believe, 10
change in the designs of either side since $

Archer B.—The Trade School referred to is at First

avenue and Sixty-seventh street. Plumbing is taught
under the direction of the Master Plumbers’ Association.
here are also classes in bricklaying, painting, carpen-
tering, and blacksmithing. Apply in person or by letter.

W. L., Plainfield, N. J—An inexpensive furniture var.

nish is composed of canal parts of turpentine, linseed oil,
and copal varnish. Mix them well together, and rub on
the furniture with a nannel cloth.

Lottie L. M., Jamaica, N. Y.—An excellent tooth pow-

der is made with two ounces of prepared chalk, two
ounces of Peruvian bark, half an ounce of orris root, and
half an ounce of myrrh. ig

L, M. P., Brooklyn, N. ¥.—The Free Thinkers, a name

applied to the opponents of Christianity in England in
the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, Were lever an

Y | organized sect. ~

F. ©., Norwich, Conn.—ist, We can furnish a photo-

graph of the actor named for 50 cents. 24. We cannot
say. 8d. Yes, if a relative or friend of the inmate in
question. ;

quoted that is an adjective; in the second and third
sentences, is and verily are nouns. >

J. H. F. H., Galveston, Texas._Not known tous. Ad-

Trenton, N. J. ard
L. B. C., Mitchell, Md.—We can find no authority for

named.

opened on May 10, 1876, auld closed on Novenrber 10, 1876.

pose stated.

Janie,
ee

A DUCK-HUNTING STORY.

Old Captain Prout, for whom Prout’s Neck,
now a well-known summer resort, is named,
was a noted gunner in the days when water-
fowl Wee oa in that vicinity. “Early one
spring, 18 r thereabouts,” said an old_set-
er to me, “he brought home from the West
Indies a gun the like of which had never been
seen by the natives. It was a muzzle-loader,
about a 2-gauge, and weighed some thirty
pounds: Soon after its arrival there came a
eavy storm, and the next rigs a pond, a
couple of acres in extent back of the captajn’s
barn, was covered with ducks so thick that
another one could not. possibly have been
squeezed in, Here was an opportunity to try
the new gun, and loading it with a regulation
charge of one-fourth of a
one-half pound of shot, he sallied forth. At
the corner of the barn he cocked the piece and
stepped out with it held in readiness.
within about forty yards. all the ducks
jumped as one bird. T
middle of the.mass and fired.”

Ft he

 

some encouragement, and, somewhat

my will, I felt constrained to ask :
“How many did he get?” ; ’
“Wal,” he replied, “he didn’t get an

agaix

 

 

 

fine polish.

jqndershoty ett PR AORAL OD OFS PF

ducks

\

 

 

 

ce Communications addressed to this department wi)

Marguerite, Montpelier, Vt.—The ampulla is a small jar _

the saying quoted in the biographies of the persons —

ound of powder and —

e captain aimed at. che

Amanda R. F., Choice, Tenn.—In the first sentence ——

dress aletter, with stamp inclosed, to the Postmaster, _

Lost Creek.—The Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia ~

@. S., Macon, Ga.—No recipe for the particular pur-

a

en .

ton

Here my informant sronPAd. as if expecting } aia
3 ins

ee cae ar agneticies

eel.

pp rene stor

 

    
  

 

 

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ns i AN a ce a AS

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:
:
4
‘

sre PO Na ll es

alii cacy

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—

 

- —_—

CC en ee

 

AUTUMN DAYS.

 

BY NELLIE 0. HESTER MOBLEY,

Years have passed, since we together
Wanidered through the fields in antumn weather ;
Athwart the woodland paths the leaves were falling
Gently, like rain drops, and the thrush was calling
To his mate, inldeve tonesssoftly sweet and clear,
» That echoed through the branches, and the air
Seemeén rife with woodland Melodies so sweet,
That thrilled and pulsed in harmony complete.

 

|

Long years have come and gone since then,

Yet musing this antumn morn, I feel as when
Together, side by side, and clasped hand in hand,
We roamed content that blessed fallow land.

The rill, the rivulet, and the time-worn mill,

O’er whose broken wheel, the waters dashed at will,
On memory’s canvas are uplifted tomy view,

And I live again those blessed days with you.

 

‘THIS STORY WILL ‘NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.

 

EVE LYN.

The'Pretty Factory. Girl

3

OR,

MARRIED AT THE LOOM.

By JULIA EDWARDS,

Author of ‘Beautiful Viola,”

**Tempted to Leave Her Lover, ‘‘Beantifal, but Poor,”
“The Little Widow,” Ete.

(“Evetyn, THE PRETTY Facrory GIRL” was commenced in No. 48. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents]

CHAPTER XIII.

“YOU LOVE HER! YOU CANNOT DENY IT. SHE
WAS IN YOUR ARMS, AND YOUR LIPS WERE
PRESSED TO HERS!”

Claire March was beautiful ina haughty,
brilliant fashion; with tresses black as the
rayen’s wing, and dark eyes that glowed with
slumbering passion, or flashed with the emo-
tions that moved her proud and jealous soul.

She was the daughter of the chief owner of
the mill, and she had fallen in love with her
handsome cousin, Gerald, who on his part had
been only too glad to sue her for her hand.

He had admired her, and had thought he
loved her; but in truth he had only had the
eagerness of a shifting, unscrupulous man to
win a great prize in the matrimonial market.

They had first met at a ball, given in her
honor by her millionaire tather, and to which
Gerald, then just fresh from college, had been
invited,

Claire loved him with all the fervid passion
of her ungoyverned nature from the moment
her midnight orbs first fell on his false, hand-
. some face.

He was poor, and had his way to win in the
world. He had barely pulled through with his
class in college, and the way before him
seemed beset with thorns. But when he saw
the love that glowed in the tell-tale eyes of
his cousin, whom he bad admired from afar,
as a prize beyond his winning, he knew that
his future was settled.

Claire loved him, and he knew it; ‘and he
paid court to her with that soft, insidious gal-
lantry that might have won a more difficult
‘ suit, but’ which was almost’ needless in her
case; for sheso loved him that she would have
had him anyhow. i

The wooing had been short. He had poured
. a tale of passionate love into her willing ears,

and she had given herself to him with < fierce
unrestraint of passion that startled him at

the time, and afterward warned him that he

oo won a love that was not to be trifled

with.

But he was by nature false ana inconstant,
and when his future seemed assured, and he
was placed ina position of trust in the mill
by old Gideon March, he little by little grew
careless, until, one day, Claire surprised him
ene on a lonely road with a pretty mill-
girl.

Claire was riding on her Arab horse Selim

at the time, and the first glimpse Gerald
caught of her was when she had drawn back
the noble brute on his haunches and sat in her
saddle like a fury changed to marble.

Her black eves glowed like living coals, and
her skin was as white as the scarf that drooped
from her riding hat; while her full red lips
were convulsed with a rage that was demo-
niac.

His exclamation caused the silly mill-girl to
look up. . She gazed on the face of») Claire
March as if it were that of the fabled Gorgon.
Then she screamed@and ran away; and neither
Claire nor Gerald ever saw her again, so fright-
ened was she.

Gerald triea to laugh away the scene of
which Olaire had been a witness; but she,
with her bosom heaving as if her heart would
burst through, cried out, in a strangled voice:

“You love her, Gerald !”

“No, no; a thousand times no, my darling!”

- he protested, in asoft, persuasive voice. “How
could I love any other than you? Whois so
beautiful, who so fascinating as my own

Claire?”

“Your arm was around her waist,” she
panted, almost crazed with her jealous fears.

“T was having a little fun, my darling,” he
answered, coaxingly. “Can you not under-
stand that a man must have a little pleasure?
How can you think [I could care for her? How
can you do yourself the injustice to suppose
that any man who had gained the precious
bocn of your love could have athought for
any other woman? Why, my darling Claire,
no other woman ever enters my thoughts. I
was passing an idle moment with that silly
creature. ‘Chat was all.”

“Gerald,” said Claire, having listened to
him in silence, her eyes all the while fixed on
his fair, false face, “I believe you, because to
do otherwise would be madness. But, Gerald,”
her voice quivered with the storm of love and
rage that battled within her, “beware how
you try me. I love you with a mad passion
that no woman ever felt before; and rather
than surrender you to any other woman, I
would tear pose life from your breast with,my
own hands!”

Gerald believed her, and was frightened into
the most fervent protestations of faithfulness.
And fora time he exercised great care to do
nothing to cause a renewal of her suspicions.

But’ Claire was hardly deceived. he be-
lieved, as every other jealous-mad woman does,
that no one could look upon him without loy-
ing and desiring him; and though her Jove
seemed to increase with her jealousy, her sus-
picions never slumbered.

Only once afterward did either revert to the
subject, and then it was Gerald who broached

it. He could not bear to remain ignorant
of Claire’s feelings, and he said to her one
day as he sat by her side, his arm about
her slender, yet rounded waist, and his cheek
»8so close to hers that his curling ‘mustache
swept her red lip:

“Tell me, darling Claire, that you have for-
given me.”

She did not ask what he wished forgiveness
for, but turned her face until her eyes were
searching his.

“Do you not know that I would forgive you
anything?” she asked.

“You did not look or speak forgivingly that
day,” he answered, stroking the dark hair as
-if his heart were full of love.

The slumberous passion woke and leaped
like flame into her glowing eyes as she recalled
the scene. /

“Because I said I would kill you rather than
Se you up?’ she cried. “How you misun-

erstand me! I said that, not because I could
not forgive, but because my love for you is
such a mad thing that [ wouid have to forgive

you anything. And yet, asI could not lose
you, I would rather see you dead than an-
other’s. But do you think I would survive
you?. Never! My life should go out with
yours.”

“Ah, well, darling.” he said, uneasily,
startled by the storm he had so unexpectedly
roused, “the woman does not live who could
win my love from you.”

“Nor should she live long if she had won
it,” answered Claire, her dark eyes aflame at
the mere thought. “I tell you, Gerald, that
the very thought of losing you puts murder in
my heart. But, there! let us not talk of that.
You shall never need to seek anywhere else
for love. My love shall be to you all that the
poet tells. Do you remember the lines?

“My love shall fold you round about,
Shall enter in your soul;
Your very breath shall drink it in,
Your heart shall be its goal.’”

“Yes, your love is all that, my darling,” he

nie

i
H

| Me
iM

‘<T am a mill-girl,” answered Evelyn,

 

 

vides, wees THE NEW YORK WEEKLY: #3~=

 

obtain. He cursed himself for his readiness
to fall in love with every pretty face.

He stepped -hastily in front of Claire, and
laid his hand on her arm,

“Claire, my darling!” he whispered, coax-
ingly, “it is a mistake. I care nothing for her.
I never saw her before this morning.”

“What!” she cried, furiously, “you plead
for her! You love her; you cannot deny it.
She was in your arms, and your lips were
pressed to hers.”

“It is not true!” cried Evelyn, indignantly.
“He held me because he was stronger than I;
but his polluting lips never touched mine. Do
you think any self-respecting girl would ever
accept caresses from such as he?- Never!”

Even at that moment, when most of all he
feared to have a breach with Claire March,
Gerald Washburn writhed at the tone of scorn
and the words of contempt.

He turned and flashed'a glance at her, which
meant that he would make her suffer for what
she had said. But even as he glanced he
seemed to realize that he would give the
world for the love of the peerless beauty who
stood there so proudly scorning him.

In that moment he knew that he cared noth-
ing for Claire March, and everything for the
mill-girl he had insulted.

And Claire’s words had opened his eyes,
too. He saw that Evelyn was no ordinary
worker, brought up to the hardships of the
mill, but a delicately nurtured lady.

The interruption had enabled Claire to regain
contol of herself. She knew that now was not
the time for her to wreak her vengeance on
the girl who, she believed, had robbed her of
her love. |

“Go!” she cried, pointing to the door, “and
I warn you, beware of my vengeance!”

“T do not fear you,” Evelyn proudly. retort-
ed, and swept from the room with the grace
and hauteur of a queen.

 

CHAPTER XIV.

“YES, THESE RICH YOUNG FELLOWS THINK A
FACTORY GIRL IS ONLY MADE PRETTY FOR
THEM TO AMUSE THEMSELVES WITH.”

Flushed with indignation and resentment,
Evelyn closed the door of the office behind’
her, and passed down the dim passage-way
that led into the main room of the floor,

“T beg your pardon, Miss Harper |”

Don Adams, the foreman, stvod before her.
She looked at him questioningly.

“T have been waiting here,” he said, “ready
to appear the moment I believed you needed
any assistance. I know Gerald Washburn,
and I would not trust him. Has he insulted

u

He led the way into the big room as he
spoke, and Evelyn followed him because she
knew in a moment that she had to deal with
one who not only was grateful to her for the

=

4
|

i

i

  
     

ell

 

 

some one else, hurried to where Evelyn stood
by Don's side.

“What has happened?” cried Rosie, anx-
ieusly.

“Gerald Washburn has insulted her,” was
Don’s quick answer.

“What did you do?” was Rosie’s quick ques-
tion put to him.

The other girls asked the same question with
their eyes.

“He was not there,” said Evelyn, before he
could make any reply. “He would have gone
back and taken summary vengeance on him if
I had permitted.”

The girls showed by their murmured admi-
ration that it was precisely what they had
expected. More than one heart there beat
quicker fora glance-of the handsome foreman’s
eye.

“And now,” said Don, blushing at the many
signs of admiration, and anxious to turn their
thoughts from him, “she says. she will not
remain in the mill, but will go elsewhere for
employment.”

“Oh!” cried Rosie, in a tone of deep disap-
pointment.

“But I tell her,” went on Don, “that she
might as well stay; for not only will it be
almost impossible to find work in any of the
other mills, but I assure her that I—that all
of us will protect her from further insult. She
saved my life, girls, and it is no- more than
right that I should be her protector.”

“He is right, Evelyn,” said Rosie. “Besides,
all the mills are the same. If it isn’t Gerald
Washburn, it is some other young man.”

“Yes,” interposed one of the other girls,
“these rich young fellows think a factory girl
is only made pretty for them to amuse them-
selves with.”

“You needn’t worry about Gerald Wash-
burn,” added another, with a short laugh. “If
Claire March ever finds out that he has even
looked at you, it will be the end of him.”

“She came in while I was struggling with
him,” said Evelyn.

“[ wouldn’t be in his place for all her
father’s money,” said one.

“Tt is said she has murderous Corsican blood
in her veins,” said another.

“Do you remember how frien ieney little
Kitty elsh was when Claire March caught
hee ean with Gerald Washburn?” asked a

ird.

“YT wonder she didn’t kill you,” said Rosie,
fearfully, for the terrible passions of Claire
March were well known to all.

“You are more likely to frighten Miss Har-
per than to induce her toremain by such talk,”
said Don, uneasily.

“No,” said Evelyn, proudly. “I am not
afraid of either of them. I would stay here if
I were sure I would not need to have anything
to do with him again.”

“T will. answer for that,” said Don, quickly.
“T will have you put on the books; you shall

 

 

ecause that wretch, unworthy
to follow him, on the understanding that he would give me employment here.”

 

me.

\
\ \Y\

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AAAI

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ro
a

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HG

 

the name of man, induced me

 

 

answered, “and you shall never have cause to
doubt mine.”

It was of all this that Gerald Washburn
thought on that morning when Claire sur-
prised him in the act of trying to ravish a kiss
from the cherry lips of the new mill-hand.

Evelyn knew nothing of the-fierce, passion-
ate nature of the haughty beauty who stood
before her, her black eyes flaming wrath.

She only knew that she had. been insulted,
and she stood back, her own curly, golden
head thrown regally up, and her glorious blue
eyes flashing as any queen’s might have done.

“Whoisthis creature?” demanded Claire, be-
tween her small white teeth.

“One of the mill-hands,”.said Gerald, with
an attempt at carelessness. “ You may go to
your work, my girl.”

“Stop!” cried Claire, imperiously. “You do
not leave here until I have asked you some
questions.” eat

Evelyn turned to her, and gave her back
scorn forscorn. Claire’s self was not haughtier
than the dainty little beauty of the mill.

“I do not stop for your questions,” she said,
proudly, “but.to tell this man thathe is a
scoundrel, and that he shall pay dearly for his
dastardly insult to a defenseless girl.’
Claire March gazed at the proud, beautiful

irl with @ tornado of rage gathering in her
Breast, She noted her complexion of milk and
roses, the eyes of heaven’s blue, the little white
hands and taper fingers; and as the flute-like
voice fell on her ear, she knew that it was no
girl brought up to win her living by her labor

who stood before her.

“You are no mill-girl!” she hissed. “This
is but a masquerade to deceive me. Oh, Ger-
ald! Gerald!” she cried, menacingly, _and
stepped threateningly toward Evelyn. “Who
are you, girl? What is your name? ’ What

are you doing here?”

“Lam a mill-girl, and if. I tell you my name,
it is only because I choose to do so,” answered
Evelyn, spiritedly. “I am Evelyn Harper, and
I came’ here’ because that wretch, unworthy
the name of man, induced me to. follow him,
on the understanding that he would give me
employment here.”

“Are those the hands of a mill-girl?” cried
Claire, in a high, shrill tone. “You do not
know. what labor is! You are educated! You

have been brought up fn luxury! You are his
love, and I will tear your heart from your
breast.” 5

An almost insane fire blazed in the eyes of
Claire March, and she sprung toward Evelyn,
bent on doing her mischief.

Gerald dared not permit her to goon. He
knew a scandal would follow,’in which he
would perhaps lose all that he had worked to

 

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

life she had saved, but was also a gentleman
in the truest sense.

“He spoke words of love, and tried to kiss
me,” answered Evelyn, flushing hotly at the
remembrance of how his hands had touched
her. “Oh, if I were a man!”

“You could do nothing that I will not do,”
said Don Adams, quickly. “Tell me! Shall I
bring him ‘to you, and make him apologize
like a whipped cur?”

Evelyn looked up into the earnest, manly
face, and knew she had a protector .rho would
do all he said.

The very knowledge made her pause in her
indignation. What could she gain by humili-
ating the scoundrel? Would it not be wiser to
leave the mill where she would come in con-
tact with him, and go elsewhere. - She said so
to Don Adams.

“No, let him alone, I shall go away from
here, and find work in one of the other mills.”

A’ deathly pallor stole over the handsome
face of the young foreman. She would go
away from the mili, and he would not see her
again, perhaps. Oh, no, no! that must not be.

“Where—where—what mill?” he stammered,
looking eagerly into her beautiful face.

“Any mill,” she answered, in her ignorance
of the difficulties of finding employment.

“But the mills axe all full,” he said, quickly.
“You do not know about such things. I can
see by your—your—hands, by everything about
you, that you are not accustomed to work. If
you must work, why go elsewhere? Do not
fear Gerald Washburn.”

“I am not afraid of him;” answered Evelyn,
bravely, “but if [ remain here, he will think
I do not resent what he has done tome. If I
were a man I would have knocked him down.”

She looked so beautiful, sovravishingly fair
as she stood there before him with her little
curly head’ regally poised, that he felt his
heart give a great leap as if it would fly out
of his breast.

“He will never dare do it again,” said’ Don,
his eyes flashing fire. He regretted that he
had not gone into the room ‘before Claire
March, so that he could have had the oppor-
tunity to show Evelyn what he would do for
her sake. “Come up to where’ the looms are,
and you shall hear what the girls say about
it. You can trust them.”

Evelyn was not convinced, but the sugges-
tion seemed a good one, and she went ‘with
Don to the great room where the looms were
flying. It was the room where Rosie was ei-
ployed,

The girls all looked up when Evelyn and
Don entered the room, and eyed them curi-
ously. They had heard about the rescue, and
es the subsequent conduct of Gerald’ Wash-

urn.

 

First Rosie, and then as many of: the other
girls as could leave their looms in charge of

be Rosie’s partner; and you will only have to
do with me.”

And so it was settled that Evelyn should
remain. But better, far better for her if she
had not been persuaded, but had gone out of
that mill, and far away from. the city in
which it was!

But Fate points out the way, and mortal
footsteps tread it.

CHAPTER XV.

SHE THREW HER ARMS ABOUT HIS NECK AND
CLUNG TO HIM IN AN ABANDON OF LOVE.

If Gerald Washburn had dared, he would
have broken forever with Claire March, as she
stood oe him like the beautiful termagant
she was, when Evelyn swept from the room.

Fickle and weak as he was, his whole heart
had gone out to Evelyn in those few moments
when she stood in that room defying and
scorning both him and his betrothed,

He did not dare have a rupture with Claire
March, but he was angered by her coming, and
by her manner, and he did then’ what he had
never dared do before. He turned upon her
and vehemently upbraided her.

“Well! are you satisfied?” hé said, sarcas-
tically. “You have come here and made a
great deal of nothing. You look like a tragedy
queen, when, if you had been wise, you would
have smiled and made of it what there was—
nothing. Oh, I am tired of your jealous tan-
trums! I was trying to kiss a pretty girl—one
I swear I never saw before this morning, and
you make of the act a great foundation for
your mad jealousy.”

Claire had been boiling with suppressed
fury, and was only waiting to commandher-
self before essaying to speak, She listened to
Gerald with a startled look that betrayed her
surprise,

He was finding fault with her! Was it pos-
sible that she had been foolish? But, no; she
had seen that beautiful girl struggling in his
arms, while he, all aflame with eager desire,
was endeavoring to press a kiss upon her ripe
red lips.

But she loved the handsome scoundrel, and
after all her wrath was chiefly directed against
the girl who had turned him from his alle-
giance to her, even for a moment.

His anger was acharm she could not strug-
gle against. In her imperious soul there had
never been any thought of resistance from any
source, and when it came from the man she
loved, it frightened her.

The thought of losing his love overmastered
every other thought, and she humbled her
proud spirit before her master. She had in-

Children Gry for Pitcher's Gastoria,

 

tended to pour out the vials of her wrath upon
his head, and now she would confess herself
wrong—anything rather than lose him.

“Gerald,” she faltered, in so meek a tone
that he stared in astonishment, “I did not
mean to anger you. But what was more nat-
ural than to believe you loved the girl you
held in your arms? Forgive me if I have
annoyed you! I believe all you say.”

Then all at once he understood. The haughty,
high-spirited Claire, who would have ridden
over him rough-shod if he had permitted it,
had become meek and humble in the fear of
his anger.

He almost laughed aloud in his sense of tri-
umph. He could not comprehend the immen-
sity of a love that would so transform the
haughty woman into an humble suppliant;
and he only saw that he had mastered her.

A generous nature would have been softened
by such submission from one like Claire
March; but he only triumphed, and answered,
in an angry tone:

“Tt is very well for you to admit that now,
but I hope you will remember in future that a
man does not like to be madea fool of, even
before a factory girl.”

“Gerald,” she said, coaxingly, “do not be
angry! Let us forget what has happened.”

She went over to, him and put her hand
caressingly on his shoulder.

He had wit enough to know that, at the
best, she was only a tamed tigress. She might
become unmanageable at any moment if not
rightly handled; and he wished to maintain
the control he had gained.

“Very well, Claire,” he said, stifiy; “but
pon know it is more than human patience can

ear to be forever spied upon.”

“IT was not spying upon you, dear,” she
humbly said.

“Then what brought you here at this hour?”
he demanded, gradually softening.

“IT came to tell you, Gerald, that I would
have: to; go _ to/Boston for a new costume for
the ball; and I must take an early train.”

“For the ball?” he exclaimed. ‘“Why, it
comes off to-night, does it not?”

“Yes, and ordinarily there would be no time
for a new costume. But I received word from
the costumer to-day—by the early mail—that
he had produced a costume exactly suited to
me, and ever so much more beautiful than the
one I had,”

“Extravagant girl!” he said playfully, let-
ting his arm steal around her pliant form.
He thought it was time to seem loving. “And
what wiil become of your other costume?”

he let her head fall on his shoulder, while
her eyes looked up into his with a passionate
adoration,

“That will be used,” she answered. “You
remember that Isabelle Snow came last night,
to be my guest until after the masquerade
ball?”

ons

“Her costume was late in reaching her, and
she gave it to her maid'to carry in the bun-
dle, just as it came from the costumer’s., The
careless creature lost. it somewhere on. the
way. She says she is sure she had it when she
left the cars on arriving here.”

“And you intend to give your costume to
Miss Snow?” queried Gerald, bored, but afraid
to show it.

“Yes, it will have to be made smaller, but
her maid can do that during the day. Fortu-
nately for Isabelle, she is not greatly disap-
pointed, for she actually did not know what
her costume was to be, but left it all to her
costumer. ButI must hurry or 1 shall miss
my train. One kiss, my Gerald, to let me be
sure that you have forgiven me.”

He bent over the passionate, beautiful face,
and pressed the full red lips with his own.

And she, reckless of who might come to sur-
prise them, threw her arms about his neck and
clung to him in an abandon of love.

“Oh, my darling,” she murmured, “do not
be vexed if I become like a mad creature at
the thought of losing your love! You are so
much to me! You are my all, and my very
life; and the fear of losing you seems to send
the poison of my mad_ Corsican blood throb-
bing in my viens, and fills my heart with
murder! But I could not harm you, my darl-
ing. It would be the other,” she went on, in
a whisper—“it would be the other!”

He shuddered in spite of himself; for he
knew that, humble as she was to him, there
still raged a fury within her,

He did not like such dangerous love; and
his mind leaped to the memory of the fair,
golden-haired beauty who had but just left
the room, and who, for all‘her pride, was no
such untamable ae as this. brilliantly
“gael pe woman who held him through very

ear.

“You need never fear to lose me,” he said,
his voice gentle, and murmurous, and false.

She looked up into his face with her pas-
sionate, adoring eyes, and whispered:

“Let me feel your lips once more, my Ger-
ald, and then I must go.”

Once more he simulated the love he did not
feel, and pressed a long, lingering kiss upon
her lips, holding her close to him as he did so.

Who could have doubted that he loved her?

eee not she. She forgave him fully,
and left him with a smile on'her lips, and
overwhelming love in her heart.

But she did not forgive the beautifal girl
who had tempted him; and as she swept
through the mill on her way out, she vowed
in her tempestuous heart that she would yet
visit Evelyn with her wrath.

“She is no working-girl,” she muttered. “If
she is in the mill on such a pretext, it is only
that she may win my Gerald from me, But
let her beware! 1 have Corsican blood in my
veins, and I will havea Corsican’s vengeance !”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

MANAGING A WIFE.

 

“Manage!” What is that? Does it mean tO
control? We manage a horse, We use our
superior human intellect to control and guide
his superior physical strength, so as to obtain
the best results.

But a wife is not a horse.

When two persons are well married the wife

is superior to her husband in as many respects
as he is superior to her in others, If happiness is
to be the result of the union, the first business of
the husband is to manage himself, so as to keep
himself always his wife’s respectful friend,
always her tender lover, always her equal
partner, always her superior protector. This
will necessarily stimulate the wife to be
always an admiring friend, always an affec-
tionate sweetheart, always a thrifty house-
wife, always a confiding ward. And this
will so react upon the husband that his
love for his wife will grow soasto make it
easy for the husband, with all his faults, to
bear with all the infirmities. of his “one and
only” wife,

i>

A DROLL SUGGESTION.

 

When capital punishment was reintroduced
into Switzerland, it was'determined that each
canton should haye its own executioner, who
was to receive fifty francs for each execution.
This on one occasion greatly embarrassed the
High Council of Basel, A man had been con-
demned to, death, and, according to the law,
the execution was to take place within twenty-
four hours. But .a serious difficulty occurred
—no executioner Ahad been appointed, and no
one would accept the office. To take one from
another canton was against the law, and to
appeal to a foreign government was against
the national pride,

The High Council assembled tor.a consulta-
tion, but nothing could be resolyed upon, till
at last one of the wise fathers of the city came
forward, saying:

“I propose. that. we give the fifty francs to

 

 

 

this scoundrel, and. let him go and get. his
head cut off where he likes.”

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

SATE

saints coi Ets iA it

sas Saunders, fils, eh?”

 

 

BROKEN MEASURES.

BY BARAH K. BOLTON.

 

Life is full of broken measures,
Objects unattained ;
Sorrows intertwined with pleasures,

Losses of our costliest treasures,
Ere the heights be gained.
Every soul has aspiration
Still unsatisfied ;
Memories that wake vibration
Of the heart in quick pulsation,

At the gifts denied.

We are better for the longing,
Stronger for the pain ;
Souls at éase are nature wronging—
Through the harrowed soil come thronging
Seeds, in sun and rain!

Broken measures, fine completeness
In the pertect whole;

Life is buta day in fleetness—

Richer in all strength and sweetness,
Grows the thriving soul.

 

~~ 0

tus Story Wil Not be Puished in Bok-Fom,
Tracked Across the Atfanti:
Nick Carter Among the Smugglers,

By the Author of ““NICK CARTER.”

 

 

 

__. TRACKED ACROSS THE ATLANTIC” was commenced in
‘No.49. Back numbers can be obtained by all News Agents]

 

CHAPTER X.
THE SMUGGLER’S GUEST.

The handsome face of Carruthers did not
change its expression when Chick so abruptly
asked the question about the photograph, but
for a full minute he regarded the young detec-
tive with earnest, searching eyes.

There was a twinkle of mischief in his
glance, and Chick knew instinctively that he
had not cornered his man yet, although the
question would prove a hard one to answer.

“Parsons,” said the smuggler, presently, “do
you ask that question as a detective, or as a
man?”

“The answer should be the same in either
case.”

“Well, it would be—if I answered at all.
The easiest way, and I don’t’ know but the
best way, wouid be to say ‘none of your busi-
ness ;’ eh, Parsons?”

“Without doubt,”

“Parsons, I like you. I do, by Jove! Some-
how you seem to fill the bill as a sort of all-
around trump. By Jove!” he ejaculated,
again, “suppose you had flung that question
at me before they left the steamer; eh, Par-
sons?”

“Things would have been unpleasant.”

“Well, rather. Why, that chief would have
made me no end of trouble over it. Beastly
bore, that fellow, eh? don’t you think so,
Parsons?”

“My opinion of him is too pronounced for
utterance, Carruthers.”

“Exactly that. It was rich, though, when
he tackled you. I never enjoyed anything
more in my life.”

“I’m glad it anused you. Now, how about
that question of mine?”

“You haven’t replied to mine yet.”

“Whether I ask it as a detective, or only
from curiosity?”

“Well, say the latter—curiosity.”

“Then | can answer it easily.”

“T am all eagerness.”

“My dear fellow, I tore it up and threw it
overboard. Frightful thing to do, wasn't it?
Fact is, l was just bidding it a tender adieu
when you saw me kissing it. It would never
do to bring such a thing as that home with
me, you know, never! Why, Cornie goes
through my pockets regularly; she does, by
Jove! eh, Parsons?”

“All the same, with due allowance for your
veracity and all that——’

“You don’t beiieve me, eh?”

“Well, no; flatly, I don’t.”

Carruthers threw back his handsome head
and laughed heartily.

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “Not a bit.
It doesn’t sound just the proper thing to do,
does it, now?”

“I will never believe that you threw that
picture overboard.”

“Do you think I sold it—with the diamonds,
eh, Parsons?”

.“ Yes—just that.”

“Well, whatever I did with it, it has dis-
appeared. Little affairs of that kind are—er—
well— you will understand that I don’t mean
any offense when I say, nobody’s business,

ut——”

“T understand. You don't mean to tell me.”

“My dear fellow, I have told you—asa man.”

“Suppose I ask as a detective?”

“Then I should say—bah! what's the use of
saying anything? | Dinner is served now, and
we'll forget the episodes of the steamer for a
time.”

He rose from his chair, then paused and
Jaughed heartily.

“Cute of you, though, Parsons, to recognize
Olga, and to have the—er—the——”

“Cheek.”

“Exactly—cheek to tell me of it. Parsens,
my boy, I realiy begin to think that you sus-
pect me of being a smuggler; I do, by Jove!”

Chick could not reply, for Mrs. Carruthers
appeared at that moment, and they went to
the dining-room together.

During the meal, which was most sumptu-
ous, and served in exquisite taste, indifferent
topics were discussed to the utter and entire
-exulusion of anything pertaining to the events
which form the basis of our story.

When, however, Mrs. Carruthers withdrew,
and her husband and Chick were again alone
tegether, it was Carruthers who referred to
the subject.

“Fienestly, now, Parsons,” he said, “do
you believe that lam a smuggler of diamonds;
eh?”

“T believe that you are a capital fellow, and

“Pshaw! without egotism, [am. I study to
be one. But that is not the point. You fol-
owed me in Paris—you lived there, I believed

“Correct.”

“And you saw Olga; you saw the gems—beau-
ties, weren’t they?—and you had an excellert
vpportunity for judging. Now, what is the
verdict, my festive friend? You’re out of it;
you have resigned; am I a smuggler—or am I

mot?”

“Ff you are ou’re the best one I ever
- >

Yheard of.”

“Oome; that is begging the question, be-
sides being ambiguous. I assure you, I am
interested in knowing exactly what you do
think about the matter—and you can’t offend
me either way, dontcherknow.”

“Not even if I believe you utterly innocent,
eh?” said Chick, laughing,

“No; not even then.”

“ After all that Mrs. Carruthers has said to
‘me, it would be impossible to believe you
capable of smuggling.”

Carruthers laughed long and loud.

“T like you better and better, Parsons; I do,
by Jove. I like you so well that I must warn

“you again. Beware of Mrs. Carruthers. If all

 

 

the broken hearts for which she is responsible
were laid upon this table, it would be crushed
by the weight. But come! you won’t answer
my aeerert, so let us join her in the parlor.”

“When you answer my question I will
answer yours.”

“Ah! I have forgotten what it was.”

“Really? I will repeat it; what became of
the picture of beautiful Olga?”

“Oh! Let me see—yes, I remember now—it
had almost escaped me—I believe—in fact Iam
quite sure, my dear Parsons, that I tore it up
ana threw it into the sea.”

As Carruthers uttered what he knew his
vis-a-vis would believe to be a deliberate
falsehood, he fixed his eyes full upon Chick’s
with that ny insolent smile which
became his handsome face so well and which
might be interpreted as meaning mischief, de-
fiance, or only bare amusement.

After a moment, as Chick made no reply, he
added:

“Drop it, Parsons. Rest content with one
assurance, which I mean in all sincerity.”

“What is that?”

“T will never forget the service you rendered
me to-day in the matter of that same picture.
There is many an unpleasant truth mixed up
with jest, no matter which way we turn, and
the photo that vou saw in my hends through
the port-hole, is a practical demonstration of
the truth of that remark. Now come. As your
host I taboo any further reference to the sub-
ject of smuggling. We will go to the parlor;”
again that inscrutable smile appeared upon
his face as he added: “but for the last time
permit me to repeat, beware of Mrs. C. Sirens
aren’t in it with her.”

A moment later they were in the parlor, and
then began an evening which Chick never for-
got.

Carruthers, as a host, was -unexcelled, and
his wife was the most fascinating woman
with whom Chick had ever been thrown in
contact.

She was in no way effusive or forward, but
her calm, beautiful face, lighted with a smile
that was radiant without being forced, was
oftea turned toward the young detective, and
her deep, impenetrable, Seeaee ve eyes drew
sympathetic glances from his even before he
was aware that they were fixed upon him.

Her voice, soft, penetrating, almost velvet-
like, seemed both material and ethereal, seiz-
ing him in a grasp which forced acquiescence
from his lips in spite of himself, and stealing
upon his senses in a subtle way, even after
the sound of her words had passed into noth-
ingness.

He lingered until eleven, and then reluc-
tantly withdrew.

Her adieu, when he left, was as ineffusive
as her welcome had been, earlier in the even-
ing, and yet, as she gave him her hand, he
felt a strange thrill dart along his arm and
penetrate some emotional center of his being
with an energy that startled him.

Carruthers’ good-night was the same genial,
hearty, “hail-fellow.well-met” cordiality that
had charaterized the man from the beginning,
and Chick felt that he was no nearer a_ solu-
tion of the enigma than before.

As he hurried along the street toward the
Everett, he caught himself thinking upon the
smuggler’s oft-repeated warning:

“Beware of Mrs. Carruthers !”

“Why?” muttered Chick, “If there is reason
to beware of her, why does he warn me?

“Yet, by Jove! he is right. One needs to be
wary of those beautiful eyes, that exquisite
face, that soft voice and bewitching manner.

“But why does he warn me? Does he think
that I am fool enough aid scoundrel enough to
fall in love with his wife?

“Chick,” he muttered, a moment later, ad-
dressing himself, “this man Carruthers is the
sharpest fellow against whom you have ever
been pitted. He warns you to beware of his
wife, but I warn you, beware of Carruthers,
himself.”

A few moments later he reached the hotel,
hl poly he found a card awaiting him in the
office.

 

CHAPTER XI.
PROLIFIC IN FATHERS.

The card bore the name of Isaac Parsons
upon its face, and for an instant Chick was
puzzled.

Then he remembered that it was douhtless
one of Nick’s tricks to see him, and so he sim-
ply said to the clerk:

Where is he?” |

“He was very tired,” said the clerk, “and
wished to go at once to his room. He said he
wanted to be near his boy, so we gave him the
suite next to yours.”

Chick hurried to his room.

There, sitting in an easy-chair, comfortably
smoking a pipe, was Nick Carter; but he
looked like a hale and well-to-do farmer of
sixty-five or thereabouts.

“Hello, Felix, my boy!” he cried, when
Chick entered, “I found your door unlocked,
so I walked in and made myself at home.”

He rose and shook Chick’s hand heartily,
uttering loud exclamations of pleasure at see-
ing him again, and at the same time indulg-
ing in several expressive winks. ‘

“T got your cable all right,” he said, “and
here I am. Now I want to know how long you
are going to stick to this. infernal detective
buiness: hey?”

Another expressive wink accompanied the
question, and Chick, although puzzled, took
the conveyed hint, and replied:

“T am through, dad”

“Through rt

“Caught the fellow, he

“No. I have resigned.

ee. What! quit the business?”

“ les ”

ae you don’t say so! What for, Felix,
ey?”

Chick began, and as though Nick Carter
was entirely uninformed regarding the occur-
rences of the day, detailed them at length for
the delectation of his supposed father. —

Many were the indignant comments that
Nick uttered the while. And when Chick had
finished, he exclaimed:

“Quite right, Felix. Quite right! Drat ‘em!
Well, what are you going to do now, hey?
Come home and live with us?”

“No, dad; not yet.”

“What then?”

“T don’t know. I'll look about me a little
before I decide.”

“And you'll end by going back into the de-
tective business.”

“No, sir; at least not for the Government.”

“Well, you always did have your own way,

rr

Felix, and it’s much too late to begin to train
you now.” 4
For an hour the two detectives continued to

talk in that strain, until at last the supposed
old man said that he could keep his eyes open
no longer.

There was a door between their rooms, and
as Nick passed through he made several ex-
pressive signs, to which the younger man re-
sponded by uttering a loud good-night.

Then he busied himself preparing for bed.

While so engaged, he heard a door near by
open and shut, and then the noise of footsteps
passing through the hall.

A moment later Nick Carter again appeared,
divested of his disguise, and in fact, half-
undressed.

He uttered a hearty laugh as he came into
the room.

“Well done, wasn’t it, lad?” he exclaimed.

“Well enough; but what the dev——”

“Tut—tut! My dear boy, I have received
Patsy’s report. We have to meet cunning
with cunning.” f
“T suppose I’m obtuse, but I don’t catch on
et.”
a Do you remember the fellow who was hag-
Bling with the hackman at the pier?

“ es. ”

“And that Patsy followed him?”
“ Yes ”

n He came here.”

“ 1 ” :

“He arrived just too late tofollow you when
you went to the house.”

 

_ooesg THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

¥

“T begin to be less obtuse.”

“Good! He took the next room on the other
side of you. He wanted to watch you a little
closer.”

“T see.”

“Our smuggler friends weren't quite satisfied
with the scené at the steamer.”

“Evidently not.”

“They think it possible that you may even
yet be playing a part, and they want to be
sure.”

“Exactly.”

“To make assurance doubly sure, I played
this little scene for their benefit. Our spy has
just gone to make his report, and Patsy has
gone with him. I think, now, your path will
be an easy one. By the way——”

“ Well?”

“How is the--er—angel; eh?”

“By Jove, Nick, that woman puzzles me!”

“She'd puzzle the devil, I think.”

. “T can’t believe, and yet I cannot help be-
lieving that she’s a smuggler.”

“You have gained a footing in the house?”

“Yes; Carruthers seems determined to make
a friend of me.”

“Let him, at any cost. Don’t come to my
house, no matter what may influence you to
do so. Do all oe communicating by letter.
Act the part of having given up the detective
business thoroughly. n short, give it up
entirely, in every particular, except the one
se is directly connected with Carruthers and
wife.”

“Correct. Have you fixed that bank account
business ror

“Tt will be all right the first thing in. the
morning. You can draw for any amount you
need,”

“Good!” ‘

“Carruthers will return to Paris soon.”

“Doubtless,”

“Unless I’m greatly mistaken, he will go
back on the same steamer.”

“ Ah i”

“Fix it, if you can, to go with him—-that is,
in nie Coe I won’t be far off.”

“ , try.” »

“Unless——” and Nick paused meditatively.

“Well, unless what?”

“Unless you think you can accomplish more

. | by sere to the angel.”

“Bosh!

“T’m not so sure of that. Just think it over,
lad. Now, are you ready to tell me about that
nie point of yours, and how it worked?”

“ Yes.”

“Something about the photograph, wasn’t

“

“Yes. The picture I saw in his hands—the
one he was kissing so rapturously, was a por-
trait of Olga, Reuben’s agent.”

“Ah! I suspected it.”

“When Carruthers was searched, the picture
was not found, any more than the diamonds.”

or e ” .

“Therefore it is with them.”

“Probably—unless——”

“Well?”

“He may have destroyed it.”

“No, sir.”

“Perhaps not,”

“When I asked him what he did with it, he
coully said that he tore it up and threw it out
of the window.” ~

“And at the same time he looked at me ina
way which said as plainly as words: ‘I am
lying, and you know it.’”

“Good! ell?”

“The diamonds are hidden somewhere, and
the picture is with them. If we find the pict-
ure, we find the stones. Carruthers would
never destroy that picture; for, if I can read
character at all, he is madly in love with the
Russian beauty, Olga, and it will be through
her that we finally corner him. Remember!”

“IT believe you. Now let’s turnin. I will
breakfast with you in the morning. I’m your
dad; don’t forget that, and I live at Romulus,

- Y. You will show me around a little in
the forenoon, and go with me to the one
ones train,” x

“Very good. —

Soon they wete both sleeping grinaly, but
in the morning they descended to the dining-
room together, faithfully acting the parts
they were playing. ;

As they came out from breakfast, both de-
tectives were astonished to find Carruthers
standing in the hotel corridor, awaiting them.

He was smoking a cigar. and looked as
handsome and as jaunty as ever in his six feet
of robust manhood. j

“Hello, Parsons!” he cried, stepping briskly
forward. “I’m an early caller, am I not?
Never could stay in bed mornings, and so I
looked you up bright and early. Now confess
that’s good of me; eh, Parsons?”

“Very. Glad tosee you. You should have
come a little earlier and joined me at break-
fast. Let me introduce my father. Dad, this
is the Mr. Carruthers vf whom we have just
been talking.” ;

“Glad to know you, Mr. Carruthers,” said
Nick, cordially. -

“Same here, I’m sure.”

Then with a smile he turned again to Chick.

*““You’re about as prolific in fathers as you
are in expedients for peeking into state-
rooms, Parson. Is this preweman any relation
to the senior Saunders

 

CHAPTER XII.
A STRANGE WAGER,

Chick laughed, although he was somewhat
ax aback by the assurance of the smug-

er.

“None whatever,” he said, in reply.

“Indeed !”

Carruthers raised his brows incredulously,
and then, turning to Nick, said coolly:

“Mr. Carter, you play the part so well, that
it is a shame to tell you that I am not de-
ceived. However, such is the case.”

Probably the detective was never more aston-
ished in his life than at that moment.

As for Chick, he iooked at the handsome
smuggler in undisguised admiration, which
finally found expression in an exclamation
founded upon honest conviction,

“Carruthers,” he cried, “if you had taken to
the calling of a detective, roguery would have
gone out of fashion.”

“Probably. Is it too early for a cocktail?
Yes? Well, let's sit here. I’m awfully glad
to meet Mr. Carter—excuse me—Parsons,
senior, because I want to set him right on one
or two points.”

“Such as——” said Nick

“Believing me tobe a smuggler. You see,
I’m getting tired of it, and—oh, bah! You,
who- were never foiled, should be satisfied by
this time. Parsons is; eh, Parsons?”

“Entirely.”

“How much does this fellow know?” thought
Nick. “Is he onto the game that Chick is
playing as well as mine?”

“Carruthers,” he said, and aloud, in that
cool and concise way of his, “far from beliey-
ing that you are innocent, I am entirely con-
vinced of the contrary.” -

“Flattering.”

“Flattering or not, I mean it.”

“Then arguinent will dono good, evidently.”

“Nevertheless, you have opened the discus-
sion, and I have something to say.”

“Say it, then, by all means.”

“Understand, I speak professionally.”

“Of course.”

“You have thrown down ‘the gauntlet.”

“Oh! have I?”

“You have pitted your cunning against
mine, and I will yet prove too much for you.”

“Let me remind you of the old recipe for
cooking a hare, Carter.”

“You have reminded me of it many times
already, and I will follow its directions, I
assure you. I'll cook it, too.”

For just an instanta shade of something
like anxiety crossed the face of Livingston
Carruthers.

Then he laughed, and extending his hand,
seized Nick’s in a cordial grasp.

“Let us be friends, anyhow,” be exclaimed.
“There are many kinds of delusions in the
world, and if you persist in believing black to
be white, why, I have nothing to say.”

ri rar air ei 1 iadatl le beete

“Thank you”

“Follow me to Paris all you like. It can’t
hurt me, it will amuse you, and the Govern-
ment can stand the expense. Have you suc-
ceeded in getting Parsons hack into harness?”

“No, not in the way I want him.”

“Ah! Parsons is a brick, isn’t he? I say,
Parsons, I brought a litt!e package with me
which will interest you.”

“What is it?”

“Just take it off one side, and look at it
carefully. Carter won’t be interested, you
know. I'll entertain him while you are gone.”

He placed a_ square package in the young
assistant’s hand, and Chick strolled away toa
far corner of the room.

There he slowly undid it.

In a moment more he could searcely refrain
from uttering an exclamation of surprise, for
he held in his hand the picture of Olga, the
Russian beauty.

Chick remained for several moments lost in
conjecture, while he studied the beautiful face
that was pictured upon the card he held in
his hand,

“Where was this picture when Carruthers
was searched?” he asked himself. “If it was
hidden aboard the steamer, how has he _ pos-
sessed himself of it since? Did he also secure
the diamonds when he recovered the picture?”

Again he became lost in thought over a new
problem which the picture presented.

“After telling me that he destroyed th
picture, od does he bring it to mein this
manner? That is the biggest puzzle of all.”

That the smuggler had some subtle reason
for bringing the picture to him at that time,
Chick felt certain, but what iv could be re-
mained a mystery.

The more the detectives saw of Carruthers,
the more he puzzled them.

He was inscrutable,

He met every move they made with one of
his own, so bold, so well considered, and so
adroit, that the detectives found themselves
repulsed where they least expected it.

arefully returning the picture to the pack-
aye which contained ic, Chick rejoined the
detective and the smuggler, where they were
still conversing, although the theme had
changed to the universal one of polities,

“Well, what do you think of it?” inquired
the smuggler,

“I haven’t changed my opinion regarding
it,” replied Chick.

“Puzzles you, doesn’t it?”

“Candidly, yes.”

“Do you think it would interest Carter?”

“No—not now.”

Without any apparent cause Carruthers in-
dulged in a hearty laugh.

“Do you know,” he said, “that I don’t think
anything could be more enjoyable than this
little game we're playing, Carter? By the
way, you are to remain on my track, I believe?”

“Yes,” said Nick, coidly. .

“There, don’t be annoyed by
ness. I’m going to do you a favor.

“What is it?”

“A ‘pointer.’ It will save you a lot of trouble
if you know now that I am going back to
Europe on the same steamer—in the same
state-room, in fact—that brought me over.”

“Indeed !"

“Yes. Shall you go with me, Carter?”

“Perhaps,”

1y playful-

“At least come down and see me off, won’t |

you? It will be so fee ee Teed odd,
dontcherknow? Dusedly odd; eh, Parsons?”

“Frightfully so,” laughed Chick, adopting
Carruthers’ extravagant style of expression.

“You'll there, Parsons,” continued the
free trader, “because my wife has determined
to give a little ‘blow-out’ the evening we sail.
‘Blow out’ at six, sharp—P. M., you know—
sail at eleven. You’re invited, Parsons, and—
er—Mr. Carter, will you favor us?”

“Thank yeu, no.”

There was an insolence in the tone in which
Carruthers extended the invitation to Nick
that anerres him, ;

It said that he was invited, but not expected
to accept—in short, that he was not wanted—
as plainly as words could have said it.

“Sorry, awfulty; am, by Jove! Well, if
you won’t, you won't, but I shall be incon-
solable, Don't forget to be at the steamer,
though. Sails at eleven. Got to tear myself
away now. Hate to leave os two together.
You'll be hatching something, I know; eh,
Parsons? Down me yet—eh, Carter? Bet you
you don't! What do co say?” and he coolly
drew forth a betting k.

eurening. you say,” returned Nick, as

coolly.

“Five thousand, then; eh?”

“Agreed.”

“Beautiful. Bat there must be a limit.
What do pon say Lo a year?”

“Anything you like.

“You’re’ the most accommodating fellow I
ever knew—except the chiet inspector. By the
way, did you find Mirandy?”

With another laugh he turned and was

one.

. Nick's eyes glistened with the nearest ap-
proach to genuine anger he had felt in years.

“I'll down that fellow yet, or quit the busi-
ness,” he muttered. “Now, Chick, what was
in the package?”

“'The picture.”

“T thought so.” :

“Why did he show it tome? How did he
know you? Where did he learn that you were
the countryman who was looking for Mirandy?
What is his game, anyhow?”

“He showed it to you, Chick, because he
wanted to lay a little trap to find out if you
are sincere in giving up the chase; leaving us
together is the bait; see?”

“He must know that we are still working
together.”

“He may, and he may not.”

“Shall you go back with him?”

“T shall be in Paris when he is.”

“What shall I do?”

“Whatever circumstances direct. Attend
the ‘blow-out,’ as he calls it. Don’t give upa
point, Chick. What does the picture tell you?”

“The picture?”

” Yeas

“Why that the diamonds have been taken
a their hiding-place, and are beyond our
reach.” ;

“Does it? We will see. I will be at the
steamer when she sails; whether I go upon
her or not, and unless I am greatly mistaken,
something will happen.”

Something did happen—a something which
Nick did not expect, and could not foresee—a
something that startled them all.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
re ee
A REMARKABLE CASE.

 

A remarkable case of trickery has just been
disclosed in a Parisian court. There were two
papers. both in the interest of brewers—one
published in the French metropolis, the other
in Banliene. The editors quarreled, and the
pen-fight made the papers sell like hot cakes.
The columns of one paper mercilessly assailed
the character of the rival editor, and the other
paper responded with abuse which no gentle-
man could tamely endure.

Then a challenge was publicly sent, and as
publicly accepted. It was supposed that a duei
resulted; but whether one or both editors had
been injured, no one could learn. After some
days it leaked out that both editors had been
cleverly personated by one man, who did all
the editorial writing, challenging himself,
etc.
The police unraveled the mystery, arrested
the culprit, M. Debix, and he was arraigned
for trial. His disguises and his magnificent
impudence were unsurpassed, and the president
of the tribunal who heard the case probably
ezhoed the universal sentiment of Paris when

he said it was one of the most remarkable
affairs he had ever had before him. M. Debix

 

| Was admirably defended by his lawyer, who en-

deavored to turn the whole affair into a joke.

not quite see it in that light, and condemned
Debix to five years’ imprisonment. ;

This Story Will No bP in Book-Forn,
Marguerile’s Heritage;

LOVE AFTER ‘MARRIAGE,

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,
Author of “ Wild Oats,” “Brownie’s Triumph,”
“The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘sibyl's Influence.”
‘*stella Rosevelt,” Etc.

 

 

L‘“‘ MARGUERITE’S HERITAGE” was commenced in
39. Back numbers Can be obtained of all News namin

 

CHAPTER XXVIII. - $
MARGUERITE IS CONFRONTED BY A BITTER
REVELATION. .

While Constance was bravely battling with
her sorrow and the unaccustomed drudgery of
life, trouble of another kind had assailed her
brother on the other side of the ocean. ie

After Reginald and his wife were nicely
established in their own home, it seemed to
the former that life bade fair to prove very
happy to them. ¥

Marguerite, while she still manifested a cer-
tain amount of reserve, and never encouraged

or offered any expression of affection, seemed —

to be content and in better spirits than she

had ever manifested.

She made their home wonderfully pleasan
and appeared to enjoy the care of it exceed-
ingly. She insisted upon keeping only one ser-
vant, and continued to help about the house
herself.

“We have so few rooms, Reginald,” she

said, one day, in reply to some objections of

his to what she was doing, “that we have no
accommodations for another girl. Norah is very
at and is able to do all the hard work.
while I really like to have a little care and
exercise myself; it seems more as if the h
ae belongs to me to have some responsi-
ility.”
# Then you are not doing all this merely be-
cause 1 have refused to use your income for
our support?” Reginald inquired, while he
searched his wife's beautiful face with earnest
a oe

She flushed up rosily at the question.’ —

“Well, Lam not going to deceive you,” she
smilingly returned, after a moment of hesita-
tion; “it is not altogether that, though I am
bound to confess it has influenced me some-
what. You must not be offended with me; but
since I am the wife of a poor physician, who
| absolutely refuses to carry out certain cher-
| ished plans of his own, simply because my
| income would have to be used to defray need-
ful expenses, I cannot, with any degree of
comfort, accept luxuries which, with his pres-
ent limited income, he can ill afford to sup-
ply. I wish,” she continued, apham ngly,
“that you would not try to practice—I wish

you would devote your time to study, as you

lanned to do before coming abroad—for I
Coa you are working too hard; you are be-
ginning to look thin and worn already. My
income is more than sufficient for all our
needs; and, truly, I should be happier if you
would assume the control of it and use it as
freely as if it had ere been eis Ay

“I cannot do that, Marguerite,” Reginald
responded, with a decision there was no mis-
aie “I _niust build and stand upon my
own foundation, or I should feel humiliated.

“Then I shall live upon thesame plane with
my husband,” Marguerite proudly returned,
but with a slight quiver of in in her tones.
“Tf he must work, then I will work also.”

_And she resolutely adhered to her determi-
nation. :

Every morning she arose early and was
neatly and becomingly dressed to serve Regi-
nald at breakfast. : vss

And this kind of life appeared to agree with
her, for she grew plump and rosy.; her eye
was bright, herstep elastic, and Reginald was
greatly encouraged as he hegan to hope that a
future of robust health lay before her.

She had shown no signs of her mental
trouble for some time; although she was still
under the care of the noted brain specialist,
and never referred in any way to the sorrows
of the past. 5 ; .

She was a dear loverof art, and became
enthusiastic over the treasures which Paris
contained. She spent much time in the various
galleries and museums and even put herself
under the instruction of one of the best mas-
ters in the city.

She also purchased a fine piano, and devoted
a portion of every day to earnest practice, and,
although she was not an artist in, this line
ao was often cheered and entertained
by her sweet songs, as well as by her instru-
mental achievements, when he returned from
the hospital after a hard day's work.

 

 

Her manner also began to change somewhat >

toward him. Little by little her e sive
reserve melted away, she became more social
and confiding, and appeared so happy that he
was often thrilled with the hope of eventually
winning her love. :

It galled him sometimes when she refused
luxuries to which he knew she had been accus-
tomed, when he saw her planning and work-
ing to keep their expenses within a certain
limit; still it showed how thoroughly in sym-
pathy she was with him—how she appreciated
the difficulties under which he was Tabata

w 2 affection and admiration for her.

after a time; success attended him in his
practice, for he was really askillful physician,
possessing rare ooo for one of his years”
and experience, and he was frequently called
upon for consultation in complicated cases.

His mornings were al] spent in the hospital,
while he devoted the later portion of the day
to private patients and his evenings to study.

e returned late one afternoon, from a visit

to a patient, looking unusually worn and
weary. He had assisted in a difficult opera-
tion that morning in the hospital, attended to
office patients for most of the afternoon, and
about an hour before dinner was called out to
a very critical case.

It_was raining and the evening was chilly,
but Marguerite had a cheerful fire burning in
the grate, his dressing-gown lying on his
chair, his slippers warming on the rug.

e room was aT inviting and home-like,
and Reginald’s face lighted with pleasure the
moment he opened the door. x

Marguerite .sat at the table reading by a
softly shaded lamp and looking very Tove
in a tasteful dress of old rose cashmere, wit
a mass of filmy lace fulled into the V-shaped

corsage.
She glanced up with asmile of weleome—
she had learned to smile often of late—while

the delicate tinge of color deepened on her

cheek, ,
She instantly noticed the weary look on her
husband’s face, and an anxious expression
overspread her own.
_ “Reginald, you are tired ont!” she said
pasting down her book and rising to meet
im. “And your coat is wet,” she added. “I
am afraid you have taken cold—let me have
rent coat and hat, and I will take care of
em. I a,
“No, indeed, Marguerite—I am able to wai
“pen myself,” he responded, but with a thrill
* Loma feeling in his tones for her thought-
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. him with that anxious look softenin

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folds of lace on

 

 
   

VOL, 47—No. 52.

——

She playfully insisted upon having her own
way, however, and bore away the things in

_ triumph.

. Presently she came back and helped him on
with his ing gown, then, bringing hin
the evening paper, she told him to rest for a
few moments, after which they would have

- dinner.

She remained standing by his side, watch-

_ ing his pale face with some anxiety, while he

leaned back in his chair and stretched out his
feet toward the glowing grate, with a sense
of comfort and i a stealing over him.
“Reginald, I wish you wouldn’t——” Mar-
en began, as she laid one hand upon the

k of his chair and unconsciously aes to
smooth his hair, which had become slightly
disarranged.

A giver of joy ran through every fiber of
his being at her unaccustomed touch, and the
note of anxiety in her tone. :

“Wouldn't what?” he questioned,

“Work so nard.”

“T like it.”

“But—you are wearing yourself out.”

“It is in a in cause,” he answered, lightly.
“Please don’t!” she cried out, almost
Gately “Tf you should be ill—if you should
die, what could I do?”
The man’s heart bounded within him. He

put up his hand, captured the one resting

upon his head, and clasped it closely.
“Marguerite,” he said, turning to look u

into her face, his eyes searching hers wie
sionate earnestness. ‘Marguerite, have I

become necessary to you? Tell me, dear! Oh,

give my hungry heart one crumb of comfort!”

“You are—all that I have in the world,
Reginald,” she responded, in a low tone, with
downeast eyes, while her fingers involuntarily
closed more tightly over his.

He could not speak for a moment because of
the tumult within his heart, for he really be-
lieved that the day-star of love was at last.
rising for him,”

His emofion was so intense that every atom
of color vanished from his face, and he looked

_ almost ghastly in the lurid glow of the fire.

___“Then you would miss me, Marguerite, if—
if anything should happen to part us?” he
said, when he could sveak.

“Miss you! Oh, Reginald—are you ill?—you
look so frightfully pale!” she cried, in alarm,
as she bent down, to look more closely into
his face. —

How supremely beautiful she seemed to
all her
features, and Reginald held his breath as he
watched her, and he was obliged to puta
strong curb upon himself to keep from reach-
ing out his arms.and snatching her to him in
a swift, passionate embrace.

But he feared to startle her from this unu-
sual mood—he feared tosee the old dreaded
reserve come back again.

“No, Marguerite, I am not ill,” he forced
himself to say, with what calmness he could.
oe ee oat tired after a rather hard day’s
work, and I am happier at thismoment than I
have ever been before, because you tell me
that I am necessary to you—that I am all you
have; use you look more kindly on me—
re speak more affectionately to me than you

ave ever done. Oh, Marguerite!” he contia-
ued, a mighty yearning in his voice, “if [
might dare to hope that you are learning to
leve me ever so little!—my darling, I have

- pever kissed your face or your lips, and a

‘brother’ may surely kiss his sister—will you
not grant me one little caress to give me hope?”

He drew her gently toward him, by the
hand which he had retained all this ‘time,

while she, with a strangely luminous light

growing in her at brown eyes, seemed to be
yielding to the influence of his love.

Nearer and nearer the stately, graceful fig-
in her
lg tremblin some
while be could see the soft
her bosom rise and fall from
the rapid beating of her heart.

For the moment he was almost intoxicated
with the thought that at last he had won her.

“My wife!—my love!” he murm red, tremu-

cheeks, her red
inward emotion

wit

_lotisly, as he reached forth his arms to infold

her, when, at that very instant, his office bell
rang a jangling peal and, with a violent
start, Marguerite drew back, and his oppor-
tunity was gone, for the color suddenly fled

. _. from his wife’s lovely face, while something

of her old reserve returned, rendering her
cold, stately, and unapproachable again.

Reginald sighed ene with disappoint-

ment, as he arose from his chair to answer
the bell.

But he lingered one moment.

“Marguerite,” he began, wistfully, his

pained eyes’studying her averted face.
“It isa cold, stormy night, Reginald—pray
do not keep your patient waiting,” she inter-
; in a constrained tone, as she moved

aside for him to pass.

If he could but have known that it was the
constraint of maidenly timidity, combined
with the shock which the noisy peal of the
bell had given her, he might have followed up

- his advantage and won a confession from her

lips even then.

But her sudden reserve wounded him, and
with a weary step he went out to answer his
bell, but, alas for him! leaving the parlor

door oer behind him.
As he

opened the hall door and saw who
was standing without, he uttered an excla-
mation of astonishment, for it was no other
than his old friend and college chum, Eliot
Sprague!

“Aha! Alexander, I have unearthed you at
last!” the young man cried, ina hearty, genial
tone that rang through the hall like a clarion
note “How are you, old boy?” he rattled on,
“IT saw you on the boulevard yesterday, and

- tried to attract your attention, but you were

so absorbed in thoughts peoroune you did not
see me and disappeared before I could get to
you. What's the matter, though? you look as
if you had seen a ghost, Alexander!” the
stranger concluded, as he noticed his white,
distressed face.

_ “For Heayen’s sake, Eliot, hush!” Reginald
cried, in a hoarse whisper. Then seizing his
friend by the hand, he added: “Come in here,”
ane leading him within his office, shut the

oor.

As Reginald left the parlor to answer the
bell, Marguerite turned to look after him,
clasping her white hands over her rapidly
beating heart, while her face instantly soft-:
ened, her lips parted in a tender smile, and
tears sprang into her luminous eyes.

Could Reginald have seen her then he would
have known that his battle was more than
half won, that his patient waiting was on the
verge of being rewarded; but——

“The best laid schemes o’ mice an’men
Gang aft a-gley,
And leave us nought but grief and pain

For promised joy.

Marguerite steod thus, listening to ascer-
to have him called out again in the cold an
wet, when she was suddenly electrified b
hearing the glad, exultant voice of a stranger
address her husband, with a familiarity which
precBuded the possibility of a mistake, by the
name of Alexander!

She gave one violent start—she threw out
one white hand with a gesture of mingled
amazement and repulsion; then stood likea
statue, eS every word that followed,
and of course heard the repetition of that
name—Alexander,.

What could it mean? .

All her color faded, her lips were compressed
in a stern, straight line, anda look of doubt
and perplexity shadowed her hrely eyes.

“ Alexander!” she repeated, in a husky whis-
per, a shiver running over her from head to
oot.

tain who had come for Reginald, and ee
y

Yet the gentleman who had called evidently

knew her husband intimately; no stranger

would ever address another so familiarly,

while, in confirmation of the fact, came those

startled words of her husband’s, “For Heaven’s

<ened sense of hearing caught, in spite of
s efforts to suppress his tones.
“What can it mean?” Marguerite mur-

: Eliot, hush!’—every one of which her
auick

 

mured, after the two men had entered the}

office and shut the door. “Can it be some mis-
erable mistake?” ;

No, for there was every evidence that each
had recognized the other, while it was only

visitor within his office to prevent further
revelations in her hearing. ;

Like one walking in her sleep, Marguerite
went back to her chair and sat down,

She was as pale as snow; her hands, cold as
ice, fell listlessly upon her lap, while all the
lines of her beautiful face grew hard and stern.

For fale five minutes she sat thus, never
moving, looking straight before her, and
scarcely seeming to breathe.

Tnen, almost mechanically, she began to
gather up some papers, which Reginald had
carelessly thrown upon the table when he
came in, arranging them in’ an orderly man-
ner, :

Among them was the London Lancet, a
medical journal, and as she lifted this a let-
ter slipped from between the leaves and fell
upon the floor at her feet.

It had no envelope, and the thin French
panes was closely written over ina beauti-
fully clear, lady-like hand,

Marguerite stooped to pick it up and replace
it where she had found it; but, as she did so,
four words at the bottom of the sheet caught
her eye and seemed to freeze the very blood in
her veins, to benumb her limbs, sear her
brain, and rend her heart in twain.

What a revelation they were to her! .

Was it a dream ?—a horrible nightmare that
had seized her and held her enthralled during
the last ten minutes?

Had Reginald really come in at all?—or was
it alla vision? Had she been on the verge of
a great happiness?—her husband pleaded like
a passionate lover for some sign of affection
from her, and had she almost yielded to the
spell of his presence and his fond words?—or
had it been but a chimera of her brain?

Had a strange man called at their door and
addressed her husband by the name of Alex-
ander? :

Was this letter, which she seemed to be
holding in her hands, with those four words
of fire staring up at her, something tangible,
or a mere illusion of her fancy?

She put up her hand, asif to brush a film
from her eyes, and to assure herself that she
was awake and in her right mind; but the
sharp rattle of that soft, unin paper made her
shrink and cringe with sudden pain. R

No, it was no dream, no delusion; it was a
terrible reality—one that would wreck her
life and haunt her as long as she retained
consciousness; for, glaring up at her from

 

that Preennes sheet which rattled in her

trembling hands, as if in mocking mirth at

her misery, she still saw those fatal words:
“Your loving sister—Constance.”

 

CHAPTER XXVIII.
“YOU HAVE DECEIVED ME.”

Fatal words—those that bespoke the fond
remembrance of a loving sister on the other
side of the water!

Ah, yes, for they also told her that she had
been duped, deceived, treated like a fractious
chila that must be sootned and artfully en-
ticed into yielding to a will stronger than its
own.

She had married Reginald, believing him
to be Dr. Knox, when, atus! she had, in reality,
married the brother of the woman who had
-won the lover whom she had idolized—the
ow woman whom, of all others, she wished to

un.

Reginald Knox? No, Reginald Alexander,
the vrother of Constance Southworth

et could she believe it—could it be pos-
sible , ah,

She might have read the letter through, and
assured herself of the fact, or otherwise; but
this she scorned to do—enough had already

 

 

been revealed, by those four words, to prove
her suspicions true. -

She sprang from her chair, tossing the letter
from her with a vehemence, as if it had
been a thing of venomous lifé to sting her, as
indeed it had, to her very soul.

She Benen the room with, impatient steps,
‘wonaering what the two men in the office
were talking about, and feeling as if she could
not wait to confront Reginald and demand the
truth from him. en

Her husband had deceived her—the thought
stabbed her to the heart.

Why had he cone it?

' Perhaps he had simply been professional]
interested in her case, which she knew ha
been a very peculiar form of mania, and, wish-
ing to study it closely, to experiment upon
her, perhaps, for the benefit of science, had
taken this way to do it.

The thcught was horrible to her—it drove
her wild, and her mind went back over the
whole ground of her acquaintance with Regi-
nald, trying to analyze his every word and
act, and discover his probable motive.

All this was absurd, of course—it was a
morbid view of the case, but she was too ex-
cited then to realize how unreasoning she
was,

  
  

noble—that it was not like him to do anything
underhanded or mean; he seemed to be sin-
cerely fond of her—always most kind, most
considerate of her, and tenderly attentive to
her every wish and need,

Still, the question recurred a and again
—why had he deceived her? Why had he mar-
ried her under a name that was not his own?

Ah! how near she had come to making a}.

fool of herself, she thought, a hot, angry blush
surging up to her brow.

ow nearly she had betrayed to him that
she was almost, if not quite, upon the point
of loving him, when he had pleaded a few
moments before so earnestly for some expres-
sion of affection !

He had seemed so tender, so true and noble,
that she had been nearly won over to yielding
to him.

But what should she do now?

All her soul arose in arms against the de-
ception that had. been practiced upon her,
and absorbed every other feeling. She was
tied to him; she ne Eee herself to him,
for weal or woe, until death should part them,
and he was the brother of the woman whom
she had hated with all the fiercest passion-of
her heart.

She had not thought much about Constance
of late—she had been “out of sight,” and so
“out of mind,” and, wholly occupied with her
home duties, her music, painting, and sight-
seeing, she had almost forgotten her exist-
ence; she had, indeed, almost forgotten the
existence of the man who had so_ heartlessly
betrayed her affections.

But the statling discover
when she had been so peaceful, so content, so
almost happy, aroused anew all the old bit-
terness, and this, added to the anger against
her husband, wrought her upto the highest
pitch of excitement.

Faster and faster she paced the floor, with
flashing eyes and blazing cheeks.

Her pulses throbbed, her brain seemed to
be ringing with the beating of a thousand
hammers, and her heart seemed like a ton
weight in her bosom.

But, hark! Reginald’s friend was goin
now—she heard the office door vpen, and,
the two men came forth, conversing in low,
confidential tones.

In all probability they were talking about
her, she jealously thought; perhaps Reginald
had been explaining to his old acquaintance
how he had married a girl who was half-mad,
and his motives for so doing.

Now they were exchanging friendly good-
nights, and planning to meet at some place
on the morrow, perhaps with the intention of
discussing her case more freely, was the sus-
picious suggestion of her overwrought mind,

Presently Reginald would come back to her. '

Would he try to keep up the old farce of
begging again for some expression of her love?

Ah, ha! she would meet him with weapons
as keen and cruel as his own, for the dis-
covery of his treachery had been like a dagger

of this evening;

too apparent that Reginald had hurried his!

- THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

There! she door is shut; her husband turns
and comes slowly through the hall—does he
dread to meet her, that his steps drag so?
The next moment he stands before her.

One glance into her excited face, and one
gleam from her blazing eyes, tell him that she
| has heard the greeting of his friend—that she
suspects the truth, and will not rest until
she has forced the whole story from him.

“Marguerite!” he said, gently, as he ap-

roached her, a tender, appealing look on his

ace.

“Traitor!” she cried, in a low, concentrated
tone.

He knew then that she had surmised the
worst—that he would have to go back to the
beginning and explain everything, and his
heart sank as he thought of the possible con-
sequences to her.

“No, Marguerite, Iam no traitor,” he re-
turned, in a firm, quiet tone. “Of course, I
cannot fail to understand what you mean—
that you overheard the ting of my old
friend, Eliot Sprague, and your suspicions re-
garding my identity are aroused.”

“Not my Poe: but my convictions—
the knowledge that you have basely deceived
me by marrying me under an assumed name,
to suit some underhanded purpose of your
own,” she retorted, with stern, white lips.

“Underhanded purpose! Oh, my wife, do
not so misjudge me!” Reginald cried, in a
voice fullof pain. “What purpose could,I pos-
sibly have, but that of saving you from the
malady that was fast destroying you?”

“T cannot tell, unless it was to secure a bet-
ter opportunity to study aud experiment upon
my peculiar and interesting case,” she bitterly
responded.

“Again you cruelly misjudge me,” her hus-
band quietly returned, with a face that was
almost ghastly from wounded love and honor,
“T do not deny that yours was a ‘peculiar and
interesting case,’ and that I have been deeply
absorbed in investigating and treating it; but
with no unworthy motive, let me assure you.
1 loved you, Marguerite, with my whole heart
and soul—if I had not, I could not have——”

He checked himself suddenly, and she knew
that he did so because he would not wound
her by reminding her that, without a deep
and absorbing love, he never could have bound
himself for life to one who was affected with
the taint of insanity, from which he had no
surety that she would ever entirely recover.

She felt rebuked. She knew that she owed
him only deepest gratitude and reverence for
what he haa done for her—for being so patient
and tender with her, for leaving his practice
and country for her, and toiling now so cease-
lessly in order that she might have the benefit
of the best advice and treatment in the world.

But, in her present excited, bitter state, she
could not listen to the voice of either con-
science or reason, :

‘‘As for your accusation that I married you
under an assumed name,” he continued, “that
is also without foundation, for I have been
careful to do nothing that would dishonor
either you or myself,”

“You called yourself Dr, Knox——” Mar-
guerite began, gag

“'True—Il am Dr, Reginald Knox Alex-
ander——” :

“The brother of Constance Alexander?”

“Yes; and I married yon under that name,
I will give you the certificate of our marriage
and 35 will tind it fully recorded there. i
would not wrong Ge

vere did you do it—why did you deceive
nie?” she demanded, passionately.

“Sit down, Marguerite,” Reginald com-
manded, ina tone of quiet authority, as he
rolled a chair toward her, and she sank into
it, partly because she felt impelled to obey
him, aan partly because she was trembling so
that she was searcely able to stand.

Her husband took another facing her, and
then resumed: ;

“T will tell you Sverre. dear, and you
shall judge for yourself whether my motives
were pure or otherwise.”

She knew, without any exp anebion, that
they had been pure, but, with strange ob-
duracy, she could not forgive the deception
which had made her the wife of the brother
of the woman who had robbed her of the man
she had once loved, oe

“You remember the circumstances of our
first meeting,” Reginald resumed, after a mo-
ment of thought. “The moment you stepped
upon that street-car I was attracted toward
you, for I knew that your mental condition
was not normal. When you fell and fainted, I,
as became one of my ene sprang to
your aid, and RAYS pom the benefit of my judg-
ment and skill. hen you began to tevive,
ret first words were an expression of violent

atred against one of the sweetest women the
world holds—my sister Constance. I knew,
previous to this, from your manner—from the
‘peculiar expression of your eyes, that you had
suffered some great mental shock, and now
this unaccountable hatred of a pure and lovely
woman confirmed mein the belief that you
were slightly insane, at least upon that one
point. Of course the moment you spoke of my
sister in that way, I knew that I could never

; and you would immediately turn from
me with a feeling of repulsion, if you should
learn that I was the brother of the woman
toward whom you were so bitter. Conse-
quently I introduced myself by my middle
name.’

“There were other physicians in New York
city who could have attended me,” Marguerite
here coldly interposed. -

An expression of sharp agony swept over
Reginald’s face. Surely, he told himself, if
she felt thus—if he had gained no greater hold
upon her regard than was apparent from this
remark, it would perhaps have been better for
them both if he had left her to her fate, or—
some “other physician.”

His face was almost convulsed as he bent
nearer her and asked:

“Are you sorry, Marguerite, that I did not
eall another physician to you, as I proposed?
Would you rather I had left you then, and
never interested myself in your case. Do you
regret——”

“But you had no right to deceive me—you
should have told me truly who you were,” she
cried, evading his questions.

“Tt was done upon the impulse of the mo-
ment, and with no thought that I should act
as your physician in the future. But, when

ou voluntarily put yourself under my care,
faving iven you the name of Reginald Knox,
I felt that IT ecould not explain my position
without destroying your confidence in me.
You know chal youn strange feelings toward
my sister would have impelled you to reject
my services, and I firmly believe that, in that
case, you would stil] have been in New York,
steadily growing worse, instead of being the
blooming, cheerful woman that you are to-

day.

Viro-day !” murmured Marguerite, with curl-
ing lips.

: Oh, Marguerite, cannot you forgive that
harmless stratagem which was prompted only
by the purest of motives—that of being of real
service to you?” Reginald cried, appealingly.

“You have deceived me!” she perversely re-
peated.

“Yes, by pean withholding my surname
from you,” he sadly returned. “Must that be
regarded as an unpardonable sin? I did it with
no intention of wrohging you. I loved you,
my darling. I beliéved I could save you—I
vowed I would save you if it was in the power
of human agency to do it; but, after I learned
your history, I did not dare to tell you the
truth——”

“My history! What do you know?—has Noel
Southworth dared to tell you aught of his
perfidy toward me?” Marguerite questioned, a
vivid flush staining her face.

“No,” Reginald replied, “I learned from
Miss Rainford where your home had been,
previons to your residence in New York, and,
desirous of ascertaining something regarding

our antecedents—whether your trouble was
femrditary or not—I made a trip to Rosemond.
By chance I learned that Dr. Wright had
been your family physician. I went directly to

 

in her heart.

him, told him of your accident, described the

 

'of Constance was the result of it.

gain your confidence—that I could do you no}
She knew that her husband was naturally | good

state you were in, and asked him if-he would for a woman than the most unequiy
success. — Hardy.

Kindness in women, not their
looks, shall win my love.—Shakespeare.

He that would have fine guests, let him
have a fine wife.—Ben Jonson.

Every pretty woman should be a flirt, every
clever woman a politician.—Ouida.
_ Reverence every woman’s opinion, whether
it be to you right or wrong.—Rice.

A woman’s strength is most
robed in gentleness.—Lamartine.

tell me something about your previous life,
and advise me regarding the course of treat-
ment I was contemplating for you. It was
through him that I learned of the wrong that
Noel Southworth had done you, and thus
realized that your mental trouble and hatred
Of course
this revelation only confirmed me in the belief
that I must keep my identity from you, if I
was to continue to treat you. As time passed,
and I saw that your confidence in me was in-
creasing, as my love for you strenghtened and
developed accordingly, I planned to come
abroad with you, and thus remove you from
all danger of meeting either Noel Southworth
or his wife. I believed that a year or two of
freedom from all unpleasant mentai excite-
ment, with good care and skillful treatment,
would result in a complete cure. I have not
been disappointed in my hopes—you have,

 

 

potent when

 

ictal weed
ARTIFICIAL WILD MEN.

 

The most curious and brutal vocation in the
world is the manufacture of “artificial wild
men.” A well-known English doctor in China

steadily improved in every way; and two! has just certified from his own personal experi-

hours ago | should have pronounced you a'

J ence that this art is regularly practised in the

perfectly well woman, if any one had asked
my opinion,”

“Two hours ago—should have——- Why do
you speak so? why do you use that doubtful
tense?” Sratpnes questioned, as she leaned
toward her husband, intense eagerness writ-
ten upon her white face, her eyes glowing like
live coals.

“Because,” Reginald returned, with a sink-
ing heart, as he noticed her wild look, “I per-
ceive, from certain indications, to-night, that
it would take but very little excitement such
as you are now indulging in to causea fatal
relapse—to throw you back into the condition
you were in when we left New York. It rests
wholly with you, Marguerite,” he went on, |
impressively, “whether you are to be a happy, |
useful woman, in the future, or whether you |
become a hopeless maniac——”

 

Flowery Kingdom,

First a youth is kidnapped, then bit by bit
he is flayed alive, and the skin of a dog ora
bear is grafted piece by piece upon him. His
vocal chords are next destroyed by the action
of charcoal to make him dumb, and the double
purpose of whitening the skin and_ the utter
degradation of the menta! faculties is effected
by keeping him immured ina perfectly black
hole for a number of years.
ing him like a brute for a sufficiently long
time he is made into one. At last he is exhib-
ited to the entirely credulous Chinese as a
wild man of the woods, and his possessors
reap a rich harvest.
ever, is caught by the
pieces, and when the authorities get him they
torture him and promptly behead him.

In fact, by treat-

When a kidnapper, how-
eople, he is torn to

 

“You think that!” she exclaimed, shrinking

 

and shuddering, as from a stinging blow.

“I am sure of it,” he gravely answered, “if
you continue to cherish this root of bitterness
toward the man who has wronged you, and
who never was wcrthy of you—who, I fear,
may yet make my sister regret that.sshe ever
married him—if you continue to foster such
unreasonable hatred of Constance, your life is
going to be controlled always by monomania.

ou have made rapid strides on the road to
Pere health since we came abroad, and you
nave it in your power to keep well and be
happy, if you will; or you haveit in ycur
power to ruin both your life, and mine!”

“Yours?” she questioned, with slightly
curling lips,

“Yes, mine. Oh, Marguerite—is it of so lit-
r value to you?” he cried, appealingly. “If

save you, and can but win you, I shall be
supremely ‘happy; if I lose you, my future
must be a blank. Oh, my love,” and he
stretched out his arms toward her, a mighty
yearning in his voice, “let me save you—let
me win you; yield yourself to my love, and be
Bane ie me. Do not nurse that old love—it
wil but a viper in your bosom—you know
that the man was never worthy of you; you

   
  
   
   
  
  

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are worshiping a false idol, and [believe you
will live to see the proof of it.”

Marguerite started from her chair, her beauti-
ful face one sheet of flame.

“Do you imagine for a moment that I still
love that traitor? Have you forgotten what I
told you the day 7 asked me to be your
wife?” she demanded, in a passionaté tone.

“No, 1 have not forgotten,” Reginald said,
sadly, “but it almost seems as if there must
be a lingering fondness for him—I can recon-
cile your long-continued bitterness toward my
sister in no other Rs

“You imagine it is caused by a feeling of
jealousy,” Marguerite remarked, with intense
scorn, “How can you imagine that I could
give one regretful thought—would lower my-
self by cherishing one spark of affection for
such a craven—who, as you have said, is un-
worthy of the regard of any true woman. No,
Reginald Alexander, every vestige of love was
crushed out of my heart that morning, when I
saw him lead ion sister to the altar. But the
wrench—the shock almost destroyed both life
and reason, and one cannot readily rally from
such a blow. But to-day he is no more to me
than the stones in yonder pavement—I could
meet him now without so much as the quicken
of a pulse-beat.” ‘

“Is that true?” Reginald exclaimed, his
heart bounding with sudden joy, and re-
newed hope; for if her love for Neel South-
worth was indeed really dead, it was possible
perhaps that a new love might in time spring
up in its place. Indeed he believed he had that
very evening had evidence that it would be
so,

“Tt is true,” she said, so positively that he
could not doubt it. ’ rs : ;

“Then there is hope for you, dear,” he re-
turned, with a thrill of tenderness in his
voice, “and will you not strive to conquer,
to root out of your heart this unreasonable
aversion to my sister? She is a very sweet and
lovable woman, and if you could but know
her thoroughly, I_ am sure you could not fail
to love her. I had 8 letter from her this very
day,” he added, feeling in his pocket for it,
“and I want to read you a tender passage re-
garding yourself.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
ae 0 ee

Woman. Lovely Woman.

 

 

The beauty of a lovely woman is like music.
—George Eliot.

When el bad men environ,then woman
shows a front of iron.—Thomas Dunn English,

When a lady’s in the case, you know all
other things give place.—Gay.

Earth’s noblest thing, a woman perfected.
—Lowell,

The most beautiful object in the world, it
will be allowed, is a beautiful woman.—Ma-
caulay.

How sweetly sounds the voice of a good

 

 

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Before deciding on your route

write for rates, maps, and any Other

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woman! Itis so seldom heard that, when it
speaks, it ravishes all senses.—Massinger.

Remember that woman is most perfect when
most womanly—Gladstone,

Earth has nothing more tender than a pious
woman’s heart,—Luther,

All I am, or can be, I owe to my angel

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Heaven will be no heaven to me if I do not
meet my wife there.—Andrew Jackson.

Even in the darkest hour of earthly ill wo-
man’s fond affection glows.—Sand.

No man can either live piously or die right-
eous without a wife.—Richter.

Eternal joy and_ everlasting love there’s in
you, woman, lovely woman.—Otway.

Women need not look at those dear to them

MAP OF THE UNITED STATES.

A large, handsome Map of the United States, monnted
and snitable for office or home use, is issued by the
Burlington Route,
on receipt of twelve cents in postage by P. 8. EUSTIS,
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Copies will be mailed to any address

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the recipe that cure
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tL. S. Franklin, Music Dealer, Marshal), Mich.

 

 

to know their moods.— Howells.

Yes, woman’s love is free from guile, and
pure as bright Aurora’s ray.—Morris.

LADIE

A friend in need is a friend infeed. Tf you
want a regulator that never fails, address
‘THE WOMAN’S MED, HoMR, Buffalo, N. ¥.

 

Oiland water—woman and a secret—are hos-
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Raptured man quits each dozing sage, Oh,
woman ! for thy lovelier page.— Moore.

Lovely woman, that causes our cares, can
every care beguile.— Beresford. ;

MARRIED LADIE

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Send 10c. for “Infallible Safegaard”
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Decision, however suicidal, has more charm

  
  

 

 

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VOL. 47—No. 52.

 

 

 

MY SAINT.
BY WALTER HERRIES POLLOCK.

My saint is a saint that few may know

Tn all that she does for us sinners. below ;
She is fair as faithful and faithful as fair,
With a halo encircling her beautiful hair.

She is full of wiles and moods as an elf,
And yet is the spirit of truth itself,

And well for him who his burden can bear
In the light of the halo about her hair.

Her face is a mirror wheré men may read

The truth that inspires her, thought and deed,
Her life ia a life of devotion and care,

And she has a halo about her hair.

Her care is for others and not for herself,

And naught she recks of profit or pelf,

Enough for her that her goal is won—

And she knows not her halo is bright a8 a sun.

All things she does from the splendid love
That comes to her here from a Power above.
And I who adore her can hardiy dare

To look at the halo about her hair.

MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS,

BY W. W. CARTNER.

 

(“MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS” was commenced in No. 15.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GOAT?” ASKED MRS. BROWN,

NUMBER NINETY.
A Trip to Mars is Discussed; then Wilson Makes
: a Startling Biunder,
. “Henry,.I seé by the papers that astrono-
' mers believe that’ Mars is inbabited. And they
| think if. will be possible’ for the inhabitants
of earth to visit the planet. If the scientists
should ‘find a way to get there, it would be
a gravd place to spend. the summer there next
‘year. My! Sut it would be a great trip!”
ejaculated) Mrs Wilson.
Wilson gazed at his wife for fully a minute,
‘ and not being able to contain himself. longer,
burst forth: ©
“Well, madam, you,may go up head. Going
to Mars to spend the heated term! Great
Scott! You should have been a statesman, or
at least had a job in the President’s culinary
department. Going to Mars for an outing!
' Mrs. Wilson, have you figured on the probable
cost of a round trip? Let me see—when. near-
est to earth, Mars is about thirty-five million

‘ miles distant. At three cents per mile, it
would cost one million and fifty thousand dol-
lars for a ticket one way, or two million one
hundred ‘thousand dollars for the round
trip——”

But they will have excursion rates,” she

' interrupted. é

“Yes, they will throw off the hundred thous-

‘ and dollars. Tickets to Mars and return, only

’ two million dollars! Tickéts good to return
nine years from date, of sale, sleeping cars

' extra. Everybody will go!” he howled, kick-
ing over a chair, and swinging his paper
about his head.

‘ “Do not make a goose of yourself! If any
residents of earth go, it willbe by electricity,
and that is cheap,” she said,

“Blectricity ischeap, is it? Yes, in the crude
state. A streak of lightning is free, but. if
aman corners it up, and you haye to buy a
little for a light, you will change your mind
about the»commercial value of the article.
My*dear, | would. not go to,any unnecessary
expense to provide myself witha traveling
suit, especially adapted to a Mars trip, as the
train may fail in getting across,” he sarcastic-
ally remarked.

““A traveler to Mars would see two ‘moons,
besides Sere the sensation of sailing
through space. It would be glorious!” she en-
thusiasti¢ally exclaimed, oS

“A person would supposé you had wings,
and intended to fly over and light on “Mars
like an infernal old porte hen ‘does on a
fence! I am sick of your silly twaddle, and do
not want to hear another word about such
idiotic foolery,” he snapped.

“There are just as smart men as you figuring
on that subject,” she replied.

“Madam, you do not know any more of this
subject than Brown’s goat does of military
tactics——”

“J would like to be the first woman there,
just to see Mars’ inhabitants stare——”

“Well, that settles it,” interrupted Wilson.
“You have an idea—— What in the name of
an oppressed nation is that racing around this
house?” he said, springing to his feet and
listening. 3

“TI think it is a dog,” she replied.

“That is no dog—it is. a horse. or a cow.
Where is the lantern?” he hurriedly asked.

“It hangs in the closet, where it always is.
It is aeht before your eyes,” she said, as

Wilson stood in the closet door-way, groping

frantically in all directions.

“Mrs. Wilson, there is no lantern here. {[t
is queer that you cannot find a thing twice
in one place in this house.. There will not
be a living thing left.in that garden. Now,
madam, I want to know what you have done
with that lantern!” he yelled, coming out
holding a tin pail that he had snatched from
a nai! in the vain hope that it was a lantern.

“Give me that pail!” she said, going into
the closet, and immediately returning with
the jantern.

He hastily seized-it, and broke three matches
on the leg of his pants trying to light it.

There was a clatter of boards, and a pan or
kettle was sent rolling to the ground.

“Great Heaven! the world might come to
an end before a man could finda match in
this house!” he bellowed dashing the lan-
tern on the floor, running to the door, and yell-

ing:
PAway! Get out of there, you infernal
brute!” ‘ ;
He caught sight of something scudding

 

across the lot, and with a whoop he dashed
after it, until he ran against the post to which
the clothes-line was fastened. The force with
which he struck the post made. his teeth rat-
Heene sent him sprawling on the ground.

“ Have
goat?. Mr. Brown left the gate open, and_he
is out. I thought he might be here,” said Mrs.
Beoren, as Mrs. Wilson came out with the lan-

ern.

“There is some fiend trying
down!” panted Wilson, as_ he leaned heavily
against the post and carefully wiped his eyes.

Mrs. Brown began calling to the goat.

“He will hurt you, will he not?” asked Mrs.
Wilson.

“Oh, no; he never hurt any one,” and she
resumed calling.

“Hush, Anna, and we_will see her get
knocked seven ways for Sunday,” whispered
Wilson.

The goat came trotting to her, and she
atictly seized the strap which encircled his
neck.

“Well, by the ring-tailed catamounts!”
muttered. Wilson, under his breath. “I will
take him across the garden, and drop him
across the fence, and you can go in and rest,”
he said, aloud, taking hold of the strap.

“If you would, it would save my having to
lead him around the walk,” she replied.

The goat showed fight as soon as Wilson
touched him.

“Want a racket, do you? When I get
through with you, there will be no more fight
in you than there is in a frog. Come on, you
button-hole bouquet! you beautiful nosegay !”
he shouted, as he pulled and kicked the goat
into the center of the garden,

Here the goat made a dive for him, and to
save himself from falling Wilson let go of the
strap.

In an instant he realized what he had done,
and started for the house‘on a run.

The goat pursued, and at regular intervals
butted him in the rear, and as Wilson opened
the door he was driven headlong into the
house.

“Henry Wilson, what are you doing?” ex-
claimed his spouse.

“Ts that goat charmer here?” he puffed, look-
ing wildly around and rubbing his hip.

He was covered with dirt from head to foot,
and his breath came in short gasps, He made
a dive for the closet, and soon reappeared
with his gun. Upon his face was a vindictive
look as he passed out of the door.

“Methinks I récognize those fiery orbs! Their
baleful light hath gleame2 on me before!” he
ominously said, coolly raising the’ gun and
discharging it.

Lee? was a short struggle and then all was
Still.

“Wenry, what have you shot?’ exclaimed
Mrs. Wilson.

“He that makes my friends my foes—he that
makes me wear old clothes, and plow the
garden with my nose—the goat!” he replied,
with a lofty wave of the hand that caused a
cloud of dirt to fall from his sleeve to the floor.
“You are not fit to live in a house with
sane people! There is no danger of your kill-
ing the goat,” she said, taking the lantern to
go and see what damage he had done.

“What do you call that? Isita goat?” she
asked, laying her cat on the steps and glar-
ing wrathfully at Wilson and sorrowfully at
the cat, which was perforated with duck-shot,

Wilson looked at the cat, and then at his
wife, and sank into a chair with a sickly grin
on his face.

The measured tick of the kitchen clock and
the lonely call of a fall cricket that was hid-
ing in the vine at the open window were the
only sounds that disturbed the slumbers of
the silent night. Ente
“All you need to be an epidemic is _an op-’
portunity to spread yourself,” Mrs. Wilson
bitterly remarked, and with’a sweeping swing
of her gown she sailed majestically from the
room.

“Sic semper tyrannis!” yelled Wilson, kick-
ing the dead cat from the steps. :

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

The Ladies’ Work-Box.
Edited by Mrs, Helen Wood,
FASHION'S FANCIES.

Flounces. having long knotted decorations of ribbon,
placed a few inches apart, will be seen on evening
dresses. : < .
A ribbon bow, made with three loops andwone end, and
which suggests a four-leaf clever, is popular for fasten-
ing aribbon belf. - ‘ ,

What is known as a real smoke biue is again in vogue,
and it is somewhat darker than gendarme, though not as
cold-looking as steel bine. :
Elaborate jet embroideries are wrought upon gold mili-
tary .galloons, producing very desirable trimmings for
Russian and other modes.

All kinds: of ‘plaided -woolens are shown, besides the
striped and corded, apd as for camel’s hair, it will beyond
a doubt be very popular during the fall.

TLengthwise lines, whether in cords or stripes, are m
very good taste, and so are all the diagonal weaves, of
which there are a goodly variety. to choose from. i
A good glove for outdoor wear when one is not in full
promenade toilet is of heavy kid of a color known as dull
tan, with four horn buttons of almost the sanieé shade.
Many jof the half-long capes have the triple ruffles at
the top in three very narrow rows, below a flaring collar
very high at the back, and which runs down into points
almost touching the waist-line.

Jackets of all kinds reappear, and show a variety of
light colors in the cloths of which they are made. In
addition to the tans, browns, dark reds, navy-blues, and
dull greens, there are pale dahlia, faded grass-green, wall-
gray, ‘‘antumn haze gray,” and a dull frog-green.

A charming scheme of decoration for a dinner com-
prises a coverof pink and white lisse for the table, the
pink being fnlled slightly over th: white. Tall candles
in silver candlesticks are covered with shades of pink

you seen anything of Neddie, our.

to tear our house.

_ |solved to take his place toward his orph;

much shorter, and box-plaited, shirred, or put on in ac-
cordion plaits, the latter being the latest style. Very
little skirt decoration is seen, broad hems, tfeather-
stitched or hand-sewed, being more popular. Lace yokes,
bretelles, and ribbon garnitures are used for waist dec-
orations, while Wattean bows fall as gracefully from the
waists of these tots as from those of their elder sisters.

THE TWO COUSINS.

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES.

“Who is that talking in the hall?” tartly de-
manded Mrs. Jennifer, and little Lucilla, run-
ing to the door, to take a bird's-eye view of
matters through its yawning crack, returned
with the satisfactory information:

“It’s Cousin Olive, saying good-by to Mr.
Walbridge!” f

Mrs. Jennifer contracted her showy black
eyebrows slightly.

“Is Elise there, too?”

“Why, no, mamma—don’t you remember’
Elise went out for a walk?”

Mrs. Jennifer said nothing more; but to one
used to the interpretation of dumb show, a
world of meaning might have been deciphered
in the swift way in which her needle flew in
and out of the cambric ruffle she was hem-
ming.

“Olive!” she called, sweetly, as the closing of

the front door gave notice that the visitor had
at last taken his departure; and by way of
answer, a bright-faced young girl presented
herself in the door wana girl with shinin
brown tresses tied with blue ribbon, soft
brown eyes, anda fresh, blooming complexion,
like the pink blossoms that. cluster on the
kalmia bushes in May.

“Well, aunt?” she said.

“T’ve been wanting to speak to you for some
time, Olive, dear—sit down,” purred Mrs.
Jennifer, “ Your uncle’s circumstances are not
what they were, as | suppose you are aware?”

“I did not know it,” said Olive, slightly
changing color. —

When people are quite dependent on the
bounty aud good graces of others, they are apt
to be slightly sensitive. ;

“He has been obliged to expend a good deal
of money of late, and—I knew you would be
perfectly willing to do all you could, if you
knew his situation——”

“Certainly, aunt!” said Olive,
twisting her fingers together, _
“And of course in a large family like ours,
every additional member is felt as an addi-
tional burden.”

“But, aunt,” burst out Olive, “I don't
understand you. What do you mean? What
is it that you want me to do?”

“Pray don't speak so loud, Olive!” remon-
strated Mrs. Jennifer, wildly elevating her
eyebrows. “You are so brusque—so startling.
I’ was only going to tell you that Mrs. Park-
man meutioned to me yesterday that she
wanted a new hand, and that——”

Olive Martin bit her lip—the hot color
started up to her cheek. :

“A dressmaker, aunt? ;
“And why not?” calmly retorted Mrs, Jen-
nifer. “lt is the duty of every young woman
to do something to earn an honest livelihood.”
Olive thought of her Cousin Elise, white-
handed and elegant, who did not even make
her: own bed or dust her own room; she
remembered the two Hibernian damsels whose
business it was to wait upon Mrs. Jennifer
and her younger daughters. She knew that
although her own father had died in wretch-
edly destitute circumstances, yet the time had
been when he had helped Mr. Jennifer in such
a manner that the latter had solemnly prom-
ised’ never to forget the benefits rendered
to him; and she also knew that upon that
father’s death-bed, Moses Jennifer had re:

ned
child, so long a@ they both should live!
_ “Does my uncle know of this?” she asked,
suddenly lifting her frank brown eyes to the
crafty faée,of tee tratrons
“Certainly!” calmly lied MYs.’ Jennifer,
without so much as a conscience-stricken

bhish.
“Then it is settled,” said Olive, with a cer-
tain gasp in her throat. “I will be a dress-
maker!” ’ ' is Dees
“Is this really and actually ea wish, my
dear?” asked kind Moses Jennifer, when Olive
told him of her determination that evening.
“Ts if not yours, uncle?’ +)
Mrs. Jennifer looked up with a little startled
glance as the question was asked,
“My wish is for whatever will make you
feel happy, child!” Moses answered, for in his
secret heart he believed that Olive Martin
was not contented in his family, and deeply |
regretted the circumstance.

nervously

vw

this point, but she knew she must say some-
thing, and lispingly answered:

“A horrid, odious name—Mr. John Smith.”

At this moment Mrs. Jennifer came in all
smiles.

“IT am so busy since my niece left us,” she
said, blandly. “I miss her terribly; but of
course it was my duty to oppose no obstacles
since Mr. Darcy had been so faithful !”

“Mr. Darcy !

“Yes, the young gentleman in question.”

Elise turned the color of carmine, but she
had not presence of mind to extricate herself
from the gulf of misrepresentation into which
she had fallen, and Mr. Wy albattige quietly
laid all these things HB in his mind.

“Oh, mamma!” crie
itor was gone, “how could you say his name
was Darey when I had told Mr, Walbridge
it was John Smith!” ;

Mrs. Jennifer looked blank—but hope, that
“springs eternal in the human breast,” came
to her relief, most forvanately

“Oh, I don’t believe henoticed it,” said she.
“Darcy is a better name than Smith—we’ll
stick to Darcy for the future, my love!”
...And Clarence Walbridge, who had somehow
allowed himself to become strangely interested
in Miss Martin’s blooming face and lovely,

leading eyes, went straight to Mr. Jennifer’s

aw office.

“He, at least, can speak the truth,” he
thought, “ which is more than one can venture
to assert of Mrs. Jennifer and the fair Elise.”

“Walbridge came to my office this after-
noon,” said Moses, bluntly, at dinner, as he
plunged his carving fork into the juicy depths
of a sirloin of beef. “He asked me where Olive
Martin had gone. . Do you know, wife, I be-
lieve he really is interested in the little{thing,
and it would bea first rate thing for her, for

“what did you tell him?” ‘breathlessly in-
terrupted Mrs. Jennifer, pausing in ber oceu-
ation of preparing the dressing for a plate of

dress-
What

y, I said she’d gone to learn
makng at Mrs. Parkman’s, to be sure.
should I tell him?”

“Oh, Moses!” groaned Mrs, Jennifer.
“Oh, papa!” shrieked Elise. :
Honest Mosés stared helplessly from
the other.

“What do you both mean?” he demanded.
“What have I done?” :

But he could get no satisfactory information
from either of the ladies.

Olive Martin was busy over the puffings of a
blue satin skirt, when Mrs. Parkman came
into the room. :

“A gentleman so see Miss Martin,” said
she, primly. “Asa general thing, it is against
my rule to allow my young ladies to receive
company pertaining to the other sex, but——”

But Olive escaped from the room before the
lecture was half over, to see Clarence Wal-
bridge in the shop without.

“Well, Olive,” he said, gayly, as he took
both her hands in his, “you see I have found
you out!” :

“Found me out?” she repeated, blushing
very much, and looking radiantly pretty.
“Tell me honestly, Olive!” he pursaed, “is
it John Smith or Mr. Darcy?”

“T don’t know what you mean!” -

And he explained to her the story that had
been related to him by Mrs. Jennifer and Miss
Elise.

“It is false!” cried Olive, with sparkling
eyes and reddened cheeks. “How dired the
invent such foundationless tales about me?
left Uncle Jennifer’s because my aunt hinted
to me that my maintenance had become a
burden, and that I ought to support myself. I
could not eat the bitter bread of dependence,
Mr. Walbridge. And I do not know what
motive they could possibly have had for giving
such a false reason for my departure.” — :
“TI can guess!” said Clarence’ Walbridge,
shrewdly. “But we will leave that question
for future discussion, Olive, There is another
one which is of much more present importance
to me!” ee en raise
“What is it?” Olive innocently asked.
“Whether or no& you will become my wife?”
“Mr. Walbridge!" eee

one to

rling little Olive! But you need
- Iknow from your eyes that it is
es! . x: a 5 ; rit ¥ i
vend so ended probably the first courtship
that was ever happily consummated in Mrs.
Parkman’s show-rooms, re
Mr. Jennifer was the only member of the
family who was really pleased at his niece’s
good juck, matrimonially speaking. Elise and
her mamma had somehow fallen into their
own trap—nor was it a pleasant sensation.
But Cupid protects his own,

> °

a"

Pleasant. Paragraphs.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

 

And after Olive had left the room he turned
to his wife. —
“She doesn’t seem so crazy after the idea as
you gave me to suppose, Margaret!” he said.
* You eannot always judge by her manner,
Moses,” answered the subtle wife, who weuld
have deluded the serpent’s self had she been
in Mother Eve's place in Paradise. “I am
sorry to be obliged to say so, but I do think
she is a little inclined to be deceitful !”
“Poor child, poor child!” muttered Moses
Jennifer. “We must remember, my dear, that
she is fatherless and motherless !”

 

and white lisse, and down through the center of the
table silver bowls are placed at intervals, filled with pale
pink blossoms.

Sleeves continue to be large, but show an ever-increas-
ing variety of shape, while retaining their size. Some
examples are as large as they can be made without abso-
lute distortion of the figure of the wearer.

The handkerchief affected by the young woman of fine
and original taste is an extra-sized square of linen,
finished with a narrow hem, and having a shield in one
corner or an oval of color upon which is embroidered in
white her initial letter. A pretty idea in the marking of
handkerchiefs, too, is that of writing. the name in the
corner and embroidering the signature in old-fashioned
raised lines. :
here are furniture fashions as well as fashions of
dress, and while the latter are apt to change every sea-
son, the others seem to change only at intervals of years.
Just at present the antique style of furniture is the at-
tractive one for the householder, andthe tendency at
present is for designs that prevailed in colonial days.
The more old-fashioned the chair, or the table, or the side-
board, the more fashionabie it is regarded by everybody
who knows the difference between what is good and
what has only the appearance of value. The very fashion-
able parlor furniture will be of the empire style—in
straight backs and square corners, and with open frame-
work. This style is especially suitable for grand parlors,
and will be very attractive.

Edna, Chicago, 11l.--A pretty design for a schoo] apron
for a little girl of eight, is shaped by under-arm seams ;

the low, round neck is fitted toa narrow facing in. the
front, and shirred into a small space, from which it falls
loosely, giving the Watteau effect. The backs have skirt
portions joined to the waist, while straps, sewed in the
under-arm seams, and buttoned in the back cover the
seams. A narrow frill of edging ornaments the neck and
sleeveless arm-size. The pattern for this useful and neat
model is No. 592, and the price twenty cents, on receipt
of which we will mail it. Cross-barred muslin, striped
cambric, dotted Swiss, nainsook, and other washable
fabrics, with embroidered edging or ruffling, will be ap-
propriate for this pattern.

Mrs. W.—A little night-gown that is convenient for
keeping the baby’s feet covered, has the front extended

below the back, and then turned over and buttoned
across the back. Muslin, flannel, or canton flannel may
be used, trimmed with feather stitching or a narrow
edging of embroidery or lace. The pattern is No. 596, and
the price twenty cents.

Miss Eva L.—The German knot is a new and generally
becoming. style of. coiffure, and it is worn.a little higher
than the popular Psyche knot. After combing the hair to
the desired height,-the ends are separated and twisted
into a bow-knot shape. One long tortoise-shell pin. se-
cures this arrangement, while with this knot a fluffy
bang, parted-in | Py de WOEPR ose oo tani

Belle.—Scarlet stockings are: fashionable, and, when
worn with black slippers an@)a black lace dress, they
present a very stylish effect... 7 i .

Edith S.—1st. Pecune cloth is'a new material, showing

eee and diagonal lines in a crepon effect, and it
makes dressy gowns for women with stout figures.
2d. Ondine is the name given to anew variety of ben-
galine having crinkled cords. 3d. Velours du nord is not
velvet, but a sort of rep wool, and it comes in warm,
brown tints. ;

E. Cc. W., Buffalo, N. Y¥.—Children’s dresses are still
finished with guimpes in white or colored silks, with full

 

Mrs. Jennifer rolled up her eyes sanctimo-
niously. f ae

“I’ve always endeavored to act a maternal
part toward her, Moses,” she sighed.

But not until Olive Martin was safely in-
stalled in Mrs. Parkman’s work-rooms did
Mrs. Jennifer breathe freely.

“She was actually luring Clarence Walbridge
away from Elise under my very eyes and
nose!” thought the virtuous matron. “Clar-
ence Walbridge, whois the best parti in town.
Well, there’s no end to the pretensions of
these country-bred girls, 1 wonder what he
could possibly have seen in her big -eyes, and
melancholy, pursed-up mouth! But now Elise
will have a fair chance, poor dear!”

And‘Miss Elise Jennifer was duly posted in
what she ought to do and say upon the occa-
sion of Mr. Walbridge’s next visit—a washed-
out pink and white beauty, with freckled
cheeks, flaxen hair, frizzled into the simili-
tude of a yellow cloud, and very red lips,
which she was perpetually biting, to preserve.
their coral bloom!

“I'll do my best, ma,” said Elise, “but I
never know what to talk about when I’m with
Mr. Waloridge !”

“Pshaw!” quoth Mrs. Jennifer, “I’m sure
Olive Martin could talk fast enough.”

“But Cousin Olive knows more than I do,”
confessed innocent Elise.

Mr. Walbridge came as usual that evening.
and was simperingly welcomed by Elise Jen-
nifer, in a becoming blue silk dress, with a
rose in her yellow flossy hair and blue knots
of ribbon fluttering wherever a blue knot
could possibly be placed.

“Is your cousin at home?” the young man
asked, rather uncéremoniously, and Miss
Elise recollected her lesson.

“Oh, didn’t you. know,”
lessly, “Olive has left us?”

“Left you!” echoed Clarence Walbridge,
more disap ointed than he chose to own to
himself, “What for?”

Elise lifted her brows, looked at the carpet,
and tried to assume an arch expression of
countenance.

“Of course I can’t be.expected to, know cer-
tainly,” she said, “but mamma andI both
had our suspicions. In short, I don’t really|
know how to explain, but I’ve reason to sup-
pose she has gone away to be married.”

“To be married !”

“Some faithful cavalier, I believe, who
knew her in the days before her poor dear
father died—it’s all very romantic, and we’re
so sorry to lose her !”

“What is his name?” bluntly asked Mr.
Walbridge.

quoth she, art-

-your bill.”’

: One of Many.

Mr, Flightie—“Mere talent is not appreciated now-
adays. Oh, if I only hada touch of real genius——”
Wife—“Genius isn’t what you need,”

“Eh? What, then?”

“Horse sense.”

A Dignified Patron.

Small Dealer (gently) -‘Isee you have transferred
your trade to my rival across the street.”

Mr. Highhead (with dignity)—“Yes, sir, T have.”
Dealer (more gently)—* May I ask, sir, what Ihave
done to deserve this?” i :
Mr. Highhead (with added dignity)—You sent in

Took Too Much.

Mrs. Gadd—“Did you ever! I heard Deacon De
Goode come home last night howling drunk.”

Mrs. Gabb—*Oh, you’re mistaken. The deacon
was out with some temperance men, and took too
many temperance drinks, that’s all.”

“But he howled like a dervisher.”~

“That wasn’t drunk; that was colic.”

Elise, when their vis-

| he says is confirmed.—Boston Trans

“Not a particle.”

“You don’t think it willrain, do you?”

‘*No danger. Why?”

“This is Sunday, and it’s most church time.”

Trials of Literature.
Mrs. Scribbler—“Well, if I had it to do over agai
I wouldn’t marry a literary man.” f a
Friend—‘‘Why not?” ; ‘
Mrs. Scribbler—‘‘When he earns enough to take
me out and have a good time, he’s so near dead he

can’t go.”
Might Fill the Bill.

|

but won't ever bite.” ' dasa!
Dealer (meditatively)—‘“I guess you'd better get
an iron one, mum.” Peis

;

Had Studied Some. 4
Ola Lady—“I’m dreadfully afraid of these
fangled ’lectric lights.” best
Roung dy —‘*Why so?” 5 ed ha 4 ie
. Old Lady—‘Electricity makes thunder, I guess
you know, and I’m awfully afraid of thunder.”

«Imperative. ott*
Business Man—“You tell me Iam hurting myself
sitting so long at my desk, but I can’t make any
money ifI don't.” ¢ ‘
Doctors Hae you enough to pay me?”
“Then stop.”

A Smart Man. | . f :
Bliffers—“Your wife is a busy little wom
Makes her own clothes, doesn’t tr al ‘
Wiffers—*‘Every stitch.” no :
“How did you work it?” thi
“Always fell in love with her dresSmakers.”

Willing to Help.

the chureh yet?”
Struggling Pastor—“N-o, not exactly; but Dr.

Stickem has offered to cover the walls with porous

plasters if we don’t mind seeing his name on n.”.;

No Need of Printing.

ere.
oe Boarder—“Don’t worry. You'll soon learn

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES, —

PREFERRED THE CHICKENS.—Judge Darfey—“You
ye naa with stealing chickens; do you want a
awyer?’’ ‘
Mose Snowball—‘“‘No, yer honah.”
Judge Durfey—‘Why not ?”’ : re
Mose Snowball—“Tf it please de co’t, T’d like ter
keep dem chickens myself, atter habbin’ ali de
trubble er gitvin’ 'om.”—Truth. ;

WE LIVE ON It.—Johnnie—“Do you think if true,

his life-time ?”
Uncle George—“A peck? Why, that doesn’t be
to estimate it. We really live on earth, don’t we?” ©
Yonkers Gazelie,
og +
KNEW THEIR SUBJECT.—‘I saw two deaf mutes ©
arguing politics to-day.” ~ poor SAE
oot their signs, then?”
*Yes.” :

“Did they ‘seem to understand what they were ~

‘atUnderstand? Why:they had th thing at
“Understand? Why,they had the whole thing at

their fingers’ ends.”—N. Y. Press. 2 mM

WELL UP IN His PArT.—“I wonder what your
father will say when Task him for your hand se
“Don't worry about that, dear. He rehearsed it
with me this morning, and he does it beautifully.”
Chicago News Record. —
Judge—‘What do you mean, you brute, by ki
your wife?” Tough Jimmy—‘‘A-h-h-h, wot y’
me?” Judge—‘Six months.’—Philadelphia

Smythe—“I dropped a penny in front of ab
begear to see if he’d pick it up.” Tompkins—“W
did he?” Smythe—“No; he said, ‘M it a dime,
mister, and I'll forget myself.’ ”—Tid-Bits, = =

“There's one thing I don’t understand,” said Ii
Harry; ‘that’s why good-tasting things like —
make me sick, while bad tasting things like me
cine make me well, It ought to be the other wa
Harper's Young |

“It. was awfully mean to deprive us of our votes -
that way,” said the feminine patticine tan 3
they accomplish it?” “They got alot of mice and.
turned them loose around the polls.” Career.

F Washington Star,

Children could be brought up with much greater

>

ey

sr
Pi.

care if it were the duty of every mother to punish —
Gazette, Sa was

her neighbor's children.— Elmira e
Orator—“‘And now, my friends, one word more.”
Reporter, to boy--“Bring me a lot more paper,
quick!"’— Boston Commercial Bulletin. cures,

The stage villain is always at a disadvantage, as
he is invariably caught in the act.. — eee ae 2 1

4 , , Arkansas Traveler,

_ Aman is called a confirmed liar when nothing that :

ranseript. RO

es EARS

—> oe

Items of Interest.

oe >)

Two millions of postal’eards are daily used in the _
United States, Saati icy a = FyaTE LR
Church property in the United States is estimated
at $1,300,000,000. 9 an ra POU ell
China has vast. undeveloped coal mines—twenty
times more than all of Europe. | : ;
Cripples are rarely seen in Ciina.
deformed is at once put to death, :
A castle iu Simonetta, Italy, has an angle which re-
echoes a pistoel-shot sixty-one times. ; j ;
The oldest church in America is that of San Miguel, —
in Santa Fe..N.M. It was built in 1545. «
The women of te-day average two inches more in
height than they did twenty-five years ago, . i
A Chinese beggar is never seen inthis country, but
there are eighty thousand of them in Pekin. © ss
Every available foot of the field of Waterloo is —
now under cultivation, mostly devoted to wheat, oats, .
and rye. Mc Pee AAR ON :
Twenty-two cats, of different varieties, are kept by _
Dr. Susan Janeway Coltman, of Germantown, Pa. Slie—
values them at $5,000. : wee
The search-light on Mount Washington is so bril-—
liant that people at the Fabyan House, seven away,
can read big print. by its rays. eR Te
During the

Any child born

prevalence a; aiglers in Vienna, years
ago, no shoemaker was attacked. They prey :
burning scraps of leather in their housde. ees 1eaPR

flows through Vienna, is not at allror.antic looking.
American traveler states that its hue is rather yelvec

.

 

 

Works Both Ways.
First Poor Man (born poor)—‘‘It takes money to
make money.” :
Second Poor Man (born rich)—“Yes, and it takes

money to lose money.”

Why He Gazed. ;

Mrs. Binks—“Of all things! That gentleman looked
at your hat as we passed, just as a woman looks at
another woman’s bonnet.”

“Mr. Binks—‘'Yes, he’s the man I bought it of, and
T haven’t paid him.” :

The Only Essential.

George—‘“‘I can’t go with you to-morrow. My room
has been entered, and I have nothing left but the
clothes I have on. Look at these trousers—dirty,
ragged, and a terrible misfit besides.” ‘

Cholly—‘That doesn’t mattah, my deah boy. Go
to bed, and I'll have my man crease them foh you.”

Pardonable. ;
Gentleman—‘See here! I’m not going to pay an

The lower grade of molasses sells for such a poor
price (two cents a gallon), that some of the Louisiana
sugar-houses use it for fuel. Several of the Cuban sugar-
houses thus use it.

There are few actors so thrifty as Monsieur Got,
= tn a iE De ti pe the Theater Francais, Paris.
8 then have been y years an emplo
theater. He has saved $1,000,000. f ae ects te

Betting and gambling, says Sir Edmund Du Cane,
cause as much crime as intemperance. They lute the —
thoughtless, because it is thought they afford opportu-

nities for getting rich without work.

White horses are not to be employed in the nan
Army hereafter. As smokeless So yder is lik eran :
used in warfare, the white horses could be seen ats great
distance, and mace the targets of the enemy. - ‘

An artificial worm, made of India-rubber :
latest device to aid fishermen in hooking the gear et :
the deep. It is very durable, can used for many
months, and the fish are readily deceived by it,

The Salvation Army girls in England hay
carded the poke-bonnet, and adopted e prea areieek
straw hat. trimmed with corn-stalks. Street urchins
shout after them, ‘““‘Where did you get that hat?’ ;

 

such rates as you charge. Do you think I’m a fool?”

Cabman (apoiogetically)—‘What else could I think,

sir, when you took a cab instead of a street-car ”
Up to the Times.

Mrs. Isaacs—‘Rebecea, shut dot door. De schmell
off de boiled cabbage and onions and fish goes all
over mit de shtore. : (

Mr. Isaacs—“‘Leave dot door open. Ven gustomers
schnell dosé clothes dey dink dey is genuine im-
ported, fumigated goots.”

Happy Land of Freedom.
Foreign Serf—‘‘Your ceety ees nod clean.”
American Freeman—‘‘N-o; it hasn’t rained for
some time.”

Regard Fer Health.
- Mistress—“This water has a queer taste.” :
Carefml Servant (who has heard much. seientific
conversation)—‘“It’s all right, mum. There ain’ta
live germ init, mum. Irunit through the sausage-
cutter.”

A Pleasant Fancy. ;
First Good Fellow—“I shay, ole fel, I shee two

moons.” ;
Second Good Fellow—“Sho do (hic) I. Lesh go
home.”
First Good Fellow—“No, lesh p'tend we're in (hic)
Mars, and go on till we shee four.”

Forgot Himself.
Wife—“My dear, you haven’t a cold, have you?”
Husband—“No.”
“Any headache ?”
“None at all.”

 

 

bell sleeves gathered at the wrist. The skirts are worn

Elise hesitated—her lesson had not embraced

 

“Rheumatism ?”

A phonographic alarm-clock, that can be mad
recite a favorite speech or poem, sing a rousing son : a
exclaim, ‘Breakfast waiting! Muffins and coffee yr?
is said to have just been invented by a Swiss genius.

For three months Louie Benson, six, of 324
East 31st street, this city, complained of a severe pa:
a. the ger.) Ake case Be ead ee ene At ls

hey ¢ n ne ear, and found in the I
imbedded in foreign matter. ee re

‘There was an astonished man in Abil Kansas, ;
the other day. He advertised for a socnied beta whe
mower, and requested answers to be sent to X. L., # the

fice. From the replies he selected one thatseemed
tg, raise pees eaas he Fanta, After SoreeRoneing
with the party, he discovered that i C
wished to sell their old lave shdane: | a een it

The engraving entitled “Can’t You Talk?’ which.
represents a child sitting beside a dog and asking the
animal this question, had such a large sale that it netted
a profit of $120,000. Its owner, John Graves, a London
print dealer, recently deceased, conceived the idea, and
got an artist to paint the picture for $1,000. Pr
of Wales bought the original for $5,000. ee

Three little Pittsburgh boys picked up a medicine
chest which had dropped pane Dhyekuaeie Soe
They stole away to a secluded place, inspected the con-
tents, tasted vie sugary pellets, and ate lots of them, |
thinking them a sort of new-fangled confectionery. Soon’
ncinpas In Feil Vseela each at there ikea eee
a circus in fu ast in each of their lit 3. A
stomach pump gave them relief. on :

the residence of the late Governor Gilmer. ;

this bowlder is another weighing. at least acne} coe

The upper bowlder is sustained by a stone pinnacle about —

two feet square, and so evenly balanced at, although»
to and fro, a

 

the slightest touch will cause it to rock
hundred horses could not pull it from its socket. _

 

 

 

 

Lady—“I want a dog that will look terribly fierce |

new: —

Pastor’s Wife—“‘Has any one offered to re-plaster 4

New Boarder—“I see they have no bill-of-fare

Unele George, that every one eats a peck of dirt in —

The “Beautiful Blue Danube,” especially where it a

A “moving stone” in Lexington, Ky., is 0 so ee
wonders of the State. A huge bowlder sant eee ua: hE

 

‘

 

ci

8 9A a NR ley

 

“*

.

~
2a s