Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1899, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

getter oeee eects

ol, 54,

 

 

Entered at the Post Ojfice, New York, as Second Class Matter.
No. 50.

eyes, and they

 

 

New York, September 30

Three Dollars Per Year.
Two Copies Five Dollars.

1899.

238 William St.. New York

 

1 WILL NOT GIVE AWAY MY HEART.

of crow’s feet round
very dark, almost black. They puzzled
their shape—I seemed to know that. But
way they looked at me was not like any
I know or ever have known. He wore beauti
clothes and had a London man’s manner
mean those men you meet in the sea
are civil and so quiet, as if no
world was their superior and there
occasion to assert themselves. |]
know that manner by this time

“This man seemed to take me
looking at me. I remembered [I
gloves.

** "This y, I think,’ he said to the registry
woman, ‘wishes to be a governess?’

‘‘*Miss Holbeach? Yes, sir.’ She frowned at
me to stand up, but I couldn’t. The man sat
down by me, and it was then I saw how lined
his face was. He looked fifty when you were
close to him.

‘* ‘Miss Holbeach; thank
glanced at her, but she went away as if he
had pushed her. Then he spoke to me. He
wanted a governess, or rather a companion,
for his ward, a girl of sixteen. Lessons were
not so much an object as being willing to go
abroad. His ward was obliged to winter in the
south. She was not strong. I could only stare
at him; the thought of getting a-situation and
getting out of England at the same time
nearly made me cry’ with joy—till I remem-
bered a man like this would never take me for
his ward’s governess.

*<*F won't do,’ I said. ‘You will
me. I have not any—any references!’
voice sounded so odd to me, if I
heard it before.

***Oh,’ he said slowly, ‘you
ences,’ and I saw something

the were

I will not give my heart away?
I am too proud, | don’t deny it;

son
And so, whatever you may say, so

one 1n

“) : 5 was
I will not give it—you must buy it!
It is not gold—it is not land—

Nor name, nor fame, nor high degree;

ought

in without
had on old
But if, indeed, you wish my hand, lady,
Vil tell you what the price shall be!

a

 

And first, the House—I’d have it good;
And furnished nobly, of the best !—
Its inward worth well understood,
Its soundness equal to the test!
’'d have it warm in every part;
In every trial firm as well;
If that House is to be your Heart,
And in that Heart I am to dwell!

&

) y g
Wy

WW \\Z
Me

Se

you!’ He just

ANA NSS Ries AE
YAr LAY | x < = 4 not want
; \ \ aS SN Z i} My own
| an i\ = | if a C had never
Oh, some with counterfeits will try, ee YT MN S i
Before with Love’s true gold they'll WAYAMH iedy ! a) Ne 4; Re

ft ‘\\ as
\

refer-
in his

have no
queer

SO

 

 

 

part;
They think, but once deceive the eye,
*Tis easy to deceive the heart!
But with no counterfeits, though new,
And bravely gilt, will I be caught;
Though glittering brighter than the true,
With no such coin will Ibe bought.

ee

Give me the heart that’s rich in worth,
Although in worldly riches poor;
The want of fortune upon the earth
Is not the worst want we endure!
The want of feeling—temper—trust,
The want of truth,
sought,

when hearts are

Gold, linked to these, is worse than dust;
With no such gold will I be bought,
ad

No; ’tisnot gold—it is not land—
Nor name, nor fame, nor high degree;

 

But if, indeed you wish my hand,

a=
Pi

neue \
ct as :

3 re

= q Ki 5

 

 

I’ve told you what the price shall be.

Andria took the note the steward handed her, while ‘‘Mr. Egerton” grinned over his novel.

HER EVIL GENIUS.

By ADELAIDE STIRLING,

Author of '* Lover or Husband ?”’ ** The Wolf’s Mouth,” ‘‘ Nerine’s Second
Chotce,’’ ‘‘ The Purple Mask,’’ ‘‘ Saved From Herself,’ Ete.

(“HER Evit GENIvs’’ was commenced in No. 48.

Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER VII.
FIRST BLOOD TO ERCELDONNE.

Mother Felicitas sat in her white-walled par- |

lor, and her lean face looked gray against the
whitewashed background whence the pictured
saints and martyrs looked down indifferent-
eyed. Opposite her sat her man

matter of fact manner was driving her mad.

‘You traced that misguided child,’’ she said |

smoothly, ‘‘to Blackpool, I think you
She could hardly sit still in her chair.
‘*EKasily. And then to St. Anne’s,
regret to say I was too late. She had
hiding on an old wreck there, starving,

said,”’

for

nearly a fortnight, till a lamplighter found her |
I went there, |

and took _her to the workhouse,
of course, but the matron, a civil-spoken wom-
an, told me the girl had been taken away only
that morning by a Mrs. Fuller, who wished
to adopt her.’’

“Did they hand her over to a strange woman
without any references?’’
lips.

ara

seems so,’’ bluntly.

caretaker told me Mrs. Fuller had that morn-

ing gone to the Continent with a young lady |

till the spring.
erend mother!
good-for-nothing runaway.”’

“Yes,’’ she said, and hid her hands
sleeves that he might not see the
of them.

“But her well-being
charge to me. I feel all this terribly.’’
wondered while she spoke how she
find out what was racking her, indeed.

“Lord Erceldonne is Lord of the manor
St. Anne’s—I suppose—he had not been
terested in the sad case,’’ she observed.

“He was away. I heard by chance.’ The
lawyer had not got speech of Ebenezer Davids,
who was too unimportant. ‘‘He had not been
there for months.”’

Mother Felicitas’
lief.

Then it was, after all, what it looked!
tender-hearted fool had adopted the girl.
was not beaten—yet!

‘‘Yes, yes!’’ she said indifferently. ‘‘But did
the child, by the way, tell her name?

“Certainly,’’ rather surprised; but Mother
Felicitas; of course, had never raised her saint-
ly eyes and did not see.

That was a blow; but still Erceldonne was
away; he would certainly never see the work-
house register. He was in her power still.

“That is all, I think. Thank you,’”’ she said
calmly. ‘““‘We must first wait till this Mrs.
Fuller returns. You have her address? And
then perhaps our stray may be induced to re-
turn to us. You will take some refreshment
before you leave, Mr. Mayhew?”’

\ ~- But when he was gone Mother Felicitas sat

Oh, I fancy it’s all right, rev-
You are too troubled

in
trembling

is naturally a—sacred

in-

heart gave a bound of re-
Some
She

5 of business |
(for even convents have such things) and his |

But I|
been |

moistening her dry |

| you would be sx
“They had the ad-|}
dress in Liverpool, but when I went there the}

about a}

!
her |

She |}
was to}

; cold and speech
| excommunicatec
connection with

“At least, he d

she thought, when thought would come.
till

shall fear me
me this many
has always
order,’’
| known

for she,
the sou

She frowned

| write a letter, dignified and guarded.
reaching the man
for, but it would reach him in the end.
formed the guardians of the workhouse at St. |
Anne’s that the lady who had so kindly adopt- | tated. |

| ‘Gone the way of all flesh, I believe, in hope |
shoul- |

be months in

ed the stray ch
the Convent of
hoped the arrar
| factory.
aS
kindly intereste<
ending,’ the lett
gone

paid,

hear that

Mother Felicitas

less. Perhaps she saw herself
1 if the whole story of her
Beryl Corselas ever came out,
oes not know and never shall,”’
‘‘He
as he has feared
a year. He shall pay, as he
to the enrichment of our
of all the convent, had alone
ree of the roll of notes that

he dies,

came anonymously each year to her.

thoughtfully as she began to

it was meant
It in-

ild had been authorized to

St. Mary; and
igement would be

that it

most

was
satis-

Viscount Erceldonne had
i himself in the case, perhaps
» good as to let him know the
er concluded, and when it was
breathed more easily.

Erceldonne should know that she was in keep-

his secr
hung over his
But, clever as
of Erceldonne’s
warded to him i

ing of

the
left
never
letter
He was very busy,

et still; that

head had not
she was, she
face when the
n London.

sword that
her grasp.
dreamed

but he let his business stand while he chuckied
over that courteous epistle.

nothi
he said
“and +

“There’s
clever,’’
his eyes;

now—truly
nun.”’

He
very
the
one

you

fron
Ww

drew
ones to
night he
was writte

It had never
erend mother t
idea of paying t
vanished girl, «

ish boy who car

even strike her
boy gave warnilr
orbit in Lord I}
used to watchir
this was only
the list.

son had
that would have
lighter. Lord E
that night.

He swept his
as a light knock

 

 

 

had

‘The Gurl is gone

the only male being in her employ.

a

The other letter was the
thought

ng so dangerous
wiping tears of laughter from
his is too good! Mrs,
have friends, for

strange a

1 his two

rhich

pocket
his

papers,
hand had flown on
met the lamplighter. On
in an uneducated scrawl—
Run Away.”’

entered the mind of the
hat Lord Erceldonne had
he hush money for a dead or
yr that he had established a

n

spy in her very house in the shape of the lout-

ried her vegetables to market,
It did not
when, in-a week or so, the
ig and returned to his natural
Oreeldonne’s employ. He was
ng ladies for his master, and
queerer item than usual on

“coincidence’’ his
worth telling him—a letter
been wasted but for the lamp-
reeldonne had reason to laugh

correspondence into a drawer
same on his door.

 

It might |

do |
|so by her only friend, the Mother Superior of | of

was for- |

as being too}
J Fuller— |

|oh! Mother Felicitas! since that’s your name} have wiped off the old score; but the man was
at |

the |

reVv~}
no |

‘Come in!’’ he cried, and rose punctiliously,
yet mockingly, for he knew who his visitor
was.

A little woman, exceedingly pretty, charm-
ingly mannered, and exquisitely dressed, stood
on the threshold.

“May 1?’ her voice was not quite of a piece
with the rest of her. ‘‘Dear Erceldonne! how
warm your room is!’’ seating herself.

“Bad habit!’ he returned vaguely.
pose you’ve come to say you're off?’

She nodded.

*‘Paris!’’ she

“IT sup-

accom-
played
may go

eried gayly. “Having
plished your lordship’ wishes and
nursemaid for a month, I suppose I
and amuse myself again.
as you know,’ flippantly,
nent!’’

Erceldonne laughed.

s
5
ps

‘igs on the Conti-

Truly that Mrs. Fulier

knew nothing of this one, nor of Beryl Corse-
las, either.

“What are
che child?’’
here, surely.
Raimondad!”’

Erceldonne’s middle-aged, handsome face
was utterly blank. He had no idea of telling
| his charming friend anything. She had served
| his purpose, and now the sooner he saw the
last of her pretty person the better.

“St. John’s Wood is still standing,” he re-
marked easily. ‘‘As for Raimond, no one secs
less of him than I,’’ yet she had made him
angry; there was no one weaker than Raimond
about a handsome face, and he had
| struck with this penniless girl already.
“TJ hear the lovely Audria is——’’ she

you going to do with that farou-
she continued. ‘“‘Not bring her
It would not be edifying—for

 

further
ders.

exaltation,’ shrugging his

No one would have believed how hard he had

| worked to obtain just that result as he sat
looking at his visitor with critical admiration.
She really wore wonderfully!

“Well, you’re off! And you may have
diamonds you wanted, to take with you.’ He
had caught her expectant eyes. ‘‘What! Some-
| thing finer?’’
“T_T would rather have that paper of mine.
Please, Erceldonne!”’ she said with an earnest-
ness that sat ill on her.
He rose, flicked her
| laughed.
t--**Not yet,
| There were tears in her hard eyes
a velvet case in her hand, but she dared not
implore him. She knew him. She had got his
“fancy’’ for him; she had hoped that

cheek lightly,

a blackguard.

Only one shot did the ci-devant

| ler’ fire as she said good-bye.

| ‘The girl is a handful, even for you.

{think you can do anything with her.’’
‘Perhaps not.’’ Lord Erceldonne laughed _ in

| that sudden, unpleasant, loud cackle. ‘Oh,

' you have a short memory.’

my dear Emeline!
The poor, painted, little sinner started; for

too careful

“Mrs. Ful-

I don’t

| the blow was cruel. Erceldonne laughed again |

out of the
He knew
touched

room she had entered
all her secrets; and she
the garment’s hem

|as she crept
so jauntily.
had not even
his.
CHAPTER VIII.
A WOMAN’S DIARY.

‘Tuesday, Dec. Tth.

much I read till now,
when I have no books. Time hangs and hangs;
writing this thing helps to pass it, though
there is nothing to put down. I can’t think; I
feel as if all this were a dream. This horrid
room in Chelsea, and all those boxes left ‘to
be called for’ at Paddington station. When

“T never knew how

 

| they come to sell them—for that’s what they

Lao with

My kind godmother, |

whose address in Liverpool he had borrowed |

been |

hesi- |

those |

and |
my dear Emeline; I can’t spare it.”’ |
as he put |}

would |

of |

unclaimed
the owner had
| But perhaps they

things—they
the heart to forget them.
J won't know, each one
those plain dresses cost twenty “pounds.

“I wish I had what they cost; I never
ized what it took to live. I am going
it well enough next week, when I
something to do or starve.

“IT write down all these sordid little
because I daren’t write the only thought that
is in my mind. I would go mad if I let myself
|} remember—and I can’t forget. Better to put
down how I’ve lived for a month on ten
pounds. I, who threw away as much of a
morning to pass the time!

“IT pay,-let me see, fifteen shillings
here, and buy my food besides.
to have taken this room, but it looked dread-
ful enough; how was I to know that I could
have got one for eight in a worse place. I’ve
been here four weeks; that disposes of five

will
| how

of
real-
to realize
must get

sentences

a week
I ought never

| pounds, counting my food, though I know the |

| woman cheats me. My
cost ten shillings from 8S

There are two pounds
|other three have melted. How many fees have
I paid at registry offices? How many women
have looked me up and down when I asked for
a governess’s place, have seen through me with
their disapproving eyes? I don’t know and I
don’t care—but Ill care to-morrow. I’m too
| tired to-night from tramping in search of an
engagement; too cold in this room. And I’m
afraid. Afraid of meeting him in the streets
and having him pass me by. ‘ve no spirit. I
tbelieve I could forgive him, but in an hour I
may be just as sure I never could.

“The loneliness of it all frightens me, too,
This room, where no one ever comes, the
i streets I walk all day in terror of meeting some
man who knows. To-morrow I must get work.
I’m losing all my courage. I’d give half my life
to-night just to—’’

The writing broke off, the page smeared
where a quick hand had closed the book while
the ink was wet. But on the other side it be-
gan again.

“Thursday.

“What have I done? And why does such a
simple piece of business make me feel creepy,
as if I had entered into a bargain with the
|} devil? I’m saved! I’ve found a situation! But
I feel something saying to me that I would
have done better to starve in the streets.

“Tt was yesterday, two days after I
| wrote in this diary. I was standing in
| register’s office and two women who had want-
ed governesses had told me I would not do. I
felt dizzy, for I had been walking too far. I
leaned against the wall, too tired to go home.
The registry office was warm, and my coals
| were done.

bread and tea never
aturday to Saturday.
in my purse, and the

last

| swam.
the world had only
before I walked on
fighting off the horror
touched me on the arm.

“Tt was the registry woman. She had left
her desk and there was no one in the room but
her and me, and a middle-aged man.

‘““ ‘Miss Holbeach,’ she was saying (I
not go back to Heathcote when I found
ino right to Erle. Every one knew Audria
Heathcote’s story, and Holbeach was not no-
ticeable), ‘Miss Holbeach, don’t you hear Mr.
Egerton speaking to you?’

‘J beg your pardon,’ I said, for I was stu-
pid.

“The man handed me a chair as if I were a
lady and not a would-be governess. I sat down
and then I looked at him. I don’t know now
what there was in his face that seemed famil-
iar, I only saw it in that first glance; after-
ward I knew perfectly well that he was an ut-
ter stranger.

“He was rather tall, rather dark and thin. I
think now that if he had let it his hair would
have been gray, but then I just saw it was
| black. He had a pale face, wrinkled and full

one path, and I
vi—any further. I
of it when some

was
one

I had

 

wonder }

the |
| suc
| FOR
“T was not noticing anything because my head |

I was thinking that for women like me |
would die |

dared |

| easily

 

look that I could not
ment.
“A woman like

answer from astonish-

me, who watches man’s
face for sunshine or bad weather, learns lit-
tle things. This man’s forehead, instead of
contracting between the eyebrows with annoy-
ance, had grown smooth with relief. I couldn't
understand it then, and I can’t now; but I
know he was relieved that I had no references,

‘‘ ‘This woman knows you?’ he said.

** ‘Only because I came here for work,’ it was
no use pretending things,*and I didn’t try.

‘“**You have not always been a governess, is
that it?”’ He spoke so quietly that I knew the
woman at the desk could not hear him, but I
answered out loud.

‘* ‘T was educated for a governess, but I have
had no need to earn money for some years.
Now I must—do something,’ and I couldn’t
keep my lip steady.

“Ah?! he said.

a

‘And “without a character
you have been unsuccessful!’ But I saw he
was not sorry for me, only thinking what to
do or how to do it. For I knew, as i know that
I sit here in this room with its fire and the
rain on the window, that he was going to en-
gage me.

“And he
with only a few questions—and
come to think of it he never
I was educated. I couldn’t
suppose Mother Benedicta
away from Lady Parr’s
write that name.

“But it has all come to this: I, who had no
hope of ever getting an engagement, am to be
companion to a girl at a salary of a hundred
pounds a year. And I know that I’m not fit
to be with any girl; the five pounds that
gave me for expenses looks like a fee from the
devil it shines on the table. For the more
I think of it, the more sure I am that he was
certain I was a woman with a past and not
anything else in the world

“But past or no past, I will
here in this book, and sign
that no girl shall ever learn
or anything but hatred for evil.
has been hardly paid for; it can at least be
useful in helping some poor girl to keep out
of the agony I have known. There is no peace
or joy for women like me, and I would never
any girl stray on the bitter road that I
trod. If Mr. Egerton, for reasons of his own,
has engaged me because I am what I am, he
has burned his own boats. If the girl is
sly and sullen as he hints, I will a better
guardian for her than a saint Mother
Benedicta was for me.

“T have read this over, and it seems
fetched and ungrateful. The man is kind and
he is giving me a chance to live honestly; but
yet I cannot feel that in my heart. There is
something behind his kindness.

‘“‘Whether there is or not, I can’t
my bargain now. I am to to Southampton
to-morrow, to join Mr, Egerton and his ward
on his yacht; a steam yacht, thank goodness!
for I hate the sea. We are to go to Bermuda
of all places in the world! Not that I know
any one there, but it seems the very end of the
world. ,

“Mr. Egerton has a house there, and if his
ward likes it, we may stay till spring. It is
all one to me, since I shall be out of England
To-morrow I must get those boxes at Pada-
dington that I neyer meant to call for. I would
be glad never to wear any of those clothes
again. but I have no choice. The five pounds
he gave me would not buy my ticket to South-
ampton and get me a governess’ outfit ‘war-
ranted to wear’ into the bargain.

“Tt write very prettily. As I look at
close pages o: this book, I wonder
could have been written with
heart. The Past sickens me and
frightens me, though it may be with a sense-
less terror that I shall laugh at by and bye.

“The Future! I laugh now when I see I have
written that word. There is no Future, Andria
Heathcote, alias Holbeach, for such women
as you; if you dare but touch the smallest
joy that may be offered you a hand will come
from the Past when you least expect it and
snatch the new wine from your lips.

‘“ ‘This is your solace and your reward,
That have drained life’s dregs from a broken
shard.’

“Good-night, Andria, and no dreams to you!
May you do your work and live decently, till
+h time as your story comes out!”’

did. Without of reference,
now that I
asked me where
have told him I
knows how I ran
with—but I won't

a rag

he

as

own
> 25;
from me,
schooling

write it d
my name t
harm
My

see

as
be

like

far-

get out of

3
sO

the neat,
how they
heavy a
the Future

so

CHAPTER IX.
RAVEN HAIR AND EYDS LIKE THE SUN
ARE MERRY, BUT DOUR TO LOOK UPON.
Mr. Egerton sat in the smoking room of the
steam yacht Flora and reflected—it was tae
first day the sea had favored reflection—on
his plans. :
They had given him more than

trouble any-

|thing for sixteen years, but this very elabora-

very

tion of detail pleased the man. He was a
or he

cruel person, and a very cautious one,
might have solved all his difficulties more
and inexpensively. But wonderful as
his luck had been lately, he was not out of the
wood yet. He took up a tumbler of whisky
and soda, and watched the maunting bubbles
as if he were watching the workings of his
own mind.
‘Hirst,’ he
of the power
She can never

mused, “there was getting out
of that woman in the convent.
threaten me now, to any éf-
fect: or turn on me. I know nothing of any
girl. She cannot say there ever was one.
She never could have, really. But with women
vou can’t trust, self-interest she might have.
Second, there were those _ letters. Raimond
is an ass, but if it hadn’t been for him I
never should have stayed at Erceldonne, or
come across that girl with the lamplighter.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

That saved me from having to scorn all Eng-
land and from having to trust detectives—who
retire and write books, And the ‘Mrs. Fuller’
comedy was lucky; it prevented my appearing
in any way. And ‘Mrs. Fuller’ having played
her part, will never bother her head about
what happéned to her charge. If she did,,she
would never connect ‘Mr. Egerton,’ her gov-
erness, and his ward, with Lord Erceldonne’s
queer ‘fancy.’ He laughed aloud. And then
he thought of that diplomatic epistle of Mother
Felicitas’, that had been so futile a lie.

“She could dictate to me while she had the
girl, but not when there is no girl for her to
produce. Third,’’ he resumed his counting,
“there was my coming on that woman in the
registry office. The minute I saw her I knew
she had a history, was at the end of her
tether, and in despair. No troublesome ques-
tions from a woman like that! She swallowed
everything I told her because, forsooth, I had
taken her without references. A woman who
had no references and was dressed like a
duchess was a fitter woman for my purpose
than all the Mrs. Grundys in England. She
stood being hustled on board and hurried off
without a sight of her charge like a lamb,
just because she didn’t care a straw what hap-
pened to her. I could see it in her face. And
it’s just as well she doesn’t!’ His own face
contracted a little as at something slightly,
yet unavoidably unpleasant. “Well, no one
will inquire about either of the ladies if their
absence is prolonged!

“I didn’t tell her that obstinate little devil
downstairs wouldn’t see her, wouldn’t hear
of her. She’ll find out soon enough what a
handful she has before her, while it lasts. But
whatever happens, no one will be able to root
out dangerous tales of me and my tawny-eyed
young friend. Mr. Egerton and his ward and
governess having disappeared into space will
not trouble Erceldonne.

“It was lucky Raimond was out of the way;
it would have suited him to rout out things he
would be a fool to know. He might even have
fancied the girl. I wonder what set his mind
on an old story!. But it doesn’t matter. The
affair will be nothing but a lying rumor soon;
an absolutely absurd canard.’’

He drank down the whisky and soda, with
small enjoyment, for it was flat, and the only
troublesome reflection of the afternoon came
to him.

“Damn that fool who put Beryl Corselas anu
her adventures in the papers,’”’ he thought, an-
grily. ‘‘The name might have set people think-
ing. But I- don’t think so. I stayed long
enough in London to be sure there was no re-
vival of stale talk. Anyhow, if there were, it
doesn’t matter, She’s disappeared, and by—
this time she’ll stay disappeared!’’

He rose and looked out of the window.

It was a deck cabin, and almost within reach
of his arm sat the governess looking vaguely
out over a sea that was blue for the first time
in the six days since they had left England.

It was rough still, but the rollers had pur-
ple hollows instead of gray ones, and curled
over blue and clear. But the governess was
not thinking of them, and her employer knew
it. He rang the bell.

“Take this to Miss Holbeach,”’ he ordered,
penciling a note, and then buried himself in
a French novel as one who is luckily far away
from an unpleasant business. That little tiger
cat had fought hard. First, against the de-
parture of ‘‘Mrs. Fuller,’’ to whom she had
taken a fancy; and then against the installa-
tion of a governess. To ‘‘Mr. Egerton’’ himself
she maintained a stony sulkiness; she did not
like him, and took no pains to hide it. She had
openly accused him of tricking her about Mrs.
Fuller, and would not listen to his plausible
tale of explanation.

“T don’t know why you bother about me!’’
she had said, staring at him. ‘‘But I don’t
seem able to get away from you. I don’t sup-
pose you and the governess can be any worse
than Mother Felicitas! Yes, I know you’ve
been good to me, but——’’ She had stopped,
afraid to go on. Only anger with this strange
man who had carried her off from Mrs. Ful-
ler had made her so outspoken, and as he
looked at her, she dared not go on. She had
turned and fairly run to her cabin, where she
had stayed ever since, too seasick even to
wonder at the strange turn her life had taken.

Andria took the “little note the steward.
handed her. He was an Italian, as were all
the ship’s company, even to the stewardess.
None of them could speak a word of English,
and she knew no Italian. It had come to her
oddly that one of the few questions Mr. Eger-
ton had asked her was whether she knew
Italian. But she resolutely assured herself that
the two things had no connection. The note
was just a line. “ : ;
“Would Miss Holbeach kindiy go and see Mr.
Egerton’s ward in her cabin.”’

The writer, to be truthful, had_wanted the
meeting over between the two. The die was
cast now; neither could get away from the
other, and if they had sense they would make
friends. They would need to be friendly!
And he grinned over his novel, wondering if
the headstrong child would try to scratch the
governess’ eyes out. If faces meant anything,
this Holbeach woman had managed men in her
day.

Andria was half way down the companion-
way as he thought it; and stood presently at
a closed door. She knocked, and the stew-
ardess came out. :

For a moment the governess was silent.
She did not know the name of her pupil, had
never heard it all this time; she did not know
who to ask for. Then she laughed, for the
Italian woman would not have understood her
in any case. At the sudden lifting of the
lowered blue eyes the maid moved aside. An-
dria, without waiting, went into the cabin.

It was full of fresh air from an open port
hole, but in the berth, heedless of air or sun,
lay a huddled figure with its face to the wall.

Nothing could be seen of the girl but a pale,
averted cheek, and a wild mass of dusky hair,
neither black nor brown. Why did the years
roll back at the sight of that hair, dark and
lustreless, a color without a name? Andria
was weary and unstrung, body and soul; she
started at that uncanny, waveless hair. 3

‘“‘Are you better?’ she said, and her voice
was oddly troubled. “I hope you are.’

“Go away! I don’t want you,” said an an-
gry, stifled voice from the pillows.

At the sound of it Andria honestly gasped.
Was she dreaming that she was back in the
convent again, or—did she know it?

With the quick gentleness that was of con-
vent learning, she shut the door on the wait-
ing stewardess.

“Beryl!” she cried, breath.
‘“‘Beryl, is it you?’’

The figure in the berth started up, sweep-
ing aside its veil of hair with a hand and arm
as thin as a goblin’s. The strangest yellow
eyes in the world stared from a white face
at the intruder.

‘*¥Yes< its “i;7
voice of long ago.
erness*’’

“Don’t you know me?’ Andria was trem-
bling with nameless joy. Could it be true that
her pupil was no stranger, but the child she
had loved long ago?

“No!” said Beryl Corselas, with the old va-
cancy in her face. “Unless > she paused
and looked straight in Andria’s eyes. The next
instant she was out of bed, taller than Andria
in her long white night dress. “‘Andria!”’ she
cried, ‘“‘Andria,’’ and flung her thin _ young
arms around the woman in her black Redfern
gown. ‘How did you come here? Where have
you been all this time? Did he find you for
me?’’ f

“J don’t know,” said Andria, helplessly.
“How are you his ward, and when did you
leave the convent.’’ She held the girl off
and looked at her.
oat was Beryl Corselas, indeed, but the five
years that had passed must have dealt hardly
with her to have made her into a girl like
this. A quick pang shot through Andria at
the sullen hopelessness of those yellow-brown
eyes. ;

‘“*Tell me,”’
get my poe
speak of me’ *

rSMother Benedicta died the week you left,
simply. “Sister Felicitas is reverend mother
now.”’ i

‘But you—how are you here?’ :

The girl told her, leaving out nothing. And
if Andria had been distrustful before, she was

rightened now. 5
: Mr. Egerton, whoever he was, had no right
to Beryl Corselas. There was more in his
adoption.of her than appeared. Andria saw
quite well why he had dispensed with refer-
ences in engaging a governess; he did not
want any one with a good character as a
trustworthy person. -

“Beryl,’’ she said slowly, ‘‘don’t tell him you
know me. Let me tell him myself.’”’

“TI never tell him anything. I don’t like
him,’’ calmly. ‘‘But doesn’t he know? Didn’t
he get you on purpose?”

“No. He never even told me what your
name was. And oh! I-——” she stammered,
“my name’s Holbeach now, don’t forget and
say Heathcote!”’

“Are you married? And——’’ she stopped,
looking at Andria’s black gown awkwardly.

“Don’t!’’ said Andria sharply. ‘‘I’ll tell you
by and bye,’ for some one had knocked at
the door. It was the stewardess, and she

under her

said the indifferent, insolent
“TI suppose you’re his gov-

she saidequickly, “‘did you never
Did Mother Benedicta never

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

‘“‘We shall be there to-morrow. We are ar-
rived,’’ she said. The words Andria did not
understand, but the gesture was plain enough
pie the governess looked out of the open
port. 4

Something like a blue cloud was visible as
the yacht rose and fell; they must be passing
some island. Andria ran on deck. There it
stood on the port bow, a high, blue ‘coast,
mountainous against the sunset. As she stood
leaning over the rail she saw Egerton at her
elbow.

“What is that land?’ she said, quickly. ‘I
did not know we passed any after Madeira!’’

“Neither we do. That is Bermuda,”’ care-
lessly. Not a muscle moved in the govern-
ess’ face. No yacht could go from South-
ampton to Bermuda in six days, even a big
liner could not do it.

“Already?’’ she said slowly.

“The boat is fast,’’ but he turned away
quite satisfied, for there had been no hidden
meaning in her voice.

Andria, left alone, never stirred.

Where this man was taking her and Beryl,
or for what mysterious reason, she did not
know; but that high land that towered against
the sunset was certainly not Bermuda.

The governess’ nerves tightened sharply.

What could this mystery round Beryl Corse-
las be? And of what evil was that lie about
Bermuda the beginning?

(To be continued.)

——_—__ > @ + —_—_

The Broken Trust;

>

A WOMAN’S SILENCE.
By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of ‘‘A Wife’s Peril,” ‘‘Lady Ona’s Sin,” ‘‘A Hand
Without a Wedding Ring,” ‘‘Dora Thorne,” ‘‘How
Wall It End," etc.

(“THE BROKEN TRUST” was commenced in No. 39.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXXIV.
AN ANGEL OF PITY.

“T never could understand women,’’ said Mr.
Grey, as Esther went out of the room, “and
never shall, I suppose. I should have thought
from that girl’s face she was as true as steel.’’

“So she is,’’ said Captain Chandos, ‘only
it is to the wrong man. If Sir Alan has a se-
cret, and it rests with her, it is safe in life and
in death.”’

“It cannot be love, for Sir Alan is very deep-
ly in love with Lady Blanche. If he has de-
ceived this girl, she would have only been too
glad to have retaliated upon him,’’ said Mr.
Grey.

Edith raised her fair face with a smile.
“Coke and Blackstone have taught you noth-
ing about women, if you believe that.”’ :
“Shall you go to Carsdale to-morrow?’ Viv-
ian asked the lawyer.

“T cannot go this week; I have imperative en-
gagements for every day; but I shall not be
able to forget the case for one moment—it shall
have the full benefit of our thoughts and at-
tention, I promise you.”’

Then the two gentlemen took their departure.
Paul Westerne was unable to paint, work or
read; he began to pace wearily up and down
the room.

“Edith,” he cried, ‘I cannot forget that
girl’s face, with its tortured, hunted look. I
begin to repent we have ever interfered in the
business at all.’’

“You are weak of purpose, papa, if the ex-
pression of a woman’s face is to divert you
from justice and duty.’’ :
“It is a hateful duty; my tendencies all lie
toward pity and mercy; justice is pitiless, I
have clasped that man’s hand, the same hand
that has showered benefits on me, and I de-
test the thought of helping to ruin him.’’
“Weak pity,’’ said Edith; ‘‘pity for an un-
worthy object. If you pity the usurper, papa,
what do you feel for Alan Wayne? Living or
dead, what do you feel for him? Or for Cap-
tain Chandos, defrauded of his rights, cheated
and wronged? Let the pity he equally shared.’’
“T kKnow,’’ he replied, ‘‘you are right, and I
am -wrong. I may just as-well tell the truth
while I am about it; but, all the same, I am
sorry for the man, even though he be an im-
postor; it is weak, but I cannot help it.”’

“Tt is weak,’’ she replied, calmly, ‘‘and Cap-
tain Chandos is weak, too, or he would have
forced Miss Bruce to answer his questions.’’

* * eo * * * ES
Esther Bruce left the house like one in a
dream. They had tracked him then, although
his secret had not passed her lips, and should
not, if they killed her for silence. Yet it must
be known. Why should Captain Chandos meet
her there if it were not so?

It must be known, and he, Paul Lynne, must
be in danger of death. What could she do?
How could she warn him?

She clasped her hands in terror; large drops
stood upon her broad, white brow. She forgot
everything in that moment, save that she loved
him, and he was in danger; all his treachery,
his cruelty, his base frauds, his infidelity to
her, faded from her mind. She remembered
only that she loved him, and he was even now,
perhaps, in danger of death. She remembered
nothing, save, that she would give, willingly,
her life a hundred times over to save his.
Fear lent her wings and she fled rapidly on,
walking as fast as she could, through vast
squares, through crowded streets, past quiet
churches, on which her wild eyes lingered,
while the words of a prayer died away on her
lips. Once in her desperate haste she stumbled
over a little child, and she, usually so gentle
and kind, heard its cries and never stopped to
raise it. People shouted after her, but at
one look into that white face they fell back,
and said never a word.

Turning the corner of a street, she stumbled
—hurry and fear had blinded her—and, falling,
she struck against a lady, who at the very
moment was looking at her. She fell like one
dead—white, cold and senseless—but kind hands
ministered to her.

‘“‘My house is here,’ said the lady; ‘‘carry
her in.’’ : :

A stalwart policeman raised her in his arms
and carried her into the’ kindly Samaritan’s
house. .

“Poor thing,’’ said the lady, kneeling down
by her side and drawing back the masses of
fair hair. ‘‘Poor child; what awful fear there
is in her face!”’ 3

The policeman strongly advised sending her
to the hospital. ‘‘She might be stricken with
fever or death,’’ he said, ‘‘and then it would be
unpleasant.” _ ; ;

But the kindly lady, kneeling by her side,
said:

“‘No, she is stricken down by terrible sorrow
and terrible fear; she will need a kind word
when she comes to herself again.”’ ;

Two hours passed away before Esther’s dark
eyes opened, and in them still lay the shadow
of awful fear. It was growing late then; the
lamps of the city were already lighted, and
the gray shades of night covered the earth.

She rose with a terrible cry. Full memory
and consciousness returned to her at once.

“T am not ill,’’. she said; ‘‘surely I am not
ill?’’

“No,’’ said a quiet, kind voice; “‘you fainted
and fell in the street, and I carried you in
here.’’

“How kind of you!’ said Esther, trying to
stand. ‘‘May God reward you. But I must go.
Oh, I am so late! I must go at once!’’

“But you cannot walk,’”’ said Mrs. Mussel-
man. ‘Drink some wine. You seem to be in
great trouble. I was looking at you when you
fell, thinking your face so full of sorrow.’’

“No,” said the girl, ‘‘I shall find strength.
Do not persuade me. I am going to save a
life.’’

The lady started in surprise. :

‘Do not let me delay,’’. pleaded Esther, in
feverish haste; “if wine will make me strong
I pray you give it me to drink. I will come
back and thank you some other day, when this
agony is ended and it is time to rest,”’

Mrs. Musselman asked no more questions.
She saw that a more than ordinary fear and
sorrow was on the girl. She was content to
give her wine, to soothe the tangled masses of
fair hair, to straighten her bonnet and shawl,
to clasp her trembling hands, and bid her take
courage.

Those sweet womanly words, the kind wom-
anly actions, cheered her; but for them Esther
Bruce would never have reached Belgrave
Lodge that night.

When she stood in front of the well-known
door she saw that the house was brilliantly
illuminated, as though some grand entertain-
ment were being held.

The utter mockery of the idea almost over-
powered her. if what he said were true, the
shadow of the scaffold was over him; yet he,
all unconscious of it, was holding high revel.
She rapped not once but many times on the

 

pointed to the open porthole.

door. No one appeared in answer to her sum.

~

mons. She rapped again, using all her strength
a time, and a footman in livery opened the
door.

“Now, young lady,” he said, rudely, ‘‘what
is your hurry?”

“Is Sir Alan Aynsley in?’ she asked. ‘I
want to see him so particularly.”’

“Well,” said the man, with a smile at his
own wit, “‘he is in, but for all you will see of
him he might as well be out. My master
doesn’t see parties who rap the door down at
this hour.’’

His insolence suddenly deserted him when
Esther turned her indignant glance upon him.

“TY must see Sir Alan at once,’’ she said; “‘my
business is urgent.’’

“There is a large party, and they have but
just sat down to dinner; it is more than my
place is worth to disturb Sir Alan now.’’

“Your place will be worth little,’’ she said
with quiet dignity, “if you do not take my mes-
sage,’”’

‘“‘What name?’’ he asked, suddenly relapsing
into his most insolent drawl; for a subdued
giggie told him one of his confreres was listen-
ing and enjoying his discomfiture.

She paused, and her opponent was not slow
to notice it.

“Take this card to him,’’ she replied.

She wrote: “‘Can Sir Alan spare one minute
on most pressing and important business?”

“Take that to your master,’’ she said, with
the air of command so natural to~her. ‘You
need not take my name; he will know my
handwriting.”’

Her proud face flushed crimson at the inso-
lent smile with which he took her card.

She stood by the door while the man went on
the errand. He was absent fully twenty min-
utes, then he returned.

“Just as I told you,’ he said. “Sir Alan
says ‘he is engaged and you must call again.”

“But I must see him; his life may depend
upon it,’ she was about to add, but stopped
suddenly; not to his own servants would she
betray his danger.

“T must see him; he has not recognized the
handwriting or he would see me, I am sure.
Take this to him; do not delay.’’

“There will be a dreadful row if I do. Sir
Alan has not much patience.’’ ,

He took another card, on which was written:

“For the love of heaven, see me, if only for
a minute.’’

The footman returned in a few minutes, and
this time the portly butler accompanied him.

“Sir Alan says he cannot be annoyed in this
way; you must call again.’”’

He stepped back then to make way for the
butler, who said solemnly:

“We cannot have this kind of a game at the
hall door. Young woman, gentlemen are not
to be persecuted; Sir Alan has twice declined
to see you. I make bold to go further and ad-
vise you to take yourself off; there has been
quite fuss enough about nothing.’’

The footman laughed derisively,

“TI told the party it was no use sending,” he
said, and Esther turned silently away.

She had gone to save his life, she believed—
to lay down her own for him, if necessary, and
he had permitted his servants, with insolent
words, to turn her from his door.

CHAPTER XXXV.
A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.

Sir Alan Aynsley was all unconscious of the
dark cloud hovering over him. He felt annoyed
on the evening of his great dinner party that
Esther should trouble him. Judging her by
himself, he had no doubt that she had, in what
he called his own mind, ‘‘come to terms,’’ and
wanted money. It was unlike her, he felt; yet
there was no other business which could be
pressing and important. He had not intended
his servants to be rude to her, but none the
less. had he subjected her to their insolence.

It was a brilliant evening. Sir Alan’s health
was drank, good wishes, praise, homage and
adulation were offered to him. Among his
Suests were some of the leading: men of the
day, men of note and celebrity, men whose
acquaintance was an honor, men upon whom
Sir Alan had looked with wondering awe and
respect, hardly daring to hope the time would
come when he might aspire to knowing them.

One happy incident after another had intro-
duced him into their midst. He played his
best cards before them. He was gay, urbane,
magnificently hospitable, brilliant in repartee
and conversation, and he was considered a
man worth knowing. His thoughts and ideas
had something new-and original about them;
they had not beco hackneyed by constant
mixing with the wAS®d.

To his intense joy, Sir Alan found himself at

the height of his ambition—received and wel-
comed by men ‘‘whose nod was fame.”’
That evening was, perhaps, the most brilliant
of his life. His highest dreams were realized;
fame, fortune, wealth, position, honor and love
were all his.

That night he dreamed of new honors—of the
Peerage, the Garter, of Lady Blanche smiling
his face, and telling him she loved him at
ast.

But toward morning, when the sky was
streaked with crimson, a terrible dream haunt-
ed him; it was that he lay dead in the hut near
Otana, and Alan Wayne stood over him, re-
proaching him for his broken trust.

By this time he had almost forgotten the
wrong he had done, so completely and thor-
oughly had he entered into the spirit of his
past that he forgot the fraud, the betrayed
friend and the full enormity of his sin.

The dream haunted him, and he wondered ag
the full glory of the morning shone in his room
—he wondered why this night, of all nights, he
should see so clearly the face of Alan Wayne!

He rose, resolved now to hurry hig marriage,
and dressed without a shadow of care.

Captain Chandos sat in his room alone; his.
face was haggard with suspense. He had so
much at stake that he could not rest; the blood
ran like molten lava through his veins, then
seemed frozen like ice.

If Sir Alan were an impostor and had taken
his dead kinsman’s name and place; if indeed
he were Sir Vivian Aynsley of Carsdale; if in-
stead of being parted from Lady Blanche, she
might be his own, ah, dear heaven, what
thanks could he offer for such a boon! What
mercy, what kindness would he not show to
others; what gratitude-would he not show to
heaven! His eyes grew moist with tears, his
lips trembled, his hands were clasped as
though he would pray, but the words died upon
his lips.

Suppose it was nothing but the fevered
dream of a romantic girl, a visionary’s delu-
sion—ah, well, even then he was a soldier and
could bear his fate; it could be no worse than
it had been. :

Yet it was hard to bear, to remember how
much was at stake, yet keep cool, calm and un-
concerned.

Mr. Grey had been to Carsdale, and returned
that day to London and- would be here at any
minute. So Vivian waited for him, trying to
bear his suspense as best he could.

It was late when the lawyer arrived, for he
had been detained against his will. Captain
Chandos’ lip quivered with excitement.

“I have been to Carsdale,” said Mr. Grey.
“I told you it has always been the custom of
the Aynsleys to have two keys of the spare
room—one is always in possession of the reign-
ing baronet, the other in charge of the family
solicitors. The Aynsleys have always been
great travelers, and it is necessary that their
lawyers should have access to their papers,
without sending to some foreign country for
the key.

“I must tell you first,’ continued Mr. Grey,
“that I was present when Sir Alan placed all
his papers in the great iron safe; some were
letters, tied together and dated: there were
certificates, too, as I could see. I noticed that
he took a large pocketbook and emptied its
contents without examining them.

“The letters and certificates are all right,
Captain Chandos; you know what they are. I
turned out the contents of the pocketbook, and
see what I found among them.”’

Mr. Grey carefully unfolded a letter that
bore some marks of age, and gave it into the
young soldier’s hands.

“A murderer,’ he said, ‘‘cleverly destroys
the traces of his crime, but invariably leaves
one clue that condemns him. This man has
played his part most skillfully; but the only
written piece of evidence that could convict
him he has forgotten to destroy.”

As Captain Chandos read the paper, great
drops of perspiration gathered upon his brow,
his strong hands clenched the letter tightly; it
was some minutes before he could eontrol him-
self sufficiently to speak, then he cried:

“This is like a voice from the grave. What
blind fools we have all been!’’

“Nay,” said Mr. Grey, ‘‘I cannot allow that;
say, rather, how clever he has been to delude
us. Rely upon it, when he finds that evidence
in our hands we shall have no need to cross
the seas in search of witnesses.’’

“Lord Damar ought to be consulted,’’ said
Captain Chandos, ‘‘before we take any further
steps. He is still at\Cowes; shall we send for
him or go for him?’’

“Better send,’’- replied the lawyer; “it will
be quite impossible for me to leave London
again just at present,”’

“T will write to-night; he will be here on
Thursday morning,’ said Vivian; “and until
then we can do no more. There is one thing

 

I should like to say, Mr. Grey. I have more

at stake in this matter than any one else; but
I cannot bear the thought of stabbing a man—
not even a rogue—in the dark. Let him—by
whatever name he calls himself—be told what
we suspect, what we know, what has been dis-
covered, and what we are going to do; let the
fight be a fair one.”’

Mr. Grey smiled quietly. ‘You speak like a
soldier, Captain Chandos,’’ he said, “and not
like a lawyer. It shall be as you like.’

At Cowes Lord Damar sat at breakfast alone
and not in the best of humor. The funds were
getting low again; he missed Sir Alan’s weli-
filled purse, and could not imagine what non-
sense Chandos had taken into his head about
the marriage.

The bright sunshine and shining sea had no
pleasures to the man who had frittered away
his life with sin and folly. :

He picked up his morning correspondence,
and, with an exclamation of annoyance, he
recognized Vivian’s handwriting.

“‘“More nonsense,”’ he said; ‘that man wants
ee for himself, but he shall not have

er.”’

Excellent. coffee, strongly flavored with
something stronger, and more excellent still,
brought him into a more genial frame of
mind. ;

Quickly his eyes traveled over the letter’s
contents,

‘So Vivian wants me to come up to town im-
mediately and meet him at his chambers. He
has news that will surprise and interest me
as much as it has him,” he muttered, and his
first impulse was to utter a very unorthodox
word. His first thought that some great money
trouble had occurred; some proceedings were
to be taken over one or other of the money
mete that hung like millstones around his
neck.

“Of course I must go,’ he said to him-
self; ‘‘there was no help for it,’’ and he made
a mental resolve to pass his time at Belgrave
Lodge, where, for his daughter’s sake, he
would be a welcome guest.

“Blanche,’”’ he said, as an hour later he
stood ready equipped for his journey, ‘I am
going to town; some one of those hateful bills,
I suppose. I shall see Sir Alan, of course, and,
my dear girl, if it be possible, I shall make
some definite arrangement with him over the
marriage. I cannot stand this kind of thing
much longer. You will be ready at any time, I
suppose ?’’

“Time is all alike to me,’’ replied Lady
Blanche, wearily; and, though Lord Damar de-
tested all sentiment, her face and tone haunted
him until London sights and sounds drove both
away. ‘i : :

CHAPTER XXXVI.
CLOSING IN.

It was with something like surprise that
Lord Damar looked at the little council as-
sembled in the Captain’s room.

“Mr. Grey!’’ he exclaimed. ‘I did not expect
to see you. What has gone wrong?’

Vivian introduced Paul Westerne to him, and
Lord Damar looked at -hhim in unmitigated as-

-tonishment, wondering what on earth an artist

had to do with his affairs.

“This looks a solemn committee meeting,’’ he
said, with his usual half languid sneer.

“It is a solemn meeting. Before it is broken
up you will find there is a great injustice to be
punished—a great wrong to be set right.’

Lord Damar resigned himself wearily. It
was no affair of his; the words ‘‘justice,’’
ee and ‘‘wrong’’ were not attractive to

im,

He felt vexed that he had been summoned
from such comfortable quarters on other peo-
ple’s business; but indifference and weariness
both died away at Vivian’s first question.

“Lord Damar, I must ask you ‘for form’s
sake, have you ever doubted the identity of
Sir Alan Aynsley, or suspected him of being
an impostor?’’

Lord Damar positively sprang from his chair
with the agility of a youth of twenty.

‘‘Never!’’ he cried. ‘‘Why should I? The
lawyers managed the matter, and surely they
would make no mistake.”’

“We fear there has been a grand mistake,”’
said Captain Chandos. ‘“‘You, as father of Lady
Blanche, have as much at stake as I have.’’
Lord Damar’s face grew very pale. A mis-
take over his daughter’s marriage would in-
deed be fatal to him.

“Listen,’’ said Vivian, ‘‘and you shall hear all
that is known. The discovery is due to Mr.
Westerne’s daughter, who from the moment
she saw him felt convinced he was not the
real Alan Wayne.”’ >
‘Sure to be a woman in it,’’ muttered the
Earl, sotto voce, “there could be no mischief
without.”’ :

Clearly, plainly, concisely, Captain Chandos
laid before the Harl all the evidence against
Sir Alan. It was. strong yet not proof con-
clusive.

“Convictions and beliefs and portraits are
very well,” said Lord Damar, ‘‘but not suffi-
cient to oust a man out of his estates. If there
is anything in it you must produce stronger
evidence than that.’’

““We have evidence here no man can refute,”’
said Vivian, holding up a folded paper; “‘it is a
voice from the grave.’’ ;

He gave the paper to Lord Damar, who read
it attentively, and as he did so the expression
of his face changed, ,

“This looks strange,’’ he said; ‘‘where was it
found ?’”’

' They gave him the history of its discovery,
and Lord Damar sat down again, all his con-
fident, half sneering vivacity gone.

““Good heavens!’’ he exclaimed, ‘‘what will
Blanche say?’

“There are two questions,’’ said Captain
Chandos; ‘‘one was where is Alan Wayne?
That is answered; the second, who is this
man? Gentlemen, I remember going to meet
him when he paid his first visit to Lord Da-
mar. I drove him to Woodale, and, during
that drive, he mentioned his friend, Paul
Lynne. I remember his agitation when he did
so. Rely upon it, my idea is correct; this man,
who has-so_successfully deceived us all, is no
other than Paul Lynne, who is supposed to be
dead and buried.”

Despite the solemnity of the words, a long,
low whistle escaped Lord Damar’s lips.

“TI have expressed to Mr. Grey my dislike to
fighting in the dark, I should prefer going to
see Sir Alan at once; of what use is waiting
for a quantity of legal forms and ceremonies?
Let us fight the battle as man to man. If,
despite this that seems so sure, he can prove
his right, I will be the first to beg his pardon;
if he cannot——”’ .

The soldier did not finish his sentence, but in
his eyes flashed a dangerous gleam, and his
strong hands were clenched together.

“Tf he be an impostor, who for all these long
months has kept me from a just inheritance,
let him look to himself,’’ continued Vivian;
and those who watched him were glad to be
ranked among his friends and not among his
foes. ;

“What is to be done?’ asked Lord Damar,
ee inclination to sneer had died a natural
death.

“T propose,’’ said Captain Chandos, ‘‘that we
go all together, and at once to Belgrave Lodge,
and demand an interview with this man. If he
is innocent, we can then make amends. You
will go with us, Lord Damar?’

“‘Certainly,”’ was the prompt reply. “I can-
Bet learn the truth too quick for Blanche’s
sake.”’

“And you, Mr. Westerne?’’
Chandos.

But_the artist shrank back with a pale,
seared face. ~

“He has been kind to me,” he said pitifully;
“‘so kind that I cannot bear to see him struck
down, even in justice.’’

“But it demands it,’’ said Vivian; “‘and jus-
tice is a sacred name. . Pity for the living must
not deprive you of pity for the dead.”’

He consented then to go, but gentle, tender-
hearted Paul Westerne would rather have suf-
fered any torture than have stood by while a
fellow creature went through the ordeal that
awaited the man who had loaded him with
kindness.

Mr. Grey called a cab, and the four gentle-
men entered it; the artist still carrying the
little picture painted so many years since un-
der the blue skies of far-off Wabash.

* * * * * * *

It so happened that Esther Bruce, unable to
rest without warning Sir Alan, had, despite
her rebuff of the previous night, started again
for Belgrave Lodge.

At first she had been so angry and so indig-
nant—her pride was’ so thoroughly aroused—
that she said, he might suffer as he would, she
would not help him again; but Esther was a
true woman, and after a time more generous
thoughts came to her. She remembered what
he had been, and for the sake of that old love
was true to him still.

She walked to Belgrave Lodge, determined
to see _ him, to advise him, to persuade him’ to
fiy, and do justice; but even as she reached the
door, the cab stopped and the four gentlemen
alighted.

In one moment the conviction came to her
that she was too late—he was hunted down.
ahi he had but seen her when she sent for
him! =

They had hunted him down. Why else
should they me together, with grave faces, to

asked Captain

 

his house? e was in danger. She forgot all

VOL. 54—No. 50.

in that thought. When the ponderous hall
door closed behind the gentlemen, and the cab
was driven away Esther went timidly up the
steps. She expected to be dismissed again with
words such as she could ill brook to hear; but
it was_a strange face that appeared at the
door. The hall porter and butier; having been
Up the greater part of the night, were still
asleep.

The man replied civilly enough that his mas-
ter was engaged, but if the lady liked to wait
she could do so.

Esther’s white face and eyes, so full of ter-
rible sorrow, startled the man. He placed a
chair for her and left her. She sat quite still.
Ah, never while life lasts will Esther Bruce
forget_the torture of that hour in which she
knew Paul Lynne’s agony had begun.

The silence was unbroken.

Sir Alan had risen with his mind full of
pleasant thoughts. .

it was laid.

He felt particularly well and happy that
morning, for nothing but honor seemed to
await him. ;

He passed the morning pleasantly, then a
footman came to tell him several gentlemen
were waiting for him in the library.

“Several gentlemen,” said Sir Alan, with a
smile—he was always affable to his inferiors.
“Have they sent neither names nor cards?”

“Neither, sir,’ replied the man. “If I might
take the liberty, sir, I should say it was a
deputation. I lived with Lord Heavystone last
Feats, and he had deputations almost every
a

A deputation, thought Sir Alan, come, doubt-
less, to offer one of those good things that he
felt would fall to his share. A deputation—the
first he had ever received. Sir Alan went
quickly up to his room. A deputation must be
received in a becoming toilet. He went up
Repo 2 smile on his face—the last ever seen

ere!

(To be continued.)

-_— > —______

Lover or Husband?

OR

THE MADNESS OF JACKY HAMILTON.

ee

By ADELAIDE STIRLING,

Author of “Te Wolf's Mouth,” “ Nerine’s Second Choice,’’
“The Purple Mask,” “Saved From Herself,” Etc, :

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

CHAPTER XXVIII.
“BETWEEN THE DEVIL AND THE DEEP SEA.”

Sir Charles Vivian was still at breakfast
when a man’s card was brought in to him.

“Mr. L. V. Lesard,” he read. “‘Now, who the
devil is Mr. L. V. Lesard?”’ for he knew. the
name perfectly. Then he saw the address at
the bottom of the card and remembered.

But what did Lesard, the money lender, the
financier, the man who backed wild ventures,
who was hand and glove with needy royalties
and extorted his interest from princes as no
meaner man could have done; who was said to
have backed revolutions and known to Have in
his hands the honor of many a noble house
whose heir was but a helpless figurehead; who
had risen from being an ordinary adventurer
to what he was, a power who could keep cabi-

this man want here?
‘Show him in!’ Sir Charles said, curtly, after
oe long two minutes of musing. ‘Show: him

He was curious to see the man, though he could
not imagine what had brought him. Men like
Lesard do not go to visit strangers in the wilds
of the country for nothing, and Sir Charles
knew it. He had heard the man was as per-

‘fectly just in all his dealings as he was hard,

and that of all the secrets he held he had
never beirgyed one, even if the price offere
Were millions.

But what on earth had brought him to visit
Charles Vivian, whose estates were unincum-
bered and whose tastes were not speculative?
He expected to see a man rotund, iron-gray,
elderly, and rose in Surprise at seeing one
tanned, lean and sinewy, of barely thirty-five
years. There was a litheness about the figure
of his visitor and a certain nobility in his dark.
face that made Vivian stare. The man was
certainly unlike any of his calling Sir Charles
had ever seen, but it was not that. He was
convinced that he had seen that easy stride.
those hawk eyes, before.

It was even curtly that Louis Lesard apolo-
gized for the hour of his visit, not (Vivian not-
ed) for the visit itself. It was with an effort
that he entered on his business, after refusing
breakfast. Sir Charles had no mind to finish
his own when his strange visitor had sdid his
say. It was simple and to the point.

A warrant was out to arrest Gillian and
Jacqueline Hamilton for the murder of Paul
Marchmont.

“And Jacqueline Hamilton,’ Lesard ended
quietly, “is engaged to be married to me.’

Vivian pushed his chair back from the table.

“Why have you come to me? I don’t know
where they are,’’ he said, bluntly.

“I came because I heard you had done your
best at the inquest to explain their absence.

Jacqueline was the other girl’s sister. In
which case,’’ dryly, ‘it seems to me you might
know more.’’

“I know nothing!’”’ his pleasant face drawn,
as he got up to offer his visitor a cigar. ‘I
Suppose you know I advised them to go,” he
blurted out, ‘‘and I can’t understand why you
ever allowed your fiancee to go as lady’s maid
to that man’s house. Though, of course,’’ has-
tily, ‘‘you couldn’t know any more than I did
that things were queer there! How queer, I
don’t know, but——’’ -

“You think there was something behind that
murder?” the other man had cut him off short-
ly. “‘What could there be but burglary?’ and
it seemed as though his cool eyes stared Vivian
into agreeing with him. j

After all, what could there be? Not a word
had been spoken by any one to Marchmont’s
discredit. But it was not for Marchmont’s
sake that Lesard was keeping up the farce.

**You saw Jacqueline’’—the turning of the
subject seemed perfectly natural; no one would
have imagined the speaker was ‘“‘between the
devil and the deep sea’’ as he continued, “if
the other girl was Jacqueline!’ ~

“There is no doubt,’ abruptly. “Gillian—
Miss Hamilton—told me so. Teld me also that
her sister had dyed her hair and come in dis-
guise because that was the only way she could
get access to her.’’

Lesard sat perfectly quiet.
blow in the face to him that Jacky had trusted
him not at all. Half a dozen words from him
to Marchmont, and Gillian could have walked
out of that ill-omened house in broad daylight,
never to return.

like the one that walked with him now by
night and day.

‘He sat with his brows drawn together and
could think of nothing that could explain
Jacky’s silence; could see nothing in the com-
fortable breakfast room but the print of
Jacky’s bloody hand on a granite stone.

If he could only find her! But he knew it
was not he who would set finger on the girl
he loved, but Death, whose hand was cold.

He rose, his face absent, strangely set.

“T won't Keep you,’’ he said, heavily. “I can
only apologize for troubling you. I thought
you might help me to find those girls before
I am saved the trouble.”’

He stood leaning against the doorpost, his
eyes bent on the other side of the room, his
cigar still unlighted in his fingers.

Vivian started as he saw him.
 “T remember you now!’’ he cried. ‘I saw
you at the Wellford’s—at that cursed ball. You
were dressed as a monk, you remember? How
was it that you did not see Gillian at that ball?
She was there.’’ :

“A monk! I?’ Louis Lesard had caught his
breath like a woman. “At that ball, did you
say ?’’

“Certainly! You are not an ordinary looking
man; I should know your walk anywhere after
having once seen it. You were leaning against

‘in Union is Strength.”

True strength consists in the union, the monious
working together, of every part of the human organism.
This strength can never be obtained if the blood is impure.
Hood’s Sarsaparilla is the standard prescription for purify-
ing the blood. :

Hood’s Sarsaparilla |

Never Disappoints. It is America’s Greatest Medicine.

 

 

 

 

HOOD’S PILLS curesick headache, 2c.

 

 

 

He went down to the breakfast-room, when

net ministers waiting in his offices—what could .

And because you are the only person who knew ~

It was like a

Ten words telegraphed by ©
Jacky and there would have been no horror

 

 

pT OS TORE ET 4s
a ene

 
 

 

 

 

a doorway exactly as you are leaning now, and
Gillian, whom I had to leave (unconscious as
yet that it was Jacky) went over to you. [I
saw her as I left the room.”’

“You're wrong—mistaken!” For a man whv
was telling the truth Lesard was oddly agi-
tated. ‘I never was in the Wellford’s house.
A man like me is not asked to such places,
And Gillian would not have gone to speak to
me, for I never saw the girl nor she me.”

“Then it was some one damned like you.”
said Sir Charles. ‘I beg your pardon if it was
not you!” His handsome face was red, for,
though he believed the man, it was with an
effort. His excuse about never being asked to
great houses was rot, for Vivian knew he
might have been lionized like Cecil Rhodes if
he had liked. : .

+ “It must have been—some one like me,’’ Le-
sard returned quietly; but his face was livid,
his eyes lit with an ugly spark.

Some one like him, who had spoken to Gil-
lian! He saw now for the first time what the
reason might have been that had kept Jacky
silent. And yet there was no relief in his
voice, nothing but black anger.

He had before now cursed the fate that had
saddled him with a brother who was his
double; had been near to cursing the mother
who had loved the father of her two sons so
adoringly that she had named both after him
the elder Louis Victor, the younger Victor
Louis. For many an ugly trick of Victor Louis
had Louis Victor paid. Time and again the
elder brother’s power had been strained to the
utmost to save the younger. But now—he
washed his hands of him! :

For plain as ink on paper he saw that Victor,
for reasons of his own, had been at that ball.
What he had said or done was neither here
nor there, now. Jacky was lost in London,
Victor might be on his way to the Antipodes
for all he knew; and one of them, either sweet-
heart or brother, had killed Paul Marchmont.

' Mrs. Gibbs certainly had not, nor the cowardly
butler. The only ray of comfort was that Vic-
tor must have turned Jacky against him, how
did not matter.

“The other girl—Jacky—wasn’t there?’ he
asked.

‘Maids don’t go to balls,”’ dryly.

Lesard nodded. He had forgotten Jacky’s
disguise.

“What are you going to do?” said Vivian;
he fidgeted with a spoon on the tablecloth.
“Tt’s no business of mine in a way, but—my
God! it makes me sick,’’ he cried, sharply.
“Two girls like that, alone, with all the world
against them, hunted like hares! Id give all I
have to see them cleared. I know they didn’t
do it, handprint or no handprint, and I don’t
care,’ contradicting himself wildly, “if they
did. The man was an out and out beast.
Some one else must have done it—and if I turn
the country inside out, I’m going to find out

who it was!” :

Lesard, leaning against the  doorpost,
straightened his tall, lean figure like a man
who looks death in the face quietly, because
his time has come.

“JT don’t suppose I dare try detectives,’ the
other went on wretchedly.

“Try all the detectives you like,’’ a strange
ring in his voice, a strange purpose in his eyes.
“Since half Scotland Yard is after them now
it can make little difference. You find Jacky,”
softly, self-forgetfully the name crossed his
lips, ‘‘and I will find the man who can clear
her—and Gillian!”

“Then you know?’ sharply.

“I know nothing. But I can promise you
that. I will find the man who can clear them.”’

His lips were not merely pale as he turned to
go, they were utterly bloodless. His fingers
thrust so carelessly in his pocket were touching
a note from the brother-who was his living im-
age; a note which said merely that he was go-
ing abroad till further notice. It was not Vic-
tor Lesard who would save Jacky Hamilton’s
neck. But when there was no longer another
shot in the locker, Louis Lesard would be
“faithful in his fashion.”’

Yet brave as the man was, he had no words
to answer when Sir Charles Vivian asked him
to wait; he was going to London with him.

“By George! I never saw any man so much
in love, not even me!” the latter reflected, as
he drove his silent companion to the station.

And for once his honest brains worked cor-

rectly, “since greater love hath no man than}

this, that he lay down his life for his friend.”’

Yet it seemed as if this man‘s courage failed
him, for at the station he let the train go off
without him.

Sir Charles, leaning out of the carriage win-
dow in amaze, saw the station master had
handed Lesard a telegram; but he was too
far off to hear the quick oath that broke from
the man as he read it.

ij his clean-shaved lip,

THE NEW YORK

 

WrEekK i ¥.

 

CHAPTER XXIX,
: THE FIRST NAIL IN A COFFIN.

For he had for once trusted too much in the
power of his own heavy hand.

The telegram was from the respectable man
in black whom Richardson the detective had
installed in Hamilton Place, ostensibly as a
lawyer’s clerk.

Neither Mrs. Gibbs nor Brookes had known
that Marechmont had been his own man of
business, and Lesard had been quick to prompt
the detective to profit by their ignorance. But
now it seemed as if it had worked to no end.
For the cipher telegram was very simple:

“Gibbs and Brookes gone in the night. Let
you know as requested.”’

Lesard jumped into the station fly and was
driven over the long country roads to Hamilton
Place. Fool that he had been, he had had his
finger on Mary Gresham and had not kept it
there! For all he Knew she might even now
be in security, laughing in her sleeve and
moving heaven and earth against the two girls
she had hated.

The time seemed interminable until he stood
once more in Hamilton Place, which he had
such good reason to hate. He walked up and
_down the gloomy library as if he were too
nervous to sit down, nodding brusquely to the
— who had been left in charge so unavail-
ngly.

‘Well,’ he asked, sharply, “how did they
get away?’

Mr. Atkins, the trusted of Scotland Yard, bit
all his meek smugness
vanished.

“T suppose I muffed it—that’s all I can say.’’
he returned almost as sharply as his inter-
locutor. ‘‘I’m not trying to excuse myself, but
you must see it was a difficult place. There
was absolutely nothing to inculcate those two
in the crime, and all the instructions I had
from my ,chief were to keep them under sur-
veillance and let hime know all their move-
ments. There was no excuse for their arrest,
nothing. All the servants were to have been
paid off to-morrow-and the house taken over
by the proper people—for unless some relation
of Marchmont’s turns up everything will go to
the Crown, as he left no will.’’ a

“For fear our two friends might possibly le-
vant I had a man watching each door of the
house, the result being,’ dryly, ‘‘that I get up
this morning and find them gone in the night—
hide, hoof and horn! Of course we shall find
them again if they’re wanted,” irritably, ‘‘but
it’s the reasons for their going beats me.”

Ii did not beat Lesard, but he cursed his self-
confidence that had made him forget that
Mary Gresham, mad with sorrow and the
thirst for vengeance, was safe only as long as
he stood before her, an embodied threat, Once
she had given him the slip he could not hope
to reckon with her.

“The only thing I can think of is that they
knew far more than they admitted, and were
frightened of what might come out while they
were in this house,” Atkins pursued, heedless
of his auditor’s silence. ‘‘But if they had any-
thing to do with the murder they’ll find
they’ve made a mighty bad move.”’

“T don’t think they did it. They’d nothing to
gain by it,’ Lesard spoke at last, restlessly.
“T suppose you’ve wired to London?’’

“¥irst thing this morning; but I fancy they
got the start cf me and arrived there last
night at one cr so.’”’

Hie got up like a nian who is personally and
not officially annoyed. As far as his chief was
concerned he had kept to the letter of his or-
ders, ana wired the movements of the two
missing servants. But he saw there was trou-
ble on Lesard’s face, and in his mechanical
way Mr. Atkins was sorry. He had owed Le-
sard a debt of gratitude, and had seized at the
chance of repaying it by keeping a tight hold
on the two people whom Mr. Lesard seemed
to suspect—and had failed like any novice!

“How was it none of the men followed them,
& — dsors were watched?’ Lesard said, sud-

enly.

“The men say no one came out of the house
all the evening or night, that’s the odd part
of it. But get out they did, somehow! I’m
extremely sorry, Mr. Lesard. I would have
been only too glad to keep them under super-
vision.”’ ;

‘Lesard stepped in his restless walking to and
fro and began to laugh; the laugh of anger
that serves.instead of an oath. He saw quite
well now how the woman he would have ter-
rorized had slipped out of his grasp.

“Why, it’s simple as water, man!” he cried.
“T beg your pardon, but I should have thought
the way they got out of the house would have

 

mer plain to a country policeman. Come with
me!”’ i

 

 

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Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
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Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
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47.—The Colonel by Brevet..Author of Dr. Jack
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Lucy Randall Comfort
$7.--BhenandoOan 0.7; .sa0sesemes J. Perkins Tracy
88.—Virgie’s Inheritance..Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
89.—A Gentleman from Gascony......

: Bicknell Dudley

90.—For Fair < Virwinias..sikscss Russ Whytal
91.—Sweet Violet....Mrs. Alex.“MtVeigh Miller
92 ELGINGDICG 015 oi ae sane Bos Sutton Vane
93.—A Queen of Treachery.....T. W. Hanshew
94.—Darkest Russia........ H. Grattan Donnelly
95.—’Twixt Love and Hate...... Bertha M. Clay
96.—The Little Minister..........0... J. M. Barrie
97.—The War Reporter........ Warren Edwards
De LPB sn cs Sar ck dds kede theese ere Charles Garvice
99.—Audrey’s Recompense,

Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
100.—Alice Bighe v.56 ks aesinces Francis S. Smith
101.—A Goddess of Africa,

By the author of.Dr; Jack
02.—_ Fair But Faithless.......... Bertha M. Clay
103.—The Span of Life...............: Sutton Vane
104.—A Proud Dishonor......... Genie Holzmeyer
105.—When London Sleeps. From the cele-
TG PIS cock csc rs xphaee Chas. Darrell
106.—Lillian, My Lillian,
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
107.—Carla; or, Married .at Sight......
Effie Adelaide Rowlands
108.—A. Son of Mars..By the Author of Dr. Jack
109.—A Heart’s Bitterness....... Bertha M. Clay
110.—Whose Wife Is She?............. Annie Lisle
111.—Faithful Shirley...... Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Beer aie CO LCS EST is 6 ssa to bie soe A. D. Hall
113.—A Crushed Lily.Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller
114.—Half.a ‘Truth......... By a Popular Author
115.—A Fair Revolutionist,
By the Author of Dr. Jack
116.—The Daughter of the Regiment, ;
4 Mary A. Denison
117.—She Loved Him............. Charles Garvice
118.—Saved from the Sea’........ Richard Duffy
119.—An Ideal Love............... Bertha M. Clay
120.—The White Squadron..... T. C. Harbaugh
121.—Cecile’s Marriage..Lucy Randall Comfort
122.—Grazia’s Mistake....Mrs. George Sheldon

 

499. Northern TABRtB. dake iii eie oe A Hall

All the books in the Eagle Library are copyright novels, regular 12mo size with elegant covers
of the most artistic design, good paper, elear type, and comprise the best work of favorite writers

_ whose reputation is world-wide.
_ dealer, or by mail, postpaid, from the publishers,

Each book costs you but TEN CENTS, either

from your news

~,

STREET & SMITH. 238 William Street New York.

 

He picked up a small oil lamp, ‘a priceless
toy of wrought silver its late owner had had
fitted with a glaringly inartistic modern burn-
er, ruthlessly appropriated the candles and
matches from the writing table. He would
have all the light he could get where he was
going. But to the astonishment of Mr. At-
Kins he led the way out of the house.

“IT never thought of this,’’ the latter con-
fessed, as they stood by the dark pool at the
entrance to the secret passage. ‘‘I knew, of
course, that it must lead into the house some-
where, but my orders were that neither my
men nor any one else should go exploring it
until Richardson came down. You see it’s
bricked up and sealed. Richardson had it
done before the funeral.”’

Lesard looked up coolly he
knelt among the parted ivy.

“T see ite has been bricked up—also sealed!”’
he retorted. ‘“‘But it’s neither, now.’’

Mr. Atkins gave way to deplorable language
when he saw that strong hands and a crowbar
had successfully deposited the slight brick-
work barrier in-the dark waters of the pool.
The passage was open.

“But this was done from inside! How did
they get into the cave? We haven’t been able
to get a trace of a passage in the house.’’

‘We will now,’’ incisively. ‘‘Take this can-
dle and come after me, carefully. It’s no
catch, inside!”’

And in five minutes Mr. Atkins, shaking at
his perilous passage over the dark stream,
agreed with him. Not all Klondike, nor the
applause of his whole profession, would have
made him. face this place alone.

The clammy vault he saw in the light of Le-
sard’s lamp, dripping with slime and moisture;
the deadly chill of the close air; more than all,
the rush of the black, swirling stream, appalled
him. Brookes and Mrs. Gibbs must have had
good reason to get out of his ken to have
dared a place like this.

He stood motionless with cowardice and
looked down at the hard stone under his feet
to get his dizzy eyes away from the black
water that drew them till-his head swam. But
something on the rock at his very feet made
him cry out. Though he had known it was
there it was a very different thing to see it.
Mr. Atkins did clerical work at Scotland Yard;
he was not used to sights like this.

His candle dropped grease liberally as he
pointed dumbly to that bloody print of a small,
fine hand, fresh and red in the damp and air-
less cave as if it had been done yesterday.

Lesard only nodded. The mad thought ran
through him that if he had come here first—
alone—that damning piece of evidence would
have been there no longer. But it was too late
now. Atkins said something, and Lesard very
nearly turned on him furiously. It was as
though some evil spirit dwelt in the place and
drove men beyond themselves, he thought, as
with all his might he crowded his passion
down. For Atkins had spoken out what Le-
sard thought, night and day.

“She’ll swing for that—the girl!’”’ he had said,
feeling sick and cold as he spoke. And he
never knew how near he had come to lying
colder still in that black water that ran off
underground and told no tales.

But Lesard’s anger was shortlived. He
turned with shame at his own madness from
the man who had only said what all the world
Was saying.

“It's a bad job, however you take it!’’ he
commented for the mere sake of hearing his
own voice calm and even in this evil place.
He stared about him as he had not had the
heart to do on the only other time he had
entered it, and with a heavy soul turned away
to the opening of that curved passage which
must lead somewhere. There was nothing in
the dark and dripping place to teach him more
than he already knew; yet suddenly he pulled
up, standing. ‘

“Atkins, look here!’ he ‘““‘What’s
that?’’

patch of darker stone, do you mean?
Just damp.’ Mr. Atkins had but one idea,
and that was to get out. :

But Lesard was down on his knees, lamp in
hand. Damp would have stained the stone
floor blackish-green, as it had stained the
walls, and this irregular patch was brown,
ugly, telH-tale. E

“Took again,’’ he said, slowly. “That is
blood, cleansed up in a hurry with water or
something. I’ve seen blood-stained rock be-
fore.”’

“It’s easily seen.’’ Mr. Atkins forgot his
awe of the place in the sudden vision of the
credit that would be his if he solved the mys-
tery of the Marchmont meurder. He took out
his penknife to scratch off some scales of rock,
but instead he pounced on something like a
cat on a mouse.

It was tiny shreds of some blue and red
woolen caught and imbedded in the rough sur-
face. of the stone.

“The man was killed down here,’ said Le-
sard, quietly. “That has come off the rugs of
that room upstairs where they said they found
him. They must have wiped up the blood with
them. Before they earried the man upstairs
they must have brought down those rugs and
saturated them with the blood that stained this
stone.”’

“They! Those girls?’’

“No! Some one else,’’ and he felt as he spoke
as if each short word had been a nail driven
into his own coffin. :

He stayed Atkins’ hand as he would have
disturbed the threads.

“Leave them for Richardson,’’
thoritatively. “Come with me
s 7

from where

cried.

he said, au-
into the pas-

age.

Half an hour later the two came down the
passage again. Atkins triumphant, yet con-
vinced that suspicious as had been the flight of
Brookes and Gibbs by that passage they had
not been the murderers. For he held in his
hand a white cuff such as ladies’ maids wear
and it was stained red.

There had been drops of blood all the way,
also, never noticed by those carriers of the
dead. And the way into the house was plain
now, for the stone had never been replaced
after the midnight flitting of the missing pair.

But Lesard’s heart was like lead.

He was quite certain that if Mrs. Gibbs had
been guilty she would never have dared to
defy him as she was doing now. There was
more in that midnight flitting than fright. And
that little cuff that he dared not take from
Atkins would ruin Jacky. Not even he ever
imagined that it might have been dropped first
and stained like the floor afterwards.

Atkins, who led the way, stopped short.

“What's that glittering?’’ he cried, and ran
to a crevice of rock underneath one of the air
slits.

He picked up’a tiny gold pencil and turned
stupidly to Lesard. :

“Why, it’s yours!’”’ he exclaimed, ‘“‘and there’s
blood on it. How could your pencil have come
here?’’

“T was in here with Richardson,” the answer
came, coolly enough. ‘‘I must hawe dropped it,
That’s rust, not blood.”

f And he slipped it quietly into his own pocket,
cursing the man who had had it engraved,
L. V. Lesard. ;

“‘Good-bye,’”’ he said, when they stood out-
side. “I’m going to London,’’ for he was wild
with terror for Jacky, and certain Gibbs was
on her track.

Mr. Atkins, left alone, thought no more of
the pencil till it was brought to his mind by a
shock of horror and surprise.

CHAPTER XXX.
THE HOUNDS OF DEATH.

Six hours is a time so short that it is neither
here nor there to the happy of this world—but
by just that beggarly space did Louis Lesard
reach London too late!

That small, bare room, entered in darkness,
slipping in as softly as though they were
thieves, had looked to Gillian Hamilton like
heaven. To Jacky, remembering how the Le-
sard she had loved had been wont to come
there, how it was within these four walls he
had told her he loved her, it was—well, only
the terror of death could have made her return
to it.

The girl who shared it was away, and that
was one good thing. Jacky could never have
parried her questions, her allusions to the
times that would be no more.

“There’s a bed room off this,’’ she had whis-
pered, when the gas was burning and the
blinds down. ‘‘We can sleep in peace for one
night, any how. But first I must get some-
thing to eat.’’

She spoke almost gayly, with how great an
effort! The old, homely surroundings cut her
to the heart, and, weary as she was, she was
glad of the few minutes respite from that fa-
miliar room that she would get in the open
street.

“Don’t go to sleep, Gill, you'll have to let me
in when I bring the potatoes. You can’t sit
here with the door unlocked. I wonder-why
we always have to fall back on. potatoes?”

Gillian, lying on the sofa half dead with wea-
riness, only nodded, never dreaming of that
hell of old thoughts and new that was in
Jacky’s mind. Her deadly fatigue, the ground-
less feeling of security, that had come over
her with finding a refuge even for one night,
had bound her body and soul. Once she raised
her head to listen sleepily for the footsteps
which were surely due; twiee she wondered

 

 

vaguely what was keeping Jacky—poor Jacky,
who must be worn out! And then a mist came
over her burning eyes, a sudden stillness on
her lax body.

Heavy, unconscious as a log, Gillian lay,
while the room grew hot with the gas jet that
burned noisily, and the hours crept by with
relentless feet. It was not till the sun was ris-
ing that she woke from that sleep which was
the first she had known for many nights; but
then she sprang up, dizzy and reeling.

It was daylight—daylight—and Jacky had
never come back!

Frantic, careless who heard her, Gillian ran
into the bedroom and drew up the blinds. The
wan light of the London morning showed her
a bed unslept in, a disused room.

Oh! Had Jacky come back and been afraid
to knock loudly enough to rouse her?

Spurred by a hope she knew was vain Gillian
ran to the sitting-room door and threw it wide.
But there was no Jacky curled up and waiting
on the threshold, no sign of her in the dirty,
ill-lit passage. Numb, ghastly, tearless, Gil-
lian drew back and stood trembling like a ter-
rified dog.

‘“‘Where can she be?’’ she thought. ‘‘Nothing
would Keep her but trouble!’’ She had a vision
of Jacky run over, lying bleeding in the street;
only to know that it could not be that, for
there had been no traffic in the quiet street
when Jacky went out.

“The police—it must be the police!’’ she
sobbed, without tears. ‘If I knew she_had
béen arrested I’d go and give myself up to the
nearest policeman, but suppose I did and there
was nothing the matter—suppose Jacky came
back and found me gone! I’d only have run
my head—both our heads—into a noose for
nothing. What can I do?” staring at the blank
walls as if they might help her.

As the light grew despair drove her down-
stairs, out into the street, not daring to let go
the door, lest it might shut and leave her out-
side with no latchkey; she stared up and down
the damp, ugly street. There was no Jacky
anywhere, and a sudden fright of unseen eyes
even here in the loneliest hour of the day,
drove Gillian indoors with flying feet.

“After all, it mayn’t be anything!’’ She stood
in Jacky’s room again, panting; “it may be a
good reason that’s keeping her. And she’s
got the key, she can always get in. All I can
do is to wait.”’

Not even to herself would she say what she
was waiting for. If the police had seized on
Jacky the evening would tell her, for it would
be in the first paper that came out. Till
evening she must sit here, sick for Jacky’s
sake, helpless in her suspense. , And it was not
yet seven o’clock! The day that must be lived
through stretched out before her like eternity.

Motionless, she sat in Jacky’s armchair, her
eyes shut, her lax arms hanging at her sides.
But for her breathing it might have been a
corpse that sat alone in an empty room, so
waxenly transparent was the colorless face
and so blue the hollows under the eyes.

As each hour rang brazenly from some clock
outside she set her teeth like a woman in
agony. Hight o’clock; nine; ten; eleven, and
no Jacky!

“Some evening papers come out at three,”’
she kept saying to herself, checking off an
hour each time the bells clanged. ‘T’ll know
then!’’

Her hunger and exhaustion made her dreamy.
Sometimes her thoughts wandered a little, but
always the sound of the hour brought her to
herself.

“Oh, God! will it ever be evening?’’ she mut-
tered when at last she heard the twelve
strokes of noon. But they had not died away
before she leaped to her feet, wild with joy.

There was a low, guarded whisper at her
door, a gentle, covert,tapping.

“Tet me in, it’s I!’’ came softly through the
keyhole. If Jacky’s voice was hoarse, what
wonder!

Choking back a scream of joy Gillian flew to
the door, unlocked it, flung it wide.

“Jacky!’’ all her soul was in her voice that
eame so hardly through her dry throat, her
feverish lips. ‘“‘Oh, Jacky! I thought you
never——’’

She fell back,
strangled cry.

Mrs. Gibbs, her swollen face triumphant, her
small, brown eyes full of a malice so dreadful
that Gillian covered her own not to see them,
stood on the threshold.

“So, I’ve run you to earth, my lady!” she
eried, showing her short, uneven teeth, her
purplish gums in the smile of a brute victo-
rious. ‘You didn’t think when you ran away
that you’d left your address behind you! You
and your precious sister. Where is she?’’ sud-
denly. ‘‘Ain’t she here?’’ peering past Gillian’s
shoulder.

The girl shook her head, speechless. She
could not know Mrs. Gibbs was rather relieved
than otherwise at Jacky’s absence; Mary
James knew too much! She flourished some-
thing in Gillian’s eyes.

“T found that in Marchmont’s drawer, him
that you murdered!”’

Gillian’s own handwriting swam before her
eyes as she saw the woman held a letter, one
of those to Jacky that she had truly fancied
were never posted. There in black and, white
she read what had brought doom on her.

‘“‘Miss J. Hamilton, 17 Blakes street, Blooms-
bury.’’

Thank God, oh, Thank God! Jacky had never

come back.

“JT found it yesterday and I didn’t let the
grass grow after that.’’ Mrs. Gibbs; fury rose
till she could hardly keep her hands off the
girl before her. ‘‘Mary Gibbs that wasn’t
good enough for you to speak to’’—mincingly
she tried to imitate Gillian’s voice—‘‘wé’ll see
who’s on top now, me that loved him, or you
that hated him. Me that will:stand by to see
you swing! You——’’ but the string of vile
names never reached Gillian’s ears.

“Gently, gently! There’s no need for. all
that,” said a man’s voice in cool authority be-
hind the maddened housekeeper.

Gillian, who had never spoken since that first
cry, saw a man in plain clothes at Mrs. Gibbs’
shoulders; behind him a policeman.

The hounds were on the hare.

(To be continued.)

>o<__—_—

THE TWO LOVES.

Tom Grant was much in love with his moth-
er. Every one who knew of his devotion de-
clared that he was a model son.

She was his only sweetheart, and he had
himself asserted that her love for him com-
pensated for all things. oy ak

When he had laughingly announced his in-
tention of never marrying while she was
spared to him, the neighbors as laughingly re-
plied that he would remain a fine old bachelor.

Tom did not care, at least not much, until
he had met Margaret Storrow, and then he
realized that there was another kind of love
far different from what he had been experi-
encing. That which he entertained for his
mother suffered no diminution, it being pure,
true and filial to perfection; but the emotion
engendered by Margaret was of an entirely daif-
ferent character; it was a steady, consuming
flame that burned ceaselessly—burning almost
too fiercely.

It did not take Tom long to ascertain that his
affection for Margaret was reciprocal. She
was what is known as a pretty girl, a good
dresser and conversationalist, supposed to
possess a kind heart, and.always especially at-
tractive when Tom was in the neighborhood.

Like many other girls, she was somewhat of
a coquette, her only visible imperfection being
an air of imperiousness which at times was
decidedly unpleasant.

Well, Tom had told her of his plans.
the two had talked the matter over many
times. He had told her of his mother, had
taken Margaret to see the dear old lady, had
told the girl of his choice that they must wait.
Margaret promised that she would be patient,
although it was evident that she chafed at all
this consideration Tom was showing for his
mother. : :

“T wish you had more decision, Tom,’ said
Margaret one day; ‘‘you know a girl will not
wait forever. Here I am wasting the best part
of my life with you. For my part, I am thor-
oughly dissatisfied with this protracted state
of affairs.’’

The young man started as though he had re-

ceived a blow.

‘Wasted! Wasted, Margaret!” he said.
“Well, perhaps you are right. I may not de-
serve to have any girl wait for me. But I love
you dearly, notwithstanding what you have
just said in a moment of vexation. rt would be
willing to wait for you. indefinitely, if
thought eventually the happy time would come
when you would truly be mine. Think, dear,
mother is old and ill. To leave her now would
be cruel. I cannot do it, even for you and
my selfish happiness. I would not bring you
into the same house with her, for that is her
home, and she is mistress of it. Can you not
wait a little while longer, dear, a year only,
perhaps not so long, until I am able to see my
way clearly and get prepared to make you mis-
tress of a home of your own?’

He placed his arms about her tenderly, but
she broke away from him with an angry
gesture. *: J =

‘Hnough of this sentiment!’’ she cried. Ly

cowering, with a _ strange,

In fact,

is simply a case of your mother. Are you to
sacrifice everything—sacrifice me, for her?
Once and for all this matter shall be decided
now. Take your choice—choose now between
your mother and me!”

Tom’s face was pale. His breast was heav-
ing convulsively. He shivered as though fac-
ing a fearful ordeal, but he never wavered.

“Be it as you say,’ he answered. ‘I will
make my choice. It is this: I will never de-
sert my mother! To do that would be for me
to make myself a coward, an ingrate. Mar-
garet, you have refused to be just, refused
even to be generous. With angry words you
reply to my pleadings. You say ‘choose,’ and
I do. My mother—first, last, and always.’’
_A moment later he was alone. The girl,
filled with rage, had rushed from his presence.
The knowledge of the futility of her efforts to
conquer him maddened her. Sighing heavily,
Tom turned away frém the trysting place, and
went back to his home, and—his mother.

He found her unusually ill, and for days
afterward his anxiety as to her condition pre-
vented his having any intercourse with Mar-
garet. True, he often thought of her; he could
not help doing that, but somehow or other
these latter thoughts were not as the tender,
blissful musings to which he was once accus-
tomed. And she, feeling that her love had
been scorned, kept wholly to herself.

“Tf she would only show a little considera-
tion,’’ thought Tom. “Even now she knows
that mother is ill, very ill, and yet not a word
of interest or sympathy. Ah, Margaret! I
thought you loved me; but this treatment is
nothing short of awful cruelty.”’

The days wore on. Margaret Storrow had
gone away. Reports were circulated that she
and Tom had quarreled. This report was fol-
lowed by the announcement that she had con-
tracted an alliance with a man of wealth—a
man old enough to be her father—which an-
noumcement was substantiated when neatly
engraved wedding invitations were received.

One of these wags sent to Tom, and with it
Margaret wrote:

“IT do not love the man I am about to marry.
It is not too late for me to tell him so. Write
to me, Tom, for I hunger for a word from you.
Your silence is something awful.’’

But Tom did not trust himself to reply. Mar-
garet had sown the seed; she must reap the
harvest. No word would she _ receive from
him. On the day of her wedding Tom laid his
mother to rest. With no regret of his self-
denial, and no repining for the girl that was
now forever lost to him, with bared head he
ae by that mother’s newly made grave and
said: :

“T have tried to do my duty.’’

e

Items of Interest.

_ The eyes of 1,005 school chiidren were exam-
ined in Rochester, N. Y., and 252 of the schol-
ars were found to have defective vision.

Alameda, Cal., has a club composed of di-
vorced men. They have found marriage a
failure and have united for condolence.

Twenty-five per cent. of the men who seek
admission as recruits in the English army are
rejected on account of physical disability.

A great bicycle town is Warren, Pa. In a
population of 10,000 there are 1,480 bicycles, rep-
resenting an average of one for each family.

An excellent contrivance for protecting the
legs of horses from flies consists of a band on
each leg, with a fringe of long cords dangling
from each band.

Sixty-nine shower baths and seven toboggan-
slides are among the furnishings of the Sutro
Bathing House, San Francisco. There are
dressing-rooms for 1,627 people.

An explosion of a bottle of root. beer caused
the death of Nels Madsen, a twelve-year-old
boy, in Chicago. A piece of flying glass sev-
ered his jugular vein.

All effort to ascertain the depth of the fa~
mous Pitch Lake of Trinidad has been unsuc-
cessful. At the sides of the lake the pitch is
hard and cold, but at the centre it is hot, and
almost constantly boiling in a liquid state.

_ A malicious trickster painted a horse yellow
in the stable of the Farmers’ Hotel, Norris.
town, Pa. The animal tried to free itself of
some of the paint by licking it off. Blood-poi-
soning resulted, and the horse died.

A despicable wretch, employed as a watch-
man in a Chicago livery stable, cut off the tails
of forty horses in ene night and sold the hair
for $9.60. By this rascaily deed the value of
the horses was decreased $1,960.

Two plump infants comprise the family of
Mr. and Mrs. C. L. Cartmill, of Owingsville,
Ky. Della May, aged three years, weighs 180
pounds; and Willie, aged four, weighs 210
pounds. At birth Della weighed 8 pounds and
the other 7. :

A recent government census of India contains
a remarkable statement in reference to youth-
ful marriages. There are in that country
6,016,759 girls between five and nine years of
age who have been or are wives. Over 170,000
of them are avidows.

A fatal bed is pointed out to visitors in an
engine house in Macon, Ga. Four men died
soon after occupying it, and one of its latest
occupants declares that the ghost of one of
the dead firemen laid his icy hand upon him,
and he believes that he is soon to join him.

In twenty-eight days not a scrap of food or
nourishment of any kind passed the lips of
Milton Rathbun, of Mount Vernon, N. Y.
When he began his voluntary fast he weighed
210 pounds; his abstinence caused the loss of
42 pounds and it has caused him no apparent
injury.

Mrs. J. Washburn, of Watertown,
some lime in a bottle to slake it, and, after
pouring hot water upon it, tightly closed the
bottle. In a few minutes there was a thun-
dering explosion, cutting her face with the
flying glass, and burning her eyes with the
lime-water.

Mass., put

A funeral procession a mile in length, com-
prised of boats and their occupants, was late-
ly witnessed in Shannon, Ireland. The deceased
had been a farmer in Athlone, and his body
was conveyed by water to the cemetery at
Clanmacnoise, his friends and relatives fol-
lowing in boats.

For an hour a balky horse in Boston delayed
traffic by holding up a line of thirty trollgy
cars. Blazing paper was held under the ani-
mal‘s nose and various other means adopted to
start the refractory creature. -At last, when
the contents of a soda siphon were squirted
into his ear, he dashed off at a two-minute
gait.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Go Yrs. Pinkham,
Lynn, Mass.

[LETTER TO MRS. PINKHAM NO. 41,207]

 

 

 

 

 

‘* DEAR FRIEND—A year ago I was a
great sufferer from female weakness.
My head ached all the time and I would
get so dizzy and have that all gone
feeling in the stomach and was so

ervous and restless that I did not
know what to do with myself.

** My food did me no good and I hada
bad case of whites. I wrote to you and
after taking Lydia E. Pinkham’s Vege-
table Compound as directed, I can
‘truly say that I feel like a new woman
and cannot tell you how grateful I am
to yor

“‘I have recommended it to all my
friends and have given it to’ my
daughter who is now getting along
splendidly. May you live many years
to help our suffering sisters.”—Mnrs. C.
CARPENTER, 253 GRAND ST., BROOKLYN,
N.Y.

Over eighty thousand
such letters as this were re-
ceived by Mrs. Pinkham
during 1897. Surely thisis
strong proof of her ability
to heip suffering women.

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

THE NEW WORK WEEKLY.

 

 

 

VOL. 54—No. 50.

 

 

 

 

 

 

BET Aud §
Ne

NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 30, 1899.
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wee eee

 

 

The New York Weekly has a larger cir-
than all other similar publi-
cations combined.

culation

 

 

PRINCIPAL

Her Evil Genius (Serial) SS Gee Adelaide Stirling
A Stage Heroine (Serial) ........... Gertrude Warden
The Broken Trust (Serial)..........-. Bertha M. Clay
Lover or Husband? (Serial) ........: Adelaide Stirling
A Russian Romance (Serial)............. Vioia Tyrell
Winifred’s Sacrifice (Serial)....Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Phetlwo -EOvesic sok & seesctack co Loko ee cores
PRO Dest Maree hes) ee ee ee
Wy OUR EN ot aa en ts Sy eae et San Suma
THE-APEDURGGANALION 5 i Ge kc oes
The NEw Bear gts ie ee
House Cleaning Helps... oo cs. ae E. J.C.
201: 18- Bl ospinge soe Se ee Harkley Harker
ENG DOst APG So8s a te se ee ee Kate Thorn
Josh Billings’ Philosophy.....................
Pleasant Paragraphs.............. Charles W. Foster
Ur COOK Boos. 9405+ ee Se et J.D.R;
WOK Bow fate ee ee Mrs. Helen Wood
Items of Interest, Correspondence, Ete.

POEMS

“T Shall Not Give Away My Heart.”
“The Architect’s Clerk.”
“The Happy Dance.”
“Elderly Lovers.”
“The Lost Lover.”
“King of Men,’’ by Annie Hetherington Coxon.

KING OF MEN.
BY ANNIE HETHERINGTON COXON.

The honest man, though e’er sae poor,
Is king o’ men for a’ that.—Robert Burns.
What though with gold you are not blest—
Wealth is but paltry treasure,
What though a cottage is your rest
When Love encircles Pleasure,
What though your station is not great,
Your life is true for all that;
Though poor you hold my heart’s estate—
You’re king of men for all that!

Your heart’is noble, pure and true,
What wealth can equal that, dear?

You do not ‘‘dream,’’ but bravely “do”
The work that must be done here.

What though your hands with honest toil
Are hardened, when, for all that,

Your heart is free from stain or soil,
You’re king of men for all that!

Our cottage home is sweet and bright,
Love weaves her garlands o’er it,

The jasmine twines her flowers of light
@n rustic porch before it.

What though the world with cruel dart
Has called you poor and all that,

When in the depths of one true heart
You’re king of men for all that!

ELDERLY LOVERS.

We will not speak of days gone by
When mists bedimmed the sun;
But let us linger ’neath love's sky,
Whence ev’ry cloud has flown!

Love’s bloom is past; yet not in pain
Deplore what might have been,

But twine of leaves that still remain
A wreath of evergreen!

If from the heart by sorrow torn
A cherished’ chord be rent,

Weep not, for many still adorn
Love’s tender instrument.

And all the discord of the past
Deserves not e’en a sigh,

For sweet the present is at last
With love’s pure harmony!

NEXT WEEK.

All of Mrs. Sheldon’s admirers,

and their number is legion, will
be delighted that next week we
shall begin another story from her
fascinating pen.

No lover of a charming romance

can afford to miss

The Lily of Mordaunt

By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon.

"Twas a summer ago, when he left me here,
A summer of smiles, with never a tear,
Till I said to him, with a sob, my dear,
““Good-by, my lover, good-by!”’

For I loved him, oh, as the stars love night;

And my cheeks for him flashed red and white

When first he called me his heart’s delight;
*““Good-by, my lover, good-by!’’

The touch of his hand was a thing divine

And he sat with me in the soft mocnshine,

And drank of my love as men drink wine;

THE LOST LOVER,

 

“‘Good-by, my lover, good-by!”’

Toil is Blessing.

“Good by! Vacation is over.’’

“Are you not sorry to go back to work?”

I turned to the finely-built, clear-headed and
rich young fellow who so replied to me. He
stood by his gateway, fingering the smilax that
festooned the post from a luxurious vase on
top. He nervously shifted his hands about,
and ended by plunging them into his pockets
as he gazed point-blank at me with his ques-
tion.

It is no great matter what reply I made;
though I may say that I truthfully laid bare
my heart in my reply, ‘‘No, I am‘not sorry,
but glad. I am as happy now in the thought
of returning to work as I was in leaving work
for my rest here.’’

I know, reader, that my dear friend felt that
I had spoken the truth. His nead fell. He
has nothing to do from year to year. He has
no place among living men. No one ‘‘wants’’
him. He takes, but gives not. That is, he
collects his rents and dividends, but renders
nothing in return. There is no office that
misses him, no business that waits for his
return. His money is in business, to be sure;
but the money would be there, working just
the same, if it was his estate and he were
dead. His eye, his voice, his hand—for these
no man looks nor waits. Dead he is, at five-
and-thirty, to all intents and purposes, except
with regard to the grocer’s and tailor’s bills.

I have heard this gentleman actually lament
that he was “‘of so little account among men,’’
to use his own expression. There was an amus-
ing fact, of which I have never thought, re-
vealed by his remark. ‘‘What is the good of
express trains and sleeping-cars? I never am’
in a hurry to get anywhere.” And again he
remarked one day, ‘I don’t use my watch
much. It’s a very expensive one, but I hate
to be always consulting a watch or a clock.
I never know if it is fast or slow.’’ Exactly;
he has no pressing appointments to keep. I
fall into the same indifference as to my watch
when camping out; on returning from the
woods I am always surprised to detect that
my watch has lost or gained, and I never real-
ized it.

My idle neighbor tries so many expedients
to forget himself. He reads, nut the reader
grows indifferent unless he is reading for a
purpose. Half the pleasure of reading is the
use we intend to make of the information. A
lawyer, on vacation, reads, and slaps the book
together as he whips out his note-book; he has
found something that he intends to use at a
speech-making. Every earnest man’s reading
is for material, for inspiration; or if for recre-

ation, then for the rest and amusement that
shall be to his profit when he returns to his

 

toil. Not so my friend; he reads to kill time.
His head is packed with a thousand facts that

Josh Billings

A little good luck won’t hurt enny man, but
enough ov it will ruin enny one.

There are menny people in the world like the
crab; they can travel faster backward than
forward.

He who undertakes to live by his wits will
generally find all the best chances already
taken.

Mankind were wize a long time before they
were learned; learning iz the secret ov wis-
dom.

Vanity and jealousy are the besetting weak-
nesses ov mortals and are allways found to-
gether.

There are but few moral truths, and no new
ones. The reazon whi the ancient writers are
still the text iz because they told the truth,
and told the whole ov it.

Science can tell us just how old the world
iz, and just the breed ov monkey that man
sprang from, but it haz not been able to tell
us yet what makes a hen’s egg white and a
duck’s egg blue.

 

We are frequently told that the art of good |
manners is a lost art. We are admonished that
the children of to-day are rude to their elders,
that they have no respect for their superiors,
and that they pay no attention to the wishes
or reproofs of their parents. We are told that,
as a nation, we Americans are barely civil to
anybody unless it be to the rich man who
dresses in his purple and fine linen and has
servants at his heels to do his bidding. The
worship of money, they tell us, is all the spirit
of worship which sways the heart of the avy-
erage American citizen in these latter days of
the nineteenth. century. 2

Well, it is a fact, no doubt, that this is an
age of irreverence. From the extreme severity
of the iron-clad religion of the Puritans, we
of the present have rushed to the other ex-
treme, and the career of the young men and
women of to-day is a sort of a go-as-you-
please career—very slightly influenced or con-
trolled by any conscientious motives, and re-
strained principally by the fear of what peo-
ple may say. And it is a fortunate circum-
stance that there a law—unwritten, per-
haps, but none the less powerful—which op-
erates as a factor for good in all communi-
ties, the regard for public opinion. 3

Far from believing that the majority of man-
kind desire to do evil, we thoroughly believe
that the most of them desire to do right; but
the way is so hedged about with delightful lit-
tle tempting side shows of a doubtful charac-
ter that it is difficult to pass them by and
keep on the straight course which leads to

truth, honor and the maintenance of your
own self-respect.

Years ago, the children were taught, along
with their primer and alphabet, to be respect-
ful to old age. They were taught to reverence
the minister and to uncover their heads when
he of the white neckcloth and long-tailed
black coat passed along the street. They kept
decorous silence when the Bible was being
read, and listened with an outward show of
patience to the sermons of the times as they

progressed safely along through ‘‘firstly,’’ and
“‘secondly,’’ and so forth, to a close. >
The girls were taught to sit quietly in meet-

is

 

 

ing and to cast out no wandering thoughts

 

And never a night, as I knelt in prayer,

In a gown as white as our own souls were,

But in fancy he came and kissed me there;
““Good-by, my lover, good-by!”’

But now, ah! me, what an empty place

My whole heart is. Of the old embrace

And the kiss I loved there is no trace;
“‘Good-by, my lover, good-by!”’

He sailed not over the stormy sea,

And he went not down in the waves—not he—

But, oh, he is lost—for he married me—
“‘Good-by, my lover, good-by!” ~

By Harkley Harker.

he can never use. He hangs round the garden
to rest his eyes. But he has gradually lost
interest in flowers, for he hires the hands that
attend them; it is the same as if he purchased
the bouquet on the street.

He strolls down to the stable. The horses
are like him, but his clothes get a smell of
which his fastidious wife complains if he han-
dles the handsome animals much; go he has
given that up; he stands a while and looks
at them. He walks for exercise, but that is
dull work. I have known him to hire a boy
to stroll with him—that is, he bought all his
newspapers one by one and turned them over
as he walked, the boy meanwhile at his side—
for the pleasure of hearing the boy talk; the
freshness of a boy’s outlook on this new
world, worn and threadbare to the older man,
was an amusement for which he was willing
to pay.

My neighbor sleeps much; late mornings, an
afternoon nap, early to bed; yet he was once,
before his uncle suddenly left him this inde-
pendent fortune, the best athlete in our. class
at college. My opinion is that eating and sleep-
ing are destroying his health. He is perfectly
temperate and all his habits are moral... He
smokes ten cigars a day, and perhaps this cus-
tom is also stupefying an idle brain. Do you
know, I think one must work hard to smoke
much without injury.

This gentleman has several times attempted
to set himself to work in charities, and socie-
ties, and fraternities; he belongs to lots of
things, and JI know not how many clubs. The
singular thing about this department of his
life is that he soon began to hire the work
done that he ought to have done for his soci-
ety or club. Why, the fellow joined for the
sake of getting something to do. But, you see,
very naturally, if anything was committed to
his care, he could so easily hire ‘a first-class
workman to do it a great deal more to his
mind,’’ that that is just what he did. At first
he would stand around and watch the work-
man; but he soon got tired of even that. Now
all the fraternity say: ‘Billy? Oh, he’s noth-
ing but a check.”’ And it is about so.

_thank Heaven for something to do. There
is an office that waits for me. There are men
who ‘“‘want to see me,” and have something
very important to say to me; far more inter-
esting than any novelist’s imaginary story or
actor’s plot is this something that the people
want to say to me who are waiting for me to
get back. I want to hear it. Thank God for
something to do that will never be done unless
I do it. I am of some account in the world.
I do not loll along the street to-morrow; I
bring my heels smartly down; I am going
somewhere, and must get there. I know the
value of an express train. The telegraph and
telephone are mine. All the great inventions
serve me. I shall not hire a boy for the fun
of the thing; I will use boys and men to earn
my bread. At the same time, they can use
me to earn theirs. I have need of God’s care,
for I am by no méans independent. I look to
Heaven as my friend looks to his dead unele.
I have a father; he has a departed relative. I
have an altar; he has a grave. Everything is
before me; all things are behind him. The
future is to me a strange, exciting, inspiring
field of manly endeavor; to him it is the same
dull thing that yesterday was, only more so
with advancing years.

Man was made to be happy only in healthy
toil. It is the logic and lore of the thousands
of years that man has lived on the globe.

* Philosophy.

Young man, the world can’t give you a char-
acter nor take one away from you; you alone
can do it.

The reputation that a man gets from his
ancestors often wants az much cutting down
to,fit him az their overcoats would.

Real oratory iz the truth expressed in a sim-
ple and pathetick manner. There is another
kind of oratory; this iz the monkey on the
stage, with his chain off .

2

The shrewd people are those who think as
they please, and act to suit others,

A large share of the sympathy we offer to
others in their troubles, iz merely an inward
satisfaction that we ain’t so bad off az they
are.

Condensation is the great force; there is
more power in “Yes” and ‘‘No” than in all the
rest of the language.

I indorse all the means that woman takes
to elevate herself; but I believe her real mis-
sion iz to elevate man, and thus take herself
along with him.

A Lost Art.

By Kate Thorn.

toward the smart bonnets of the other young
women, or toward the ruddy faces and well-
oiled locks of the young men on the other side
of the meeting-house.

The Sabbath was a @ay of rest and church-
going. Now, it is a day for bicycle riding, for
trolley excursions, for outings at the number-
less parks wher2 “sacred” concerts while
away the hours and ice cream and-_lager beer
seduce the dimes and quarters from the pock-
ets of the unwary.

Don’t let us. criticise the pleasure-goers, Pre-
sumably, they know their own business best,
and must take their ultimate chances individ-
ually. We are speaking only of the radical
change between the past and the present.

And with the change has come a decadence
of what used to be considered as good man-
ners. There seems to be no time to exercise
politeness. The people all rush for the best
seats in the electric car. They pay no heed
to age or feebleness. The sentiment seems to
be that if you are an old woman and will go
on trolley rides, you must take the conse-
quences, If you puff and perspire and make
several unavailing attempts to mount into
that car, whose step seems higher than your
waist, and for the successful gaining of which
a step-ladder is requisite, the young people all
laugh at you, and the conductor rings the im-
patient bell by way of admonishing you'that
if you do not accelerate your movements there
is liable to be trouble.

Men smoke ‘in the parks, in the seats of the
“sylvan” theatres, and puff the smoke in the
faces of all around them; and if any one ob-
jects, why, let that individual move. America
is a free country, and if he doesn’t like smoke
he ought to seek a lodge in some vast wilder-
ness. ;

_ Gentlemen (?) stand on the sidewalks even-
ings and spit at everything within reach, and
the passers-by must take the filth up on their
skirts and shoes and earry it home, to breed
disease and death, and who is to prevent?

Women say little, ill-natured things and nod
knowingly when allusion is made to some
woman whom, by reason of her beauty or
standing, they dislike.

Clerks in our fashionable stores are frequent-
ly impertinent to ill-dressed customers, and
proprietors allow the matter to pass without
reproof.

The whole world is in a desperate rush to
get somewhere, to do something, to see or hear
something, to accomplish something, and can-
not stop long enough to be polite.

Oh, good _ people, why not take time enough
to live? Why not afford the time to respect
the rights of others? Why not pause long
enough to be good-mannered and courteous?
Why not stay this mad race for wealth, so as
to enjoy the present time, and‘not defer hap-
piness until some future day which may never
be yours? i -

 

 

an) SOS <s - -
oa) Me aE ae

__ Vg PiahiseB} = Y a.
YS oe? By os ERS
A

 

HELPFUL TALKS WITH
OUR READERS,

 

 

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

Mrs. Ada B. E.—This correspondent would
like the words of the song ‘‘Courting Where
the Sweet .Magnolia Blooms.’’ The words of
The Star Spangled Banner” are as follows,
and, by the way, it is astonishing how few
people know them.

THE STAR SPANGLED BANNER.
Oh! oan er you see, by the dawn’s early
ignt,
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s
last gleaming,
Whose stripes and bright stars, thro’ the
perilous fight,
O’er the ramparts we watched were so gal-
lantly streaming,
And the rocket’s red glare, the bombs burst-
ing in the air,
Gave proof thro’ the night that our flag was
still there!
Chorus.
Oh! say, does that star spangled banner yet
wave,
O’er the land of the free and the home of
the brave.
On the shore, dimly seen thro’ the mist of
the deep,
Where. the foe’s haughty host in dread si-
lence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o’er the tow-
ering stee
As it fitfully
closes?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning’s
first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines
stream.

Dp,
blows, half conceals, half dis-

in the

Chorus.

"Tis the star spangled banner, oh! long may
it Wave,

O’er the land of the free and the home of the

brave!

And where is that band that so vauntingly

swore,
*Mid the havoc of war and the battle’s’ con-

fusion,

A home and @& country they’d leave us no
more?

Their blood has wash’d out their foul foot-

steps pollution;

No refuge could save the hireling and slave

From the terror of flight or the gloom of the
grave.

Chorus,

And the star spangled banner in triumph
shall wave,

O’er the land of the free and the home of the
brave!

Oh! thus be it ever when freemen shall
stand,

Between their lov’d home and the war’s

and peace,

desolation;

Blest with vict’ry
Heav’n rescued land,

Praise the Pow’r that hath made and pre-

served us a nation, 7

Then conquer we must, when our cause it is
just,

And this be our motto, ‘‘In God is our trust.”

Chorus.

And the star spangled banner in
shall wave,

O’er the land of the free and the home of
the brave!

may the

triumph

When our land is illum’d with liberty’s smile,

If a foe from within strike a blow at her
glory,

Down, down with the traitor that dares to

defile,
The flag of her stars and the page of her

story!

By the millions unchain’d, who our birthright
have gain’d,

We will keep her bright blazon forever un-
stain’d!

Chorus,

And the star spangled banner in
shall wave,

While the land of the free is the home of the
brave.

E. F. C.—Thank you for the information
that ‘One touch of nature makes the whole
world kin’’ appears in Shakespeare’s ‘Troilus
and Cressida,’’ but we think what our corre-
spondent wanted was a poem beginning with
that line. We think we have seen such a one
somewhere. The first periodical published in
the United States was issued in Boston Sept.
25, 1690. It was printed by Richard Pierce and
published by Benjamin Harris. It was in-
tended to be issued once a month, but it was
immediately suppressed by the authorities:
The only copy Known to be in existence is in
the state paper office in London, and it is
headed ‘‘Publick Occurrences, Both Foreign
and Domestick.” The “Boston News Letter,’
published by John Campbell, appeared April
24, 1704, and continued to be issued weekly until
1776. We think that the “‘Hartford Courant’’
can properly lay claim to being the oldest
periodical in the United States. On the 29th of
October, 1764, a specimen number of the Cour-
ant was published by Thomas Green, ‘‘at the
Heart and Crown, near the North Meeting
House’ in Hartford. The first regular issue of
the paper, which has continued without inter-
ruption or change of name to the present time,
was on the 19th of November, 1764. The oldest
New York newspaper is the Commercial Ad-
vertiser, established in 1797.

P. M. L.—The following is a good whitewash:
Put into a clean wooden tub one bushel of
lime, cover it with a couple of buckets of boil-
ing water, stirring all the time. When the lime
has been well slaked, dissolve in the water
four pounds of sulphate of zinc and two
pounds of coarse salt. These are to prevent
the wash from cracking off. If required the
above may be made a cream color by adding
two pounds of yellow ochre. A better mixture
may be obtained that will have the appear-
ance of paint. Make the whitewash according
to the above. Then to obtain a blue-grey tint
use one part of lampblack and one and a half
parts of indigo. To obtain a good stone color
mix in some brown ochre. From two and a
half to three buckets of wash will be required
for an ordinary room.

a

Worried Mother.—There is no doubt that a
seafaring life has many disadvantages and
drawbacks, and unless there is a very strong
inclination for it it is well to be avoided. But
it is always a good plan, if possible, to allow
a boy to have one voyage, and let him deter-
mine for himself whether the life is all his
fancy painted it. In the majority of cases
such trials have the effect of curing any great
desire on the part of a youth for the sea, but
where it happens that it merely confirms him
in his choice of making his living, then it is
mere foolishness to try and prevent it, as he
will doubtless compass his object sooner or
later without permission, if he cannot obtain
his wish with it.

Jessie.—To preserve the colors in flowers,
mosses, etc., for mounting, it is necessary they
should be pressed immediately they are gath-
ered. Place the specimens between two sheets.
of blotting paper, and put these between two
boards, with as level surfaces as it is possible
to obtain, on the top of which stand heavy
weights, and let them remain there until the
whole of the moisture is squeezed out of the
plants; then mount them. They must be kept
in a place that is perfectly dry, or else they
will soon fade.

Mrs. P. D.—A good furniture polish can be
made with an equal admixture of sweet oil
and vinegar. This must be used constantly,
and the furniture afterward well rubbed with
chamois leather. This is an excellent polish
for mahogany. Furniture cream for polishing
wood is made with two ounces of pearlash, one
gallon of soft water, one pound of beeswax, a
quarter of a pound of soap; boil until dis-
solved; spread it with a painter’s brush, and
polish off with a leather.

B. R. J.—To clean looking glasses, take a
newspaper, fold it small, dip it into a basin of
clean, cold water. When thoroughly wet
squeeze it out as you do a sponge; then rub
it pretty hard all over the surface of the glass,
taking care that it is not so wet as to run
down in streams; in fact, the paper must only
be completely moistened, or damped all
through. Let it rest a few moments, then go
over the glass with a piece of fresh, dry news-
paper till it looks clean and bright.

G. L.—In the United States seventy people
own together $2,700,000,000, and half of the na-
tional wealth is in the hands of 2,500 persons.

triumph

Leonora.—Thank you for the words of
| “The Sidewalks of New York.’’ The song you
inquire for has already been published.

THE SIDEWALKS OF NEW YORK.
i
| Down in front of Casey’s old brown wooden
stoop,
On a summer’s evening we formed a merry

| Sroup; .
Boys and girls together, we would sing and

waltz, ss
While the ‘‘Ginnie’” played the organ on the
sidewalks of New York.
CHORUS.
East side, west side, all around the town,
The tots sang “Ring a rosie, London Bridge is
falling down;”’
Boys and girls together, me and Mamie Rorke
Tripped the, light fantastic on the sidewalks
of New York. ts

That’s where Johnnie Casey and little Jimmy

rowe,

With Jakey Krause, the baker, who always
had the dough;

Pretty ee Shannon, with a dude as light as
cork,

First picked up the waltz step on the side-
walks of New York.

III.

Things have changed since those times; some
are up in G,

Others they are on the hog, but they all feel
just like me;

They would part with all they’ve got could
they but once more walk

With their best girl and have a twirl on the
sidewalks of New York.

Hattie J.—One of the versions runs as fol-
lows: :
“‘Wed on Monday, always poor,

Wed on Tuesday, wed once more;

Wed on Wednesday, happy match,

Wed on Thursday, splendid ‘catch’;

Wed on Friday, poorly mated,

Wed on Saturday, better waited;

Wed on Sunday, Cupid’s wooing,

Wed in the morning, seldom rueing.”

Belle B.—A mixture of meal and honey in-
Stead of soap will soften and whiten the
hands. To remove freckles, the French girls
roast a lemon in the stove after putting sugar
in it and fastening up the hole. When they
wish to use the juice they squeeze a little
through a hole on a rag or piece of sponge.
They also apply to the face at night a mix-
ture of honey, lemon-juice and fiour, made
into a paste and spread on a piece of thin,
soft cloth.

Annie S.—You have got into a morbid condi-
tion through overstrain and anxiety. We feel
sure if you would put the question plainly to
your husband, you would find that he does not
blame you in the very least, and that his own
condition is simply the result of the trouble
that has brought such ill-effects upon your-
self. No reasonable person could blame you
for what was an almost inevitable mistake to
make.

Maria.—The following is a good recipe for
pickled walnuts: To one hundred walnuts add
one ounce of allspice, one ounce of pepper, one
ounce of long pepper, one ounce of ginger, one
ounce of black mustard seed, and a handful of
salt. Pour cold vinegar over all, and tie down
the jar with bladder. The pickle will be fit for
use in about six weeks, and will keep good for
a long time.

F. L. D.—Renovate gilt frames-by washing
them with the following mixture: Put enough
flour of sulphur into a pint of water to give
it a yellow tinge, add a couple of onions cut
in pieces and let them boil. Strain into a ba-
sin, and when the liquid is cold it is ready for
use. Wash the frames with this mixture,
using a soft sponge for the purpose.

Cyclist.—If you’ve put your bicycle away
after a ride in the rain and then find it rusty
and dull, you can clean the rust off with a
little paraffin on a rag, make the plated parts
bright with a rubbing of benzoline, and
brighten up the enamel with a piece of flannel
and the tiniest amount of linseed oil.

_J. N. S.—Squaring the circle means finding
the exact ratio of the diameter of the circle to
its circumference. This has never been, and
mathematicians say cannot be, exactly deter-
mined. As Prior said:

“Circles to square and cubes to double
Will give poor mortals awful trouble.”

Lula KE. M.—You will have to study very
hard before you will be able to write accepta-
ble stories. We cannot_consider manuscripts
from amateur writers. Some authors use their
own names and some adopt pen names. Can
any one furnish the words of ‘‘She Is More to
Be Pitied Than Censured’’?

Ruth T.—Pompadour rats_are not likely to
do any harm to the hair. The following will
be found an excellent hair invigorator: One
quart of bay rum, one pint alcohol, one ounce
castor oil, one ounce tincture cantharides, one
pint sweet oil. Bottle and label.

Housekeeper.—Moths will work havoc in
carpets in rooms that are kept dark and warm
in winter as well as in summer. Before laying
down a carpet, wash the floor with strong
alum water, and occasionally sprinkle the car-
pet with dry salt before sweeping it.

Mary L.—When drying the face after wash-
ing rub upward toward the nose, This» will
help to keep away wrinkles and to smooth
out to a great extent the crease alongside the
nose—at least, this is what a beauty specialist
says.

B. W. G.—Since the gentleman has no posi-
tive proof of his wife’s death, we strongly ad-
vise you to refuse to marry him. Such a mar-
riage would be null and void if the first wife
proved to be living at the time, and any chil-
dren by it would be illegitimate.

Henry J.—An invisible ink which appears_
upon exposure to gentle heat may be made by
dissolving bromide of potassium, one part,
and sulphate of copper, one part, in twenty
parts of water. Careful heating will turn
the writing brown.

Evelyn H.—As the young man has apolo-
gized, try to forget all about the matter. If
he really cares for you he will tell you so
sooner or later. Till then you must possess
your soul in- patience. Your hair is dark
brown. .

W. H. O.—The ‘Monroe doctrine’ was first
declared by James Monroe, President of the
United States. It holds the whole American
Continent should be reserved for the United
States, and that no foreign power should have
any jurisdiction over any part of it.

Ruth.—A fruit diet, especially fruit for
breakfast, is very beneficial to those troubled
with an oily skin. Vapor baths are also good,
as are green salads, mineral water and simple
astringent washes.

Howard.—Experts declare that in choosing
a puppy-dog from among a number of others
it is always best to leave the choice to. the
mother herself. In carrying them back to their
bed the first the mother takes up will always
be the best.

Mmsician.—Classical music is a term applied
to eompositions of the highest authority and
excellence, such as the works of Beethoven,
Mozart, Mendelssohn, Handel, Haydn, Chopin
and Wagner.

T. M.—Clouds and fogs are the same thing.
We see the whole as a cloud at a distance in
the atmosphere; but when the vapor sinks to
the earth, or will not rise, we are immersed in
it, and call it.a fog.

Marie G. H.—To remove mildew from linen,
take some soap and rub it well; then scrape
some fine chalk, and rub it also on the linen.
Lay it on the grass. As it dries, wet a little,
and it will come out in twice doing.

A. L.—Nemesis was a Greek goddess, the
daughter of Night, and believed to be the dis-
penser of happiness and misery to mortals.
She was opposed to excessive riches, and the
punisher of crimes.

Jennie M.—Probably you mean a mezzo-
soprano, from your description of the voice.
It would be well to have the opinion of a pro-
fessional teacher as to the merits of your sis-
ter’s singing.

Mrs. R. L. C.—The following is an excellent
remedy for dandruff: Chlora: hydrate, one
drachm; glycerine, four drachms; bay rum,
eight ounces. Mix and apply to the scalp daily,
rubbing it well in.

N. J. A.—The salary of the President of the
United States is $50,000 a year; that of the
Vice-President $8,000 a year.

Mrs. W. A. K.—Thank you. This. corre-
spondent would like the words of the song
“Sweet Jennie, the Flower of Kildare.”

Rose B.—Straw matting may be kept a good
color by washing it occasionally with salt and
water.

MeD.—The half dollar of 1795 is worth sixty
cents. There is no premium on that of 1833.

Cc, G. W.—We have sent you a catalogue of
all the books we publish.

Vivian.—There is no. premium on either
coin.

T, P.—There is no premium on the coin
mentioned.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL. 54~—No. 50.

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

5

 

A STAGE HEROINE:

OR,

In the Glare of the Footlights.

By GERTRUDE WARDEN,

Author of “Her Faithful Knight,” ‘‘The Haunted House at Kew,”
‘““An Angel of Love,’ Ete.

(“A STacE HEROINE” was commenced in No. 45.

CHAPTER X.

On Angela’s appointed wedding day, the thir-
tieth of June, the sun shone with auspicious
splendor; even Saltford looked almost cheer-
ful under the benignant rays which found out
and lit into sudden, glorious color the pots of
geraniums in the sitting-room windows of the
mean street of lodging-houses in which the lit-
tle bride had her temporary abode.

Up to that morning Graham Ford had not
heard again from his sister at Surbiton. Elis
letters were addressed to the theatre and not
to his lodgings, and immediately after finishing
his breakfast Ford seized his hat and made his
way round to the stage-door. He imagined that
Doctor Black, upon whom his sister depended
for full particulars concerning ‘‘Apollo’’ Scott,
must have by this time returned to Surbiton,
and he felt a very real anxiety to learn any-
thing definite concerning the man which might
finally establish his identity with James Fran-
cis.

The more he watched James Francis in the
dressing-room, and on the stage, and from the
window of his lodgings, what time he was pay-
ing daily visits to Angela and Dorcas across
the road, the more Ford became convinced
that the man was nothing more that a specious
adventurer, and, all jealousy apart, he was .un-
selfishly concerned at the thought that An-
gela meant rashly to confide her future life
to the Keeping of such a man.

But, by a cruel irony of fate, at the moment
when he was eagerly inquiring for letters at
the theatre, and receiving at length the com-
munication from his sister for which he had
waited for more than a week, the girl whose
interests he was so wishful to protect was
stealing out of her lodgings, arrayed in dainty
white garments, and proceeding under the es-
cort of Dorcas, with flushed cheeks and fast-
beating heart and trembling limbs, in the di-
rection of St. Peter’s Church, where James
Francis was waiting to lead her to the altar,

All unconscious of the imminence of Angeia’s
danger, Graham Ford tore open the envelope
of his sister’s letter, and devoured its con-
tents with intent, startled eyes.

“JT have found out all about

 

Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

burn——” the woman was beginning, when
Ford cut her short by pushing past her and
tapping sharply upon the panels of the sit-
ting-room door.

Within, there had been a sound of excited
talk, which was hushed at once at his
knock. Then came a considerable pause, after
which Dorcas, approaching the door without
opening it, asked who it was that knocked.

“It is I, Graham Ford. I must see Miss
Wrayburn at once!’’ :

“She can’t see you just now,” Dorcas called
through the door after a short, whispered con-
fabulation with Angela. :

“T must see her!’’ Ford exclaimed, and, un-
ceremoniously opening the door, he entered the
sitting-room. :

The sight which met his eyes confirmed his
worst fears. In the centre of the room stood
Angela in tears, happy tears. She was ail in
white; on the table lay a great bouquet of
white roses and a prayer-book, and on the
third finger of her left hand shone a plain
band of gold.

“Angela!’’ cried Ford, forgetting all conven-
= in his dismay. ‘‘You have not married

im!’’

‘“*You are forcing yourself in here uninvited!”
the girl said, blushing and paling with anger.
“But I am not going to deny the truth, al-
though I did not mean to have it known yet.
I was married to Mr. Francis at, St. Peter’s
Chureh an hour ago.”’

“But you are not his wife!’’ he cried in fierce
excitement.

‘“‘Not his wife? What do you mean?’’

“T mean that James Francis, as he calls
himself, or Scott, as he is really called, has a
wife living.’’

“It is not true!’ panted Angela. ‘You are
wickedly jealous, and ready to invent anything
against him! How dare you come here with
such a falsehood?’’

“Hush, Angela dear!’’ murmured Doreas, ap-
proaching and throwing her arms protecting-
ly round the girl’s trembling form. ‘‘Do pray
speak lower! You know Mrs. Smithson is al-
ways near the keyhole, and though she is

|deaf she manages to hear when she wants to!

the man/|

Scott from Doctor Black, who returned home |

yesterday.’ she wrote. “That tall woman we

used to see with him, and who must be over}

forty, is his wits and the dark man is his
brother-in-law. h
tory school,
of her pupils. Then, a few years ago, she
came into some money and left off teaching;
this Scott—who must be young enough to be
her son—found her out, and she was silly
enough to fall in love with him. He was a
dreadful scamp and he had enlisted in the lan-
cers, and she bought him out, and paid his
debts, and married him about two years ago.
Of course he ran through all her money, and

treated her so badly that he quite broke her,
heart, Dr. Black says, and Dr. Black knows |;

all about her, for she is a patient of his.
Then this Scott-stole some money belonging
to his brother-in-law, Mr. Dion Stanley, who
detests him, and, to avoid being prosecuted,
he ran away about five weeks ago. He has
been mixed up with the stage before, Dr.
Black says. so no doubt is the man you mean.
—“ His wife is so ill she is not expected to live,

and in Dr. Black’s presence her brother swore |

he will have Scott arrested for theft the mo-
ment Mrs. Scott dies. The brother says her
husband murdered her, but of course that is
an exaggeration. I can’t help feeling rather
sorry for Scott, although he is such a dread-
fully wicked person. It must have been a
trial, both Cecilia and I think, to be married
to that disagreeable-looking elderly woman,
and to live with that sulky brother. But what
do you mean to do in the matter?”

That was precisely the question which Gra-
ham Ford asked himself as he walked out
from the dark theatre into the blinding June
sunshine.
gela,.and, without comment, lay his sister’s
letter before her.
James Francis was in the habit of present-
ing himself at Angela’s lodgings a little after
that hour.. Of course Angela would be
ously angry with him—Ford; but his duty lay
clear before him, and he must risk making her
hate him in order to save her from becoming
the prey of a scoundrel.
fists involuntarily

blood boiled, and his

clenched.

“By Jove!’’ he muttered between his teeth.
“T wish I had the blackguard here now! Big
as he is, ’d thrash him! My sweet, beautiful,
pure-minded Angela to be the dupe of a paltry
adventurer, a thief escaping from justice, who
makes love to her and becomes engaged on
the sly, while his wife is dying! But I shall
insist upon facing him and telling him what 1
know, and if he doesn’t instantly clear out of
the company and the town, I'll threaten to
telegraph his address to Mr. Dion Stanley, of
Mayflower Villa, Thames Road, Surbiton.
Poor little Angela! I wish to heaven I knew
how, to break all this to her without hurting
her!’’ 2

Angela’s lodgings were actually in _signt.
Graham Ford’s pace slackened, and his heart
smote him as he thought of the pain he must
inflict upon her loving and sensitive nature.
Yet she must know, and, since there was fo
one else to undertake the painful task of dis-
illusioning her, Ford felt he must nerve him-
self to go through with it.

He therefore rang at the bell of her lodg-
ings, and inquired of the landlady whether
Miss Wrayburn was in.

The landlady,.a stout and garrulous person,
gave a broad and meaning smile as she shook
her head.

“She’s out, sir—she and Miss Morley togeth-
er, looking that, smart—well, there, one would
have thought that one of them at least was
going to be married! And—‘I shall be back
before eleven, Mrs. Smithson,’ she calls out to
me, ‘and will give the orders then.’ ‘And what
shall I say to your young gentleman if he
calls?? I asks. ‘Oh, he won’t call!’ says the
other young lady. ‘He’ll be witn us.’ Of course
I never interfere with my lodgers, sir, but,
Lor’, it did look like a wedding! And I must
say a ’andsomer pair I never did set eyes on,
he so tall and grand—all the girls in the town
are gone mad after him, I hear—and she so
fairy-like and pretty, with them lovely eyes
and hair, and such an actress, too! As my
husband puts it : ‘Miss Angela Wrayburn,’ he
says in his funny way, ‘she could act a don-
key’s hind-leg off.’ But, as I was saying——”

“What time did the ladies go out?’’

“Oh ,a matter of a hour or so ago! And
Miss Wrayburn all in white, looking as pretty
as a picture. My girl Lucy, she calls me to
the window. ‘Mother, she says, ‘don’t Miss
Wrayburn look like a bride?’ And that was
just what she did look like, a white sunshade
over her ’ed, and in ’er ’and a bunch of white
roses, for all the world like——”’

But Graham did not wait to hear the con-
elusion of the good lady’s simile. He could not
believe that Angela was capable of the folly
of marrying James Francis in the absence
and without the consent of her guardians.
But the mere suggestion seemed to make nim
beside himself with excitement and apprehen-
sion.

Acting upon a sudden impulse, he hurried to
the telegraph-office and dispatched the follow-
ing message to ‘Dion Stanley, Mayflower Vil-
la, Thames Road, Surbiton:”’

‘Your brother-in-law, Scott, is acting at
Saltford Theatre this week with the Stanford
Gunning Company under the name of James
Francis.” “

The telegraph-officé was situated at about
twenty minutes’ walk from Graham Ford’s
lodgings, and, as he turned into the street
containing them, he caught sight of Angela
and Doreas entering their rooms immediately
opposite,

In a moment he was on their track; the
door had indeed hardly closed upon them when
his hand was on the bell.

“T want to see Miss Wrayburn, who has just
come in,’’ he explained rapidly to the stout
and beaming Mrs. Smithsom

“Indeed, sir, I doubt whether she can see
you just now, or if she is still Miss Wray-

e used to Keep a prepara- '
and this Francis Scott was one:

|
}
}

|

|
|

Now, Mr. Ford, what do you mean by coming
here with these stories? Aren’t you ashamed

; of yourself for trying to ruin Angela’s happi-

ness just because you are jealous?”’

Cut to the quick and deadly pale, Ford
nevertheless controlled himself to answer her
calmly.

“T have come to save Miss Wrayburn, not to
hurt her——’’ he was beginning, when Angela
cut him short.

“My name is not Miss Wrayburn any longer.
It is Mrs. Francis——’’

She stopped short. Francis had used his real
name for the service, and had whispered to
her that he dared not use it openly at pres-

; ent on account of that mysterious bill-backing

 

First of all, he must seek out An- |

It was ten. o’clock, and ;

furi- |

; strain, until Dorcas had finished.
wishing to be loyal,

At the thought of Francis’ villainy Ford’s frame with her dry lips the words, “I do not

 

transaction he had entered into from his ‘‘gen-
erous desire to save a friend in distress.’’

But Ford supplied the name for her.

“Scott is the man’s real name,’’ he said, ‘‘and
his wife, the réal Mrs. Scott, is dying in her
home at Surbiton at this moment—dying by
oe of her husband’s ill-treatment and neg-
eo
“Tt is false!’ cried Angela passionately.
mae dare you come here with these cruel
ies!”

“They are not lies. How can you. suspect
me of such conduct? Here is the letter I have
just received from my sister. Read it! You
must read it, in justice to yourself!’’

“T will not read it! I expect my husband
every moment! Tell him your story!’

“You had better read the letter, Angela,’’
Dorcas whispered. ‘‘It looks as if you were
afraid to.’’

Mechanically Angela took the letter, but al-
most immediately she pushed it into Dorcas’
hand and sank into a chair with averted face.

“Read it aloud,’ she said to Dorcas. “But
before I hear it-I decline to believe one word
it contains against him! Now read it if you
want to!”’

In unsteady tones Dorcas began the terrible
indictment against the man Angela had mar-
ried, the man both she and Angela loved. Not
a muscle of Angela’s face appeared to quiver
as she listened, with every nerve .on the
Then, still
the little bride tried to

believe it!’’ But words refused to come, and,
pressing her hands to her eyes, she broke into
tearless, soundless sobs, which shook her slen-
der frame as a reed is shaken by a storm.

In a moment Dorcas was at her side, and
Dorcas’ arms were round her.

“Take your letter back!’’ cried Dorcas to the
unhappy Ford. ‘‘We neither of us believe it!’’

On her words, the outer door of the house
opened and shut with a bang. Some one came
in noisily, humming the refrain of a popuiar
song, some one big, and broad, and superbly
handsome, full of life, and vigor, and laughter,
and triumph, a newly-made bridegroom, who
burst open the sitting-room doors in his eager-
ness to clasp his bride.

Pale, distracted faces greeted him; Angela
sobbing on Dorcas’ bosom, and Graham Ford’s
hard, accusing countenance in lieu of the lov-
ing welcome he anticipated.

Francis’ face changed as he glanced from
one to the other of the three occupants of the
room.

“Ts it all up, I wonder?’ was his mental
comment as his hand sought for something in
his breast-pocket, and his eye gauged the dis-
tance between him and the door by which he
had entered. :

As though divining the latter part of his
thought, Graham Ford dropped a step or two
back and stood in front of the door. Fran-
cis’ sharp eyes noted the movement, and in
tones of insolent bravado he addressed his
rival.

‘May I ask to what we owe the honor of
this visit—my wife and I?”

“That lady is not your wife, and you know
it, you cowardly villain!’’ broke from Ford.
“Your wife is dying at your house in Thames
Road, Surbiton, at this present moment.”

“You mean my first wife,’ said Francis cool-
ly. “She is not dying, but dead, as you can
see by this.’’ B

And he drew from his pocket and flourished
before Ford’s eyes a telegram, -upon which
the following message was inscribed:

“Your wife is dead.’’

“T described myself as a widower in the
church just now,”’ Francis continued, as he re-
placed the telegram in his pocket. ‘‘Whether I
was a widower a year or a day or an hour is the
same thing in law. And now, Mr. Ford, if you
are thoroughly well satisfied of your failure to
make mischief between us, perhaps you will
go and leave me and my wife together.”

But Angela, who had listened, holding her
breath, to every word exchanged between the
two men, now rose to her feet, deadly pale,
with a face from which all youth and bright-
ness had vanished for the time.

“That is not all you are accused of,’’ she
murmured. ‘‘He says you are hiding from jus-
tice, not, as you told me, because you as-
sisted a friend by backing a bill, but because
you stole a hundred pounds of your brother-
in-law’s money and he has threatened to have
you arrested. Is that also true?’

‘When this fellow is gone, I will explain all
to you,’ Francis was beginning in soothing
tones, when Ford interrupted him disdainfully.

“You will not have the opportunity,’’ he said.
“T have telegraphed your address to your
brother-in-law, Dion Stanley, and, if your wife
is really dead, he will immediately have you
arrested.”’

An oath burst from Francis’ lips as he turned
in fury upon the speaker, :

“By what right do you interfere in my af-
fairs?’ he roared, beside himself with pas-
sion.

“By the right of my regard for, this lady
whom you have so cruelly deceived!” Ford an-
swered, as he faced the powerful form and
flushed countenance of his enemy unflinch-
ingly.

EShe is my wife, and what I may or may not
have done is a matter for private explana-
tion between her and me!’’ shouted Francis.
“Angela, come here!”’

t

 

White as her dress the girl stood, hesitating.
Already in those few moments it seemed to

Angela that a veil had been sharply torn aside,.

and that, for the first time, she saw Francis
as he really was—crafty, treacherous, unscru-
pulous, and cruel. Gazing at his face with
dilated eyeballs, she seemed, in those terrible
seconds, to perceive through the outward
beauty of form and coloring the ugly passions
which disfigured his soul.

A shiver passed over her frame, and a faint
moan escaped her lips.

Only a few short weeks before she had
wished, as she held his hand by the magic
tower of Randal Castle, that she might be-
come this man’s wife. And already, long be-
fore the prescribed year had passed away, her
wish was granted, and had turned to Dead Sea
fruit before. it touched her lips.

Yet she had sworn to love, honor and obey
him; if already she felt the two first to be im-
possible, if, with a sickening certainty, she
realized that she had loved him for qualities
he did not possess, her vow, taken before
God’s altar, must irrevocably bind her to this
man, and till death should part them she must
at least obey him. More like a corpse than a
bride she crept a few steps toward him as he
again called her by name, this time in more
peremptory tones. :

“Angela—come to me!”’

Ford saw the look of anguish which con-
vulsed her features, and, by the intuition of

-his deep affection, he guessed the revulsion of

feeling which had already taken place in the
young girl’s mind.

‘Don’t listen to him Miss Wrayburn,”’ he in-
terposed quickly. ‘‘He married you under faise
pretenses; we have yet to find out whether
his wife is really dead. And, if she is, the
Saltford police will be communicated with, and
he will be arrested for theft within an hour.
All he can do is to make his escape as quick-
ly as possible.’’

“If I go,’’ exclaimed Francis, ‘‘my wife goes
with. me! Come, Angela!’’

The girl shrank back, but he seized her
roughly by the arm. ~

“Do you think I have risked so much to. get
you, only to give you up now?’ he whispered
with burning lips into her ear. ‘‘Come away
with me and we will settle things quietly to-
gether.”’

His grasp bruised her arm, She drew back
trembling as he pulled her toward the door,
before which Ford was still standing.

“You promised that I should stay with Dor-
cas!’ she faltered.

“T would have promised anything to secure
you, my darling!’’"he returned with a laugh,
as he tightened his grasp on her arm. ‘‘Now,
you fellow, stand out of our way, if you
please!’’

But the sight of Angela shrinking and quiv-
ering in Francis’ rough grasp was too much
for Ford. Turning the key in the lock of the
door, he slipped it into his pocket.

“You shall not force that lady to go with
you!’ he exclaimed in tones of passionate ex-
citement. ‘‘Angela, go into the other room.
I will let this man escape if he promises not
to molest you.”’

In an instant Francis had whipped out his re-
volver, and, still holding Angela, had pointed
it at Angela’s defender.

“Tf you don’t instantly unlock that door and
stand out of my way, on my honor [’ll fire!’
he said. ‘‘One, two, three—do you mean to

“No!’’

“Then, take that!’

The two women saw a tiny flash, heard a
sharp report. Then Graham Ford threw up
his arms, swayed forward, and, without a
groan, fell heavily at Angela’s feet, shot
through the heart.

Francis bent over him and turned the body
over.

“He’s dead, by Jove!’ he muttered in a low,
awestruck voice. ‘I didn’t mean to kill him!’’

CHAPTER XI.

“What has happened! Open the door!
you hear me? Open the door!’’

Like to the terrible knocking on the gate
which struck awe into the mind of Macbeth
after Duncan’s murder, Mrs. Smithson’s voice
fell upon the affrighted ears of Francis Scott
and the two pale witnesses to the tragedy of
Graham's death,

Dorcas was the first to speak.

“You must get away at the back; you can
do it by jumping from the bedroom window,”’
she whispered rapidly to Francis, ‘‘Leave the
pistol on the floor by his right hand. I wiil
swear he killed himself.. You havyen’t a mo-
ment to lose!’’

“But Angela?”

“Angela will say what I say—that he shot
himself through jealousy... Of course the mar-
riage and everything will come out, and your
real name. If you stay you will be arrested
tor theft, and perhaps’’—in spite of her self-
control she faltered over the words—‘‘perhaps
for murder, too.”’

He had been Kneeling by Ford’s inanimate
form, and, in pursuance of Dorcas’ instruc-
tions, had placed the revolver on the floor by
the dead man’s right hand after replacing fhe
body exactly as it first fell, not without a
strong feeling of repugnance and even of su-
perstitious fear, for he had read somewhere
that the wounds of a murdered man gush
forth afresh if the murderer but touch his
body. He rose now to his feet, his fresh com-
plexion pallid for the nonce. Killing a man,
even unintentionally, was a serious business
and, as he rapidly reflected, a man arrested
for one crime is not likely to be let off lightly
in respect of another.

It was confoundedly tiresome, of course!
Francis characteristically felt no regret what-
ever for Graham’s tragic end. He had brought
it on himself. What business haa he to come
interfering in his, Scott’s, affairs? By dying
as he had done he had inflicted the worst pos-
sible turn upon his rival, and Francis could
have savagely kicked the lifeless figure at his
feet as he reflected on the probably unpleas-
ant results to himself of this careless shot.

Here were all his plans for the future spoiled,
and it annoyed him greatly, even in the midst
of the extreme seriousness of the situation, to
note how Angela shrank from him, and gazed
upon him with eyes in which all trace of love
was lost in horror and disgust.

“What are you waiting for?’ asked Dorcas
sharply, as she threw open the folding-doors
leading to the inner room. ‘Every moment in-
creases the danger! Do you know of any place
of safety?”

“T think so.”’

“Have you enough money?” :

He hesitated. It was “‘treasury’’ morning,
and he had not yet received his salary for the
preceding week. He would have taken Dor-
cas’ money without the least compunction but
for the presence of Angela and her accusing,
disdainful eyes.

Doreas was feeling in her pocket for her
purse.

“T can’t take your money!’’ he exclaimed ve-
hemently. :

“But you can take mine,’’ came in a low,
hard voice from Angela.

Both Francis and Dorcas looked at her in
wonder as, to all appearance perfectly com-
posed, she unlocked a writing-desk on a side-
table, and, taking from it a roll of bank-
notes, placed them in Francis’ hands.

“There are fifty pounds,’ she said. ‘‘When
you want more, you had better write—to Dor-
cas, not to me!”’

“Not to you? Angela, my wife!
you be so cruel?”

He had caught her in his arms, and was
bending his head to imprint a farewell kiss
upon her face, not, however, before he had se-
cured the bank-notes in his pocket-book.

Angela remained quite passive in his clasp.
Only a little shiver betrayed her feelings as
he pressed @ kiss upon her pale lips.

“T have done all this for you!’’ he murmured.
“My darling, only be true to me, and I will
return and clear myself and claim you!”’ :

“Open the door, or I will have it broken in!
I will know what is going on!’’ protested Mrs.
Smithson from the passage outside.

“Say ‘Good-bye’ to me, Angela!’’ a

“Good-bye!’’ she murmured with dry lips.

“So cold as that! Say you love me, dearest,
to ¢heer me in my exile!’

“T cannot say that!’’ burst passionately from
Angela. ‘‘Ask her to say so!’ she added, as,
pointing to Dorcas, she turned her back upon
Francis and buried her face in her hands.

The knocking on the door had changed to
hammering. Francis hurried to the next room,
followed by Dorcas. The window was only a
few feet above the yard, out of which an open
gate led to an unfrequénted_ alley.

“Good-bye, dear Dorcas! Try to soften her
heart toward me. It is hard to be scorned
because luck has gone against me. And on
my honor I only meant to frighten the fellow,
and perhaps graze him a bit!”

“Good-bye,’’ Doreas said, and tears gushed
from her eyes. ‘‘Write as soon as you are
safe, I will swear it was suicide! Good-bye!”’

Then, as, Romeo-like, he turned toward her
before vaulting out of the window, she bent
her plain, freckled face over him, beautified
on a sudden by the deep, unreasoning love she
bore him. .

“J may not see you for years,’’ she faltered;
‘let me kiss you.”’ :

He kissed her hurriedly, not caring to linger
over the caress. The next minute he had

Do

How can

 

sprung from the window, and was making his
way through the by-ways of the town to the
railway station.

“Has he gone?’’ whispered Angela, as Dorcas
slowly returned to the sitting-room,

“Yes. We must calm Mrs. Smithson now.
The key to the room is in—in his pocket,’’ Dor-
cas said, with a shuddering glance at that still
figure which lay face downward upon the floor.
“YT will tell her to find another key; that will
give Francis time to get away. And you must
back me up in everything I say. We must say
that the two were wrangling, that Mr. Ford
put the key in his pocket because he wanted
Mr. Francis to be arrested for debt, but that
when he heard Mr, Francis was married to
you, or was going to marry you, Mr. Ford
shot himself. But we must say Mr. Francis
had escaped before then.’’

“T cannot tell all those lies.’’

“Not to save your husband?
save him!”’

“You and I don’t look at things in the same
way,’ cried Angela passionately. ‘I am think-
ing of this loyal, kind friend lying dead at my
feet, murdered for trying to save me! I am
thinking of that poor lady at Surbiton, dying
of a broken heart for love of this man you
wish to save. And I will not, I cannot tell lies
for him!’

“Very well!’’ whispered Dorcas, after a short
pause for refiection. ‘‘Then I will say that
I was alone with the two men, as I had pushed
you into the bed-room that you might not be
worried by all this. And you will say nothing
of the marriage unless it leaks out. At least
I trust you not to contradict my statements.
Do you wish to see your husband hanged for
murder, Angela? Have you a heart of stone?’

Angela was Kneeling on the ground as Dor-
cas asked the question, gazing with infinite dis-
tress and pity on the dead body of her friend.
As she raised her head to answer, the rigid,
tearless agony of her face was so intense that
even Dorcas, warped by her sympathy for
Francis, began to understand.

“TJ think you are right,’’ Angela said slowly,
“and that my heart is turned to stone. [It
feels’’—and as she spoke she pressed both her
little hands upon her bosom—‘‘cold as stone
within me when you speak of him. I never
knew him, I never loved him. The man I loved
never existed, and that man who married. me,
and who killed my friend and ran away to
save himself, that man whom you love is a
stranger to me, a stranger whom, if I knew
better, I should hate! Whether people know of
my marriage or not, I don’t much care. Noth-
ing seems to matter at this moment. Here is
my wedding-ring.’’ She drew it off, and, still
with the same unnatural, hysterical calm, laid
it in Dorcas’ hand. ‘‘You can keep it; it means
nothing to me. For here, over the body of this
dear friend who lost his life for me, I swear
I will never, so long as I live, be the wife of
Francis Scott except in name!”’

Not even Dorcas dared to remonstrate, nor
could Dorcas wring from her anything more
than a promise not to gainsay her evidence.
At the inquest on Graham Ford’s body, the
little, self-contained, old-young person gave
her lying evidence with a clearness and pre-
cision which did credit to her long years of
dramatic training.

The two actors were jealous of each other,
she declared, but there was no absolute quarrel
between them until that fatal morning when
Mr. Foard called, and, during the absence of
Miss Wrayburn, informed Mr. Francis that he
had made the latter’s whereabouts known to
certain persons who were anxious to arrest
him. At this point, according to Miss Morley,
Mr. Francis had escaped through the win-
dow of the back room—as Mr. Ford had locked
the sitting-room door—and had slipped the key
in his pocket. Thereup she, Dorcas Morley,
had turned upon Mr. Ford, and had reproached
him for his treacherous conduct toward his
rival, and had taunted him with the fact that
the lady both men were courting infinitely pre-
ferred Mr. Francis, and not only was en-
gaged to be married to him, but desired to rid
herself of Ford’s attentions.

“He asked me if I meant it,’’ testified the
ingenuous Dorcas, ‘‘and, when I said I did, he
whipped out a pistol from his pocket and, be-
ee could stop him, shot himself through the

eart.’’

This evidence of Dorcas, given with unhesi-
tating ciearness, produced quite a sensation.
Corroboration was, however, a little lacking.
Miss Wrayburn in the adjoining room pro-
fessed to have heard and seen nothing until
Francis rushed through and jumped out of
the window; and Mrs. Smithson’s account was
verbose and confused, her indignation against
the persons who got up scenes and tragedies
in her house overfiowing at ever: moment, and
her deafness being patent to all.

Still, under the circumstances, Dorcas’ ac-
count might well have passed for the truth,
but for the unlucky fact that both the medical
men engaged to report upon the case expressed
their unhesitating opinion that Graham’s
wound could not under any possibility have
been self-inflicted.

Thus the recorded. verdict at the coroner’s
inquest, in spite of Dorcas, was:
“Willful murder against

eis Scott.”

And Angela, awaking from her dream-world
of beautiful imaginings, found herself at sev-
enteen, on the threshold of womanhood, the
bride of a missing thief and murderer!

(To be continued.)

THE BEST BARGAIN.

The Dexters were noted as a family for their
shrewdness, and Squire Dexter was proud of
it. He called it foresight, which enabled him
to get much for little, and he was elated when
he saw the same trait creep out now and then
in Don and Aleck, his sons.

Not that the Dexters were dishonest, as the
world defines dishonesty; the squire would not
have done anything that he thought dishonor-
able, but he had a knack of getting the best
of a bargain.

For various reasons Squire Dexter did not
keep a horse, which was a sore vexation to
the boys. Doll was Mr. Dick’s horse, a clean-
limbed young chestnut which the squire liked
to drive. As he frequently hired the animal,
he thought himself quite a benefactor to the
poor Mr. Dick.

Mr. Dick had not made such a success finan.
cially as had the squire. He was a simple,
straightforward old man, who had seen nearly
all his property slip through his fingers in his
dealings with those sharper than himself. The
squire said that was due to a lack of business
qualifications, and he privately expressed the
opinion that the old man should not keep a
horse, since he could hardly provide himself
and wife with necessaries.

But old Mr. Dick clung to his horse, and as
no one except the Dexter boys had evinced
much desire to own it, he had encountered no
great temptation to part with it.

Now, the temptation had come in the form of
bodily needs. The old man _ shivered in his
thin clothes that morning as he curried Doll.

“After Doll again,’’ he asked, with an abor-
tive attempt to cease shivering as the boys
rushed into the stable.

“Yes, sir,’’ answered Aleck.

“Your father’s getting pretty fond of Doll,’’
said Mr. Dick, giving a last touch to her mane.
“T don’t see why he don’t have a horse.’’ -

“Nor I,”’ said Don, impulsively:

“He might buy Doll,’’ said the old man,
slowly.

Don and Aleck exchanged glances, Don
slipped on the bridle before he put the ques-
tion that was crowding for utterance: ‘‘Would
you sell her?’’

“T've seen the time I wouldn’t, but it’s dif-
ferent now,’’ said Mr. Dick, sadly. ‘I’m get-
ting old, and—and I want the money.

The boys knew what this meant. Last week
there had been a rumor that the Dicks would
be asking for town relief this winter.

“How much will you take for Doll?”

“Tt don’t seem as if one hundred dollars
ought to be too much, Doll’s got blood
her—but I do need the money,’ the old man
sighed.

“Will you give father the refusal until to-
morrow?’ It was Don who put this question.
He could not await Aleck’s more deliberate
speech.

“T’d rather your’ family should
You know how to use a horse,
Doll,” partly mused the old man.

The squire had told the boys to put Doll to
the carriage before bringing her up the lane to
the house door, but they could hardly wait to
do this, so eager were they to tell the news.

“Tt’s what I call a bargain,’’ said Don, em-
phatically, as he jumped into the carriage.

“Yes,’’ assented Aleck, ‘‘father supposed old
Dick would want one hundred and fifty for
her.’’

“Well, Uncle Jack will think it cheap. He
paid one thousand dollars for a pair, and said
that neither one was any better than Doll.’’

Soon they were at the gate where Squire
Dexter and his brother were standing.

Don screamed out first. ‘‘We’ve struck such
a bargain, father!”

Then the two, as they tumbled out of the
vehicle, poured out an excited account of their
eall on the old man. Squire Dexter turned to
his brother with a laugh.

“They’re Dexters, Jack,

I would die to

James Fran-

have her.

through and

in |

and you like}

 

ee Know a good thing when they see
i

“And will you take her, father,’’ said Don, as
the squire and his brother got into the ve-
hicle.

“We'll see. . Uncle Jack will test her.’’

It was noon before the two men returned.

Jack Dexter was a good judge of horseflesh,
and the animal had been closely scrutinized
in every particular. As he stepped out of the
carriage the eager boys heard him say: ‘‘I’d
clinch it at once. She’ll sell in the market for
two hundred and fifty at least, with that style
and action. Sound as a rock, too. I’ll find a
buyer at that price any day. I’ll give you two
hundred myself.’’

‘“Whew! but did you hear that?’

Don whistled ecstatically, and gave Aleck a
punch in the ribs that sent him headlong into
the empty carriage as they got in to take the
mare home. 2

“T should say I did,’’ grumbled Aleck, rub-
bing his side. ‘‘But it won’t do a fellow any
good with his ribs smashed.”

*“‘We mustn’t look too delighted,’’ cautioned
Aleck. “Old Dick may repent when we tell
him father will come to see him about Doll.”

‘“‘No he won’t. He isn’t that kind. He’s as
straight as a dart, if he is poor. You know
father has said more than once that he
wouldn’t have been so poor if he hadn’t been
so straight. He’s a good old man, and it’s a
pity he and. old Mrs, Dick ’ve got to come down
to the poorhouse.’’ Don flicked a bit of hay
out of Doll’s tail. ‘‘And even one hundred dol-
lars won’t go far to keep them out very long.’’

“That’s true,’’ replied Aleck; ‘“‘but I’m glad
we've got the chance to get the horse as long
as he had to sell her, though I’m sorry for
them.’’

Mr. Dick was looking for the return of the
horse and met them at the gate. The boys
said nothing, according to Aleck’s suggestion;
but the old man betrayed his anxiety.

“Did you speak to your father about Doll?”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Dick. Father’ll be across to
see you.”’

“T wouldn’t be in any hurry, only it’s all I
can depend on for winter,’’ said the old man.
“Vd like to get in coal before the price rises,
and there’s Dr. Smith’s bill—he won’t like to
wait long, and Mrs. Dick’s apt to have him
any time with her rheumatism—and some flan-
nels for her, and, then, the living.’’

“Father’ll let you Know before the time’s
up,’’ answered Aleck.

“The poor old man has got the price whittled
down pretty close,’’ observed Don, as he swung
the hitching-strap against the gate-post in
turning into the street. It was Don’s habit to
hit things when he was thinking hard.

“He'd cut it still more, I, suppose,’’ Aleck
eat. curtly replied, ‘but he wants an over-
coat.’’

Nothing more was said. They hurried in to
the dinner table, where the family were al-
ready gathered. Jack Dexter was reviewing
the horse’s fine points, and the squire was in
a very jubilant mood. Mrs. Dexter, who had
smiled indulgently when Don and Aleck had
announced the news to her, now sat silently
listening.

After dinner she followed the squire into the
hall. ‘“‘Are you going to buy the horse?’’ she
asked, timidly, as she helped him into his
ulster.

“MF think: so.”

“But can you afford it?’ she ventured, with
still more diffidence, for Mrs. Dexter did not
often inquire into any of her husband’s busi-
ness.

“Why, you heard Jack,’’ Squire Dexter re-
plied, with a look of surprise. ‘‘I can make a
good sum. He’ll guarantee me a buyer.”’

“But I thought, perhaps, you couldn’t afford
it,’ she repeated, with gentle insistence,
brushing off a bit of mud from the garment
and avoiding his eyes.

“H—m!’’ said the ’squire. He pulled on his
gloves and joined his brother without reply.

The boys, standing in the door, looked puz-
zied. They followed their father and uncle
down the road to Mr. Dick’s, while Uncle Jack
kept up a one-sided conversation, not seeming
to notice that the others were unusually quiet,
They found the old man in the stable.

“Stays about Doll all the time now,’’ ob-
served Aleck, as he and Don stopped at the
door while their father went in.

Jack Dexter walked up and down outside,
smoking his cigar.

The squire chatted a few moments on vari-
ous topics, noting involuntarily as he did so
how rapidly the old man was ageing. He felt
impelled to say kindly: ‘‘We’re all getting on
in years, Mr. Dick.”’

‘‘Yes, sir, yes, sir,”’ said the old man, with
assumed cheerfulness and an attempt at a
smile. “It’s all I am getting on in, squire.’’
Then, quickly, as if fearing his visitor was
avoiding the important subject. ‘“‘The boys
told you I wanted to sell Doll?”

“Yes, they said so.’’ The squire’s tone was
perfectly non-committal.

“T do hope you’ll take her, squire.’’ Mr.
Dick stopped before the manger with a scant
forkful of hay. ‘‘The boys want her, and I do
need the money very much just now, squire.”’

The squire saw the withered hands tremble,
and he felt that it was not from the weight
they were holding.

“It’d go hard to go to the poorhouse this
winter,’’ sighed the old man. ‘‘Perhaps my
wife and I won’t be here to worry about an-
re winter. Don’t say you can’t afford it!’’

‘Fy mb?

The squire wrinkled his brows, turned on
his heel and walked to the door. The boys
stepped back and watched him. He looked to-
ward the old house beyond. Mrs. Dick, scan-
tily clothed, was emptying a wash-tub of
water. She looked up, saw him and bowed.

The squire raised his hat gravely. The gray-
haired woman reminded him of his own
mother, dead but a few years. His mother
had every comfort, he thought, gladly. It
was a shame for old Mrs. Dick to be so poorly
provided for as she was. How those two old
people would fare and feel in the poorhouse!
Then his mind ran to the horse. Could he
afford the bargain before him? He understood
well what his wife had meant.

“Pshaw!’’ He uttered the impatient exclam-
ation aloud. ‘‘The bargain was Dick’s own
making,’’ thought the squire. ‘I’m not bound
to tell the old man he’s letting his horse go
far below its value. Or am [?”

The. squire grew angry with himself that he
should allow such a query to confront him.

“Taint the money,’’ just then Don observed
in an audible tone to Aleck, giving the stable
door a kick as he spoke.

The boys had let nothing escape them. Don
had been reading his father’s thoughts. The
kick called Squire Dexter back to the present.
He looked up at the boys. His sons were
sharp like himself, he reflected. Could he af-
ford it? He determined to shift the responsi-
bility of the bargain upon the boys. They
should decide. As he turned to speak the old
man quavered behind him. The hesitation had
worried him.

“T thought it was a good bargain, squire.
I’ll have to sell her. I might take——’”’

The squire had whispered to his boys: ‘T
could get the horse for eigthy dollars. She is
worth two hundred and fifty. Shall I beat him
down? I leave it to you.”

“But, father,’’ interposed Don, with a frown,
‘‘twould that be just right when we took the
refusal at one hundred?’’

“And he’s got lots of things to get,’’
Aleck. j

“T say he ought to get what’s right,’’ said
Don, stoutly, and Aleck nodded a vigorous as-
sent.

“Mr. Dick!” The squire pulled his coat
about him and wheeled upon the old man.
“T’m sorry to say that I can’t afford the price.”’
The peremptory tone made old Mr. Dick
shrink.

‘“Jack!’’ The squire turned back to the door,
“Come here!”’

Jack Dexter had
seen in the transaction.
gaining, and he thought the sight of a
stranger might raise the price, He did not
know what kind of a man Mr. Dick was. Then
he had wanted to enjoy his cigar. But he,
too, had been observing some of the very
things the squire had observed, and the cigar
had lost its flavor.

He threw it aside in disgust as he stepped
inside at his brother’s call and saw the white-
haired, bent, shabby old man trying to hide
disappointment in unnecessary attentions to
the animal in the stall.

“This is my brother, Mr. Dick.’’ The
squire’s tone was cool and even. The old
man raised his faded, misty eyes and bowed
silently. ‘‘He’ll make you an offer for your
horse.’’

Jack Dexter looked in surprise at his brother,
“Not going to buy it yourself?’ he asked.

“We can’t afford it.’’ The squire made a
comprehensive gesture that took in the won-
dering boys, Mr. Dick and himself. “Make
him the offer you made me.”

Jack Dexter raised his shaggy eyebrows,
glanced at the boys, who were staring straight
into their father’s eyes, looked once more at
his brother, took hold of his own coat collar
and shook himself up. “Mr. Dick, I'll buy
your horse for two hundred dollars.”’

‘What!’ the old man gasped. ‘

“T suppose I can add fifty on my own ac-
count,” said Jack Dexter, coolly, nodding

said

thought it best not to be
He was used to bar-

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

 

 

VOL. 54—No. 50.

 

sturdily back at his brother, and then laugh-
ingly as he saw old Mr. Dick clinging, trem-
bling, to the manger. That’ll make two hun-
Cre fee fifty. That is what your horse is
worth.”’

“And I could not afford to give what she is
worth,’’ said the squire, recovering his most
matter-of-fact manner,

The Dexters were prompt to act when a de-
cision was reached. A check was drawn on
the spot, while the sqpire tried to ward off
the broken thanks that Mr. Dick attempted to
utter.

“No poorhouse! no poorhouse!’’ he mur-
mured again and again, causing both men to
shuffle about uneasily, and sending Don and
Aleck outside for a violent wrestling match by
way of concealing their emotion.

“You'll have a horse when I can afford it,’’
the squire simply said to the boys, as the two
men came out to find them thus joyously en-
gaged and to send them back for Doll. He
knew that his sons understood.

“T’m glad a Dexter got him,” reiterated old
Dick, his bent form straightened up, his eyes
beaming, as he stepped quickly about, making
preparations for Doll’s departure. ‘It ain’t
so hard to let her go now. Oh, but it’s what
a man takes with him when he makes a bar-
gain that shows his religion. You should be
proud of your father, boys.”’

“We are,’ Don promptly
ing his chin proudly. “It’s
having Doll our ownselves.’’

But Aleck could not refrain from a boast at
the tea table. “I tell you,’’ said he, ‘‘it takes
a Dexter to make a bargain, though, and this
is the best one yet.”

The squire looked across at his wife, and
she smiled with loving approval.

oe? 0 oo
a e 9 S iff
imiired S$ Sacrifice.
By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon,
Author of “The Magie Cameo.” ‘Little Miss Whirlwind,”
“Brownie’s Triumph,” ‘Stella Rosevelt,” “Queen

Bess,” “The Golden Key,” “A Giri in a
Thousand,’’ Etc.

answered, elevat-
better than even

(‘*“WINIFRED'’s SACRIFICE’ was commenced in No. 22.
Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers),

CHAPTER XXXVII.

MARGUERITE WOODMAN TRIES TO MAKE MIS-
3 CHIEF,

A month passed, during which Winifred met
Roger several times in society, although he
did not once present himself at her “at
homes.”’ :

He felt that he could not accept her hospi-
tality in the elegant abode which had been pro-
vided for her by the man who had purchased
her with his wealth, but when they encoun-
tered each other in the houses of other peo-
ple he always managed to secure a little of
her time to himself. ¥

No reference was ever made to their former
relations to each other during these _inter-
views; but both were ever conscious of their
all-absorbing love, that they were still one in
heart and thought, and, though they might
live apart during the whole of their natural
lives, nothing could ever change or blind them
to the fact. : :

Martin Metcalf was also conscious of this,
although as yet even his critical and jealous
eyes could find nothing*to question in their
intercourse with each other.

Roger was always open and strictly conven-
tional in his attentions, and Winifred received
them in the same spirit, apparently, as she ac-
cepted similar courtesies from other gentle-
men; nevertheless, to the watchful, envious
husband there seemed to be something in the
atmosphere when they were together which
betrayed how much the presence of each
meant to the other, and the man began to
grow nervous, suspicious and exacting. He
even began to fear and surmise that these dis-
appointed lovers were meeting in secret, and
that his handsome young rival was reveling in
the love that was denied him.

These suspicions were augmented by the fact
that Winifred seemed listless at home, was
losing appetite and color, and that her social
duties were evidently becoming very irksome
to her, and these jealous fears finally culmi-
nated in a little incident which occurred one
evening at a fashionable society function.

Winifred was unusually lovely on this occa-
sion, in a robe of dark blue velvet, combined
with light blue brocaded satin and richly em-
broidered in unique design ‘with pearls. She
wore a rare necklace of pearls and a superb
aigrette of the same costly gems in her dark
hair, and carried a beautiful fan of light blue
ostrich tips, with a carved pearl handle.

She knew that Roger was there and was
anxiously waiting for an opportunity to have
a little chat with her, and this consciousness
brought an unusual flush to her cheeks, while
her eyes were bright with anticipation and ex-
citement.

Her husband, who was observant of these
signs, readily surmised their cause; was, of
course, secretly enraged and resolved to Keep
a sharp lookout and prevent the usual meeting
of the lovers, if possible.

Winifred was surrounded by numerous ad-
mirers, and her attention occupied thus until
supper time, and it was not until she returned
to the drawing-room afterward, and, while
Martin Metcalf was in the smoking-room—
whither he had been enticed by a gentleman
who had ‘‘buttonholed’’ him for the purpose of
talking stocks—that she had an_ opportunity
even to exchange greetings with Roger. :

“TJ was about giving up in despair,’ he said
as he bent over her extended hand and speak-
ing for her ear alone. ‘‘Come,’’ he continued
with suppressed eagerness, “‘let us try to find
an unoccupied nook someWhere and have a
quiet few minutes by ourselves.”

Then he added in a louder tone:

‘Mrs. Metcalf, have you seen Mrs. Bach-
elder’s wonderful painting which she purchased
in Paris during her last trip abroad?’

‘‘No, although I have heard something about
it,’ Winifred replied, and glancing about the
walls as if in search of it, even though she
knew very well it was not there.

‘Tt has been hung at the lower end of the
hall; will you come with me to see it?’ Roger
inquired, offering his arm, which she accepted
and the two passed from the room,

The painting was a mere pretext, of course,
in spite of the fact that it was a very fine.one,
and, after pausing before it for a minute or
two, Roger led his companion through a short
passage, where, on the right, there was an al-
cove directly under the great hall staircase,
and where there was a sofa just wide enough
to accommodate two people.

They could not be entirely alone even here,
for this passage led to the rear entrance to the
library and people passed and repassed occa-
sionally; but they were away from the crowd
and were able to converse in comparative
quiet.

Winifred did not feel quite comfortable, in
view of the situation, and indeed she was
growing to feel that she wag beginning to look
forward to these meetings with Roger with
more of eagerness than she should, for she
knew that they only served to Keep alive and
feed the hopeless love which they entertained
for each other.

Only that evening, before coming to the
gathering, she had told herself that she must
put .a stop to them; but the moment he came
to her the charm of his presence swayed her
and made her forget her resolutions,

Her life was so lonely, so devoid of love and
sympathy; she had absolutely no one in whom
she could confide, or who would advise or
speak a word of kindly encouragement to her,
and so it seemed almost like dooming her to
mind and soul starvation to cut off this one
source of real enjoyment in life.

‘Winifred, you are_ perfectly lovely to-
night!’ Roger exclaimed as he seated her
within the alcove and ran an appreciative eye
over her elegantly clad figure, then placed
himself beside her. ‘‘Those contrasting shades
of blue are wonderfully effective and becom-

ing.

Winifred flushed hotly and then shivered
with pain.

“Don’t, please!’’ she said with a gesture of
repulsion. ‘‘Oh!’’—with sudden passion—‘‘you
cannot imagine how hateful all this finery is
to me.”’

The young man’s face paled.

She had never spoken like that in his pres-
ence before since his return, and the impulsive,
quivering tones betrayed to him something of
the suffering which she experienced in always
being decked out as a show figure to gratify
the vanity of the man who had purchased her.

“Forgive me,’ he returned regretfully, “TI
was not thinking particularly of the ‘finery,’
as you express it, but of the effect and taste
displayed in the contrasting colors which suit
you so admirably.’’

Then, to change the subject, he observed:

‘Winifred, I am told that Wadleigh is paint-
ing your portrait, and that it will soon be on
exhibition at the ——— Club. Is that true?”

“Yes, I have been giving Mr. Wadleigh sit-

tings for some weeks,’’
a sigh, for she felt she would sadly miss those
pleasant occasions with the artist when they
came to an end.

“He is a fine fellow,’’ Roger pursued. “I be-
came acquainted with him a couple of weeks
ago, and we are getting to be quite friendly.
There is something about him, though, that
seems very familiar—almost as if I had met
him before. He is going to paint my cousin
during the summer. She will make a fine sub-
ject for him, don’t you think?”

Winifred shot a quick look at him and a
sharp pain went quivering through her frame.

She had never forgotten Marguerite Wood-
man’s jealousy and unkindness of the previous
year, nor what she had said about her rela-
tions with Roger, and now a sudden fear that
perhaps, after all, he might marry his cousin
and be wretched ever after, caused her heart
to sink within her.

Bound though she was, hopeless as her own
future seemed destined to be, she felt that
she,could not endure to see him the husband
of that scheming, treacherous woman,

“Yes,”’ she replied, feeling that she must say
something, ‘‘Miss Woodman is very handsome;
is she here to-night?”

Before Roger could reply the swish of silken
garments fell upon their ears and Marguerite
Woodman herself stood before them, a look of
malicious hatred in her midnight eyes as they
rested upon the speaker. She had been in the
library and, having seen Roger and Winifred
when they sat down in the alcove, she had
been racking her brain for several minutes for
some excuse to interrupt their tete-a-tete.

“Yes, I am here, Mrs. Metcalf, and, if you
think you can spare my cousin I am going to
ask him to get mean ice, for I am very warm
and thirsty—will you, Roger?’ and she turned
coldly from. Winifred to her companion.

“Certainly, Marguerite,’’ he replied, with
grave politeness, for he did not like either her
tone or her manner, to say nothing of being
so unceremoniously interrupted in his conver-
sation with Winifred.

He went away for the ice, leaving the twa
girls together.

The moment he was out of sight Miss Wood-
man turned almost savagely upon her rival.

‘Do you know what society is saying about
you, Mrs. Martin Metcalf?” she demanded, in
a tone of concentrated rage.

——o lifted a pair of astonished eyes to
er.

“I did not imagine that I was of sufficient
importance for society to discuss me particu-
larly,” she observed, but bridling a trifle, for
she was in no mood just then to bear any
brow-beating from the haughty young woman.

“I presume not, for you have been too deep-
ly engrossed,’’ was the sareastic rejoinder,
“but, all the same, Mrs. Grundy is discussing
you particularly and hinting very strongly that
the youthful bride of the rich Mr. Metcalf
finds her middle-aged husband rather dull and
uninteresting company, and so tries to enter-
tain herself by flirting with younger and hand-
somer men. But if you must get yourself
talked about, Mrs. Metcalf, I beg that you will
have the grace not to allow my cousin’s name
to be mixed up in a scandal of that kind. When
he returns with the ice you may tell: him that
he will find me in the library.”

Without giving Winifred an opportunity to
reply to her insulting tirade, ‘she Swept back
into the room from which she had just come,
and leaving her victim crushed and dismayed
over the thought of having her name bandied
about in any such way as had been repre-
sented.

When Roger returned she was still sitting
where he had left her, pale as snow and with
an expression in her eyes which both puzzled
and distressed him,

‘““Where is Marguerite?” he inquired.

With a gesture Winifred indicated that she
was in the library, and he passed on to deliver
the ice which he had secured for her. His
cousin was talking with a gentleman, but she
held out her hand for the ice and thanked him
with a smile.

“Will you.be ready to go home when I have

finished this?’? she inquired, and determined
to keep him at her side if possible,
_ “Yes, if you wish—I will return here for you
in a few moments,” he replied, and, bowing
himself away, went back to Winifred. Miss
Woodman excused herself to her companion,
and, turning to a table, set down her ice un-
tasted; then, with a wicked look in her eyes,
she swept out of the room, crossed the hall
and entered the drawing-room.

A swift glance around the room showed her
Martin Metcalf slowly circulating among the
guests as if in search of some one.

She glided to his side, and, after exchanging
a few words with him, observed:

“Were you looking for Mrs. Metcalf?—I
think you will find her in an alcove’at the end
of the hall, and really, Mr. Metcalf, I am
afraid people are getting a trifle curious. Ah!
I see Mrs. Nutting—excuse me, I wish to speak
to her,’’ and the artful girl bowed herself
away, while the millionaire, with a cloud on
his brow, proceeded to act upon the hint he
had received and went in search of his wife.

Meantime Roger had returned to Winifred.

She arose as he approached, determined that
she would give no occasion for any further
gossip.

“T think I will go back to the drawing-
room,’’ she remarked in a constrained tone.

The young man regarded her with mingied
Surprise and perplexity, for he could not un-
derstand the change in her manner, and won-
dered if Marguerite could have said anything
to wound her.

““‘Wait, please,’’ he entreated; ‘sit down, just
for a moment longer, for I have something
especial that I wish to tell you.”
_ She gave him a startled glance, not quite lik-
ing that word “‘especial,’’ but sank back upon
her séat.

“Just a moment longer’ would not matter, she
thought, for she told herself that, after this,
there must be no more confidential chats with
him anywhere. Scandal or no scandal, she
could not trust herself to go on in this way,
while she loved him too well to allow the world
to think that he would be guilty of attentions
that would compromise either of them in the
slightest degree.

“Winifred, you are not yourself to-night,”
Roger remarked, and leaning nearer to her to
study her face, ‘‘Are you troubled about any-
thing? Can I help you in any way? You know
there is nothing I would not do for you.”’

She glanced up at him with a smile, though
her heart seemed breaking.

“You said you had something especial to tell
me,’’ she observed, evading his questions.

He flushed, for he knew that his manner,
rather than his words, had betrayed more of
what was in his heart than he had any right
to reveal in her presence, and he felt justly
reproved.

He was sure that there was something on
her mind, for she could not wholly conceal her
wretchedness; but since she was too brave and
loyal to confess it, he felt that he had no
right to increase her misery by attempting -to
probe it.

“Yes, I have,’ he returned. ‘I thought it
might interest you to know that I have beén
changed from my post in the West to a posi-
tion here in New York.”’

Winifred’s heart gave a sudden bound of de-
light at this intelligence; but the next mo-
ment sank like lead in her bosom.

Her first thought had been one of joy that
he would henceforth be near her, where she
would be able to see him frequently; her next
was one of dismay, in view of the constant
struggle which this proximity would entail
upon them both.

But she had no wish to reveal these feelings
to him, and, still trying to smile bravely back
at him, she replied:

“Of course, I am interested in whatever con-
cerns you, and I suppose you are glad not to
soi obliged to return to that uncivilized coun-
ry.

“Yes, I am glad, Winifred,’ was the eager
response. “Since my doctor thinks that I am
not in proper condition to rough it at present
—this collar bone of mine is behaving in
rather an ugly manner—I am pleased to be as-
signed to duty where I shall be able to see—
my friends now and then. Tell me that you
are glad also,’’ he concluded, bending closer to
her and tenderly lowering his voice to almost
a whisper.

CHAPTER XXXVIIL

AND MRS. MARTIN METCALF HAVE
THEIR FIRST DOMESTIC TILT.

“Pardon me! but if Mrs. Metcalf can be ex-
cused, I will ask her to come with me to make
our adieux to our hostess, as I wish to return
home.”’

The voice broke in upon the young couple,
smooth and suave, but witha venomous sting
in the tones that caused both Winifred snd
Roger to glance up with an inward start to
find Martin Metcalf standing before them,
looking very red in the face and with an un-
mistakable gleam of anger in his eyes.

There was much in the above sentence that
grated harshly upon Winifred’s nerves and
aroused all her spirit.

““Are you ill, Mr. Metcalf, that you wish to
retire so early?’’ she calmly inquired, as she
met his angry glance unflinchingly.

“No, I am not ill, but, if you please, I wish

MR.

to

 

eave all the same,”’ he stifly returned.

Winifred replied with

 

=

Winifred deliberately arose and, turning with
~ smile to Roger, held out her hand to

im.

“Good night, Captain Woodman,’’ she said.
“I sincerely hope that your new position and
duties will prove to be agreeable in every re-
spect.”’

“Thank you, Mrs. Metcalf; there certainly
will be less danger attending them. Good
night—good evening, Mr. Metcalf,’’ Roger cour-
teously returned and bowing to both as they
passed him.

But Martin Metcalf did not deign to respond
to him; he held himself rigidly erect as he
turned his back upon him, then led his wife di-
rectly to Mrs. Bachelder, to whom they made
their adieux, after which they immediately re-
paired to the dressing-room for their wraps.

Five minutes later they were on their way
home; but though Mr. Metcalf observed every
outward mark of courtesy in assisting Wini-
fred into the carriage and tucked. the robe
carefully around her to protect her from the
oan he did not once address her during their
ride.

He was just as attentive in assisting her to
alight when they arrived at their own door,
but it was a politeness which impressed her as
ominous and culminated, as they entered the
house, in his requesting her to accompany him
to the library, as he had something he wished
to say to her.

On entering the room he removed his hat,
threw off his coat, then turned and faced her.

“Madam, this thing has got to be stopped,”
EY briefly announced in a tone of stern author-
ity.

“I do not understand you, Mr. Metcalf—what
has got to be stopped?’ Winifred quietly re-
turned, as she lifted her glance and steadily
met his eyes.

“These meetings and flirtations with your
old lover—blast him!”’ was the angry retort.

Winifred suddenly grew very tall and
straight.

“I do not understand you, Mr. Metcalf,’’ she
said again.

“Yes, you do, young woman,”’ he sputtered,
losing control of himself more and more. ‘I
haven’t been blind during the last few weeks,
although you may have imagined that you
have pulled the wool over my eyes in a very
clever way. You have never yet met young
Woodman in society that you have not re-
ceived marked attentions from him, and ap-
peared to enjoy them exceedingly besides.’’

Winifred smiled slightly at the charge, and a
quiver of scorn dilated her delicate nostrils.

““Yes,’’ she said with quiet deliberateness, ‘‘I
have greeted Captain Woodman with pleasure
and I have spent several minutes chatting with
him, the same as I have greeted and chatted
with many other acquaintances; but I@have
never uttered a word in the gentleman’s§pres-
ence which you and all the world might not
hear, and I was never guilty of flirting with
any one in my life.’’

*T don’t know what else you would call it—
and how do I know that there haven’t been
other and secret meetings?’ queried Mr. Met-
ealf, sullenly.

“TIT am incapable of forfeiting my own self-
respect to such an extent,” Winifred proudly
replied.

“Perhaps you are not aware of what the
world is saying,’ observed her companion, but
beginning to feel somewhat ashamed of him-
self as he looked into those, clear, honest eyes
that met his so fearlessly.

‘““Well?’’ she briefly inquired.

“That this young man is dead in love with
you, for one thing.”

**Well?”’

“And that it is ‘a great pity you should have
married an old man,’ like myself, ‘when you
two are SO much better fitted for each other.’ ”’
quoted Mr. Metcalf, with a crimson face.

“T fail to see how such an opinion, by who-
ever expressed, can reflect upon my integrity,”
said Winifred, calmly, although some of her
color faded as she realized the truth of the re-
marks, \

“Perhaps not; but, of course, I know that
Woodman was your lover when he went
West,’’ the man asserted.

“Yes?’’—in a tone that neither affirmed nor
denied the imputation.

“And it is but natural that he should cher-
ish the same feelings toward you upon his re-
turn.’’

Mr. Metcalf paused to notice the effect of
his words; but his wife made no response—she
simply stood in a listening attitude, as if wait-
ing for him to go on.

“‘And—maybe you are still just as fond of him
as he is of you,’”’ he concluded, while he bent
forward to search the beautiful face before
him more closely.

Not a muscle of it changed; but marble could
not have been whiter.

“That is a subject upon which no one has a
right to question me,’’ she said with cold dis-
tinctness.

‘Indeed! Not even Mr. Woodman himself?’
demanded Martin Metcalf, with a skeptical
laugh.

“Not even Captain Woodman himself,” re-
peated Winifred, emphatically. Then, taking a
step or two nearer him, she continued, with a
dignity and spirit that warned him she was no
weak girl to be browbeaten and intimidated by
such means as he was employing:

“And you insult your wife, Mr. Metcalf, by
such insinuations and suspicions. Even sup-
posing what you have said were true, it does
not follow that I must be disloyal to my prom-
ises to you,’ Winifred continued with con-
vincing straightforwardness. ‘“‘When I con-
sented to marry you, I tacitly agreed to bury
all the past in oblivion. I was perfectly frank
with you in discussing the conditions of our
union, and you were apparently satisfied to be
governed by them. When I became your wife
I bound myself, in so far as I was able, to con-
scientiously fulfill all the obligations which I
had assumed; and, Mr. Metcalf, as long as we
both live I shall.adhere to what I believe to be
my duty to you. I wish to respect myself—I
want you to respect me, and I never have—I
never will, voluntarily commit any. act whieh
shall cause me to forfeit either.one or the
other. If certain malicious people in society
can find nothing better to do than to watch
me and misconstrue my every word and act I
cannot feel that Iam accountable. There are
those, you know, who must gossip about some-
thing or some one; but I wish and mean to do
exactly right.’’

Her cloak had fallen away from her while
she was speaking and hung partially over one
shoulder and arm, thus revealing her beautiful
costume, -which contrasted most effectively
with the spotless brocade; and, with her per-
fect figure drawn erect with an air of ton-
scious integrity and her face expressive of the
lofty sentiments that animated her, she looked
a veritable queen of purity and rectitude, and
the man before her was convinced, for the mo-
nee at least, that every word she uttered was
truth,

At the same time, he felt assured that she
still cherished a secret love for Roger Wood-
man. He knew that she did not love himself,
and he believed that her affection for the
young soldier, even though she might never
give expression to it by word or look, would
forever stand an insurmountable barrier be-
tween them aS husband and wife.

The consciousness of this drove him almost
insane with jealousy, and, of course, he was
proportionately unreasonable.

“You say you want and mean to do exactly
right,’’ he observed, with a frown, ‘‘but do you
think you are living up to those avowed inten-
tions by slipping away into obscure corners to
have confidential chats with Captain Wood-
man ?’’

“That is something that I have never done,
Mr. Metcalf,’ Winifred composedly returned,
but with a dangerous sparkle in her eyes. ‘I
claim that no place is an ‘obscure corner’
which is open to the public. I sat for perhaps
eight or ten minutes, all told, in the alcove
where you found me to-night with Captain
Woodman. During that time Miss Woddman
came to ask him to get her an ice, which he
did, and other people were passing and repass-
ing. Last evening at the Millward’s, if you re-
member, you yourself found me a seat behind
some tall palms, where I could converse undis-
turbed with young Mr. Fletcher, who detained
me there for nearly half an hour.’’

Mr. Metcalf began to realize that he was get-
ting decidedly the worst of the argument, and
it made him exceedingly uncomfortable.

“That is different,’ he retorted sharply: “‘it
makes all the difference in the world whether
a gentleman whom your husband introduces
to you pays you attention for a half hour dur-
ing a single evening, or whether an old lover
seeks you out upon every occasion and carries
you off into a corner. I forbid all flirtations
with Captain. Woodman in the future,’’ the
jealous man concluded sternly.

“You are forbidding what has never oc-
curred—what is never likely to occur, and—I
shall continue to treat Captain Woodman cour-
teously whenever I meet him, the same as I
would treat any other gentleman of my ac-
quaintance,’’ Winifred returned with deliberate
self-possession. ‘‘I intend never to forget,’
she continued with a womanly dignity that
was very charming, “that I owe a proper re-
gard to my position as Mrs. Martin Metcalf,
and I shall be glad if I can be permitted to
preserve the respect, which TI have hitherto
maintained for you; but I am not a child, Mr.
Metcalf, to have every act regarded with sus-

 

picion, and to be ‘forbidden’ to do this, that
and the other. Good night.’’

And with a graceful though somewhat for-
mal inclination of her body, she swept past
him and disappeared, going directly up to her
own room. ;

The man stood where she left him for some
minutes, thinking over the conversation that
had passed between them.

He had been terribly jealous of Roger Wood-
man ever since his reappearance in New York,
and, while he felt satisfied that Winifred had
really done nothing indiscreet, that she had
not made herself unduly conspicuous with him,
and he had not heard any gossip, except a few
malicious words which Marguerite Woodman
had taken pains now and then vo drop in his
hearing, the fact that the two young people
still loved each other as devotedly as when
they had been pledged to each other, made him
very wretched.

He really was very fond of Winifred—he was
proud of her beauty and of the admiration
which she excited, and he yearned to have her
manifest some regard for him; indeed, he was
fast growing bitter and morbid upon this point.

Instead of being appeased by what Winifred
had said regarding her intention to maintain
her dignity and honor, he became more and
more enraged, because he was conscious that
he had made himself ridiculous and lowered
himself in her esteem by his jealousy, unjust
suspicions and insinuations.

He was in no mood to retire, and; lighting a
cigar, he sat down to read for a while until he
became more composed.

He took up the evening paper, but his nerves
were by no means soothed when he came
across a paragraph which stated the fact,
which Roger had that evening communicated
to Winifred, that Captain Woodman had been
exchanged from his post in the West to a
government position there in New York.

This unforeseen contretemps seemed to him
to be the “last straw’’—the “last drop in his
cup’’—and the man literally ground his teeth
in impotent rage. -

He had managed to keep his jealousy pretty
well under control until this evening, because
he had been confidently looking forward to the
time when Captain Woodman would be obliged
to return to his post, when, he had flattered
himself, Winifred would become more resigned
to her present position and in time perhaps
even forget the ‘‘old love.”’

But he now realized that, if the young man
was going to remain in the East, the two
would have numberless opportunities to meet
each other, and thus the old flame would sure-
ly be Kept alive and his own chances of. win-
ning his wife’s heart be proportionately les-
sened. He finally threw down his paper, in
mingled despair and disgust, and fell into
troubled thought.

At the end of half an hour his face cleared
as if he had suddenly been inspired by a solu-
tion of the troublesome problem.

“T know what I will do,’’ he muttered. “I
will close the house at the end of another
month, or as soon as I can arrange my affairs,
and take Winifred to Europe for two or three
years; perhaps I may even be able to arrange
to reside there permanently.”’

This idea seemed to be so pleasing to him
he lighted another cigar and, wheeling around
before the fire in the grate, proceeded to lay
his plans for the proposed foreign trip and
wholly unmindful of the lateness of the hour.

He smoked his Havana nearly up and tossed
the remainder of it into the fire, but continued
to sit there thinking, thinking, until he finally
dropped asleep in his chair.

The clock on the mantel chimed, ‘‘one, two,’
then :-the minute hand swept around to the haif
hour and gave forth one musical stroke.

The sleeper stirred uneasily but did mot
waken; then the clock ticked on until ‘‘three’’
sounded sweet and clear through the room,
and shortly after a coal from the grate slipped
into the pan underneath and the unfamiliar
sound caused the man to start from his slum-
ber, whereupon he sat erect rubbing his eyes
and yawning wearily.

Almost at the same instant the library door
is opened and a tall, slim figure, all in white,
glides into the room,

It is Winifred, but something in her face—
which is as colorless as the dainty robe she
wears—and in the wide-open, staring, brown
eyes, sends a thrill of horror creeping over
Martin Metcalf’s frame, as he involuntarily
rises from his chair, but checks the startled,
inquiry that arose to his lips.

(To be continued.)

A Russian Romance.

 

By VIOLA TYRELL,

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

(“A Russian ROMANCE” was commenced in No. 87.

-Back numbers can be obtained of all newsdealers.)

CHAPTER XXXI.
IN THE WHITE DRAWING-ROOM.

“‘Then a light, then thy breast; + :
, thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again, ~
And with God be at rest.’’
Browning.

The white drawing-room looked as though
he had never left it! There were the two
lemon silver collies stretched at full length on
the great white bear fur rug. There were the
silver vases full of rare exotics, breathing a
subtle perfume in the air. And he, Paul Zou-
roff, who had last stood there, deeming he
Was saying an eternal farewell to Sabrina So-
bienski, was standing there again, freed from
the chains that bound him—freed in a terrible
manner, but still freed: When he had received
Lucille’s last letter, together with the tidings
of her death, in which she told him that she
had sacrificed her own life, as well as the lives
of the Brotherhood of Seven, in order to save
Edmond Dmietroff, Paul felt that he dare no
longer cherish his private vendetta. He would
not raise his hand against a life that had been
preserved in such an awful manner. Edmond
was henceforth sacred to him. His sister had
given her life and risked her soul for him.
***Vengeance is mine, I will repay,’ saith the
Lord.’’ Sometimes His instrument is the hand
of a woman.

And now; after traveling ceaselessly night
and day, he had come to kneel at Sabina’s feet
to tell her his story and ask for her forgive-
ness and hér love. * * #*

The door opened softly and she stood before
him, a tall, stately beauty, in trailing robes
of white. There was a light in her sapphire
eyes that would have told a woman that she
had already forgiven him, and that her love
was ripe to be laid at his feet. But Paul dared
hardly raise his eyes to that beautiful face. It
was with halting tongue that he began his
story. Sabina stopped him.

“Do not go on if it pains you,” she said gently.
“Tf you had felt yourself unworthy to love me
I know you would not have come back to me.’’

*“You must hear me out,’’ he told her grave-
ly, *“‘and if-at the end of what I have to tell
you you spurn me with your foot, you will be
within your rights. They say that love par-
dons alt; but I do not know if it can pardon
this. I will never become your husband unless
you know all my past life, with its sins and
its follies, its dead ambitions and its worthless
aims. There shall never be a shadow between
us, dear one; never a passage in my past life
upon which you can lay the finger of reproach,
and say, ‘You,never told me this.’ That is the
poison in married life. Want of confidence—it
costs much—God only knows how much it costs
sometimes—for a man to unveil his past before
the pure eyes of the woman he loves. But
think what a relief to. unburden oneself to ears
that are sympathetic and willing to forgive! To
have the confession over and done with for
ever and aye, and to begin one’s bliss without
the poisoned asp in the Garden of Eden.”’

He told his tale from the beginning; told of
his peasant life in Russia; told of his mother’s
death under the lash of the tyrant, of his vow
to avenge her, of the Brotherhood to which he
belonged, of his summons by them when he
bade her farewell. * * * In more hushed
tones he spoke of his sister, of how she had
loved the man she was sworn to destroy, and
how she had made his safety secure; * * *
of how she had died herself, and in so doing
had paid the last and most final penalty for
all her follies and her crime. * * *

“If after this you still love me,’’ he cried,

‘if you can take a man so stained with crime |

to. lay in the pure snow of your bosom, then, I
swear to you, you shall have a husband such as
no woman ever had before. If your nobility
can stoop to associate itself with my baseness,
in time perhaps you will lift me a little nearer
the God whom I have almost lost. There is
no word strong enough to express what I could
be to you—husband, it is poor; lover is a
nearer, dearer name, and wedded lovers we
will be to all eternity if you can pardon. [
am at your feet.” |

He had stood during this recital of his
wrongs and follies, but now he sank at her feet
in an excess of remorse and humility, and
laid his head against her dress as a child might
do when he is praying at his mother’s knee. ~

“T have nothing to offer you,’’ he murmured.
“You so high, so pure, so noble! Nothing but
the name of a Russian peasant and the crime-
stained past of a man of the world.’

She laid her hand lightly on his head, as
though in blessing. : :

“And what about the noble deeds by which
you won your way in battle?” she said. ‘‘Has
not the Tsar himself decorated you with the
highest orders for bravery that the Russian
Empire knows?’

“That was less than nothing. I threw my-
self among bullets in the hope that a stray one
might put an end to my worthless life. It was
no preysry; rather it was the suicide of the
cowarda!”’

“You are so bitter and severe upon yourself;
will you never see yourself as others see you?”

‘And how is that?’

She took his hand and led him to a mirror
and stood there beside him. Two regal forms
they were, adorned with God’s best gift of
beauty.

“They see,’’ she said slowly, ‘‘a man noble,
good and true, who once in his life went down
the wrong path. He might have gone further
in the darkness till he lost himself forever,
but a divine hand plucked him back, by terrible
means, and placed once more a salvation with-
in his grasp. No one knows what you have
told me. You have been a great favorite in the
past, and your future may be more brilliant
still, for the Tsar’s eye is upon you, and his
notice means success. I see something else in
this mirror, Paul—something besides the Rus-
sian peasant, nihilist or soldier. I see the hus-
band of Sabina Sobienski!’’

She turned to Him with a quick, nestling
movement, and, though her lips smiled, there
were tears in the sapphire eyes, as she laid
her head upon his breast. :

“We both have faults; we have much to
learn,’’ she murmured, ‘‘but oh, surely, if we
begin the future aright, the past must efface
itself. God will not let you suffer forever.”’

“Angel of mercy! How can mere mortal
hope to reward such sweetness!”’

“Only love me, dear; that is all I ask. What
else in the whole wide world can weigh in the
balance against love?’”’

“Nothing, truly! And you will forget your
high station to wed the Russian peasant?’

“You are no peasant to me; you are the man
I love,” she answered, raising hér queenly
head from his breast with the characteristic
haughtiness of her race. “I have chosen
more> than my mere equal in = marry-
ing you. We are one in heart and brain
and soul. What does mere rank matter? Be-
sides, I am the last of my race, and I have
the right to confer on my husband my own
title. So that you will be Count Sobienski, and
I defy any of my ancestors to be worthier of
the name.’’

A woman’s love knows no limits. Sabina
gave, and gave generously, mind,-body and es-
tate into the keeping of the man she honored;
and though the dead and gone Sobienskis may
not be quite as pleased about the match. as
Sabina hopes they are, they will doubtless re-
member the Biblical saying that a living dog is
better than a dead lion! ’

They were married almost immediately and
went straight home for their honeymoon.
Alexia Bebrofska attended the wedding with
the air of watching the world coming to an
end. She liked Paul Zouroff well enough, but,
in-her opinion, he was hardly a fitting mate
for the last of the Sobienskis. ;

Had she known more she would have felt
surer still

As it was, she went to the Countess Sumic’s
immediately after the bride and bridegroom
had been whirled away en route for the
Chateau Sobienski.

“T told you all that snow would drive Sabina
mad, and it has done it,’’ she said, plaintive-.
ly, as she removed her gloves in order the bet-
ter to do justice to Sophie’s cakes and tea.
“Only fancy Paul Zouroff becoming Count
Sobienski! Sabina is infatuated, and would
have no settlements.’”’

“Yes, a woman in love is a very happy and
inconsequent creature,’ ‘said the Countess
Sumic. “But it is really delightful to be able
eto love oneself like that, even if one does
awake to find one’s illusions have taken unto
themselves wings.”’

She looked down at her hand,

“Yes, they look abominably happy, plague
take them!”’ she said whimsically. “‘But they
have lost me my best diamond ring!’’

CHAPTER XXXII.
MR. AND MRS. RODNEY CHESTERTON.
Time will tell and the end declare, what man for

you,
What woman for me was the choice of God.
Browning.

It was August, and the gardens at Glyn Ab-
bott were ablaze with all sorts of brilliant, old-
fashioned flowers. The stately blue lupines
grew side by side with the richly colored Ori-
ental poppies; the gay ‘“‘bachelor’s buttons”
nodded near the glowing yellow tutsans, and
the everlasting pea, with its rich, scentless
eee: twined itself about the stately holly-

ocks.

It was nearly a year ago since the events
occurred which we have just related. Hd-
mond Dmietroff had gone back to Russia to
devote his life to softening the condition of
the peasant poor, about whom his lost love
had spoken to him so _ pathetically. Mr.
Gregory was abroad trying to drown remem-
brance and shake off haunting sorrow by
constant traveling, and Frances was at home
with her aunt, Miss Deborah Gregory, for com-
panion, The latter could never free her prim,
elderly conscience from a twinge of remorse
at having in a way been the means of “all the
unpleasantness,” as she mildly termed the
terrible tragedy which had wrecked her broth-
er’s life and threatened to unhinge his mind.
Lucille’s death had been put down mercifully
as “accidental.’”’ It was proved that she had
been. in the habit of taking chloral for years,
and it was supposed that she had inadvertent-
ly swallowed an overdose. So a fair, white
cross of purest marble was erected over her,
and she slept in God’s Acre side by side with
the wife of an English earl. How little did the
mother who rocked the cradle of the little Rus=
sian peasant dream where her child’s last rest-
ing place would be! 3

Frances Gregory was wandering about the
gorgeous garden now, a sombre spot in the
midst of all its summer glories, in her plain
black gown. She looked worn and thin, and
had indeed newer recovered from the shock of
Lucille’s death and subsequent events. She
was listening, with a wan smile on her lips, to
Rodney Chesterton’s pleading voice.

“Do be sensible for once, Frank! It breaks
my heart to see you going about so wan and
white looking. Why will you stick in this mis-
erable place when everything reminds you of
the past? Marry me and [I will take you
abroad and make you forget all your troubles.
I will be your @evoted slave. I will nurse you
back to health—I shall be so careful of you.”

“TI don’t want to marry anybody, Rodney,”
replied Frances, listlessly.

“People never want to do what is good for
them,’’ said Rodney Chesterton, rather vi-
ciously.

“TI don’t see what you want to marry me for.
I should think a depressed, Yow-spirited wife
was the very last thing in the world a man
would ever want. I often feel as if I should
never smile again.”’ ;

“That’s like that old chap in history—Henry
Somebody or other—who behaved like that
when his son was drowned,’ said Rodney, re-
flectively, ‘‘but I don’t see why you should
want to follow his example, Frank.”’

Frances’ eyes filled with tears.

“You don’t understand,’’ she said. ‘‘I feel so
unnerved and unstrung. I don’t want to mix
with people. I like to be alone in this dear
old garden.”

“If you remain alone in this dear old garden
long,’’ said Rodney Chesterton with irrepressi-
ble cheerfulness, “‘you will become ‘a rag and a
bone and a hank of hair’ sort of person, and be
a perfect fright!’’

He paused a moment, and then went on in a

ave tone:

“Don’t think me unsympathetic, Frank, dar-
ling. I don’t underrate all you have been
through. That poor girl’s death was a fright-
ful business. But she is gone to her account,
and we cannot, dare not, judge her; and then
the breaking of your engagement——”

He paused again and went on after a mo-
ment in an altered voice:

“Tf T fancied for one moment that you still
thought. of Edmond Dmietroff, if I fancied he
still had a place in your heart, that you felt
for him one single pang of regret, believe me,
I would not press my suit another moment. I
do not want to force you into a marriage with
me Frank; only, if you loved no one. else—
I am not much,’ I know—but I might be better
than nothing. I could care for you and love

could do nothing else. I know I am a stupid
sort of fellow, and you think I don’t feel much, —
but I never loved any one but you, and it
seems so hard that I can’t have you. Frank!”

 

 

 

 

 

you and make you a little happier, even if I

 

 
 

 

 

 

VOL. 54—No. 50.

with a half sob in his voice, “shouldn’t I.be
better than nobody?’

“A great deal better, you poor, dear, un-
Selfish darling,’ said “Frances, her ‘heart
touched by that mournful quiver in his voice;
“only don‘t you see, Rodney dearest, how
very, very little I could give you in return for
all you are giving me? Of course, I am fond of
you. How could I help being so? I have re-
ceived nothing but devotion and kindness at
your hands ever since I was born; but I don’ t
think I eee love you enough to marry you.’

“But I would ask so little! Just to love and
cherish and protect you. You might like me
better in time,’’ he added hopefully.

“You poor, dear, infatuated boy, I like you
now, more than I like anybody else in all this
wide, weary world. But’’—and she shook her
fair head despondently—‘“‘liking isn’t the feel-
ing one ought to start a marriage with.’

“It’s not haif a bad thing to start a mar-|

riage with,” cried Rodney, eagerly; “really and
truly, it isn’ t, Frank, and I love you enough
for two! So if you like me——”

“We should start housekeeping after very
much the same fashion in which we made our
mud pies!’’ said Frances, rather melted by his
frank, pleading eyes. “We should just be boy

and girl eee.

“Happy boy d girl together,’ said Rodney,
eorrectingly. ‘‘And what can we be better
than that, Frank?’’

He slipped his arm about her waist and drew
her to him

“Give me a kiss, Frank, darling, and make
me as happy as a king

She turned her lips- Sn his, so that he could
stoop and touch them with his own.

“Tf you really want me so much—’’
murmured.

“Want you? Now that I have got you the
world has little more to offer me,’’ he answered
tenderly. e

+

she

ae * * * *

The wedding took place a few weeks later,
and Rodney must have been right when he
said that liking was not a bad thing to start
@ marriage with, for certain it is that, al-
though Frances and he have now been married
over five years, I have never’ known a happier
couple than Mr. and Mrs. Rodney Chesterton.

THE END.

THE NEW STAR.

The manager of the Imperial Theatre, M.
Folet, was in despair.

“Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What people! What
people! Always sighing for something new.
They are never pleased for long. They come
to the theatre, for they have nothing else to
do, but they yawn through the love scenes
and chat through the tragedy, all unseeing and
unhearing of our best efforts. They must have

_ something new. But, mon Dieu. what? Id
give—

Here his gloomy soliloquy was interrupted
by a hesitating knock upon the office door.

He was about to shout a surly command to
enter, but_his inborn politeness asserted itself
and rising, “he opened the door.

A slender female figure stood there, draped
in a long, concealing cloak, her pale face cov-
ered with a thick veil.

With a polite bow the manager of the Im-
perial Theatre bade her enter.

“Are you Monsieur Folet?’’
sweetest voice he had ever heard.

“TT am M. Folet, at your service; madame,”’
with a courtly bow and placing her a chair.

_ She sank into it as if weary, and the man-
ager waited in respectful silence for her to
speak.- When he had closed the door she arose,
and dropping the cloak from about her, re-
vealed a slender, graceful shape, clad in a de-
mure looking walking suit of gray,

The heavy veil was also discarded, but to his
intense surprise a thick lace mask covered her
face save a rounded chin, ornamented with a
ravishing dimple.

““Monsieur,’’ began the sweet voice, with a
slight English accent, ‘‘for three days I have
searched about your city for work. Each day
as I passed your magnificent structure here I
heard men say, ‘If M. Folet does not soon fur-
nish something new for his patrons, he is
ruined. I have found no work, and two little
children will cry for bread in two days longer.
But I say to myself M. Folet’s extremity is my
opportunity, so I am here.’

The manager’s troubled face showed her
words went home.

“Proceed, madame.”’

“T ean dance as no one ever did on the stage.
My father was an English nobleman. He died
two years ago, and, having no male heir, the
property went to a ‘distant cousin, leaving us
penniless. I was far away from home, and
mamma concealed the depth of our poverty
from me, or I might have learned to work and
earn money. A week ago she died, and I find
myself and two little sisters penniless in your

city. For three days, as I said, I have been

demanded the:

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

searching for work and find only insult, be-
cause I am alone and have a pretty face.’
(Here her tone grew indescribably bitter.) ‘““My
father was music-mad and passionately fond
of fancy dances. He composed and_ set to
music four waltzes, only one of which has
even been: witnessed save by my mother. It
is these dances which shall claim your blasé
patrons upon condition.’

M. Folet had listened with eager interest to
her rapid words, and as she paused, gravely
inquired into the. nature of her conditions.

“That I always wear a mask. That even
yourself shalk never seek to discover my iden-
tity, and that you pay me liberally.”’

M. Folet’s eyes sparkled. The scheme was
a good one. He was shrewd enough to foresee
how the mask would excite interest, even if
the dancing was not much. As for the ex-
nense—bah!—he cared ~nothing for that. As
he thus mused, the sweet voice went on:

“Each dance ‘requires an individual costume,
of which you must provide three under my di-
rections. The fourth I have already.’’

“When will you give me an exhibition of
your skill?’

“Any time you please.”’

““To-day—now ?”’

“*Certainly.’’

Folet sprang excitedly to his feet and
rang a bell.

“The theatre is already darkened for rehear-
sal. There are only the lights to arrange, and
all is ready. I will show you to a dressing-
room, for, of course, you must make ready.”’

She bowed, gathered her cloak once more
about her, and followed him. In the hall she
picked up a curious black parcel she had left
near the door. Then he went to a place in the
auditorium, leaving a boy to show her to the
stage when all was ready. To the manager’s
brother, whom he had called, she handed a
manuscript score, which he found to be a rav-
ishing bit of melody when he had carefully
gone through it on his violin.

Never had a’ mortal heard anything so thrill-
ing and sweet, and when a dazzling vision in
scarlet, black and gold whirled upon the stage
he had nearly dropped his bow in his aston-
ishment.

M. Folet uttered an ejaculation of surprise
and delight, for there upon the stage was an
immense butterfly, all scarlet and gold. Its
wings were now expanded, now closed, as it
gyrated in an oddly fantastic manner, now
here, now there, behind’ the glittering’ foot-
lights. ©

The dance was intricate and long, and was
executed with wonderful grace and skill, while
the sweet, weird music wailed and throbbed
in exquisite rhythm.

When at length she paused, panting and
exhausted, the one interested. spectator ap-
plauded enthusiastically. After a moment’s
pause to recover her breath, she fied away to
the dressing-room.

When the brothers re-entered the office a
little later, she sat there in her grey walking
dress. The old manager approached with out-
stretched hand:

“My dear madame, you have saved me from

suicide. Make your own terms.’

She mentioned what she thought an enor-
mous sum. It was instantly agreed upon.

That night La Belle Masque burst upon the
weary, uninterested patrons of the Theatre
Imperial.

The sensation she created in ‘‘The Butterfly
Waltz” fully equalled M. Folet’s expectations.
The exquisite new music had first attracted
attention, and when the dazzling vision whirled
upon the stage, where some tubs of flowering
exotics were carelessly arranged, a momentary
dead silence followed.

It lasted so long.M. Folet began to fear his
plan a failure.

But the deafening and prolonged applause
which soon burst forth reassured him. A pause
of breathless attention followed, everybody
being lost in admiration of the dazzling and
realistic butterfly in its graceful and fantastic
flights.

When the curtain descended the thunder of
applause. which followed shook the house.
Through the huge building it rolled and surged
and would not be hushed until the curtain
again arose, and a graceful, sylphlike figure
in a fleecy cloud of rose-colored skirts bowed
and pirouetted before them, whirling off in
an intricate waltz.

“Mon Dieu! What a figure!’ cried a young
scion of French nobility. ‘It is perfection!
And what arms to have about one’s neck! I
say, Dunstan, we must find her out. .That
mask hides a pretty face, I am sure.’’

Receiving no reply, he turned to see his com-
panion leaning forward white and rigid, his
eyes fixed upon the. exquisite figure of the
dancer. -Amazement, incredulity, anger, by
turns his companion read in his expressive
face, foHowed by a look of anguish pitiful to

witness.
he asked,

 

“Do you know her, Dunstan?”
sympathy in his low tones.

 

 

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“T wish to Heaven I did not,’

was all the
reply he received. f

 

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, ‘are papa’s

An anguish as keen was hidden by that
fancy mask. Oh, the shame of it! That by a
cruel, senseless law eof entail a daughter of
a English nobleman should be brought to
this,

The audience had eae the first been but a
blurred mass, from which she carefully re-
frained from distinguishing an individual face.
Once in her lovely English home in the old
happy days, when her father was alive to care
for them, she had exhibited the butterfly

waltz at a masked ball. Of the many spec-
tators upon that occasion, one might be again
witnessing it from the boxes.

That that witness should be the present Lord
‘Ronald Dunstan, her father’s successor, filled
her soul with a ‘mighty anger when presently
she made out his face. She had never seen
him since her father’s death, and could think
of him as nothing but a robber of the widow
and orphan. In the old days he had been her
boy lover, and she loved him dearly.

But when she heard he had never shown even
eommon kindness to her mother in her dif-
ficulties, a fierce hatred had taken its place.

Now, as she danced to the ravishing music,
she noted every expression of his handsome
face. She knew he recognized her, and gloried
in the shame he felt. Let his pride suffer,
she: said to herself, fiercely, as she at last
stood kissing her hand to the enraptured audi-
ence.

She left the building instantly, lest he should
seek to see her. He made the attempt that
night, and every night for weeks, but M. Folet
was. incorruptible. He had promised to help
her to conceal her identity, and most honora-
bly kept his word.

Every night the huge building was crowded
with an enthusiastic audience, and after each
appearance of La Belle Masque the stage
would be filled with flowers and the jeweled
tributes of her admirers.

All efforts to penetrate her secret failed. M.
Folet was literally besieged by men of all
ranks and nationalities, clamorous to make her
acquaintance; all to no purpose, however.
They failed even to discover where she lodged.

At the end of the month for which she con-
tracted, M. Folet paid her the sum she had
demanded, with a liberal addition as token of
his appreciation of her services. The dancing
had become inexpressibly irksome to her, and
she delayed signing another contract, hoping
the manager would consent to give her up.
This he was loth to do, as she was still an
immense attraction.

Death, however, solved the problem. M.
Folet died very suddenly of heart disease, and
immediately upon hearing the news Lady Bar-
bara fled the city with the little sisters for
whose sake she had so shamed her womanly
delicacy. When she started she had only one
thought—to get away ere through some acci-
dent she be discovered and her shame blazoned
‘to the world.

Almost unconsciously she, had taken the
route to England, and was on board the boat
crossing to Dover ere she fairly collected her
senses enough to frame any plan for the
future. Then she resolved to place her sisters
in the school where several years of her
younger life had been passed. That would
leave her free to go out as a governess or as
companion, or—and a grim smile marred the
beauty of her face—‘‘La Belle Masque” can
dance again to keep the babes from want.

It was night. A glorious moon silvered the
tossing billows. Leaving the children asleep,
she ascended to the deck, lured by the beauty
of the scene. There were several people al-
ready there, and one tall figure came forward
to meet her.

As he removed his hat in courteous greet-
ing her heart throbbed fiercely. It was Lord
Dunstan.: She: tried to fan the anger which
had-so long filled her heart to a fiercer flame.

It was useless. Before the glance of his fine
dark eyes, in which she read the old love, all
feeling of animosity died away. She remem-
bered only how she had cared for him, and
LY aoe with a pang that she cared for him
sti

“IT have been waiting to speak to you, Lady
Barbara,’’-he said, in kindly tones

“Lord Dunstan can have nothing to say to
Barbara Dunstan which she would care to
hear’’—a bitter ring in the clear, patrician
voice.

“I have been searching for you for many
months——”’

“Where?
haunts of the poverty- -stricken ?’’
rupted, scornfully.

“TI found you,’ was the significant reply;
“but could discover no wneans of communicat-
ing with you. I only saw your face by chance
as you came on board the boat this evening,
so waited.”’

Her face had flushed crimson at his first
words, but the color was now displaced by a
ghastly pallor.

“You are ill!’’ he cried, hastily.

“No,” she said, waving away his proffered
arm. “Only what you haye to say, say quick-
ly.’

Silence followed for some minutes,

In the abodes of wealth or in the
she inter-

broken at
“Barbara, how can I say what is in my
heart when you are so cold and scornful?
Why can you not be your own old self?’

“There is a W ide gulf between the Barbara
of the past and

She had been about to say ‘La Belle
Masque,’” but an overwhelming shame stopped
her. Her face was rosy enough now, for she
saw he understood.

**‘Barbara, never think of that again.’’

He took her hand and would have raised it
to his lips, but she drew it hastily away.

“My mother is waiting for me to bring you
and the children to Dunstan Keep. She has
been very unhappy ever since, by accident, she
discovered the straitened circumstances in
which you are left. I was absent from Eng-
land for some time after your father’s death,
and have been searching for you ever since my
return. You have had occasion for bitter
thoughts of me and mine. But only the laws
of our country are to blame for it all. Forget
them now and come home with me.’’

Barbara thought of the large sum of money
in her pocket, earned so hardly, and without
which she and h sisters must have starved,
and hardened. her ‘heart.

Lord Dunstan was standing where the white
moonlight fell full upon his handsome face.
An eager light glowed in his fine eyes. He had
set his heart upon this ending of his search,
for at home in the quiet life of Dunstan Keep
he was sure he could win this proud, scornful
girl, whom he loved so dearly, to be his wife.

‘You saw me in Paris, yet would make me
an inmate of your home. What will your
proud mother say?”

“Why torment yourself with these thoughts?
Forget the whole, as I do—or, failing that, ig-
nore it. I love you. Be my honored wife.”

A low cry of despair escaped her as she
heard his last words, and with a look and ges-
ture which haunted him for years she turned
and flied away to her cabin.

Lord Ronald was very much puzzled by her
manner, and passed the time until the boat
reached her dock in painful thought.

In some unexplainable manner Lady Bar-
bara was thrown from the plank into the
water. An ugly blow upon the head rendered
her unconscious for a time. There was. no
danger to be apprehended, and a judicious use
of narcotics, under a physician’s directions,
kept her half-dazed until Lord Dunstan_could
place her in his mother’s care at the Keep.

The little girls had been well looked after,
and were beside her with beaming faces when
she at length came to a distinct realization of
mundane affairs. A sweet-faced woman of
fifty was bending over her, whose face also
became joyous when she saw the light of un-
derstanding in her patient’s eyes.

Where was she? What had happened? Such
a confusion of ideas filled her brain she could
remember nothing distinctly.

“You were injured as you left the boat,’
explained the woman, whose face seemed
wondrously familiar, ‘“‘and Ronald brought you
home.’’

‘And, O Bab, it’s such a lovely place,
chimed in Eva, a child of ten.

“You never saw such _ peacocks,’’
Clara, who was eight.

Barbara kissed them lovingly, not fully un-
derstanding yet. Then her gaze, traveling past
the three, fell upon another face and met the
gaze of two anxious, pleading eyes

With a shock she remembered ‘all. Wildly
she sprang from the couch on which she had
been reclining, and, still dazed and bewildered,
she made as though to fly. The children stood
back frightened while she passed from the
room. Lord Dunstan quickly followed, and,
overtaking her in the hall, gently but firmly
detained her..

“Child, child, what is the meaning of this?’
he said. ‘‘Why am I so abhorrent to you?’

She stretched forth her hand as though to
put him aside, but his words had pierced to
her heart. In that moment her pride and folly
became clear to her.

Her head.bent, she allowed him to slip his
arm about her, and when she at length stole a
glance up into his face a gleam of mischief
came into her eyes.

“T wouldn’t come,

9

added

so you brought me,’’ she
said, holding out her hand to him. ‘Well, I
forgive you. You,’’ turning to his mother,
cousin, who was always so kind

+ town Bugle,

 

 

to me. Ah, well,’’ with a bitter sigh, “I never
needed kindness worse than now.

The world of Parisian theatre-goers often
wonder vaguely whatever became of La Belle
Masque, the most perfect dancer who ever
appeared before them. Stately, dignified Lady
Barbara Dunstan could tell you; but her hus-
band, who quite worships his beautiful wife,
would. shoot the man who would dare assert
he had once seen her. on the stage.

ieee
se

‘THE HAPPY DANCE,

eo

Is this the girl I knew
So proud, so lonely?
Who thrilled me through and through
If she spoke only?
So fair, so fine was she,
So far away from me!—
Now her eyes shine for me—
Shine for me only.

Is this the face I knew,
Its secret keeping?
Are those the eyes too blue
(J thought) for weeping?
Now such a child is she,
Dim are the eyes I see
When she looks up at me—
I'd swear her weeping.

But last night the fiddles played
A tune that never before
Any fiddle in mortal hands had played
AS we swept over the floor.
I bent and spoke a word;
And never an answer came.
But a blush that was hid in her heart had
heard,
And lit in a sudden flame.
Tt lit in a sudden fire
That lit her lover’s life—
Sweep higher, O fiddle-bows, higher and
higher!
She is to be my wife!

Is this the town I knew,
So dull, so dreary?
Is this the heart that grew
Therein so weary?
Now, now, so kind is she,
Green grow the-trees to me—
Bright is the town to me—
Winter’s grown weary!

For last night the fiddles played
A tune that never before

Any fiddle in mortal hands had played—
And my heart is playing it o’er.

oe

PLEASANT PARAGRAPHS.

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

LOW-DOWN THIEVES.

Worried Editor—‘‘Good morning! I presume
you are the detective sent to help us catch the
miserable thieves who steal papers from
front doors. The tow-down rascals! I don’t
see how anything in human form can descend
to such petty——”

Stranger—‘‘You mistake, sir. I am nota de-
tective. I am the -paragrapher of the Bung-
and I dropped in to ask why in
thunder you steal all my jokes and print ’em
as original.’’

SHE FORGAVE HIM.

Wife—“You’ve been drinking again.’
Husband—“C an’t help it, m eee caine me
sho happy, m‘ dear.”’ :
“Huh! Makes you happy, eh? Id like to
know why?’ -®-
‘“‘Be(hic)cause I shee two of you,
A FAVORITE SEAT.
Friend—‘‘Why do you do your sewing at this
window in the air shaft.. You can’t half see.’’
Mrs. De Platt—‘‘No, but I can hear beauti-
fully.”’
A HARD POSITION TO FILL.

Employment Agent—‘‘Why do you leave a
place in Which you have worked so many
years?”’

Domestic—‘‘ Well,
last month.”

“The house is lonely now, I suppose.’

“'Tain’t that; but now the missus is dead,
the master blames everything on me.”’

THE GREEN-EYED MONSTER.

Policeman—"“Why did your husband kill that
young man?

Mrs. Peanutti—‘‘He maka love toa mea.”’

Policeman—‘‘What did he say?’

Mrs. Peanutti—‘‘He say that a cookastove
and two beds too heavy for mea to carry.’’

LEARNING THE ROPES.

New Reporter (breathlessly)—‘‘Big railroad
accident on the A. B. C. road. Shall I go to
the superintendent of the A. B. C. road for
particulars ?’’

City Editor—‘‘Certainly not.
intendent of the X. Y. Z. road.’

« CHANGED THE SUBJECT.

He (gently)—‘‘Are you not afraid some one
may marry you for your money?’

She (sweetly)—‘‘Oh, dear, no. Such
never entered my head.’’

He (tenderly)—‘‘Ah, in your sweet innocence
you do not know how coldly, cruelly merce-
nary some men are.

She (quietly)—‘‘Perhaps not.’’

He (with suppressed emotion)—‘‘I—I would
not for the world have such a terrible fate
happen to you. The man who wins you should
love you for yourself alone.’’

She—‘‘He’ll have to. It’s my cousin Jennie
who has money, not I. You’ve got us mixed.
I haven’t a cent.’

He— ‘Er—very pleasant weather we're hav-
ing.’

9

m’ dear.

you see, the missus died

Go to the super-

an idea

NOT HIS PUBLISHER.
Ambitious Youth—‘“Is that
bowed to your publisher?’’
Struggling Author—‘‘No;
broker.”

that’s my pawn-

MANAGING A PATIENT.
Doctor’s Wife—‘‘Why in the world don’t you
o to that patient in the waiting-room? He
as been there ever so long.”’
Doetor (looking up from his paper)—‘If I
don’t keep him waiting for an hour or so, he'll
think my, charges are too high.’’

THE CLERK HAD TRAVELED.
Guest—‘‘What do you mean by this charge
of five dollars for view of excavation on Broad-
way?
Clerk (with dignity ee Ps hotel
the European plan, sir.’

CHAPERONS MUST GO.

Mr. De Style—‘‘How does it happen that our
daughters are going around without a ehap-
eron ?’’

Mrs.
tom.
water

‘“W hy not?’

“The young men seem rather ‘afraid of chap-
erons.

is run on

De Style—‘‘I’ve dropped that silly cus-
It doesn’t work well on this side of the

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES,
EVIDENCE.—‘‘So the young
when you said you

PRIMA FACIE
lady engaged you at once
had served with me?’’

“Yes; she said that any girl who could stand
you three months must be an angel.’’—What-
to-Eat.

NO EXCUSE LEFT.—First Office Boy—‘*Wuz
you at de ball game yisterday?’’

Second Office Boyv—‘‘Nope. I’ve worked de
funeral racket till I’ve killed off all de family
an’ I ain’t got any relashuns.’’—Ohio State
Journal.

NO SALE WAS MADE.—Agent—‘“I shoulda
like to show you, madam, this patent bag to
hold clothes pins. It costs only twenty-five
cents and, as you see, slips along the line,

making it much easier to get at than to stoop
to the basket every time.

Mrs. McLaherty—‘‘An’ phat’s the matter wid
me mout’ that costs not a blissed cint an’ is
always wid me, I’d like to know! It’s mesilf
that can howld a dozen o’ pins and be sociable
like over the fence to Mrs. O’Toole with the
same breat’, begorra!’’—New York World.

A MALICIOUS HUSBAND.—‘‘Here is an ar-
ticle on ‘The Right Kind of a Wife, ’’ she said,
looking up from the paper.

“T suppose,’’ returned the heartless man, ‘‘it
refers to the one a fellow doesn’t get.’’—Chi-
eago Evening Post.

A TERRIBLE THREAT.—“George,”’ said
Mrs. Younglove, ‘‘do you know that you have
kissed me only once during the past three
hours,’’

‘Ves,’ he replied, ‘‘and if you eat any
more green onions I may make it three hours
and a half next time.”’

She could only tremble and wonder if it were
to turn out that her love had been misplaced,
after all.—Chicago News.

man. you just!

| correspondence.

 

1

THE HUSBAND’S STRATAGEM.—‘‘My wife
never gets me up to eut the grass be-
fore breakfast.”

“Is bpa.t- sa? <

“Yes; she tried it once, and I was sv sleepy
I ran the law nmower all over her flower beds. ae
—Chicago Record.

MUST BE A FALSE REPORT.—“‘It is hinted
that Miss Tenspot is indebted to the druggist
for oe complexion,”’ said Miss Gazzam.

“O, I can’t eredit that, for I know her well, ’
replied Miss Ricketts. ‘In fact, I am her dear-
est friend.’

“Then she doesn’t use cosmetics at all?”

“Oh, yes, but she pays cash.’’—Detroit Free
Press.

THE BITTER PART OF IT.—‘‘Some philoso-
pher says: ‘The contented man is never poor;
the discontented never rich,’

“That may be all right as far as the man
himself is concerned, but it’s discouraging to
be a member of a contented poor man’s fam-
ily.’’—Chicago Times-Herald.

HIS PREFERENCE.—Great E mployer—‘“‘I
always employ married men if possible.’

His Friend—‘‘Good idea Helps conserve that
sacred institution, the home.’

“T hadn’t given that a thought,
it is so.
are

but I guess
I employ married men because they
more tractable.’’—Indianapolis Journal.

 

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8

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

VOL. 54—No, 50.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE ARCHITECT’S CLERK.

It chanced, on a beautiful, bright summer day,

Young Dennis McFadden took Kitty O’Shea

For a row down the river. Good-natured was
he,

And never grudged spending when out on a
spree.

Now Kitty was roguish and just a bit sly,
While Dennis, though manly, was yet very
shy;

And when Kitty said,
are you in?’’
Poor Dennis deceived her and thought it small

sin.

“Dennis, what thrade

So says he, “Sure, I’ll not kape that same in
the dark!

If ye must know me thrade, I’m an architect’s
clerk.’’

Now, this sounded grand, and so thought Mis-
tress Kate,

When he asked for her hand he had not long
to wait.

Soon after as Kitty, her ‘‘afternoon out,”’
Was leisurely walking and strolling about,
She spied her brave Dennis, with mortar and
hod—
The rounds of a ladder he fearlessly trod.
Kitty loved him no less that his calling was
low,
But felt rather sad at his cheating her so,
And she called, sweet and clear (he felt ready
to sink),
‘“Have a care, Dinny darlin’, ye might spill the
ink.’’
—___—__ > © + -___.
MY COUSIN.

Early in my childhood, somewhere in a book
of fairy tales, I read a story called ‘‘The Ugly
Duckling.’* In the written ending, the poor,
unhappy creature, scorned and despised in the
early portion of her life, becomes transformed
into a beautiful swan, the queen among those
who formerly jeered and scoffed at her.

At the latter portion of the tale I often
smiled, wondering if Such ultimately ever could
be my fate, while I felt the former constantly
recurring to my memory as illustrative of my
own lot.

By the side of my cousins, three lovely girls,
budding into womanhood, my plain, dark face
served as a strange contrast. They all pos-
sessed the blonde tyne of beauty, but I, who
had been born in India (my father being an
officer), gave evidences of an Eastern. sun in
the dark complexion, dark eyes and _ hair,
which grew low on my brow. I was early left
an orphan, but with an independent fortune
I could complain of no unkindness in my
uncle’s home. So matters stood when Alixe,
the eldest born and most beautiful of all my
cousins, returned from a winter in town to our
country home.

To .me the bloom on her cheek seemed
brighter, her eyes more sparkling, her laugh
more musical than when she left us, and I
wondered what. had wrought the dazzling
change. She often spoke of one Ross Auches-
ter who had been the lion of the season, and
whom, I gathered from her remarks, had hon-
ored her with his choicest attention.

One day, when the house was rapidly fill-
ing with guests, and I, in my own room, mak-
ing my toilet for dinner, with little care as to
the general result, Alixe came flying in.

“Mr. Auchester has just arrived, Mabel. ~Tell
me, am I looking my best?’’

**Your worst is so charming, I think you need
have no misgiving,’’ I said, with a half sigh, as
I turned and surveyed the lovely image before
me.

She was dressed in white silk without a
shade of color, save that in her cheek and lips
and a red rose in her hair.

‘“‘Flatterer,’’ she answered, with a kiss, and
was gone, while I pursued my graceless task
with one more sigh, given to thoughts of the
ugly duckling.

When I entered the drawing-room Alixe was
talking with a stranger. I stood a moment un-
noticed, and had time to study the handsom-
est man I had ever beheld. Then his eye caught
mine, and a moment later we were formally
presented.

I could hardly explain the fascination Ross
Auchester held for me, but in his presence I
knew no will of my own, yet as the days
lengthenec into weeks I felt a strange pleasure
in saying unkind, cutting things, in which my
heart took no part, but which flashed into my
mind and my lips uttered, while my eyes en-
joyed seeing the quick color flush his cheek,
or the angry light leap to his eyes.

Alixe was a mystery to me at this time, as
she had cver been. She had flirted so often
and so dangerously that I supposed her own
heart could scarcely be touched. Indeed, I had
often questioned whether her beauty was not
soulless, or if, like Undine, when the true
knight came, it would spring into life. Was
this he, I wondered, and could not account for
the strange pang which thrilled through my be-
ing in response.

Sad and lonely, with my unanswered marvel-
ings as to why to those who had all should be
given. I was one afternoon sauntering through
one of the shaded walks when I heard a
quick step behind me, and in another moment
Ross Auchester had drawn my hand through
his arm.

““At last I can see you alone,’’
and as I looked into his face I
transformed with joy. .

Had he come to tell me the success of his
pleading?

*“Mabel,”’ he went on, ‘‘I love you! Will you
be my wife?’

Was I dreaming?
jest?

“Tt have surprised you,’’ he continued, ‘‘yet,
my darling, had you not been blind you would
have known it all along. Your cousin is a beau-
tiful statue, but you have a beautiful soul,
which -in unguarded moments has betrayed
your love for me. Is it not so, Mabel, my
own?’

And I—how could I answer save to yield my-
self to the great rush of happiness and a dim
wonderment if this joy at my heart had not
worked the long-expected change, and when
next I should look in my mirror I sHould find
the ugly duckling had forever disappeared.

With my hand still on his arm, as was proper
for Ross Auchester’s betrothed wife, we wend-
ed our way back to the house. That evening
our engagement was announced. Of all my
congratulations, that of Alixe was the most
fervent, but in her eyes was a strange glitter
and in her tone a harshness which belied her
words,

In the autumn we were married. Ross would
have it so, and he took me immediately to the
home he had prepared “or me.

The months which followed were full of such
exquisite bliss as is rarely permitted to mortal
ken. I had ceased to wonder why Ross loved
me, too content to accept the full cup of sweet-
ness held to my. lips. When I told him my
fairy talo he laughed aloud, and pinioning my
arm, led mc to the glass. ”

“Ugly?” he said. ‘‘Look at your eyes, Mabel.
They would glorify any face.’

But they were only too clad to turn from
the reflected image to the glorious beauty of
the face of which I was so proud. In my hus-
band’s manly elegance of form and feature,
I forgot my own plainness, living and enjoying
the pride and delight it gave me.

So two years passed, when one morning at
the breakfast table I found upon my plate a
note in the delicate handwriting of my cousin
Alixe. Since my marriage she had never writ-
ten me a line, and I broke the seal with curi-
osity as to why she now had honored me. A
chill as of some coming evil ran through my
veins, a strange presentiment as I read the
words which told me she had decided to honor
me with a visit.

“In fact,’’ she concluded, “I feel so assured
of my welcome that I shall be with you almost
as soon as my letter reaches you. I am tired
of everything, and think the sight of wedded
happiness—‘two souls as one’—will be some-
what refreshing in these days when such
dreams are seldom realized.’’

Without comment I handed Ross the letter.

“T am glad she is coming, Mabel. It will do
you good, my dear. We must try and make
her visit pleasant; only don’t over-exert your-
self,’’ and with a smile and a kiss he left me.

The next day she arrived. I had never seen
her so beautiful. She seemed to have gained
the one thing needful in the new expression
which shone in her eyes and gave to her
beauty a life,’a glory it had never before pos-
sessed.

When Ross came home that night she went
forward to meet him with all her wonderful
grace of manner, her figure enhanced by the
matchless taste of her dress, her eyes bright
with pleasure, a vision of loveliness. I saw him
start for a moment as if bewildered, then he

he burst forth,
saw it was

Was this all some cruel

 

 

came over to where I stood and bent to kiss
me. Why had I not gone first and left her in
the background?

The days which followed were filled with ex-
citement. It was Alixe’s wish and Ross would
have it gratified. My own health would not
permit my always joining them. Ross con-
stantly remonstrated about leaving me alone,
but Alixe would go nowhere without him and
I would not listén to the doubts and misgivings
which came crowding into my heart. Oft-times
when they would come together for a few last
words preparatory to their entrance upon some
gay scene, she sparkling and beautiful, he
gloriously handsome, a pang would pierce me
of which I suffered no outward trace to appear
on which I put from me as unworthy of my-
self.

One morning I did not rise to breakfast, and
when, the meal over, Ross had been to my
room to bid me good-bye for the day, with per-
haps an added touch of tenderness in his man-
ner, I thought I heard him go into the library,
and remembering a little commission I had
wanted to have him attend to for me, I rose,
and, hastily throwing on my wrapper, ran
down stairs.

My slippered-tread gave forth no sound. The
library door was half ajar, and as I looked
within I stood paralyzed, unable to take an-
other step. I did not mean to listen. I was
not conscious of doing so until afterward. My
husband was standing by the mantelpiece, his
head bowed on his hands, his whole attitude
one of despair. Alixe stood by his side, one
lovely hand upon his arm, her voice sounding
as though choked with tears.

“Yes, I loved you,’’ she.was saying. ‘‘Why
should I deny it? I gloried in it then as now.
Did I not wear my heart upon my sleeve?
And you, Ross Auchester, loved me! Dare
you tell me that you, with your love of all
that is beautiful, could take to your bosom the
lusterless gem you have while the diamond
was within reach! Ah,” as he raised his head
with a quick movement, ‘‘you need not explain.
One bore a far richer setting, one gave you
gold! You sold yourself, Ross, and I know it.”’

I waited for no more. To have heard my hus-
band’s answer, to have had him put into words
the assurance of his perfidy, would have been
to put out of my power the execution of my
instantaneously formed plans. I must harbor
all the strength I possessed. My gold, then,
had been the hated thing to attract him, and I,

‘in my folly, had given it no passing thought.

As rapidly as possible I dressed myself and
put the few things needful in a small trunk.
hen I sat down and wrote a hurried note, in
which [I told him of my unconscious eaves-
dropping and its result.

“If you will accept my fortune, Ross, let.me
make what restitution I may. Perhaps in my
death heaven will send you freedom. If so. {
have arranged matters so that my wealth will
be yours.”’

My letter sealed, my eyes dry and tearless,
I sent for a cab, directed to be driven to the
home of a woman whom I had once served
and whom I knew was faithful to my interests,
met her astonished welcoming with strange
calmness, and—knew no more. For weeks I
hovered on the confines of life‘and death, and
when I once more could recognize those sur-
rounding me, I could searce believe the wan,
haggard man bending so tenderly over me,
whose image had so mingled in my delirium,
was my husband.

Yet so it’ was, and with a shudder I turned
away. Can I ever forgive myself for bringing
the look of anguish which swept over his face?

It was many days ere I knew how I had
wronged him, and then, kneeling by my side,
he told me all; how in the early days of their
acquaintanceship my. cousin’s beauty had
fascinated him, and what a frightful revela-
tion her words had been to him, and how, if
I had. stayed longer, I should. have heard his
answer, which would have set At rest my every
doubt, then proved to me how ample was his
own fortune, and how he had secured mine to
my own use forever.

Alixe, doubtless, had seen me standing in the
doorway, and so had tried to give an added
poison to her sting. But long ere he had fin-
ished, all my doubts had been swept away,
and I could only stand in the pleader’s place
and beg forgiveness that I could ever have dis-
trusted the noble heart, which I now knew was
only mine. -

His answer was to place our baby in my
arms, and holding him tight to my breast,
while I saw my own image in the eyes so like
his father’s, it seemed no longer to bear its old
impress, but in the glory of happy wifehood
and motherhood to: have found at last the
plumage of the swan.

 

Conducted by J.

ORANGE PUDDING.

Peel three large oranges, slice them in thin
slices and take out the seeds. Line a pudding
dish with them, and dust over them one cup
of sugar. Now beat the yolks of two eggs
with one tablespoonful of corn starch and two
of sugar. Add a small pinch of salt, and pour
it into one pint of boiling milk, stirring con-
stantly. As soon as it thickens, take it from
the fire, and when cool spread it over the or-
anges. Beat the whites of two eggs stiff and
dry with two large tablespoonfuls of sugar;
spread this over the top.and brown it slightly
in a hot oven. Serve cold.

CREAM PUFFS.

One-half pint of hot water, two ounces of but-
ter, one cupful of pastry flour and four eggs;
put the butter in a stewpan, melt and pour over
it the hot water, and allow to boil, then:-dump
in the flour all at once; stir rapidly and stir
until it all cleaves together and until the pan
is free from moisture; set on ice to cool; add
eggs, one at a time, without beating—just stir
them in—and after the last egg is added beat
until well mixed, then cover and let stand a
half hour in the kitchen. Now, have a pan
well greased with butter, and put a spoonful
at a time in it until the pan is filled. Don’t
allow them to touch, and set in oven until
done.

FILLING FOR CREAM PUFFS.
One-half pint of milk; set on stove until hot
and stir in one tablespoonful of corn starch;
beat three eggs with three tablespoonfuls of
sugar, and stir in the milk. Let it thicken and
then fill the puffs.

RAGLETS.

Cream puff paste may be dropped through a
pastry bag in hot lard and fried into raglets.
When done dip them in powdered sugar and a
little cinnamon,

TAPIOCA WITH APPLES OR PEACHES.

Take one cup of tapioca, cover it with cold
water and set on the back of stove until it is
thoroughly dissolved; when it becomes starchy
add one quart of boiling water, a pinch of salt,
one teaspoonful of vanila, and sweeten to
taste; cover the bottom of a pudding dish
with fresh peaches, pears or apples; pour the
tapioca over the fruit and bake in oven until
well done.

APPLE FRITTERS. .

Beat the yolk of one egg with a little warm
milk, and add to it one cup of sifted flour, one
teaspoonful of butter, a pinch. of salt and
enough warm milk to make a batter that will
drop from the spoon; stir it until smooth, and
then beat into it the white of one egg, beaten
stiff and dry; peel and cut your apple in thick
slices, cutting out the core. Dip and thorough-
ly cover them with the above batter, and drop
in boiling lard; fry on both sides; when done,
drain a few moments and sift powdered sugar
over them, and serve with a nice syrup.

LEMON BUTTER.

Two large lemons or three small ones, six
eggs and two cups of sugar. Grate yellow part
of lemon, squeeze out the juice, and be care-
ful to take out the seeds; beat eggs, then add
sugar and stir thoroughly together; place it
on the fire, and when it first commences to
pulp up, give five minutes to cook the eggs;
put the saucepan in a vessel of water is the
safest and easiest way; stir constantly to pre-
vent scorching.

WHIP SYLLABUB.

One pint_of sweet cream, six ounces of dou-
ble refined powdered sugar, one-half cup of
white wine, strained juice and grated rind of
one lemon; beat well together; put gelatine in
glasses and fill with the foam as fast as it
rises.

[

 

BAKED BANANAS.

Peel and divide them once each way and
lay them in a baking dish. Pour over them
the following syrup: One tablespoonful of su-
gar, one-half tablespoonful of lemon juice, a
tiny pinch of salt and a teaspoonful of butter
to each banana; add water just to show among
“we slices; bake in a quick oven fifteen min-
utes.

PINEAPPLE HASH.

Select a large, ripe pineapple; cut off the top
three inches thick, then scoop out the inside,
being careful not to break the rind; take out
the core and chop the pulp coarsely; add three
bananas and two oranges sliced thin; chop all
into bits; sweeten with one cup of powdered
sugar, then stuff the pineapple hull with this
mixture; cover with grated cocoanut and lay
the cover on. Serve in punch glasses,

HOUSE CLEANING HELPS

No matter how neat the housekeeper is, nor
how well she looks after every part of the
house, a thorough cleaning is necessary every
spring and fall, and she will do well to learn
the best and easiest method of doing the work.
System, method and planning will help one
wonderfully. We are often advised to clean
only one room at a time, and this plan is a
very good one when there is no painting or
paper hanging to be done; but if a man is
hired for such work, that plan is scarcely
practicable,

The attic, closets, cupboards, trunks and
drawers may. be put in order before the gen-
eral work begins, If there are any small holes
in the plastering of the closets, mix a little
plaster of Paris with enough water to make
a stiff dough and press it into the cracks with
a putty knife. Mix just what you will use at
one time, for it hardens in a little while and
is then useless. All winter clothing can be
stowed away in boxes or bags for the summer.
Wash the floors and woodwork with a strong
solution of borax and water to remove any
moth eggs that have been deposited there, and
make the air of the closet pure and whole-
some. This preparatory work can be done
whenever you have a few leisure hours, and
will be a great help when you begin the hard
work.

Every bed should be taken down, the slats
and all inner portions thoroughly dusted and
washed. If you have been troubled with bed-
bugs heretofore, mix one-half pint of alcohol,
one-half pint of turpentine and one ounce of
corrosive sublimate, and, when the latter has
dissolved, pour a little of the mixture in a
machine oil can and apply it to the parts
where the bugs are usually found. The cor-
rosive sublimate.is.a deadly poison, and one
must be careful that it is kept where children
cannot reach it. Strong alum water is also
recommended for bedbugs, and is much safer
to have about.

_Never use straw under carpets. The dirt
sifts through it and cannot be Swept out, so
accumulates from week to week. If papers
are used, a great deal of dirt is removed in
the daily sweeping. When the carpet and pa-
pers are taken up sprinkle ‘the floor with moist
earth, and you can sweep it without raising
much dust. .

The best use for matting that is almost worn
out is to put it under a carpet.

Clean the leather seats of chairs with a
sponge dipped in the white of an egg. The ap-
pearance of old furniture is’ wonderfully im-
proved by cleaning the woodwork with hot
suds, sandpaper the rough places and apply
a cOat of good varnish. Clean ®Pilded picture
frames by applying alcohol with a small
camel’s hair brush or rub with a sponge wrung
from alcohol. oad

 

THE ART OF RETALIATION.

Any one who had not seen Jack Brewer for
two years would have had some difficulty in
believing that he is the same man. In outward
appearance he is much the same; his face has
a more serious expression, that is all. But in
manner he is quite different.

He used to be one” of the most conceited
young fellows in existence, and thought he
could do everything and knew as’ much as a
whole staff of university professors rolled into
one. AS a consequence, he was always en-
deavoring to play some trick upon other peo-
ple, though he seemed to forget the saying
about those who live in glass houses. Well,
his love for practical jokes and for tricks gen-
erally died right out after that walking tour
of his along the sandy coast that runs from
somewhere near Boulogne to Haarlem.

Jack began his walk at Boulogne and went
steadily on, chiefly through little towns at first
—quiet little places wherein he found much
that really interested him, and even more that
furnished him with material for jests. He
didn’t know a great deal of the language, but
his knowledge was sufficient to enable him to
wound the susceptibilities of several people.
So he went on until at last he arrived at a
little place where he intended to stay and rest
for a couple of days, and then undertake a
walk of several miles across the sand dunes.

For some distance inland the country is cov-
ered with fine white sand, which assumes all
kinds of fantastic shapes, and which. even a
slight gale will entirely alter in form. Great
hills of this sand will seemingly be carried
away, leaving valleys where they once stood,
and the whole surface of the country is trans-
formed. When a gale continues. for many
hours the sand is blown inland to such an ex-
tent that villages are almost buried in it.

A walk along these dunes is very interesting,
although not without danger. The dunes are
very.desolate, but Jack had decided that he
would undertake the journey, ‘‘and if the wind
blew the sand about, so much the better,’”’ he
had said boastingly.

He was well treated at the village which he
had fixed upon as his stopping place. The
landlord and his wife were homely people, and
they wanted the stranger to carry away a
good impression of the place, as it might in-
duce others to come, It was a bit slow, but
that was rather an advantage; Jack felt that
he wanted rest.

But on the first evening he saw an oppor-
tunity for a little joke and he could not resist
ate TE was nearly dark, and Jack was think-
ing of turning in early, when he became aware
that there was what-he called some ‘‘spoon-
ing going on in the little garden at the back.
He peered out of a window and saw a young
fellow and a comely-proportioned young wom-
an seated on a rough wooden bench against
the wall. He was at once impressed with the
notion that it would be good fun to upset the
felicity of these two, and it was not long be-
fore he did it.

There was nothing skillful about his joke. He
managed to secure some flour, and then let it
fall upon the lovers from his own bedroom
window, which happened to be just above the
seat. He had nearly used up all his  fiour,
without the gentle shower being - noticed by
the absorbed couple, when he made a false
move and let the bag fall upon them.

The startled lovers sprang from the bench,
the lady with a little scream, the young man
with an exclamation that Jack did not under-
stand but which sounded too strong for it to be
held within the covers of a dictionary. They
both looked up and saw Jack; the girl van-
ished, while the man glared at the window.
from which Jack at once retired.

Then the tourist descended to the public
room, where he saw the swain covered with a
fine coating of flour, the enraged object of
much laughter from the three persons there
present. At first Jack half expected an attack,
but the young man contented himself with the
remark: :

**Monsieur is pleased to jest.’’

Monsieur certainly was pleased, immensely
pleased, and the very apparent anger of the
victim increased his pleasure. Jack burst into
a fit of laughter.

“You shall pay for.this!”’ said the man be-
tween his clenched teeth, and strode out of the
inn.

Brewer had already told the landlord of his
plans and had heard some of the latter’s
stories of the dunes. Of the morrow the polite
host volunteered more information and showed
much interest in the future movements of his
guest. One piece of information made Jack
feel just a little uncomfortable; it was that one
sometimes met with tramps crossing the
dunes, and as the place was very desolate and
these tramps not the most honest of people,
robberies were sometimes reported.

“But,”” added the genial host; ‘“‘though you
have no fire-arms or weapons, you have noth-
ing to fear, you are so brave.”’

Brewer's intention was to start-about eleven
on the following morning, but the affable host
assured him that he would have plenty of
time if he did not set out till afternoon, and
so persuaded the tourist to accompany him on
a short journey. It was therefore nearly four
o’clock when Jack bade him good-bye.

Jack’s destination was another village about

 

fifteen miles away, and he had a scrawl of in-
troduction to his host’s brother, who kept an
inn at that place. It was an open letter, but
as it was in Dutch he could not understand it.

The walk was an exhilarating one, but prog-
ress was Slower than he had anticipated. After
trudging on for an hour the point of land that
marked his destination seemed about as far
off as ever. There was not the least sign of
any habitation, and the uncomfortable idea
took possession of him that he might be way-
laid by robbers. If he could keep straight
across the dunes, he would reach the village
all the sooner, but he was afraid he might
lose his way unless he kept the sea in view.
And this he felt bound to do, although it
meant a longer journey.

Another half hour passed, and then he came
in sight of a fisherman’s hut. The fisherman
himself was sauntering slowly about at some
distance from his hovel. Jack went up to him
and asked how long it would take to get to
Boejette.

‘‘About three hours at the rate I saw you
walking,’’ replied the fisherman. It took him
some little while to convey this information,
as he had to impart it partly in French, part-
ly in his own dialect and partly by signs, in or-
der to make Brewer understand.

“Three hours more!’”’ exclaimed Jack. It
would be dark before that time, for it was
September, ‘ ¢

“Am I going in the right direction?’ asked
Jack in tolerable French, which the man un-
derstood after a little reflection.

The fisherman nodded, and then, pointing to
two men, who were well in front, but whom
Brewer had not observed, made him cempre-
hend that they were going to Boejette, and
that he would do well to accompany them.

The suggestion was a welcome one, and,
after offering the man some _ tobacco, Jack
hurried on to overtake the two travelers. They
were walking at a fair rate, so it took him
about twenty minutes to come up with them.
As he drew near, his pleasure at having com-
panions was greatly diminished; these men
were dressed in rough sheepskin garments, and
carried heavy sticks over their shoulders. The
sticks were almost hidden from sight by some
raeRCM clothing or wraps. that depended from
them. ;

‘Look very much like the tramps that the
landlord spoke about,’’ muttered Brewer, feel-
ing rather uncomfortable. ‘By Jove! Look at
the bludgeons!”’

He _ slackened speed involuntarily, but the
men had turned round two or three times, and
now they were clearly walking more slowly to
allow him to overtake them.

Jack felt that the best thing to be done was
to go on boldly, exchange a few words with
them and pass them. So he stepped out again
briskly.

He saluted the men with a cheery ‘‘Good-
day’’ in French, to which they replied. But he
was frustrated in his intention of passing
them, for they kept up with him and began
asking where he was going. Jack felt decided-
ly uneasy. What could he do against two
such burly ruffans armed with bludgeons?
What a fool he had been to undertake this
journey! It was to be the wind-up of his.
month’s tour; and it seemed as though it
would be the wind-up of his. earthly journey.
= a put a bold face on the matter and do

is best.

More questions on the part of the men, and
increased uneasiness on the part of Brewer.
They wanted to find out if he had any friends
—any of his own countrymen—in the locality;
whether he would be missed or not. Why had
that thought not come to him before he had
given himself away? Of course, they would
know that he was a tourist and alone.

His companions walked close to him, one on
each side, which was suspicious. At last Jack
could stand it no longer; he must make an ef-
fort to get away, and without betraying his
feelings, if possible.

“JT must make haste,” he said.
I must leave you, gentlemen.”

“Certainly, sir,’’ replied the two simul-
taneously. Then they looked at each other
and grinned.

Jack was soon some yards ahead of them,
his ears strained to detect any attempt to run
after him and attack him in the rear, and it
was not until he had convinced himself by
looking back that he was a long way ahead of
the two that he breathed freely.

“I’m getting tired of this beastly trip,’’ mur-
mured Brewer, as he trudged on again. ‘‘It
isn’t half so pleasant and delightful to cross
these dunes as some people make out. Per-
haps they never met any tramps. Thank good-
ness!’’--looking baek—‘‘those fellows are out
of sight. But isn’t it getting dark and cold!
Ugh!”’

Some minutes passed, and Jack was hurry-
ing on when he perceived a man coming to-
ward him. The stranger seemed to deviate
from his course for the purpose of meeting
Brewer, and when within speaking distance he
shouted a warning to the tourist.

“You had better make haste and get to Boe-
jette, if that’s where you are going,’’ he called
in French, but with an accent. ‘‘There are
robbers about, and if you see two men to-
gether, you must run for your life.”’

And without waiting for a reply he was off.

““That’s nice,’”’ said Jack to himself. ‘I don’t
care a* rap whether I go to Boejette or any-
where else, and he might have asked me to go
with*him to wherever he is going, just for
safety.’’

He Kept a sharp lookout now, but it was too

“T am afraid

dark to perceive objects until he was within a |}

few yards. He loosened his bag, which was
slung at his back; it was heavy and might -im-
pede his progress if it came to a running
match; he must be ready to cast it off at any
moment.

He judged that it must be half an hour’s
journey from his destination, when he pulled
up with a jerk and his heart began to thump
violently. There in front of him, he could see
the two men whom he thought he had left
behind long ago. By the faint light of the
moon, which just then peeped forth and quick-
ly retired, he could distinguish the sheepskin
elothes and the heavy bludgeons, these
weapons now resting one end on the ground,
ready for use.

Jack’s mind was .quickly made up; it was
useless to run back, he must get past them
and then run. He walked boldly toward the
men, prepared for flight.

As he came abreast of the men, one of them
challenged him and made a few steps forward.
Jack guessed that it was a command to stop,
and for a reply he dropped his bag.and was
oft.

Iimmiediately there was a hubbub. The men
started in pursuit, calling loudly. Jack ran
on as fast as he could, but he was nearly par-
alyzed by the report of a firearm behind, and
he had some difficulty in persuading himself
that he was not hit. Well, his only chance
was to run for it, and go zigzag, so that they
should not hit him,

On he went, forgetting that by adopting this
style of running*he was giving points to the
runner at his back. He glanced hastily over
his shoulder, and, to his dismay, he found one
of the men nearly upon him. He made a spurt;
he felt his collar gripped, and he went down
headlong in the sand.

It was quite ten minutes later when Brewer,
noi receiving the expected blow, ventured to
open. his eyes and look about. Another min-
ute, and he sat up. No sign of his pursuers.
He felt himself and dived his hands into his
pockets; he was. not hurt and nothing had
been taken from him. _What did it mean?

He stood up and slowly resumed his journey.
It was very mysterious. He had lost his bag,
which was a decided nuisance, and he had
passed a very ‘“‘bad quarter of an hour,” but
otherwise he was not much the worse.

He limped into the inn at Boejette, weary
and disgusted. He caught sight of himself
in a glass; his pale face bore witness to the
ordeal he had undergone. The letter of intro-
duction had been lost with the bag, so he ex-
tiga as well as he could what had befallen

m,

‘“Robbers!”’ cried the landlord. ‘‘Nonsense!’’

Jack became angry and began to threaten
what he would do when he reached home.
Finally the landlord asked him to describe his
assailants,

By this time there was a number of people
about him, and a man was interpreting what
he said. Jack took advantage of this fact to
repeat in measured tones all that he had told
the landlord. He noticed that the listeners
were smiling and he was indignant, for he
had exaggerated to some’ extent in order to
impress them with the enormity of the out-
rage. When he finished there was a roar of
laughter.

He turned fiercely for an explanation, and
started back in surprise as he saw himselt
confronted by the young woman upon whom
he had played the flour trick.

‘Monsieur is so fond of a joke that no doubt
he will appreciate it as much as these people
when he understands,’’ she said with a smile.
‘‘When Monsieur had his jest with me and
my fiance, my father and Jean resolved to re-
turn it. So they arranged a little plot: My
father told you enough of tramps to make you
afraid, but not enough to deter you. Jean also
made arrangements. The men you met were
coastguards, who always patrol in twos. From
what you had- been told, you—knowing noth-

 

ing about these men—thought they were
tramps. They waited for you, both couples,
thanks to Jean; and his cousin helped us by
meeting you on the dunes, Oh, we are a united
family and help one another! :

“The coastguards have the right to fire if
the challenged person does not obey, and one
of them fired—in the air, just to frighten you!
The bludgeons were guns, but the wraps hid
their shape. That is how the men carry their
night wraps; it is very cold on the dunes.

‘*Monsieur was terribly frightened, I know,
but surely he appreciates the trick we have
played him in return? He may recover his
bag if he walks back on the dunes, which he
may do without fear of robbers.”’

She finished with a peal of laughter. Jack
saw that he had been caught, but he was wise
enough to smile in a forced way and ask fora
room, in which he soon took refuge. There
was no other inn at Boejette.

In the morning he found his bag outside his
door, intact. He left Boejette early, and re-
turned home as quickly as he could. And ever
since then he has regarded practical joking as
a very foolish pastime.

——> oa

EDITED BY MRS, HELEN WOOD.

By special arrangement with the manufacturers we
are enabled to supply the readers of the ‘‘New
York Weekly’’ with the patterns of all garments
described and illustrated in this column at TEN
CENTS each. When ordering patterns please be
particular to mention the number of the pattern and
size wanted. Address Fashion Department, ‘‘The
New York Weekly.’’ Box 1,173, New York City.

I shall be very glad to answer to the best of
my ability any questions that my lady read-
ers may care to put to me as to questions of
toilet. So, if you are puzzled in any way, don’t
hesitate to appeal to me for such advice as I
am capable of giving you.

HELEN WOOD.

HOW ELDERLY WOMEN SHOULD DRESS.

The elderly woman is apt to think that her
appearance is not of any importance, and she
neglects the small belongings of dress, wear-
ing a badly-made shoe, too often ill-fitting
gloves, handkerchiefs that are neither fine nor
pretty, and a neck dressing that has nothing
to recommend it, unless some one should ap-
prove of slovenliness. Young women can af-
ford to dress plainly; but it is the women who
are elderly who have a right to the elaborate
and rich clothes. Weare very apt to conclude
that what the mother is the daughter will be;
and when a young girl elaborately gowned is
seen with a mother dressed in the most dowdy
fashion, the conclusion is quickly reached that
at her age the daughter will resemble the
mother. This may be true or not, but it is in-
justice to the girl, and more than wrong in the
mother, not to be as young in heart and ap-
pearance as she possibly can.

GF In ordering patterns ve sure to give size and number

NO. 1997, LADY’S DRAPED ONE-PIECE
SKIRT.

This fashionable model is one of the most
simple imaginable. The foundation has only
one’ seam, and
that up the centre
of the back. Over
this hangs a
shawl drapery
quite short on the
sides, forming
double points in
front and joined
in a single point
in the back. The
pattern is equally
suitable to grena-
dine and silk,
which may v¢
trimmed with rib-
bon, ‘chiffon, or
some of the liber-
ty fabrics; and
also for the more
simple ginghams
and lawns which
compose the
wardrobes of the
majority. The
pattern is cut in
sizes 22 to 30 inches waist measure, The me-
dium size requires six yards of material 42
inches wide. :

NO. 1992, LADY’S-SHFRT WAIST.

This waist, although a shirt waist, is one of
those charming models adaptable alike to the
cheapest gingham Se

I

eA
A
my

Pee
ARE e

ADH SSNS
SA
Sy SAX

Ss

SNA MOANTNTAIA
RANEY

~~

|and costliest silk.

It will look par-

ticularly well if

made of striped

pique, combined

with embroidery,

the small inner

vest being of

muslin or other

Soft material. For

dressy occasions 4

the corded taffe-

tas, introduced ‘

this season and

received with uni-

versal favor, will

be most appropri-

ate. With them

can be used lace,

embroidery and

liberty fabrics, a

particularly effec-

tive trimming be-

ing applique sin-

gle figures of

either lace or colored. embroidery used. on
revers of a plain color.” The pattern is cut in
sizes 32 to 42 inches bust measure. The me-
dium size requires two and one-half yards of
material 32 inches wide.

NO. 1995, GIRLS’ APRON.
An apron such as the one herewith illustrat-
: ed is not only
useful, but
also orna-
mental enough
to meet the
approval of
both
wearerand
her mamma.
Naturally,
white lawn,
muslin or
crossbar will
b e_ prettiest
for this apron,
but colored
* ginghams and
even brilliant-
ine will be
found both
dainty and
Ss er V iceable.
The pattern is
cut in sizes
4 to 12 years
of age. The
medium size
requires, if
made as
shown, 1%
yards of 36-
AS inch _ goods,
<— e with.% yards
of allover embroidery and 4 yards of embroid-
ered edging for ruffle.
(All patterns published in “The New York Weekly”

will be sent to our readers for 10 cents each. Address
FASHION DEPARTMENT, “New York Weekly.’’)

Mary J.—It is noticeable in the matter of
neckgear that, by way of a reaction from the
tiny cravats favored last season, big bows are
now much in vogue. The loops, to be strictly
correct, should be small, and the ends long
and sweeping. Ribbon is the most popular,
but piece silk, mousseline de soie, taffeta, lace,
and mull are some of the many materials em-
ployed.

Embroidery.—Carnations are, for the mo-
ment, ousting marguerites and poppies in dec-
orative embroideries. An example of carnation
embroidery is furnished by a beautiful mantel-
piece cover of Indian blue cloth, with a pale-
green ribbon embroidered in gold thread and
sequins in a curved design, while beneath runs
a border of crimson and pink carnations. The
flowers form the border of the cloth, which is
cut out round the edge of the petals.

 

 

 

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