S. GREATEST STORY, “WEDDED, YET NO WIFE, APPEARS ON THE FIFT

H_PAGE,

 

 

Vol. 48.

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year

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

 

 

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

New York, October 29, 1892.

 

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Covies Five Dollars.

 

GRASPING FOR SHADOWS.

BY.FRANK J. OTTARSON.

A sunbeam glanced across the floor,
Where sat my boy at play ;

With merry laugh he seized it fast—
Alas! it fled away.

He, wondering, gazed upon his hands,
And then, with saddened eyes,

Looked up to me, as if to say,
“You stole my pretty prize.”

Fair child, I thought, thus all through life
Your hands will grasp in vain;

For just beyond the prize will lie—
With you the loss and pain.

For even as babes who clutch the light
Do men the vain pursue,

And I myself, with all my years,
Am foolish fond as you.

The lover sees in laughing eyes
His glimpse of earthly heaven;

He grasps—the fairy vision fiies—
For him it was not given.

The warrior sees the victor’s crown,
And struggles for the glory ;

He fails:, And so goes on and on
The everlasting story.

The statesman sees his sunbeam, too—
Preferment, place, and power—

For which he strives a long life through,
Yet never wins the dower.

Like this fond babe he grasps the beam
That flies at his pursuing ;

He has it in a pleasant dream,
But never in the doing.

When growing old we grasp for gold,
But seldom to our gainiug ;

Grasp on until our hearts are cold,
Still failing and complaining.

Yet, like the babe who seized the sun,
We strive beyond our tether,

Till life its weary course has run,
And man goes o’er the river.

—__—_ —> a

 

 

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

FOR A WOMANS

By BERTHA ML. CLAY.

Author of ‘*’Twixt Love and Hate,” *‘ Between
Two Hearts,” ** Fair; but Faithless,” ** For
Another’s Sin,” ‘‘Thrown on the
World,” “The Sins of
the Father.” etc.

CHAPTER I.
PRELIMINARY.

Rupert Cecil, Earl of Aubrey, had been
brought up, so to speak, by his mother, and
perhaps his life would have been very different
but for the peculiar faults and virtues which
seem to be inseparable from a woman's guid-
ance of a boy’s life into manhood.

But would his life have been better or worse?
There were those who said it had been so bad
that it could not well be worse; and there
were others who said that the especially large
crop of wild oats he had sown was no more
than the natural reaction from a_ foolish
woman’s restrictions, and that he would make
all the better man in the end.

A great deal of nonsense is talked about
wild oats, however; and perhaps the ‘real
truth is that the world does not so much care
how large acrop a young man sows, as how
large a crop ‘he harvests.

As a matter of fact, Rupert was still sowing
his wild oats while the dowagers were whis-
pering his name among themselves; and while
the old fellows, who had been all through the
same course, were shaking their heads and
prophesying that there would be very litile
left of the enormous estates by the time young
Aubrey was done with his wild oats.

A very debonair young nobleman was Lord
Aubrey; handsome as a Greek god, with the
careless grace of Antinous, something of the
vigor of Achilles, and with all the reckless
enthusiasm for pleasure that Bacchus might
be supposed to have had.

Love he laughed at, when he thought of it,
which was not very often; and the most care-
ful angling of the most skilled fishers in the
matrimonial waters, never secured from him
so much as a nibble.

No one could say that he ever did anything
dishonorable, himself; but some of his com-
panions were of a sort usually avoided by a
man who values his reputation. But that was
not to be wondered at, since the only qualifi-
cation he required in his companions-was that
they be “good fellows.” “Good fellows” are
usually bad men.

During his last year at Oxford his mother
died. It was a severe blow to him, for she had
managed all his affairs, great and small, for
him all his life. He finished his course at the
university with great sobriety, carrying off
high honors; giving rise to the prophecy that
he would be a bookish man.

Within a year his university career was for-
gotten, or remembered as something incredi-
ble; for when he made his entry into the wild
set that opened its arms to him, he made it
with a plunge that gave some ground to the
ea that he had been governed so long
oy his mother that he had no self-government
at all, and would end by making historic ducks
and drakes of the enormous fortune that had
been amassed for him.

Finally the climax came. At least people
shrugged their shoulders and looked askance
at each other when his name was mentioned;
and they said it was the climax. Asa matter
of fact it was oan a stage in his career; and
although the girls only whispered his name

HONOR

|

|

She darted past him like a frightened creature, and reached the brink of the chasm.

 

‘“*Qh, Heaven! Let me die!” she cried.

 

when they spoke of it among themselves, the
mothers certainly found him no less desirable
as a son-in-law.

“When he returns from the Continent,” they
said to themselves, “he may be willing to set-
tle down.”

It happened in this way: One of the mem-
bers of the particularly wild set to which the
young Lord Aubrey belonged, was very near
to the throne. One of the elder Cecils, a cousin
of Rupert, had ventured a little advice.

“Be careful, Aubrey! You’re in risky com-
pany,” he had said.

Rupert had smiled scornfully.

“A prince of the blood should be good enough
company for even a Cecil,” he had answered,

“True enough,” the older man had _ respond-
ed, with a shrug; “but don’t forget that when
a prince of the blood dances, somebody else
always pays the fiddler.”

Rupert remembered the saying, which he
had thought horribly bad form at the time,
but which had struck him with peculiar per-
tinency when later there came an exposure of
the doings of his set. It was one of those scan-
dalous affairs with which the blood royal is
mixed up once in a while.

The part of the royal libertine was carefully
glossed over, and the burden of the whole mis-
erable business fell on the broad shoulders of
Lord Aubrey; and there it rested, in spite of
what was privately said in his behalf by a
few who pretended to know Rupert.

“Aubrey,” said they, “might doany wild
and reckless thing, but a disgraceful thing—
never.”

But most people thought he was very wise
to go to the Continent, as he did, to there
await the benevolent forgetfulness to which
misdeeds in high life are mercifully treated.

To the world Aubrey maintained a contempt-
uous silence; but he did free his mind to the
chief cause of his self-expatriation, before he
took his leave of his native shores.

“A word from you,” he said, indignantly,
“would have prevented this, but you did not
see fit to say it, and Iam bearing the burden
of your dishonor.” °

“It will soon blow over,” said the prince,
miserably.

“Blow over!” retorted Rupert, scornfully.
“And that is all you think of. You do not
deserve that I should keep silence. You think
so little of dishonor !”

“But you will not say anything?” cried the
abject prince.

Rupert tossed his hand witha gesture of
disgust.

 

 

’

“No, I will not say anything,” he replied;

 

 

“but it is for the sake of the great principle
of royalty, and not for your sake.”

So he went to the Continent, and took with
him the reputation of a very wicked young
nobleman; a reputation which he took no very
serious pains to change in his new life.

His boon companions were all members of
the old set, and they had attached themselves
to him because of his free-handed manner of
scattering his wealth. There are sharks of that
sort in every station of life, and the hungriest
of them are those who swim in the highest
waters.

If Rupert had had any thoughts of altering
his mode of life, these parasites would have
found a thousand alluring reasons for not
doing so, They led him from capital to capi
tal over the Continent, and they showed him
all there was to be seen of a certain side of
life; so that in the course of a year he might
be said to be a past-master in the whole sci-
ence of dissipation,

In the meantime, thanks to that mother’s
care, which so many had derided, he had lost
nothing of his vigorous enjoyment of life; for
she had helped him to have a strong constitu-
tion, fitted to withstand the hardest strain
upon it. Perhaps she had foreseen something
of what was to happen.

And this brings us to the point where the
real story of Lord Aubrey’s life began.

CHAPTER II.
CLOTHILDE AND LUCIE.

After having done the capitals of Europe,
Lord Aubrey and his coterie of especial com-
panions, three in number, found themselves
in a little inn up in the Tyrol.

“A beastly place!” Lord Hawkshurst said,
in disgust; and Sir Charles Loftus and the
Honorable Reginald Vernon agreed with him.

“Dused slow,” was what Aubrey called it;
though he found himself drinking in the pure,
bracing air from one of the upper balconies,
with a great deal of enjoyment.

If they all found it so unsuitable a place for
them, why had they come there? It was a
thing Rupert, at least, could not have told.
His dislike might have been because the pleas-
ures he had been indulging in had begun to
pall upon him. It might have been, in ad-
dition, because he had had several disagree-
ments with his three friends; -which dis-
agreements had been mostly of his own mak-
ing, since in the nature of things they were
not what the three parasites wished for.

 

Not that they were so devoted to Rupert,
either; for, in fact, they had come to detest
and even despise him. He had been having
such absurd attacks of honor.
were all honorable men, and had never failed
to pay a gambling debt; but their notions of
what was due to the other sex had never

agreed with his; and during their life abroad, |
when he ‘had necessarily seen more of them |

than
monstrate, and then to indignantly threaten
them with separation if they did not mend
their ways.

The relacions between them, while they
were at the hotel in the Tyrol, were, in fact,
severely strained, and, as Lord Hawkshurst
frankly said, under his breath, to the others:

“He’s taken the bit in his teeth, and he
won’t be controlled any longer.”

“Or thinks he won’t,” sneered Sir Charles,
with a meaning laugh.

“Don’t make any mistake, Loftus,” drawled
the Honorable Reginald; “ Aubrey has go5 the
habit of kicking over the traces, and nothing
on earth will curb him. For my part, I’m not
going to waste any more time on him. I’m for
London to-night. I hear that the young Duke
of Barringham has cut loose from his guard-
ian, and I’m going cn to help with his educa-
tion.”

He got up from the easy-chair he had been
lounging in, and went lazily off.

“So much the better,” said Hawkshurst,
eying his associate as he strolled away. “Ver-
non is good enough at plain plucking of
pigeons, but when it comes to the delicate
work we have in hand, he is too clumsy.”

“I suppose they'll come?” queried
Charles, a little nervously.

“Come!” ejaculated the other, with a confi-
dent laugh. “If you knew the marchioness as
well as I, you would never doubt it. Ten to
one she’s in the hotel now.”

“T’ll take you at ten to one,” said Loftus,

“Done! in guineas,” responded Hawkshurst.

Out came their note-books, and the bet was
booked.

“How will you find out?’ demanded Sir
Charles.

“Ask the landlord. Here ke comes, by a
special providence. Landlord,” he said to the
host, “any of my countrymen stopping here?”

“None, milor,” answered the host, obsequi-
ously.

“Bad time for travelers, I suppose?” said
Hawkshurst. : ;

“Yes, only two arrived since your party,
milor.”

“Men, of course?” said Hawkshurst. “No
hope of any ladies coming at this season,”

Sir

,

Of course they |

before, he had had occasion to first re- |

“But you are wrong, milor,” cried the land-
|lord in triumph. “They-are ladies, and one of
i them is more beautiful than words can, tell.”

“You are enthusiastic,” said. Hawkshurst,
casting a glance at Loftus. “What. is» the
name of the divinity?”

“Her mother is the Marquise de Senac,”
replied the landlord, proudly, for he, felt the
honor of such high rank.

“You see,” said. Hawkshurst, when. the
landlord hadleft them, “Clothilde is) here,
and the guinea is mine.”

“Your luck is good,” said Sir Charles, with
the ghost of a sneer on his lip; for he believed
that his friend had been sure of the arrival
before betting. “But I shall not:quarrel with
that now if it only continues good, lam not
so hopeful as you. You know that Aubrey has
always been so cold toward women when. it
came to a matter of real passion.”

“Trust me—and—above all, trust Clothilde,”
said Hawkshurst, with easy confidence.

“And the girl?”

“Take her on faith, too. When Clothildesug-
gested the plan, and said: her Lucie was just
the one to carry it out, I knew that it was
just as she said. Wait! you shall see-her this
evening, I do not doubt. 1, am doubly glad
Vernon is going.”

Lord Aubrey, meanwhile, had been wander-
ing over the mountain side, tempted there
by the outlook from his balcony.

“A lovely spot!” he ejaculated once, as he
stood on a great, jutting rock and had a view
of the pretty little valley. at his feet, and of
the mountains stretching far away in the dis-
tance. “I wonder what. possessed Hawkshurst
to think of such a place! He is as much out of
harmony with such peaceful things as I am
with myself,”

He kicked a stone, and watched it bound
from rock to rock, and finally lose itself ina
wooded ravine.

“Poor little stone!” he muttered. “It had a
gay time of it for a little while, leaping and
flying through the air, all bright and’ glisten-
ing with the sunshine on it; and then lost in
the darkness of the woods, perhaps’ never to
see the sunshine again, but to lie where it bas
fallen and grow green with moss. Ah, well!
it may be that if the little stone could go on
endlessly leaping, and bounding, and glisten-
ing in the bright sunshine, it would grow
very weary of it all. If I know anything about
it..the little stone wonldy’ +

He turned as he finished his soliloquy, 4nd
sauntered down the mountain. Near the inn
he met and passed two ladies, to whom he
courteously but indifferently lifted his hat.

“A handsome, hard face’ the'mother has,”
he thought. “The daughter is pretty and shy.
They look French.”

“Ciel!” exclaimed the girl, when he was out
of hearing, “but he is handsome!”

“And oneof the richest men in England, my
dear,” said the older woman. “We owe some-
thing to that dear Hawkshurst.”

“Our dear Hawkshurst will.probably pay
himself all we ' ever owe him,” sneered the
younger one. “Besides, he does not look so
easily fooled.”

“My dear Lucie,” -responded the older
woman, “you have gifts that I do not possess,
but I have experience, and it tells me that
any man may he fooled by a woman, if she go
about it the right way.”

That evening, after’ Vernon was gone, the
ladies were met in the parlor, and after a
show of great surprise, Hawkshurst greeted
them. and then presented Lord Aubrey and
Sir Chavles.

Aubrey noticed at once that the mother, the
Marquise de Senac, seemed rejviced, but
hardly surprised, to meet Hawkshurst, but
that Lucie was both surprised and annoyed,

The marguise attached herself at once to
Aubrey, and Hawkshurst devoted himself to
the daughter in his bold, insolent way. Lucie
seemed in despair, but was apparently at a
complete loss to know how to avoid atten-
tions which were plainly distasteful to her.

Aubrey was dimly conscious that he was
being mixed up in an affair that would be not
at all to his liking. The hard-faced marquise
and Hawkshurst were so evidently in collu-
sion, in some plan which had ‘the beautiful
Lucie for its object, that the earl found him-
lself growing indignantly restive in the con-

 

 

| templation of the scene.

“Tt is plain,” he thought, “that I am to be
made to serve some purpose in the affair, or I
should not have been brought here. But what
ican be Hawkshurst’s intentions? That beauti-
ful girl is a lady, and, moreoyer, her mother
would surely not countenance any wrong to
her. Can Hawkshurst be thinking of mar-
riage? An odd way to go about it even with a
French girl!”

He studied the beautiful face of Lucie, and
was pained to see how hopelessly she glanced
now and again at him or at Sir Charles, as if
realizing that they were both of the same
stamp as the man whose attentions, sanc-
tioned by her mother, were yet so obnoxious
to herself.

“T will interfere,” he said, emphatically, to
himself; “and later I will have an explana-
tion with Hawkshurst.”

With him to decide was to do, and he ratber
unceremoniously left the marquise to be enter-
tained by Sir Charles, while he walked over
to the other couple. Hawkshurst greeted him
with a scarcely concealed scowl, while Lucie
noticed his presence only by a timid glance
and a quick dropping of her long lashes over
her great brown eyes.

Hawkshurst was plainly put out by the
interruption, and after a short time sulkily
rose and left the earl with Lucie. Aubrey saw
him cross over to the marquise and ejaculate
something in an angry manner, and then leave
the room. The marquise first looked troubled,
and afterward shrugged her shoulders, as if
an unavoidable thing had happened.

A little later she excused herself to Sir
Charles, and joined Aubrey and the .timid
Lucie, who seemed greatly relieved by her
coming. Aubrey was both indignant and
piqued by the evident fear Lucie had of him;
for she was beautiful enough to make him
wish to stand well with her. Moreover, no
man likes to feel that he is disliked, without
knowing the cause.

When the two ladies left the parlor, which
they did leave before long, Aubrey sought
Hawkshurst, who was smoking a cigar in the
moonlight, Hawkshurst, who was by far the
cleverest of the noble parasites which had at-

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

   

 

 

 

 

3

bleman, had for a long time maintained a
powerful ascendency over the latter.

Now that a rupture was imminent, perhaps
it was no more than natural that Aubrey
should feel more unpleasant toward him than
toward either of the other companions who
had done so much to make vice palatable to
him. He approached Hawkshurst, therefore,
with more anger in kis heart than th
of the evening seemed to justify.

“Oh,” said Hawkshurst, sullenly, “it’s you.”

“Yes,” replied the earl, “it is I, and I wish
an explanation,”

“It seems to me,” retorted the other, “that
it is I who ought to have an explanation.
Why need you have interfered with my game?”

“T don’t understand your game,” answered
Aubrey, hotly; “but I do not hesitate to say
that it looks uncommonly like something in-
famous.”

“Oh,” sneered Hawkshurst, “your virtue is
troubling you again.”

The young nobleman was hardly equal to
answering a sneer of that sort, and it made
him the more furious to be aware of the fact.

“That is not to the purpose,” he said. “I lay
no claims to extraordinary virtue, but I have
always drawn the line at anything dishonor-
ing to myself.”

“I don’t see,” retorted Hawkshurst, coolly,
“that you have any concern in this matter.”

“] don’t see it either,” replied Aubrey; “but
I am satisfied that I am being given a concern
in it.that.I repvdiate. I am not yet the adept
in vice that you are, and I cannot guess
whither you are tending in this matter; but I
am not so blind as not to see that I am being
used. And I warn you distinctly, Lord Hawks-
hurst, that I will hold you to a strict account-
ability for any part you force me to play.”

“It looks to me,” said Hawkshurst, with an
evil sneer, “as if you were seeking a quarrel
with me.”

“Tam not seeking a quarrel with you or any
one else, my lord,” was the answer; “but I do
assure you that I shall never shirk one when
it. seems to me necessary.”

_ “The world is large, Lord Aubrey,” said
Hawkshurst, coldly; “you are not forced to
remain here if you object to what is going on.”

“You have made mea part of it,” replied
Aubrey, haughtily, “and I shall remain to
help that bpd girl, if need be.”

“{ should suppose,” said the other, with an
evil sneer, “that the marquise would be equal
to watching over her daughter.”

“She ought to be, and I hope she isas ready
as she is able,” rep’ied the earl.

Lord Hawkshurst shrugged his shoulders,
and the conversation ended. That same evening
there was a meeting between the marquise
and Hawkshurst in the corridor, while Sir
Charles was keeping guard over Aubrey.

“Well?” cried the marquise, impatiently,
“has my lord taken fire?”

“At the beauty of your Lucie?
she is lovely enough to turn any man’s head.
But he has bitten—snapped, I should say. at
the bait, and is eager to play Don Quixote,
and do anything to rescue the shy, timid little
beauty from the wiles of my wicked self. You
ean depend on Lucie?”

“As on myself.”

“And you will be ready on time?”

“We are ready now.”

“Good !"

No; and yet

———

CHAPTER III.
THE PLOT OF LORD HAWKSHURST.

“Hawkshurst has left his adieus for you,
Aubrey,” was the greeting the earl received
ag Sir Charles the next morning at break-
fast.

“Adieus! has he gone then? And where?”

Sir Charles had the appearance of being very
ill at ease,

“He did not say,” was his answer.

Aubrey ate his breakfast in silence. He won-
dered what the sudden departure of Hawks-
hurst portended. Once in a while he looked at
Sir Charles, and could not fail to note his
uneasiness,

“He wasted no, rds in courtesy,” said
Aubrey, as he pus@d’ away the breakfast-
things. “Why did he urge us to come to this
place, of all others, if he intended to take such
sudden leave of us?”

“Hadn’t you some words with him last
night?” demanded Sir Charles, evasively.

ubrey leaped i from his chair angrily.
He was sure that he was being pluyed sith.

“Has his sudden leave anything to do with
those ladies?” he demanded.

“Do you mean——” began Sir Charles, hesi-
tatingly.

“You know I mean the Marquise de Senac
and her daughter, whom we met last night in
the parlor,” interrupted Aubrey, impatiently.
“Loftus, if yon know anything about the game
Hawkshurst is playing, I demand to know it.
I have aright to know it, and I shall hold
you as wellas him accountable if you do not
tell me what you know.”

“Do you threaten me, Lord Aubrey?” -de-
manded Sir Charles, haughtily.

“Construe it as you like,” replied the earl.
“I have reason to believe that I am in some
way drawn into this affair, and I have the
right to insist upon knowing what is going
on.”

“You are not concerned in it, my lord,” said
Sir Charles, coldly.

The earl looked angrily at Sir Charles, and
then rang his bell.

“Send the landlord to me!” he said to the
servant.

The landlord came as quickly as ever a land-
Tord does come in the Tyrol, where they are
proverbially slow.

“Landlord,” said Aubrey, “when the Mar-
quise de Senac appears, please give her my
compliments, and say that I wish to speak
with her.”

“But, milor,” cried the landlord, “the mar-
guise has gone! She left by the same coach
that took muilor’s friend.”

“At what time was this?” demanded Aubrey,
springing to his feet, and casting a stern
glance at Sir Charles.

“My lord,” interposed Sir Charles, in Eng-
lish, hetore the landlord could answer, “if you
are determined to pursue the matter in this
way, I may as well give you_ the explanation
you demand, to avoid a scandal.”

“Well?” said Aubrey, curtly.

“You need not wait,” said Sir Charles to the
landlord, with easy insolence. “I wonder at
you, Lord Aubrey.”

“The explanation, if you please,” answered
Aubrey, haughtily.

Sir Charles shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, then, if you will have it, and since
it will be too late to interfere now, this is it:
For reasons of her own, the marquise wishes
Hawkshurst for a son-in-law. The daughter
objects to him. So Hawkshurst, who is will-
ing to take charge of the well-filled purse of
the beautiful Lucie, arranged to meet the
mother and daughter here. You threatened to
spoil the spert, and hence the sudden flight.”

“Of what good is flight? From whom are
they flying?”

Sir Charles laughed.

“They are flying from your too anxious vir-
tue. The possession of the fair Lucie can be
gained only by strategy; for she utterly refuses
to marry Hawkshurst. So Hawkshurst had a
nice little plan, which was to have been ear-
ried out, with this inn as the base of opera-
tions. You spoiled this place by threatening
to interfere, and by refusing to leave.”

“What is the plan?” demanded Aubrey, in-
dignantly.

Sir Charles laughed as if he enjoyed the
opportunity of annoving Avwbrey, realizing
that their intimate relations were practically
severed, and that he had nothing more to hope
for from the earl.

“The plan is one worthy of Hawkshurst.
An ‘accident’ will happen which will result
in leaving Hawkshurst and the fair but ohsti-
nate Lucie alone together in an isolated hut.
After that, what can Lucie do but marry him
to save her reputation.”

“Infamous! and the mother—will she bea
party to such a thing?” cried Aubrey, in hor-
ror.

e incident |

tached themselves to the careless young no-s “It was arranged with her,” laughed Sir

Charles.

“And you can laugh!” ejaculated Aubrey,
hot with scorn and indignation.

“Tt seems to mea dused clever trick,” re-
plied Sir Charles, insolently.

Aubrey restrained the inclination. he had to
give vent to his loathing and contempt for the
‘man who had been his boon companion for so
long, and hastily left the room, He sought the
landlord,

“Could I overtake the coach which took Lord
Hawkshurst away?” he demanded.

“Impossible. It has six hours’ start,”
answered the wondering innkeeper.

“Have you a horse I could ride?”

“T have a horse,” the landlord answered,
dubiously. “He may not suit your lordship,
but he is valuable to me.”

The worthy host determined that if his guests
insisted on leaving him at such short notice,
he would reimburse himself somehow.

“TI will pay his value,” said Aubrey, shortly.
“Have him saddled and brought round. And
make a note on paper of the route the coach
was to take.”

“I will,” said the landlord, “I can do it,
for I heard milor giving the directions to the
postilion.”

 

CHAPTER IV.
PLIGHTING HIS TROTH.

It was several hours after night had fallen
that Lord Aubrey rode up to one of tne least
eee inns in the ruggedest part of the
Tyrol.

“Is Lord Hawkshurst here?” he demanded of
fea fandlord, who had hastened out to greet
1im.

“An English milor?”

“ Yes »

“With two ladies?”

“ Yes,” 1

“No, milor, he is not here. He was wild,
and I tricd to prevent, but he would have
horses and try to-cross the mountain to-night.
He has been gone above two hours.”

Aubrey’s blood boiled in his veins when he
thought of the plot that was to end in uniting
a pure and lovely girl to such a wretch, And
it made his own position no easier when he
thought how that wretch had been for so long
one of his most intimate friends.

“Give me a horse to take the place of this,
which is tired out,” he said.

“But,” cried the landlord, aghast at meeting
a second madman, “the way now is even
more dangerous. It is a bad road, and a storm
is coming up. They can never cross, and you
would be lost.” ;

“It is the very peer. tanity he sought,” mur-
mured Aubrey. “I must go on. Bring me the
horse, and let me take the risk. I must over-
take the other party.”

He procured what directions he could, and
in less than half an hour was on his way over
the rough mountain road, picking ‘his path
with difficulty in the darkness of a night
made blacker by the gathering storm-élouds,

He had food enough for thought during that
hazardous journey, and perhaps he never in
after years remembered any of his thoughts
more clearly than those with which he was
troubled on that night.

For three hours it seemed to him he went
laboriously on before the storim broke, and
then it seemed to him that he made no more
progress. Indeed, he was forced after a while
to dismount, and lead his exhausted animal
to the side of the road, where a flash of vivid
lightning had revealed the presence of a great
tree,

There he remained, waiting for the storm
to subside, but never thinking of turnin
back. But the storm continued with unabated
fury, and he might have remained there indefi-
nitely if through the noise of the storm he had
not heard the sound of approaching wheels.

“Halloa!” he called, putting his hands to
his mouth and calling after the fashion of the
mountaineers,

“Halloa!” came back the answer, and as the
heavens were split.by a fash of lightning,
Aubrey cculd see a vehi¢le drawn by two
horses laboring along just in front of him,

In an instant he was by it, and was fruit-
lessly peering in at the windows, which had
been shut to keep out the driving rain.

“Who are your passengers?” he cried to the
driver. ;

“Only one—a lady,” was the answer. “Who
are you?”

“T am a tourist, crossing the mountain in
search of another party. Where are you from?”

“IT started to cross this evening with two
ladies and a gentleman, Two of the party are
lost on the mountain, the third is in the car-
riage.”

Aubrey waited for no more, but tore open
the door of the carriage.

“Are you there, madame la Marquise de
Senac?” he cried.

“Oh, Heaven! who are you? Is that Lord
Hawkshurst?”

“No—Lord Aubrey. Where are Hawks urst
and your daughter?”

“Lost in the mountain. AK, Heaven! they
are lost, and they may perish !”

“They will find the hut,” cried the driver,

“But my child’s reputation!” cried the mar-
quise.

“You are very tender of that!” cried Aubrey,
indignantly. “Why did you not remain up
there?”

“The driver would not, and I should have
perished had I remained alone,” she cried.

Aubrey slammed the door, and turned to the
driver.

“Where is this hut you speak of?” he de-
manded.

“ About two miles farther up the road.”

“Turn your horses and go back there. The
young lady must not be left up there alone,”
said Aubrey.

“The gentleman is with her. I would not
turn back in this storm, with the road washed
as it is, for all the gold I could carry. Goon
yourself if you like it.”

Aubrey stepped back, his resolution taken.
The driver whipped his horses, and the jaded
brutes started painfully on down the uncer-
tain road, Aubrey went back to his own ani-
mal, which had not stirred, and mounted it.
He would go as far as the hut, come _what
would.

It was a wild ride, and he could not blame
the driver for not turning back on it; but he
was too full of indignation and horror to think
of his own safety. More than once he found
himself off the road, and once stood on the very
brink of a precipice, over which he was trying
to urge his more knowing horse. For two long
hours he journeyed on in this way, peering to
the right and to the left, to catch sight of the
hut.

He was drenched to the skin, and his horse
would not go off aslow walk, and even so
stumbled and went down a dozen times.
Finally Aubrey dismounted and _ led the tired
animal. Sometimes he believed he must have
passed the hut, but he still kept on.

At last, to his great joy, he saw the glim-
mering of a Jight.

He hastened his pace, and the horse seemed
to understand that the end of his journey was
near, for it, too, quickened its walk until it
reached the hut, which was picturesquely
located near the edge of a deep chasm. The
window was too high to look in, and Aubrey,
after fastening the horse to a tree in front,
rapped loudly at the door.

eavy steps crossed the room, and the door
was opened with a jerk that seemed to have
something of angerinit. Lord Hawkshurst
stood in the door-way, looking out, and it
seemed to Aubrey that he never before had
noticed how evil the face of the man was,

“Tt is TI, Lord Hawkshurst,” he said, and
pushed his way into the room, and cast a
quick glance around.

Lucie sat crouching in the farther corner, her
beautiful eyes fixed on him with a look that
seemed mingled of appeal and terror. He
could seem to coinprehend that she had heard
his knock with a thrill of hone, and had seen
him appear with a renewed hopelessness. He
felt a keen pang of shame in the thought that

 

 

‘session of him.

his associations had been such that a pure girl
must regard him with fear.

“What brings you here, my lord?” demand-
ed Hawkshurst, curtly.

“The desire to shield this poor girl from
your treacherous designs against her,” he
replied. “Mademoiselle,” he added, turning
to her, “believe me, you are now safe.”

“Lord Aubrey,” cried Hawkshurst, mena-
cingly, “take warning! You shall not carry
your interference too far.”

“Lord Hawkshurst,” replied Aubrey, wraly:
“you always know where to find me; and if it

ends you to be told that I have discovered
er infamous designs against this young
ady, and have come here for the express pur-
pose of foiling them, you will know how best
to act to please yourself, I have come here to
remain.”

Lord Hawkshurst took astep forward threat-
eningly; then stopped, and a wicked smile

over his features.

“My iord,” he said, sneeringly, “you are wel-
come to remain if it pleases you. I shall go.”

He shut the door as he spoke, and, before
Lord Aubrey could fathom the meaning of his
action, he had untied the horse outside, and
had urged it into going down the road toward
the hotel—a read the poor beast took willingly
enough when it comprehended whither “its
way tended—homeward.

“Oh, Heaven help and protect me!” he heard
Lucie cry.

He sprang to the door and flung it open.
The horse and rider had disappeared. The
storm had somewhat abated, and the moon
was seen strugglift? through a bank of clouds.

Aubrey was left alone with the poor girl,
pes it would be he who would compromise
ner,

He was white with passionate hatred toward
the man who had put him in such a case,

But the trembling Lucie was no less a vie-
— He returned to the hut and stood before

er.

“Let me go, ifyou area gentleman,” she
cried, rising fearfully to her feet, and letting
him see her pale, beautiful face.

“Will you not trust me to help you down
the mountain?” he asked.

“No, no!” she cried. “Let me go alone, and
I will beg Heaven to thank you. Ah, sir, you
will have pity on a defenseless girl!” and she
clasped ber little white hands appealingly.

“As Heaven is my judge,” he soleil 7
answered, “I wish you nothing but good, an
my only purpose here is to protect you from
the scoundrel who has left here.”

“Then you will let me go,” she said. “That
is the only good you can do me. But, ah!” and
she cried out in terror, “he will be there! Oh,
I am ruined! How can you be so wicked! But
I will not live,” she wildly cried. “The day
shall not dawn that sees me with a ruined
name! I shall dié,; and you will be the cause!
What have I ever done to you? Oh, I have
heard of you, and I know that a woman’s
reputation is a trifle ia your estimation. But
I will go innocent before my Maker, and I
will accuse you.”

And this was the reputation he had won for | y

himself! He could not make this innocent
child believe in the honesty of his intentions.
And yet Heaven knew he would do anything
to rescue her from the sorrow Hawkshurst had
brought upon her,

“Mademoiselle,” he said, earnestly, “what-
ever you wish me to do, I will do. If you
insist upon taking the road down the moun-
tain, I will follow close after you, and pro-
tect you from the elements or from human
foes. If I dared I would leave you alone here.
Anything that is for your good I will do if
you wiil suggest it.”

“Let me go from here!” she cried.

He opened the door and stood aside to let

her pass. She darted past him like a fright-
rr creature and reached. the brink of the
chasm. }

“Oh, Heaven! let me die!” she cried.

The next instant ske staggered back and
sank weeping in.a,frightened Sonn

Aubrey looked ag her for a moment, and be-
lieved that she wa8 dying of fright and shame.
The last resolve enerous soul, took pos-

e bent over her and lifted
her gently into a chair.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, gravely. “I wish I
could persuade you that I am an honorable
man. I will do what I can if you will permit
me. Iam not responsible for the plight you
are in, but I cannot see vou suffer so. When
to-morrow dawns I will make you my wife.
Will you accept me?” =

“To-morrow ” she wailed, “my name will be
Sanonoreds and you will take back your
offer.”

“T swear before Heaven that, come what
will, to-morrow I. will make you my wife!
Will you believe me?”

She lifted a pair of wondering brown eyes
to his face, and seemed to study it.

“Yes,” she answered, slowly, “I believe you.
But perhaps you love some one else, and you
will curse me for coming into your life.”

“T love no one else, and I shall try to learn
to love you,” he said.

And so their troth was plighted.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Wi Notte Publish in Boor,
Tracked Acruss the Ailantie:

Nick Garter Among the Smugglers.

By the Author of “*NICK CARTER.”

 

 

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

 

CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE LIBRARY WINDOW.

Nothing of moment occurred during the
days that intervened between the events re-
corded in the last chapter and the time for
the sailing of the steamer upon which Living-
ston Carruthers was to be a passenger.

Nick and Chick met but once during the
time, and then the following conversation took
place:

“What have you decided to do?” asked
Chick.

“T shall sail on the same steamer,”

“ And let Carruthers know who you are?”

“No; incognito, so far as he is concerned.
Chick, notwithstanding the episode of the
picture, I believe that those diamonds are
still on the steamer.”

“1 don’t.”

“They are somewhere in that state-room.”

“Tmpossible.”
“You are going to the steamer with the

“TI won't if I can avoid it.”

“You must avoid it. Watch her every mo-
ment. If the diamonds are there, they will
be passed to her and she will take them
ashore.”

“T have no faith in the idea.”

“Follow it, nevertheless.”

“T will.”

“Keep a lookont for me.
adja room to his.”

I have taken the

“You will see a musician, a crank, a fellow
with on hair—a German. That will be me.”
“ Goo >

“Now good-by, iad, I sup there is no

 

likelihood of your going also

eam THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. S382 von. ssw.

“T haven't seen any yet.”

“Well, let circumstances guide you entirely.
I will be in Paris. I will go by the same
steamer with Carruthers, and I don’t think he
will outwit me this time.”

They parted, Chick to return to the Everett,
where he still posed as Felix Parsons, and
Nick to prepare for hie journey across the
ocean.

During the time that had elapsed since the
scene in the corridor of the Everett, Chick
had been twice to Carruthers’ house.

Neither time, however, had the ocean free-
trader referred to his proposed trip, nor had
he once mentioned Nick Carter’s name.

By common consent, the subject seemed to
be tabooed between them.

Mrs, Carruthers was as charming as ever,
and as fascinating, and Chick was, without
realizing it, falli momentarily more and
more under the spell of her beauty.

Finally the day came which promised to be
eventful, and in the morning, while Chick
in still at breakfast, Carruthers called upon

m.

“Parsons,” he said, “I have hurried down,
hoping to catch you before you went out.”

“Glad to see you. What's up?”

“Have you anything particular to do, fora
month?” ge:

“No; why ”"

_ “Well, you know I had to buy two tickets
in order to get my room to myself, the steamer
mane crowded,”

“ es.”

“T want you to go over with me.”

“What! to Europe?”

en

“What for?”

“T’ll tell you when we get there, or perhaps
while on the way.”

“Why not tell me now?”

“I'd rather not, old fellow. Come; by your
own confession you have nothing to do here,
I have two tickets; there are two berths in
my room. The passage is all paid, and I want
you to go, Will you?”

“Give a fellow a chance to think.”

“Pshaw! Decide now and think afterward.”

“Why are you so anxious?”

“Perhaps don’t want to leave you here;
eh, Parsons?”

The tone in which the statement was made
entirely belied the genial smile which accom-
panied it.

Chick started and flushed.

Then his brow clouded.

“No,” he said coldly; “I will not go.” .

“What a huffy fellow you are. Seriously, do
you think I meant what my tene implied? Not
much, Parsons. But I want you to go.”

“IT will think of it.”

“Bah! say yes. Pardon me, but can’t you
afford it? tt not——”

“The expense is not a consideration.”

“Then say yes.”

Chick remembered what Nick had said.

He felt that he ought to go, but at the same
time there seemed to be a voice which in-
Sor whispered for him to stay in New
ork.

He spent a moment in silent thought. °

“All right,” he said, presently. “I'll go.”
“Good! It’s a great favor, Parsons, as I’ll
show you later. You may not be a loser by it,
either.”

What did Carruthers’ words oops

Chick pondered over them with every mo-
ment, and the only solution was that the
smuggler, believing Chick ei tirely weaned
from the detective service, could easily be
won:over to become one of his confederates in
the system of free-trading which he followed.

Having decided, Chick was anxious to
inform Nick, for he thought that the occasion
might make advisable some change in the
detective's plans.

But Carruthers never once ore him an
oO unity to consult with Nick.

e did not seem to watch Chick, and yet
there was no denying the fact that the young
detective could not escape from him that day.

At last, despairing of getting word to the

 

detective in any other way, he wrote a letter,
affixed 4 special delivery stamp to the envel-
ope, and posted it.

But Nick did not receive it.

He was not at home when it was delivered,
and it was many a long day before he knew
its contents.

Chick, however, having mailed it, gave up
any further attempt to inform Nick of the
sudden change in his plans, until he should
see him at the steamer, disguised as the mu-
sician.

At six o’clock the party met at the home of
Carruthers.

There were only a few present, ‘a dozen
friends from the immediate neighborhood.

It was after dining that Chick found him-
self alone in the library of the house.

He had wandered in there to escape from
the chatter of the guests, which somehow
bored him—he could not tell why.

He felt a strange presentiment of impending
evil.

The endeavor to shake it off proved fruit-
less, and, incensed with himself for what he
termed his own foolishness, he went to the
library, seized a book, and threw himself into
an easy-chair that was hidden behind the cur-
tains of a large bay-window.

He quickly discovered that there was not
sufficient light to enable him to read, and so
the book fell upon his lap and he leaned his
head back against the cushions of the chair.

Suddenly he heard voices.

He started and was about to rise, believing
that the guests had followed him there, when
he heard the word “diamonds.”

Instantly he listened.

There were two voices engaged in the con-

} She paused near the center-table and glanced

quickly around her,

Chick uttered a discreet cough to warn her
that she was not alone, for somehow he
a spying upon her—she was too beauti-
u

She turned quickly when she heard the

et & ;
“Ah! there you are,” she said, and she
moved hastily tow him,

Chick left his chair and started to leave the
embrasure of the window, believing that she
had mistaken him for another, but she reached

nd an uching pimpon the arm,

ain.
e,” she said; “I have

      
 

   

ry
ve jus lerned that you are to sail to-
night with Mr. Carruthers.”

“Tt is true.” Pe

“Why did you not tell me?”

“It was only decided this morning. I sup-
posed you knew it; really, I had not thought
that you would he interested in the matter.”

“Mr. Parsons !”

That was al! she said; nor did she raise her
eyes when she spoke, but Chick somehow felt
as though he had been found guilty of a
crime and convicted then and there.

He remained silent, not knowing what to
say. :

Presently she spoke again.

“Why do you go?” she asked, softly.

“For no particular reason.”

“Pardon me. You would not decide, all in
amoment, totake suchatripas that. Tell
me why you go.”

Chick wondered at the pathos in her voice—
at thetender glance of her uplifted eyes—at
the tremor in the wax-like hand which still
rested upon the sleeve of his coat,

“Your husband asked me todccompany him,
and as he put it on the ground of a persona}
favor, I consented.”

“Ts that all?”

“ Yes.”

“And are you determined to go?”

“Why, yes—now that I have decided.”

“Do you never change your mind?”

“Rarely,” and Chick smiled as she raised
her eyes to his.

“Won’t you change it now?" she asked,
placing her other band beside its mate upon his
a

rm,

“Why?” asked Chick.

“Because I ask it.”

Chick felt the blood rush to his face. A
thrill shot through him like an electric cur-
rent.

By a violent effort, he drew back until] her
hands fell from his arm anda voice seemed to
whisper to his senses:

“Beware of Mrs. Carruthers!” ;

“Why should you ask it?” he demanded,
colaly.

“Never mind why—now. Idoaskit. You
wil] not go, wiJ] you?”

“How can I draw back now? No, I must go.”

“You can say a telegram has reached you;
unexpected business keeps you; anything,
only do not go.”

“Madam, if you will give me a reason why I
should not go, I will——”

He paused.

“Will what?”

“Will consider the matter.”

“Ts it not reason enough that I ask you not
to go?”

“ Jo.”

“Mr. Parsons!”

Again her dainty hands stretched out and
fell upon his arm.

There were pathos, surprise, injury, ay, and
a something else which Chick refused to de-
fine, in her voice.

“Beware of Mrs. Carruthers!” whispered
that inner consciousness, and again he with-
drew from her touch,

 

 

versation. One belonged to Carruthers; the
other Chick did not recognize.
_ “Reubens says they are the finest lot of dia-
monds he has seen, and the cheapest,” said
the strange voice.

“Reubens is generally correct.”

“Yes. Dare you play the same game again,
so soon?”

“My dear fellow, I dare anything. That is
wh succeed.”

“Well, bring them over.”

“3 will,”

“What about this lot?”

“Dispose of them in the usual way.
did you get Reubens’ letter?”

“This morning.”

“Good! How many are there in the lot he
describes?” :

“The biggest lot yet. He has spent fifty-
thousand dollars for them there, and he says
we can triple it.”

CHAPTER XIV.
“GOOD-BY—FOREVER !”

To say that Chick was interested in the
words he heard would but half express his
true feelings. i

Here, for the first time, was genuine evi-
dence that Carruthers was 4 smuggler.

The young detective would have given a
good deal, had he dared, to move tlie curtains
so that he could see beyond them, for he felt
that much depended upon learning who Car-
ruthers’ companion was.

But to move—to make the slightest noise
would, he knew, be fat 1 to his projects.

The only way was to let well enough alone
for the present, and to content himself with
the information he had gleaned.

But little more passed between the two
men.

There were some furtherremarks about Ren-
bens—a reference was made to the last lot that
Carruthers had brought over—before the time
when Chick crossed ith him—and then they
left the library.

But the room was fated to be an eventful
one to Chick.

The men had been gone ahout five minutes,
and he was just on the point of going ont to
mingle with the guests in the effort to find that

When

 

moving drapery fell upon his ears, and the
next instant Mrs. Carruthers glided into the

 

room,

He felt that he was falling into the power
of a siren.

“Has this moment brought the evil of which
my presentiment warned me?” he thought.

hy You must not go, Mr. Parsons,” she added,
after a moment’s pause. “ You wil] remain be-
cause I ask it; you will remain for my sake!”

There was no mistaking her accents now.

Chick had avoided the truth as Jong as he
could, but it was becoming too plain to be
longer ignored.

er fingers glided down his arm, and seized

his hand, They held it; they pressed it.

Her eyes sought his, and he saw tears glis-
tening in them.

His own brain seemed to whirl; his senses
reeled; he felt for an instant as if he was
standing upon the brink of an abyss, and that
she was beckoning him to leap forward to
certain destruction.

There was a full minute of absolute silence
between them—a minute in which her fingers
shut closer than ever upon his hand, as if
they would not let it escape.

“Mrs. Carruthers,” said Chick at last, husk-
ily, “I do not know whether I understand you
or not. IfIdo, then it is imperative that I
should go.”

“Why?”

“For your sake—ay, for my own.”

“But——”

“Stop! We must not argue this. If I do not
go yon will wish that I had gone, and I will
curse the hour that Tremained. No, I, will go.”

She drew back, releasing his hand, and
something very like a sob shook her from head
to foot.

“So be it,” she said. “You are nobler than
I. When you return, you will know, better
than now, why I have begged you to remain.”

“What do you mean?”

She smiled as she raised her eyes to his to
answer him, and Chick remembered that smile
as long as he lived.

Ah! if he could have known then all that
Cornelia Carruthers did not tell him, all that
her smile portended, he would indeed have
hearkened to her and remained in New York.

But he did not know—hbe could not know,
and she dared not tell him.

Her face was so sad, so beseeching, so filled
with woe, so beautiful, that the young detec-
tive felt that he was almost unnerved.

“Once more,” she said, “and for the last
time, will you remain? will you refuse to sail
now, because I ask it-—for my sake, and for
yours?”

“For your sake and for mine I cannot—I
must not.”

“Ah, if you knew all!
you would stay.”

Her words implied more than they uttered.

Chick reached forward and caught her hands

If I could tell you,

s.

“Tell me,” he said, brokenly, “tell me an-
other reason than——”

He paused.

She raised her eyes to his again, and they
were swimming with tears.

“Go on,” she said. “Finish what you were
about to say. You want meto give you an-
other reason than the one that is now so mani-
fest. Do you think, Felix, that because I have
in this short time learned to love you, 1 would
ask you to remain here because of that alone?

Hood’s
Sarsaparilla

Cured me of Goitre, or swell-
ings in the neck, which I had
from 10 years old till I was 52.
When I began taking Hood's
Sarsaparilla I was feeling so dis-
couraged with goitre and rheu-
matism. When I canght cold I
could not walk two blocks with-
out fainting. Now I am free

 

 

 

   

 

 

ES Le =
Mys, Sutherland. = trom at all, and I ean truly re-
commend HOOD’S SARSAPARILLA.” MRS. ANNA

strange voice he had heard, when the rustle of! qi .ugetanp, Kalamazoo, Mich.

 

HOOD'S PILLS are the best after-dinner Pills.
They assist digestion and cure headaehe.

  

 

 

 

wR ene

 

~~

1 nae ann

 

teeta tas ek tt eS nt

 
 

 

~~ se

 

 

 

VOL, 48.—No. 1,

 

 

 

 

«<aét THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =

iat bitstream tin ingwasihaoapmiinen atin ennlatppeany mer ct ear Te

0

 

Ah! don't stop me now; let me finish, fer—
well, we will not meet again, will we? Let
me finish no w. Some day you’ may know my
history—{ think you will. You will under-
stand me then, even though you despise me

“Hush 1”

Ah, well! I know = do not despise me.
i know that in your heart you understand.

e could never be more to each other than we
are now; and yet——”

Her voice ceased in a sob, and she fell for-
ward, half-fainting in Chick’s arms,

Her touch, the sense of possession that came
over him when he felt her in his grasp, was
oo much i for Chick.

or one instant he elasped her to him wit
a strength that well-nigh crushed her. 7

Just once—only once, his lips touched hers;
but they were instantly withdrawn,

Gol” he whispered, huskily; “gol you
make a coward, a scoundrel of me. Go; for
Heaven's sake, go!”

She reached forward with both hands; she
= his head down and her lips touched his

w.

“Heaven bless you, Felix!” she murmured.
emember this moment as long as you live.

Some day you will knowall. You will under-

stand me then. Heaven bless you! Good-by—
forever !”

ae

 

CHAPTER XV.
DRUGGED AND MISSING. *

Chick remained where she left him, too
stunned to speak or to move.

He was conscious of hearing a voice, of feel-
ing a hand upon his shoulder, but fora full
minute he did not realize that it was Car-
ruthers himself who had entered the library.

Well, upon my word, here’s a pretty state
of things!” cried the incorrigible Carruthers.

My dear Parsons, what has habperiod$ Have
you seen a host, or—ah! By Jove! I have it.”

“ Have what?” Chick managed to say.

The secret. Dear boy, don’t say that I did
not warn you.” "

“Warn me?”

unee against Mrs. C., you know.”

“You’ve been quarreling. I caught a glimpse
of her as she flitted along the aii, audi I find
you in here with your throat cut—I mean your
eye-teeth, of course. Seriously, old chap
what has happened?” ;

“I suspect that I've made a fool of myself,”
replied Chick, not comprehending Carruthers’
meaning, but determined to put a bold face on
the matter.

wae you? Really? ay 6 How?”

, in many ways. ow soon
for the wharf?> , moines
“In thirty minutes, Whole lot of ’em
own to wish us good-speed.
eh, Parsons?”

Thirty minutes later the carriages were at
the door and they started for the steamer.

‘ Chick looked at Mrs. Carruthers with won-
er.

Her face was as serene as ever, her voice as
calm, her bearing as full of self-possession.

If he detected a change at all, he believed
it was in her eyes.

They seemed deeper, darker, and there was a
quiet firmness in theirexpression which might
have been his own imagination, or might not.

She spoke to him several times, but in the
Same tone and manner that she had employed

oing
Fine send-off;

-ever since their acauaintance.

Only once did their eyes meet, and then he
saw her face ahs up witha smile that he
had never seen there before, and he seemed at
the same instant to hear her soft voice whis-
per to him again:

“Heaven bless you! Good-by—forever!”

All was bustle aboard the steamer, for she
was crowded with passengers for that trip.

Chick looked everywhere for the German
musician who was to occupy the state-room
next to Carruthers and himself; but he did
not see him.

He even went so far, finally, as to question
the steward, and asked him if the room had
been claimed yet; but it had not.

Despite the scene that had occurred between
Chick and Mrs. Carruthers, the young detec-
tive did not relax his vigilance.

He watched every move that was made; but
he saw nothing that could suggest any trans-
fer of jewels from husband to wife.

In fact, she did not descend to his state-
room at all.

He (Carruthers) went down, accompanied
by the others, and when she declined to fol-
low, he said, laughingly, to Chick.

’ “Stay here and take care of her, Parsons,

and—-er—make up your quarrel, dontcherknow !”

—and Chick remained.

eer alone together, silence reigned between
em.

Neither spoke for several moments, and then
they only addressed each other in the most
commonplace phrases.

The party returned to the deck. Leave-
takings were gotten through, farewells were
said, and then those who had come down to
see them “off” passed ashore and were gone.

As Mrs. Carruthers gave her hand to Chick,
in bidding him good-by, he felt something
pressing against his palm.

He accepted it and slipped it intoa ket
without knowing what it was, and oh! the
bitterness that welled in his heart when,
many days afterward, he looked at the con-
tents of that little present so strangely given.

The moment came when the ship’s moorings
were cast off, and still the German musician
had not appeared.

“Can he, having learned that Iam going,
have changed his plans?” thought Chick. “No,
for if he had, he would have found means to
Jet me know. Something has happened; what?”

The huge vessel drifted slowly out into the
river; the propellers revolved and she forged
slowly ahead.

The German musician did not reach the
ehipi he was not there.

Chick knew that Nick would not have
abandoned the trip without letting him know,
and he felt that the detective was detained
against his will.

a how? where? by whom? in what man-
ner

The Narrows, Quarantine, the een
and Sandy Hook were passed; the ship was
at sea.

“Come, Carruthers,” said Chick the second
day out; “it is time that you told me why you
were so anxious to have me come with you.”

“T wanted you in Paris,”

“Why?”

“My dear fellow, don’t be so infernally im-
patient. There’s time enough, in all con-
science.”

The wind was blowing a gale and the sea
was running high.

Huge waves.towered above them as thorgh
they would sweep over the deck of the vessel,
only to disappear beneath her the next mo-
ment.

There were very few
deck; most of them ha
rooms or the cabin.

Evening was falling, and the night promised
to be unusually dark.

Up and down the deck walked Carruthers,
arm-in-arm with the young detective, and he
had selected that part of the deck which was
most deserted.

To and fro they walked, talking constantly,
until the night had settled down in fact, dark
and stormy night.

Suddenly Carruthers paused,

“Fine, isn't it?” he said,”

“Yes ”

assengers out on the
sougi.t their state-

cae we take a night-cap and go to
9”
“I can go without the night-cap, T think.”
“Pshaw! to oblige me:” drawing a flask
from his pocket. “This is something extra
fine, and I want you to taste it.”
He pulled the cup from the bottom of the
flask and poured a good-sized drink into it.
“Here,” he said, passing it to Chick. “We'll
drink to Mrs. C., if you don’t mind. To save
time, and drink with you, I'll take mine out
of the bottle.”

}

 

Chick could not refuse such a toast as that. ! therein contained that matters had gone less |

He raised the cup to his lips and Carruthers
placed the neck of the flask to his own mouth.

The next instant they were lowered, and the
promenade was resumed.

To and fro, back and forth.

Suddenly Chick staggered and nearly fell.

were caught him, and he partly recov-
ered,

Then again he stumbled.

This time he fell heavily forward into his
companion’s. arms, white, death-like, uncon-
scious.

* * * * * *

A half-hour later | Livingston Carruthers
entered his state-room alone, and no one dis-
turbed him that night, nor was Felix Parsons
seen again upon that voyage.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

BEECHAM’S PILLS for a bad Liver.

—er

This Story Will Not te Published in Book-Form.

On The Brink.

By Mrs. CATHARINE A. WARFIELD,

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

{* On THE BRINK” was commenced in No. 51.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER IV.—(ContTInvep.)

“Will you go with me, Charles,” said
Marion Herbert, as she entered, dressed in
white silk and pearls—“to Mrs. Drayton’s
soiree musicale?”

“Hah, is it so late?” he said.
dressed already, Marion?”

“It is early,” she replied. “Mrs. Drayton’s
hour is half-past eight, and it wants yet some
minutes of the time. Mrs. Vincent promised

to call for me, but ig still have ample time
for your hasty toilet should you like to go.
You will hear some good music, and be, I
think, repaid for the exertion.”

“No, I shall not go out to-night,” he said,
“and regret that you have been at the trouble
of dressing, as I am about to request you to
forego this party and pass _ this evening alone
with me.”

“Are you ill, Charles? If not, why do you
ask me to stay this night more than another?
To-morrow evening I shall be disengaged.”

“To-morrow evening it may be too late!” he
said, rising to his feet and speaking in pas-
sionate whispers—“too late save you,
Marion, and thac I must do—or die!”

“What means this excitement?” she asked,
in faltering accents, for her heart too well
foreboded the reply.

“1t means that you stand upon the brink of
a terrible abyss—another step, and you are
lost! Yet, oh God, I fear already your head
whirls and your fall is decreed. I fear that my
feeble hand cannot place you back—my erring,
ar Snreneres wife, too well, too blindly be-
ov

He paced the room in preeprenailile agony,
which found no relief in the tears which
streamed from his eyes, over which his hand
was clasped.

“T have hesitated long,” he said, pausing
before her with a stern and sudden com-
posure, and unvailing his face, “how to
address you on this subject. At last impulse
has decided it. I have spoken from feeling—
not wisdom. I should have been less abrunt,
less violent, for I have alarmed you, which
was not my design. I seek to know from you
the truth, Marion, without reserve. Your lips
are unaccustomed to falsehood, and I ask from
you, as the only atonement you can make me
a frank and free avowal of what has passed
between you and Mr, Ellory,”

“Oh, Charles! spare me!

“Speak to me, Marion—in mercy, speak! Has
this man avowed his passion? haye you en-
cour such an avowal? ‘The truth! the
truth! or silence forever!”

“TI will speak to you the truth. It has ever
been my habit to doso. You know this,
Charles. Yesterday, in the course of a visit he

aid me, he dropped some expressions, for the
frst time, indicative of feelings that ought
not to have place, under such circumstances
as our own. I was deeply mortified—believe
me, Charles—but as he dealt in no open decla-
ration—only insinuations—I tried to appear
ignorant of his meaning; yet I could not
wholly feign. I was cold and embarrassed, and
he saw that I understood him, Laurence came
in, and he departed. I have not seen him
since.”

“Nor heard from him?”

“Certainly not,” she replied, with surprise.
“T have bidden William to deny me henceforth
to Mr. Ellory at all times.”

“Can this deception?” thought Herbert.
“Oh, no, no! that ingenuous eye, that open
brow, are no homes for faisehood, and yet this
note, this damned proof. Is this the hand-
writing of Ellory?” he asked, abruptly, laying
before her the letter addressed to herself.

“I do not know the characters. ‘This is for
me,” she exclaimed; “and unopened—shall I
unfold it before you?”

“Doso,” was the brief reply—spoken between
set teeth.

She read with astonishment and indigna-
tion the following lines:

“DEAREST Mrs. HERBERT:—Your manner this
afternoon convinced me that you had penetrated
my secret, so long and faithfully preserved. —f could
not misunderstand your cold, averted looks, your
eonstrained manner, and these have rendered me
the most miserable of men. Forget, forget, | pray
you, thatina moment of madness, expressions left
my lips such as [ ought not to have dared to breathe
to one so pure and dutiful as yourself, and receive
me again, (if you do not wish to drive me to ae
with all your former courtesy and kindness.
promise never more to intrade upon your notice, by
word or look, my vain and fatal passton.”

The letter dropped from her hand,

“It is enough,” sne said. “I will read no
more. He has no right to address me thus.
It is insolent, it is unwarrantable,” and her
mortified feelings found vent in a burst of
tears.

She flung herself passionately on her knees
before Herbert, now seated on the sofa, and
buried her face in its cushions.

“Forgive, forgive me,” she said, at last,
raising her streaming eyes to his—“that for
the sake of a weak vanity, I have wounded
your noble heart! I have indeed been most
weak—most imprudent, and suffered flattery
to engross me, even to infatuation. But |
foresaw not this. I have been in a dream—it
is over now—and I see my folly with loathing
eyes. But you—can you ever forgive me?” and
she sobbed aloud.

He raised her bel and seated her by
his side. A flask of ink had been upset by her
hasty motion, and had stained her rich dress
in many places.

“This dress,” he said, “which was so pure
and beautiful when you knelt down, is now
stained beyond redemption. Not less delicate
and snowy is a woman's fame, not less easily
tarnished, not less difficult to purify.”

“Oh, Heaven! it cannot be that mine has suf-
fered irremediably without more cause than
light, thoughtless vanity affords,” she said,
clasping her hands with an_ expression of
agony, and looking wildly and beseechingly in
her husband’s face.

He answered not, but stooping down, picked
up the note she had received from Ellery, and
laid it on her knee.

“Read it, I encreat you, and answer it for

“Are you

me.” she said—“‘in any way. so that you are,

not: endangered, and so that I never behold
him more.”

Herbert did read it, and in spite of its pre-
sumptuous strain, felt relieved by the evidence

 

 

far than he apprehended. It was evidently a
first billet, and gave testimony of the still
unshaken innocence of Marion.
she had so far preserved her fealty to himself,
for no acknowledgment of interest had left her
lips—no avowal of feeling from another been
received with toleration.

Such was the chilling comfort he received
from Ellory’s love-letter—yet better this than
despair, madness, suicide! Like all persons
of magnanimous natures, he sought to share
the fault he could not palliate, and reproached
himself bitterly for selfish indulgence, in
throwing one so beautiful alone on the dan-
[prt waves of society. He felt assured that
lis presence, his influence, in the first instance,
would have saved her from the ordeal through
which she had passed, and spared his own
heart the bleak anguish that had almost
broken it. As it was, it required all his phil-
osophy, all his generosity, to reconcile him to
a state of things so foreign from his coneep-
tion of what ought to have been but for her
sake—he resolved to forgive, and—if he could,
forget the imprudence of Marion, and begin
anew the task of winning her confidence and
aftection.

In her turn a scale had fallen from her eyes,
no more to vail them—and she beheld, as
through a continuous vista, the fearful termi-
nation of such a career as she had commenced.
She shuddered at that glance of truth, and
turning from her dark reflections to gaze on
her husband’s face, as he sat absorbed in
thought, she saw written there the conse-
quences of her own folly, in a look of haggard
care that she had never before beheld in that
placid countenance.

Again with streaming tears and choking
sobs did she fall before him, supplicating
pardon, with a free avowal of grievous error
and imprudence; and this time she was raised
from the feet to the bosom of her husband.

That scene is not for my pen to portray,
in which anguish and jo met in tears and
mute embraces, in which penitence and for-
ee made holy the new compact, and the

lack designs of a villain were made manifest
to the eyes of her who had so nearly been their
victim.

The niext day Mr. Ellory received his note,
inclosed in one from Mr. Herbert—brief, stern,
decisive.

“Tam no duelist,.’ he said, “no assassin; yet I as-
sure you your life will not be safe should you aceost
orin any way prgrcenk again the lady whom you
have insulted. She scorns your conduct as [ do,
and gave me your puppyish note with many expres-
sions of indignation and shame. The words traced
upon the back of your impertinent letter are in her
own handwriting, and express her wishes,”

They were these:

“The lady to whom this insolent note is addressed
desires no further communication with the author,”

Mr. Ellory stared blankly; he had never
before been so completely cut down.

“JT was rather hasty,” he said, “Some women
require more time and trouble than others—
all are accessible at last. As to that shabby
rascal who got my hat, I will detect and pun-
ish him yet.”

This, however, was a mystery he never fath-
onied, or did not choose to fathom, though an
inscrutable expression on the face of Grant
struck a bystander as somewhat strange, when,
on their first meeting, he accosted him with:

“Ah, Ellory—another new hat in a month—
what have you done with yourold one? Kcono-
mists like myself sometimes exchange second-
hand castors.”

This was broai enough, certainly, but pru-
dence inclined Mr. Ellory to take no notice of
the hint.

It is as well, perhaps, to finish our sketch
of this individual at once, so that it may be
unnecessary to revert to him again. He ab-
sented himself for a while, but on his return
took up his old vocation ofg'ady-killer, and
having elicited some letter#*%om a lady in
ag society, was base enou % use them to

er disadvantage. For thi picce of devoted
gallantry he was horsewhigped by her brother,
whom he challenged, and by whom he was
wounded in the hip so se vaggly as to lame him
for life. His little fortune dwiudled away
before his protligate expenditures, and finding
himself on the eve of ruin, he joined a fash-
ionable church and was supported by the de-
lighted members thereof, as a “brand snatched
from the burning.” The ladies of the con a-
tion take singular delight in listening to his
experience in the ways of sin—and attribute
his red eyes and nose to incessant weeping
over his past transgressions. They think of
sending him out as a missionary to the
heathen of the Polynesian Islands, where it
is sincerely hoped he will find a fitting sepul-
cher in the bosom of some savage man

Herbert, at the urgent request of his wife,
determined on putting at once into effect his
long cherished design of visiting Europe; and
on her return, in the course of two years,
there remained not a trace of the light, frivo-
lous Marion of other times. A ma ronly dig-
nity had replaced her impulsive manner, and
lovelier than ever, there was something about
her that forbade flattery and silenced imperti-
nence.

It was long before Herbert could repose in
her all his former confidence. The time came
at last, however, when it was fully established,
never again to be shaken, and he rea then
an abundant harvest from his mild forbearance
and generosity toward her at a time of peril,
a crisis not only in time, but eternity. But
we anticipate.

The extreme anxiety of mind felt by Leon-
ard was relieved in a few days by the changed
manner and bearing of Herbert, and some
words that left his lips:

“The crisis has come and gone, that I so
much dreaded; but not even to you, dear
Leonard, can it be explained. It is enough I
am happy again, and if you will come to me
this evening, you shall know all about that
mystery that inspired you with the erroneous
belief, that I trust has been banished, that
you are a child of fortune. In the meantime I
say to you, arrange your affairs positively
with Leda Grey—yes—hurry it, even, for in
three weeks I sail for Europe, to be absent
about two years, and you must inhabit my
house, and keep the moths from my furniture
while Iam gone. Now, this last you are too
careless a fellow to do without a helpmate,
and Leda must assist you. Seriously speaking,
dear Leonard, lose no time, for, as the news-
papers say, ‘you are about to hear of some-
thing much to your advantage.’”

“The confidence I have always placed in
you, Herbert, does not fail me now,” was the
reply, “and I shall obey. reo on faith.”

That evening Herbert, his wife, and friend,
were assembled in his library around a table
on which glowed a brilliant lamp.

“There is the manuscript,” said Herbert,
drawing it forth from a box in which it had
been as carefully deposited as an Egyptian
scroll, ever since it came into his possession.
“Listen to it attentively, my dearest Marion,
my beloved Leonard, for its sad and serious
experience contains a lesson for both—God
knows it was one to me.”

And he read in a clear voice, though often
obliged to hesitate, and even rise from his
seat, to conceal his emotion, during the peru-
sal, the narrative his father had left him.

The story itself, and the effect it produced
upon those who heard it read, will be recorded
in subsequent chapters.

 

CHAPTER V.
THE NARRATIVE OF ERNEST HERBERT.

My son, you have often expressed surprise
at the deep and abiding unhappiness that has
accompanied me through life. To call it mel-
ancholy, would he to give it too soft—too holy
a name, for the restless yearning that has
driven me from land to land—from city to
city, had nothing about it of that tender and
brooding frame vf mind. From you, Charles,
I have had no concealment except upon this

subject; nor did this arise from any plan of,

secrecy, so much as a shrinking of the heart
from the task of laying open its deep and self-

Even in word:

 

inflicted wounds, and the gnawing of the hid-
den tooth—remnorse.

I know that when I am gone, there will not

wanting many to give you different and
garbled accounts of that period, that left these
disastrous effects upon my life, and deprived
you of the companionship and guardianship of
an angel, leaving your turtured heart to select
its own version from the many presented.
That time is not far distant. I am the victim
of a vital disease, that must soon destroy me,
and I am not willing that you should judge
me when [I am no more, as others do, from
appearances, even if favorable to me; I would
have you know the truth, depending on your
aifection for forgiveness, and even sympathy.
I lay before yt the events that determined
the coloring of my whole existence, with un-
varnished veracity. If only as a warning
against the common error of man, [ hope this
faithful exposition of feelings and of deeds
will be of service to you. ‘hat error which is
ineulcated from the cradle, and continued to
the tomb—a remnant of barbarity, a fit com-
panion for slavery, that teaches us_ the inferi-
‘ority of Woman tv man; that impresses upon
us the ideas, that in the marviage tie there
is no equality, and that the husband is the
master of the wife, instead of her guide and
counselor. It is even believed that this state
of things insures her happiness, and that,
spaniel-like, she loves better the hand that
oppresses, than that which caresses her.

All this is false to nature herself, and if
ever true, rendered so by the degradation of a
narrow and artificial education. Where nat-
ural resources are developed, responsibility
incurred, self-reliances early felt, women often
exhibit a pride, a firmness, a perseverance,
a high sense of honor, that puts manhood to
the blush. Your mother was of this character.
Years have quenched the enthusiasm of my
spirit, and my imagination is feeble, if not
extinct; yet, through the long vista of years,
and across the wide waste of tombs, I see her
still, the most beautiful, the most graceful of
beings, as she was the truest, the most noble
and dutiful.

Nothing of this rare loveliness has fallen on
you, my son, unless it be sufficient to temper
in your features the repulsive harshness of
my own; but there is another, a stranger to
you, (yet how near) who has inherited much
of her personal beauty. When you see Edward
Leonard, you may form some idea of the proud
sweetness of her countenance, of her perfect
and mobile features, of her slender and grace-
ful form, yet in this they differ; heis dark and
pale; she had a fair and most expressive
complexion. The blood seemed never quiet in
her cheek; it went, it came, like the flicker-
ing of a lamp; and the veins upon her brow
and throat reminded one of the most delicate
tracery of a flower.

I was an only son; my mother died early,
yet, not before she had impressed on my mind
the bitterness of her own lot. I do not remem-
ber her face accurateiy ; to me certainly it was
not repulsive, yet she would often bewail the
strange plainness of her features and of mine,
as a misfortune too bitter for endurance. She
would frequently say to me, “Our fate, my
son, is never to be loved for ourselves alone.
The woman who accepts your hand will be
influenced by mercenary motives, or some
other equally selfish. Never marry, close every
avenue of your heart against prepossessions of
this sort, and turn your mind to fame, Ambi-
tion rewards with equal impartiality the ugly
and the beautiful.”

It was a morbid state of feeling with her,
caused by her own unhappy union. My father,
a handsome and accomplished man, but cold
and unfeeling, never loved her, and had sought
her in marriage, most probably, for the sake
of her fine fortune, and as she had the misfor-
tune to be passionately attrched to him, her
doom was very miserable. Ihave heard that
she died of a broken heart: I irherited her
gloomy temper, with her personal appearance,
and a suspicion, which had been engendered
in my mind, by what she had told me of her
own experience of life.

My father, from the yery possession of these
personal advantages denied to her, set the
same immense waite on externals that she did,
in her despair. My homeliness and awkward-
ness were subjects of mortification to him, and
of constant taunts to me; he never loved me,
and when half of my mother’s estate was
taken from his possession at her death, to be
ao under guardians for my benefit, the
eeling was increased to one of positive dis-
like. It was a great relief to my mind, when
my college duties separated us, nor did we
ever meet again, except once, casually; he
went to Europe about the time 1 graduated,
and remained there until be died, leaving me
without a guide, or friend, save those the law
appointed for the safe-keeping of my property,

ut the desire to lead an honorable life, and
to rise to eminence, had been early implanted
in my mind by my unhappy mother, nor did
her lessons fail now to impress me. The dis-
trust I had always felt with regard to m
manners and appearance, oe me entirely
aloof from ladies’ society, so that I continued
until late in lite to have all the diftidence and
inexperience of boyhood; nor had I ever
dreamed of love, until I was nearly thirt
years old. At that time 1 had risen to the
station of judge, and served in many public
capacities in my native State, South Carolina.

t was in passing through the village of
L—., in Georgia, that I first saw your mother.
I was on horseback, and never careful in my
dress; it was sadly neglected and travel-worn,
on that occasion. The weather was warm,
though still in early spring, and I was cov-
ered with dust, and almost exhausted from
thirst, the region of country through which I
had passed that morning being devoid of
water.

In the suburbs of the small town I was en-
tering, I was attracted by a shaded _ spring,
inclosed by a low fence, and but little re-
moved from the roadside. A group of children
were standing near the stone wall built around
it, and a young woman wasserving them with
water, ia turn, from a small earthen jug.

The picture was one of extreme simpuicity.
I certainly had no reason to suppose my fate
was bound up init, and without any other
impulse than that of necessity, I descended
from my horse, and approached the spring.

“TI am suffering from thirst,” I said; “will
you be good encugh to give me a draught of
your coo] spring water?”

“Certainly,” was the frank reply, and de-
scending a flight of stone steps, the young
girl to whom I had addressed myseif stooped
to dip it up, and returned with a piteherful of
the cool beverage, half of which 1 emptied at
a draught.

She laughed as she received the jug from my
hand.

“You were indeed thirsty,” she said.

My eye was riveted on her open and lovely
countenance with a strange feeling of delight
anda admiration. Seeing that I lingered, she
attributed it to fatigue, for she said:

“Rest here in the shade as long as it is
agreeable to you. Come, children, it is time
we should return to school.”

And marshaling her little band through the
lane that led back from the spring to a low
white cottage, surrounded by willow trees,
she disappeared in its vine covered porch.

I gazed long after that vision of youth and
beauty, then pursued my way to the village
inn, and my first inquiry was of her, the
young schoolmistress.

“Her name is Raymond,” one told me;
“she isa daughter of the late Judge Raymond,
of South Carolina; he died a bankrupt, and
it is thus she supports herself and an aged
mother.
offers of assistance, and is as good as she is
independent and beautiful.”

l had an indistinct recollection of having
seen Judge Raymond when | was a child, at

my grandfather’s house: I had heard him)

 

 

obscurity and doomed to toil for bread. A
prajec: flashed across my mind; “It may yet

e my good fortune,” I thought, “to restore to
them their former position; I will seek that
lovely being as my wife; for already I love
her—yes, love at first sight is no fable, as I
have hitherto thought it, and I fee} all the
monotony of my lonely and selfish existence
more keenly than ever.” But the suspicion
instilled into my heart by my unhappy mother
broke harshly on the dream of affection that
rose before me. “You will never be loved,’
rang in my ears; the words “mercenary mo-
tives will influence the woman that accepts
your hand” recurred to me with melancholy
force, and bowing my head. on my_ hands, I
sat for a while in cold and crushing humilit
of spirit; I, upon whom men looked as prou
and unbending, wept tears of anguish over my
solitary doom,

“This. is weak and unmanly,” I. thought,
straightening up; “that prophecy in which I
have trusted hitherto eich such superstitious
faith, may after all haye been only the utter-
ance of misery; I will not be controlled.by it
longer; I will conceal my station and my
name, and this once stake everything on a
single die. Then, if disappointment must fol-
low, I trust I shall bear it with courage; nor
can my life be more dreary and cold then than
now.”

An interval in the session of courts gave
me time to carry out my plan, nor was I per-
sonally known to any one in the village of
L——, whose recognition might baffle my dis-
guise.

It was evening when] entered the low porch
of Mrs. Raymond’s residence, and introducing
myself to the venerable lady before me as Mr.
Temple (this nan.e was nearer to me than any
other as my mother’s, and was indeed my
own). I stated at once the object of my visit:
It was my wish, I said, to pass some time in
the village of L——, in the pursuit of studies
which demanded retirement. I had been struck
by the retired beauty of the cottage, and a
wish to become an inmate bad taken posses-
sion of my fancy. The name of Raymond, too,
so familiar to my_ boynood, had struck me
pleasantly in that place of stiangers; of Judge
Raymond I had heard so often from William
Temple, his old friend, that I could not feel
myself wholly unacquainted with nis family.

‘William Temple! Are you indeed related
to him, as your name would lead meto think?”

=o without waiting for an answer, she
said:

“Your resemblance to him is strong; you
might pass for his grandson—but this cannot
be; he had no son, and his daughter, Mrs.
Herbert, I believe, died chiidless.”

“T am related to him,” I said, “and as the

‘last of the name, received from him as my

inheritance this portiait of himself,” at the
same time showing her a minature resemblance
of my grandfather. She recognized it at a
glance, and seemed for a time absorbed by the
associations it produced in her memory. I will
not dwell upon the hesitation, the doubt with
which my offer, though urged under circum-
stances so favorable, was at first received.

“We have one small quiet room,” she said,
“which has been vacant for more than two
years; but asa link between me and the past,
and for the sake of the name you bear, I would
gladly receive you, were I not afraid of giving
pain to Lucia.”

My heart beat high.

“You have a daughter?” [ asked.

“But one child now;” and the deep, smoth-
ered sigh that accompanied these words spoke
but too plainly of anguish and bereaven ent.

I scarcely know how it was, but after the
probation of a few days. my tongue found elo-
quence enough to persuade that mournful lady
to admit me as a member of her housenold.

“Lucia objected long,” she said, “to the ad-
mission of any occupant into Arthur’s ‘room
(alluding to the son she had lost), but when
she found my heart was rather set on the
matter, she yielded without another woid. So
come to-morrow, Mr. Temple. and join us at
breakfast, You will] find our mode of living, [
fear, more frugal and humble than you have
béen accustomed to.”

I murmured something of such having Jong
been my habit, through gecessity: and there
I spoke truly, for I was of a constitution that
never permitted me to indulge in sumptuous
living, but she attributed the word necessity
to another source, and remarked:

“You will not, then, feel, as I have done, the
bitterness of change.”

When I entered the small breakfast-room of
Mrs. Raymond, on the following morning,
Lucia was already seated at the table making
the coffee. This was the first time I had seen
her since I received the pitcher of cold water
from her hands. She received me without any
mark of recognition, co!dly, yet with courtesy.
She had not observed my face, as | did hers,
The very best dress she wore on that morning
of my first domiciliation under her mother's
roof, that simple blue gingham gown, close
to the throat, with the white collar turning

Y| over it, and confined by a belt of the same

material round her slender waist; the very
fashion of her braided hair, wound in dark,
shining masses around her beautiful head, in
a negligent yet graceful style, peculiarly her

Y! own, 1 remember still, with the same admira-

tion, the same sacred purity, with which they
impressed me then,

eserved as she was to me, she was still
perfectly at her ease; but I, striving vainly
to appear self-possessed, had never before
been half so en\barrassed—so awkward—so
unsuccessful in my absurd attempts to play
the agreeable.

When the meal was over, she withdrew to
her school-room, and Isaw but little of her
during the remainder of that any and many
succeeding ones. In the course of time a bet-
ter understanding grew up between us, an
she treated me with a good-humored frankness,
in which, however, there was nothing flatter-
ing to my self-love—nothing on which I could
ground a hope.

Yet in spite of hope, I loved her more and
more passionately, yet with a strange restraint,
which checked the avowal ever on my tongue,
and forbade me to use even the commonest
and most permitted language of compliment.

This state of things could not always con-
tinue—the wild tumult of my feelings—my
sleepless nights--my days of anxiety and
wretchedness at last produced their effect, and
I fell ill of a delirious fever. During this
period, I was nursed with unfaltering devo-
tion by Mrs. Raymond and her daughter, and
through their tender ministry I recovered,
after my life had been despaired of by physi-
cians.

Unconscious of the indiscretions of my ill-
ness, I was surprised and wounded to find an
icy vail drawn again over Lucia’s manner
toward me, on my recovery; and at last, in
my anxiety to know the cause, applied to
Mrs. Raymond.

It was long before I could draw from her
lips the secret of ber daughter’s reserve. At
last, she hinted, with the utmost delicacy, at
expressions which had left my lips in the
aelieiais fever, avowing sentiments toward
Lucia, which she knew not whether to con-
sider the mere creations of fever, or something
deeper and more serious.

“Feeling that she could not reply to these
avowals of passion, if earnest, she thought it
best that in consequence of the embarrassing
situation they have placed her in—you should
part-— at least for the present.”

“I will hear this sentence from her own
lips,” I said; “none other shall seal my fate,”
and rushing wildly from the apartment, I fol-
lowed her to the small shadowed arbor, where

ila, ties trefenods se ad abid. many: she was in the habit of passing her few hours

of evening leisure. I was no longer embar-
rassed—no longer irresolute—desperation made
me bold—I approached her abruptly.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

tener Or

 

spoken of always as a man eminent in every | Tron the Fall River Line boats one finds all the char.
way. and had listened to his praises, with the acteristics of 9 first-class hotel on land; a private room,

greater interest. as I now filled the judicial
seat he once had occupied. It seemed a hard
and singular fate, that the widow and the

orphan of such a man should be buried in|

seclauded and completely appointed ; meals ef the finest
quality adnurably served , spacious warting-rooms and
graird saloons elegantly finished and furnished, and a
multitude of guests representing the first elements in
society.

{

 

 

 
 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

PLO

NEW YORK, OCTOBER 29, 1892.

PDP PEP PLE LIIIIIWPOPIWILOIOIILIIIIIIW-

 

Terms to Mail Subscribers:
(POSTAGE FRER.)

 

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All letters should be addressed. to
STREET & SMITH,
P.O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y.

 

 

EAT AND DRINK TO GOD'S GLORY.

 

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

 

How can a man eat and drink to the glory
of God?

At first sight it may not seem so easy.
You may suppose that you have to cut off a
slice of beefsteak, and holding it on your fork,
stop to say to yourself:

“I am about to eat this meat to the glory of
God.”

Then you swallow the morsel. In this way
you proceed, slowly, with your whole dinner,
and all meals,

But would that be fulfilling the Scripture
command, ‘whether we eator drink, let us
do all to the glory of God?” Instead of such
mechanical literality, suppose you think of it
in the following way:

When you stand by old ocean, watching the
sublime swell of its broad bosom, listening to
the rhyming strophe of the breakers, cooled by
its grateful breathings, does it not seem to say
to you: “Think who made me. Ponder, little
creature, and see in me the great God. I am
holden inthe hollow of His hand, I remind
men of the Creator. I cause men to worship

Him. I cannot be looked upon and God’s glory.

be forgotten.”’

Do you not see, then, how a great, good
man can also “live in God’s glory.” If one is
so grand a human creature; if brains, body,
and heart are all so superior and used for
other men’s good that no one can meet the

man without exclaiming: “Oh, a glorious
creature! The noblest thing God ever made
was an honest man!” Does not that man live
to bring glory unto Him who gave him life?
Certainly he causes other men to think of
God; causes other men to thank God that such
& man was ever created; and in a word, reflects
honor upon that Great Being who gave him
his being among other beings.

_But now suppose a miserable wretch, whose
life is a curse to his fellow-men. To look
upon him is to exclaim: “I wonder why God
ever made such a scoundrel!” as if God did
not make him as beautiful and harmless in
babyhood as you were, reader—and you query,
“What good is he to any one?” You see him
eating like the hogs, a disgusting glutton.
The sight is replusive. You see him drunk,
like no other animal. The sight is repulsive
beyond adjectives. He suggests no thought
of the Creator’s greatness, wisdom, nor good-
ness. On the contrary, you almost com-
plain of God for giving the scamp a birth;
eee if he be your brother or son.

e is a blot upon creation. Evidently we
have struck what constitutes the antithesis
of “eating and dristking for God’s glory.”
Dare I write it, that the drunkard and glut-
ton live for God’s disgrace, in the eyes of
His other creatures? No; for the Infinite can
yet get. Himself glory, in sparing such a
wretch through mercy; in patiently, lovingly
sending unto, him the Saviour of sinners. But
I dare write this:

The drunkard has done his best to disgrace
the Hand that created him. The glutton; the
lustful slave of his animal passions; the thief;
the liar; the lazy good-for-nothing; the in-
jurious; all these have done what they could
to cast doubt upon the wisdom of the Creator,
It is not their’ fault if men do not question
whether there even be a God—since such as
they live on, and their victims perish by their
cruelty. Sing Sing prison tempts me to ask,
Can there bea God? The saloon-keeper, who
protfis by the. degradation of his patrons—who
sees the father of starving and scantily clad
children spend his last dime for liquor—puts
the same skepticism into my mind. What can
be more repulsive than the thought of being
such a man that you disgrace the Creator! To
disgrace a father, one’s family and friends is
terrible. But to disgrace God! Who has words
to describe that?

To eat and drink to God’s glory, then, is
simple enough in. theory. It is toeat and
drink like a rational man—with temperance,
continence, decency, and thankfulness. In-
deed, eating and drinking are but synonyms
for one’s whole life. I have seen a crowd of
business men assembled, in business hours,
too, about. an up-town residence. The front
steps were thronged, the door-ways pressed
full of people. The spacious apartments were
filled to repletion. A solemn hush rested
over. the assembly. There was a cold, white
face to be seen in the casket which reposed
between the parlors.. When the preacher said
in his prayer, “Oh, God, we thank Thee that
this dead man once lived among us,” a sub-
dued “Amen!” ran like a murmuring wind
through all the vast assembly. When, one by
one, the neighbors drew near to look upon
that face, men thought of God, because the
dead man’s life was for God’s honor. His
kindness to the poor reflected God’s kindness;
his honesty and truth pointed to the True
One; his self-sacrifice reminded observers of
One who died for others on thecross. This
dead man’s very dying was “for the glory of
God;” for. all men felt. that God must have
taken him, and so they all looked up stead-
fastly toward that heaven whither it seemed
he had just gone. A good man’s peaceful death
proves that there isa heaven. I have myself
seen the “glory of God,” like a radiance, beam-
ing from such dying faces; and, seeing, have
believed.

He who is patient. in trials, strong in. hard-
ships, courageous in dangers, sweet-tempered
in persecutions, and loving amid enemies—he
makes men believe in God—for we know that
without God noman can dothese things. How
beautiful is that life which is permitted to do
honor upto,the Hand that fashioned it!

I have often thought, that little children
lived “for the glory of God.” For myself, I
cannot. see a babe upon the mother’s breast,
with its tiny hands reaching about the neck
that feeds, it, but I seem to see the goodness
of the Creator, His exquisite contriving for
exquisite happiness. There, at least, on this
shadowed earth, are two perfectly happy
beings—that child and that mother. Then
observe the innocence of childhood, It speaks
of the purity of Him who made the children
so pure. Watch their gushing joys; they tell
you of the Creator’s beneficence. Who ever

eld his own little child in his arms—nay,
what mother, surely, ever gazed down upon
the sleeping face of her child, and did not

clasp it, crying, instinctively, “Great God, I
thank Thee for this gift!” And so the child
leads your thoughts to God, and moves you to
praise God. The children, then, live for His
glory.

To eat an honestly earned loaf is toeat for
God’s glory.

 

 

To eat your own bread, and not another's,
is for God’s glory.

To eat a half-loaf, while the poor eat the
other half, is for God’s glory.

To eat what is set before you, asking no
questions for conscience sake; to eat the bread
of contentment with thanksgiying; to eat that
which is wholesome and healthful, thus pre-
paring yourself for your daily burden; to eat
rationally—that is, as a reasoning being
would, which is differently from the ravenous
beast or the loose horse at the oat-bin; to eat
with neatness, deliberation, and considerately
of others at your side; to eat with pleasant
flow of kindly greeting and friendly speech,
especially at the home breakfast-table or at
the last domestic meal of the weary day—this
is eating for the glory of God. Heaven knows
wkat wickedness there may be in eating;
what quarrels have begun over the breakfast-
table that have embittered many days. And
Heaven knows how men have sat down to
groaning boards of lordly suppers, to please
the devil before the sun. rose, till all the infer-
nal fiends laughed. How, think you, would it
look, writ in golden letters above the bar of
the popular saloon:

“Kat and drink to the glory of God?”

BORROWERS.

BY KATE THORN.

 

 

 

 

There is no necessity of our introducing
them formally, for everybody is acquainted
with them; and who does not shiver with
apprehension when one of them approaches?

A habitual borrower has a very lean and
lachrymose appearance, Something like that
of the stray dog which prowls around your
back door mornings, in the hope of being able
to steal a few crumbs out of your swill-bucket.

The manners of the borrower are depreca-
ting. His very step seems to be an apology
for the fact of his existence. He holds his
head well down, and tilts his hat over his fore-
head, and sits on only the corner of the chair,
as if afraid to take the whole, lest it might be
offering some disrespect. either to the chair or
the company present.

He has a very plaintive sort of voice, as if
the world had injured him, but he had made
up his mind to bear it with fortitude.

He is always in want of something.

The contented mind, which is “a continual
feast,” isnot for him. He doesn’t take it in
his. Not at all.

But, in spite of his meekness, he is bold as
a lion when he comes to get business. He
asks you for whatever he wants with an air
which says, “Deny me if you dare!” and his
manner implies that by granting his request
you will be doing yourself a great favor.

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

And when he gets home and tells the result
to his wife, she will call you an old, stingy,
mean-souled curmudgeon, and express the
hope that the next time you ride out that
horsé of yours may run away and smash that
buggy into ten thousand pieces.

And then she cries and coughs, and says,
brokenly, how much Shed it would do her to
ride; and off goes the borrower to try his luck
with another neighbor, and-to relate your de-
fection in glowing terms.

It has been truly said that you may doa
man a thousand favors, and if you refuse him
one, he will forget the thousand, and never
forgive you. ;

Just so with the borrower,
to him all your life and get;no thanks, and if
you refuse him so much as the loan of a bean-
pot, he will be your mortal enemy to the end
of the chapter.

Your male borrower is always short: of
money, and he is always expecting a 1
sum by the next post. He may be proprietor
of no castles in Spain, but,-if one may credit
him, he has profitable investments in that
vicinity, and is always expecting to realize.

‘When he asks you for a hundred or two till
his remittances arrive, if you look grave, and
speak of dull times, and tell him you have
nothing to spare, he will raise his eyebrows
and inform you that when he gets “before-
Land” he shall be glad—yes, glad to accommo-
date a friend.

But themale borrower, as a nuisance, can-
not: be compared to the female borrower. She
is so far ahead of him in disagreeableness that
comparison ‘is odious. ; ;

We have had a long and distressing experi-
ence with'an individual of this kind. We
have often had our souls tried with her—with
several of her, in fact.

And we would:advise everybody who con-
templates a change of residence to inquire
carefully before. deciding upon a location if
there are any borrowers in the vicinity, and
if so, to keep aloof from the place, even if the
rent in some other place be twenty dollars
more a quarter. For a persistent, determined,
and capable borrower will cost an obliging
neighbor all of twenty dollars a quarter, not
to reckon any charges on the annoyance.

Your female borrower comes upon you at
all times and seasons. he is almost omni-
present. She will ring your door-bell before
you are up in the morning, and then come
round and rap on your bedroom window, and
tell you not to be seared; “it is only she, and
will you be so kind as to hand her half a cup-
ful of saleratus out through the window—she
doesn’t want to put you to the trouble of com-
ing tothe door! For if there is anything she
detests, it is making trouble for anybody!”

Later in the day she will want molasses,
and probably sugar, and very likely butter;
and before night she will want a pair of flat-
irons, and some starch, and a preserving ket-
tle, and a dose of castor oil for the baby, and
your chopping tray.

And before bedtime she will run in fora
mess of yeast; hers has soured; and will you
be so-kind as to let her have a panful of flour
till John can find time to open a new barrel?
For Jolin is reading the -last speech of the
Hon. Mr. Stalefact on the tariff, and he is so
busy! she can’t get a thing done!

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

And wilt you be so good—she came near for-
getting half her errand—will you be so good
as to oblige her with your teapot? for she is
going to have company to supper to-morrow!

In the course of a -week’s time your sys-
tematic borrower will manage to get most of
your kitchen utensils, and scores of articles

esides, into her possession, and you will be
obliged to call on her for them. She: will look
immeasurably surprised at your demand, and
declare: she had forgotten all about it; but
come to think, she believes she has some fiat-
irons of yours, and maybe a nutmeg grater!
And ‘she will. go home with you to help you
carry the load, and as soon as she gets into
your kitehen she will exclaim:

“There! I meant to have taken a bowl along
with me to see if I couidn’t borrow a little
sour milk to makesome griddle-cakes for tea !”

And what can you do but give her the milk,
and lend her a bowl in which to take it
home?

For afew years past we have had one bor-
rower whose assurance is a thing so sublime
that it would be difficult to refuse her any-
thing. She has borrowed almost everything
we own, from brooms, mops, clothes-wringers,
stove-pipes, bedsteads, quilts, and kerosene
lamps, up to shawls, dresses, stockings, false
hair, and the family cat, which, unlike any
other borrowed article, came directly back,

You may lend

 

with the hair on her back up, and indigna-
tion in her eye!

A week or two ago our borrower came after
a setting hen—hers were not ‘“broody,” and
she had got fifteen buff Cochin eggs which
must be “sot” immediately.

The next day she wanted a pair of boots to
wear over to her Aunt Nancy’s, and she
wanted our best ones, because Aunt Nancy
was mighty particular, And when they were
produced, and she made.the attempt to put
them on, and failed, she indignantly demand-
ed why we didn’t have a foot like other folks.
Then she looked ruefully at the unfortunate
boots, and drew consolation from the thought
which she expressed, “that perhaps they
would do for Freddy to wear, for his boots
were getting out at the toes.”

And a week afterward our boots, or what
had once been our boots, came home, battered,
threadbare, minus eight buttons and one heel,
and we gave them to Freddy with our compli-
ments.

The next day our borrowing friend “run in,”
to ask us for aprairon, and to know if we
wouldn’t be glad to let Freddy have our pet
horse to ride afternoons, to keep the critter’s
spirits down? And we told her no—we
wouldn’t! and she got up and left us, and
slammed the door behind her! And we hope
she will never run in again! She is welcome
to the assortment of articles in her possession
which she has borrowed of us if she will never
come into our dwelling again. She may have
them and our blessing along with them.

Book, newspaper, and umbrella borrowers
are pests to society. They are very numerous,
and what they borrow, in nine cases out of
ten, never is returned; and in the tenth case
it might as well not’ be, for the. books come
home lacking their covers and their title-
pages, dog-eared, and greased with kerosene,
and blackened by dirty fingers, and as for the
umbrellas—but everybody knows how it is
with borrowed umbrellas !

Deliver us from borrowers! We think we
could manage to live near a small-pox hospi-
tal—we could endure a gas manufactory—we
could stand a bone-boiling establishment—but
a borrower is too much for us! We protest
against the whole tribe of them, and protest
with emphasis!

 

©

THE LIGHTNING EXPRESS,

BY LIEUTENANT MURRAY,

 

 

 

Did the reader ever ride on a locomotive at
top speed? It isa queer experience, especially
to one not at all accustomed to that peculiar
mode of traveling, and is calculated, under
some circumstances, to try the nervous system
to its utmost tension. If you would realize
the power and irresistible force of a loco-
motive under headway, step on the rails for a
moment, on a dark night, and look up the
long line of perspective at an oncoming
engine, with its blazing signal lantern in

front, like the eye of Cyclops, and its roar,

echoed by the trembling earth, like some

fabled giant’s breath.

It is the very epitome of mechanical power,
harnessed to the service of human intelli-
gence. What a frightful means of sacrifice,
what a marvelous agent for good!

Again, stand on the platform of a side sta-
tion while the express train passes at its aver-
age speed. of thirty miles an hour, and you
have another example of the amazing power of
steam. Your nerves will voluntarily contract
themselves as the train rushes swiftly by,
your eyelids will close mechanically, and you

almost gasp for @eath as the air-vacuum sur-
rounds you, caulk by such huge and rapid
atmospheric displ&eement,

But it was upoa an engine itself that the
experience of whicl¥we write was gained, and
though some years have now intervened, it is
as fresh in the “®emory as though it had
occurred but yesterday.

It was on a cold winter’s evening that we
were to start from Burlington, Vermont, for
Boston. The January thaw had failed to put
in an appearance that year, and the cold in
that northern region had been intense, bed-
ding the frost to a great depth in the soil.
Aiter purchasing our ticket for the Lightning
Express, as it was called, and placing valise
aa wrapper safely in one of. the passenger
cars, we had strolled about the depot, until
we finally paused beside the large and power-
ful locomotive which was to draw the train on
its downward trip. It was a superb piece of
mechanism, with its brass mountings as bright
as patient toil and incessant care could make
them, while the iron and steel parts conveyed
a sense of enormous strength even at a glance.
The huge engine seemed almost endowed with
animal life as it paused there with restrained
power, like a, thoroughbred horse ehamping
impatiently at the bit which curbs him. The
engineer and fireman were both in their
places, quietly awaiting the signal which
should start. the train for the south. A:sudden
thought struck me. I had never ridden upon a
locomotive; it would be a new sensation. Was
it possible to do so to-night? I asked the
engineer, who shook his head, but still
answered me pleasantly:

“There is the superintendent, yonder; ask

him.”
Seeking the individual designated as the
superintendent, I was both pleased and sur-
prised to recognize in him an old friend, with
whom, years ago, I had been on intimate
terms. I finally told him that I had a singular
request to make, and expressed my desire to
ride with the engineer. He somewhat reluc-
tantly assented to my desire, but not without
numerous cautions and the remark that it was
quite exceptional to grant such a privilege to
any one. :

Walking to the side of the locomotive, the
superintendent introduced me to the engineer,
and gave him directions to accommodate me.

Five minutes later the signal bell was rung,
the shrill whistle sounded, steam was gradu-
ally let into the cylinders, and the train
rolled out of the depot into the darkness,
which for a moment was rendered more dense
by contrast with the well-lighted depot left
behind. I at’ once bestowed myself so as not
to be in the way of the engineer or fireman,
and curiously watched the novel scene imme-
diately about me, for that was all I could pos-
sibly see.

“Never on a locomotive before?” suggested
the engineer,

“Can’t see-much such a night as this.”

“No;,.it'’s'as dark as a pocket,” I replied.

“Of a nice summer’s day it’s all very well,”
continued the engineer, “but of a dark night
—well, I don’t think it’s very jolly.”

All the while he was looking straight ahead,
with his hands on the valves to shut off steam
and to whistle “down brakes” at an instant’s
notice. ;

“How far ahead can you see?” I asked.

“About a couple of rods such a night as
this, unless a strong signal lantern is shown,
then we can see farther.” .

“Two rods would be of no real advantage if
we were to encounter anobstacle on the track,”
I suggested.

“Well, no; you can’t stop an express train
much inside of an eighth of a mile with the
style of brakes we now have.”

“Ay, that’s it. You require a more powerful
sort of brake; is that what I understand you
to mean?”

“Exactly; one that will act with greater
power, and yet not bring a train up all stand-
ing, as it were. That would be almost as bad
as to run into an object dead ahead,” replied
the engineer,

“Something of the sort will be invented.”

“Oh, yes, one of these days; I’ve always
said so.”

In the meantime the Lightning Express was
rushing on its way, straight into the intense

as

ces THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3322 vost

 

darkness, which, if possible, was now ren-

dered more apparent by a fleecy fall of snow,
which was packed all about us hy reason of
the great speed at which we were running. I
could not but admire the perfect coolness of
the two men who were my companions, though
my own senses were in a constant state of
nervous excitement. The intense darkness, the
blinding snow into which we drove, as it
seemed to me not knowing whither, kept my
senses on the alert. I could not divest myself
of the feeling that there was perhaps some-
thing in that darkness just ahead which we
were sure to run into and wreck the train.
Finally, my excited brain began to recall
some of the railroad accidents of which I had
ever read or heard, until, as I had just arrived
at the height of miserable anticipation, I sud-
denly exclaimed: “What is that?” on hearing
something like a prolonged whistle ahead.

“Your ears are quick,” said the engineer.
“That is the Rutland accommodation train;
it will pass us in a moment.”

Even while he was speaking there appeared
in front of us the bright reflecting signal lan-
tern upon the other engine, seeming exactly
in front of us, and. perhaps six or eight rods
distant ; but aoercey had the eye settled upon
the dazzling object before it swept past us on
the other track so quickly as to seem to have
been a flash of lightning, and, for an instant,
quite taking away my breath, though my
companions did not so much as wink an eye-
lid. In this instance we had not only the
thirty miles per hour headway of our own
train, but also the twenty miles per hour of
the accommodation train added to the speed
which so rapidly separated us. It was not a
very pleasant thought which passed through
my brain just then, that a misplaced switch
might bring these two trains upon the same
track facing each other, and, at this frightful
rate of speed, the result can easily be con-
ceived!

Frank Moore, the engineer, had been long
in the company’s service. He was a man of
some thirty-eight or forty years, bright and
intelligent, and as I watched him standing at
his post, that dark and dismal night, I thought
how many lives were trusted to his sole guid-
ance. eens an accident were to happen
to him, what would become of the hundred
souls and more in the train? But he stood
there as firm as the iron about him, never for
one moment quitting his hold upon either the
valves which should signal danger, or that
which should shut off the motive power in
case of necessity. Begrimed, by long exposure
to soot and smoke, his features were very
dark, but there was a kindly expression
through all the bronze, and a firmness visible
in his face, which challenged trust and entire
confidence in the man.

We had stopped twice for wood and water,
at which times I might Fave taken my seat
in the passenger cars, but a sense of wild
fascination seemed to attach me to the
locomotive, and I determined to continue
upon it at least for a while longer. And
so on we dashed still through the dense dark-
ness and the blinding snow, as we had been
doing so many a long mile. Now and then the
engine would jump in its fierce headway on
striking some trifling obstruction upon the
rails, and my heart would leap into audible
action, and to me it appeared at times as though
the whole train was going over an embank-
ment to inevitable wreck. When one of these
experiences was more decided than usual, I
could not quite suppress an ejaculation, at
which my companions wou'd glance at me
with an amused smile. Custom had inured
them to these occurrences, so that they gave
them no heed.

On, on, and still. the driving snow-storm
and the darkness reigned supreme. The stoker
fed the fire, and the engineer, watchful as
ever, peered ahead. I was perhaps getting to
be a little sleepy from the force of the wind
and the lateness of the hour, for it was now
about midnight, when, fearing to drop to
sleep, I rose from a stool on which I had been
sitting, and determined to change to the pas-
angst cars at the next stopping-place. ust

had made this mental resolve, there came
suddenly a crash at the front window of the
engine that sent every drop of blood back to
my heart with a sickening thrill. I had time
to draw one long breath, when the engineer
whistled “down brakes,” and shut off steam
from the engine, exclaiming: :

“Heavens! what is that?” while both he and
myself shook the broken glass from our faces
and neck, and he still further reversed his
engine. .

_ “It’s a lantern,” said the fireman, pickin
up what remained of the article which had
come crashing in at the window. —

“Thrown at us,” said the engineer. “That
means danger, if it means anything.”

In the meantime the train had been brought
to astand-still, the conductor had appeared at
the side of the locomotive to consult with the
engineer, the bell was rung, whistle started,
and gradually we ran backward toward the
spot where the lantern had struck us. We
had retraced our way for nearly a quarter of a
mile, when a man suddenly appeared through
the darkness and came to the locomotive.

“Did you throw that lantern?” asked the
engineer.

“To be sure did, and worse luck if I hadn’t
hit ye!” was the answer that came to our ears
with unmistakable Milesian accent.

“Who are you?” asked the conductor.

“I’m trackman between here and Brandon.”

“Well, what’s the matter?” asked the en-
gineer.

“The matter is a broken rail, just beyant,
as would have sent ye all to glory!” replied |
the Irishman.

The affair was soon explained. During the
winter season the frost often renders the rails
very brittle, so that they break under a_pass-
ing train. In consequence of this liability to
danger a corps of trackmen are so placed as
to walk over and examine every mile of the
northern roads, in extreme weather, after the
passing of each train. Those trackmen are
supplied with the ordinary tools for repairing
any slight break, and also with a lantern to
signify danger when necessary to any incoming
train. In the instance to which we refer, the
trackman had discovered aserious break ina
rail just beside a steep embankment and via-
duct, one of the most dangerous spots on the
route. In his efforts te repair the danger, by
some means his lantern became extinguished.
Here was an unfortunate plight. In that
sparsely inhabited region there was neither
house nor shelter where he could renew the
light. His matches he exhausted in vain en-
deavors to light the wick in so fierce a storm.
Besides, as the man well reasoned, “the en-
gineer, I knew, could not see my lantern if it
were lighted, three rods in such a night.” The
Irishman was puzzled; the Lightning Express
was nearly due; if it struck that defective rail
the train would surely be wrecked !

What was to be done? A sudden inspiration
struck him. He started and ran like a deer
nearly half a mile up the track toward the
on-coming train. Already he heard the runible
of its approach as hesplaced himself on a slight
elevation on the side of the track. On came
the train; he could see her signal light, though
the engineer could neither see nor have heard
him—on, on, thirty miles an hour toward de-
struction. The Irishman braced himself, and
with a swift but careful throw of his unlighted
IAnierRy he cast it straight into the engineer’s

ace |

“Bedad! It was the only thing I could do,”
said the honest fellow, as he gratefully pock-
eted a purse of fifty dollars made up by the
passengers:

We crept carefully on to the dangerous spot,
where a detention of twenty minutes served
to mend the track sufficiently to permit the
passage of the train, and we once more dashed
ahead in the darkness; but I shall never for-
get that experience upon the Lightning Ex-
press. ;

eo

To make pies or biscuits a nice color, mois-
ten the top of them with a little sweet milk

 

 

 

just before they are put into the oven,

 

Correspondence.

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

 

Ee Communications addressed to this department wl
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers.

 

Young Housekeeper, Northford, Conn.—ist. To make
saleratus or clabber cakes, take one pint of clabber, one

teaspoonful of saleratus, one teaspoonful of salt, one
tablespoonful of butter, and one pint of flour. If not
stiff enough add a little more flour to the batter, Bake in
muffing-rings, and let them remain in the oven until
soaked, or they will be clammy. 2d. make Swiss
fritters, take half a pound of flour, which should be
scalded with sufficient boiling milk to make it into a stiff
batter. After heating it until very smooth, while warm
add two ounces of butter. When cool, stir in three gills
and a half of milk with six eggs, whisked until thick and
light; then, by degrees, add one pound and a quarter of
flour. Beat all well together with salt to taste. Then
with a tablespoon, put them into boiling lard (taking care
that they do not toueh) and fry them a light brown on
both sides. Serve with wine sauce, or any other that
may be preterren, 3d, ‘Tomake drawn Batter without
flour, whisk one egg until light, to which add half a pint
of cold water: then set it on the range and let it cook
slowly until it becomes quite thick; then stir in one
ounce of butter, with salt to taste.

Edwin E., Houston, Texas,—ist. Baron Steuben, of

Revolutionary fame, was not unrewarded for his mili-
tary services to this country. In 1790 Congress yoted
him a life annuity of $2,500. Several of the States voted
him tracts of land. New York presented him with
16,000 acres near Utica, forming « township called
Steuben. Here he passed the remainder of his life. Some
of his land he gave to his aids, and some he leased. 24d.
Jt was while on a visit to France in 1777 that he was in-
duced to visit America. Congress directed him to join
the army under Washington at Valley Forge.

B. L. A., Watseka, Ill.—As before stated in this depart-

ment, writers are not agreed as to the derivation of the
dollar mark to represent dollars. Some say that it comes
from the letters U.8., which after the adoption of the
constitution were prefixed to the Federal currency, and
which afterward in the hurry of writing were run into
one another, the U being made first and the S over it.
Others say that it is a modification of the figure 8, and
denotes a piece of eight reals, or as the dollar was for-
merly called, a piece of eight. 1t was then designated by
the figures, 8

8

R. C. M., Belleville, N. J.—To make an oyster omelet,
whisk six eggs to a thick froth; then add, by degrees,
one gillof cream; beat them well together. Season the
egg froth with pepper and salt to taste. Have ready one
dozen large oysters; cut them in half; pour the egg
froth into a pan of hot butter, and drop the oysters over
it, as speedily as possible, Fry the omelet a light brown
and serve hot.

A.O., Newark, N. J.—To make colored prints some-
what resemble oil paintings, take of Canada balsam, one
ounce; spirits of turpentine, two ounces: mix them to-
gether. efore this composition is applied, the drawing
or print should be carefully sized with a solution of isin-
glass in water, and, when dry, the varnish should be
artistically applied with a camel’s hair brush.

R. R., Placerville, Cal.—ist. A book on tobacco cul-
ture, with full practical] details, will be sent to you for
25 cents. 'Phis work, it is said, was prepared by fourteen ex-
perienced tobacco growers, residing in different parts of
the country, 2d. *‘Wrestling Joe” will be found in No.
1580f The Log Cabin Library, published by Street &
Smith. Price 10 cents.

Caroline, Petersburgh, Va.—The European kingfisher
is the halcyon of the ancients, who believed that the sea

staid calm for afew days while the bird was building
its nest. These days, which were the seven days before
and the seven days after the winter solstice ist of
December), were therefore called halcyon days.

A. B. L., Hamburgh, Ilowa.—Threadneedle street in
London is said to derive its name from three needles, the
sign on the shield of the Needlemakers’ Company’s arms,
The Bank of England is situated in this street, and is
sometimes referred to as the “Old Lady of Threadneedle
street.’

M, J. A., Richmond, Va.—A fairink for ordinary pur-
poses is made as follows: Bruised galls, two pounds; log-
wood, green copperas, and gum, of each one pound; water,
six gallons; boil the whole of the ingredients in the
water for one and a half hours, and strain five gallons.

L. M. L., Elma, Ilowa.—Psyche was a nymph whom

Cupid married, after she had been persecuted by Venus.
The word signifies the soul, of which Psyche was con-
sidered the personification. The offspring of their union
was a child, whom his parents named Pleasure.

Reader, Allentown, Pa.—Yes, rosemary, the sweet-

smelling shrub referred to, grows wild along the coast of
the Mediterranean. An essential oil is distilled from it,
which is used in perfumery, and in medicine to give an
agreeable odor to liniments and lotions.

In Dispute, Warren, R. I.—The question, “‘Can a clergy-
man marry himself,” was officially decided in the affirma-
tive in the Court of Queen’s Bench, Dublin, on Novem-
ber 16, 1855, in the case of Beamish vs. Beamish, where
the point came directly in issue. :

Julian, Andover, Mass.—The Pyramids is a general
name for the sepulchral monuments of ancient Egypt,
but itis pecer applied to the Pyramids of Gheezeh,
about twelve miles from Cairo, consisting of two jarge
and several smaller pyramids.

M.J.N., Ridgeville, Ind.—Ash Wednesday, the first
day of Lent, originated in the blessing of ashes on that
day, “to remind every Christian man that he is but
ashes and earth, and thereunto shall return.” f

Maurice, Cincinnati, Ohio.—The sphinx, that is rarely
seen in menageries, is one of the names of the Guinea
baboon. Itis thought to be one of the species repre-
sented on the Egyptian monuments.

Militia, Albany, N. Y.—To brown gun-barrels, mix
equal parts of butter of antimony and sweet oil, and ap-
ply the mixture to the iron, which must be previously
warmed.

R. C. L., Roberts, Il.—Longwood was the name of
Napoleon Bonaparte’s villaon the island of St. Helena,
occupied by the ex-emperor during his exile.

R. W. B., Trenton, N. J.—The Pentateuch, the first
five books of the Old Testament, is pronounced pen-ta-
tuk, the accent on the first syllable.

H., Brooklyn, N. Y.—The word quarantine is pronoun.
ced as if spelled kwor-an-teen; the accenton the first
syllable.

Old Reader, Brooklyn, N. Y.—Ifa permit was granted
for the erection of the pole, you have no redress.

Warren L., Saratoga, N. Y.—Auburn, Maine, has a popu-
lation of 11,228; Auburn, N. Y., 25,887.

Ignorance, Red Bank, N. J.—No marriage license is re
quired in either of the States named. s

W. J. M., Pittsburgh, Pa., Business addresses are not
given in this department. ; (

Long Islander.—The population of Oyster Bay, N. Y.,

‘is 13,788.

 

THE MORNING PAPER.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

 

 

The morning paper iz just az necessary for
an Amerikan az dew iz to the grass.

Hot kakes and kaughphy, kodphish bawls
and hash are useful, but the morning paper
iz vittles and drink. é

An Amerikan who haz not red the morning
nuze iz not more than haff-edukated for that
day; he goes tew hiz bizzness half-doubtful
and haff-ashamed ov himself; he iz afrade tew
look his nabor in the face, and ackts az igno-
rant az a man in a strange land who don’t
understand the language.

Every man he meets thru the day tells him
sumthing nu, and when he goze home at nite
he iz az silent and misterious tew the wife ov
hiz buzzum az tho he had lost sumthing,

There iz lots ov pholks who git all their
larning out oy the morning papers, and when
they hav 2 collums ov it laid in they are az
phatt with usephull knowledge az the sekre-
tary ov a sowing sosiety.

They go round az glib aza boy’s windmill
in a good breeze; they ain’t afraid to button-
hole ennybody and talk incessintly tew the
boy on the korner while he shines up hiz
shues.

The man who hain’t read the morning
paper, and the man who haz are about alike
uneazy tew encounter. The one who hain’t,
iz az krossazadog who hain’t got enny bone,
and the other phellow iz as stiffin the back as
the dog who haz got two. hi

I luv miself tew read the morning paper, and
i also luv tew go onst in a while away over
on the other side of the mountain, whare
thare ain’t enny morning paper, and set down,
and feel ignorant all day: tiz like turning
an old hoss out tew grass, and gitting the oats
all out of him.

This ceaseless hankering after nuze iz a good
way tew forgit life, but iz not the best way
tew enjoy it. It iz often only a mania, and it
iz quite az often the kase that what man learns
in this way to-day, he phinds out to-morrow
ain’t so.

But an Amerikan Kant git along without
hiz morning paper. Red-hot nuze iz just as
necessary tew him tew begin the day with az
es brandy fresh from the still iz to an old

‘oper. ©

 

ST A ED
1A Ta ENT MIR or ye

+N Sea!

PADMA ARN RAMEE BF LEARN Ra SH

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

  

 

 

 

 
 

VOL. 48—No. Le

 

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. =~

5

 

 

————{_$_ _ $_ $_ $_ {_ $_$_ $_
dt bh ake

BY THEO. D. C.

Little brooklets make the ocean,
Little rain-drops make the rill;
Little mounds of earth the mountain,
Little grains of sand the hill;
Little rifts of cloud the tempest,
Little rays of light the aay ;
Little seeds the mighty forest,
Little buds the flowers of May.

Little leaflets make the blossom,
Little threads of’steel the foil;
Little rocks the strong embankment,
Little blades of grass the soil;
Little grains of gold the fortune,
Little dimes the dollar bright;
Little busy bees the honey,
Little stars the crown of night.

wie

Little flakes of snow make winter,
Little dew-drops make the bloom;
Little coral reefs the island,
Little clouds of life the gloom;

"hat de ON Gee
MILLER, M. D.

Little thrills of joy the sunshine,
Little smiles the balm for pain;
Little charming hues the rainbow,
Little germs the golden grain.

Little pleasures make us happy,
Little tear-drops make us sad;
Little burdens make us weary,
Little kind acts make us glad;
Little shadows make the gloaming,
Little streaks of hght the dawn ;
Little summer showers the verdure,
Little flowers the fragrant lawn.

. Little seconds make the minutes,
Little minutes make the hour;
Little changes make the seasons,
Latule shrubs the shaded bower;
Little sparks the contiagration,
Little years of toil life’s span;
Little tender acts the blessings,
Little honest deeds the MAN.

 

_ WEDDED, YET NO WIFE;

the Dark.

 

By MAY AGNES FLEMING,

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

 

(WEDDED, YET NO WIFE” was commenced in No. 50.

Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER VII.—(ConrINvUED.)

The poor babe did not seem particularly
thankful.

After calling for “Dozy” two or three times
in vain, Polly opened her cherub mouth, and
set up such a howl as made Rosanna’s blood
curdle with new terror.

“Duke,” she cried, aghast, “what will the
neighbors say? Wecan’t tell them this abomi-
nable story you have just told me, and we
must account for the child in someway. What
is to be done?”

“Tell a lie,” said Duke; “there’s no other
way. We have a cousin down in the country,
or up in the moon, who has gone toes up, and
left us his only child, as an heirloom. The
cousin was a male cousin by the name of
_ Mason. Her name’s Polly Mason. Polly, I
don’t cotton to that cognomen, somehow. She
looks like Louisa Victoria, or Eugenia, or
Evangeline. Polly’s common for such a little
gentlewoman as that. I'll call her Duchess—
she looks one—I’m Duke—she’s Duchess, by
George!” and Duke poe ot boyishly at his
own conceit. It was such a relief to have the
story told and Rosanna pacified.

“Little Duchess—little Polly, come here,
and give me a kiss.”

But Polly hada temper, and flung herself
away, and wailed dismally for “Dozy, and her
bek-fas !”

“Go ’way!” she cried, slapping Duke’s prof-
fered face. “You’s a big, ugly man, and this
is a ugly place, and she’s a ugly thing, too.
Qy pelts wants Dozy! Polly wants her bed
and milk!”

“Polly shall have bread and milk,” Miss Ma-
son said, soothingly; “only do be quiet, dear.
I suppose we must fabricate a story for the
neighbors, Duke; and may the Lord forgive
us. One can’t touch pitch without being de-
filed. Wecan’t have todo with the wicked
ones of the earth, without sharing in their
wickedness.” ;

“And as I’ve been up all night, Rosanna,
Tll turn in until breakfast time,” Duke
answered; “rout me out at half after eight.
Iam going to strike work: this morning, and
go to St. George’s, Hanover Square, and min-
gle with the bloated aristocracy, and see this

young lady’s mamma married. Beg your par-
don, Rosanna, for alluding to her—I won’t do
it again. What a dickens of a temper the

little angel has!”

Duke went to bed; Rosanna pacified Polly,
with some trouble, and more bread and milk.
For once in a way, she was almost excited.
A child to dress; and ‘scold, and love; and a
hundred oe in her pocket.

A hundred pounds! She had never had

uarter that sum at once before inher life. An
illimitable vista of the things to be had with
a hundred pounds opened before her. A new
carpet for the parlor, a painted stand for her
flowers, a new Sunday suit for Duke, a new
Bible, gilt-edge, morocco-bound for herself, a
_ set of china tea-things, evenia dress, perhaps,
and a pair of new shoes. It would not pur-
chase a farm down in the green heart of rus-
tic England—and that was the life-longing of
Rosanna Mason—but it would do so much, so
much in the city. And the ring—she was no
judge of such things—but the ring must be
worth fifty guineas, at least.

Of course, they wouldn’t sell that—it must
be kept for the child—poor little stray waif—
and the locket as well. She called the little
one over, and opened the locket. It held a
short curl of auburn hair, and the picture of
a ‘young man—a handsome young man—who
looked up at her bright, smiling, life-like,
from the golden setting. A dim possibility,
that life held things for the young and hand-
some which she had never known—beautiful,
sweet, solemn things—stirred faintly in her
forty-year-old heart. She closed the locket,
and kissed the child almost as gently as a
fair voung mother might have done.

“Poor little thing!” she said; “poor little,
pecioy baby! There has been a great wrong
done somewhere, and you are to pay the pen-
alty. Well, the Lord helping me, I will bring
you up good, and happy, and healthy, if I can,”

At half-past eight precisely she summoned
Duke to breakfast. The young man found his
sister in better and gentler mood than he had,
ever known her in his life at this early, hour,
There are a great many people in this world—
very good-natured people, too, in the. main,
who don’t get their tempers properly aired
and on before ten A. M. It was the human-
izing influence of the child, no doubt.

Polly had gorged herself like a small boa-
constrictor, with bread and milk, and now,
standing on one of the parlor chairs, looking
out of the window at the busy scene in the
mews opposite, was wailing in a plaintive
minor key for “Dozy.”. She never called for
her mamma, Rosanna noticed, as most babies
do—always “Dozy.”

Duke ate his breakfast, and started off at_a
rapid pace for the aristocratic portals of St.
George’s, Hanover Square, There, would be no
end of a row, he thought, at the scene-room of
the Britannia, in consequence of his non-
appearance, and Tinsel & Spangle would fine
him, very likely; but a man who is the happy

ossessor of a hundred pounds ean afford to

efy the minions of the theater,

“T’ll see Miss L. turned off,” thought Duke,
elegantly, “and then have at thee, Spangle:
and cursed be he who first cries hold! enough !”

It was high noon when the scene-painter
reached his destination—high noon on a sunny
April day, warm as mid-June. A stately pro-
cession of elegant private carriages filled the
street—half the turnouts in May Fair, it
‘seemed to the simple denizen of Half-Moon
Terrace—and a mob of idlers on the lookout
to see the quality.

 

Duke, in his haste, turning sharp round the
angles of one of these vehicles, ran violently
against a gentleman coming in equal haste
from the opposite direction.

“Bez your pardon, sir. Didn’t mean any-
thing offensive, you know!” Duke said,
politely. “I hope I haven’t hurt you.”

The gentleman made no reply. He did not
even seem to hear him. His eyes were fixed
upon the church with a hungry, strained inten-
sity of gaze.

“Queer customer!” Mr. Mason thought.
“That young man has evidently something on

ashen. The bridegroom, on the contrary—a
portly, undersized, florid, good-looking man—
was flushed, excited, exultant. His restless
black eyes moved about ceaselessly in a quick,
nervous sort of way, and as he drew near, the
stranger sitting beside Duke suddenly rose up.

It was impossible, not to look athim. The
stony bride never. looked, certainly; but the
smiling bridegroom did; and the smile froze,
and the florid color died on his face, and an
awful look of fear.transfixed it. A wordless
cry appeared to rise and die upon his lips. He
seemed for an instant rooted to the spot. Then
the crowd, pushing on, bore him with it, and
Mr. Mason was alone with his extraordinary
companion.

The stranger still stood in that rigid atti-
tude, like a man slowly petrifying.

“Gad!” thought the scene-painter, “I didn’t
think any human being except the First Mur-
derer of the Britannia could glare in that
blood-freezing way. I suppose old Quill knows
what he is about, after all, when he writes
melodramas. ‘This must be Robert. Ill ask
him, by George!” Duke cleared his throat. “1
beg your pardon,” he said, “for a seemingly
impertinent question, but might your name
be Robert?” ,

“Robert? Yes,” the stranger answered, me-
chanically. He did not seem surprised at the
geen all feeling was stupefied within

im. é

“Oh, it is! Perhaps, also, it may be Lisle!”

This time the young man in the rough jacket
did turn round, and looked at his questioner.

“What do you know of Robert Lisle?” he
demanded.

“Well, not much, only I have heard the
name, and if you were Mr. Lisle, I think I
could understand better your very evident
interest in the lady who has just gone by.”

The young man, whose name was Robert,
laid his hand heavily on Duke’s shoulder.

“You know her, then?” he exclaimed, “ You!”

“Well,” replied Mr. Mason, “slightly. I have
had the honor of doing her some little service
in by-gone hours, and though she didn’t
notice me this morning, we have been very
friendly and confidential, I assure you, in
times past. And if you had been Mr. Robert
Lisle, and had called upon her yesterday, I
dare say she would have been pleased to see
you. Yesterday she was Miss Lyndith, to-day
she is Lady Charteris—all the difference in
the world, you understand.”

“Then she has spoken of me to you? She has
not forgotten—she——”  —

He stopped, his-voice husky, his eyes like
live coals.

“She has not forgotten—decidedly not—but
at the same time she hasn’t spoken of you to
me. You are Robert Lisle, then?”

The stranger dropped his hand and turned
abruptly away.

“My name is Hawksley,” he said, coldly;
Yes, by Heaven !”—he

 

“and I must see her.

 

 

  
   

The smiling bridegroom saw the stranger; the smile died on his face, and an awful look of tear transfixed it.

 

ee

his mind. He is a gentleman, I take it, in
spite of his rough shooting-jacket and foreign
hat. He has something the look of a sailor.”

On the instant, the object of his thoughts
turned around with a suddenness quite dis-
concerting, and addressed him:

“Can you tell me who is being married here
this re

“Well, I shouldn’t like to swear to it, but
I ppinkou Vane Charteris.”

The stranger ground out that little word
between his teeth in a way familiar to Mr.
Mason on the boards of the Ritcanuia.

“And to whom?”

“Well, I think to Miss Olivia Lyndith. But
as itis only supposition on my part; suppose
we step in and ascertain?”

“T will follow you,” the stranger said, fall-
ing back a step. ‘For Heaven’s sake, hurry!”

Duke hastened in, a little surprised, but not
much,

“Tf this mysterious young man, with the
auburn beard, and wnat eas handsome face,
should be ‘Robert’ now,” he thought: “and she
should recognize him, and shrieking, ‘It is
he!’ fall swooning at his feet, it would be
quite a lively scene for St. George’s.”

Such rencounters were very common on the
stage, and Duke saw no reason why they
should not. be in everyday life as well.

He led the way into the church. It was
almost filled with elegantly dressed people.
Two weddings were going on, and the altar
was quite a ner tena spectacle, with snow-
white and azure-robed ladies, and solemnly
black gentlemen. One of the pew-openers gave
them a place near the door, as became their
shabby coats and clumping boots.

The stranger, as he removed his hat, Duke
saw was a very fair man, despite the. golden
bronze of his skin; and the fixed, rigid pallor
of his face, the wild intensity of his blue eyes,
betrayed that his interest in what was going
on was no ordinary one,

“Thev’re coming!” Duke said. “We've
missed the wedding, after all. The thing’s
over.”

He was right. The newly-wedded pairs had
signed the register, and were sweeping down
the aisle. The first bride was a Junoesque
lady, with high color and modestly downeast
eyes. They barely glanced at her. She and her
train sailed by. The second bridal party came
—the bride this time—there was no doubt
about it—the late Miss Olivia Lyndith,

It is proper, of course, for brides to look pale
at this supreme hour of their lives. This bride
was pale beyond all ordinary pallor of bride-
hood. Her face was ghastly; her great dark
eyes looked blankly straight before her, with
a fixed, sightless stare; her very lips were

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

 

thing had happened. He read it in Sir Vane’s

 

face.

“What is it?’ he asked, nervously. “Quick,
Charteris; they will wonder at our absence.
Let’s have it in a word.”

“T will, Ruinl”

“What?”

“Robert Lisle is alive !—is here !—I saw him
in the church!”

“Charteris, are you mad?”

“Not now! I was when I believed your story
of Lisle’s death. I tell you the fellow is alive,
and here. I saw him in church as we came
out.
“But, great Heaven, Charteris! this must
be folly—madness! The Royal Charter was
burned to the water’s edge, and every soul on
board perished. And he sailed in the Royal
Charter. I tell you it is impossible!”

“And I tell you [saw Robert Lisle, face to
face, as I left the church. She did not, orl
think, in my soul, she would have dropped on
the spot. He stood up, and gave me a look I’m
not likely to forget. Curse it, Lyndith,” he
cried, in a sudden fury, “do you think I could
mistake him of all men? Before we leave the
house, Robert Lisle will be here.”

“Great Heaven!”

“Ay,” the baronet cried, bitterly, “you will
believe it when he comes. There will bea
lovely scene—a beautiful sensation for Park
Lane. We know what she will do, if she
once catches sight of him. All the story, so
long hidden, will come out, and for Geoffrey
Lyndith it means simply ruin!”

ne shall not see her. By Heaven, he shall

not!
“Prevent the meeting if youcan. Heis a
desperate man—if ever I saw desperation in
human eyes. You will find a different man
from the Robert Lisle of two years ago. And
now, as you say, we will be missed. We must
go up, and smile, and make speeches, and
play our part, until the specter appears at the
feast.”

He strode out of the library. Mr. Lyndith
followed him, There was no help for it—their
absence was already commented on by their
guests. They took their places at the table, all
a-glitter with silver and crystal; and every-
body noted their altered looks. Such a ghastly
bride, and such a strange pallor on the faces
of their host and Sir Vane. ‘Something was
wrong. Everybody waited, deliciously expect-
ant of more to come.

What they waited for came. The breakfast
was not quarter over, when a knock thundered
at the grand entrance—an ominous and authori-
tative knock, that thrilled through them all.
Sir Vane was raising his glass to his lips, and
again the smile seemed to freeze on his face,
and the glass remained half-poised in his
hand. A dead silence fell.

In that silence the sound of an altercation
in the hall reached them in that distant apart-
ment. Mr. Lyndith rose abruptly—white and

 

 

clenched his strong white teeth—“come what
may !”
_ “I should advise you to hurry, then,” sug-
gested Duke, politely. “They start for Italy
in an hour’s time, I have reason to know, and
lif you miss her now it’s all up! Brides don’t
generally receive strange gentlemen on their
wedding morning; but this seems an excep-
tional occasion, and she may see you. Shall I
order you a cab and tell them where to drive?”
said Duke, inwardly burning with pe eile

Mr. Hawksley nodded and slouched his hat
down over his eyes. The last of the aristo-
cratic vehicles had vanished long before. Duke
led the way to the nearest cab-stand, and
entered the hansom after the stranger. Mr.
Hawksley might order him out, but he was
willing to risk it. Mr. Hawksley did not,
however; he sat with his hat over his brow,
his arms folded, bis lips compressed under
that beautiful, tawny beard, the whole way.

“He looks like the Corsair by Medora’s
death-bed,” reflected Duke. “He has a very
striking pair of blue eyes. So has little Polly.
Now wouldn’t it be rather queer if Mr. Robert
Hawksley, I think he said, should be Polly’s
father?”

The carriage containing Sir Vane Charteris
and his bride reached the mansion of Mr.
Geoffrey Lyndith, in Park Lane. The silence
that reigned in Duke’s hansom reigned also in
this elegant coach-and-four. The bride sat like
some marble bride, as pale, as cold, almost as
lifeless—the bridegroom sat with a leaden face
of abject fear.

“Did Lyndith see him, I wonder?” he
thought. “He left the church before me. To
be balked like this at the last hour, after
waiting so long, after risking so much. At
the last hour, when the game is all my own,
to have him start upasif from the very earth.
And I thought, we all thought, him dead two
years ago.” ®

He let down the glass and loosened his neck-

him. He glanced at his bride, and a storm of
rage at her, at. himself, at Geoffrey Lyndith,
Mn that apparition in the church, swept through

im.

“She looks more like a dead woman than a
bride. What will every one say? Why can’t
she smile, or rouge, or do something except
look like that—death in life? I scarcely know
whether I love or hate her most. One day or
other she shall pay for this. And tothink there
should have been a child, too, and she should
spirit it away. She has the cunning of the old
fiend when she likes.”

The carriage stopped. He descended, and
handed his bride out. The other carriages dis-

orged themselves. The instant he espied Mr.
Fyndith, he motioned him apart.

“Come into the library,” he said. “I havea
word to say to you.”

Mr, Lyndith led the way instantly. Some-

 

, did not come back.

erchief: something in the air seemed’ to choke:

 

stern—made a hurried apology, and hastened
from the room.

A moment later and all was still. The dis-
turbance, was quelled; but Geoffrey Lyndith
What did it mean?

Even the pale, cold bride lifted her heavy
eyes and looked at the leaden face of the man
she had married, and waited for what was to
come next.

os

CHAPTER VIII.
“WHISTLED DOWN THE WIND.”

Geoffrey Lyndith’s face was an index of his
character—dark, stern, resolute. While he had
sat at the head of his table, smiling upon his
guests, and eating and drinking’ mechanic-
ally, his ready brain had been at work. Plot-
ting was work that subtle brain was well
used to, and his mind, prompt in thought,
quick in action, grappled at once with his
danger. As Sir Vane Charteris had said, the
coming of this man in all likelihood meant
ruin—ruin for him, Geoffrey Lyndith, Esauire,
of Lyndith Grange and Park Lane. He had
thought the man dead for certain; he had
driven him out of the country over two years
ago, and the ship in which he had sailed had
been burned in mid-ocean, and no soul left to
return, and Robert’ Lisle was here on Olivia’s
wedding-day. Was Satan himself at work to
balk him, he wondered?

He had got Robert Lisle in his power two
years ago, by a cowardly, and infamous plot,
worthy the Newgate calendar; that power he
still held over him, but who knew? His part
in it might come to light after all, and what
horrible shame and exposure that would in-
volve! And at the first sound of his voice, at
the first sight of his face, his niece would fly
to his arms, to cling to him through misery
and death, if need were. He was poor, and
his niece was rich; her money would aid his
enemy. Ready money was the one great want
of this man’s life, and on the day he compelled
his niece to marry him, Sir Vane Charteris
had promised him a check for ten thousand
pounds. Everything had gone on so well; he
had been ‘in a glow of triumph and exultation
for a few weeks past, and now—and now!

His eyes glowed with a red, evil fire as he
descended the staircase, his teeth set behind
his black beard. He could confront moral or
physical danger with the brute courage of a
tiger.

WA man always gains, be his case strong or
weak,” he was accustomed to say, “by facing
the worst boldly; weakness and vacillation
always fail, as they deserve to.” It was
his theory, and he acted upon it in every

 

crisis of life, and up to this time had found it
succeeded. His face looked as if carved in
granite, as he descended to the entrance hall,
for all trepidation, surprise, anger, fear, or
any human emotion it displayed.

A porter, a butler, two high footman, all
were formed in a body to oppose the enemy—a
tall young man in rough coat and broad-
brimmed hat.

“Wecan’t do nothink with him, sir,” the
butler. explained, in an indignant voice,
“which he says, like his impidence, as he will
see you, Mr. Lyndith, sir.”

The two men looked each other full in the
face, one level, powerful gaze. The younger
man took off his hat. Good Heaven! what hor-
rible reason Geoffrey Lyndith had to know
that handsome, sunburnt face.

“I know this person, Edwards,” Mr, Lyn-
dith said, very quietly, ‘and will see him,
Follow me, sir.”

He led the way to the library, a stately
aparment, filled with books, and busts, and
bronzes, and into which the noon sunlight
came, softly tempered through closed vene-
tians. Geoffrey Lyndith turned the key in the
door, crossed the room, leaned his elbow upon
the crimson-velvet mantel, and faced his op-

onent. It was a duel to the death; and both
knew it, no quarter to be asked or given—one
or the other must go down before they left
that room.

The gentleman of the Old Guard, otherwise
the master of the house, fired first.

“This is an exceedingly unexpected honer,
Robert Lisle. You sailed two years and a
half ago in the ship Royal Charter, from
Southampton. The Royal Charter was burned,
and all on board perished. May l ask how
you came to be alive?”

His tone was perfectly cool; his face admi-
rably calm, his manner as nonchalantly gen-
tlemanlike as though he had been remarking
on the fineness of the weather, and the possi-
bility of rain next week. Yet under all that
high-bred composure, what horrible fear he
felt of this man!

“I did not sail in the Royal Charter,” Rob-
ert Lisle answered; “I took my passage—you
saw my name on the passenger list, very
likely. At the last hour I met with an acci-
dent—a very trifling one—which made me lose
it. I sailed in the Western Star the following
week. Are you satisfied now that Il am no
wraith?”

“More than satisfied. I congratulate you
upon your escape. Providence”—the sneering
emphasis was indescribable — “Providence
watched over you, no doubt. You were wise
to leav3 England the following week; it was
certainly no place for you. Why have you been
so very imprudent as to return to it?”

The flashing eyes of the younger man met
oe hard, glittering black ones with a fiery

ight

ht.

a You ask that question, Geoffrey Lyndith?”

“Assuredly, Mr. Lisle—why?”

“T have returned to claim my wife. To ex-
pose you and your villany to the world you
delude; be the penalty to myself what it
may !” ;

“When you use that sort of language, Mr.
Lisle,” the elder man said, with unruffled
composure, “you have the advantage of me,
of course. Persons in your class generally do
resort to vituperation, I believe, when an-
noyed. You will oblige me by keeping to the
language and bearing of a _ gentleman, if you
can, while talking to me. You have returned
to claim your wife! Ah! but there is no such
person in England, that lam aware of. Out
there among the aborigines, indeed——”’

Robert Lisle strode toward him, a danger-
rous light in his blue eyes.

“Do you dare to sneer at me—you of all men
elves It is not safe; 1 warn you, it is not
safe |”

“Ah! I wish you would have the politeness
to hear me out. If you mean Lady Charteris,
she never was your wife—no, not for one poor
hour, And if you have come to claim her, you
have just come two years and three months
too late. She did remember you for two or
three months after your very abrupt depart-
ure from England, I will own, and then came
the natural revulsion. More than she had ever
loved—pshaw ! fancied she loyed the yeoman’s
son, with his tall, shapely figure, and good-
looking face—she hated, abhorred him. Her
mad folly, her shame, dawned upon her, in its
true light. She saw what she had done, how
she had fallen, how you had played upon her
childish eredulity, and dragged her down, and
she hated—let us have plain words, Robert
Lisle—she hated your memory with an inten-
sity [never dreamed she possessed. The haunt-
ing fear lest her disgraceful secret should be
known to the world nearly drove ber mad.
She buried herself alive down at Lyndith
Grange for a time—she went abroad with me.
Her secret so preyed upon her that health was
affected. All this time her plighted husband,
the man of her dying father’s choice, was by
her side, ever tender, ever devoted—and she
learned to know the full value of that which
she had flung.away, and she loved him with
a love, all the greater that it was tinged with
remorse. Then came the news of the loss of
the Royal Charter, and all on board, She was
free! I remember handing her the paper,” Mr.
Lyndith said, looking dreamily before him, .
like a man. who beholds what he relates; “and
pointing out your name among thelist of lost.
For a moment she grew deadly pale. She had
always a tender heart; poor child—and it:
séenied a horriblé fate to be burnedalive in the
midst of the Atlantic. Then, she threw the
paper down, flung herself into my arms,
and sobbed in wild hysterics: ‘Oh, uncle,’
she cried, ‘is it wicked to be thankful to
Heayen for even an enemy’s death? -And
I liked him once, and his fate has been
an awful one, and yet my heart has no
room for anything but thankfulness that I am
free. Now the exposure of a divorce court
will be unnecessary—an. exposure which I
think would kill me. ‘Thank Heaven, without
it He has given me back my liberty!’ And
after this she rallied, and. gave Sir Vane her
promise to become his wife.”

Robert Lisle listened to this lengthy speech,
with a smile of cynical scorn on his handsome
bearded mouth.

“You were always an orator, Mr, Lyndith,”
he said, quietly; “spouting was ever your
forte, I remember, and gracerul fiction quite a
striking trait in your character. I see time but
embellishes your talents. In plain English, I
don’t believe one word you have told me.
Olivia Lyndith was not the sort of woman to
whistle a lost lover down the wind after any
such fashion—much less the husband she loved
—Heayen! loved so dearly!”

His face softened; that of Geoffrey Lyndith
grew black with suppressed fury.

“You are an insolent boor,” he said; “but
you were always that. Two years’ sojourn
among the refuse of the world in trans-Atlan-
tic cities would hardly be likely to improve
you; I tell you Olivia Lyndith never was your
wife—never! You are alive, but no divorce
will be needed. A girl of sixteen runs away to
Scotland and goes through some sort of Scotch
ceremony, that may pass for marriage beyond
the border. It will not hold in England, as you
very well know. A minor contract a legal
marriage, forsooth! You areold enough, at
least; to iknow better, my good fellow. The
marriage was no marriage, the child illegili-
mate,”

He stopped short--he had betrayed himself
in his momentary burst of anger. The young

‘man started, and a dark flush passed over bis

tanned face.
“The child!” he said; “there was a child?”
It was too: late to draw back—the truth,
neatly glossed over with falsehood, must be
told

“Yes, a child, who died two days after its
birth, thank Heaven. That makes no differ-
ence—-Sir Vane knows. What was she but a

‘child herself, poor little Livy, when yov led

herastray. Little wonder she abhors your very
memory. And now, to add one last outrage,
you come here to cover her with shame, to
rake up from the dead past the story she be-
lieves buried in oblivion, which she would die

 

 

 

Children Gry for Pitchers Castoria,

rather than have the world know, Robert

 

  

 

 
aipaiipibphitaniatardion S. setr

coicatls Sees ada ay

 

     

 

 

6

‘Lisle, you are less than man to blight the life
of an innocent girl.”

The face of the young man turned white, a
cold moisture broke out upon his forehead.

Was this true, after all? Had Lord Montalien
been right? Was he forgotten—abhorred?

“I will see her, at least,” he cried, hoarsely.
“From her lips alone will I take my death-
warrant. If she tells me to go, I will obey her
—yes, though I should hang myself within the
hour. But I know you of old; Geoffrey Lyn-
dith—a man without heart, or truth, or
honor! Oh, don’t think I am afraid of you!
This is no time for fine words. Bring her
here—let her tell me she hates me, let her bid
me go, and I will go, and never trouble her
raore in this world.”

Geoffrey Lyndith looked at him, the dull,
red glow more visible than ever in his evil,
black eyes.

“Bring her here?” he repeated: “I would
see her dead first! Do you know what you
ask? She does not know whether her first
marriage was binding or not—like all girls,
sbe thinks it was. She believed you dead—she
thought herself a widow, and has married
again—a man whom she loves, as in her wild-
est fancy she never cared for you. Do you
know what the consequences of bringing her
here will be? It will kill her, I think—just
that! The exposure, the scandal, the loss of
the husband she loves. She would never hold
ap her head again. If you ever loved her, Rob-
ert Lisle, you should spare her now.”

“Loved her! Oh, Heaven!”

He flung himself intoa chair, and buried
his face in his hands. Was Geoffrey Lyndith
not right? She had been proud and sensitive
of old, and now the wife of two men, parted
from both, and the first a~—. He shuddered
through all his frame, as he sat there.

The elder man saw his advantage, and fol-
lowed it up pitilessly.

“You insist upon seeing Lady Charteris?
Well, if you are determined upon it, of course
you can. Would you like to hear the result?
She is torn from the arms of her bridegroom—
the story of her folly is given to the world—
she is known as the wife of two men, until at
least it is proven that the first was no mar-
riage at all. If the blow does not kill her, she
is in time reunited to Sir Vane, but the scan-
dal follows her life long. Supposing the first
marriage to have been legal, even, a divorce
can be procured, and she is still free. In any
case, all you can do to Sir Vane is to separate
him for a few months from his bride, to whom
finally, always supposing the exposure does not
kill her, he will be again united. And now for
yourself. In the hour you stand face to face
with Olivia Charteris, you shall be given over
tothe hands of the law. For her sake I spared
you two years ago—for her sake you shall be
branded as the thief you are. Do you know
what your sentence will be? One and-twenty
years, at least. on Norfolk Island. You will
have broken her heart, driven her into her |
grave, in all probability, and yourself in a/|
felon’s cell. Now, choose! the way lies yonder. |
Go up to the room above, you will find her there,
happy, by her bridegroom’s side. Go up, I will
not lift a finger to hinder you, aud on the
instant you set your foot upon the first stair,
my servant shall summon the police. Take
your choice, Robert Lisle, and quickly.”

He drew out his wa‘ch; in fifteen minutes
more the newly wedded pair were to start on
the first stage of their wedding journey. The
self-command of Geoffrey Lyndith was great,
but his lips were gray now, and drops of
moisture stood on his face. He touched the
eli man on the shoulder, cold with inward
ear.

“Yon have your choice,” he said; “decide!
Go up and kill the woman you pretend to love,
by the sight of you, condemn yourself toa
felon’s cell for life, or go out of yonder door,
and never return. Quick!”

Robert Lisle arose, and turned to his tor-

of the words he spoke then made me think

 

turer. To his dying day that ghastly face
haunted Geoffrey Lyndith. In that instant he
felt as though he had stalbed him to the
heart.

“T have decided,” he said, hoarsely, “and
may the God above judge vou for it! You are
as much a murderer as though my blood red-
dened your hand. Her life shall never be
blighted by me, her proud head brought low
in shame through act of mine. She loved me
once—aye, say as you will, liar and traitor !—
as she never can love the man by whose side
she will spend her life. I go, and as you have
dealt by us both, Geoffrey Lyndith, may
Heaven deal with you!”

He raised his arm, and the man before him
recoiled. He was not superstitious, nor cow-
ardly in any way, but his heart stood still for
a second, and that cold dew shone in great
drops on his face.

“Thave conquered,” he thought, “and an-
other such victory would drive me mad!”

He heard the door open and shut, and drew
a great breath of unutterable relief. His
enemy was gone; he was saved!

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

~~

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Fomt

EVELYN,
THE PRETTY FACTORY GIRL:

MARRIED AT THE LOOM,
By JULIA EDWARDS,

Author of “Beautiful Viola,’ ‘*The Little Widow,”’
*Beautiful but Poor,” etc.

 

{(“Evenyn, THE Prerry Factory Gir.” was commenced
in No. 48. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents]

 

CHAPTER XVI.

“SHE SAVED MY LIFE, AND I WILL GIVE IT UP
READILY TO SAVE HER HONOR!”

It was a strange experience for Evelyn to
find herself engaged to work ata loom. To
think that she, who all her life had been pet-
ted and waited on, who had had every luxury
that wealth could procure, should now be clad
in a cheap calico, learning the uses of the
various parts of a loom!

But had it not been for her anguish over
Gordon’s fate, with real joy she would have
hailed the situation in which she found her-

self,
It would have been happiness to her to feet
that it was done for his dear sake. She had

hoped, in her sweet and loving enthusiasm,
that she would have the opportunity to prove
to Gordon that she was fitted to be a poor
man’s bride.

And here was the opportunity. She listened
to Rosie’s explanations, and tried hard to
es ag and so her first day in the mill

egan.

“Do you think there will be anv doubt about
my staying here?” she asked Rosie.

“No, indeed,” answered Rosie. “If Don
Adams makes up his mind that you shall
stay here, there will be no trouble about it.”

“J hope he won’t have any trouble with
Gerald Washburn,” said Evelyn.

“T don’t know that I care if he does,”
answered Rosie, indignantly. “But you
needn’t be afraid for Don; he knows how to
take care of himself.”

“But,” said Evelyn, uneasily, “he is only
foreman, and the other is his superior.”

 

 

 

ne

that he believed Gerald Washburn had tried
to make him lose his life.”

“Oh, how wicked!” cried Evelyn, in horror.

But their work would not permit them to
talk too much, and Evelyn was soon absorbed
in learning more about her new employment.
_She did not cease to think of her beloved
Gordon, however; and she was ean anx-
iously for noon to come, that she might pro-
enre a Boston paper and learn from it what
more had been done about him.

The thought that he might be guilty never
once entered her head. She believed it was
some dreadful mistake, which would soon be
made right; and what troubled her most was
how to let Gordon know where she was.

She would have written, but she had an idea
that a'l letters to prisoners were opened and
read before being given to them.

Sometimes she thought she would write to
Clara, and ask her to go to Gordon and tell
him where she could be found.

And yet, in spite of her uneasiness, there
was an abiding faith that when Gordon came
out of the prison where he was unjustly de-
tained, he would find her without difficulty.

If she had known that so much depended
upon her testimony, she would have flown to
him at any cost to her reputation; for she was
one of those generous beings who find joy in
sacrifice that benefits a loved one.

But she did not suspect, and so she worked
faithfully on, her spirits lightened by her
honest toil; and sometimes she smiled like a
pleased child at the thought of Gordon coming
to see her at the loom.

She woald prove to him that she was no
spoiled darling of luxury, but a good, true
woman, who would do joyously whatever
there was to do,

If Gerald Washburn entered her thoughts,
the subject was only to be dismissed con-
temptuously, as unworthy of consideration.

Had she been wiser in the ways of men, she
would have given him more anxious thoughts;
and the knowledge that she had a champion
in Don Adams would not have done so much
to quiet her.

Not that Don was not a bold and brave
champion, devoted to her with a passionate
fervor she could not suspect; but that frank
and open courage is not always a match for
treachery and cunning.

Don Adams, indeed, was so much her cham-
oe that he did not intend that there should
ye any misunderstanding about the matter.

As soon as he saw her settled at the loom
with Rosie, he left the room and made his
way down stairs to the office, where he knew
he would be sure to find Gerald Washburn
alone at that early hoar.

Yes, Gerald was there alone, and as the
door was opened by the stalwart Map fore-
man, be hastily closed a book that lay before |
him, and looked up with a glance of confu- |
sion, which changed to one of suspicion and
dread when he saw who the new-comier was.

“Tf wish a few words with you,” said Don,
not seeming to notice the confusion of the
other, or the fact that he quietly drew the
account book off the desk and slid it into the
open safe.

“It was not necessary to come here,”
answered Gerald, curtly. “I shall be out in
the big buildingin a few minutes.”

“What I have to say is best said here,” said
Don, ink “T wish to speak of Miss Harper,
the young lady who saved my life this morn-
ing

“How long since mill-girls have been young
ladies?” demanded Gerald, insolently.

“They have always been young ladies,”
answered Don, with proud indignation. “Do
not sneer at labor, Gerald Washburn. You
ought to know that some of the noblest men
and women of the land earn their bread by the
sweat of their brows. And many who do not
know where the next meal is to come from,
whose hands are hard and horny with severe
toil, are among the truest ladies and gentle-
men in our free country.” .

Tt seemed as if there could be no better illus-
tration of his words than himself. as he stood
there in his ciently. facing the well-dressed
man whose clothes fitted him to a nicety, but
whose morals were looser than the despised
overalls of the workman.

“You are practicing for a labor meeting, I
suppose,” said Gerald, enna

A deep flush suffused the face of Don Adams,
but he controlled his temper, and answered:

“T was foolish enough to make a reply to
your aspersions. I came here to say to you
that I had take: Miss Harper on, and that
she would be Rosie Brookes’ partner.” E

“As I had intended to put her on the books,
myself,” said Gerald, haughtily, “I will per-
mit her to remain.”

“T also came to say that she is under my
protection,” said Don, sternly.

“Fortunate girl!” sneered Gerald.

“And I wish to warn you that you must not
molest her, by word, look, or act,” continued
Don, his eyes flashing ominously.

“Oh,” sneered Gerald, with an appearance
of calmness that was belied by the nervous
tightening of his hands, “you have taken com-
plete charge of the little beauty, have you?”

“T have made it’ my business to protect her
from insult or annoyance,” answered Don,
“and I shall do so at any cost to myself, any
peril to others.”

“Do you Know that you are an insolent
hound?” said Gerald. rising in a fury, and
facing the foreman. “I do not know why I let
you remain here.”

“Perhaps,” said Don, quietly, “you hope the
machinery will be good enough to put me out
of the way without trouble to you.’

This reference tothe accident of the morning
ore the face of Gerald Washburn turn a livid

ue.

“What do you mean by that?” hestammered.

“T mean all I say, and much that you and I
alone understand,” answered Don.

“T understand nothing,” said Gerald, the
color returning to his cheeks, “excepting that
you are above your position. As for the girl,
I will take dictation neither from you nor
from her.”

“Tf you molest her in any way it will be at
yous peril, Gerald Washburn!” was the stern
reply.

Gerald laughed scornfully; but it was the
laugh of a consummate actor, and did not
come naturally.

“So you are in love with the dainty little
beauty, are ydu?” he said.

“Tt would be an honor to even love her,”
replied Don; “for she isa brave and noble
woman. But she is a stranger to me, and until
she so courageously saved my life I had never
seen her. She did save my life, Gerald Wash-
burn, and I will give it up readily to save her
honor or her name; and while I live no harm
shall come to her.”

“You ought to go on the stage,” sneered
Gerald, who knew how in little ways to wound
others. “But you waste your heroics on me.
I shali do just as I please, and if what I please
does | not please you, so much the worse for

you.
F Don turned, for he had started toward the
oor.

“Gerald Washburn.” he said, his voice quiv-
ering with wrath, “you will] be wise not to
anger me. I have told you that Miss Harper is
under my protection, and that it will be peril-
ous for any one to annoy her, I know you for
a base scoundrel, to whom a girl’s honor is a
mere plaything. Miss Harper is in no danger
from yon, but I wiil not have her annoyed: and
if you persist in yourinfamous conduct toward
her, you will rue it to the last day of your
unworthy life.”

The color came and went in the handsome,
evil face of Gerald Washburn as he listened to
the scathing words of the foreman, and his
convulsively moving fingers tightened around
a heavy rosewood ruler that lay on his desk,

“Take that! you hound! youcur!” he velled,

 

|some way of making an end of him,

a

hand had darted up and caught the wrist of
the other, ~

And so they stood facing each other, with
quick, hot breath coming and going.

“Gerald Washburn,” said Don, “I am aware
that you long to know that my tongue is

stilled furever, for fear it should tell the secret |

of why you were poring over that ledger just
now, and why you so stealthily slipped it
back into the safe. This tongue of mine could
say some things to old Gideon March that
would cxuse him to turn you from here ‘de-
graded and disgraced.”

“Liar!” hissed Gerald, but his cheek was
pale and his eyes were shifting.

Don threw him away from him and went on:

“You know lam nota liar. And I swear to
you that if you do not treat Miss Harper with
the most scrupulous respect, I will not onl
horsewhip you, but [ will ask Gideon Mare
to call an expert to examine his books.”

Gerald made no reply, but leaned against
the desk Don had thrown him upon, and
stared at him with all the malevolence of his
cowardly and vicious nature.

Don waited a moment for some reply, but,
receiving none, slowly left the room.

Gerald watched him until the door was
closed after him. Then he straightened him-
self up and hissed out:

“Curse you, Don Adams! Twice before you
have crossed my path, and I hated you for
that. I suspected that you knew of my work
in these books, and I added that thought to
the rest, and would have sent you to your
Maker but for the beautiful stranger. Now
you have threatened, insulted, and humiliated
me, and I swear I will put you out of my
way!” ,

He paced the room with convulsed counte-
nance and irregular steps.

“If he should speak Ishould be ruined. An
investigation would disclose everything. Then
that girl! I know now what mad love is. I
can understand how Claire feels. Bah! how
she tires me with her affection! If I dared
I would cast her from me and let her know
that I did not love her. Ha! ha! how soon she
was cowed when I turned upon her! I will
remember that trick for another occasion.

“But that girl, Evelyn Harper! I must win
her. She cannot be my wife, peerless as she
is in her soft and winsome beauty. No, I
must marry Claire, or I shall be lost. But give
little Evelyn up! oh, no, no! -

“And Claire was right. The little beauty is
not a factory girl. I ean recall now her dainty,
white hands. How soft they were when she
tried to push my face away from her divine
lips. Ah, my beauty! you shall submit yet.
Youu are not the first who bas defied me, and
ended by yielding.

“There is some secret in her life. I will dis-
cover that, and it will enable me to make
some sort of terms with her. .

“But Don Adams! curse him! [I shall find

You owe

me some reparation, pid sweet Evelyn, for
interfering «ith my plans. He wiil never
again lean up against that belt,

“Ah, it was terrible, but it was sweet to
see him s om on to his death, I hate him!
oh, how I hate him!”

CHAPTER XVII.

“IF YOU COULD ONLY GO TO THE BALL, YOU
WOULD BE THE BELLE!”

No one, not even Rosie Brookes, could guess
why it was chat Evelyn, who had gone from
the mill at noon withasad face, should return
full of gayety and merriment.

Rosie knew, indeed, that Evelyn had stopped
on the way home to lunch to buy a paper, and
had eagerly scanned it,

She knew thata stifled cry of joy had broken
from the pretty lips even as she s lookin
at the paper in the street, and that she bad
spent most of the noon hour in her room,
poring over the paper.

But that was all she knew, and she compre-
hended no more than the others why Evelyn
should suddenly. cast off her sadness and take
on a joyousness and gayety which were as be-
witching as t were surprising.

The truth was that the paper had contained
a full account of the escape of Gordon, and,
in her innocence, Evelyn was rejoiced; for to
her it meant that he woald find her.

That was all she asked—to see her beloved
Gordon again; to marry him and then spend
their time in establishing his innocence,

It seemed so simple to her that she never
doubted ; and the change from her sorrow was
so great that it seemed as if her buoyant spir-
its must find an outlet.

She could be womanly enough when the oc-
casion called for it; but she was naturally a
merry little madcap, and her_happiness bub-
bled over that afternoon till Rosie cried out,
in the midst of a burst of laughter:

“Are you the same girl who was here this
morning?”

“Oh, no,” answered Evelyn, “I am another
girl altogether. That one was sad and misera-
able, and this one is so happy she hardly
knows how to keep from dancing, right here
among your rattling looms.”

“Oh, do dance!” cried one of the girls who
had been listening.

The spirit of mischief was in Evelyn, or
rather the happiness that was in her needed a
vent, and she had always been passionately
fond of dancing, and could execute many fancy
dances.

“If I thought none of the men would come
around,” she said.

“There will be nobody here,” said Rosie,
“and Don Adams would not care. Do give us
a little dance if you know any.”

“T’ll give you a Spanish dance,” cried Eve-
lyn, gayly. “I have no castanets, but I learned
how to snap my fingers for accompaniment.”

It was a prank she had often played at
school, The girls, enraptured with her dainty
ways and bewitching beauty, encouraged her.

So breaking into a rollicking Spanish
song, and snapping her fingers, she began to
dance with that grace and abandon which is
pecuiiar to the Spanish dancers,

The girls looked on in perfect wonderment.
They had not dreamed of such a beautiful
sight as the transformed creature made as
she now bounded about, now suddenly pos-
tured, and now swayed in rhythm to the
music of her song.

They were enraptured, and when at last she
flung herself, breathless and pantirg, ina
chair, they flocked about her and showered
the most lavish encomiums on her.

“Oh,” she laughed, “it was a dreadful thin
to do, but I was happy, and it seemed as i
nothing but a wild dance would content me.
I hope nobody saw me except you.”

They all assured her that no one had, and
they believed it; but, in fact, another eye
than any in the room had seen her, and had
watched her with absorbed and startled inter-
est.

The ita eyes of Gerald Washburn had
been fixed in an ecstasy of rapture on her all
the while, and tiwenty times during the mad
dance he had sworn that he must win her.

He would try to be cautious, for he feared
Don Adams and Claire March, but his infatua-
tion for Evelyn was far berond his control,
and he knew that at any mad mement he was
likely to fling all prudence to the winds.

He was frightened at the vehemence of his
own passion, but it did not warn him;:-and
neither he nor the unconscious Evelyn dreamed
of all that was to result from yielding to the
impnuise to dance off her high spirits.

For the remainder of the afternoon she
worked merrily indeed, but without any more
outbursts, though the girls begged hard for
another dance,

“No, no,” she launched, “one exhibition of
that sort is enough, If I were not sucha mad-
cap I would not have done it.”

Tt had the effect of making her the pet of the
mill, and the girls seemed as much fascinated

Rosie looked around cautiously before speak- |at the same time swinging the heavy ruler by her beauty and bright ways as if vhey had

ing: then leaned over and whispered:
“TI think Gerald Washburn is afraid of Don, |

for some reason. I am sure it was he who set |

above his head and bringing it down with all
his foree, {
Tf it had strnek Don Adams it would have

been men,
And it was easy to love her, for she was
sweet and honest, and there was never a sting

the machinery in motion this morning when been many a day before he wonld have said in any of the merry things she said.

Don was leaning against the toothed belt. Ij
saw how they looked at each other; and some

another word in behalf of Evelyn.
But with the quickness of a flash his sinewy |

Of course it was delightful to he liked so
readily, but it had its disadvantages, too, for

ae SCRA THE N EW YORK : WEEKLY. Pe VOL. 48—No. 1.

the girls were so eager to be with her that
even after she and Rosie had gone home in the
evening, a crowd gathered about her.

So she whispered to Rosie that she would
like to take a walk if there was a quiet one to
be had; and Rosie answered that there was.

“We can go out.to where the rich people
live,” she said. “It will be twilight for a lit-
tle while yet, and you can see the handsome
-houses ; though I know it won't be so much of
a sight to you, who have been rich.”

“But I am as poor as any of you now, you
know,” said Evelyn, “and I am going to enjoy
the sights just as much.”

So ar walked out into the suburbs, and
Rosie told her all about the various places
they came to. And presently she exclaimed:
_ “Oh, see! here is where Mr. March lives. It
is the handsomest place in Lowell, and he is
the richest man,”

“What are they doing?” asked Evelyn,
noticing that the lawn and grounds were
being decorated with myriads of Japanese
lanterns.

“I forgot all about it,” replied Rosie. * There
is to be a masquerade ball here to-night.”

“Oh!” cried Evelyn, clepeiny her hands, “if
there is anything in this world I love, itisa
masquerade ball. Have you ever been to one,
Rosie?”

“Never,”

“Ah, well!” sighed Evelyn, “it’s no use to
think of going to this. I suppose it will be
lovely to see. No doubt Claire March will be
beautiful. If one has taste, a masquerade ball
is the place to display it.”

“Yes,” said Rosie, “Claire March is sure to
be beautiful. I wish we could stay and see
the guests arrive.”

“TI don’t suppose we ought to,” said Evelyn.
stifling an inclination to suggest doing it.
“Let us go home before we are tempted to
remain.” ’

So they started toward home, and it was
time, for it had grown dark while they
loitered, and ladies without escorts were be-
coming few in the streets.

But just as they were turning into the popu-
lated oe of the town, Evelyn stumbled over
something, which on inspection proved to be
a large bundle, without any address on it,

“We'll take it home and see what it is,”
said Rosie, ‘and perhaps there will be some-
thing inside to give us more information.”

They hurried home, and opened the bundle
in their room with a great deal of innocent
curiosity.

“Why !" cried Rosie, “what beautiful clothes!
but who would wear such things? Look at the
lace all over it!”

“It’s: a costume for the masked ball,” said
Evelyn, who had had experience in such
things. “See! here is the mask,” and she held
it up for Rosie’s inspection.

‘ gers laughed . Rosie, “you can go to the

a ay

“T wish I could,” said Evelyn, with a sigh.

“Can you tell what costume it is?” asked
Rosie, wild with the delight of seeing the
beautiful garments that belonged in a world
outside of her own.

“It is the dress of a Spanish dancing girl,”
said Evelyn, holding the rich garments up
critically.

“Just the thing for you!” cried Rosie.

“T'm too light for such a dark costume,”
said Evelyn.

“Oh, with such a complexion you could wear
anything,” said Rosie, emphatically.

And in fact Evelyn’s skin'was of such a
dazzling fairness that Rosie was right. Evelyn
could wear anything.

“Well, it doesn’t matter, anyhow,” said
Evelyn, “I can’t wear it, no matter how well
it suited. And we one to get this “P to the
house, for somebody is surely crying er eyes
out at its loss. I know I should be frantic.”

“Let us take it up there,” said Rosie, who
did not mind being out after dark. “Then
we shall et a look at the guests. But first,
Evelyn, dear, won’t you try it on, so thatI
can see how such a thing would look when
worn by a pretty girl. I can imagine myvelf
at the ball, then;” and she laughed eagerly.

It was a small thing to do, and Evelyn felt
that it could not injure the costume simply to
be tried on. Rosie looked so eager, too.

“Help me off with my gown,” she said,

ayly.

. Gs moment the simple calico was lying on
the bed, and Evelyn was putting on the rich
Spanish dress. It was shortin the skirt and
needed the slippers and black stockings to set
it off. So Evelyn drew out a pair of silken
hose and put them on. ‘rhe slippers followed,
and then the lace head-dress. And then Eve-
lyn, with a coquettish air, tossed her prett

head to one side and cried out a few Spanish

words.

“Oh, how beautiful!” cried Rosie. “If you
could only gO to the ball you would be the belle.
I am sure there is no one half so beautiful as

ou. Claire March, with her dark, haughty
auty, is not to be mentioned in the same
breath. If I were a man I would go mad for
ou.” :
r Evelyn laughed.

“Tf you were a man you shouldn’t talk so,”
she said, and began taking oft the costume.

Rosie sighed to see her doit. The simple
girl could not be satisfied to let such a vision
of beauty be wasted on her alone. She begged
to be allowed to let some of the girls come
up and look, too,

But Evelyn refused, saying she had been ad-
mired as much as she cared to be, and that,
moreover, they must hasten to get the costume
to the March’s.

“T will go with you,” she said, “but you
must deliver the bundle. [ would not have
provd Claire March see me there for the world.
Come!”

She had hurried on her gown while Rosie
was replacing the costume in the bundle, and
in a few minutes they were hastening through
the streets toward the beautiful subu b where
the mansion stood embowered in trees and
shrubs of the rarest sort.

They had not realized how time had flown,
and were surprised to see, when they reached
the house, that many of the guests had already
arrived, and that a great crowd of curious
sight-seers had gathered in the road in front
of the mansion.

“T will wait here,” said Evelyn, taking a
position in the shade by the side of a tree.

So Rosie took the bundle, as had been
agreed, and timidly stepped forward to go
through the main entrance.

“Come, you! get out of here, now!” said a
burly footman, gruffly, as he saw the factory
girl trying to slip past him.
sir have something for Miss Claire,” faltered

sie.

“That won’t do. You’re not the first one’s
tried that dodge. Come, now! get out!”

Abashed as much at the Joud laughter that
greeted the situation as by the manner and
words of the man, Rosie slunk back and
“UE the side of Evelyn.

“Come tothe back gate, if there is one,”
said Evelyn, indignantly, for she had seen
and heard everrthing.

So they moved carefully around to the back
of the creat house, searching for the gate they
were sure must be there. Suddenly Evelyn
stopped Rosie, and pointed to two shadowy
forms coming toward them.

Rosie, easily terrified, drew back under the
shelter of some bushes, and dragged Evelyn
with her. Evelyn, though notin the least
frightened, for while it was deserted in that
spot there were many persons within call,
followed Rosie, and waited by her side for the
men to pass,

They could hear their whispered words as
they drew nearer, and Evclyn pressed Ros:e’s
hand to caution her not to move.

“T tell yon,” said one of the men, in a hoarse
whisper, “that to-night is the very time to do
it. Ail the silver will be in use, and the ladies
will have their jewels out.”

“Rut they won't go to bed till near day-
light,” objected the other.

“What of it? All we’ve got to do is to seale
the wall back here and make our way into the
cellar. We can wait there till the house is
still, and then go through it and make. a

 

 

splendid haul.”

4

 

“All right!” was the answer, “you’re boss
of this job. I'll follow you.”

“Come on, then,” rejoined the first speaker,
and together they turned back and were soon
out of sight.

“What shall we do?” exclaimed Rosie, all
of a tremor.

“They are going to rob the house,” answered
Evelyn. “We must inform Mr. March.”

“How can we?” said Rosie. “The footman
at the gate won't listen to a word, and if
there’s a gate back here I would not dare
hunt for it now.”

“I have it,” said Evelyn, quickly, “J will
slip on the Spanish costume and enter with
the first party that comes on foot.” :

“How will a put it on? And where?”
cried Rosie, agbast at the boldness of the idea.

“The shadow of these trees will serve for a
dressing-room,” jaughed Evelyn, beginning to
see some fun as well asserious business in the
affair, “{ can get in and out again without
any one knowing that I have been there. So I
shall go to the ball in costume after all.”

Alas! how easy Fate makes it to walk in
the appointed pathway.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Wil Nat he Publish in ‘Book-Forn
Marguerite’s Heritage:

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,
Author of ‘“ Wild Oats,” “Brownie’s Triumph,”
“The Forsaken Bride,” ‘‘Sibyl's Influence.”
“stella Rosevelt,” Etc.

 

 

(‘‘ MARGUERITE’S HERITAGE” was commenced in No.
39. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ]

 

CHAPTER XXIX.
AT LAST SHE LOVED HER HUSBAND.

“Here is your letter,” said Marguerite,
coldly, as she stooped to pick up the epistle,
which she had angrily tossed upon the floor,
and passed it to him.

He looked astonished.

“Then you have read it?” he said, thinking
perhaps that was how she had learned the
truth regarding his identity.

“Read it!” she repeated, scornfully; “I never
read other people’s letters. I took up the Lon-
don Lancet while you were out—the letter
slipped from between its pages to tie floor,
and, as I picked it up, Isimpl) caught sight
of the four closing words—* Y our loving sister—
Coustance’—which, of course, confirmed the
suspicions which had been aroused by your
friend’s greeting.”

“Forgive me, Marguerite,” Reginald said,
regretfully; “I spoke thoughtiessly—I might
have known you would not read the letter;
and yet | wish you had; there is nothing in it
that you might not see. Let me read you the
passage I spokeeof,” and he began to unfold it,

But she stopped him with an imperative
gesture.

“JI do not wish to hear it,” she said, icily.

“Are you so obdurate—so implacable?” Regi-
nald exclaimed, sorrowfully. “I cannot under-
stand your'strange antipathy to my dear sis-
ter.

“She is Noel Southworth’s wife,” was the
almost sullen 1esponse.

Reginald sighe prey ie

“Yes, she is his wife,” he gravely returned,
“but she did not oe at wrong you by
marrying him—she did not know of your ex-
istence at the tine. She is a very faithful lit-
tle wife, too. They are living in San Franscisco
now. ‘they have one little child—Alice, they
have naned her, for my dear mother, and
Constance has been very brave during their re-
veises—tor the same failure that ruined me
also swamped Noel Southworth’s fortune.
My sister was very delicately reared, but she
is now putting her little shoulder to the
wheel most nobly, and, I feel sure, must be a
great conifort to her husband.”

Marguerite made no reply to this informa-
tion, but her face flushed redly at Reginald’s
reference to Constance’s faithfulness as a wife.

There was an awkward pause of several
minutes, during which Marguerite sat with
en eyes, her hands lying listlessly on
ier lap.

Pikes oo. still offended with me, dear?”
Reginald at last inquired; “can you not over-
look my one offense against you? I had begun
to hope that life was not going to be a failure
for us—that we were destined to enjoy some-
thing of real domestic happiness in the future.
If I have sinned against you, it was with no
intention of wronging you—my motives were
pure, my only thought your ultimate welfare.”

“Deception of every form is yr £e-
pugnant to me,” Marguerite briefly ro ied

“And to me also,” ginald said, flushing,
“and perhaps [ have been guilty of a great
mistake; maybe it was ne for me to ask
you to become my wife without explainin
my position to you, and yet I cannot help feel-
ing that the end has justified the means. How-
ev:r,” he continued, with a sigh that was
almost a groan, “if it has utterly alienated
your regard and respect for me, I will do what
I can to atone forit. Feeling thus, you will
of course be unhappy to remain with me, and
if you desire, 1 wil) arrange ~“ a com-
fortable and pleasant home apart from me; or
I will go away from here, leaving you with
Norah, but look in upon you frequently, just
to assure niyself that you are well. Perhaps,
however, you would prefer that I should
arrange for you to return to An erica—I know
some nice people who are going tosailin a
couple of weeks. I will do whatever you wish,
Marguerite; my chief desire is that you may
be well and happy.”

Marguerite darted a look of wild astonish-
ment at him as he made these propositions
to her.

Go away from Reginald! or let him leave
her? She had never thought of such a thing.

Go back to America without him !—put the
broad ocean between them, so that she could
nevel see his kind, noble face, or hear his gen-
ial, cheerful voice!

Could she bear to live without his tender
eare for her—his hearty interest in her paint-
ing, her music. and all that she enjoyed, not
to mention the thousand little attentions

 

which he lavished so freely upon her every
day of his life?

hen how could she bear to leave him alone
in that great city, with no one to look after
his comfort, when he returned from a hard
day in the hospital and among his patients?—
with no one to keep his home imorder, or ye
pare 4g home-like meals which he enjoyed so
mue

How weary and worn he had looked to-

ae when he came in out of the rain and
cold; but how he had brightened as he entered
the warm parlor to find his dressing-gown and
slippers laid out for him, and some one to
oe : cheerful word and give him a friendly
smile .
How could he get along without it all?—did
he realize what he was saying, when he told
her that he would arrange for her to go
away from him?

Her heart sunk with a strange feeling of
despair at the thought of it, and she grew
faint and white with dread.

It was true that she had felt angry and
humiliated to learn that he had married her
under a name different from that by which he
was known to the world; to disccver she was
the wife of Constance Alexander’s brother,
and so closely allied, by this tie, to the man
who had so cruelly deserted her, so that, for a
time, she had been aroused to almost a white

 

heat of passion and resentment.

  

  

    

 

 

 

 

   
     
  
       
  
  
   
   

 

 

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

}
;
;
;
i

 

 

 

 

 

 
  

’ was her custom, regardin

 

 

Slee eee ed rehire

 

But there wasno one in the world whom
she honored and respected as much as she did
Reginald, or who was so congenial to her, and
she had been very content with him. She had
come to regard herself as belonging to him,
in name, if not really in heart—to feel that
she would pass her life with him in a peaceful
way, and would always be_ surrounded by his
tender thought and care. She had no one else
to lean upon! to whom could she wares
whom depend if she went away from him?
How she would miss him if deprived of his
support—miss his genial companionship, his
practical, intelligent counsels !—his sympathy,

es, and the deep and abiding affection which

trayed itself in his every word and deed.
Did he wish it—this separation?

The thought caused a sharp stab of agony
in her heart, and for a moment her senses
seemed slipping from her.

He had said that hischief desire was for her
well-being and happiness; but perhaps he had

wh weary and hopeless in the long struggle
end her love, and had finally come to feel
that it would be better for them to part, than
to try to live on in such an unnatural way.

Why could she not love him—did she not
love him? The question made her heart leap
—then it sank again. Ah! she dared not tell
him that—she dared not raise hopes which
she might never be able to fulfill, for surely
she had never felt toward him as she had once
felt toward Noel Southworth, and yet the
thought of foing away from him made her
strangely sad.

-“T—J cannot leave you, Reginald,” she fal-
tered, “unless——” :

“Unless what?” he asked, with a quick, in-
drawn breath.

“Unless it is your wish.”

“God forbid!” he cried, sharply. “I should
be desolate indeed without you. Iam almost
as desolate with you,” he went on with a note
of despair in his voice, “to live in your pres-
ence day after day, and not be able to win
your love. And yet I could better bear to have
you go than that you should remain and be
unhappy—to cherish such anger and resent-
ment against me as you have shown to night.”

“But—I am your wife, Reginald.”

“You are—my housekeeper,” he retorted,
with sudden bitterness; then, as he saw her
flush hotly and her lips tremble, he added,
contritely: “Pardon me, Marguerite; I should
not have spoken thus; but my heart is very
sore, even though I know that I have no righv
to expect anything more than you have given
me, for I told you, when I asked you to be-
come my wife, that you should be as free as
you were then, if you would but give me the
right to protect you and devote myself to the
restoration of your health.”

He thought a moment, then continued, more
calmly : ‘

“Tf you will be happier to remain with me,
then we will drop the subject just here; but
if there is the slightest desire on your part to
be free, I pray that you will not keep the
truth from me, and I will do the best that I
ean for you.”

“I have nowhere to
utterly alone in the worl (

erite replied in an unsteady voice, while
but for the strong pride within her she would
have burst into passionate weeping, the very
thought of being “free” from him filling her
with a sense of despair for which she could
not account even to herself.

“Very well; then we will go on as we are,”
Reginald returned, with atouch of bitter-
ness, for it cut him keenly that she should
wish to remain under his protection and yet
refuse to parion him for the deception which
he had practiced upon her.

“There is one change that I would like to
make,” he continued, after considering a mo-
ment; “since you have learned the truth re-
garding my identity, I would like to resume
my true name, if you do not object.”

Senterdartte colored, and something of her
old resentment arose. :

“Certainly,” she answered, with quiet dig-
nity, “I should prefer to have you do so; but
will it not require some awkward explana-
tions at the hospital?”

“No, I am already known there as Dr. Alex-
ander—I could not feel justified in withhold-
ing my true name from the physicians there,
and so registered my full name when entering
duties in that institution. Now, are
you su ry, recovered from your excite-
ment, Marguerite, to have your dinner?” Regi-
nald concluded, ina matter-of-fact tone, and
indicating by the question that he was in-
clined to drop the subject.

Marguerite would have been glad to flee to
her own room and give relief to her over-
charged heart in unrestrained weeping; but
she would not leave Reginald to eat his din-
ner alone, for she knew from his white, pained
face that he also was suffering most keenly.

Somehow she felt guilty of having done him
some irreparable injury, and desired to atone
for it, yet knew not how, save by the faithful
performance of her usual duties.

“Yes,” she replied, rising and forcing back
a sob which nearly escaped her, “I will tell
Norah to serve dinner immediately, for you
surely must be hungry and faint by this time.”

The meal was soon on the table, and the
unhappy couple sat down to it, but with very
little appetite on the part of either.

Marguerite made a pretense of eating, while
she forced herself to question Reginald, as
his experiences of
the day; but he, watching her closely, saw
what an effort she was making, that she
scarcely tasted the food before her, while her
hands trembled visibly as she passed the cup
of coffee which she had prepared with her
usual care.

It was a wretched meal, altogether, for it
was with difficulty that he managed to eat
sufficient to allay his faintness, and it was a
relief to both when they at last arose from the
table. .

“T have a report to make out to-night,”
Reginald remarked, as he was about to leave
the room, “and, as | shall be obliged to remain
up late, I will say good-night to you now,”

Marguerite turned a glance of “ro upon
him, for he had never spoken so coldly to her
before, and his constrained words wounded
her deeply.

“Good-night,” she returned, in a_low tone,
then passing swiftly from the room by another
door she sped up to her own chamber, where,
locking the door, she threw herself upon her
bed in a paroxysm of weeping.

One would scarcely recognize beautiful,
stately Marguerite Alexander in such utter
abandonment as this. Never since the discov-
ery of Noel Southworth’s treachery had she
wept as she was weeping now; and, strange
as it may seem, these floods of tears were like
a healing stream, in some respects, for they
washed away much of the former pain and
bitterness, and sense of anger and injury that
had hitherto filled her heart. :

“How he must despise me for being so unap-
preciative and ungrateful,” she murmured,
when, exhausted with the violence of her emo-
tion, she could weep no more. “But he does
not dream what I have suffered—he cannot
know how I once loved Noel Southworth, and
how my heart was rent, broken, crushed,
when he proved false to me.’ And yet—how
strange it is! 1 loathe him now—Reginald is
a od. king compared with him, and he loves
me ee
She sat up with a start and a look of min-
led surprise and perplexity overspread her

o, Reginald—I am
but for you,” Mar-

upon m

e.
It had suddenly occurred to her that Regi-
nald did know something of what she had

. suffered—that he was even now suffering in

the same way, because of his unrequited love
for her.

And how patiently he had borne it!

For more than a year they had been husband
and wife, and during all that time he had
never spared himself where her comfort or her
pleasure was at stake. He had carefuli

arded her health, he had interested himself
n all her pursuits, planning pleasant sur-
prises for her, procuring for her all the new
American publications, in which she expressed
an interest, and, in facet, leaving nothing

 

 

 

 

 

 

undone that could in the least add to her com- |
fort and happiness.

He had been bound up in her—his deep,
strong love for her had been patent in his
every word and act.

And how had she requited it?

True, she had tried to make his home pleas-
ant—she had seen that his table was abun-
dantly and daintily spread; she had kept his
linen spotless and whole, she had tried to
make herself a congenial companion for him,
to a certain extent. She had indeed and in
truth been his “housekeeper,” and that only,
for any other conscientious woman could have
served him as faithfully in these respects.

Aside from this, she had been absorbed in
her own interests—in her music, her pein z
her reading, and sight-seeing, while her noble
husband, who had left his profession and his
country for her sake, toiled on at the hospital
and in his practice outside—his one thought
and aim her health and PARP Rea vole
one crumb of affection upon which to feed his
starving heart.

How faithfully he had kept his compact
with her, too! He had promised never to force
his affection upon her, never to annoy her by
making her feel any seuse of obligation to him
simply because she bore his name, and, though
he had not always been able to conceal his
love, he had never violated his word to her
until to-night, when he had fairly startled her
with its depth and power. é

And now he was _ even ready to give her up
entirely—to have her leave him, if it would
make her any happier, though his sharp ‘‘God
forbid” when she had asked him if it was his
wish, had told her how utterly blank his life
would be without her. Could anything have
proved how great his love was for her, more
than this? :

But she had been strangely shocked and
startled by his proposition.

“Leave him!—go away from him forever,
she murmured, looking about her pretty
room, which was just over his office, when,
even now, she could hear him pacing back
and forth instead of writing, as he had told
her he was going to do. “Oh, I could not do
that!” she added, a feeling of desolation steal-
ing over her as she pictured herself going
back to America without him.

Why?

The question seemed to have been shouted in
ber ears by some unseen presence, demanding
a reason for this strange clinging to her hus-
band if she had no love for him.

A startled look crept into her eyes—a won-
dering expression over her face, while that
steady tread below made her heart throb with
quickened pulsations.

Then, all at once, a vivid blush leaped into
her cheeks, up over her temples to her brow,
and lost itself in the lustrous waves of hair
upon her white forehead.

Her heart, answering tothe wave of con-
sciousness, bounded with new life within her,
a light born of a new hope gleamed in her
great brown eyes, a shy, tremulous smile just
parted her red lips, and she knew now why
she had gradually been growing so content
during the last few months, why she had been
so happy in the performance of her home
duties, and in catering to all Reginald’s tastes
and wishes, why she felt so much pride and
interest in his cares, why the smiles had come
again to her lips and the songs to her voice.

Yes, like an electric shock, the knowledge
had come to her, animating and thrilling her
whole being with supreme joy—at last she
loved her husband!

It had been such a gradual change that she
had not realized it before; all unconsciously
she had yielded to the influence of his silent
but powerful love, until now, in this blessed
moment of revelation, she knew that to live
without him would be a heavier grief than she
had ever yet suffered.

 

She had loved Noel Southworth wildly, pas.
sionately, with the impulsive love of an undis- |
ciplined nature.

She loved Reginald Alexander to-day with a |
holy affection born of reverence and a thor- |
ough knowledge of the needs of her strong |
womanly nature—needs which she now real-
ized that the lover of her youth could never
have met.

Her heart at last lay like an open book
before her, and she read this sweet new story
Over and over, confessing it to herself with
ever increasing joy until, overcome again by
the weight of her happiness, she covered her
face with her hands and wept again—blessed
tears that washed away every trace of bitter-
ness from her soul—all her unreasoning hatred
of Constance Alexander, toward whom her
heart now opened for Reginald’s sake, with
kindness if not tenderness.

They were tears that did her good, purifying
her ahiale nature and obliterating forever the
taint which for so long had threatened her
life and her reason, and she knew that she
was saved.

 

CHAPTER XXX.
THE WIFE’S OVERTURES MISUNDERSTOOD.

She areas asleep after that, and slept like
a little child for several hours.

When she awoke, the clock on the great
cathedral near by was striking the hour of
midnight; but to Marguerite the sounds
seemed like musical chimes ushering in the
dawn of a new and joyful life for }er.

She arose, and, sweeping aside the curtain,
looked out of the window.

The night was beautiful. It had cleared
while she slept—every cloud had disappeared,
the moon was shining brightly in mid-heaven,
flooding everything earthly with a soft radi-
ance; and, with a strange sense of exaltation,
Marguerite told herself that it was symbolic
of the blessed future in store for her.

She wondered if Reginald had retired.

She no longer heard those steady pacings
below, and the house was still throughout.

Still the sad face of her husband, as he had
left her to go to his office, haunted her and
drove all sleep from her eyes.

She stole softly out into the hall and half-
way down stairs, where, looking over the bal-
uster, she saw that the door of Reginald’s
office was ajar, for a ray of light was stream-
ing out into the lower hall,

“He will work himself to death,” she whis-
pered, as she glided quietly on.

Reaching the door, she noiselessly pushed it
open and her heart sank at the sight which
met her gaze.

Her husband was sitting at his desk in an
attitude which betrayed both weariness and
hopelessness—his arms were thrown out upon
the manuscript before him and his head bowed
upon them.

Marguerite knew that instead of making
out his report, as he had said he was going to
do, he had been grieving over their unhappy
interview and the relentless attitude she had
assumed toward him.

With a rapidly beating heart, a flush on
her cheek, and a lonk of high resolve in her
eyes, she stole across the floor and gently laid
her hand upon his shoulder.

“Reginald,” she said, softly, “why will you
work so late? You-will make yourself ill.

He lifted his head and turned his face
toward her, and it was so worn and haggard
that she with difficulty suppressed a ery of
fear.

She was ready to confess her newly awak-
ened love for him, to plead for forgiveness for
the pain she had made him suffer so long, but
he shrank away from her touch as if it had
burned him,

“Why are you here at this hour, Marguer-
ite?” he demanded, coldly. “Iam well en
—I have my work to do and I cannot leave it;
but you--you should be in bed and salenp, Go
back at once. Why! have you not been in bed
at all?” he exclaimed, as he noticed she was
dressed the same as she had been at dinner.

“No,” Marguerite replied, but deeply hurt
by his manner, “1 lay down after going up
stairs and fell asleep without realizing it.
When I awoke something seemed to impress
me that you were still up, and T came to beg
it you will go to rest, Will you not, Regi-
nald?”

 

 

She leaned toward him, hoping that he would
ac but vne fond, kind word to her, and
t a give her an opportunity to open her heart
to him,

“Yes, presently,” he responded, but without
looking at her; then taking up his pen, asa
hint that he wished to be alone, he began to
write.

Marguerite turned slowly away, her face
pale, her heart sorely wounded.

She could not tell him, while he was in this
mood, of the revelation which had so recently
come to her.

“Good-night,” she said, choking back a sob,
as she reached and lingered for an instant at
the door.

“Good-night,” Reginald replied, but with-
out looking up from his work.

She went wearily out, retraced her steps
over the stairs to her room, and ‘acadiaalty
began to prepare for bed.

Had she tried Reginald’s patience too far?
she wondered. Had she killed his love for
her by her coldness and indifference, and thus
ruined both their lives?

It seemed very, very hard, just as she had
had her eyes opened to the state of her own
feelings; but perhaps he might relent and
appear differently when he was rested; and,
comforting herself with this reflection, she
retired and finally fell asleep.

Reginald, however, aroused by her visit
from the almost lethargic despair into which
he had fallen, set himself diligently at work
to make out the report which he had so long
neglected.

He wrote industriously foran hour, ard then,
utterly warn out, he also retired.

When morning broke both husband and wife
came to the breakfast-table with pale faces
and heavy eyes, while there was an unusual
constraint in their manner, although each
made an effort to conceal the fact and appear
natural.

When Reginald arose from the tahle he re-
marked :

“Marguerite, do not wait lunch for me to-
day—I do not think I ean get away to come
home ‘or it—I will take it at one of the cafes
near the hospital.”

Marguerite shot a quick glance of inquiry
at him. .,

It was the first time since they had had a
home that he had missed coming to lunch with
her, and something told her that he would
not have failed to come to-day, but fur the
barrier that had arisen between them.

“] wish you would come if you can,” she re-
marked, regretfully; “it will be lonely with-
out you.”

Reginald smiled somewhat bitterly.

“Really, I——” he began, with a sareastic
intonation; then, suddenly checking himself,
he said, in a more natural tone: “I do not
think it will be possible.”

He bowed formally, bade her good-morning,
and hurried from the room,

Tears sprang to Marguerite’s eyes. He had
never left her so coldly before, and she was
keenly stung.

It was with difficulty that she restrained a
burst of passionate weeping, but she did con.
quer it, and resolved that she would not be dis-
heartened by this first repulse.

“TI will not be a baby,” she murmured, “I
have no one to blame _ for the present state of
affairs but myself. Reginald is nearly worn
out, both mentally and physically, and I must
not censure him too severely. I will strive to
do my duty—I will be patient, and try to
make him understand the change in my feel-
ings, and I will not injuremy own health by
brooding over his strange treatment of me.”

With these wise reflections she resolutely
set herself at work, and, while she could not
forget Reyinald’s unusual coldness, nor the
pain it caused her, the day did not seem
nearly as long to her as _ she had anticipated.

She finished a painting, upon which she
had secretly been at work for several weeks,and
as the frame had already been sent home, set
it up on an easel in a conspicuous place in
their pretty parloras a are for her hus-
band when he should come home to dinner,

He had been very proud Sf her work, for
her teacher claimed that she possessed supe-
rior talent in that line, and, as she had taken
unusual pains with her present subject, she
hoped to win words of high commendation
from him. :

Then she planned with Noraha most tempt-
ing dinner, trying to think of viands which
Reginald especially liked. She even assisted
in arranging the table, cutting some lovely
chrysanthemums, for a center-piece, to make
it look as dainty and inviting as possible,

She grew more hopeful and light-hearted
while thus engaged, and, as the hour for
Reginald's return drew near, her cheeks grew
delicately flushed and her eyes animated with
anticipation.

But, alas! a bitter disappointment awaited
her, for, just as she was putting the finishin
touches to her work the door-bell rang an
presently Norah came ito her, bringing a note.

te a sinking heart she tore it open and
read :

‘“MARGUERITE :—Do not wait dinner for me, as a
special meeting of the board will detain me until
late. R. K. ALEXANDER.”

The paper dropped from the young wife’s
nerveless fingers and all the hope and color
faded out of her face.

She was bitterly disappointed that her
patient waiting, all her work and planning,
had been for naught.

But more than this she was deeply pained
by the coldness and brevity of her husband’s
note.

He had addressed her. simply as “Marguer-
ite.” Never before bad she been anything less
than “Dear Marguerite.”

Then he had not expressed one word of
regret that he could not come—he had barely
stated the fact, as if his absence was a matter
of no cunsequence, save as it might annoy her
to keep the table waiting for him. But what
had hurt her most was the way he had signed
his name.

Heretofore he had always familiarly written
it “ Yours—Reginald,.”

Now he had thrown his full name at her—
“R. K. Alexander,” with an independent
assertion of himself which seemed to betray a
feeling of triumph over her in his recovered
identity. ©

Lifting the note from the floor, she read it
over, then crushing it in her hands, her heart
throbbing with mingled anger and wounded
feeling, she touched the bell for Norah.

“Norah,” she said, when the gir) appeared,
“the doctor will not be at home to dinner.”

“Not coming home to dinner, ma’am, after
all the pains we’ve taken for him!” Norah
exclaimed, and almost as much disappointed
as her mistress, while she regarded Marguer-
ite’s pale face with curious interest. 4

“No: there is to be a special meeting of the
physicians at the hospita], and he cannot come;
so you may clear everything away.”

“And sure you will have your dinner first,
marm!” the girl returned,

“No,” said Marguerite, striving hard to con-
ceal her misery, “Iam so disappointed I ean-
not eat. Just bring me a cup of cotfee—it will
be all that I shall care for.” ¢

“But, marm, you will be ill if you do not
have something—you had no appetite for your
lunch,” said the faithful girl, who was deeply
attached to her young mistress, and who
beyan to suspect that there was some trouble

- underneath the simple explanation which she

hac given regarding the doctor’s absence.

“T shall do very well if you just bring me
the coffee,” Marguerite responded, indiffer-
ently. “And Norah——” she added, with a
flush as the girl was turning away.

“Yes’m.”

“The doctor is to be known as Dr. Alexan-
der after this.”

“Dr. Alexander, marm!” Norah exclaimed,
astonished,

“Yes. For certain reasons, which I cannot
ey explain to you, he desired for a time to
be known only as Dr. Knox—which is his
middle name; but now he will resume his

wenn socage THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

r

 

last name and also wishes me to be addressed
pene

by it.

“Yes, marm—vyery well, marm,” ana Norah
disappeared to get the coffee, a wondering ex-
pression on her honest face.

“Tt’s mighty strange,” she muttered, with a
perplexed shake of her head, “and the pretty
dear is as much upset over it as I am dum-

founded. Dr, Alexander! humph !—then she’s |

to be Mrs. Alexander. Mighty queer doings!
—but I’d just give my right hand for her, so
I'll be after asking no questions and take care
of her the best I can.”

Marguerite drank her coffee, but could not
even touch the dainty bit of chicken which
Norah ventured to bring her, after which she
went up stairs to her own room, feeling too
wretched even to read or work.

She went directly to bed, but lay tossing,

feverishly upon her pillow and listening for
her husband’s return.

It was nearly eleven o’clock when at last
he came, and then he went immediately to
his chamber.

Marguerite soon after fell asleep from sheer
exhaustion, and did not wake again until
Norah rang the dressing-bell in the morning.

She felt much refreshed, and the sun shining
brightly in at her windows both cheered and
comforted her.

She dressed with great care, resolving to
make herself as attractive as possible in Regi-
nald’s eyes, and to greet him as if nothing
unusual had occurred.

She was indeed very lovely in her tasteful
wrapper of pale pink cashmere, which con-

trasted beautifully with her clear, creamy |=

complexion, dark hair and eyes.

Reginald glanced up, as she entered the
dining-room with a cheerful good-morning,
but his eyes dropped again immediately, and
a look of pain clouded his face.

Her very loveliness seemed to mock him.

Marguerite caught his look and flushed.
She was extremely sensitive, and mistook it
for one of scorn for the effort at cheerfulness
which she had made.

Still she had resolved to do her utmost to try
to bridge over the gulf which seemed opening
between them, ae without betraying how
wounded she was, she began to chat in an off-
hand way upon various topics while she
poured his coffee. She asked him about the
busy day of yesterday, told him she missed
him at lunch and regretted that he had not
been able to come to dinner.

“T hope it will not happen often, Reginald,”
she remarked, appealingly, “for, truly, it is
ha lonely to sit down to the table all by my-
self.”

“T regret, Marguerite, if my absence caused
you any annoyance——” Reginald began stiffly.

“Not annoyance,” Marguerite interposed,

ently. “I hope I shall not allow myself to
Be unreasonable, when you are hard pressed
with business. Are there many very sick
patients in the hospital just now?”

“A great many.”

“It makes it very hard. I am afraid you are
overworking,” said Marguerite, anxiously.

“Do not be troubled on my account. I shall
try to take good care of myself,” was the brief
response.

“You are not taking good care of yourself,”
the young wife said, as she bent toward him,
and speaking with great earnestness. “You
are working too many hours—you do not get
a proper amount of rest—you have too much
care, and are losing flesh. Reginald, pray drop
your patients and make use of the income
that is uselessly accumulating.”

“And live upon the money of an unlovin
wife!” he retorted, more sharply than he ha
ever spoken toher. “Really, Mrs. Alexander,
such a proposition, after our conversation
night before last, is an——” he was upon the
point of saying “an insult”, but he changed
to “an exceedingly obnoxious one to me,”

The hot blood leaped to Marguerite’s brow
making her surpassingly beautiful; her eyes
glowed with the fire of a brave resolve, her
heart beat like a frightened bird’s at the
words “unloving wife.” The impulse to con-
fess her love for him hlad seized her, and
then, she thought, perhaps he would be will-
ing to share her wealth and not work so be-
yond his strength.

“Reginald—I——” she timidly began,

“Pray cease,” he interrupted, impatiently;
“if is useless for you to argue the point, and
you will oblige me by never referring to the
subject again.”

He pushed back his chair from the table
and arose, as he spoke, evidently with the in-
tention of leaving the room.

Tears sprang to Marguerite’s eyes—she was
terribly wounded, and the words she intended
to speak, and which might have saved them
both much sorrow, were thrust back into the
depths of her aching heart.

{TO BE CONTINUED.)
Ge Oe lee

To clean collars on woolen jackets, men’s
coats, etc., sponge with ammonia and water,
vo alcohol, then rub dry with a flannel
cloth.

A TABLESPOONFUL of powdered borax dis-
solved in the bath will prove very invigorat-
ing, as well as soften the water so that it will
feel like velvet.

To test the freshness of eggs, drop them in
a dish of water, and if the small end comes
to the top they are fresh.

REMOVE matter from the ear with tepid
water; never put a hard instrument into the
ear.

How'Fortune

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The new discovery for # dissolving
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articulars for. 2-cent stamp.
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MAP OF THE UNITED STATES.

A large, handsome Map of the United States, mounted
and suitable for office or home use, is issued by the
Burlington Route. Copies will be mailed te any address
on receipt of twelve cents in postage by P, S. EUSTIS,
General Passenger Agent, C., B. & Q. R: R., Chicago, U1!

Double BREECH
LOADER $7.50
RIFLES $2.00
BICYCLES $15.

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Banks, and Express Companies of New York and Brooklyn. V
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> <a =

 

THE DEATH OF SUMMER,

BY B. G. JOHNS,

Wild autumn winds blow chill and drear
Across the cloudy, storm-rent sky,

While hill and vailey, far and near,
Folded in misty silence lie.

No sound of musie fills the air,
No voice of bird along the brake;

Only the wild-fowl’s cry, remote and rare,
Among the withered sedges of the lake.

Gone is the glory of the summer noon ;
Gone is the tender grace of dawning light;
The soft, sweet radiance of the rising moon,
The silver silence of the starry night.
Yet, there is splendor in the waning: woods,
And summer (dies, as dies a royal king,
All down the grassy glades where silence broods
Beneath his shroud of golden blazoning ;
Where amid leafy boughs, from spray to spray,
Fall’s the first touch of winter’s icy breath—
The first faint sign of lingering decay—
And smites the ruddy beech with crimson death.

MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS,

BY W. W. CARTNER.

 

[MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS” was commenced in No, 15,
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.}

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

; iN > > sal 3 ; Zz }
**DO THE CATS COME OFTEN?” ASKED THE.NEW |
BOARDER, FROM THE UPPER WINDOW.

NUMBER NINETY-ONE.
A Boarder is Introduced to the Wilson ’Household.

“Mr. Markman brought over and introduced |
a young friend of his—a civil engineer, who
is going to plan an addition to, the house west
of ours. He begged us to take him as a boarder
for a short time. What do you think about
it?” asked Wilson of his wife, as they sat at
the dinner-table.

“I think it would be very pleasant if you |
could be prevailed upon to not try to whip |
him before he gets his hat off,” she replied.
“Ts he good-looking?”

“What difference can it possibly make to
you whether he is good-looking or not? To
hear your chatter, a person would suppose you |
were looking for an opportunity to marry,”
he grufily retorted.

“Well, you may inform the public that I
am not, as I have had some little experience
in that line.”

“Oh, you haye! And I know of a man who

is fairly well posted on matrimony,” said
Wilson.

“When will you bring him up, Henry?”

“He will be here to supper,” he replied,
grabbing his hat, and rushing out to.catch
the train. ,

A few hours later the following .conversa-
tion occurred: :

“This is my wife, Mr. Ravensdale—Mrs.
Wilson.”

The visitor was a very tallanda yery’slim
young .man, with avery high collai, and a/
long frock ceat, which was buttoned so tight |
that it seemed a long breath would: burst
every, button,loose. His feet were long and
narrow, and incased in highly polished patent
leather. His hair hung on his shoulders and
curled at the ends. He had a long, straight
nose, and fingers that resembled elongated
bird-claws. He carried a shining high hat in
one hand and a cane in the other.

“Well, what do you think of the boarder?”
asked Wilson, after he and his wife had gone
to their room. ;

“Tt think he is quite nice. I wonderif he
can sing?’ she said.

“Sing!” roared Wilson. “Did you ever see
any oneof his build that could sing?) His

natomy resembles that ofa crane. If he ever
succeeded in forming a musical sound in his
lungs, it would undoubtedly get out of, tune
before it could travel the distance to his
mouth, and be finally evolved as a war-whoop
or a fire-alarm, I would not be surprised if he
were a great performer on the piano, as he
could use his feet to play bass with. Did you
ever see such a layout of legs and arms?) And
that neck! Great Scott! if he should makea
quick move with his head when he was wear-
ing that hat, good-by, neck,” and Wilson
gravely shook his head, and gazed seriously
at his wife.

“Tt think he has a charming name—so
romantic. I should not be surprised to hear
that he is a descendant of some noble old Eng-
lish family—a regular blue-blood.”

“T should sooner think him a descendant of
the stork family; and the color of his blood,
I’ll wager ared apple, is about the same as
that of ocher people’s—if he has enough in his
body to make a color,” he muttered.

“Do you ever play chess, Mr. Ravensdale?”
asked Wilson, as they seated themselves in
the parlor that evening.

“Quite frequently, although I am an indif-
ferent player,” he replied.

“T am not an expert, but it is not every one
that can beat me,” Wilson said, producing the
board and placing the men.

They had played about ten minutes when
the. boarder paralyzed Wilson by exclaiming:

“Checkmate |”

“As sure as the world, Henry Wilson!” ex-
ckaimed his wife, rather proud. of the result.

“Look here, Mr, Ravenswing——”

“Ravensdale,” corrected the
“August Ravensdale.”

“Beg pardon, Gus; but if you live to do that
little thing over again, you will be here in the
year of our Lord two thousand,” said Wilson,
hurriedly placing his pieces.

The second game proved equally surprising
to Wilson; indeed it was almost a repetition
of the first. ; t

Wilson moved back his chair. saying it was
not his night for chess, and walked into the
dining-room.

A moment after there was a commotion, and
the cat came flying into the parlor, spitting
spitefully, with every hair on her tail and
spine standing erect.

boarder ;

| vibration
| want to stop at a hotel!

| until morning, and then fire him,” he said,
| springing from the bed.

|out goes the stork,” he said, stepping on his

 

“Is the creature mad?” cried the boarder,
springing to his feet.

“No, sheis perfectly harmless, I assure you,”
said Mrs. Wilson; “only terrified at something
she has seen.”

The outside door closed with a bang, and a
moment later some missile struek the wood-
shed with a terrible whack.

Mrs. Wilson looked worried, but recovered
her equanimity a few moments later, when
her husband returned and seated himself at
his desk.

After the boarder had retired, she turned
to her husband with fire flashing from her
eyes.
oe Henry Wilson, if there is the least spark
of shame about you, you ought to hide your
head from mortal gaze. The idea of a man
getting mad because he was fairly beaten in
a game of chess.”

“T tell you, Anna, that was what made me
mad. He is a fakir. He manipulated the
pieces. He must have done it. The man does
not live who can beat me so rapidly as that,
and do it honestly.”

“He beat you fairly and squarely. He isa
scientific player, and you are simply no good.
Why, I have beaten you myself, and I hardly
understand the movements of the various

ieces. Then to think of your calling him,

Ravenswing,’ and ‘Gus!’ thought I would
sink through the floor! If the man does not
leave to-morrow, I will——”

“Let him leave. Iam not holding his leg-
ship. But mind you, he will pay for every
meal he gets here, and a good round price at
that. I donot set up afree lunch for such
freaks as that!” he thundered, throwing his
coat in one corner and his vest in another.

“TI would yellso he could hear, if I were
you,” she said, in a subdued tone.

“You can do as you choose, but lam going
to bed,” he snapped.

Two hours later the stillness of the night
was broken by an unusual sound.

“Mrs. Wilson! Anna! Do you hear that?”
said Wilson, roughly shaking his wife to
awake her. “What do you call that, may I
wil he breathlessly exclaimed, sitting up in

ed.

“T should call it cats,” she replied.

“Cats be hanged!” he shouted. “Itis noth-
ing more or less than that telescopic extension
of humanity snoring! Heavens! it must rival
a thunder-storm in hisroom! The man must
be hollow to the ends of his toes to get such a
as that! No wonder he did nos
Only a deaf and
dumb asylum would harbor him! No hotel
would endure him anhour. Listen to that?
Now, if you or any one else thinks I am going
to keep that snore in my house, you are left.
I am going toawake him, and keep him awake

 

“Henry Wilson are you crazy? I tell you that
noise comes from cats on the wood-shed,” she
excitedly said.

“Well, I will go and see. If I find no cats,
wife’s shoes, and falling over a chair, he stag-
gered against the dresser.

“There she goes! I have thrown a shoulder
out of joint sure as shooting! But I will be
revenged! I will tie that gentleman in a knot
with the clothes-line to-morrow night, and
let him snore the shingles off the wood-house!
Why heis likea steam caliope. Lie there

double box-plait formed and tacked to the strip of elastic
underneath. The left side-seam is left open at the top for
a pocket hole, A pocket may be inserted in the right
side seam, and a narrow belt should tinish the upper edge,
If thin material is used, line the skirt throughout with
silk-finished crinoline, while the heavier wool goods will
require only a linen-canvas facing. A uarrow ruffle,
ruching, or folds make a pretty decora‘ion for the lower
edge of the skirt, The pattern for this graceful garment
is No. 8027, and the price thirty-five cents, on receipt of
which we will mail it.

Susie, Brooklyn, N. Y¥.—The price of the “Student’s
Photographic Outfit” is five dollars. It consists of a 44
x 544 camera, plate holder, printing frame, tripod, trays,
and full equipment for taking and finishing photographs,
A larger outfit can be obtained for $7.50, $9, $10, $12, $14,
up to $50. Lhe NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency
will furnish any of them on receipt of the price.

Miss Sophie N.—Independent waists are more fashion-
able than ever. Some of the newest styles show the
waist in fine plaits back and front, slightly sagging, but
not so much as a blouse, over’a belt of soft silk, witha

rosette on the right side. Others have adeep yoke top:
with puffed sleeves, divided by wide bracelets of gimp or
ribbon, so that the lower fulluess forms a second puff.
Others again have frills on one side or the other of a cen-
tral buttoning, brought a little more to one side than the
other, while these last have no waist flounce, but are
neatly belted in, or have a very narrow corselet.

Sadie W.—1st. The Russian blouse retains its hold upon
the popular favor, but it is only becoming to the slightest
figures. 2d. Skirts continue to be made just sweeping

the floor, or with a moderately long train, for house wear,
but the newest street costumes have skirts which clear
the ground all around. ‘he lightness and convenience of
the bell-shaped skirt are too apparent for it to meet with
disfavor yet. A narrow trimming is at the footof all
skirts, more or less elaborate and fiuffy if for home wear,
but flat and severely plain ou street gowns.

TWO HOPELESS HEARTS.

BY FRANCIS A, DURIVAGE,

Few persons who pass through Paris merely,.
or who spend only afew weeks at a time in
this brilliant city, are aware of its shady side,
or perceive that like London and New York
—indeed like all great aggregations of human-
ity—it abounds with the most tragical con-
trasts. Those, however, who like myself have
dived beneath the surface, know that, as there
is an upper and an under Paris, physically—
that as the splendid, superficial Paris covers
an equal area of sewers and of graves—so
social Paris is divided into extremes; that
the same roof, indeed, shelters the opulent
merchant and the sick and starving workman,
It is but a step from the Louvre to the morgue
—only a pane of glass separates the magnifi-
cent dining-room of aristocrat from the poor
pauper who would sell his very soul for the
crust of bread which the dandy tosses disdain-
fully to the beribboned greyhound of the feast-
ing lorette.

As an illustration of these statements, let
us sketch a recent incident of life in Paris,
premising that it is strictly true.

I had frequently had occasion to climb the
Rue des Martyrs, which makes a steep ascent
from the rear of the church of Notre Dame
de Lorette, and had often paused to look at
the gaudily colored sheets of pictures displayed
in front of a little book and newspaper shop.

 

and sleep, Mrs. Wilson; lie there and snooze!
Tt does ‘not matter how I am fixed, sothat you
and the stork are comfortable,” he bellowed.

“Well, if I have te get up and drive those |
cats away, I might as well do it at once,” she}
said, arising and lighting the lamp. |

“Cats, by the eternal!” he yelled, as his}
wife opened the door.

He sprang down the steps, and began throw-
ing wood at them, and everything he could
lay his hands on.

“Do they come often?” asked the boarder,
from an upper widnow.

“If they did, I would move the house,”
growled Wilson, as he stepped’ upon the end
of the door-step and*drove his bare toe against
the foot-scraper, and hopped into the house
on one foot.

“Ts there anything else around here that I
can cripple myself on? If there is, bring it on,
and have it over with!” he howled, as he
walked to his room‘on his heel, and groaned
at every step.

“Tf I get any more sleep to-night I shall be
surprised,” Mrs. Wilson wearily said, as she
closed the door behind him.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

|

The Ladies’ Work-Box:

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

FASHION’S FANCIES,

The accordion-plaited blouses of light weight silk are
often made without sleeyes, and ajacket matching the
skirt is then worn over them.

Taffetas presenting a black warp,shot with old rose are
very stylish.

A pretty flannel petticoat is of light-weight material,
having small pink dots over it and decorated with pink
lace, knitted by hand, and with silk.

Ribbons on the hair, on the gowns, and on the wraps
will undoubtedly be very popular during the autumn
and winter.

The French percale shirt, tucked from,.the neck to the |
bust, and then allowed to flare, is liked by women who
do not care to assume a stiff shirt; they can. of course, |
be worn far into cold weather with a cloth skirt and
jacket.

Every waist seen in Parisis said to have a plastron of
some kind of a contrasting color and fabric. Crape chif-
fon, China silk, surah, bengaline, taffeta, and brocade are
all pressed into service for this accessory.

A most charming bonnet, Which will be much in vogue
for evening wear, is made of coarse white or black lace,
and fits the head exactly like the cap of a French peasant.
Velvet ribbon ties cross it at the back, and from under
them, coming toward the front, is a huge rose, orchid,
tulip, or some other flower that may be made of velvet,
tinted in very bright colors.

For people who like flannel bodices in place of silk or
cotton ones, the very lightest weight of flannel, having
hair-lines of blue, olive, black, brown, lavender, or pink
upon it, is most fashionable.

The very wide revers known as the “‘Empire” are most
effective on house dresses of scarlet, pink, or blue crepon,
and though made of black satin, no other portion of the
gown needs to be of the somber shade.

Who doesn’t remember when our» grandmothers wore
what was known as “congress gaiters.”” The smartest
shoemakers are now displaying ladies’ boots with patent-
leather vamps extending all around, and uppers of cloth,
in which are set rubbers to permit the shoe to be slipped
on. It is only the ‘“‘eongress gaiter” revived, and yet
they are called new!

The traveling cloak most in vogue for the coming
season will be of dark red, bine, or dull green serge, lined
with changeable silk. It is fully the length of the gown,
is double-breasted and loose in front, has enormous sleeves
and a loose back, which is drawn in by a belt of the same
material buttoned just in the center, The ease with
which it can be taken off or put onisits great advantage.

Black is the universal mourning color in this country,
but in Russia pure white is the symbol of bereavement,
and in Paris a touch of crimson is permitted among the
weeds of woe. In Russia the black is never used for
covering coffins, the cloth being of a pink shade when the
deceased is a child, crimson for women, and brown for
widows. Italians use white cloth for young people, and
purple for adults.

Now that leather forms so important an element of
decorative work, the economical woman will save up her
old gloves of all light tints, because she knows that by
ripping the wrists and washing them upin gasoline she
can make the daintiest card cases, book covers, photo-
graph frames, and tobacco pouches, It only needs a few
stitches by the clever needle-woman, a few strokes of the
brush by the skilled artist, to transform the cast-off glove
into a thing of beauty.

The best and wisest thing to do with the delicate silk
and wool summer gowns that have done faithful duty
for afternoon and evening wear is to rip them carefully,
send the laces to the cleaner, the goods as well if they are
soiled, and then by combing the best of two or more of
them in the same garment, wear them out in the pretty
tea gowns they are sure to make. The Watteau plait,
which is almost an indispensable feature of these gowns,
is not always or even generally made of the same material
as the gown, but may be of a lace shawl, of breadths of
embroidered silk, or crape despoiled from. an old ball
gown past its usefulness, Even lace flounces. can be. ar-
ranged without cutting them to give the effect of Wat-
teau trains. Oneof the prettiest of these luxurious lit-
tle gowns was made of the remnants of an old China silk,
with pale ground sprayed with pmk Dilossoms. The
white lace which had done duty on two previous gowns,
having been cleaned and mended, was arranged as a deep
collar across the back of the gown, which, narrowing at
; the waist line, fell in a coquille all the way down the
front. Another flounce of lace formed a double cascade
down the back, from beneath which escaped a trailing
fullness of pink crape, the crape forming also the front
of the gown, which was belted with broad black velvet.

Mamie C., Ford River, Mich.—The cornet skirt is very
easy to make, having but two pieces. The front is fitted

 

 

|is cold, but it will soon be over.
| better than dying by starvation. Come, grand-

 

 

at the waist with darts, and the back is gathered, anda

The subjects were those familiar to our child-
hood—the illustrated history of Blue Beard,

| Little Red Riding Hood, Whittington and his

Cat, Cinderella, etc. The designs were not
without artistic merit, but the coloring was

|loud—the brightest blues, reds, and yellows

being employed to captivate juvenile taste.
These sheets are sold at from two to three
cents apiece; consequently all who contribute
to their production must be very poorly paid.

I often noticed a very old mian going into
the shop with a large roll of paper under _ his
arm. I observed that he handed it to the shop-
woman, who unrolled it, laid off several
colored sheets, examined, counte@ them, and
then paid the oldman a small piece of silver
or a few copper.coins, with which he departed.

Having made the acquaintance of the shop-
woman by purchasing two or three of her
cheap publications, < learned that the old man
was a colorist; that he was named Pierre
Dupont; and that he earned his living and
supported a sick little girl, his grandchild,
by this work. Alas! he had known better
days. Inshort, he was a gentleman in reduced
circumstances, his fortune gone through no
fault of his own, all his relations and friends
dead. Helivedina garret roomin the Rue
de Laval,

Three weeks after having learned this much,
I read the record of his tragic fate in the
Figaro, and through inquiry in the neighbor-
hood ascertained many particulars which did
not find their way into print.

One day the old man came home, almost in
despair. His employer had found fault’ with
his work, had complained that his colors over-
ran the lines of the engravings, and that even
the children had noticed and found fault with
it. She refused to pay him more than half
price for his labor, and had reluctantly con-
tided to him another quire of engravings to
be colored. The old man had been obliged to
work from day-dawn till midnight to earn
enough to pay his rent and buy the bread and
cheese that kept him and his little charge
from starvation. He could only afford one
candle to work by at night. On this occasion,
however, he brought home two, and labored
patiently till his fingers refused to grasp the
pencil.

The next morning he showed his work to
little Madeline, who was almost bed-ridden.

“Why, grandfather,” said the child, “what
were you thinking of? You must have painted
with your eyes shut! you have overrun every
line of the engraving! and what made you
paint the coats of these Prussian soldiers
gray—you know they are bright blue!”

“Heaven help me!” said the old man. “I
am getting blind!”

But he took the colored sheets to the woman
in the Rue des Martyrs and watched her anx-
iously as she examined them.

“This will neverdo!” she said; “you are get-
ting worse and worse. I hope you don’t spend
the money I give you for drink! But you’ve
stuck me on these pictures—you’ve spoiled
them !”

“T will try to do better next time; madam,”
said the old man.

“No—I’ve no more work for you!” said the
woman. Then, seeing the look of despair in
the dim eyes of the old man, she added: “But
here’s a france for you—it’s all Ican do, for
I’m a poor widow, and have two children to
support.”

did Pierre Dupont staggered out of the shop
with death in his heart. Mechanicaily he went
into a baker's shop and bought two small
loaves of bread, which cost him. four cents.
To these he added asmall bottle of wine,
which cost him ten cents additional.

Then he went to his house, climbed wearily
to his attic, and set the refreshments before
his child. To his dismay ey anyeung looked
dim and misty, and he had to grope his way
to the invalid’s bed.

The next day he only went out to buy alittle
bread. The third day the old man and the
child were without food and fire. In the even-
ing he sat by his cold hearth and muttered to
himself:

“Eighty years of age and blind! If Madeline
were only strong and healthy, I could_ beg.
But that is out of the question. A blind
man's dog costs money—and I have not a sou.
Friends might help me; but ‘all my friends
are in Pere la Chaise—dead! dead !”

A little thin arm-stole round his neck and a
weak voice whispered :

“God is good! let us go to Him. The river
Anything is

father j I am strong enough to walk to the
eine.”

She put on her poor little patched shoes, her
ragged cloak, and her little shabby hat. The
poor .old grandfather took his hat and staff,
and they sallied forth together.

A few moments brought them into the gay

THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. se

and brilliantly lighted boulevard, the sick
child leading the old man. The cafes were all
splendidly lighted up. Through the plate-
glass windows they saw (Dupont dimly, the
child clearly) laughing groups washing down
turbot and venison with Burgundy and cham-
pagne. There was an incessant roll of carriages
with flashing lamps. Round the doors of the
theaters were crowds waiting for tickets to
enter the temples of pleasure. The Maison
Doree and the Cafe Anglais were a blaze of
light. Near the Rue Choiseul was a large toy-
shop, splendidly illuminated. The child paused
here in admiration and wonder. She saw danc-
ing dolls performing ona mimic stage, little
boudoirs and drawing-rooms occupied by
miniature prope, beautifully dressed, and
wondered what they were—she had never had
a toy in her life—but all seemed like fairy-land.
The old man drew her away gently from this
spectacle, and they went down the darker
streets toward the quays bordering the Seine.

To the idler, gifted with artistic tastes, this
night-picture of Paris is full of enchantment
—the long lines of gas-lamps, defining the
curving shores of the river and the bridges—
the huge bulk of the Louvre and Tuileries—
the solemn towers of Notre Dame, the airy,
serrated spire of La Sainte Chapelle, dimly
descried against the evening sky.

But the two poor wanderers saw and felt
nothing of these beauties. With reason and
conscience obliterated by misery, they were
rae death. And they found it.

Hand in hand they entered on the Pont
Neuf, and did not pause until they reached
that abutment on which stands the eques-
trian statue of Henry IV. Here they paused
and sat upon the bench until the foot-passen-
gers had ceased to traverse the bridge, then
they mounted the parapet, kissed each other,
and hand in hand, took the fatal plunge.

When their bodies were found the next day,
their hands were so firmly interlocked that
they could not be separated, and they were
laid out for recognition on the same marble
slab in the morgue. No one came to identify
or claim them, In the pockets of the old man,
however, were found a receipt for his quarterly
rent, due and paid the day before, and a slip
of paper with these words only:

“Bury us together. PIERRE DUPONT.”

The last prayer of the poor old man was
granted, and he and his grandchild lie side
by side in the common grave of Pere la Chaise,

Oh, ye who know not what it is to be cold,
and hungry, and penniless, take this lesson to
your hearts. Search out the dwellings of the
friendless and suffering, give of your ample
means and forget not who hua said:

“The poor are always with you!”

OO oo

Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

The Ladder of Preferment.
First Lawyer—Young Blackstone has political
aspirations, hasn't he 2?”
Second Lawyer—‘‘Why do you think so?”
First Lawyer—‘“T notice he calls all the barkeepers
by their first names.”

The Modern Monthly.

City Man (showing the sights)—“And this is the
ottice of the Fin De Siecle Monthly Magazine.”

Country Cousin (who reads the papers)—**That so ?
Let’s goin and see the editors being hired and dis-
charged.”

Knowledge is Power.

Old Gentleman—‘Sir! What do you mean, sir, by
embracing my daughter ?”’
Young Gentleman—*‘I only had her head on my
shoulder. I saw her in the street to-day with a
trailing dress on.”
“Well, sir?”
“A trailing Gress gathers up all the germs of dis-
ease which may happen to be on the pavement.”
“What of that, sir?”
“She has another dress on now, and I presume
that she removed the other in the usual way by rais-
ing it over.the head.”
“What has that to do with the matter, sir?’
“My coat has been laid away in camphor all sum-
mer, and I was merely disinfecting her hair.”

Settling Up.

Maid—“Gentleman wishes to see you, mem. Here’s
his card,”

Miss Flirtie—‘Um—I don’t remember that name.”

“He said, mem, that you was to see him, or else
give him something of his you had.”
~ “It must be some one [ met at the Springs last
summer. Take that box of rings, andtell him to
pick out his.’

All the Fixings.

Guest—‘‘Bah! Is this filtered water?”
Chicago Waiter—‘*‘Yes, sir.”
Guest—“*Phew! Give me some unfiltered then.”

VOL. 48—No, 1.

i ated flowerpots in one end of the

room, each with
the name of a gentleman, and then the ladies were
to get partners by throwing a golden heart into the
flowerpots.”’

Friend—‘*Why didn’t it work ?’

McLester—‘‘They smashed all the windows and
didn’t hit a flowerpot,”

An Experienced Artist.

Star—‘‘This is a very good play, but it will have to
be revised considerably.

Dramatist—‘‘Impossible, sir,”

Star—“Oh, it must be. You make the hero appear
in every act. That won't do. The hero must be
taken out of the first act, and also out of the last.”

Dramatist—“What! Open and Close the play
without the hero?” Ms ;

Star—‘Certainly. You see I am my own manager,
and I shall be busy in the box-office during the first
SOF, and reny often busy with the sheriff during the

st act.

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

“There goes: Blobski, the boomerang poet.” “How
did he get that name?’ “By his verses always com-
ing back to him,”—Philadelphia Record.

A CASE OF DIRE NECESSITY.—Mrs. Kingsley—“I
see your church is going to send away your minister
for three months, Isn’t that a long time ?”

Mrs. Bingo—*Yes. But we need the rest.”—Life,

MADE A NAME FOR HIMSELF.—Wicks—“By the
way, what has become of Bjackson ? I haven’t seen
him for a good many years.

Hicks—‘‘Bjackson? Why, don't you know? He
pd West fifteen years ago to make a name for him-
self,”

Wicks—“A name for himself, eh? And did he
make it.”

Hicks—*Oh, yes.”

Wicks—* W hat was it ?”’

Hicks—‘‘Dennis.”—Somerville Journal.

A MOURNING BripE.—An African explorer, while
on his travels. in the Dark Continent, received the
news of the death of his father. Some time after-
wean he arrived in Paris, accompaniéd by a black

ride.

“What on earth,” asked a candid friend, “induced
you to marry a egress ?”

‘ To which the explorer made answer, in cavernous
ones :

“I was in mourning.” -San Francisco News Letter.

“This thing is worth looking into,” murmured the
pretty girl as she stood in front of her mirror.
Chicago Tribune.

TRICKS IN ALL TRADES.—Customer—“T would like
you to repair this watch. Now, I don’t want you to
tell me the whole mechanism is out of order, and it
will take two weeks to repair it, and cost half what
the waich is worth. You can’t fool me! I know a
trick or two.”

Watchmaker (meekly)--"H’m!
maker, I presume 2”

Customer—“No; a doctor.—Puck.

A RouGH RETAINER.—“I’m a trifle late this even-
ing, Dorothy,” said the lawyer, when he reached his
suburban home, but I fell in with a highwayman,
and that detained me.”

“Oh, John, dear!” exclaimed the wife in alarm,
“did he treat you roughly?”

“Yes, Lrather think he did. He only had $8.53 on
him: but L’ll get more out of him yet.

Baltimore News.

PARTLY SATISFACTORY.—Mr. Greenleaf—‘Look
here, Amanda, I wrote to Mr. Stubbs, the man Dick
works for in New York, and asked him how Dick was
getting along, and where he slept nights.”

Amanda—*' What did he say ?’

Mr. Greenleaf—‘‘Why he says that Dick is all right,
and that he sleeps in the store during the day, but he
doesn’t know where he sleeps nights.—Truth.

You are a watch-

He—‘‘A woman can’t conceal her feelings.” She—
“Can’teh; she can kiss a woman she hates.” He—
“Yes; but she dvesn’t fool the woman any.”

Brandon Banner.

A Jersey City official who isin the coal business,
and has been underselling his neighbors, has. been
put under arrest for selling light tons, and is now
likely to learn something about the famous weigh of
the transgressor.—Philadelphia Ledger. |

Walking 1s said to be the best exercise for brain

workers, and itis worthy of note that brain workers
can seldom afford to do anything else.—Boston Globe.
Mrs. Coldwater—“I_ wonder why he doesn’t try
holding his breath when he has hiccoughs,” Jag-
lets—‘‘I guess it’s ’most too strong for him.”
Chicago Inter-Ocean.

_—

Items of Interest.

There are fewer suicides in Ireland than in any
other country.

Most of the street cars used in Bombay are madein
the United States.

In equatorial Africa the price of a wife is ten
packages of hair-pins.

The discovery has been made that India-rubber
trees grow wild in Lee County, Florida.

An incorrodible metal, which is likewise very hard,
is made by amualgainating nickel with steel.
Some of the houses in Berlin are numbered with
luminous figures, which are easily visible at uight.
A meteorite a foot in diameter, fell at Livingston

Manor, N. Y., and shattered a rock a dozen times its
size.

 

Waiter (loudly to cook)—Glass of unfiltered water
an’ a spoon.”
Wouldn't Look Well.
Young Lady—‘*How much?”
Telegraph Operator—‘“lweuty-five cents.”
“For that one word ‘yes’ ?”

“Yes’m. Same price for ten words or less.
can repeat the ‘yes’ ten times if you wish.”
“Um—n-o, that wouldn't look well. It’s an answer

to a proposal of marriage.”

You

A Flesh Reducer.
Stout Lady—‘Does a bicycle reduce the flesh.”
Mr. Slimpurse (wearily)—‘“If you buy it on the in-
stalment plan it does.”

Got Too Affectionate.
Edith—‘“‘Why did you dismiss Mr. Goodheart?”
Blanech—“Oh, he got so he’d rather sit at home and
hold my hand than take me to the theater.”

Trying to Please.

Wife (in railway train)—‘‘It’s mortifying to have
you act so. Why don’t you get up and help that
young lady raise that window ?” 3

Dutiful Husband—*She’s so pretty I was afraid
you'd be mad.”

Land Cheap Further Out.

Eastern Man—‘*What! You want $2,000 for a lot
inthe suburbs of Dugout City? Why, I can buy
better lots close to New York for half that.”

Kansas Boomer—‘‘Oh, well, if you are willing to
co out, I cansell you lots at the same price, and you
won’t have to go all the way to New York for’em
either.”

A Noted School.

Returned Traveler—‘What’s become of that Miss
Bluestock, who used to lecture every winter ?”

Host—‘She’s a doctor now.” z

“That so? What kind of a doctor?”

“A female doctor.”

Decidedly Handicapped.

Aunt Naney—“Think of studyin’ to be a doctor,
eh? Don’t you do it.”

Young Man—*Why not, aunty?” y :

Aunt Naney—‘You can’t git no practice till ye git
married, an’ ye can’t git married till ye git practice,
that’s why.”

Gloomy Audiences.

‘J don’t know what's gotinto audiences.

Manager—‘ é
r, ghty good comedian now to make them

It takes a mi
smile.” f ae
TLobbie—‘‘Perhaps they’d brighten up easier if you

didn’t charge so much for tickets.”

Perfectly Horrid.
Mother (at a ball)—‘“Are you enjoying yourself,
dear ?”’ be
Daughter—“No, I’m not.
“What is the matter?” 4
“y’ve refused George six dances hand running, and
he doesen’t seem miserable a bit.”

A Hard Winter.

Wife—“T don’t see what we are going to do.”

Husband—*What’s wrong?” : peat

“The iceman won't stop leaving ice until his bill is
paid, and the coal man won't bring any coal unless
he has the money in advance.”

“Um—well, I still have credit at the drug store.
Getsome phosphorus and put it on the ice.’

What Ailed Them.

Mrs. Upton—“Who are those men staggering
along?” ? :

Mr. Upton—“Mr. Richmann and his coachman,
Mike.” : .

“‘What.is the matter with them ? Bt

“Mr. Richmann has evidently been dining, and
Mike has been drinking.”

A Lamentable Failure.
McLester (sadly)—“The new figure I invented for

the german failed last night.”
Friend—‘*What was it?”

 

McLester—“I arranged a set of beautifully decor-

 

 

The Queen of Siam has the smallest feet yet seen
on a tithed woman. She weurs one and a half in
boots.

The staff of life is the staple production of a firm
neue aid & Clutch, in Franklin, Ohio. Dhey run a
our mill.

Hair-dye is considered so detrimental to long life
thata Paris insurance company refuses to insure the
lives of persons who use it.

The drummer in Servian regiments never carries
the drum. Itis placed on a two-wheeled cart, which is
drawn by a big dog, just in advance of the drummer.

The first ship canal on the line of the present Suez
Canal, was projected by Necho, an Egyptian king, about
600 B.C. The two seas were actually united 270 B. Cc.

A post-mortem examination of the famous hurdle-
jumping horse, La Marshale, in Paris, revealed in the
stomach a chemically formed stone eight inches in dia-
meter.

Swedish girls, at an early age, begin to make and
accumulate linen garments- By the time they are of
Inalriageable age, they have an extensive outfit of such
articles.

Falling stars are numerous in Italy about the time
when the Catholic church celebrates the martyrdom of
Saint Lawrence. They are therefore poetically called
the “tears of Saint Lawrence.”

it is asserted that waterproof sheets of paper,
gummed and hydraulically compressed, makes a material
as durable as leather for the soles of shoes. It also
makes serviceable horseshoes.

A London rat opened the door of a blackbird’s
cage, and entered, evidently to feast on the birdseed.
The bird saw a chance for an excursion, and tiew out.
The door banged shut, and the rat was a prisoner.

A mouse was scampering across the floor in an
Atchisou house. A girl saw it, and screamed so loudly
that the animal suddenly paused, turned over, and lay
still. The girl’s seream had frightened it to death.

An interesting experiment is performed by smear-
ing a bullet with vaseline, and then firing it from a rifle.
The course of its flight may then be marked by aline of
ee caused by the ignition of the vaseline as it leaves
the rifle.

Nearly all Japanese houses are so constructed that
the front can be folded back or taken down. The first
thing thata Japanese does in the morning is to “open
house”—remove the front, 80 that the interior will be ex-
posed to view.

A French perfumer has discovered that Californian
roses possess twenty per cent. more of volatile oil than
the roses of France. ‘here are five thousand persons
eniployed in the little town of Grasse, France, in the
manutacture of perfumery.

Vhe Rev. Sam Jones says, “it makes me laugh
when I hear people talk about the dign ‘of the pulpit.
The more dignified a man is the nearer he is dead. A
corpse is the most dignified thing I ever saw. It doesn’t
ever laugh, and it’s stiff.”

“Traveling stones” have been found in Nevada.
They are perfectly round, and about the size of a walnut.
When placed on a smooth surface, such as a tioor or
table, and separated two or three feet from each other,
they move until they meet ata common center, where
they rest like eggs ina nest. They are formed of mag-
netic iron ore.

A practical joke was played by a jolly fellow in
Roseburg, Oregon. He chewed soap until he frothed at
the mouth ; then, with a carving-knife, he rushed madly
at a young lady in the street, as if about to kill her. Mr.
Loug, her escort, promptly knocked him down, and sat
upon him until an officer appeared, and it is likely that
the joker will be imprisoned for his silliness.

Kate Luby, whose sketches have frequently de-
lighted the readers of the NEW YORK WEEKLY, has been
on a visit to Laredo, Texas. She speaks enthusiastically
of the fertility of the soil of that section, and declares
that it will produce almost anything. As proof of this
statement, she names an old Irishman of that place who
was “ready to swear that if you planted a twelve-penny
nail in Laredo, it would come up a poker!”

A tenor in a Brooklyn church often endeavored to
cause fun in the choir by making droll faces at the other
singers. There was one member of the congregation who
considered his levity idiotic. In the collection basket
he dropped a paper containing these words: “To the
Pastor:—The service would be much more interesting if
you could persuade your tenor. to act more like a man
and less like @ monkey.” The pastor handed the slip to
the tenor, and since then, during service, his face has

 

been as grave as that of a high-priced sexton.