Mrs. Fleming’s Greatest Story “‘WEDDED, YET NO WIFE,” Begins Next Week.

 

 

 

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1892, by Street. é Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washingion, D. 0.

Office

P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

31 Rose St.

 

 

 

 

AS THE MAJESTIC NEARED

HER

WHARF, NICK | CARTER, DISGUISED

 

US Te
* WACK SROT =
WATE RAN

New York, October 1, 1892.

Entered at the Post Office, New York. as Second Class Matter.

YY

RX CARRANGE: -

 

THE OLD COUNTRYMAN, STOOD IN. THE

BOW,

Three Dollars Per. Year,
Two Covies Five Dollars.

 

Hl

Mt
|

f | i ij

 

APPARENTLY ON THE LOOK-OUT FOR

SOME PERSON ON THE PIER.

 

 

THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.,

racked Across The Atlan

NICK GARTER AFTER THE SMUGGLERS.

— ee

A STORY OF THE OCEAN FREE-TRADERS,

BY THE AUTHOR OF “NICK CARTER.”

CHAPTER I.
THE SHREWDEST SMUGGLER ON RECORD.

“TI think we
Carter.”

“TI think we do.”

“We know, or think we know, that large
quantities of diamonds and jewelry are being
constantly smuggled past the customs officers,
and there is no doubt that the operations are
carried on by a regularly organized gang. The
government inspectors have been foiled at
every turn, and now the work of catching the
smugglers, and turning them over to be dealt
with by Uncle Sam, devolves upon you.”

“Tt does.”

“You will find the task by no means an easy
one, Carter.”

“The more difficult the case, the better I like
it, chief!”

“Good!” replied the chief of the U. S,
Treasury Agents, Then he added, grimly:
“You should be especially deligated with this
matter, then, for since I have been connected
with the treasury department, we have never
had a case that has caused one half the an-
noyance that I have been put to by this “one.”

Nick Carter smiled.

“Tell me how much you know concerning
this man, Livingston Carruthers,” he said. “I
am curious to’ know how closely you have
investigated him.”

“Very good, He ‘iis tall, handsome, d‘stin-
guished in appearance and manners, perfectly
educated, speaks. halt..a..dozen.. languages, is
spoken of as a_high-toned, throughbred gen-
tleman; wears a very becoming mustache,
poses as a manof moderate fortune—a hundred
thousand or so. I believe—lives on Fifth
avenues when at home—you have the number
among your meinoranda—is a club man, a
genial fellow, and—well, if vou want anv more
information, suppose you ask a few questions.”

“How often has he been.to Europe during
the last: twelve months?”

“H’m! From six to ten times,”

“Which? six, or ten?”

understand each other, Mr.

“ Well, I can’t say exactly. Call it six.”

“That would be one round trip for each two
months.”

ew nas.

“I’m afraid you haven’t watched him very
closely, chief,”

“Why?”

“Because I already know that Carruthers

has been over and back just eight times dur-
, ing the year just past.”

“Humph! how do you know that?”
| “TI made a few inquiries before
| down,”

| “Ah! the little remark that I let drop when
| we met on the street the other day was the
; cause, I suppose.”

| “Exactly. You pointed at Carruthers, who
| was passing, and said: ‘Carter, tell me if you
| think that fellow looks shrewd enough to
| puzzle me,’
me to meet you to-day.
together——”

* And found they made four.”

“Precisely.”

“Well, tell me what. you discovered?”

“Nothing. only that he had been to Europe
and back eight times during the last twelve
months.”

“What is the ostensible purpose of his fre-
quent visits?”

“Ts it possible, chief, that you do not know
that?”

“T know of one.”

“Isn’t. that enough?”

“Perhaps so,” doubtfully, “He is interested
in the firm of MeLanghlin & Strong, dealers
in curios, and Carruthers goes back and forth
for the double purpose of making purchases
for the house, and of improving his health,”

“Exactly.”

seen Not much in that, is there?”

coming

I put twoand two

“He pays duty to quite a large amount on
the curios he brings over.”

“Naturally,”

“What do you think of him, Carter?”

“I hardly know—yet. Later on, I may be
better posted.” :

“H’m! Did you ascertain when he is to
make his next trip?”

 

“ Ss.
“Good! You had better go in the same
steamer.”

“Impossible.”

“Why?”

“Because he has gone,”

“Gone!”

“ Yes.”

“When?”

“He sailed this morning on the Majestic.”

“Ah! Too bad. He should have
shadowed. Now we will haye to wait
definite time until his return.”

“Not at all.”

“Eh?”

“The French liner, La Gascogne, sails early

an in-

go straight to Paris, and by taking the French
steamer I can reach there as soon as he.”
oka

“Now, a few questions in order to determine
if such an undertaking is necessary.”

“T am ready,”

“You believe that Carruthers is a
smuggler?”

“Yes, and more.”

“What more?”

“T believe that he is connected with an or-
ganized gang. of smugglers who bring in
jewels, laces and all kinds of rich stuffs with-
/out paving duty upon them, I believe their
operations to be very extensive, and I am satis-
fied that when we know the truth, we will
| find that the government has been filched out
of a large amount of money.”

“Have your suspicions fallen upon anybody
else?”

“His wife, perhaps.”

“Naturally; anybody else?”

diamond-

 

and ten minutes later you asked |

“No; no one else whom we believe to be
directly connected with him.”

“What first directed yoursuspicions toward
| Carruthers?”

“The fact that he was known to have pur-
|chased a quantity of valuable gems in Paris,
lamong them being a stone that was exceed-
ingly rare and curious. He was known to have
itaken those stones aboard the steamer, but
| when she was boarded in the harbor by the
| customs officers, he did not declare them.”

“Was he not searched?”

“Thoroughly.”

“Well?”

“No trace of the jewels was found.”

“He was questioned?”

“Of course. He was told exactly why he
was suspected, and asked to explain.”

“What did he say?”

“He admitted the purchase--admitted hav-
ing taken the jewels aboard the steamer, but
insisted that he had been followed by a disap-
pointed purchaser, whom he had outbidden,
for the possession of tle gems.”

“T begin to understand.”

“He claimed that he sold the'gems to the
man. who followed him to the steamer and

he did not have them.”

all the tin-e, but so skillfully concealed that
yon could not find them.” —

“Precisely.”

“Well?”

“In proof of your theory, the very gem,

was afterward seen in New York. but it was
worn by a
question.

the stone in good faith, and the circumsfances
were such that we conclided to let the matter

 

episode of the kind.”

|
|
|

been | took them to the steamer, and we knew posi-

j

|

 

that he did not declare them, simply BR eer York,

“ While doubtless they were in ‘his possession) tives upon the_ hotel

|

|
}

which was so curious and easily recognized, | tain

|the man became possessed of the dutiable| they would have
rest, and .watch Mr. Carruthers for another |

“Tt came?”

“It did.”

**'W hen?”

“On the occasion
the one described.

“Well?”

“He purchased other genis, was watched,

of his third voyage after

tively that nobody followed him and = pur-
chased theny from him this time.

“As before, he failed to declare them
he reached New ©York, and again a

whben
most

C ] I lly | thorough and exhaustive search was made.
to-morrow morning. Carruthers will naturally |

“Not asign of the jewels was found, and
when questioned, he simply and coolly denied
that he had ever taken them aboard: the
steamer at all.

“He is the coolest and most daring smuggler
with whom I.have been. brought in contact,
and search him as we may, question him all
we will, no matter how closely we watch him,
he foils us every time.

“There is not a doubt in. my mind, that he
brings thousands of dollars’ worth. of dutiable
articles with him every voyage, which never
pay duty to the government.

“T have tried’ every conceivable artifice , to
catch him, and all have failed, and I believe

| that you will find: your match, Nick Carter, in

this man, Livingston Carruthers.”

“Perhaps so.”

“You know what the reward is, if, you suc-
ceed in capturing him. Work, in your, own
way. Do the thing as economically as you can
—but do it!”

— |

CHAPTER II.

PLOTTING BOTH WAYS.

When the steamer La Gascogne left her
wharf on the following morning, Nick Carter
and: his faithful assistant, Chick, were pas- |
sengers.

The details of their sail
were only of the ordinary kind, and they
reached Havre in due time, from whence they
hastened at once to Paris.

Nick immediately applied to the proper |
source for information regarding the Majestic,
upon which Livingston Carruthers was a pas- |
senger, and found that if the suspected smug-
gler had hastened at once to Paris, he should |
arrive there on the following morning.

Carruthers* habits were well known tothe |
detective. The man seemed to invite surveil- |
lance rather than to wish to avoid it.

He always stopped at the same hotel, and |
accordingly Nick Carter and his assistant put |
up there also.

But:the reader must not imagine that a per- |
son who knew the great détective’ in New |
would have recognized him in Paris.
The two names which représented the detec- |
register were, Arthur |
Saunders and Philip Saunders, and = they |
passed as father and son, who hailed from |
Chicago and were visiting Paris solely ‘for |
pleasure.

Of course the detective was reasonably cer- |
that Carruthers’ purpose in visiting |
Paris was to secure diamonds, jewelry, and |

across the ocean

lady whom we could not afford to| possibly other stuffs which he meant to smug-
T ascertained that she had purchased | gle past the New York Custom House.

The first thing was to satisfy himself that |

articles, the second, that he took them general
the ship, and the third that he still had them

iin his possession when the steamer should

leave port.

It was the plan that one of the’ detectives

| should manage to reach New York in advance
|of the smuggler, and

thus be prevared to re-
ceive him when he arrived.

The knowledge that he had started with the
gems, and that he had not succeeded in rid-
ding himself of them en route, would besome-
thing, and the detective ‘felt certain that he
could make the search of Carruthers’ person
and baggage so thorough that there would be

| littleor no chance forshim to escape detection.

Thus the mystery; that had solong puzzled
the inspectors, would be solved, and the career
of Livingston Carruthers, as a > smuggler,

| would be ended.

The reader who has followed the exploits of
Nick Carter, knows that. he was .a_ perfect
wonder in the matter of disguises. So skillful
had he become in the art, that. he could, bya
simple exertion of the facia] muscles, so, alter
himseif as tobe almost. unrecognizable, and
that, without the aid of cosmetics, wigs,
ete.; but when he was aided by them also,
the detective could in an incredibly short
time, so transform himself as.to deceive even
his own wife, and the very people who. knew
him best.

His face was irscrutable,

There was, habitually, a. pleasant smile
upon it, and his clear, dark eyes looked forth
with an expression of frankness which sug-
gested anything but the skilled detective who
saw a motive in every act and.recognized a
cause for every effect.

His assistant, Chick, was hardly less expert,
though utterly different in manner and
methods. He was naturally quick and nervous
in his motions, and sometimes leaped at con-
clusions with an impulsive vehemence which
amazed rather than displeased the elder and
more experienced detective.

When engaged upon the solution of a case
together, they worked almost as one person,
and so. perfectly did they understand. each
other that a simple glance of the eye, or
motion of a hand would convey a whole mes-
sage.

At the hotel, the elder’ Saunders passed as
& man who was subject to violent attacks of

| some kind of mysteriousillness. His son spoke

of these attacks as headaches, but the em-
ployees of the house whispered to each other
that it was brandy.

At all events he sometimes kept his room
for a whole day at atime, and the number
of empty bottles which were brought away
after such occasions more, than. upheld the
whispered comments of the employees.

The: son, on the ,other hand, was what is
known as a “high-roller.”

He went about; seeing’ the sights of Paris
ina truly “Young American” style. Two or
three times he was assisted to his apartments
by the obliging cabby, when appearances in-
dicated that he could not possibly have reached
them alone.

But had the employees and the people who
saw and commented upon the doings of the
Saunders, father and son, also seen just how
and where the bottles were emptied, and could
they have known, moreover, that the frequent
and violent “jags” which the son. brought
home with him, existed in appearance ‘only,
’ wondered still more; and
might possibly have looked upon the two men
with genuine suspicion.

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

o

 

«oatia THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3" wa.e-mw

—_— ab Sbateiaeal

elder Saunders of mre was the younger
one of yesterday, and that father and son
changed places almost daily, they would have
been even more greatly astounded.

There was yet another mystery connected
with their stay at the hotel. There was a
Frenchman who called almost daily upon the
invalid. .

Sometimes he came in the morning, some-
times in the evening, sometimes both.

He never stayed longer than an hour, and
occasionally even less; but that much of the
mystery was speedily solved when one of the
guests recognized in the Frenchman, a profes-
sional manipulator, and when, one day, over
a bottle of wine, to which one of the curious
had stood treat, he admitted that old Mr.
Saunders felt greatly benefited by his atten-
tions and treatment. : .

Nearly three weeks had been spent in this
manner before anything worthy of record in
this story happened.

Tt was four o’clock in the afternoon.

The son, who was, on that particular day,
eee by Chick, paid his respects to bis
father, who had been enjoying one of his
“well days,” and had only just retired to his
roo

m.

“Close the door, lad,” said the elder man,
when the younger one entered his presence.
“You have learned something to-day.”

“Decidedly.”

“Out with it.”

“Carruthers has spent about twenty thous-
and francs for diamonds to-day.”

“H’m! That makes forty thousand in all,

”

“Of whom did he purchase them?”
“Reubens.”

“Where is he now?”

“Here in the hotel.”

“And the gems are with him?”

“Tell me all you know. Jean will be here

in an hour, and I must be ready for work.”

“You know, I told you this morning that
I expected him to make a large purchase to-
oe said Chick.

es.

“Instead of adopting a disguise and shadow-
ing him as usual, I went at once to Reubens’
place and represented that I had some very
valuable jewels to dispose of. The old fellow
tried to turn me over to one of his clerk, but
I wouldn’t have it. To make a long story
short, I finally succeeded in being admitted
to the Jew's private office.

“T told him that I had no jewels to sell, but
that Iwas a detective. He nearly fell ina
faint when I made the announcement, and I
was convinced at once that we were right in
our oo pao :

“Well;

on.”

= told him that he was expecting a cus-
tomer who was coming to purchase alot of
jewels and that I wished to see and hear all
that occurred, and although he kicked at first,
he finally consented to let me look on, through
a peep-hole which is evidently placed there
so that he can scrutinize unwknown cus-
tomers before he permits himself to be inter-
viewed. 3

“TI was concealed in acloset. Isaw and
heard the whole transaction, and——”

“Wait. Let me finish for you.”

“Very well.”

“You saw Carruthers enter the place, hag-
gle a little while over the price of stones and

nally take alot for which he paid twenty
thousand francs.”

“Then he went away.”
es ” ‘

“Then you came out, told the Jew some
story about being mistaken in the man, that
it was all viget and you would have to look
somewhere e

eh?”
“Yes.” yi
ae you didn’t fool them; they fooled

“How?”

“Easily enough. The Jew posted Carruthers
in some manner, and they simply madea ligiti-
mate bargain and sale in your presence. There
is no law against Carruthers’ buying all the
jewels he wantsin Paris. Carruthers went
there simply to pee jewels which the Jew
had purchased for him to take to the United
States. If you had pounced upon Reubens,
made yourself up to represent him, and con-
ducted the transaction yourself, you would
have had a very different story to tell.
you see?”

“T begin to.”

“Reubens, Carruthers, and Mrs. Carruthers
are three members of the gang of smugglers.
Reubens and his friends in Paris furnish the
gems, and Carruthers and his friends in New

ork dispose of them, the profits being prob-
ably divided in proportion to the risk taken.
Chick, I never wished before that I was a tall
man, but if I were, I’d personate Carruthers
and interview Reubens to-night. As it is, I
i there will be startling developments
before another day.”

CHAPTER III.
THE OCEAN RACE,

Although a great deal of time-had been
spent in Paris, watching the maneuvers of
Livingston Carruthers, Nick Carter was just
beginning to get an idea of the real status of

smuggler

the case in hand.
had been
all over the great city.

The ntlemanl
shadowe

Nick had stood next tod him and seen him

urchase laces and dress goods at the Bon

arche, and he had followed him elsewhere
and seen him dispose of the same materials
to others.

He had eee him to the establishments
of various lapidaries and had witnessed the
purchase of watches and ornaments which
were tobe dilivered at his address at the
hotel—but which never arrived, ©

Where then, did they go?

Evidently, after leaving the store where
he had made the purchase, Carruthers counter-
manded the orders for the place of delivery
and had them sent elsewhere, and doubtless
they were, for the most part, goods which
some one else in the conspiracy had to take to
America, the geater villain and more astute
smuggler contenting himself with the intro-
duction of valuable gems alone.

But Chick’s experience of that day told the
detective a great deal, and, in his excursion
that evening he resolved to profit by it.

he man referred to as Jean, and who, as
the reader has suspected, was the manipu-
lator, arrived soon after Chick had finished
his story, and a remarkable scene followed.

As soon as he entered the room Nick spran
to his feet, tore away the wig and beard which
rendered him the sénior Saunders, and twenty
minutes later he had transformed himself into
an exact counterpart of Jean.

Then Jean was speedily dressed out as the
senior Saunders, a bottle of cognac and some
cigars were placed before him, and he remained
to act the part of che old inebriate, while the
detective took his departure, no one suspect-
ing that it was not the French doctor (?) who
went away as he came.

It was dark when the detective reached the
vicinity of Reubens’ place of business, and
Livingston Carruthers was only a few paces
in advance of him.

The detective had not long worn the disguise
of the manipulator, but had speedily altered
it while dogging the steps of the American
smuggler, so that he now represented a well-
to-do Parisian tradesman, out for a stroll.

He suspected that Carruthers’ destination
was Reubens’ place of business, and he was
not mistaken, but he was not prepared for all
that occurred

The smuggler was still several doors from
Reubens’ when ‘he was accosted by a woman
who was closely vailed, and whose sudden ap-
pearance evidently surprised Carruthers, as
much as it did Nick.

The detective was not close enough to hear
what was said, but the woman partially re-

es .

se for your prey, and all that, |

Still more, could they have known that the! moved her vail, so that the street light for an

instant shone upon a face that was so ex-
quisitely beautiful that even Nick started
with surprise.

Carruther said something to her, hastily;
the vail was quickly replaced, and then the
two turned away together with the detective
still Se

Presently they entered afamous cafe, the
detective eae in after them, and two
minutes later they were all seated at the
same table, it being, fortunately, the only one
unoccupied in the ates

Carruthers scowled at Nick when he sat
down, and then, smiling blandly, he said in
Russian : of

“Pardon me, sir, but I think we have met
before.”

Nick-stared at him, and replied in perfect
French: > ;

“T do not understand you. pit

“It is all right,” said Carruthers in Rus-
sian, to his companion, “the fellow does not
understand ycur native language; we will
converse in that.”

“Try him again,” said the more cautious
woman, who had now thrown aside her vail,
and whose wonderful beauty attracted nearly
every eye in the room.

“Bah!” responded Carruthers; and then—
“By Jove! Olga, you grow more beautiful
every day. How is it thatI have not seen you
before on this trip? You have grown into a
perfect houri, and it seems only yesterday
that you-were a little girl.”

She laughed lightly, and he continued:

“TI know one pair of gems that I would like
to take to the United States with me.”

“What?” she asked.

“Your eyes.”

They gleamed for a moment, half savagely
at him, and then she said, coolly:

“Let us get to business. The City of New
vo sails from England Thursday morning.”

“ es ».

”

“This is Monday night. You are to sail in
the City of New York. You areto leave all
the gems in your possession with me, and I
am to deliver them to you at the wharf before
the steamer sails——”

“But——”

“Wait. Iam not through. It does not mat-

ter how I am to get them there, or why
Reubens thinks this the best course to adopt.
They are his directions.”

aur that is enough.”

es.
“T like the plan.”
“Why?”

“Because it will give mea chance to see
you again, Olga.”

“Do you know that detectives are on your
track?”

“Bah! When have I been free from them?”

“There are two; they stop at the same
hotel; they are known as Saunders, father
and son.”

Nick started.

“They have watched eve
made,” she continued. “They are smarter
‘than the others who have followed you. They
employed Jean Beauregard to help them, and
Jean has told me all. ou have your instruc-
tions; follow them.”

Without waiting for her companion to reply,
‘she rose from the table and glided tapas
away alone, while Carruthers, with a half-
aUp ressed oath, followed her.

2 Fok also left the table, but a crowd of cus-
tomers got in his way, and when he reached
the street, both had disappeared.

“Humph!” muttered Nick, “that woman is
a smartone. I will know more concerning
her, some day; just now my work lies in
another direction.”

He called a fiacre and was driven hastily to
his hotel.

There he found Chick awaiting him.

“Lad,” he said, “you are to go to New York
with Carruthers on the City of New York,
Thursday ening: A woman will meet him

ust before he sails, and deliver the diamonds.
atch him as a cat watches a mouse, and we
will nab him when he reaches New York.”

*“Do you stay here?”

move you have

 

Don’t |

“No. I am going to cateh the Etruria which
sails one day earlier. I will be in New York

when oe get there.”

Goo

“Look out for Jean if you see him again.
He isa traitor. Don’t let him know that you
suspect him.
you; I’m off.

The great detective, shrewd as he was, did
not suspect that he had been followed, but
from the very moment when he left the hotel
in pursuit of Carruthers until he returned to
it, a man had dogged his steps incessantly.

Now, when he left it again, the man once
more took up the chase, and when he boarded
the train for Calais, the same individual was

”

-in the compartment that was assigned to him.

It was night, and Nick’s fellow-passenger
speedily fellasleep, and the detective presently
dozed also.

Mile after mile was whirled past them, and
presently the stranger moved.

He drew one hand from beneath the cloak
that covered him, and the next instant there
was a flash and a report which was drowned
by the rattle of the train, and Nick Carter
pitched forward upon the floor of the com-
partment at the feet of the murderous pas-
senger.

* * * * *

All was life and activity on the wharf from
which the City of New York was to take her
departure, the following Thursday.

Chick, standing near the gangway, saw Car-
ruthers, as debonair as ever, go aboard, and
he noticed that the smuggler was accompanied
by a lady whose marvelous beauty attracted
every eye.

He followed them.

The woman went with Carruthers to the
door of his state-room as if to see where he
was quartered, and Chick saw her hand him
a package which he threw carelessly upon his
berth.

What he did with it after that Chick did
not know: but presently they went upon deck
again, bade pore other adieu, the woman went
ashore, and afew moments later the City of
New York sailed.

Chick knew that he was in the same ship
with the smuggler, and that the latter had
the diamonds in his possession.

* * * * * *

On the oaeer, morning pe eee or two
days after the sailing of the City of New York,
the same scene of confusion was being enacted
upon another pier in Liverpool. and this time
it was the fleet Majestic, of the White Star
Line, that was about to take her departure.

The lines were cast off; the whistle blew;
handkerchiefs waved and then——

Down the pier at full speed dashed a man,
waving his hands and peat 7 | for time.

The steamer wasclear of the wharf when
the belated passenger reached its edge, and
he stood for a moment irresolute.

Beside him was a coil of rope, of the kind
known as heaving-line.

He stooped and seized the rope.

Then, holding it poised in his hand he
shouted to a passenger who was leaning over
the rail:

“Will you catch this?”

Oe C8.”

The next instant the coil went singing
through the air, and true to its aim, it fel
across the extended arm of the passenger.

“Hang on!” shouted the man who had thrown
it, and then, with the other end in his grasp,
he leaped boldly into the water.

There was a shout of wonder, and people
rushed to the side of the vessel and crowded
to the edge of the wharf.

Two minutes later, they saw the daring
voyager hauled, wet and dripping. aboard of
the Majestic, but no one suspected that he was
the famous detective, Nick Carter.

“Two days late,” mused Nick, an hour after-
ward, “and all because I forgot my caution
for once. I never will again, that's sure!”

That evening when he went on deck, he
started a remarkable pool. He offered to bet,
that although they had started forty eight

 

 

hours behind the City of New York, they

I will leave the baggage with

 

would reach New York less than twenty-four
hours later than she. His object was to create
excitement, which he knew would finally
communicate itself to the captain.

He Jet it be thought that he had a large bet
ashore on the matter, and gave that as a
reason for his anxiety to be aboard.

The captain became interested. The vessel
was put at her best. She outdid herself. The
first day out they made five hundred and four-
teen miles, the second, 515, the third, > 518.
That beat the record. :

On the third day they encountered what the
captain termed the tail-end of a gale. It had
blown itself out when it reached them, but it
must have hindered the City of New York.

The Highlands were sighted shortly after a
a ship was discovered directly ahead of
them, .

Excitement knew no bounds, and when it
was finally announced that the ship was the
City of New York, the enthusiasm was al-
most uncontrollable.

The two ships drew up at Quarantine to-
gether, and the detective recognized. Chick,
and saw Carruthers upon the deck of the City
of New. York.

They got away from Quarantine at about the
same time, and steamed up the harbor to-
gether.

It was. then merely a question of which
would reach the wharf first, and as the Majes-
tic got out her lines, Nick Carter stood near
the rail on the bow, dressed as a Western
farmer, apparently looking for some person on
the wharf, ready to leap ashore at the very
first moment.

(vO BE CONTINUED.)

MISS PAULINE

BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE,

Author of “ Doctor Jack,” “ Captain Tom,” “ Baron
Sam,” Ete.

{‘* MiIsS PAULINE OF NEW YORK” was commenced in
Baek numbers can be obtained of all News

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE BULL-FIGHTER ACCEPTS A CHALLENGE.

These strange words annoy Dick somewhat—
he ponders over them again and again, as if
he would endeavor to see what influences
cause such an expression—but it baffles him.
More than once he appears about to grasp the
shadowy substance, but it seems to melt away
into thin air, and he feels as though he had
been chasing a will-o’-the-wisp across some
deep vale or country church-yard.

Now theyreach the Alameda, the plaza is filled
with people. In the middle, upon the platform,
Pedro Gomez, the most favored leader south
of the Rio Grande, waves his baton, and his
military band play ina manner that no capital
need be ashamed of. Much of the music is
local or Spanish—a bright fandango or a more

sober polka—a national tune, or some air un-

known to foreign ears, but which has a
leasant ring when executed by well-drilled
exican musicians.

Dora is delighted—her feet keep time to
the music, and she hums the airs as though
they are quite familiar to her. Given the op-
portunity, she would dance in a minute.

Bop has had his eyes about him—he feels
uneasy. There is something in the strange,
weird music, the crowds of dark-faced people,
and the very atmosphere, that seems to warn

him that danger is afoot—enemies hovering | 8°:

near. He does not imagine the fact, but
knows that evil eyes are upon them all the
while. :

So Colonel Bob, always ready, keeps his
right arm free, and much of the time his hand
is upon a weapon which

man, for a sheriff in a Western State has to
be a man who caneshoot while the desperado
across the room is drawing back the hammer,

And on this night, on the Alameda, is
formed the compact against the two comrades

—men meet Senor Lopez, and shake his hand, |

receiving money, in some cases, and always
asign that is to mark them as members of
the clique, or league.

More than once desperate men, armed with
the national knife, the cuchillo, haunt the
footsteps of the two Americans, anxious to
earn the rich reward offered; for the Mexican
senor, having been baffled so many times in
his efforts to make Pauline a prisoner, so that
he may force her to oe away her rights with
regard to the great El Dorado Mine, and al-
ways through the instrumentality of these
men, has descended the scale, and sunk all re-
spect for his honor. He realizes that: he will
never be allowed to do his will so long as the
Americans are alive—hence they must bite the
dust.

Dick has a peculiar sensation of uneasiness,
and yet at the same time he is bound to con-
fess that he feels far happier than ever before
in all his life. There is a charming sense of
full ownership concerning the lovely girl who
clings to his arm—she has confessed that she
loves him, and although they are too sensible
to act like a pair of spooney lovers, they expe-
rience the same delight, not to be described in
cold words, that comes to all who feel the holy
passion.

As in the ease of Colonel Bob, this does not
cause Dick to forget his resolution to remain
continually on the qui vive, as danger hovers
near. It is a peculiar situation, but at some
future time, when these war clouds have sunk
forever beneath the horizon, they can afford to
indulge in loye’s young dream without one
thought of danger.

Now he sees the dark countenance of Barce-
lona, and the look which the bull-fighter gives
him is enough to warn even a more careless
man than Dick that peril menaces him. He
has already made up his mind that if an as-
sault is made upon them openly on the Ala-
meda, he will, with Bob’s assistance, standing
back to back, make the Mexicans recall the
famous days of the Alamo, when Texans piled
a rampart of the slain around them ere finally
yielding up the ghost—men_whose names and
memories have been revered in Texan history
as heroes and patriots.

He has also made up his mind that under
such circumstances his first bullet will be for
Tordas Barcelona, as he recognizes in this in-
dividual the man who would do him the most
harm. If the wily senor is in sight he may
come in for the second leaden messenger, un-
less Bob has already put a quietus upon him.

The hour grows later.

Still the music continues—indéed, Gomez
and his band seem to have kept their best
work until now. Miss Pauline and Dora do
not think of retiring from the plaza, and the
gentlemen would not hint at such a thing, be-
cause they are not in the habit of showing the
white feather. In this case, of course, it might
be justifiable, as they are considering others
besides themselves, but all the same, they
make no proposal looking toward a return to
the hotel.

Nor does the crowd thin out. It is a gala
occasion among the good people of the city,
and they take advantage of the occasion
With plenty of stirring music, a cigar, and
beauty at their side, the average Mexican citi-
zen is happy enough not to envy a king.

Dick is fully awake when he feels something
dig him in the ribs—of course it is the elbow
of the man from New Mexico, who desires to
attract his attention, and as he passes by he
bends his head to mutter:

“The wolves are closing in, pard. When it
comes to the point make lead count.”

| the sheriff.

he can draw in an |
instant, with more spred than the average |

“You bet,” is the only comment Dick vouch-
safes, but his manner shows how coolly he
takes the stirring information given, which
RS eae the greatest of danger and perhaps
death.

Truth to tell, he is worried secretly, but
only because those are with him, those who
may be injured in the melee. He has already
c nsidered a scheme, wild though it- may ap-

ear, by means cf which he shall win the
avor of the assemblage, and thus crush the
incipient rebellion.

It is too Jate for them to get away from the
crowd. As soon as they make a move the very
thing they seek to avoid will be precipitated
upon them.

Some other plan must be tried, and the more
Dick Denver reflects the more convinced he
becomes that after all his wild thought is not
such a bad idea arter all. At ‘any rate, it suits
his notion as. a cleyer way ‘o win the sym-
ety of the crowd, which, like most of its

ind, is in general a good-natured one, ready
to swing with the hero of the hour.

Dick would like to confer with his comrade,
but this is hardly possible now without allow-
ing the ears of Miss Pauline to catch what
they are talking about, and he hardly cares to
do that.

So he must depend upon himself, and, taken
with a sudden notion, decides upon his unique
plan to outwit the senor and his clique.

He will take all the City of Mexico into his
confidence—the good people shall hear how
some of their fe!low-citizens endeavor to per-
secute those whose only sin has been the .ex-
tension of Mexican business—the restoration
of her most famous mine.

Already the situtaion has grown grave. He
ean see scowling faces around, and it is evi-
dent that if, as he believes, the followers of
Senor Lopez mean them harin, the crisis will
not long be delayed.

Bob is close to him, Bob, whom he can trust
in any event, and who wili protect Pauline
with his life if need be. He presses against

“Look after Miss Westerly, my dear fellow.
I’m going to astonish these chaps a bit. The
spirit is moving within me. We’re in the net
here; you can see the senor’s adherents all
around us, scowling like demons. What I
propose to do—but time passes, and the oppor-
tunity is ripe. Watch me, my boy.”

Bob’s curiosity is, of course, immediately
aroused ; he cannot for the life of him imag-
ine what it is his companion aims at. The
object may he plain, but the means which he
is about to employ are decidedly hazy.

It may be readily understood, therefore, that
Bob watches his companion with great inter-
est, though he does not for an instant forget
that he has a charge to keep. Dora no longer
hangs upon his arm; he must have both of
them free in order to meet the difficulty, if it
comes, with his full strength.

Pauline wonders, too. The words she has
heard Dick utter open her eyes to one fact,
and she takes note of the scowling faces
around them. One glance she gives, and then
devotes her attention to the man she loves.
What is it he means to do, this man who does
not seem to fear any danger so long as he ac-
com pila the work which he sets out to per-

orm

Dick’s sudden notion is a strange one, but

them in the land of the living; a champion
bull-fighter is here a hero, just as in Madrid.
the idol of the populace, until some one comes
along who overturns this brazen image.

Dick knows this as well as the next man,
and it has a bearing on his movements. He
has seen a way by means of which he can
probably win the good will of the crowd and
baffle the plans of the clique. However stagey
it might appear in almost any other country,
it goes here as a mighty dramatic effort.

He has timed himself well. The band of

Pedro Gomez rests for a brief period—they
have gained much applause by previous efforts,
and will soon endeavor to win fresh laurels
with the last selection on the night’s pro-
amme. :
It is at this moment that a man comes clam-
bering up onto the dais or platform that has
been erected for the band—a man whom those
nearest recognize as an American.

roclaiming the astonishment with which they
behold this bold act.

What is he about todo? Is he a madman
who seeks the life of the band leader, or does
he intend to present his thanks, accompanied
perhaps by a substantial preserit, to the man
| who can draw out such wonderful music?

 

; Ah! now he clambers over the railing; with
a bound he is on the platform. Cries arise—
more of the assemblage has discovered him.
What does he now?

Dick turns to face the crowd—he finds a
thousand eyes fixed “Po him, as though he
were some prize animal at a show. He raises
his hand, and his wonderfully powerful voice
rings across the plaza.

“Silencio!”

All noise immediately ceases—they wonder
what this American senor has to say to ac-
count for his singular actions.

Dick takes the bull by the horns—he pro-

ery, and will side with the man who appeals to
this feeling.

He begins by telling them of the situation,
the plot against a brave young woman, simply
because she chances to have inherited a large
share of the El Dorado Mine, describes lightly
some of the persecutions to which shehas been
subjected, and thus gains the good-will and
sympathy of the crowd in the advance.

His manner is fervid, so that he carries them
by storm. Cries of “bravo” are heard, showing
that the people are with him. Not asound has
as yet been heard from Lopez, the schemer, or
any of his Sp ences they are too
amazed at this peculiarly bold movement of
the enemy, and hold their peace because they
do not know what to say.

Having carried his auditors along with him
thus far, Dick now springs a surprise. He
boldly proclaims that one of the leaders in
this miserable scheme against the welfare of a
young girl is a man whom they have known
and admired in the past by reason of what
they considered his bravery, but who is now
sunk so low that it is doubtful whether he
would dare respond to a challenge, and meet
the speaker face to face upon that platform,
without arms, to prove himself a man capable
of defending himself with the weapons nature
gave him.

Dick knows his man well, and doubts not
the result of his speech—it is a consummation
devoutly to be wished, and he has taken the
surest way of accomplishing his end.

Then, with some expression of disdain for
the man who has sunk so low, he gives the
name of Tordas Barcelona, creating something
of a sensation, for the time was, not long ago,
when the inclosure devoted to the baiting of
el toro in the City of Mexico rang with vivas
and bravos for this same athletic bull-fighter.

In the midst of the exclamations a roar is
heard, not unlike that which a mad_ bull
might emit as he sees the red muleta dangled
in front of his eyes. This comes from the man
who has been thus publicly challenged by the
gringo horse-tamer. Barceluna has heard, Bar-
celona is even now pene his way forward,
hurling people right and left in his desire to
reach the stage, and thereby making enemies.
Barcelona is no longer the cool man who used
to stand in front of the bull and await his
chance—he is even now frothing at the mouth
with fury.

Dick sees him coming, and laughs—it is his
desire to so enrage the other that he can
manipulate him as he pleases.

He even makes some remark to the crowd
relative .to the bull-fighter, and from the
laugh that bubbles forth it is evident that he
has the popular esteem on his side to begin
with. Dick does not pin his faith on this—he
has seen the fickle nature of Spanish and
Mexican crowds before now, and if Barcelona
can gain even a temporary advantage over

 

quite suited to capture these people, who de- |
pend a great deal upon excitement to keep |

Surprise keeps them almost quiet, only a)
sort of murmur passing through their midst |

9

him, these same throats that now roar forth
bravos for the Yankee will possibly resound
| with cries, “Muerte los Americanos !”

Now the other reaches the staging—he seizes
|hold and begins to mount, just as Dick did
| before him; seeing which, that worthy takes
,off his light weight coat, and rolls up the
sleeves of his shirt, knowing what an effect
; Such little dramatic actions have at times, and
the shouts that arise prove him correct.

The members of the band, as deeply inter-
ested in this singular game as any present,
move back to make room. Fortunately the
platform is of a generous size, and will allow
the participants in the unannounced battle
free play. ,

Dick does not cast more than one glance in
the direction of his friends, and seeing Paul-
ine with a look of the deepest concern upon
her face, it nerves him for the task to come—
under her eyes he will exert himself as never
before.

A victory over Barcelona wil! carry with it
such popular favor that the game that has
been started on the Alameda willbe blocked
in its inception, and must at least be trans-
ferred to the E] Dorado.

Now Barcelona flings himself over the rail-
ing of the stage—his exertions below have
already winded him in a degree, so that he is
hardly in condition to face one so much at
home with bishands as Dick has proven.

In his present frame of mind the Mexican
does not care—he would rush at one ten times
as stron and agile as Denver. Twice before
of late he has found occasion to regret meet-
ing the American, but this is all forgotten in
his present heat of passion.

Dick awaits his coming in what appears to
be a rather careless attitude. Every eye is upon
these two figures thus brought face to face in
the presence of the multitude, as champions
for their respective causes.

When Barcelona advances he doubles his
fists and makes ready to demolish the man
who has dared him to the combat. Perhaps,
if he can get within easy reach, he may do
considerable execution with the terrible pow2r
he controls, but the trouble will be to get that
near with a man so used to keeping on guard.

Up. come Dick’s hands—his attitude would
delight the eye of a champion in the ring, it
is so easy, so graceful, and yet so full of con-
scious strength. The Mexican appears to be a
human avalanche, hurling itself down the side
of a mountain. Dick is the rock upon which
it will split.

He is no longer inactive—his arm shoots out
and the loud thump is plainly heard. A shout
arises as the gladiator of the bull-penstaggers
back from the concussion—he who has only
been used to hearing cheers in his favor now
learns what it means to feel the sting of
rebuff, the shouts for his antagonist.

He becomes a little more cautious, since
that first staggering blow has knocked a por-
tion of sense into his skull—he waits for an
opening to get in one of his terrific strokes
that will stretch his antagonist senseless at
his feet.

Now Dick begins to play with him as a cat
would a mouse—his superior education in this
line and the agile powers which nature has
given him, make this an easy matter; indeed,
there does not seem to be one in all the crowd
who does not see through the bull-baiting and
enjoy it. Thus is the biter bitten—the man
who has played the hero so many times, and
|convulsed the crowd by his antics with a poor,
worn-out, and confused bull, now finds him-
self placed in something of the same position.

He begins to experience a feeling that up to
this time has been foreign to his nature—fear
becomes a factor in the game. What if this
American downs him before all these people—
will Barcelona, the pride of all Mexico, the
hero of a hundred victories in the arena, ever
dare to lift his head in public again?

He would give years of his life for a chance
to beat this accursed gringo to a jelly in the
| presence of the people. How fiercely he would
;send those powerful fists of his into that face
which mocks him now with a smile—he would
mar the good looks of the other forever.

Back and forward they push, cautiously
|sparring, and each watching for his chance,
| though every uneducated eye can see that Bar-
'celona’s only hope lies in a sudden coup de
| grace, by means of which he will finish his
antagonist.

Dick does not desire to prolong the affair
beyond a reasonable time—he has already done
what he wishes with the bull-fighter—held
him up to the ridicule of the people. The
opportunity presents itself, which he instantly
seizes—those who watch him see him make a
feint which dazzles Barcelona, who attempts
to parry it, when from quite another quarter
comes a SDanGREING blow that strikes him on
the side of the head.

It is a knock-out, a quietus.

The Mexican king of the bull-ring goes reel-
ing back in a most undignified manner, finally
falling in a heap near the edge of the plat-
form. He moves not—insensibility has doubt-
less resulted from the American’s blow.

Dick has kept himself ready, and had the
other gained his feet and attempted to draw a
weapon he would have found himseif con-
fronted by a revolver that meant business.

 

 

{

 

ceeds to invite these. good people into his con- |
fidence, well knowing that they admire bray- |

“Gentlemen,” cries the American, in Span-
ish, “you see victory has declared for the lady.
You are chivalrous—you will wish her success
in dealing with these scoundrels who would
cheat her out of her birthright. Yes, you will
escort us as a guard of honor to the Hotel
Iturbe, so that the friends of yonder groaning
bull-fighter may do no harm. Am I right?”

He has struck the popular fancy, and is the
idol of the hour—a shout arises, and our friends
find themselves convoyed to the caravansary
in triumph by at least two-score of Mexicans,
who cheer the American senor, the ladies, and
even Colonel Bob, until all are safe under the
friendly roof of the hotel, when the excite
ment dies away.

Our friends are there left to obtain what
rest they can after the exciting episode of the
night, and in conkempiairen of what lies before
them, for on the following day they leave the
comforts of the city, and start upon the dan-
gerous road that leads to the mines.

CHAPTER XIX.
ON THE ROAD TO THE MINE.

Dick is awakened on the following morning
by the strange cry of a vegetable vender shout-
ing his wares along the street. Itisearly, but
there is much to be done, so he hurries out
and begins the labor of the day.

Miss Pauline has left everything in his
charge, and when the caravan finally reaches
a point of readiness, about half-past ten, if is
as complete an affair as could well be imag-
ined—every man is well-mounted and armed,
bronchos carry tents and stores, and there are
riding horses for Miss Pauline and Dora,
strong, gentle beasts, capable of doing much
work.

Had Miss Westerly the selection of her
mount she might have purchased an animal
with more spirit in him, for she isa natural
horsewoman, and never more pleased than
when breaking in asteed inclined to be vicious.
She even gives Dick a reproachful look when
shown her steed. That worthy hastens to prove
how wisely he has chosen—their course lies
only now and then through valleys or over
plains—as a general thing it is up the rugged
sides of mountains and over the roughest of
country,

Miss Pauline sees the point, and laughingly
declares her confidence in his wise forethought
—his practical experience in this line ought to
be of great benefit to them all.

BABY BOYS

And Baby girls
Who suffer from
Impure Blood
Should be given

'Hood’s Sarsaparilla

 

 

 

 

 

aya,

 

a

 

 
 

| El Dorado. What

(
|

y

1 - fought bravely, they

 

- beautiful valley of Los

' Tacubaya.

. able to

run in London and

| great an interest at stake for that.

_ as the day promises to be

 

 

; VOL. 47,—N 0, 49,

eed THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3~

 

0

 

So they leave the cit :
s y about an hour before
noon—a small crowd see them off, and quite a
ee cheer the-American senor who afforded
them such rare sport on the previous night.
_About the same time another expedition is
tting ready in a hurry—of course it is
pez and his re aah also bound for the
was begun on the Alameda
yet_ be concluded at the mine, for the
otting Mexican has men there who are under

may

gah
. his thumb, and who will obey his beck and

nod, —
Dick halts his caravan some miles outside
the city for dinner, Sree are still in the
; emedios, though
pends up in the direction of a gap which
eads in the direction of the far away mines.
ay back, they can see the towers and
omes of the capital, on the right perched
upon a hill is the sanctuary, Chapultepec on
the left, and the towns of San Angelo and
en Farther down is the Church of San
eban and the famous tree of Noche Triste,
under which Cortez is said to have wept on
the night of his disastrous retreat from the
City of Mexico, July 1st, 1520.
In plain view are also the cones of the sey-
eral volcanoes, their snow-capped tops stand-
ing out against the sky, and looking intensely
weird in this tropical country which has never
known such a thing as a frost.
When dinner has been eaten, the course is
ie quite a number of miles placed
; — them ere the sun, reaching the horizon
ee » warns them that it is time to gu into
_ Not a trace of civilization remains—the
—they are
pen by what is perhaps the grandes
and wildest scenery on the whole American
eer great masses tower above them,
while below is a defile hundreds of feet in

ree
camping-place is near, and they hasten to
tench it—then the tents are hastily thrown up,
res made, the horses corraled, and all prepa-
rations made for spending the first night out.
oe studies his men—some are strangers to
im, although nr recommended by
others, and he desires to know them as well as
possible, so that in time of trouble he will he
pha station them so as to get the best work

All seems merry enough—provisions are
plenty, the fires cheerful, and ee than one
an sae . is Le ee it might

: 2 grea ississ ‘

ae foreign land. oe eae ey

uen @ request is respectfully made that the
ladies sing—Dick bears it himself from the
Cts oe are Americans in a tree land,
desires. ine is at last induced to gratify their

hen the mighty hills and gulches echo
probably for the first time aie they were
created, with a woman’s song. Pauline gives
them numerous selections, just as they come
to her mind, but the one that takes them by
storm and which is Hem by request, is the
hallad “Comrades,” which was just having its

; Paris at the time our

friends left France for Mexico, and which Dick
joins in rendering. ‘

~ Later on some of the voyagers, sling ham-

mocks; indeed.most of them dread slee
the ground in this country, where sna
poisonous nature, tarantulas,
the like roam about.

Dick has posted his guards, and on this
night it is easy enough to manipulate matters,
since on one side of their camp the trail runs
along what is really a shelf of rock, where one
man can protect them from a surprise.

No precaution is neglected—t ey have too
The hour
grows later and the fires die down; the breeze
rustling the leaves, or perhaps a cry from
some wild beast in the ragged defiles of the

ing on
s es of a
centipedes, and

mountains, is the only sound that comes to the | t

ears of the guards, who, at a specified hour,

' are chan

’ - ee
The a passes without an alarm, and
when morning comes Dick is pleased to hear

_ Miss Pauline declare she slept well upon the

ee oh sea for Dora and herself in one of the
After an early breakfast they start forward,
a hot one, and they
will want to rest several hours—between
twelve andthree. Animated nature is seen-
around them, plenty of gay plumaged birds,

| some deer, and even a bear is sighted across a

barranca.

Colonel Bob catches sight of bruin just when
he is about to enter a stretch of chaparral, and
he throws his rifle to his shoulder and fires,
The bear vanishes from view, but one and all

_ declare that bruin was hit hard, as they could

see him turn ané bite savagely at his side as
he disappeared from sight.

So they go along, making good pro s all
the while, and plunging deeper and deeper
into the wilderness. th nature so lovely,
and prospects so bright, with those they adore
in their company sixteen hours out of each day,
is it any wonder the two comrades are happy ?
_ True, they never pores that danger hovers
over them—that one of the most remarkable
of schemers is pitted against them, and that
even while they sleep he is endeavoring to
weave his spider's web about them.

Eternal vigilance is the price of safety, and
they do not mean to be caught napping.

Thus three days pass—they have met one
mule train coming from the mine laden with
= ingots of the precious metal, for the El

rado is now equipped wi h crushing machin-
ery, the most modern stamp-mill, and all that
the best mines of Colorado could boast of.
This train of pack-mules has a convoy of
soldiers, who have been actually hired by the
owners of the mine to protect their treasures
en route. Think of hiring out soldiers for such

a 12 apa
“We are nearly there,” oars Dick, when they
make camp the third night; “by noon to-

~ morrow we will be at the mine.”

it tion that on this night their camp is
pitched in the valley. A queer formation rises

-in the middle of it, and upon this they have

hit as the place to rest. Tents are raised, fires
lighted as usual, some of the escort fish in the
stream with good success, while others, who

_ are hunters by nature, wander off to see what

game they can scare ap

'“T am told this is called the Valley los Muer-
tos—the Vale of Death—do you know where it
received the name?” asks Pauline, after they
have had supper, and while they sit about the
fire, a cheery blaze that does much to dispel
the darkness. E ;

The conversation has been pretty much of
foreign travel, and each one has something to
relate in connection with the strange things
seen here or there in lands far beyond the
swelling sea,

Dick Denver frowns a trifle at Pauline’s
question, and aoe the look of surprise she
gives him, he laughs lightly, as he says:
~ “YT had hoped you would not hear the name
mentioned—Huggins was indiscreet to speak
of it in your presence. As you suppose, there
is a gruesome story connected with this weird,
uncanny looking, Pons vale.”

“Do tell it,” cries the oat Dora,’ resting
her plump chin on one smail hand and gazing
pensively across the fire at Dick; “I just adore

ag stories and incidents of that nature.
iss Pauline, ask him,” as though a request
from that source cannot fail to receive proper
attention.

Miss Westerly turns her eyes upon Dick,
nods a little, and smiles. That is enough—
although he does so under protest, Dick is
compelled to obey.

“Well, the truth of the matter is, yee
ago, when the. El Dorado was in the Lopez
family, and yielding more than any mine in
Mexico at the time, a party ere toward
the capital with a relay of mules, laden with
the richest ore, almost pure metal, was sur-

rised in this valley by the desperate bandits
ho abounded at that time, and though they.
erished.” —

“All?” gasps the interested Dora.

“Every living soul of that band, save a boy
‘who had secreted himself in the sage bushes
and who saw the whole dreadful carrage.
heard the story from his lips—he was a white-

every detail of the awful massacre. Enough—

let us.talk of something more cheerful. ou

ee now why the Mexicans callit the Death
alley.”

He turns the conversation himself, and does
his best to raise their spirits. In spite of his
yarn-spinning and songs of camp and field, it
is plainly evident that a gloom has settled.
upon the party—even the sprightly Dora sits
and hugs her knees, resting her chin between
them and gazing into the red coals of the fire,
as though she can see some of the awful memo-
ries that haunt this spot where a wholesale
tragedy took place.

Sure % something must hover about the
pee alley that affects minds that are gen-
erally
beneath the upas tree, and inhaling the odor
that steals one’s senses away in the silent
watches of the night.

Dick sees the ladies to their tent—then he
goes in quest of Colonel Bob, whom he finds
smoking a villainous Mexican cigar, which
he takes from his mouth with every puff and
examines with a glance that is solicitous, even
while it speaks of intense disappointment.

Dick can read his comrade tke a book, and
he knows the man from New Mexico has some-
thing weighty on his mind.

“Look here, Bob, .you’re up to your old
tricks.”

“Eh?” exclaims the other, as Dick’s hand
comes down upon his shoulder.

“Hiding something from me—shame on you.”
“Not a bit, old man. I’ve just been waitin
until all was quiet and the ladies had retired.
I knew, as certain as two and two make four,
that you’d be after me for a consultation, and

then I meant to tell you what I knew.”

“Ah! yes, wait until I get some fire—have
one of these weeds, Bob—some I brought with
me from New York.”

“Jupiter! now you hit me where I’m weak,
There, old cheroot, all you’re good for is to

ass the fire along. Well, well, this is com-
ort, solid comfort, bliss beyond comparison.”

“And Dora so near?” *

“Great Scott! I forgot her for the moment—
don’t ever mention that fact to her, my boy.
But, all the same, I’m very comfortable.”

“And yet your mind’s not clear.”

“Ah! there you have it—I’m worried, Dick.
I believe our enemies are about to try and
make history repeat itself.”

“T understand,” says the other, quietly ; “they
will attack us to-night—Senor Lopez and his
gang of disreputable characters. One thing is
certain—the Cityof Mexico was never so clean
as now, since Lopez has carried away eve
rascal whom a few pesos or reals could bribe
into a crime.”

“Yes, they’re coming to-night—several
things tell me so; among others the fact that

ust when we came to this spot, and all were

usily engaged preparing for the night, I
happened to cast a glance backward, and at
the point where the trail ei up the defile
and over the mountain, I hada glimpse of
several mounted men. There was no question
in my mind as to their identity, for I was ex-
pecting thein.” _

“Those words mean something. Why do you
believe we are to be attacked to-night?” pur-
sues Dick, who would make a good lawyer, he
is so quick to seize upon a point.

“ly informant is 'lampa Garcia, one of the
two Mexicans we have in our train. Heis a
first class plainsman, but has been rather wild
in his day, so that Lopez believed he would
join them. Tampa took his mare and was
in doubt what to do. The songs of Miss Paul-
ine have driven the bad devil out of his heart
—he says she made him think :f his earlier
days, of one who is with the angels now. He
threw the senor’s gold into the river we passed
yesterday, and to-day resolved to confess all

o me,
“This is good luck,” remarks Dick.
“So, you see, it was resolved before we left
the city to attack our camp in Death Valley.
Forewarned is forearmed, and we'll see that
the yellow boys are warmly received. acme
they will be taught a lesson never to be for-
tten—to-night old Mexico will learn what
ankee guns, backed by Yankee arms, can do.”

Bob is not boasting—he means eyery word
he says, and the time will soon come when the
proof must be at hand.

“You had an object in not telling me before?”

“Yes—I didn’t want toalarm the ladies—
oannes it would have been better, though, to

ave let them know. You see where. put
their tent—not a stray bullet can strike it.”

“I admire your selection of the ground, Bob
—it couldn’t be bettered. But we have work
to do—the men must be warned, and our de-
fenses improved.”

“That is so—we don’t want to be caught
napping. Come, we will be at it.”

ee ay man in camp is aware of the
coming attack—the sound of axes cara
the timber is heard—some keep guard while
the axmen strengthen their defenses. Dick
ca ore ee the fastenings of the
horses, tied in the mouth of a little blind
canon that runs off from their uy and
makes a natural corral with the help of a few
hoe stretched as a barrier at its mouth. The
animals are precious to their progress, and the
must take no chances of losing them throug
a stampede. j

Between the two leaders, every detail is
looked into—the men all have pienty of ammu-
nition and know how to use'it, ‘There will be
dreadful slaughter when they open on the
desperadoes whom Mexican gold has hired
to attack them.

The desperate senor has indeed adopted des-
perate means when he comes to this. His plans
are working badly, and he has reached the
lowest level such a nature can descend to,
when, utterly my ee cg of human life, he de-
termines to annihilate the little party, if need
be, in order to hae what he desires.

A silénce like unto death ‘hovers over the
camp of the Americans. These brave men
crouch at their posts and wait to grapple with
the cunning foe who will come crawling
through the grass and over the fallen timber
like murderous wolves creeping upon their
lee hh prey.

The fires have all been extinguished, and
now only the starlight remains to give them
light, which, with the eternal hills all around
them, is faint indeed.

When all is made ready the comrades talk
it over, and Dick approaches the tent which
the women occupy. '

“Miss Westerly.” he says, softly.

“Yes,” comes the reply on the instant.

“You had better be warned—we expect an
attack”—a little gurgle is heard from Dora,
always quick totake the alarm—‘“and it might
be wise for you to be ready.”

“We are dressed—we did not retire. Enter,
Dick,” comes in the clear voice he loves.

“What does this mean?” he asks, passing in.

“That I suspected St onel Bob’s
uneasy manner warned me. e waited up—

low commands. Ah! my Dick, you must not
think Pauline Westerly is deficient in common
sense.”

He starts to protest, but she laughs it off.

“Now that we know the absolute truth, tell
us all—keep nothing back,” she commands;
and as Dick is her slave, her adorer, he obeys,
not omitting to relate how her sweet yoon
won the heart of Tampa Garcia back from evil.

Miss Pauline does not seem afraid—the soul
of a heroine occupies that lovely form.

“Tt is a terrible thing to think what the pas-
sions of abad man may bring about, but [ shall
stand up for the rights Heaven gave me. It is
my duty, and if blood be shed, he must take
the blame, this man who has pursued me
across the Atlantic.”

The sound of a single rifle-shot echoes
through the valley, instantly followed by a
loud shriek.

“That means business. They come! Keep
in the tent, I beg of you,” and with the words
Dick Denver bounds Pte the ne
eager to get in line and inspire his men to do
their duty.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
> 0 re

 

 

 

_ bearded man when he told it, but I could see

Don’t become constipated. Take BEECHAM’S PILLS.

him shudder asif again he saw in imagination |

y—it is, in a measure, like sleeping]

walk in amon

then we heard the bustle, the chopping, the| pj;

 

WOMAN’S LOVE AND MAN’S.

BY ROSE TERRY COOKE,

How does a woman love? Once and no more,
Though life forever its loss deplore,

Deep in sorrow, or want, or sin, —

One king reigneth her heart within;

One alone, by night and day,

Moves her spirit to curse or pray ;

One voice only can call her soul

Back from the grasp of death’s control ;

. Though loves beset her and friends deride,
Yea, when she smileth another’s bride,
Still for her master her life makes moan,
Once is forever; and once alone.

How does aman love? Once for all;

The sweetest voices of life may call,
Sorrow daunt him or death dismay,

Joy’s red roses bedeck his way,

Fortune smile or jest or frown,

The cruel thumb of the world turn down,
Loss betray him or gain delight,

Through storm or sunshine, by day or night,
Wanidering, toiling, asleep, awake,

‘Though souls may maddeu or frail hearts break ;
Better than wife, or child, or pelf,

Once and ferever, he loves—himself.

his try Wil Not be Pash in Bator

He Mysterio Malley

9

 

NICK CARTER'S U. 8. GOVERNMENT CASE.
By the Author of “NICK CARTER.”

(‘*THE MYSTERIOUS MAIL ROBBERY” was commenced in
No. 33. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents]

‘CHAPTER XLV.
FACE TO FACE WITH MATTHEW PRIME.

The detective made all haste to the place
which Prime had appointed for their meeting.

He was within a hundred yards of the house
when he came to a sudden pause.

“By Jove!” he muttered, “I never thought of
that !”

Then he indulged ina low whistle of per-
plexity.

He had suddenly recalled the scene that had
taken place between Ida Thorne and himself,
when she accused him of blackmail.

“Tf she knew so much, she n.ust have told
Prime,” he muttered, “and therefore the
scoundrel was playing with me when he made
me believe that he took me for Moro,

“The sign he made, the Chinese coin, the
pretended confidence, were fakes, and it was
all done to lead me intoa snare,. I see it all
now,

“He knew who was with me; he knew it
was my assistant. He knew he. would be
followed, and meant to be.

“He knew that I did not know where the
‘old place’ was located and relied upon that
fe keep me from interviewing Ida Thorne

ere. :

“By Jove! I am walking right intoa nicely
laid trap, and if my common sense hadn’t
come to me just asit did, I wouldn’t have
given a fig for may life, an hour from now.

“I wonder if the villain spotted Chick and
ot him foul? He ought to be somewhere near,
f he is ali right.”

But Chick was not anywhere near.

Nick spent considerable time in looking for
him, but without success. sy

“T must change my tacties,” he mused. “I'd
wager a good deal that the mail-robbers are
all there, in that house, waiting for me to
them in the character of Moro.

“They are all laughing in their sleeves over
the fun they will have with me.

“Humph! we will see about that.

“They think I have nibbled the bait and
will stalk boldly in upon them,” he continued
a moment later, “and therefore they won’t be
keeping a very strict watch.”

The detective ed through the gate and
keeping himself well concealed among the
shrubbery, drew nearer to the house.

Three o’clock had struck in a distant tower
twenty minutes before, and he knew that
Prime would begin to wonder if the pseudo
Moro was oom i

There were lights in several of the windows,
but the curtains were drawn, so the detective
could see nothing but shadows beyond them,

Suddenly as he watched, the front door
opened, and a figure * ared silhouette
against the pernerpone of light,

He recognized it instantly.

It was the man Bill Spaulding.

“William,” mused the detective, a sudden
and brilliant idea occurring to him, “if you
will just take a walk out here for a moment,
my obligation to you will be monumental.
Come, William, come!”

As if in answer to the detective’s unspoken
thought, Bill closed the door behind him and
stepped out into the crisp night air.

e paused again upon the doorstep and Nick
could see that he was occupied in filling a

1 .

' Pivschtty he lighted if and then strolled on
again like one who enjoys the invigorating
influence of fresh air.

He followed the path beside which the detec-
tive was lying concealed and every step brought
him nearer to the crouching figure so eagerly
awaiting him.

“Come, William, come!” repeated Nick,
under his breath; and William came nearer
and nearer.

In the detective’s pocket the strangler’s cord
still “reposed, and he drew it forth as Bill
Spaulding came nearer,

“Come, William! Come a _ little closer.
Closer yet; so! Now in a minute more, you
will meet with a surprise.”

He did.

Nick had been thrown in contact with stran-
glers sufficiently so that he needed no points
regarding the use of the strange weapon that
they employ.

The cord was in his hand, ready for instant
utility.

Spaulding reached the desired spot.

A shadow, silent and dark, rose up behind
m.

There was a swish as the cord whirled
through the air, but before Bill could cry out
it had encircled his neck, and he sank to the
ground beneath the weight of the detective,
as though he had been shot.

His eyes started from their sockets and his
jaws opened.

That was what Nick wanted.

No sooner, did the man’s jaws fall apart,
than Nick forced a ang Detreen them.

Then, still holding the cord with one hand
he placed irons upon the villain’s wrists and
ankles.

“There!” he muttered, unwinding the cord,
“T’ve got you where I want you, William.”

He did not pause to say more then, but pick-
ing the man up in his arms as though he were
a babe, the detective hurried away through
the shrubbery with his burden, never pausing
until he reached a vine-covered summer-house
that he had noticed in the rear of the grounds.

The night was crisp and cold, the air clear,
but there was no moon,

Summer-houses, in winter, are desolate
spots, and Nick had no fear of being disturbed.

“William,” he said, as he deposited his bur-
den upon the floor after closing the door
behind him, “I am going to remove that im-

 

you first, that if you make any effort to cry
out or give an alarm, it will be the last effort
you will ever make. Do you catch on?”

Bill nodded. :

“Very good. Out it comes.”

The gag was removed, and the detective
smiled down upon his captive.

7 aes like Moro, don’t I?” he asked.

*Yeam :

“But you know I am not?”

“ Yes.

“Do you know who I.am?”

“ Vou"

“ Who?”

“Nick Carter.” .

“Right. They’re waiting for me in there,
aren't they?”

on on.

“How many of them?”

“A dozen or fifteen.”

“Easy, William, easy. Try that answer
again,”

”

ive.
“That's better. Is Prime there?”
“Yes, :

“And Arthur Ford?”

“Yes »”

“Do the others belong to the regular gang,
William?” ;

“ Yes.”

‘They’ve got one prisoner in there now,
haven’t they?”

“No,”

“Try that answer again, also, William.
Remember, I’m posted.”

“Well, yes, then.”

“Thanks. What have they done with him?”

“Nothin’,”

“Sure?”

“ Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“In the cellar.”

“Have they hurt him?”

“T said no, once.”

“Right. Tell me why.”

“They’re waiting for you.” :
ae They want us together, eh? Is that
i ”

“ Yaa.” 3

“William, they shall be accommodated.”

a ceased asking questions and began to
work.

He washed the stain from his face and
restored his usual appearance.

“It’s rather cold here, to ask you to
undress, William, but I want your outer gar-
ments,” he said, presently. “I wish I had time
to disinfect them, but I haven’t.”

Bill scowled and then grinned, but he
obeyed.

The two men changed clothes; and then
Nick drew out his little lantern and touched
the button. ‘

Forth from his pockets came the required
wigs and paraphernalia necessary for the
change.

He worked under disadvantages, but he
worked mata nevertheless. ‘

At length the operation was completed.

“Will I do, William?” he asked.

“Td like rye picter.. I’d call is my twin
brother,” said the mail-robber.

“Thanks. Now I’ll have to gag you again.
I’m sorry, but needs must. You'll be chilly,
but you’ll get over it. So long, William; see
you later.”

Nick, leaving his captive in the summer-
house, svarted away toward the house
wherein the mail]-robbers were momentarily
expecting his arrival. :
ut they did not look for him in that guise,
nor expect the surprise with which they were
soon to meet. ¢

Nick reached the door, opened it and passed
through, finding himself, at last, face to face
with Matthew Prime.

,

CHAPTER XLVI.
JUST IN TIME.

“Hello, Bill! Where’s the cop?” was the
salutation that greeted Nick as he passe
through the door and came face to face with
Matthew Prime.

“Hain’t seen him,” replied Nick, imitating
the voice of Bill ae

“Perhaps hesmelt a mice and isn’t coming.”

“Mebby so.”

walt how, we've got the other one.”

“Sure.”

Roe glanced keenly at the man before

im.

He was as shrewd a scoundrel as ever
walked, and Nick felt that there had been
some mistake in personating the disguise of
Bill Spaulding which had partially put Mat-
thew Prime on his guard.

“Where did you go when you went out,
Bill?” asked Prime.

“For a smoke.”

“See anybody?”

‘MN6.”

“You lie!”

cee
But Prime had leaped back and drawn a
revolver.

“At him, boys!” he cried to his companions.
“He's the cop and he’s played the same game
with Bill that he did with Moro.”

The surprise was so great that the men were
slow to obey.

They had not the slightest suspicion that
the man before them was not Bill Spaulding
until their leader shouted out the intelligence.

The momentary hesitation was natural.

Their first idea was that Prime ae

The second of time which elapsed before
they recovered their wits, gave Nick a chance.

His hand darted into his pocket.

It seized his revolver, and without taking
time ta draw the weapon, he performed one of
those marvelous snap-shots through the
pocket, for which he was so celebrated,

The ball was aimed at Matthew Prime.

Nick did not mean to kill his man; only to
disable him.

But leaden bullets are often eccentric in
their actions.

The ball struck Prime on the hand which
held the pistol he had already raised with
which to kill the detective.

Somehow it glanced and took a different
course, entering the robber’s right side.

With a loud groan he toppled forward and
fell to the floor,

At the same instant the other men, four in
number, leaped forward.

Every one of them had drawn a weapon.

But as they sprang toward the detective, he
leaped toward them.

The initiative in a quarrel or a fight always
gives the advantage.

Two of them fired their revolvers, but the
bullets went ‘wide of the mark and Nick
remained unhurt.

‘He also fired twice as he sprang toward
them.

One of the robbers went down, but the others
threw themselves with all their savagery upon
the detective.

The three outlaws and the detective fell to
the floor together in a confused heap.

Legs, arms, and bodies were tangled in an
agglomerate mass.

nives flashed in the lamp-light, curses and
oaths filled the air. j

Exerting all his gigantic strength the detec-
tive threw off the men who were atop of him
and once more regained his feet.

His fist shot out like a battering-ram and
one of the mail-robbers went down like a
stricken bullock. ,

Nick now had but two assailants, but the
time lost in striking the blow he had just
delivered, gave them a chance,

They leaped forward, both at the same
instant.

They fell upon him together.

One man grasped him by either arm, and
hung on, not attempting to strike a blow, but
only trying to drag him down.

Even his great strength could not cope
against such odds.

He used his legs with all the strength of
which he was capable, but with no avail.

Lower, still lower they drew him toward
the floor.

 

t pediment to your speech, but I want to tell{ Of the five who had begun the attack, but

two remained, but they had got him at a dis-
advantage.

Lower, still lower.

Nick knew if once they got him upon the
floor, there would be no hope for him.

They would murder him as they would a

| cat.

Even his mighty strength was giving out.

He knew in a moment more all would be
over.

His knees touched the floor, when from the
hall-way there suddenly sounded a loud noise.

It was a pounding and what seemed a chorus
of voices at the same time.

“Comeon! We’ve got em! Let none escape !”
were words tha®came to the struggling trio.

Nick’s assailants heard them.

For one instant only they forgot the great
strength and agility of the man with whom
nar were strugyuling. ;

The man who clung to Nick's right arm, let
go his hold to reach for a weapon.

It was a fatal move for him,

No sooner was the arm free, than it shot out
with terrific force. :

The man who had held it so tenaciously was
stricken under the ear, and with a groan, he
to ee over on the floor, senseless.

t esame arm continued its deadly work,
and the second blow was struck with the
quickness of lightning.

Dazed, the fellow who had Nick on the left
side, loosened his hold and the next instant
he was seized by the throat and forced back-
ward while blow after blow was rained upon
his face until he sank to the floor insensible.

Just at that instant the man whom Nick
had struck first, staggered to his feet.

But with a bound the detective reached him
and another telling blow laid him flat upon
the floor again,

Then Nick gazed around him, :

Of the five men whom he had found in the
room, two had been shot down and three
pounded into insensibility by the “Little
Giant.”

It was a wonderful feat, but luck and
a had favored the efforts of the detec-

ive.

The noise outside still continued.

It sound2d like pounding and stamping and
voices shouting.

What was strange was that the voices came
no nearer.

The detective darted into the hall-way, and
he speedily found that the noises came from
a door at the rear end,

He hastened toward it.

A glance told him the story.

A panel had been knocked from the door,

Behind it, upon the cellar steps was Chick,
still bound hand and foot and unable to go to
Nick’s assistance.

He had heard the noise of the struggle, and
he had heard enough from the men since his
capture to know that they meant to kill Nick
Carter that night.

He had managed to tear the gag from his
mouth.

Bound as he was he had arn es up the
stairs, and with his head he had butted out
the panel of the door.

Then, finding that it was impossible for
him to get farther, he had pounded with his
knuckles and shouted with all his strength as
though assistance were at hand,

The result we have seen.

His action had doubtless saved Nick’s life,
for the noise had made the assailants momen-
tarily forget themselves. :

A Ieac slashes with a knife rescued Chick
from the bands which confined him, ‘

Then the two detectives hastened again to
the room where the fight had taken place.

The mail-robbers were bound securely—that
is, three of them.

One was dead, and the leader, Matthew
Prime, was so severely wounded that he was
unconscious and likely to remain so for some
time.

When ali were secure, Bill Spaulding, shiv-
ering with the cold, was brought from the

q|summer-house and laid beside his compan-

ions.
“Good job, that; eh, William?” said Nick.
“You fellows won’t rob any more mail-bags
for a few years, anyhow.
“Come, Chick, we must search the house.”
Why detail the particulars of that search.
Mildred Thorne was found in a room at the
top of the house, and liberated. She was safe
and well, though she had. Jost hope of ever
escaping from the clutches of Matthew Prime.
en Nick assured her that she was free,
and that he would take her to her home, she
burst into tears of joy.
The miracle wag that she remained un-
harmed ; but Matthew Prime really loved her,
and that, perhaps, explains it.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

—>- oa

“CASTLES IN SPAIN.”

Honore de Balzac, the great French novelist,
had a great craving for grandeur and a splen-
did manner of life; and while he was still a
poor and struggling author, he often went
about assuming, apparently with a sort of
innocent simplicity of mind, that he lived in
the lap of luxury.

A French writer recounts an anecdote of
Balzac which illustrates this characteristic.
The narrator once had occasion to visit the
French publisher Charpentier. He was ushered
into the publisher's room, and found him in
conversation with a somewhat stout but not
very elegant man, whom the newest visitor
did not know.

“Yes, my dear Charpentier,” said the stout
man, nonchalantly, “it is going to be a com-
plete surprise to my mother; she doesn’t
know a thing about it. You see, the chateau
and grounds are laid out in this way.”

He traced some imaginary lines with his
cane on the floor?

“Here will stand the house—a noble struc-
ture in the style of the sixteenth century. It
will be ornamented with superbly vermicula-
ted stones at the corners, and also at the
doors and windows. Great cornices. will
appear at the sky-line, decorated with archi-
tectural bull’s-eyes, and surmounted with
bouquets of lead. ;

“Besides the ordinary living-rooms of the
house, there will be two floors entirely occu-

ied with sleeping rooms, so that the chate-

aine may lodge her own establishment prop-

erly, and that there may be sufficient room for
me and for a large party of friends when we
come out from Paris.”

The man went on with a long list of details
of his establishment, his servants, his wine-
cellars, his deer park, and so on, to all of
which Charpentier listened with great respect.
The man went over a great many of the
smaller and more luxurious accessories of a
rich man’s estate, greatly to the wonder and
admiration of the poor man of letters who was
listening.

By and by the talker went away, with a
grand air, and the other visitor ventured to ask:

“Who was that gentleman?”

“That was Balzac,” said* Charpentier.

“Balzac! Why, he must be making a great
deal of money out of his novels!”

The publisher smiled.~

“Well,” said he, “what do you suppose he
came infor? It was to get me to advance him
five hundred francs on his next volume—which
isn’t written yet—to pay his board bill!”

“No dust. on this Line” is emphatically true of the
Long Tsland Sound route of the Fall River Line.
One may sif_ for hours in the coo), clear, open air
upon the decks of the great steamboats of this Line,
without a thought of discomfort from heat, dust, or
Summer influences.

 

 

 

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NEW YORK, OCTOBER 1, 1892.

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MRS. FLEMING’S BEST STORY,

REPUBLICATION OF THE GREAT

Masterpiece of Fiction,

‘THE INTENSELY EXCITING ROMANCE ENTITLED

WEDDED, YEE NO WH

A LEAP IN THE DARK.

By MRS. MA¥ AGNES FLEMING,
Author of ‘Carried by Storm,” **Norine’s Revenge,”
“sShaddeck Light,” Etc.

$ 5.00

 

 

To gratify the request of numerous patrons of the
NEW YORK WEEKLY, we have decided to republish
the brilliant and fascinating story named above. It
originally appeared in this paper twenty-one years
ago, aided over forty-three thousand copies to our
circulation, and was universally hailed as

A LITERARY GEM,
THE
AUTHOR’S MOST ENTRANCING WORK.

In every scene, in every speech, in every action, it
is intensely real. The characters seem living per-
sonages, and are not the strutting and mouthing
effigies so often seen in fiction. Phe plotis extremely
captivating, a marvel in ingenious development, and
not at all improbable.

Any person who reads the opening installinent will
be sure to continue the story: to the end, and then
agree with us that “WEDDED, YET No Wren,” is
indeed

A PEERLESS ROMANCE,

The initial chapters of this grand story will be
given NEXT WEEK. y ,

As there is likely to be a lively demand for Mrs.
FLEMING’S great work, we urgently request the
newsdealers to each order a few extra copies of the
New YORK WEEKLY, that new patrons may be
promptly supplied.

A NEW FALL SUrt.
BY KATE THORN.

No person in the whole world ought to
excite more sympathyethan the woman whose
mind is exercised about getting a new fall
suit.

For, while.she is engaged.in planning the
said suit, she is in about as great a pickle as
a mortal woman can be in, and survive, with
reason intact.

The fact that she generally lives through it,
ought to be conclusive proof that our ancestors
have erred in considering her the “weaker
vessel.”

As soon as ever the mind of a woman be-
comes stirred up upon the subject of a new

suit, she neglects her home duties, and leaves
the bread pans and skillets to soak; and lets
the spaces under the beds and bureaus go
without sweeping, because she has to go out
and perambulate the street in order to see how
the ladies are making up their fall garments.

She puts on her summer linen or percale—-
how tired she is of it! and starts out! She fol-
lows every fashionably dressed: lady a square
or two to observe just how all these trimmings
and flutings are put.on; and the fashionable
lady knows ‘it, and enjoys it, and takes par-
ticular care to hold up her dress:in just such
a way that the trimmings cannot be distinctly
seen; and then she hugs herself, figuratively,
and congratulates herself on having done it!

The lady in quest of a Fall Suit stops before
every store where ladies’ garments are dis-
played, and looks in. the window. You can
always recognize her by the way she steps
back and to one side, in order to get the best
light. And when the window is misty she
will flatten her nose on the glass, and ‘never
mind that the muddy feet of a little newsboy
are resting on her train, while he attentively
studies the taking titles of the new stories
exhibited in the window of the news-room
next door.

She counts the number of ruffles and puffs,
and mentally calculates how much material
it will take to get them up. ,

Shall she have an overskirt, or a polonaise?
That is a very grave and momentous question,
and demands a great deal of deliberation. No
true woman would decide upon that precipi-
tately.

She goes home and thinks it over. She asks
Mrs. A, and Mrs. B. and Mrs. C., but these
ladies are as undecided as she is, and then,
she asks Dear Charles—only to receive for an
answer that he doesn’t care a straw what
she-has! For Dear Charles is reading the news-
paper, and learns that silver mining stock is
on the decline, and having large interests
therein, it is no wonder that his mind cannot
be brought to consider properly the relative
merits of overskirts and, polonaises.

His wife privately calls him a brute, but she
doesn’t speak out to that effect, because he is
the good fairy who is to furnish the money for
the Fall Suit, and she must keep on the right
side of him until the check is forthcoming,
There is a great deal of diplomacy needed in
married life, you know.

Next morning she takes a fresh start, and
orders bakers’ Bread and pies for dinner as she
goes down town.

When women get upon the business of plan-
ning their Fall Suits, bakers . and confection-
ers are in luck.

Almost everybody she finds has ona new

 

suit! How elegant they are! So new, and so

sweet! The newest fashion’ is always the
most charming, no matter how absurd it
may be! :

Such flouncing and puffing, and such folds!
Enough to turn’the head of any woman! Jet
alone the woman who is determined on having
something a great deal more elegant than any-
thing around her!

It generally takes a week or two to bring her
ideas to a focus, and then she goes to. her
dressmaker, and they have a lengthy confer-
ence. The number of yards of éloth required is
reckoned up, along with the probable cost, and
the cost of making and trimming, and Dear
Jharles comes down manfully with the asked-
for amount, and the shopping takes place.

She has to expend about ten dollars more
than she expected to, but that is an inevitable
consequence in shopping.

And the suit will beso stylish when it is
done!

The dressmaker lays herself out upon. it,
and in consequence about five more yards of
material are required. It takes so much to
make those French folds and pipings!

At last it comes home, in season for Sunday.
Strange that so many of our ladies want their
new suits for Sunday! Asif piety only flour-
ished best in new suits!

For fifteen minutes after the new suit, is
donned the owner is happy—by that time bit-
terness begins to mingle in her cup, for she
has started for church, and so has every other
woman who owns a new suit, and thereaea
full score of “rigs” on the promenade more
elegant than hers, and she feels old, and
mean, and shabby, and wishes she had edged
her folds with lace, and had her buttons two
sizes larger !

And she goes home from church disgusted
with the rector’s platitudes, and out of sorts
generally, and finishes off with a headache
and a bowl of hot peppermint tea.

All on account of a new Fall Suit.

- Getting Mad—How to Avoid It,
BY kus ld HARKER,

“Bring your mind to bear.”

“Can a man will not toget angry?” asked my
friend.

“Certainly he can. You are a salesman; and
you have a temper-trying customer. You know
that it will not do to get angry. ‘You would
lose your situation if. you answered back a
single discourteous syllable, .So there you
stand, and simply will not get mad. Eh?”

“To be sure. Yet I am angry, inside, all the
while. My will cannot touch that inner fire.”

“Pardon me; but you are wrong, If you will
not to say or do the smallest thing or word, in
indulgence of your passion, you soon find
yourself getting cool. You, begin shortly to
laugh inside at the petty meanness and provo-
cations of Mrs, Moneybags, your trying cus-
tomer... When once a man’s insides are fairly
laughing, his outside must at least smile, -
tell you, my, young friend, you will find that
the habit of willing not to be ruffled by a cus:
tomer will grow upon you. If you. become a
first-class salesman, you will.be a man of iron
will... You will become capable of smiling and
smiling, though, you have a stomach-ache. or
your customer has one, though you are hun-

ry, have on tight boots, are short of the mar-
cet, or what not. .That’s the will for a first-
class man.”

“But,” the young fellow objected, “after a
weary day of this sort of will-strain, when a
man comes home at night. he must unbend”

“You mean that a man may use his wife as
a foil. On her, patient, loving creature, and
a man’s. best earthly friend;,;om her, who has
also borne her burden. during. the day, who
also has nerves.and knows fatigue; on. her,
the mother of his children. and wakeful
watcher,in his own sickness;,.on her, who
cannot discharge him nor turn away from him
because of the marriage-bond, this silly fool
may vent his spleen. e may ‘rip and tear
things’ ‘about: home,’ He may; .for he is rent-
payer and bread-winner, the defender (2) and
the lawful head of the household, Yes, he may
‘get mad’ at home—if he is an ass.” wei

Ah, sir, what if your employer should ring
the door-bel} just then? What ifyou. knew your
neighbors were looking in on you? Could not
your will stay your anger, to preserve your good
name? Let an angry man. think, that his chil-
dren are spectators, And.who would not want
the respect of his own children? Iam writing
to decent men, and not to coarse brutes. Let
a man think that God is looking at. him.
Remember the vows you made to this woman,
when as yet you were but man and.maid. «I
believe that any but a drunken or insane man
can still will to,be pleasant, after trying busi-
ness hours and at home.

This whole trouble of .a quick temper grows
by what it feeds on. A very small child, boy
or girl, who “gets mad easy,” should have it
spanked and whipped out of him. As he grows
to be a youth it should generally be laughed
and shamed out of him... Every now and then
his getting mad will cause the youth trouble;
let him suffer for his silly anger; let him
smart for it; don’t help him with pity. Asone
comes to young manhood and, womanhood,
reason with him or her. . Inspire them with
a self-respect. Tell them that getting mad is
like toeing in, a. matter of habit; and like
toeing out is the recovery, a matter of better
habit. You will hear people say, as. if. it
excused them, “I always Dati a quick temper.”
It is a lies, One child.is born .with about the
same degres of “temper” that every other was.
But the trouble is, some had it spanked,
shamed, curbed, instructed into decent con-
trol.. While here and there is a fool, he-fool
or she fool, who has cultured this habit of
getting mad till it is almost an insanity.

One’ way to. keep. one’s temper is, simply—
don’t get mad. You people of quick temper
seem to expect the. rest of us to make all
allowances for you; to forgive you. promptly,
and generally without the asking; for you are
ashamed to ask forgiveness so often, and gen-
erally come sneaking about when your fit. is
over, or smiling with no word of apology.
Confound you! Who are you, to have. such
privileges? You expect the rest of us to be
uniformly kind, and patient, and sweet. Sup-
pose you do the same—or get out. And you
would have to get out, if. you: were not our
son or husband, or sister or brother. If a
stranger were to kick about .in our house as
you do, in your fits, he would be kicked off
the front door-step. _ But, then, you “always
had a quick temper.” Pshaw! Then cure it!

“Oh, pity me! I was made so,”

If you sincerely believe that, why not go to
your Maker, and ask Him to make you over
again? Not that I confess that your temper is
the Creator’s fault... Yet, granting that. you
were born so, why not seek from God “the
new birth?” As to the heated day the shower
is; so.is the thought of the gentle Jesus when
passion vexes a believer’s soul, Can Iexplain
how? No more than I, can explain. how light
drives away darkness; how thirsty. flowers
drink dew; or, a babe grows..calm upon a
mother’s breast, as on no other. breast. But,
still, it is true that.no man can pray with
faith and sincerity, and keep his anger burn-
ing; it goes out like fires in rain: No man can
own the Thorn-crowned as his Lord, and,
closing his eyes, look away to Him, all-suffer-
ing in His agony, yet gentle as a lamb to the
slaughter led—none can see Him thus but to
melt with pardon toward enemies and to feel
cured of this infirmity of anger.

I have seen, a spring, amid the Virginia
hills, where a thousand men stooped down to
drink. Each soldier of them, in his turn, drew
near and bent the knee. Each face was scarlet
in the summer’s deathly heat that day. Each
brow wasfurrowed with the anger of the heat,
and the cheeks ugly with hot haste. For many
terrible hours the regiment had been. without
water, till a frenzy drovethem like a herd.

2

 

‘the window, and going to him.

«coe THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. |

The spring being small, the thousand drank
one by one. Into those sweet waters a thou-
sand frowns fell off,,and yet the water did not
frown. The bubbling surface of that spring
reflected a ‘nical contorted looks; but
themselves laughed as. merrily. at the end.
Curses of impatience fell from aba lips that
kissed the waters; but the same lips spoke
next a blessing. So Christ, the Water of Life.
What a long procession of passion-tossed men
have setae looked up into His calm brow
and lost the fever of their rage the instant!
He has met the man with murder in his heart
and taken out the thirst for blood. ‘He has
drawn the passion for revenge; drowned out,
with His looks of love, ten thousand hatreds;
turned bitter to sweet in myriads of flashing
eyes, in these long centuries. Yet He himself
is ever the same gentle Jesus. » Try it, my
quick-tempered friend. Look to Jesus:

“Nay, but I cannot think of Christ: when I
am mad.” ‘

You can. The human will is strong enough
for that. Resolve on, your life, with a tremen-
dous effort of the will, to have one look toward
Christ. before you are swept away by your
anger. Turn toward Him, as the immigrant
turns his look backward while the ship moves
from the shore. Snatch the look, as a lover to
the window of his betrothed, from the pass-
ing regiment. For in that look you shall be
saved. Youshall not.beswepton,. It shall hold
you there. Try my antidote for this poison of
sudden anger. I repeat it, You eannot be
thinking reverently and intently of. that Pa-
tient One, and yet_kindling in anger. You
cannot |“get |mad” ) when engaged in! devout
prayer. You willfind it hard to “get mad, and

et madder” reading the story of the Good

amaritan, or the rich young man over whom
Jesus wept, or sitting the cross. » Purchase
a small pocket copy of the New Testament.
The instant your “mad fit” comes on, turn to
the narrative of Christ smitten in the face. and
spit upon, Have the place marked, . Use the
antidote with dispatch, as you would medicine
for a cobra’s bite. As you read, pray—pray as
earnestly as, you would if .you sag Pe ie the
serpent’s virus curdling through your veins,
You can be cured.

And when you think of all the mischief your
propensity to “get mad” has caused you and

our best friends; how hateful it makes you;

ow it may yet make you a murderer—and
has, in thought; when you'think how it causes
you to curse God and lay up hell for yourself
-—is it not worth trying this sure cure?’

4

£ —_ ———__—_- e

A RACE FOR A WIFE,
BY ESTHER SERLE KENNETH,

A woman’s glove of pink kid, fragrant and
round with the impress of the white hand
that wore it! Shall I tell you why I keep it?

Her little pet dog, Folly, made our acquaint-
ance down at Fairlands, where I had gone for
a season’s shooting, for the pampered creat-
ure had got himself lost in the woods, and I
found him, and on learning that he belonged
to Miss Victoria Wheaton, had him restored
to her. She was a little brunette beauty of
sixteen, the only child in the rich old man-
sion of Fairlands, and from: being a pet of
mine she became, in less than a year, my
lady-love. ;

I was a grave old graybeard.. I don’t know
what the child found in me to love, but I

loved her for her fresh beauty, sweet vivacity,
and warmth. She came into my autumn life
like spring-time rain, My world-weary heart
renewed its youth, and forgot its days of
gloom. Ah! Heaven knows I tried to bless her
who had thus blessed me. Ae ms

I was arich man. Her parents favored my
suit, If they were surprised, they were no
less pleased that Victoria had chosen me.
They appreciated the value of bank-stock and
real estate, of which my darling knew little
and cared less. But “I haliive she took pride
inthe favor in which the world held me. She
was proud to be Dr Alban’s bride. After our
engagement Victoria’s mother stipulated that
we should not be married for a year—not until
her eighteenth birthday.

I was in popular practice in the city, and
could not beat Fairlands as much as I wished;
therefore it was agreed that Victoria was.to
spend her winters with her Aunt Mai Reh
town, that we might enjoy the donee ts an
operas together, and it was’ at her aunt’s
house in the city that I introduced Sherring-
ton to her. : Ps Se se oe arts

I don’t know how I came to be so decéived
in the fellow. I knew _him to_be dissipated

: pa!

and. unprincipled, but I pitied him out of a
liberal feeling born of long. knowledge of the
world and my own happiness, of which I often
felt myself unworthy, though Heaven knows
I had never been a dissolute man, and I
thoyght the influence of a good and refined
woman would benefit him. So I called with
him at Mrs. Lynn’s, one morning, and Vic-
toria and her.aunt both received him cor-
dially, and invited him to come again. The
winter season was nearly at an end, and when
Victoria returned home he began visiting at
Fairlands, and I met him there without a
thought of mischief.

Fairlands was ten miles from the city. I
kept a favorite horse just for my drives out
there. His name was. Emperor—a_ glossy,
black, royal-looking fellow, the white star
upon whose forehead Victoria’s rosy lips often
kissed, for he was gentle as fleet. There was
not a road for five miles around her home that.
Victoria and f had not traveled cozily behind
our,fayorite, and most of them many times
over,

As IT have said, Victoria was pretty, and
she. was an heiress, Joe Sherrington was poor,
and lived by his wits. It never occurred to me
that. he envied me my engagement to her. I
would as soon have thought of another man
trying to win her if she had been my wife as
at that time.

But he was a handsome, lively fellow, and
would haye pleased many women’s fancy. I
heard it remarked, too, that his blonde gurls
looked more suitable beside Victoria’s dark-
tressed young head than my gray one. But
age did not matter in this case—we loved
each other truly, and Sherrington knew it.

He was not so unwise as to attempt to win
her from me. He formed a deeper plot. .

Our wedding-day was approaching, I recol-
lect, now, that on one pretext or another
Sherrington was. daily at Fairlands. I had
driven out. for a tea-party, when toward the
close of the afternoon it was found that Vic-
toria was missing from the company.

“She is in her chamber,” suggested one.

“She is in the garden, perhaps,” said her
Aunt Margaret.

“Or hid in the old oak chest, like the lady
of the mistletoe bough song,” said somebody.

But she was not in her chamber, or in the
garden, or anywhere to be found. ~

Where ,is Joe Sherrington?” asked Mr.
Wheaton. : ree

He, too, was gone, and the merry suggestion
that they had eloped together was raised.

I paid no attention at. first. Then I beca:ne
annoyed that. Victoria should be absent herself
from the company. As I went to one of the
low French windows of the villa, the coach-
man, Archie, came upon the piazza. :

“Mr. Alban,” he asked, “don’t you know
that ae Sherrington has gone to try Em-
peror?”,

The young man looked at me seriously, and
spoke in a low voice.

“To try Emperor?” I replied, stepping out at

“What do

you mean, Archie?”
“I’m sure I thought you knew, sir. He
came into the stable more than two hours ago,
and said you had given him eae to try
Emperor on the turnpike. harnessed him
into the buggy, and he has gone with Miss
Wheaton——” e i

| kall me “Yung

“He asked her to go with him. She objected
on accorpnt of her dress, but he said they
would ‘only drive around the square and be
gone ten minutes. So she consented, and he
jumped out and took a lot of shawls from the
hall and put them in the buggy, and—and
they’ve been gone almost three hours, sir. Per-
haps something has happened,”
| Heaven knows why the whole truth flashed
over me. I had been unsupicious enough be-
fore. ButI turned to Aunt Margaret, who
had followed me, and said:

“He has run away with her!”

She grew scarlet and white.

“Hush,” said “Go back quickly, and
invent some plausible story for Victoria’s
absence. Say she has been called away by the
sudden sickness of a friend, or that she her-
self.is sick. When I'am missed, explain that
the dangerous condition of a patient recalled
me to the city. Archie, harness the best horse
in the stable for me.” ;

“Doctor, where are you going?” asked Aunt
Margaret. ,

“To follow them.”

“You do not think that Victoria has—has
run’ away with him?” she whispered, with
chattering teeth.

“No, he has stolen her.”

But the best horse in Mr. Wheatsn’s stable
was no match for my thoroughbred Emperor.
The man, who mistrusted the truth, knew it,
too, and looked at me anxiously,

“I’m afraid you won’t overtake him, sir,
with Black Jerry. He’s fat and lazy, like all
Mr. Wheaton’s horses.”

“T shall catch sight of him; that will be
enough,” I replied, touching my side-pocket
significantly,

‘For Heaven’s sake, don’t be rash, sir!” I
heard him cry, as I dashed ah ite

On I dashed, flying rapidly up hill and down.
Trees and fields swept past me. I was ina
white-heat of passion, and literally knew
nothing but my own thoughts for the first five
miles, for the road led straight onward,
had, at first, no uncertainty regarding Sher-
rington’s course.

Y y horse was dripping with perspiration,
but I had no thought for him, when at last I
drew rein at theend of the turnpike and asked
for information of Sherrington at a cottage.
The beautiful black horse and the gentleman
and young lady had passed there. I was‘so far
right, and passed on,

ut the sun was setting. Soon I began to get
desperate with the emergency of the situation,
for the longer I thought the more fully I com-
rehended Sherrington’s plans. I believed that

e intended to compromise Victoria by an ab-
sence from home over night, and to frighten
her into marrying him. So the setting sun in-
creased my difficulty, If I did not overtake
them before dark, he could quite easily escape
me, and perhaps succeed in his plan and rob
me of my wife. If she escaped from him, she
could not return home in the night, I thought.
What.new dangers might beset her?

I was nearly crazed when I stopped at last
at a fork of the road, in a lonely place, and
knew not which way to follow.

“Balked!” I cried, bitterly. “He will suc-
ceed. Oh, Victoria, my darling, I shall lose

ou!
. For I did not for an instant doubt the truth
of ny pare betrothed.

Suddenly I saw a tiny pink Pi hg. sade the
road-side bushes. I sprang out of the carriage

It was Victoria’s glove.
there to guide me.

I leaped back to my. seat, and turned the
head of the panting, horse. Half a mile more,
and I saw them at the foot of the hill, a long
distance ahead, ,

Sherrington was leading Emperor to a
watering-trough. The yaa of my noble horse
had. not been tried; Sherrington was saving
his: strength until he became aware of pursuit.

ht became; aware of it now, as he looked
back and saw me at the oP of the hill. Catch-
ing the rein, he sprang back into the buggy.
Risow my. pistol—it could not be helped, for
he was, but four miles out of New York city.
and inthe throng he would certainly escape
my hampered pursuit—and fired. Poor Em-
parc ! poor beauty! He leaped upon his hind
cue, | oe wuson spurted upon the ground, he
reeled. fey ociliatgon ni Patho wa he,

Sherrington had leaped to his head, and the
reeling horse fell on him, pinning him, insen-
sible, to, the ground. sino ‘

So, 1, overtook my poor, pallid, despairing

Paes no itd Vecuokisels iy
_ She looked.so strange in her silken dinner-
dress, her, garden hat.on her shoulders—just
as she had been stolen away—for I had divined
the truth—+Sherrington’s project was to fright-
en her into meray ag FANE I NG ver

Thank Heaven, it-had failed! I bore Victoria
safely back to. her home, leaving Sherrington
to the mercy of the next manI., met, and
whom I informed of his condition, Afterward
I learned that he was not seriously hurt, and
had gone to Australia. nF
I had judiciously escaped publicity, and the
story was never known outside of the family.

oe

Beau Bennet’s Supplikashun, |

—_——_

‘BY JOSH BILLINGS,

Kind Fortune, teach thi servant humility,
but let no sneak ov an upstart outshine him
in things that are stylish.

Giv unto me morality’ copious; and may mi
shirt kollars be stiffer than china and whiter
than snoballs in winter.

Smile, thou. goddess dear, at mi mustash,
and may mi wisdum be grate—even like unto
Solaman’s.

Grant that i may a pattern be, worthy ov all

imitashun, and that iiable may be to wear a
boot nuniber 5 on these number 10 feet ov
mine.
Fill up mi kup tew the brim’s verry top with
honor and honesty, and make mi neckties
smite mine enemies with sorrow and silent
confushion.

Take away from me all vanity, but grant

that mi Sunday panterloons may fit me, even
az korn: fitteth the kob.
' Remove far from me, O gentle Fortune! all
pride and vain ostentashun, but grant that
mi name amung wimmin may ever be spoken
in acksents of gladness.

Make my. heart tew glisten with charity,
but teach mi taylor and shumaker how tew
wait for their munny and be RePPy,

Let mi heart feast on the truth, but smile
thou.upon mi cork leg and periwig nobby.

Remove. far from me all gluttony, but pre-
serve mi appetight for toast with a quail on
it in all its original buty.

Teach me tew shun all decepshun, but help
me tew marry a big pile at last, making sum
maiden or yung widdo happy. : ,

Take away. from my heart all envy, but
grant, kind Fortune, that my hat kant be
beat, nor the lavender tint ov mi gloves be
exceeded, }

Fill me with courage true and reddy, but if
enny man _offers.tew smote me, giv tew mi
feet the fleetness ov venson and mi legs the
speed ov the roebuck.

Remove all affektashun far from me, but
enable me tew keep up appearances, if I have
tew cheat a. little tew do it.

Abuv all things with modesty shower me.
Yea! make me all dripping wet, but don’t let
me looze a. good chance mi nu koat tew spread
before the eyes ov men filled with envy :

Make me at all times ov the poor heathen
thoughtful at church, not forgetting the plat-
ter. tew annoint with a 10 cent piece.

Remove from me all gra hares, and pimples,
all bumyons, and korns pestiverous, and grant
that my calfs.may still fatten on saw durst,
and my cheeks feed upon. plumpers, and mi
harte ever buble and bile over with mersy.

Teach me mi kane tew whirl so pekuliar,
and my mustash tew twist intosuch long
draun out sweetness that all the people shall

ao
Smile thou upon all hatters and barbers, all

 

With Miss Wheaton?” — a eOG

== Ea aaeomamacaaenn aneaaonaniant we

-

VOL. 47—No, 49,

4

spreedeererernm,

shirt-inmakers and gloviers, all perfumers and
‘dentists, and wash-wimmin and shu blaks,
and forgiv them the dets i may owe them,
and kause me tew weep over man and hiz
many misfortins. (

Bless all maids ov estate, all widders with
munny, all mothers ov fashin with dauters tew
marry, all good matches lying around loose,
but chiefly giv me a conshience full ov aroma. |

Lengthen out, kind Fortune, the days ov mi.
unkle; but should he slip away sudden, bow
me down with sorrow bekumming,

Listen! dear Fortune, listen!

Give me the style ov a heart-breaking Adonis
let the virtews all seek my acquaintanse, an
feed with nu fires.exquisit the soltaire that
burns on mi buzzum,

I will raise thee an alter, kind Fortune, an
alter az hi az a lamp post, if theze mi prayers
are answered—farewell for the present—don’t
go back on Beau Bennet, the butiful! Pex

a i

Correspondence.
GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

cé& Communications addressed to this department wl
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them asevidence of the good faith of the writers,

A, I. D., Providence, R. I.—With regard to salaries for-
merly paid to circns performers we quote from an inter-
view held some time since with Eaton Stone, an old and
famous rider, as follows: ‘“ From 1828 to 1832 general per-
formers got $20 to $35 a month, with board and washing.
Special men got $50 to $75, That was when we lighted
the ring with tallow candles. Sil Spencer was not paid
$60 until he turned a somersault on a bareback horse. It
was good wages then. Walter Howard and I got more
than others when we turned back somersaults from a
horse and landed on our feet behind the lorse on the
eronee We got our own price; so did other specialists.

n 1836 the Zoological Institute made up a circus trust to
consider the business in the United States and fix a
salary rate. This monopoly fixed salaries for the best
saddle and fancy riders at $25 to $50 a week, and for erack
bareback artists $100 to $125, but the monopoly had to
pay a specialist his own price, for people wanted sen-
sations. Riders had to fnrnish their own horses and
grooms, the-cireus paying other expenses. George
Sweet, a general performer in every act, got. $75 a week.
After the Zoological Institute broke up salaries jumped.
A couple of female riders got $100 .as early as 1846, and
male riders did command $150, but few got those wages.
Mme, ‘Turnier and her daughter, Mary Brown, each had
$150 a week in later years, with expenses. Lauise Dock-
rell was paid the highest salary of any female that ever
Tode. She got from $250 to $500 a week. Of the male
riders Jim Robinson got probably $350 a week and ex-

penses,. He was the best single horseman m the land.
30b Stickney, the best four-horse rider in the’ United
States, was worth his $300 a week any time. John Hen

Cooke, Wilham Dutton, William Ducrow, and Fred Mel-
ville came high. Charley Fish was a great rider, but he

 

could not draw the money like Jim Robinson, and cireus
owners pay salaries according to the money a rider draws.
Thatis why 1 often got a big salary and a percentage.”

Constant Reader —i\st. A good cholera preventive is
said to be a Burgnndy pitch plaster worn.oyer the region
of the stomach. It should be warmed a little before itis _
applied to the individual, who should stand erect when —
itis put on,so that the plaster shall not interfere with
the motions of the body. It is asserted that a British
regiment supplied with such plasters lost only five men

duringa severe visitation of the cholera, and these had
refused to wear them, 2d. A valuable cholera remedy is
made with equal parts of tinctures of rhubarb, cayenne,
and opivwm, spirits of camphor, and essence of pepper-
mint. Dose, from five to thirty drops, ve even sixty.
Repeat, until relief is obtained, every five to thirty min-
utes. A great many lives have been saved uy this simple
recipe. 3d. For diphtheria, permanganate of potassa has
been administered with great success. The proportions
used for external use are one dram of the permanganate
to a pint of water; the dose for internal use, one tea-
epyourul of a solution of one Gram in one and a half pints
of water.

J. L., Richmond. Dale, Ohio.—ist. To make liquid blue,
put into a bottle one ounce of pure Prussian blue, in fine
powder, and pour upon it two ounces of concentrated
hydrochloric acid. Effervescence ensues, and the mix-
ture soon assumes the consistence of a thin paste. Let
itremain undisturbed for twenty-four hours, and then
dilute it with eight or nine ounces of water, and bottle it.
The whole may be further diluted with a quart of water
and still retain a sufficiently dark color for -washing
muslins, ete. The common blue writing fluid is |
thus made. 2d. “Day & Martin’s Biacking,” once
very famous, is said to have been made as follows:
Bone black, in a state, of _ powder, was— mixed
with sperm oil until the two were hore any incor-
porated. Sugar or molasses was then mixed with a small
portion of vinegar and addedto the mass. Oil of vitriol
was next added, and when all effervescence had ceased
more vinegar was poured in until the mixture was of a

proper consistence, P a ee

Churchman, West Point, N. ¥.—1st. The pipes of an or-
an are generally of\two kinds, flue pipes and reed pipes.
‘Those usually seen in the front of an organ are fiue pipes.
Some fiue pipes are made of metal and some of wood.
Metal ones are usually round, and wooden ones square,
Reed pipes are also made of both wood and’ metal. They
have a kind of mouthpiece called a reed, something like _
that of a clarinet, fitted into a block inside of the pipe.
The wind, which is Jet in ‘at the bottom in the same way
as‘in the fine pipe, rushes up through the reed and causes
a thin plate of metal called the tongue to, tremble and
make amusical. note. 2d. Every organ. has as many stops
as it has rows of pipesrunning from right to left. When
all the stops are pushed in,-all the rows of pipes are elosed,
and, therefore, when _an organist sits down to play, the
first thing he or she does is to pull out one or more of the
stops. 3d. In small organs one bellows usually gives air |
to the entire instrument, but in some organs.each part
hasits own bellows, and very large OT BAS have some-
times as many if not morethan a dozen bellows, which
are moved by steam or water power. |

Angus W.C., Norfolk, Va.—La France is a five-masted
ship, which some time since carried 6,000 tons of coal
from Newcastle to San Francisco. She is said to be the
largest. sailing vessel afloat. She was bi ilt of iron on
the Clyde, and is owned by a firm at Dunkirk. She is 375
feet long. 49 feet broad. and 3334 feet deep. Her after
mainmast, which is the largest of the five, is 167 feet
above the deck. The length of the lower yards is 82 feet;
of the upper four, 75 to 77 feet. Her bowsprit is 50 feet
long. On her first voyage from Cardiff to Rio Janeiro
she reached a speed of 1242 knots an hour.

Richard V., Annapolis, Md.—ist. Moorfields was a part
of old London, now covered by Finsbury square and ad-
joining streets, so-called from the great fen or moor
which bordered the walls of the city on the north side.
It was a place for walking and recreation. 2d. Finsbury
was a popular place for Sunday walks in the time of
Queen Elizabeth and King James.

Inquisitive, Greenville, Miss.—ist.' If you had sent us
the bust measure of the person in question we should
have been enabled to answer your question with some
degree of accuracy; as it is we decide that the 36 inch
waist measure is rather out of proportion to the weight
and height stated. 2a. To scour zine use glycerine mixed
with diluted sulphuric acid, 4 ey

Cc. H. 8S., Wilmington, N. C.—A work on American
grape-growing and wime-making, by George Husmann,
of California, will cost $1.50: It contains contributions
from well-known grape-growers, givi a& wide range of
experience. If you desire it, write direct to the NE
YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency. ; ‘

A.V. J., Baltimore, Md.—The ola Broadway Theater,
between Pearl and Anthony (now Worth) streets, was
opened.on Sept, 27, 1847. Itclosed forever on A pril 2, 1859,
Its last manager was Edward Eddy, to whom a benefit
was given on the night of the day named. Fn

G. D. L.—One method of exterminating fleas is to

sprinkle chamomile flowers in the bed; or before getting
into bed, if the fleas be about the person, to introduce a
piece of new flannel between the sheets. The occupant
will be forsaken for the flannel.

0. L. N., Concord, N. H,—It was Ralph Waldo Emerson
who said in his “Literary Ethics,” that “Works of the.
intellect are great only by comparison With each other.”

A Melville B.—Burlington, N. J.—‘*Keeping one Cow”
will cost $1. This book gives the latest information upon
the management of a single milch cow.

W. L. P., Richmond, Va.—Yes. 'Tape-worms have been
expelled by the continued use of elm bark. Chew and
swallow it in moderate quantities, :

Teresa, Naugatuck, Conn.—Write. to George Dewey,
Bureau_of Equipment and Recruiting, Navy Depart-
ment, Washington, D.C. :

M. E. L., Boston, Mass.—‘‘Colorado as an Agricultural
State” will be sent te you for $1.50. Itisillustrated. —

THREE FIRST-CLASS STORIES,

The fall campaign opens most promisingly to the
readers of the NEw YORK WEEKLY.

Last week we commenced JULIA’ EDWARDS’ real-
istic story of ‘EVELYN, THE PRETTY FACTORY Girt.”

This week we begin the exciting detective story
descriptive of NICK CARTER’S most recent exploits,
entitled ‘“‘TRACKED ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.”

And next week we shall add to the list of attrae-
tions by publishing Mrs. May AGNES FLEMING’S
entrancing wak, “WEDDED, YET) No WIFE; or, A
LEAP IN THE DARK.” ;

These are only the opening attractions of the fall
campaign. Others will soon be announced; and
there can be no doubt that the New YorK WEEKLY
will maintain its rank as the leader ofits class, the

 

MODEL STORY AND SKETCH PAPER: © i

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

‘

‘

| 1 board

 

=

MY HOME IS BUT a LITTLE CoT.

_ tion, “are you beginning to realize

on the steamer that was to take her from

 

 

VOL. 47—No.! 49.

 

BY MRS, VALENTINE KOBERTS.

My home is but a little cot,
_ Nor pomp nor splendor there I see;
And though but lowly is my let,
_ *Tis home; and oh, how dear to me!
. Teannot boast of treasured store,
But I am blessed with treasures rare—_
Not dazzling gems or yellow ore, ©
But sparkling eyes and tresses fair;
And hnmble though my dwelling be,
My little home is dear to me.

e

Yet there are riches in my cot,
For gentle peace loves there to rest;

To me it is acharmed spot,
‘With cheerfulness a constant guest;

Glad childhood’s laugh, young voices sweet,
Fall on mine ear with silvery tone,

As now in rings their noisy feet
Dance to wild music of their own.

Ours the abode of poverty;

But blessings make it rich to me.

THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM.
EVELYN,
Pretty

The

Factory Girl;

oR,

A ~ MARRIED AT THE LOOM.

ay By JULIA EDWARDS,
Author of “‘Beautiful Viola,” ‘“Tempted to Leave Her Lover,” ‘‘Beautiful, but Poor,”
thor |

The Little Widow,” Ete.

+

%

CHAPTER V.

“I WONDER IF ALL GIRLS FEEL AS I DO WHEN
TAKING THE STEP FROM WHICH THERE IS
_ NO BACKWARD TURNING?” ine
' Evelyn had faithfully carried out her agree-
ment with Gordon Osborne. It had been a
momentous and startling step for the petted
little beauty to take; but it had been made
less difficult by the occurrences of the day.
She had determined to make one more effort
to reconcile her father to her marriage with
Gordon, and had gone to him ashe sat writing
in the library.
“Papa,” she had said, laying her little hand
caressingly on his shoulder, “I have come to

talk to you again about——” -

ted, in a tone of satisfac-
tree folly?
the mar-

Ah,” he interru

You are willing to be the bride o
quis, is it not so?” :

“No, papa,” she had replied, in a low voice,
“T can never be his bride. Will you not recon-
sider your words of yesterday, and consent. to
take Gordon to your heart? He’ is the onl
man I can ever love, and no other man shall
ever be my husband.”

Then, in his fearful rage, old Roger Sher-
wood brought his clenched hand down on the
mahogany desk, and cried out, ina voice broken
with anger:

“You know my decision, and here I swear
it: I will never look upon your face again
until you come to me asithe promised bride of
the man of my choice. Go, undutiful child!
and remember that my roof shall no longer be
a shelter to you unless you consent to my

Beers eb nd bn new el). nt ft
r little Evelyn! knew she could not
e up bar eas vey abbisile i iw, tops that
father would keep his word and drive ber
from him with curses should she appear before
him again except as the betrothed bride of the

Marquis a ee bias tin gs
ed terrible to her ve this sterm |
“pest upon her, wwhen Bictab allthe

of i i
ears of her sunny life she had been xo care-
fully sheltered from every sign of trouble.
And if it had not been for the sweet and abid-
faith in, the man to vahore, she had given

er heart, she must have yielded.

As it was, she went from the presence of her} -

stern parent, white to her, rosebud lips, and
with a scared look in her wonderful eyes.
“Oh, Clara,” she cried, to her cousin, “pana
will never forgive me if I do not give up Gor-
don; and that I cannot do.” os Pepsi
Tne dark eyes of the beautiful brunette

“7

- gleamed with a strange emotion as she looke

at her fair-haired, drooping cousin, |,

_ “What did he say?” she inquired.

' “He repeated, what he said. yesterday; but,
oh! with such terrible wrath in his eyes. And
he added_that.he would never look upon me
again unless I came to him as the promised
bride of the man of his choice.” *' <i

. Oh, what a look of evil and malignant hate
flashed. into, the shining eyes of Clara Sher-
wood as. she listened! She knew the ‘look
would betray her if noticed, and she turned
her head aside to hide it and'to control it
before she answered, in a sympathetic voice,
bub with a lip that, sneered in spite of her: |

“Do you not understand his meaning?” she

“ Alas! only too well,” replied Bvelyassaahy,
“But his hidden meaning?” said Clara, a
fiendish cunning prompting her words.

“What hidden meaning can there be?” asked
Evelyn, looking up eagerly, forshe had always
been in the habit of trusting to the shrewd-
ness of her cousin. _ .

“Do you not see?” demanded Clara. “He
says he will. not look upon you until you are
the promised bride of the man of-his choice.
He only intends to frighten you. into submis-
sion; meaning to leave himself a loop-hole in
case you disobey. You know your father could
never live without you. When you are irrevo-
ecably the wife of Gordon Osborne he will
gradually come around and say Gordon is the
man of his choice. Don’t you see?”

“Oh, if I could believe that!” eried Evelyn,
her beautiful, innocent face lighting up; for
she loved her father dearly.

“You may believe it,” insisted Clara. “Do
not hesitate to carry out your plan with Gor-
don, or you will break his heart. You know I
shall always be here to plead your cause, and
you may be sure I shall never fail you.”

“How good you are!” cried Evelyn, throwing
her arms about the neck of her a
cousin and pressing @ warm kiss on her Judas
ae “Yes, I will not fail Gordon, for after
all he is more to me than all the world be-
sides, and, as you say, pans is sure to forgive
me when he knows that my whole life was
bound up in my darling.” '

And so, hars y driven by her father, and
cunningly urged by her cousin, Evelyn had
packed a few things ina large valise, which
Clara had helped her to smuggle out of the
house unseen by any of the servants.

_She had softly stolen into the library when
she knew her father would be sleeping, and
had lightly pressed a kiss on his forehead, a
ow tear dropping on his hand as she
idso, | Sri

' Then she had said a soft Bood-by to her lux:
urious boudoir, which had been the scene of
so much happiness in her lite, had thrown her
plump arms aroind. the neck of her cousin,

and had goneaway. |

“Ah,” she had softly sobbed, as she shebped

er
father, “it isa choles between my lover and
the home of my chiidhood: I wonder if all
girls feel as I do when taking the step from
which there can be no backward turning!”

She had eet on the deck Poe ina
mechanical way how the passengers and the
freight were taken aboard, and so it was that
her startled eyes fell on the Marquis of Eas-
land, when he stood on the wharf, his face
distorted with rage, and his lips forming

‘curses; ;

She could not conjecture the meaning of his
sudden appearance and desire to be taken on
her. ‘The heart that is already heavy is the

sooner oppressed, i ea iy

: + ‘
-“ EVELYN, THE PRETTY FACTORY GIRL” was commenced last week.

But she was a courageous little creature,
and she felt that she owed it to Gordon to
keep herself in good spirits, so. that when she
qpat him he would not see her heavy-eyed and

ull, i4 . e

Consequently she banished her troublesome
thoughts and went on the upper deck, where
there were many people to look at; and thus
between studying her fellow-passengers, and
reading a love story, she whiled away the

| time.until she could. retire to her state-room
and lose herself in slumber.

CHAPTER VI.
“Tt HAVE NEVER HAD A LOVER; BUT I KNOW I

 

SHALL HAVE ONE SOME DAY, FOR 1T IS
SAID THAT EVERY GIRL HAS AT LEAST ONE
LOVER IN HER LIFE-TIME.”

Morning. is the time for calm reflection; but
with Evelyn it was also the time of hurry and
bustle and hepe.

 

 

her. And somehow the face of the marquis, as
she had seen it convulsed with rage on the
wharf, came up before her. -
She put her valise. down and stood panting
and looking around. It seemed as if she were
panting with her exertions in carrying) her
hand-bag, but in truth she was experiencing
a sort of terror that made her breath come and
go quickly. : ;
For the first time the possibility of Gordon
not being there came upon her. f course she
knew that it wasan accident, but her lip
trembled pitifully as she remembered that
never before in her life had she traveled with-
out, an escort, and it seemed hard that she

‘should not even be met by the man for whom

she. had given up everything.
| Yes, everything. For in that lonely moment
when-she stood all' alone in that crowd, she
seemed to realize for the first time that in
the step she had taken, she had given up all
. to everything in her past. .

»Prom that moment she knew another life
was beginning for her. Oh, why was Gordon
not there? ‘

But she was a loyal little creature, and she !'

had not given her life into the keeping of her
lover without having absolute trust in him.
It was only that it was so desolate not to be
greeted by the handsome face and happy looks
of her dear one.

Well, if he was not there, she told herself,

it was because he had been detained by busi-
ness as important to her as to himself. And
she thought with a happy feeling in her heart
of what that important business might be.
.. Had he not told her that he would have all
the arrangements made, so that he could:con-
duct her at once toa clergyman, who would
make her a wife?.

He had not thought of how early the train
reached Boston, and no doubt had told him-
self that it would be better to let her wait
on arriving rather than have to leave’ her
after meeting her. So she would go into the
Bi pre ol a and he would look there for

er, Ht

Perhaps she was not quite convinced by her

| own reasoning, but it was better than despair-

ing right away, as many a girl would have
done under the circumstances; and she went
with a brave countenance, if not with an as-
sured heart, into the dingy waiting-room.

She sat down neara window from which she
could look out on the platform where passen-
gers came in, thinking that Gordon might go
there first. Then, as it was long waiting, with
only the same things to think of, she bought .a
morning paper, wondering if there could be
anything in a Boston paper to interest her,
who knew nothing of any place but New York.

However, she sat. down and opened the
journal, glancing about her and out of the
window all the while, for it would not do to

 

miss Gordon. How_he would laugh at her if
he came and found. her absorbed in a paper,

 

 

stood what that terrible account in the paper
meant in, her life. She was all alone in the
world. Gordon, the victim of some horribly
unjust accusation, was snatched away from
her.. She could not go home again now, Her
father had cursed her. What should she do?

“Can I do anything for you?” the girl asked,
timidly, for she felt abashed in the presence
of this beautiful and richly dressed young
lady. “I did not: call anybody, for I know
how dreadful it is to have a lot of people star-
ing at, you when you come to.”

“I am much obliged to you,” said Evelyn,
sadly. “No, I don’t wish’ anything. But I
wish I had died here and never recovered con-
sciousness,” anda sob rose up. in her throat
and choked her utterance. t

“You tofeel so!” cried the girl, incredu-

lously.
everything to make you happy. You are beauti-
ful, rich, and. beloved, I am sure. And you
must have friends and a family tocare for
you. Oh, young lady, forgive me for speaking
so to you,.but if you were poor and lonely as
Iam, you might wish for death. And yet, I
never do.”
“Yes,” said Evelyn, in a choking voice, “I
am beautiful, rich,.and beloved, but I tell you
I am the most wretched girl in the world.
No one. can be more unhappy than I am.”

Somehow she seemed drawn to pour out her
sorrow and misery in the ears of the kind-
hearted girl who had come to her assistance,
and the latter evidently esteemed it a privi-
lege. to have the confidence of the beautiful
stranger,

“How can that be?” she asked sympathetic-

ally.
“I cannot tell you,”.answered Evelyn, her
beautiful eyes filling with tears. “I can only
say that the only friend I have on earth is
taken from me. I haveno home, no family,
and I must bear my terrible sorrow in the bit-
terness of silence. You say you are poor and
friendless, and yet I envy you.”

“IT wish I knew how to help you,” said the
girl, sweetly. “Where are you going?” -

“I have no place to go to,” answered Eveiyn,
despairingly. ;

“But you have money and can go where you
please,” suggested the girl.

, “I have money, but it will not last long, and
when it is gone there will be nothing for me
but to die.” ;

“Oh, no,” said the girl, gently. “No one
need die who is willing to work.”

“Work!” cried Evelyn, “I never worked. in
my life. I don’t believe I could.”

The girl smiled sadly and looked at the
dainty gloved hands,

“You could if you. would, and,” her face
lighted up as she spoke, “I am_ sure it would
he good for you to do so. I believe that work
is the most ennobling thing in all the world, I
am only a poor factory girl, and I have notiseen
much of the world, but I am sure that among
the working-men and women of America you

| il il |

Wu

 

UPON HER BRAIN.

IT SEEMED'TO EVELYN THAT SHE: WAS NOT READING THE TERRIBLE WORDS, BUT: THAT THEY WERE
Aa ‘+ THEN HER EYES CLOSED AND SHE LOST CONSCIOUSNESS.

 

3 +

She was roused ear] by the arrival of the
boat at Fall River, and the hurry of making
her toilet and getting her seat in the crowded
cars prevented her taking the time for any
dismal reflections; though she could not re-

ress a tremor of dismay at finding nobody at
band to assist her, as she had all her life been
accustomed to.

But when at last she was snugly ensconced
in her seat, her valise by her side, and her eyes
fixed on the moving throngs of travelers, she
settled down into a train of thought that led
her by happy degrees to her lover.

She pictured him waiting for herin the
depot, and straining his eyes to catch her figure
in the midst of all the crowd that would be
rushing along in eager desire to reach their
Spent:

_ Once on that subject, no other could intrude
itself, and she never remembered any of the
details of that ride from Fall River to Boston;
and it was with a start of surprise that she

heard the trainman shout out in stentorian

voice:

“Boston. Last stop. All out here,”

She drew her light wrap about her, and
eonght up the valise, which was far foo heavy
for her to carry, and hastened with eager eyes
out of the car.

Of course Gordon must be there, awaitin
her. No other idea had entered her head. He
had said he would be there, and of course he
would be.

Down in her heart she had expected him to
come rushing through the crowd to take that
avsurdly heavy valise from her dainty little
gloved hand; but when he did not do so, she
smiled in her, happy, braye way, and mur-
mured:

“How ridiculous to expect him to. He will
be waiting at the end of the depot.” )

So she went cheerily on, bending under the
weight of her valise, and wishing she had
left. some of her jewels at home, so that the
load would have been less. But even that
thonghs made her smile, for she remembered
how Clara had urged her not to take her dia-
monds, arguing that she would soon return to
them, and that it would_ not be safe to carry
them around in a leather hand-bag. And how
she had replied that there. might come a time
when she would want to show people that
Gordon’s bride was not a poor little nobody,

But where was Gordon? She had: reached
the end of the depot, and could see, other peo-

le meeting their friends, but_no sign of that

ace which meant so much to her.

She passed through the crowd, her heart be-

 

but somehow she felt that it boded ill to!

ginning to beat tremulously, and a vague fear
of something she could not define oppressing

~ Children Cry for Pitcher's Castoria,

 

 

‘had reasoned it out in

from home and come

when she had run aig ,
(ork to meet him,

all the way from New

“BOLD BURGLARY IN NEW .YORK—A
TRUSTED EMPLOYEE USES HIS
‘DUPLICATE KEY TO ROB HIS
EMPLOYER'S SAFE.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Evelyn, “to think that
the first thing I should see ina Boston paper
should be such news from New York! What!”
and she looked closer, with startled eyes.

“The well-known firm of Sherwood & Co. was this
morning | robbed of the sum of nearly one hundred
thousand dollars in securities. It seeins that the loss
was not discovered until late in the day, and it was
then feared that the thief would have had time to
make good his escape. :

‘Suspicion fell at once upon a clerk who had been
for years one of the most completely trusted of the
employees. He alone had been intrusted with a
duplicate key to the safe, and with the most. astound-
ing boldness he had used his key to take from the
safe the securities.

“Search was made for him as soon as the loss was
discovered, and he was providentially captured by a
detective at the very moment he was stepping on the
cars to go to Boston. The securities were found con-
cealed on his person, so that it was impossible for
him to even pretend that he was not the guilty
person. .

“His name is Gordon Osborne, He is a handsome
young man, who comes of a good family, and itis
whispered that he has aspired to the hand of the
heautiful daughter of his employer. That young
lady, by the way, is missing, and it is supposed that
she has gone off to meet him. :

“Mr. Sherwood; the millionaire merchant, has re-
fused to receive any reporters, but has consented to
say in regard to his clerk that he will put him in
prison if it takes all his wealth; while of his way-
ward daughter; he is reported to have cursed her,
and has forbidden her name ever to be spoken in his
presence.”

Every word of this terrible. story the poor
girl read. How she retained her senses to
continue to the last word she did not. know,
It even seemed to her that she was not read-
ing the words, but that they were being burned
upon her brain.

Yes, she even read it a second time, her
head whirling the while as if. she were bein
spun like a top. And then her eyes loaed
and she lost consciousness., And so she may
haye remained for any length of time, for it
seemed like a year to her when she opened
her eyes again and looked into the face of a
poorly dressed girl of her own age, perhaps.

“Are you better?” the stranger asked, “
saw. ze faint, and I caught you. Ihad been
watching you because you are so beautiful,”
the girl continued with a blush.

Evelyn straightened up and. looked around
in alarm, Her consciousness seemed to have
returned inan instant, and almostasif she

her swoon, she under-

a

 

 

 

will find the noblest and purest specimens of
the human race.”
Evelyn listened eagerly to the proud. words

of the working-girl. 4

“I am willing. to. work,” she said. “Can
you help me to find employment?” :

“Iam afraid you could not do the work
do. I am employed at aloom ina woolen
mill. You:had better try some other kind of
work,” replied the girl.

“Will you tell me your name?” said Evelyn,

“Rosie Brookes.” ¢

“My name is Eyelyn—Evelyn—no.I will not
tell you my true name. I will call. myself
Evelyn Harper, and no one shall ever find me
until the man I love is free to marry me.”

“Has your lover deserted you?” cried Rosie,
in atone of horror. |.

“No,” replied. Evelyn, proudly. “My lover
is the truest of men, but a terrible calamit
has befallen him, and we are separated. As
me no more.” |

“Oh,” whispered Rosie, “if your lover is
true, nothing else matters. I have never had
a lover, but I know I shall have one some
day, for it is said that every girl has.at least
one lover in her life-time.”

“Only one lover,” breathed Evelyn, softly,
for she knew that for her there could never he
any other than Gordon Osborne. “But I was
going to say that you must take me to your
mill, I believe what you say, and I will sink
my old: life of luxury in the truer life of a
working-girl, so that: when my dear love comes
to claim me, I. may be more worthy of him,
Besides, then 1, can be saving the money I
have. Wili you help me?”

“Gladly, for I »would like to be near you,
you are so beautiful,” answered: Rosie. “I
work ina mill.at Lowell, and I. was only
waiting here for another gitl who also works
there, .We have had a vacation, because the
mill has been shut’ down. I know there will
be room for you, and. I will try to get you’ for
my ene i:

Then) let us. go. to. Lowell,” said. Evelyn,
“Oh, Heaven!” she murmured, “watch over
my beloved Gordon, and help him to prove
himself guiltless, as I know he is... I will not
on air, for I know that innocence must pre-
va ef } , .

CHAPTER VII.

SHE DID NOT WISH EVELYN TO KNOW THAT
CLAIRE MAROH WAS THE AFFIANCED WIFE
OF FICKLE GERALD WASHBURN, AND THAT
SHE WAS AS MADLY JEALOUS AS SHE WAS
PROUD.

Perhaps the gay and fashionable set to which
Evelyn belonged in New York would not have

Children Gry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

 

SUM SO A ORG BE OBE NR MR HEH

“Oh, that is wrong, for you have];

been able to recognize her in her simple gown
of calico, in which she walked to the mil] the
morning after her fateful arrival in Boson,
She and Rosie had immediately gone to the
Boston and Lowell Depot, and had taken the
cars to Lowell, where Evelyn had’ put away
the rich gowns and the jewels that belonged
to the old life, and had bought herself such
simple gowns as Rosie suggested.
But little as Evelyn looked like the stylish
girl of the day before, she was yet‘@s mar-
velously beautiful as ever; and perhaps even
sweeter in her simple costume, and with the
softened expression in her saddened fate.

More than one pair of masculine eyes was
turned to look lingeringly after the won-
drously fair girl, as she tripped along that
morning by the side of Rosie, but she did not
now it, and would have: felt no happier if
she had known it, for under her bright beauty
was a dull and heavy heart, which mourned
incessantly for Gordon Osborne,

“I will take you to Don Adams, the fore-
man,” said Rosie. “And if he is there alone
it will be all right, fur he is a splendid fel-
low. I only hope that Gerald Washburn has
not come yet. But he is unlikely to be there
at sach an early hour.” at

“Why do you hope’ he will not be there?”
demanded Evelyn.

“Because,” answered Rosie, looking uneasily
at her companion, “he is the nephew of the
owner, and he falls in love with oven pretty
face, so that he will be sure to think he is in
love with you at first sight.”

“But that can’t be love,” said Evelyn,
naively. “True love only comes onte, {But
anyhow it won’t matter. If he should speak
of Jove to me, I should tell him that my heart
belonged to another.”

Rosie looked at her and sighed, but she
would not shock her innocence by telling her
that the love of Gerald Washburn was a thing
to be shunned. She hoped to establish Evelyn
in the mill without being seen by him, know-
ing that it would afterward be quite easy to
ayoid him. ‘ .

She introduced Evelyn to several of the mill
girls, who received her warmly, and seemed
ready to make a favorite of ‘her at’ once; but
as she left. them.to go with Rosie to the office
to make application for work, she heard ,one
of them say:

“Olaire March will be furious now. Her
star will begin to wane,”

“What does she mean by that?” .asked
Evelyn. Y

“Nothing. I don’t know,” answered Rosie,
hurrying her out of hearing. She did not wish
Evelyn to know that Claire March ,was. the
affianced wife of fickle Gerald Washburn, and
that she was as madly jealous as she was
haughtily proud, and that there was ‘no
haughtier girl. living than patricianClaire
March.

“There is no one in the office,” said Rosie,
looking through the glass partition. “Let us
goup stairs and see the machinery before it
is started, We are too early. Come!”

So Evelyn folluwed Rosie, glad, if the truth
be told, to put off the moment of committing
herself to this new life, though fully deter-
mined to do so.

“This,” said Rosie, stopping at the first
landing, “is where the roughest work is done.
Only men work here. The machinery is dan-
gerous, too. Do you see where that man is
leaning? Thatvis a belt all covered with sharp
hooks that carries anything that is put on it
into a great drum filled with sharp teeth that
tear the stuff to pieces. I wish that he
wouldn’t be so careless,”

- “Why?” asked Evelyn, with languid curi-
osity.

* Bocuse if the machinery should start sud-
denly, those hooks might catch in his clothes,
and he would be doomied to a horrible death.
Oh! ob!” she screamed, with a terrible note
of anguish in her voice, “it has started! He
is caught! Oh, what shall we do? Stop! stop!
stop!” she shrieked as if her voice could be
heard above the din of the starting machinery,

“He knows his danger,” gasped Evelyn,
watching the struggling man with frozen: ter-
ror. “He may free himself—the belt is not
moving swiftly yet.”

“But it goes swifter,” screamed Rosie; be-
side herself. “Ah, Heayen! he is, lost. Oh,
God, to stand still and see him rushing. to. his
death !” and she wrung her hands and screamed
incoherently. ‘

Evelyn, however, knowing less. the real dan-

er, could. not: stand still and look. It was

er nature to try to, do. something, even as’ it
had been impossible for ber to sit down and
ive way to despair when, the blow of. her
over’s arrest had fallen on her,

She stood staring, sick, with the dread of
what she might be called on to witness. Then,
she eoroener roused herself and: flew with: the
wings, of the wind.to where the man, with
ashen. face and protruding eyes, was strug-
gling to free himself as he was each: minute
whirling nearer and nearer to his awful death;
for none knew better than Don Adams, ‘the’
foreman, what that death would be. .

But he struggled in vain. The terrible hooks
‘had him fast and he had almost resigned him-
self evenas he still fought with the despair
and oon of a madman, when all at once a
vision of wonderful beauty seemed to flash be-
fore his eyes, and a moment later he was
aware that two tiny, feeble hands were strug-
gling bravely at the lever that would throw
the gearing belt off the wheel.

Evelyn could never explain how'she knew
that her act would serve any good’ purpose.
She only knew’ that hereyes were fixed from
the first on the gearing belt, and on the levér
that would throw it out of gear.

She had caught the handle and had pulled
and pulled with a wild determination to keep
on pulling until something gave way. And
when the handle moved over, and the bels fell
off the swiftly revolving wheel, she stood and
stared at the murderous hooks that. were
dragging a fellow human being to destruction.

But it was_moving more slowly... Yes, it
surely was. But would it stop in time? On
and on went the struggling man, nearer and
nearer to the frightful drum inside of which
waited such a, bloody doom,

 

Then, with a jar and a quiver the belt with
its human freight stopped, and Evelyn sank
fainting where she stood.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

ENJOYMENT AT HOME,

Don’t shut up your house, lest the sun should
fade your carpets; and your hearts, lest a
merry Jaugh should shake down some of the
musty old cobwebs there. If you want to ruin
your sons, let them think that all mirth and
social enjoyment must be left on the threshold
without when they come homeat night. When
once a home is regarded as only a placeto eat,
drink, and sleep in, the work is ‘bégun that
ends in reckless degradation. Young people
must have fun and relaxation somewhere; if
they don’t find it at their own héarthstones it
will be sought at other, and perhaps at less
profitable, places... Therefore, let the fire burn
brightly at night, and make the homestead
delightful with all those little arts that par:

ents so perfectly understand... Don’t repress
the buoyant spirit of your children; half an
hour of merriment around the lamp and fire-
light. of a home blots out many a,.care and
annoyance during the day, and the best. safe-
guard they can take with them into the world
is the unseen influence of a bright little domes-
tic circle. Put home. first and foremost; for
there will come a_ time when the home circle
will be broken; when you. will “long for the
touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a
voice that is still;:” and when your greatest
pleasure will be in remembering that you did
all in your power to put.a song under every

 

burden to make each other happy.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

6

ee er eae ee

Se sgo<0

VOL. 47—No, 49,

SSS |

 

 

AT SET OF SUN.
BY ELLA WHEELER WILCOX,

If we sit down at set of sun

And count the things that we have done,
And, counting, find

One self-denying act, one word

That eased the heart of him who heard;
One glance most kind,

That fell like sunshine where it went,

Then we may count the day well spént.

But if through all the livelong day

We've eased no heart by yea or nay;
If through it all

We've done no thing that we can trace,

That brought the sunshine to a face;
No act, most small,

That helped no soul and nothing cost,

Then count that day as worse than lost.

 @ ee

This Story Will Not he Published it Book-Form,

Marguerite’s Heritage;

LOVE AFTER MARRIAGE.

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

Author of ‘“ Wild Oats,” “Brownie’s Trinmph,”
“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 XXI.

NOEL SOUTHWORTH’S UNACCOUNTABLE DISAP-
PEARANCE,

When Constance Southworth awoke the
next morning she was surprised to find her-
self alone.

She was even more astonished upon discov-
ering that the pillows beside her had not been
disturbed—that her husband had not been in
bed at all during the night.

After packing his grip with everything he
would need, she had locked and strapped it;
then, thinking that Noel would soon come up,
she retired and soon fell asleep.

Now she glanced at the spot where she had
set his valise.

It was gone!

With a strange heart-sinking she rose and,
hurriedly dressing herself, hastened below.

She peeped into the drawing-room on her
way; but no one was there. Everything was
in the nicest possible order and yet there was
about the room an air of desolateness, a sense
of something gone, that oppressed and sad-
dened her.

She hastened to the library, glancing invol-
untarily at the spot where her husband had
stood when she left him, as if she half ex-
pected to find him there still,

_ But the room was empty and everything in
its accustomed place, though she’ instantly
noticed that-some of the drawers in the writ-
ing-desk were partially open.

She sprang forward with a
look into them.

_They also were empty —their
Noel’s private papers, were gone!

With a face that was as pale as the soft
lace that encircled her throat she went back
into the hall and glanced at the hat-tree.

Noel’s hat and coat were not in their usual
places—his unbrella was also missing, and the
dread truth forced itself upon her.

Her husband had gone without one word of
farewell to her—bad stolen forth from his own
roof, like some thief in the night, without a
kiss or even a pressure of her hand!

What could it mean? Why had he acted so
strangely the night before?’ What was the
meaning of this sudden and mysterious jour-
ney to Chicago? Why had he withheld his
confidence from her, leaving her and baby
Alice in such a cold and heartless way?

She felt faint with apprehension. Her heart
was heavy with dire forebodings—it seemed
as if some terrible disaster was about to over-
take her.

She dragged her trembling steps back into
i attreer where she sat down and tried to

ink,

She did not even know how long her hus-
band intended to be absent. He had evaded
her inquiry when she asked him, and she
regretted now that she had not insisted upon
some more definite reply, but she had not
cn that he was going to steal away like

is.

She wondered if he might not have gone
upon some secret commission with which the
firm had intrusted him and he had not felt
at liberty to confide the nature of it to her.

If such was the case he might at least have
stated the matter plainly to her and trusted
that her good sense would have prevented her
from questioning him upon the subject.

It was a dreadful puzzle to her—a source of
great anxiety and. suspense, and, smarting
under a sense of injury and. injustice, she
thought that he might have at least been con-
siderate enough to leave her some address, so
that she could have written or telegraphed to
him in the event of any emergency.

What should she say to the servants? How
explain his absence, so as to avoid exciving
their suspicions that there had been anything
strange about his sudden departure?

She was very much depressed—very un-
happy; hurt, too, deeply hurt that her hus-
band could have found it in his heart to part
from her with so much coldness and indiffer-
ence, when on the point of starting upon so
long a journey. i

The tears were just ready to fall in torrents
when baby Alice’s voice came floating down
to her from above:

“Mamma, mamma, I’s all woke up; come
an’ dress me.”

With a smothered sob Constance dashed the
glittering drops from her eyes as she sprang
from her chair; then running swiftly up stairs
she caught the little one to her heart and eov-
ered the sweet childish face with kisses.
“Baby loves mamma—baby needs mamma,
if no one else. does,” she murmured, with
quivering lips and a keen sense of the lack of
appreciation which Noel had shown, stinging
her to her soul.

But bravely forcing the smiles to her lips,
lest her child should suspect her grief and be
saddened by it, she washed and dressed her,
and then the two went down to their lonely
breakfast.

“Mr, Southworth has been called away
unexpectedly upon important business for a
few days,” she told the servant, who waited
upon them, with as much calmness as she
could assume,

Then she devoted her attention to her little
one, ney herself that she would surely
receive a line from Noel before the day was
over, confiding to her something of his plans
and when she might expect him home,

She tried to think that she had been unjust
in her suspicions that there was anythin
wrong in his way of leaving, and for her lac
of trust in him; but, in spite of all, they
would return again and again. The day
seemed interminable and she was more
wretched than she had been at any time since
her marriage. .

She grew so nervous, before it was half
over, that she was tempted to go to the bank
and make some inquiries regarding his ab-
sence and probable return.

Then she flushed hotly with a sense of
humiliation, as she realized that such a pro-
ceeding would betray, but too palpablv, the

startled cry to

contents,

 

fact that her husband had not trusted her, and
perhaps give rise to the suspicion that their
domestic relations were not as pleasant as
could be desired.

No, she finally decided, she would try to
wait patiently forafew days, when, doubtless,
Noel would return and explain everything so
clearly that she would laugh at her fears and
wonder at her foolishness in having even
momentarily entertained them,

She knew that often a great deal of secrecy
had to be observed in business transactions,
where large sums of, money were involved, and
there might have been some such reason for
her husband’s reticence in the present instance.

Still, the old thought would come: back to
torment her. :

Why, if such was the case, could he not
have said so frankly?

She was not unreasonable—she would have
trusted him implicitly—she would not have
asked him a single question. But to steal
forth from his home as if afraid of being seen;
to leave her—his fond and faithful wife—his
beautiful baby girl without one word of regret
or farewell! oh, it seemed very strange—very
unkind,

She took Alice out for a drive during the
afternoon, hoping thus to kill time and ban-
ish, for the present, the many fears which
beset her; but, when she returned, the house
seemed so desolate and forsaken—almost as if
some one had died there—that she wished she
had not gone out at all.

She felt faint. and almost ill, for she had
scarcely tasted food the whole day, and even
turned with a feeling of repulsion and some-
thing of despair from the dinner table, when
she saw Noel’s a. chair and wondered if
he would ever come back again to occupy it.

She tried toreason that such morbid fears
were foolish and wrong, and after she had put
Alice to sleep in her pretty crib, she took up
an unfinished book, thinking she would read
it through during the evening and thus drive
disagreeable thoughts from her mind.

But she could not read—she could not fix her
thoughts upon the story, interesting as it was.
Finally putting it aside, she retired, and, feel-
ing too desolate. to sleep alone, she gathered
her sleeping child in her arms and sobbed out
her misery and heart-ache until, exhausted,
she too fel] asleep.

But it was not a restful slumber, for she
dreamed strange, weird dreams, waking from
them every now and then in a state of fear
and trembling that was absolute torture.

She imagined all sorts of dreadful things—
she heard all kinds of noises, and was more
weary when morning broke than she had been
when she retired at night,

It was a night which she never forgot, and
she was so pale and hollow-eyed when she
went down to breakfast that the servant
exclaimed in alarm and said she must be ill.

“No, I am not ill, Jane,” she tried to say,.
cheerfully, “but I did not rest well; it is the
first time that Mr. Southworth has ever. been
away from home, and I was nervous.”

Sunshine brought something of courage and
cheer, however, and she resolved that she
would not spoil the whole day by broodin
over imaginary fears; she would set herse
about some work and make the time count for

something,

For Constance to resolve was to do, and she
bravely took up some unfinished sewing, set-
ting herself a task that would require great
cee to complete before the hour for

unch.

It was a dressing gown which she had had
Noel’s tailor cut, and which she was going to
make as a surprise for his birthday, which
was near at hand.

She had planned to make some slippers also,
and she now resolved that she would try to
get both them and the gown done before his
return. j

She wrought busily all the morning and
actually began to feel comparatively cheerful
again, with Alice toddling about and prattling
in her interesting baby fashion.

At lunch time she felt really hungry and ate
a hearty meal.

Afterward, she went up stairs again, dressed
herself and Alice for the street, intending to
drive out to Golden Gate Park, for the day
was lovely, and she believed that they would
both feel. better for having the air.

She looked very lovely, when she was ready
and started to go down stairs with her little
one in her arms,

She wore a dark gray suit trimmed with
steel, a hat to match, with delicate pink roses
to brighten it, and gloves the same color of
her dress.

Baby Alice was all in white—‘a dainty lily
in a halo of gold,’ Constance said, as she
brushed the long, golden hair that fell like
sunshine over her plump little shoulders, and
the mother and child made a rare picture as
they came down the stair-way together.

Constance had just reached the bottom stair
and put Alice down when the door bell ran
a sharp peal, and the sound somehow seeme
like a sudden blow upon the young wife’s
heart, driving every atom of color from her
face and making her tremble in every nerve,

With a sense of impending evil she herself
opened the door, without waiting for the gir!
to answer the summons, whereupon she found
herself confrontea by Mr. Jorthing, the
junior member of the firm by whom Noel was
employed.

Constance’s fair face lighted instantly, for
she told herself that he had come to her with
some message from her husband,

She greeted him with her habitual gracious-
ness, and, when he had shaken hands with
baby Alice, invited him into her dainty par-
lor. 3
He followed her, bending a look of mingled
admiration and pity upon her, which, fortu-
nately, she did not see, or her fears would
have been instantly aroused.

“You were going out, Mrs. Southworth,” he
remarked, as he took the chair she offered
him. ,

“That does not matter at all, Mr. Worth-
ing. I can go later just as well,” she smil-
ingly responded, “I hope Mrs. Worthing and
the little ones are-well.

She was so sure that he had come with good
news, that she could afford to spend a little
time in exchanging courtesies with him.

“Very well, I thank you,” he replied, “and
1 do not need to inquire regarding your
health, you are looking remarkably well, and
little Miss Alice also,” which was the truth,
for, with reviving hope, all her color and
sparkle had returned.

“Yes, we are always well,” she answered,
and then was on the point of asking him if
he had some message for her from Noel, when
he forestalled her by inquiring, with some
appearance of embarrassment ‘if Mr. South-
worth was ill.”

“Til!” repeated Constance in a tone of aston-
ishment, “Oh, no—that is——”

“Exuse me, but he was not at the office yes-
terday, nor to-day, and, fearing that he might
not be well, I came around to inquire,” Mr.
Worthing ee but with a slight hard-
ening of the lines about his mouth.

“Why!” Constance exclaimed, with paling
cheeks anda sinking heart, “he is away; did
you not know it? dia you not send him on busi-
ness for oy Gace ase icisae

“Away!” repea ¥ orthing, gravely,
“When hia he leave home?” Meee 7.

“Yesterday morning—or—the night before
last,” the young wife stammered, as she began
to realize that she did not ae know just
when he had gone, while a terrible fear was
settling upon her heart.

“Mrs. Southworth, will you kindly tell me
where your husband has gone?” the gentle-
man asked with a note of sternness in. his
tone, for her answer to his previous question
had struck him as being very strange,

“Where?” she faltered.. “Oh, Mr. Worthing,
did you not send him away on some business
for the bank?”

“No: no one at the bank has known any
reason for his non-appearance there. We have
sent no one out of the city on business for
some time. Yesterday, when he did not come
as usnal, we imagined that he was not well;
but thinking it could be nothing serious, we

 

did not send here to ascertain, hoping that he
would be in his place as usual this ane
He did not come, and so I thought I would
stop on my way home and make some inquiry.”

Constance’s face was as white as snow now
and she was trembling visibly, for her heart
told her that there was something very wrong
connected with her hushand’s mysterious
absence.

“Mr. Worthing,” she began, looking greatly
distressed, “I am afraid that something dread-
ful has happened. Mr. Southworth told me,
night before last, that he had important busi-
ness which would take him to Chicago,”

“To Chicago!” exclaimed her companion,
astonished.

“Yes; he said it was a matter connected
with the firm, and he appeared so nervous and
unlike himself, that I imagined it was per-
haps caused by the importance of the ,com-
mission intrusted to him.”

Mr. Worthing looked exceedingly disturbed
at this intelligence; but he readily understood
that, wherever Noel Southworth had gone,
whatever his plans, his wife was as much in
ignorance of them as any one.

He had known something about the young
man’s fast vee of late. e knew that he
had overdrawn his salary, that he was deeply
in debt, that he had been drinking a great
deal, during the last few months, and his
singular absence at this time made him fear
that he had done something rash and then
fled to escape the consequences of his deed,

He had had it on his mind for some time to
remonstrate with him against his extrava-
gance and the too free use of wine; for,
although he had not as yet begun to neglect
his business, he feared it would come to that
before a great while, unless he changed his
course, while he felt, on his wife’s account,
that he could not allow him to to keep on, to
ORE sorrow upon her, without a warning
word,

He now saw that Constance was oppressed
by fears akin to his own regarding Noel’s
absence; but, while he dreaded to confirm
them and thus add to her anxiety, he felt that
it was only right for her to know the truth.

“We have a branch office in Chicago, Mrs.
Southworth,” he said, “but I know of no bus-
iness, just at present, which should call any
one there from this eity.”

“Oh, Mr. Worthing——” Constance began,
in a tone of distress,

“It may be,” he interposed, “that Mr. Ames
had some reason for sending Mr. Southworth
there upon some secret commission; but if he
did so it was without consulting any one else,
which would bea strange proceeding on his

art. :

“What can it mean? oh, Mr. Worthing,
what can it mean?” Constance exclaimed, with
white lips and a face that was almost con-
vulsed with pain.

os

CHAPTER XXII

CONSTANCE UNEXPECTEDLY MEETS AN OLD
FRIEND.

“My dear Mrs. Southworth, I beg that you
will not give way to unnecessary alarm,” Mr,
Worthing remarked, in a  svothing tone.
“Your husband may return in a few days and
explain everything to_ the satisfaction of
everybody. Meantime I will make inquiries
at the bank and ascertain if he has been sent
away. It is barely possible that Mr. Ames
may have done so for reasons only known to
himself, I will go directly to learn the truth,”
he concluded, rising.

“And you will let me know immediately?”
Constance pleaded, with quivering lips.

“Indeed | will. I will not keep you in sus-
pense one moment longer than is absolutely
necessary,” he responded, as he extended his
hand in farewell. “And do not worry,” he
added, trying to =. cheerfully, “it will not
help the matter inthe least, and our fears,
you know, may all be groundless.”

Constance made no reply to this, for her
heart was very heavy with forebodings, and
her companion felt a great pity-for her, for a
terrible suspicion had been creeping into his
mind, while he sat there talking to her, ;

He bade her good-afternoon and hastened
back to his office, where, fortunately, he
found his partner. ©

He told him what he had learned and the
face of Mr. Ames grew blank as he listened.

“There is something yom Roce this,” he
remarked. “Southworth has been living very
fast of late. We must set some one at his
books immediately to see what he has been up
to, and meantime we will (lo to our
office in Chicago and ascertain if he puts in
an a ce there.”

This was done, but at the end of three da
which would give Noel time to reach the oly
if he had gone thither, there camea reply say-
ing that nothing had been seen of Mr. Son
worth,

Another telegram was then sent to the
police headquarters, making similar inquiries,
and commissioning those officials to look up
the missing man i ible and communicate
the result of their investigations at the earliest
moment.

It was with a heavy heart that Mr. Worth-
ing revealed to Constance the fact that her
husband had not gone to Chicago, and the
grief of the stricken wife was painful to wit-
ness.

She made no violent outbreak, but the look
of shame and despair which overspread her
beautiful face was harder to witness than the
most excessive manifestations of sorrow would
have been.

“What shall I do?”

That was the only cry that rose from her
when Mr. Worthing told her of the spe to
his telegram; but it made his heart ache for
her.

“Have you friends in the city?” he inquired,
thinking she ought to have some one with ber
during this trying time.

“No, I have no friends,” she replied, in a
hopeless tone; “my Peg are not living. I
have a brother, but he is abroad and I cannot
appeal to him. What can I do?”

“Mrs. Southworth, do nothing for the pres-
ent,” Mr. Worthing said, kindly, “just re-
main quietly here and try to be patient until
we learn something definite.”

“How can I!” Constance cried, with a note
of agony in her voice. “I am so afraid——”

“ Afraid of what? Are you timid about stay-
ing here by yourself? If so——”

“Timid ! am not thinking of myself at
all,” she exclaimed, almost passionately, “but
I am afraid—ah! to think that I should have
to confess it! I am afraid there is something
rence about——”

“Hush!” interposed her companion, for he
suspected what was in her mind, “do not let
us borrow trouble; let us wait a little—a few
days may reveal a great deal. But, Mrs, South-
ash! must not remain here alone; let
me send my sister to you.”

“Thank you; but—I believe I would rather
be by myself for the present,” Constance sadly
replied, and feeling that she could not bear to
have any one witness the grief which she
could not control; and he, appreciating her
sensitiveness, did not urge the matter further.

He begged her to command him at any time,
if she needed assistance, and then took his
leave with a deep pity in his heart for the
young wife who had been so sorely stricken,
and so unkindly used,

Who can describe the suspense and anxiety
which she endured during the ensuing week?

All inquiries failed to elicit any information
regarding the whereabouts of Néel South-
worth.

No such person had been in Chicago as far
as the police could ascertain, and no clew
could be obtained as to what direction he had
taken on leaving San Francisco.

Investigations at the banking house, where
he had been employed, brought to light the
startling fact that he had been, .as was feared,
a defaulter, and thus the reason for his flight
was explained.

When Mr. Worthing with all possible gen-
tleness broke this to Constance, she was at

- | hope

word she sank upon the floor before him,
every particle of strength forsaking her.

She did not faint-—-she made no moan nor cry
—she was simply stricken down, as if felled
by an unseen blow.

The gentleman gently raised her, seated her
in a comfortable chair, and brought hera glass
of water, but did not attempt to comfort her,
for he felt that he had none to offer in view
of a grief so terrible.

“Thank you for ie goodness,” she said,
after a while, aud lifting her heavy eyes to
him, “bat may I ask you to leave me now
and come again to-morrow, when I an that
I shall have myself under better control,”

He knew it was the kindest thing that he
could do, and so, with a brief farewell, he left
her alone with her grief. And what a grief!

She was a deserted wife, and the wife of a
defaulter !

The wife of a convict, she would be if’ her
husband should be arrested and convicted of
his guilt!

“He never loved me!” Constance moaned, as
she tried to face the: situation and to think
how she could live and earry this burden
about with her during all her future life. “If
he was reckless of the consequences to him-
self, how could he bear to bring such a taint
upon his wife and child?”

Ah, it was a terrible grief; a fearful trial;
for, gentle and unassuming as she was, Con-
stance was possessed of a pride that was as
intense as that of royalty itself, and the shame
and disgrace which Noel had thus brought
upon her, seared her soul like an iron heated
to a white heat.

Then came the ordeal of the newspapers,
which gave the usual amplified account of the
affair, making the scandal as sensational as
possible without regard to truth, and expati-
ating largely upon the “extravagance of a fash-
ionable wife, who doubtless had helped thus
to drive her husband to the desperate deed
which had served to make him a criminal and
banish him from his home and country.”

This seemed only adding insult to injury,
especially as Constance had never upheld Noel
in any of his expensive whims; when, time
after time, she had pleaded with him to dis-
pense with numerous luxuries, to: buy her no
more jewels or elegant apparel, but try to cur-
tail their expenses and live within their
means,

But of course she was powerless to refute
these slurs cast upon herself, or resent the
indignity to herself; she was therefore forced
to bear in silence this added dagger thrust in
her already sorely wounded soul.

Thus she fought the battle out alone; she
would admit no callers, she would see no
friends, until the first force of her grief had
spent itself and she had regained something
of self-control.

Then she sent for Mr. Worthing and con-
sulted with him regarding what would be best
for her to do in the future.

“JT wish to give up my home,” she told him,
“TI wish everything the house contains to be
sold, in a way to realize as much as possible,
the ote to go toward canceling my hus-
bans ’s debt to you. I have some fine jewels
a ”

Ty dear Mrs. Southworth,” the man began,
his face flushing a painful crimson at the
thought of taking from her money obtained
in such a way.

But she interrupted him.

“T know that it will be but comparatively
little,” she said, oer “but it will at least
be a ee of what I mean todoin the
future. The newspapers say that I drove my
husband to this crime b Py extravagance—
it is utterly false. Still if I live and have my
hon every dollar shall be returned to the

rm.” :

“Mrs. Southworth, you cannot mean to
assume such a burden!” Mr, Worthing ex-
claimed, astonished.

“I certainly do,”
quietly, but firmly.

“Do not think of it for a moment,” her com-
panion replied. “Indeed, we could never
accept such a sacrifice on your part. I shall be
most happy to arrange for the sale of your fur-
niture, if that is your wish, but the proceeds
of the sale ought to be invested for the ben-
efit of yourself and your little one. You must
remember that you have another to provide
for, and you should not impoverish yourself
or overtax yourself for what you are in no way

sible.”
Constance ee te ates a ager
regarding the sale, not reply to his

t against her intentions respecting the
di ition of the proceeds, |

re was, however, a slight hardening of
the lines about her mouth which betrayed
some inward resolve. —
She dismissed her seryants and then gave up
everything which her pretty home contained.
She realized far more than she had dared to
pon ae ienia RR Rl tee ton nd
oO s friends w u argely an i
liberally for their cechanen: ar u ul the
very afternoon that the money, thus ined,
was put into her hands, she started out to
make her first payment toward the cancela-
tion of the debt incurred by her husband’s
crime.

It was too late for her to go to the bank,
for it had closed; but she felt nervous about
keane so large an amount about her over
night and therefore resolved to take it directly
to Mr. Worthing.

His residence was a lon
own, and she was oblig

Constance responded

distance from her
y to change cars in
order to reach it.

As she stepped upon the first one, she
noticed that a burly, ill-visaged man followed
her closely, and instantly it flashed upon her
that she had seen him passing from room to
room in her house during the sale of the fur-
niture, and she had observed also that he did
not bid upon anything.

He took a seat opposite her, and every time
she glanced up she found his eyes fixed upon
her in a bold and, as she imagined, malicious
stare.

When she alighted to make a change, he did
the same and even presumed to assist her as
she entered another car, following her and this
time seating himself beside her.

She began to be very uneasy, all the more
so from the fact that it was fast growing dark.

She was thoroughly frightened when she
got out at the corner of the quiet, aristocratic
street, where Mr. Worthing resided, and
found the man still at her heels.

With her heart in her throat she sped along
the sidewalk, hoping to reach No. 22 before
her pursuer—for such she believed him to be—
should overtake her.

It was now dark, except for the street-lights
upon the corners, and the avenue seemed
entirely deserted, although Constance strained
her eyes in search of some one to whom to
appeal in the event of trouble.

he almost flew over the ground, but those
long, swinging strides behind her gained upon
her rapidly and suddenly she felt a heavy
hand upon her shoulder,

“Madam,” said a low, stern voice in her ear,
“if you value your life, make no sound, and
give me that roll of bills whieh you have in
your possession,”

Constance was a delicate woman, but she
was also brave, and she resolved that she
would make a bold fight for the money that
was to help wipe out the terrible disgrace
which had recently fallen upon herself and
her little one.

By a dextrous movement she wrenched her
shoulder from his grasp, and facing him with
uplifted head and blazing eyes, she demanded:

“Who are you that dare accost a woman on
the street like this?) Leave me instantly or I
wil] summon a policeman.”

“By thunder! you are a plucky one!” was
the admiring rejoinder, as the man’s arm fell
by his side and he involuntarily recoiled a
step before her. Then recovering himself he
continued: “There’s no policeman about, and
as I’ve had my eye on that money all day, I've
got to have it; sojust hand it over without any
more palaver.”

“Never! you shall never havea dollar of it!”
cried Constance, in a low, desperate tone and

 

first literally crushed by it, and without a

wheeling suddenly away from him, she darte

onward with the speed of a frightened fawn
up the avenue. ;
She might possibly have escaped him and
reached Mr. Worthing’s house in safety, the
man was so taken aback by this dauntless
procesalings but a atrond wind was blowing—
it filled the long circular garment she wore
and floated it k into the villain’s very

grasp.

He seized it, dragged her roughly back and
thus neany threw her off her feet. ‘

For one dreadful moment she thought that
her precious money must go; the next she
caught the sound of some one opening the door
of the house nearest heranda ray of light
streamed out upon the pavement.

“Help!” she called, inasharp tone of agony.

The wretch at her side swore a dreadful
oath, swung one brawny arm around her, and
strove to wrest from her grasp the small
leather bag, which she carried in her hands.

But she was desperate, and she fought
bravely for her treasure, until, suddenly, she
heard a groan of pain, and the next instant the
scoundrel lay sprawling upon the pavement
at her feet, while a strong arm was
out to save her from the recoil. ors ty

“Stand behind me,” said a low, pleasant
voice, and she found herself thrust behind a
tall, symmetrical figure just as the would-he
robber pacman his feet, and with a volley of
oaths declared he’d have the heart’s blood of
the man who had dared to strike bim down.

“All right, sir; but two can play at. that
game,” was the cool retort, as a silver-
mounted revolver was quietly leveled at the
bully’s heart before he could draw the knife
for which he was fumbling among his disor-
dered attire.

He was utterly taken aback by this unex-
pected proceeding and instantly recoiled before
the dangerous weapon,

“Right about face, sir, and double. quick
pace until you are out of. sight,” commanded
the gentleman in sharp, incisive tones.

‘ don’t shoot!” vicaded the highwayman,
as he slowly began to retreat. _

“You miserable coward! you wretched
assaulter of women, get you gone!” was the
contemptuous retort; anc, without waiting
for a repetition of the command, the villain
turned and fled down the street. ¢

“Now, madam,” said the gentleman, turn-
ing courteously to Constance and putting his
weapon out of sight, “allow me to attend you
safely to your destination.” “

Constance had not until that moment caught

sight of his face, but now she sprang toward
him with a glad ery.
it be possible?” she

“Oh, Laurie! can
exclaimed.

“Heavens! Constance!” the man cried, seiz-
ing her by both hands and bending nearer to
search her face. “My dar—my dear old friend,
why are 4 walking the streets of San Fran-
cisco at this late hour, and unprotected?”

“TI was obliged to come, I had an important.
errand with Mr. Worthing,” she faltered, while
her eyes drooped beneath the old familiar
light in his which she remembered so well.

“You were obliged to come abroad alone at.
night! It is very unsafe—at least in this city,”
Laurence Everet gravely returned ; then asked:
“Where is—your husband, Constance? Surely
he should be here to guard you.”

Constance shrank from him in sudden pain,
a flash of shame mounting to her brow.

“Noel! oh! you have not heard!” she mur-
mured, with quivering lips.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Slat tt eeetieeaatdaaial SAR toner

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-F

thrown

The Slnsof the Father

AN UNLOVED BRIDE. |

By BERTHA M. CLAY,
Author of “’Twixt Love and Hate,” “Between
Two Hearts,” ‘Fair, but Faithless,”
‘For Another's Sin,” “Thrown _
on the World,” Etc.

(“HE SINS OF THE FATHER” was commenced in No. 21.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.)

Street &

This is an original story, the pr
gt ry operty of the

shuth and is entirely different from * The

Fathers” published by Hurst & Lo.)
CHAPTER LXVIII.
MABEL’S LETTER.

As the three people, so strangely fated to
have their lives mingle, left the court-room,

 

 

many pairs of eyes followed them wonder-
ingly; for it was well known that Edna had
taken the usurped estate from Mabel,

But, somehow, it did not seem strange to
Edna that she should be the only one to be-
friend the fallen woman; and she was only
glad that at the last Mabe] had done her the
justice to put faith in her. She glanced pity-
ingly at the pale, set face, and knew that a
mortal agony was racking that strong soul.
She saw, too, that, for all her courage and
firmness, Mabel’s steps were unsteady. She
glided gently nearer to her and put her arm
about her waist.

“T am strong,” she said, softly; “lean on me.”

A wan smile and an anguished look were
the only answer Mabel made to Edna; but a
moment later she said, in a low voice:

“Take me home with you. I cannot go with
George. I could not bear the words he would
say to me, I deserve them all, but I love him.”

tei an instant Edna saw that what she asked
was possible, and even best, and when the
had emerged from the yard of the court build-
ing, she left Mabel and hastened to where
the earl was striding on ahead. He had not
turned to see if his guilty wife was following. ~

“Lord Westmarch,” Edna said, softly.

He stopped and turned to her.

“You, Edna!”.

“TI wish Lady Westmarch to go home with
me,” she said. s3

“She is too vile,” he answered, sternly. “I
will provide a home for her. Oh, do not fear,”
he exclaimed, as he noticed the troubled look
on Edna’s face. “I shall give her Westmarch
for her home, and there she may remain, I go
to Forestdean. I shall demand of her only that
she live her life apart.”

“It is not for me to find fault with your de-
cision, or to question it,” she answered, gen-
tly; “but, for my sake, say that she may go
from here with me.”

“I cannot believe that it is right,” he said,
“but it shall be as you say.”

“And you will accompany us?” she asked.
“I think of what the world will say if you
leave her now.”

“I will go, too,” he answered.
conveyance here. Wait for me.”

He was cold and stern, but Edna knew it
was paly a mask for his trouble. She returned
to Mabel. ;

“The earl and yourself,” she said, “will be
my guests.” is

Why are you so good to me whenI have
done you nothing but evil?” murmured Mabel.

Edna made no other answer than to put her
little hand on Mabel’s; and so they waited
in silence for the coming of the earl. When he
came he agsisted Mabel and Edna into the
carriage with equal ceremony and courtesy:
but did not speak nor look at his wife. And
she did not speak or look at him.

But Edna, who looked at both, knew that
each was suffering agonies, and her heart
ached for both alike. ror Mabel, knowing she

“I havea

had forever lost all hope of ever regaining his _ i.

‘

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

VOL, 47—No. 49.

=

love, and for him because she knew that he
looked forward to a life blasted, and back to
a life warped, and all by the woman who was
linked to him as his wife.

When they reached Thornhill, great was the
wonder of the servants to see the guests Edna
was bringing with her; though they were
well enough trained to give no sign. The earl,
with his formal courtesy, assisted the ladies
out, and step are to give an order about the
disposal of the horse, while Edna led Mabel
up the steps into the hall.

It was impossible not to feel the strangeness
of receiving Mabel there in the new relation

hostess and guest; but it was soon lost in
her sweet compassion for the wretched woman.

“May I have my old room?” asked Mabel.

Edna had been in doubt what to do, and was
glad that Mabel had.a preference; though it
troubled her, too, to see the growing expres-
sion of haggard despair in the blue eyes that
had once been so full of indomitable pride.

So Mabel was ushered to her old apartments,
and Edna returned to the hall to meet the
earl, who had come in and was standing there
irresolute.

“Where is Mabel?” he asked.

“In her former apartments. It was her own
wish. Won’t youcome in and let me have
a brought to you? You are tired and

aint.”

“No,” he answered, drearily. “food would
choke me now. I must see Mabel and talk
with her.”

“Why not wait?” Edna asked, anxiously.
“She is hardly able to bear any more. She has
passed through a terrible ordeal.”

“Better now than later. If I waited I might
think more of my own wrongs and less of her
sufferings. Let me go to her, Edna!”

Edna understood, and moved aside as a sign
that she acquiesced. It was a hard and bitter
thing to contemplate two wrecked lives, both
of which had once been so full of bright prom-
ise. a5

The earl slowly went up the broad staircase,
and after a moment of hesitation, rapped at
the door of Mabel’s apartments. He heard her
_ voice bid him come, for she had immediately
dismissed the maid Edna had sent her, and
was alone. He entered the room, where she
stoed, as if waiting for him, and she was the
first to speak.

“T was sure you would come,” she said.
“Yes, I hoped you would come, and I wished
that what you had to say would be said here.”

Her voice was dull and heavy as she spoke,
and he knew that she was a crushed woman;
but it could not alter his determination to
know it. It must end as he had determined.

“You know,” he said to ker, “that every-
thing must be at an end between us.”

“T knew it,” she answered. “I wait to hear
your judgment.”

I do not wish -to be cruel, or even harsh,”

he said, “but there are some things which are

inevitable. After what has happened, one roof

can never cover us again. I have arranged for

_ you to go to Westmarch, which shall be main-

tained as it should be. I-will goto Forest-
dean. Our lives must be apart.”

“You are more than just,” she answered, in
the same dull monotone she had used _ before;
“you are generous. I might refuse to live on a
bounty I had justly forfeited. I might pro-
test against your action, but I will not. [have
a few words to say to you, however, and then
will end this episode of my life.

_ “You heard all that man said over there in
the court-room. I wish to say that he was
mainly right. If he was wrong, it was only
in a few particulars of no importance. I did
scheme with him to separate you from Edna
Leslie. I did it because I loved you. I did try
to kill him that night, because of the madness
of my love for you.

“Tf I have deceived you many times since,
it was only because I wasin the meshes of
deceit, and knew not how to disentangle
myself but by adding lie on lie. I despised
_ myself for it, but I did it.

“T think I never would have been a fit mate
for you; but, above all, I could not be after
you had learned to love another, and that
other Edna Leslie. _But I loved you then as I
love you now, madly.

“Finally, I have only to say that I shali
never again trouble you, and I hope Heaven
will give me time to atone in some measure
for what I have done, and then let me die; for
I know that in my death lies your happiness;
and I ldve you so much that I wish for your
happiness above all earthly things.”

he ceased to speak, and turned away from
him that he might not see the hot and bitter
tears that welled from her eyes.

What was there for him to say? He could
forgive her, perhaps, but he could not cease to
loathe her. He stood for a moment, and then
turned and silently left her.

When he went down stairs and saw Edna
anxiously awaiting his return, he told her
what had passed between them, and then said
he must leave the castle.

“IT cannot remain here,” he said, and she
knew that he was right.

“TI am glad you were kind to her,” she said.

“She has ruined my life, but even a brute
must have pitied her,” he answered. “Good-by,
Edna! It is a strange thing that I should leave
you tocare for her. It may be that we shall
never meet again. The fucure looks very dark
to me; but I. shall always hold you in my
heart, and whatever happiness comes to me,
will be through you. It always has been so
since the first moment of our meeting. Heaven
_ bless you!”
- He was gone, and it did seem to Edna as if
fate had been cruel to her. She felt that he
had gone away, and would never be aught but
a memory in her life.

“Your ladyship,” said the voice of the maid
she had assigned to Mabel, “Lady Westmarch
asks if you will excuse her if she does not
come down to dinner to-night, as she is very
weary, and would like to retire early.”

So Edna ate dinner alone in the great
dining-room, and only sent to know of Mabel
if she could do anything for her, receiving
answer that she had all she wished.

When morning came the next day, Edna
found her maid waiting by her bedside with a
face full of trouble. .

“Is anything wrong, Kitty?” she asked.

“Lady Westmarch’s room is ernpey. Here is
a letter for you, and one for Lord Westmarch.”

Edna hastily tore open the letter addressed
to her. It was brief, but pathetic:

‘DEAR FRIEND; for I know you are that, I have
fled from you and from all who ever knew me. It is
what [should do. Do not fear for me. «I shall hide
myself. but my life shall be an atonement for my
past. Heaven bless youand bring you and George
together! Isay this out of my devouring love for
him, and my wish for his happiness.”

‘CHAPTER LXIX.
CONCLUSION.

All was done that could be to find Mabel
and induce her to return, but without avail.
She had disappeared as completely as if she
had died. Her letter to the earl had contained
no more of a clew than the one to Edna:

“My DEAR HUSBAND :—Donot grudge me the hap-
piness of calling you so for this one last time. By
the time you receive this I shall have passed out of
your sight and knowledge, and you will never hear
of me again except to know that Iam dead. You
may not hope for anear time for such news of me;
hut I pray Heaven every moment of my life to let
ine atone and then let me die. I feel that my prayer
will be answered, since my life is but misery to three
persons,

“T knowT do not need to beg youto turn to Edna
when Tam gone, for your own heart. will bid you do
that; but when you turn to her, and find in her love
and sweet womanliness a balm for the sorrows I
have brought upon you, think of me and ask her to
help you forgive me, MABEL.”

The letter touched him deeply: then, and in
after years touched him still more; for he
learned fromit what a nature had been warped
from its sweetness and strength by the false
life she had led. :

He could not bear to think of even his un-
loved wife wandering over the earth, and he

} did all that lay in his power to find her; but

 

 

 

it was all unavailing until one day, when he!
received a telegram from London, eee)
him from Russia, whither he had wandere
in his vain search.

“Lady Westmarch found. Dying.”

That was the telegram, and it sent a_ quick
rush of feeling surging to his heart. He re-
called the proud, beautiful girl who had been
a queen in London drawing-rooms, and who
might have had any peer of the realm for the
saying of a word; but who had put them ail
aside to win him; not because of his wealth
and his title, but from sheer, mad love.

He remembered how she had begged for the
boon of his love, and how he had striven to
give it. And then the bitter sorrow of the days
of the revelation of how she had won him
came over him, and he could have wept.
Would he could see her before she died !

He started from Russia, and stinted neither
money nor hard words where either would
help him on his homeward journey. He tele-

phed ahead and was met at the station in
ndon, and was carried, all travel-stained
us he was, to the hospital where Mabel lay.

“Why-is she here, and not in my London
house?” he demanded, half-angrily’of his attor-
ney who had met him, and told him, where she
would be found.

“Tt is here that she has been for some time.
She has been a nurse in the hospitals. She
would not tell who she was until she knew
she was surely dying.”

“I have done what I could to atone,” were
her first words to the earl, as he knelt by her
bedside. “I hoped you would come.”

“T have searched for you since the
ceived your letter,” he answered.

“Bdna has been here,” said Mabel, a smile
lighting up her wasted face. “She must be
near, now. Bring her quickly. I am very near
to death, George. You forgive me.I can see
it in your eyes. Here is Edna. Your hand
and hers.”

They could not gainsay the dying woman,
and they held out their hands as they under-
stood she would have them.

“I am glad I put them together,” she mur-
mured, and closed her eyes.

»
*

day I re-

x ~ * * +

It was a year after that scene at the dying
bedside that the papers announced the wed-
ding, in a very quiet way, of the Earl of West-
march and the Duchess of Thornhill.

(THE END.)

{Another new love story by BrrtHa M.
CLAY will soon be begun. Next week, in re-
sponse to the request of numerous patrons of
the NEw YoRK WEEKLY, we shall commence
the republication of Mrs. May AGNES FLEM-
In@’s best story, “WEDDED, YET NO WIFE;
or, A LEAP IN THE DARK.”

MRS. MAYO’S SECOND HUSBAND.

BY MRS. ALEX. M’VEIGH MILLER.

 

Mrs. Mayo’s first husband was stretched
upon his dying bed.

The doctor had told him so kindly but
frankly, and advised him to make his will.

He lay thinking how he should divide his
small fortune, between his wife and their two
pretty children, when suddenly it occurred to
him that his young wife might marry again,
might have a second husband.

He gasped, and looked at her sitting close
by the bed, her fair face worn with watching
and grief, the tender tears in her dark blue
eyes. The blood that had been coursing so
sluggishly through his veins suddenly bounded
forward in a burning tide. _

He had realized more forcibly than ever be-
fore the noble beauty of his wife. He had car-
ried her off seven years before from a score of
lovers, and she was still young, still charm-
ing. History might repeat itself.

You would not have thought that a dyin
man could feel jealous, and yet a pang of crue
envy tore Hunter Mayo’s heart.

Elinor’s small white hand—the one that
wore his wedding-ring—was nestled in his
own. He pressed it feebly.

“Darling, you have been a good wife to me,”
he murmured, and her soft eyes beamed
through her tears.

“Oh, Hunter, I’ve tried to be. I’mglad you
realize it at last,” she sighed, in a plaintive
tone.

He continued, tenderly:

“You have been so faithful—you bave never
refused any wish of mine. And now, Elinor,
I have one dying request to make.”

His glance was so eager, his tone so plead-

 

 

ing that she gazed into his thin, worn face
in surprise.

“IT know you will grant me your promise,
dear heart, for it is only this—when I am
dead, that you will always be true tomy
memory—that you will never marry again !”

A little startled cry came from Elinor’s lips,
the color rushed into her cheeks, her eyes
turned on him witha gentle reproach that
touched his heart.

“Have I grieved you, my dear, by even hint-
ing at a second marriage? Forgive me.
know you can never forget me, but I can die
easier with your promise. Oh, my Elinor, I
cannot bear that any other man should pos-
sess you, ever have the chance to ill-treat my
darling, whom I have so fondly cherished !”

His voice was quite strong and impassioned
for a dying man, and his large gray eyes
searched her fair face eagerly. Was it fancy,
or did her lip curl, ever so slightly, at his
last words.

He repeated, anxiously:

“T cannot die in peace without your promise
never to marry again!”

Why did those burning tears sparkle out
upon ‘her pale cheeks beneath the drooping
lashes? She murmured, plaintively:

“Oh, Hunter, you are cruel!”

“Oruel, Elinor! Do you mean that—that—
you will refuse?”

And the most cruel blow his egotism had
ever received came with her faltering answer:
“Forgive me, dear, but I cannot promise.”

The shock was so great that he closed his
eyes and gasped feebly, believing that his last
hour was at hand. In a moment Elinor was on
her knees by his side, bathing his face with
her warm tears.

“Oh, Hunter, do not die! I love you, I love

ou!

r The blood leaped quickly through his veins
again. His eyes unclosed languidly.

“Then you will promise me?” he pleaded.

“Oh, Hunter, I cannot, must not! How can
you wish me to blight my whole future?”

“And you really wish, then, to have a
second husband?”

The dying man’s voice was strong with scorn
of her inconstancy.

“J—I—perhaps so, Hunter—but only after a
long, long time,” and Elinor kissed him and
clung to him lovingly; a strange parseoding
when she had just wrung his heart by her dec-
laration that she would not live out her days

widow.

He pushed her away in a sudden gust of
jealous anger.

“You have never loved me, Elinor?”

“T loved you always, love you still,” she
sobbed. ‘But, Hunter—it—is—just the other
way! You have never loved me!”

He was speechless with surprise at_ this
strange charge. “Never loved her !" Why,
then, had he made her his wife and the mother
of his beautiful children?

Elinor went on speaking, low, but clearly,
like one under the stress of some overmaster-
ing emotion:

“God knows Ido not wish to pain you,
Hunter, but yet I would like to justify my-

 

 

 

 

 

 

self. They say that dying eyes see clearly, be-

+have a simple love-life,

cause the dying are already beyond the reach
of earthly prejudice and passion, So, dear, will
yee let me speak out plainly now what has
een in my heart for years.”
“Goon,” he answered, in feeble wonder at
the fire and passion of her lovely, tear-stained

ace.

“T must tell yousome of my inmost thoughts,
and perhaps you will laugh at them,” breathed
the plaintive voice. “But, Hunter, I believe
that God creates men and women as soul-mates
for each other, but they—they do not always
find each other, and then—blindly—they wed
as chance or fancy dictates, and disunion and
lack of harmony result. This has been our
fate, my poor husband. We were not intended
for each other, andyeach has failed to realize
the other’s ideal.”

“Speak for yourself,” he answered, with un-
necessary curtness; “I never had an ideal.”

“Oh, yes, you did, dear, though perhaps‘ you
did not realize it. Every one has an uncon-
scious ideal, I think. Youwhad yours, Hunter,
but you did not find it in me,” she answered,
in that sweet, plaintive voice that always
touched an echoing chord in the hearer’s heart.
“When the honey-moon glamour wore off you
wearied of me. Do not think I did not see it,
dear, even though my eyes were full of tears
mee I found how far you fell short of my
ideal.”

“What was your ideal?’ he asked, sneer-

ngly.

Although he was dying, he could still sneer
ata woman’ romantic fancies, derived, he
thought, from novels.

She‘sighed wearily, and answered:

“Tt was very simple, Just a.loving, appre-
ciative companion. I have somewhere read
that men and women are created the perfect
complement of each other, fulfilling in their
wedded life the qualities separately lacking in
each. I expected that my husband. an
would be much together, so contented in our
mutual love, so interested in the same things,
so tenderly united, that we could never feel
quite happy apart. That was my fancy, and I
know I was not wrong, for I have seen a few
wedded lovers like that, and they were happy
—happy as I had hoped to be, as IL weeps have
been, only—I married the wrong man!”

“Elinor !” he cried, in angry remonstrance,
but she had the courage of her convictions;
she would not pause.

“Tt is God’s truth!” she said. “We are not
soul-mates, or we should have found more
happiness together, dear. I call you dear, for
I love you, Hunter, in spite of the mistake of
our marriage.”

“It was no mistake,” he muttered, with
angry resentment.

“You are good to say so, but you fatter me;”
her exquisite lips curled in spite of the dew
on her long lashes. “But, Hunter, I have not
been blind, and I have seen how little you
cared for my companionship, how eagerly you
sought pretexts for leaving my side and join-
ing your male companions, in_ whose company
you took such keen delight. Business, you al-

| ways said, when I complained of loneliness,
| and yet I knew that it was only a subterfuge,

for you were well-to-do, and lived a life of
elegant leisure. My society was irksome to
you, and you released yourself from it all that
you could. Why, I wondered, for other men
always seemed to find my company agreeable,
and J pant have played the role of the mar-
ried flirt if I had wished. But I did not
choose, for I loved you well, in_ spite of your
neglect. But it grew worse and worse. You
ceased going out with me at all, until, in very
shame, I remained closely at home that the
world might not observe and censure your in-
difference. Desperate with misery, I re-
proached you, appealed to you, and—you grew
angry, called me unreasonable and hysterical,
and grew colder and more indifferent than
ever. ThenI turned for solace to my two
little ones, but I could not. find the comfort
that I sought. I grew hopeless and bitterly
resentful, but suffered on in silence, realizing
that I had missed my soul-mate, and could
expect no joy in my life.”

He had listened in resentful silence to the

assionate arraignment of a tortured woman’s
pene Now he cried out, impatiently:

“Elinor, | was always true to you,
had a thought of another woman!”

“IT know that, Hunter. I was jealous of men,
not women. You were so fond of your own
sex, you spent all your time with them, you
enjoyed their society more than mine, and so
be was left alone, the gladness went out of
my life, I grew bitter and rebellious. I wanted
to get full measure of joy out of this life of
mine, but my ill-judged marriage had wrecked
it—eternally, I thought. But now—oh, Hun-
ter, do not think me hard and_ cruel, for lam
but just to myself and you. Now it seems to
me tnat when you are gone, and I am over my
grieving, I may yet retrieve the past, may
yet find my twin-soul, the one God created for
me, and be happy. And solIcannot promise
what you ask me, for it would be a wrong to
myself and to my ideal, who may yet be mine.
I have a right to some happiness in my life,
Hunter, and why should I sacrifice all my
future to you, who would not give me the
past years that were rightfully mine?” and
her cheeks burned and her eyes gleamed with
the truth of her words as she arraigned her
selfish, egotistical husband.

He lay gasping and soul-stricken before the
fire of those vivid home-truths. His self-love
had received a cruel wound.

Despite his selfishness, he had loved Elinor
well, after his own fashion, and he was not
willing toadmit that she had any cause of
complaint.

Ina way, it enraged him that his fair, gentle
young wife had dared to think out a problem
of life for herself, had so individualized her-
self as to claim for herself a future of bliss in
which he could have no part.

And just then she murmured, pathetically:

“All this would have been different, Hun-
ter, had you but loved me truly, and sought
my happiness instead of your own. It was my
right and your duty. And you can see, now
that you have been ill for so many weeks, how
little you were cared for by the men in whose
society you took your chief delight. Have they
been near you to comfort or console? No, they
searcely give youa thought. It is I, your
neglected wife, who have been your devoted
nurse! And, Hunter, had you been as devoted
to me these past years, I would have remained
your incpnsolable widow to my life’s end; but,
as I have said, it—is—different.”

Anger flashed from his eyes as he cried out:

“T am glad you have been so frank before I
made my will. I shall not leave you one penny
more than you can claim under the law. The
rest shall all goto my children. I will not
leave my money to be squandered by your
second husband.”

She smiled patiently,
firmly:

“Nor would I sacrifice my ae of the future
for so poor a price as your gold!”

Then, as if realizing suddenly that she had
wounded him in his helplessness, she threw
her arms about him, sobbing, tenderly:

“Oh, forgive my wild words, for { am starv-
ing for a love as warm and tender as my own.
My days have been so lonely while you ‘staid
away from me by day, and pored over your
papers by night. Ihave been so jealous of
everybody and everything that coula interest

ou more than I could! Perhaps I was selfish.

o you think so, dear?”

He only answered, bitterly:

“T hope your second husband may realize all
your ambitions.”

“But Ihave no ambitions. T do not want
my husband to be great, only good and loving,
and always loth to leave my side. Yes, and to
tell me sometimes that he loves me. You have
forgotten for so long to tell me that, dear; but

yerhaps you did not guess how a woman’s
pont hungers for affection. I have often
wished you were quite poor, Hunter. Then
you would not be so popular, and you would
appreciate the true hearts at home more. We
would work hard for our little children, and
finding our greatest
joy in each other’s company.”

He put out his weak hand entreatingly.

“No more. I cannot bear it,” he said, in a

I never

but she answered,

subdued voice. “It is time for my lawyer now.
Do not mind my jealous ravings, dearest. You
shall have a fair share of the money, even if
you give it to my rival, your second husband.”

The lawyer thought that Mr. Mayo’s voice
was quite strong for that of a dying man, but
the doctor, who happened in soon after the
will was made, and the patient seemed asleep,
ascribed it to the effect of excitement.

They talked a few minutes softly, and Dr.
Gray whispered, undreaming that he was over-
heard by the patient:

“I’m glad that he provided so well for that
noble little wife. He has had a hard struggle
with fever these six weeks, and if anything
could have saved him, it would have been her
devoted nursing. I’m certain he did not de-
serve it, either, for he was one of those
namby-pamby husbands who don’t know how
to appreciate a good wife, and only go home
to eat and sleep, and this fellow, they say,
more often than not took dinner and supper at
his club in town, leaving poor Elinor alone in
their country home.”

But life lingered on strangely in that wasted
frame, and at last the doctor said the invalid
was improving, and must go off very soon to
the mountains.

“It will do you and the children good, too,
my darling,” be said, tenderly, to his wife.

And she looked at him in honest surprise.

“You do not mean that you wish to take us?
You know you would enjoy it better alone,
or with some gentleman friend.”

The shamed crimson flushed into his cheek
as he kissed her little hand.

“Elinor, forgive me all the past, and let me
try to make it up to you,” he cried. “I never
knew how well I loved you until I began to

row jealousof your probable second husband.

t was that awful jealousy, I think, that
snatched me back,from the very grave. I am
going to live, dear, but I’ve done a lot of think-
ing, and become a changed man. I want to
realize your ideal, to be my own successor in
your heart, to fulfill all the promise of your
second husband. Will you let me try, my dar-
ling? Come with me, you and the babies, and
let us begin our new sweet love-life now!”

“Gladly,” smiled the tender, forgiving wife.

SS a es
WHERE THE WOMEN PROPOSE.

In the Ukraine, Russia, the woman does all
the courting. When she falls in love witha
man, she goes to his house and informs him of
the state of her feelings. If he reciprocates,
all is well, and the formal marriage is duly
arranged. If, however, he is unwilling, she
remains there hoping to coax him toa better
mind. The poor fellow cannot treat her with

the least discourtesy, nor has he the consola-
tion of being able to turn her out, as her
friends in’ such a cas would feel bound to
avenge the insult. His remedy, therefore, if
determinea not to marry her, is to leave his
home and stay away as long assheis in it.
On the Isthmus of Darien either sex can do the
courting, with the natura] result that almost
every one gets married. <A similar practice to
that in the Ukraine exists among the Zuni
tribe of Indians. The woman does all the
courting, and also controls the situation after
marriage. To her belong all the children, and
descent, including inheritance, is alsoon her
side. The same custom prevails among the
Vigrees, a tribe in Cabul, and the Nairs of
Malabar. Among the Garo race of Abssam, in
North-East India, it is not only the privilege,
but even the duty of the girl there to speak
first; any infringement of this rule being»
summarily and severely punished,

 

ee oo

AN INSEOT-DEVOURING PLANT.

Among the many vegetable wonders, the
pitcher plant, or huntsman cup, is the most
interesting. The plant grows wild in peat
bogs, and is much valued asa vegetable curios-
ity. The plant grows in clumps, with leaves all
radical and hollow, hence the name pitcher. |
The hollow leaves are most generally filled |
with water for the purposes of drowning

insects; the inner face of the shield is beset
with stiff bristles pointing downward, allow-
ing the insects to enter, but by no means
allowing them to escape. There have been
found as many as a dozen species of insects
entrapped in one of these vegetable magazines.

The victims that fall a prey to this plant soon
deeay and become a liquid form, which is im-
bibed through the inner coating of the leaf
and assimilated. The proof that this plant
does feed on insects is that the liquid never
becomes very offensive. The plant drinks up
the organic matter as fast as it dissolves,

There is, however, an insect that is a little
too much for this plant. It enters into the
pitchers or hollow leaves and feeds upon its |
relatives as they happen to fall victims to the |
plant. When he becomes tired of this life he
makes a dart to the bottom of the water,
drills a hole through the cup, and escapes,
allowing the water to pass away after his
departure.

 

 

a> 2

GO IN THE SUNSHINE,

“Basking in the sun” is in itself of real and |
considerable benefit, and it is no compliment
to our human intelligence to find that cats
and dogs understand that fact much better
than we do. Even the “ blue glass” craze had
a truth underlying it, and owed such success
as it achieved to the proportion of sunlight

which penetrated its colored medium. The
love of sunshine is naturally one of our strong-
est instincts, and we should be far healthier
and happier if we followed and developed it
instead of practically ignoring and repressing
it. How a sparkling, sunny morning exhila-
rates us and makes us feel that “it’s too fine
a day to spend indoors,” and yet how few
holidays are taken for that reason. The wealth
of the sunbeams is: poured out lavishly all
around us, and we turn from it to struggle for
a few pitiful handfuls of something else that
is yellow and shining, but not half so likely to
bring us happiness, and often has strange, red
spots uvon it. Give nature a chance, and we
shall find that there is more than a mere fan-
ciful connection between natural sunlight and
that “sunny” disposition, which, after all, is
the true “philosopher’s stone.”

—>

THe Way to Get Monry.—The man who
wants more money will find no royal road to
the wealth he covets, no patent method for its
acquisition. He must give something for it to
make it honestly his own, and the man who
sets himself earnestly to do this will find that
all financial systems will bend to his conquer-
ing will. The gambler, whether he plays his
game in the exchange, at a faro-table, ina
policy-shop, or with smaller stakes in private
circles at baccarat and progressive euchre,
will find the issue precarious and unreward-
ing. The way to get more money without any
loss of peace or self-respect is to earn it by toil
of brain or sinew, and the funds thus acquired
have no gnawing teeth, All other wealth eats
like a canker.

$45.00 in cash anda ladies or gentleman’s gold or silver
watch? You can have both,—one fora little labor, the

other for nothing. Write us about it.
TRUE & CO., BOX 1261, AUGUSTA, ME.

To Mothers.
MRS. WINSLOW’S SOOTHING SYRUP should always be
used for children teething. It soothes the child, softens
the gums, allays all pain, cures wind colic, and is the best

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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exams THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. = oe

 

 

 

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pene ee

“TILL DEATH.

BY ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.

Make me no vows of eonstaney, dear friend—
To love me, though I die, thy whole life-long.
And love no other till thy days shallend=
Nay—it were rash and wrong. .

1 ‘ : ‘
If thou canst love another, be it so; €
I would not reach out of my quiet grave
To bind thy heart, if it should choose to go,
.) ) Love should not-beaslaye °

My placid ghost, I trast, will walk serene — é;
‘Tit clearer light than gilds these earthly morns,
Above'the jealousies and enyies keen i?
Whieh sow this life with thorns. _ 4

Thou, woulist not feel my shadowy caress,
‘If, after death, my soul should linger here; ~~~
Men’s hearts crave tangible, close tenderness, |
‘Love's presente warm and neary.

It would not make me sléep niore peacefully
That thou wert wasting all thy lifein woe, ~_-
For my poor sake; what love thou hast for me,
Me Bestow it ere I go.

Carve not upon a stone when I am dead
The praises which remorseful mourners give
To women’s graves—a tardy recompense—
_ But speak them while I live.

Heap not the heavy marble on my head,
To shutaway the sunshine and the dew;
Let small blooms grow there, and the grasses wave
And rain-drops filter through.

Thou wilt meet many fairer and more gay
Than TX but trust me, thou canst never find
One who will love and serve thee, night and day,
_ With a more single mind.
zae ‘

Forget me when Ff die; the violets

Above my rest will blossom just’as blue,
Nor miss tliy tears; ev’n Nature's self forgets:
But while I live be true.

sail

MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS

BY W. W. CARTNER. >

sec? TER Daa Bayete tat i witw
(“MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS” was, conunenced in,.-No, 15.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents._

-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HE SUPPORTED! HIS‘ LEFT HAND TENDERLY WITH
WAS. THRUST

HIS RIGHT, AND HIS THUMB
“INTO A HUGE LEMON. © >

GEE G chee chee Ue ak tas
‘NUMBER EIGHTY-SEVEN. ~~
z A High-Pressure Cure for 2 Felon.
Wilson walked slowly into the room where

| Mrs. Wilson was at work, and sunk into a

chair witha dreary moan.
She looked up trom her needlework and be-

|} leave me by myself fora short time, so I

“ Are you sure it is not a sliver?” Mrs. Wil-
son ee when the servant had disap-
red.

“IT am not sure you know enough to go in
when it rains. Will you bring that dish?” he
yelled.

“There; now what are you going to do? You
cannot mix them together,” she said, :

He looked puzzled for -a moment, and then
ordered water.

“As near as I can remember, you pour the
water over the lime, and hold the felon in the
dish for fifteen minutes; or until the lime is
slaked,” he said, reflectively.

Mrs. Wilson put in some water, and Wilson
put his thumb in the dish and held his watch
to know when to take it out.

The lime began to crackle and splutter, and
Wilson seemed to be getting uneasy. He looked
at the dish, then at his watch, then he began
to step around the table, still holding his
thumb in the lime, and looked anxiously at
his watch.

“Ten minutes more, Henry,” she said; glane-
ing at the clock. “I declare that water acts

as though it were getting warm.”

“Warm!” he shouted; jerking his thumb out
of the dish and vigorously blowing at it as he
danced around the room. “Warm! my thumb
is cooked, and it is not rare done, either.:: The
man. does not live that. could hold his thumb
in there for fifteen minutes. It is. cooked to
the very marrow! I can feel that it is loose
from the bone!” he howled, kicking over the
chairs and blowing his breath on his thumb.

“I wish I had the fiend that wrote that
infernal prescription! I would pour his de-
coction down his’ blooming’ throat!” he
panted, looking at his parboiled thumb.

“Tt could not have been so very hot, as I put
cold water on the lime,” said Mrs. Wilson. ’

“Put your fneew init, Anna; Iguess it’s all
imagination. Try it. It ame y cool,” he
urged, grasping her handand pulling it toward
the dish. “It is not: very hot,” he groaned.

“Fudge, Henry! You are making too much
fuss. It had not come to a boil when you took
your thumb out; and I believe it’ will eurtea
felon if you strictly follow the instructions.”

“Without adoubt, you are right, and if you

to allow you to cook it Up in any shape that
may suit, your fancy. : But,as for me, I, will try
to serimp along with an every-day felon with-
out striving 5o improve.it. by cooking...l am

you anything in this house that is good for a
burn?” he asked.’

“JT have a recipe some place, if I could only
think where it is,” she replied.

“Yes, and I could have this finger amputated
and all well before you could think where it
is,” he yelled, kicking the table and upsetting
the basin of lime and soap on.the cat, that
was sitting by Mrs. Wilson’s feet.

“There!” cried Mrs. Wilson, which excla-
mation was followed by a series of sounds
that could only be produced by a cat.

Around the room and against the window
sereen the animal flew, and ‘ras seized at last
by Wilson, who started for the door to throw
her out.

The cat fought and howled. The lime flew
in every direction, and Wilson, spitting and
coughing, threw the animal ont of the door.

Down the path to the barn, its tail waving
to and fro, sped the terrified. cat.

“There, madam. You have boiled my.thumb,
had my hands torn in shreds, my eyes filled
'with lime and soap; and, to cap the cilmax,

-\}fully a pint.of the vile stuff has been forced,
fdown my throat! What I wanf now is to

know if you are through? If you are, please’
can
kill myself in some humane way, and end this

nt unequal struggle,” he said, wiping some lime

from his eyebrow. we

“TI do not believe there will be a hair left on
that cat.” said Mrs. Wilson. Vay

“T hope not; nor a tooth, nor aclaw,” he
savagely replied, dashing angrily from the
room.

“T really and truly hope that. he has.not a
felon. If he has, I do not believe I can ever
endure his unreasonable conduct while he is
suffering from it,” she sadly remarked.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

The Ladies’ Work-Box,

Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood.

»

FASHION’'S FANCIES,

Velvet and satin ribbon trim all sorts of gowns.
Old-fashioned Panama hats are now bent into a fash-
ionable shape for women f

 

held” hér husband with his hat on the back of
his head, and a. hopeless,.expression’ on. His
face, Aaa :

He supported his left hand tenderly with
the right, and his thumb was thrust into a
huge lemon. aT) OSS?

“What.is the matter, Henry?” she anxiously
inquired. Om latin &

His reply was a hollow groan, and laying
his head back on the ehair, he rolled his eyes
mournfully toward the ceiling.

“Why in the world have you that great

lemon on your thum)?” she asked. | ier

“Why do people generally wear a lemon on
their thumb or finger? I suppose you never
saw, heard, or read of such a performance
before?” he snapped.

“I cannotysay that I have. You have not
been bitten by a mad dog, have you?”

“Well, may I be dod-rabbited, Mrs. Wilson,
if you don’t lend the procession! You are the
standard-bearer of progression; and across

our intellectual brow should be written in
arge letters, the motto ‘Excelsior!’ Madam,
that lemon is no mascot, neither will it cure
a broken leg or an aggravated case ofthe
mumps'by wearing it on yourthumb. It is to
cure a felon. I have a felon, Mrs. Wilson—a
felon. Do you know what that is? Inthe course
of your eventful and ischom nieces you ever
heard of. such.a thing?” he yelled, pounding
the arm of his chair until the lemon flew from
ie ho wet h li such thi A. felo

YY a ieve any such thing, A» felon
does not develop ina minute.” Whe tdid you
that you hadone?”. —s_., ag ;

“Great heavens, woman! do you want. to
drive me crazy? Do you think I can stand
your silly gabble and this oR atthe same
time? Of course you know all about it, You
always do. If I had come home and consulted

ou, | could have saved five cents. I might
ave known better than to buy a lemon with-
out your-advice,” he bellowed. ~

“Thad one myself, and I——”

“You had one? You hada felon? Madam,
you are deceiving yourself. You might pos-
sibly have, had,a gore ee but not a felon.
They are rare and produced by subjecting the
hands to some particular line of hard labor,
so you can see -how preposterous it is for you
to claim that you ever had a felon,” he argued.

“IT suppose yours was caused by handling
the fish-pole, as that is all the work you have
done for two months,” was her sarcastic reply.

“Tt does not signify how or when I got it; I
have got it; and if you do not wish to help me

doctor it, well and good,""he moaned. — |

“Suppose you have a felon, what good will
a lemon do?” she asked.

“It will soften up the nail and loosen the
joints, so the feloncan knock them off without
trouble,” he snorted, casting a look of scorn
at his. wife, ashe settled back,in his, chatr
with a stifled moan, =» ee oe ES

“Tg that all you intend to do tocure it?” she
asked, quietly resuming her work.

“As soon. as the lime gets here, I am goin
to try lime and soap, and then have it lauced,”
he replied. ;

“Henry, do you really intend to:go through
that catalogue of remedies?” ~

“That. is really my. intention. Here is the
lime,” be added, as the servant entered with
“Get a dish and some

*

Blouses and all kinds of little vests are worn, filled in
with silk and crape chemiséttes. ‘

Tt is no longer considered good form to crowd the hand
into a glove one or two sizes too small.

The latest fancy is to decorate with hand painting the
entire front of the silk blouse, using delicate sprays of
flowers, vines, grasses. and so on.

The combination of tan, black, and white is one much
favored in Europe.

The lafest novelty in stockings are those of shot silk,
made in all the colors now worn, and harmonizing with
each costume.

Many of the materials nsed for evening wear are jew-
eled, or the designs are outlined with a tinsel thread,
and this is unusually pretty upon the popular black
grenadines.

Quite a number of white wool gowns display sleeves
of green velvet, that being the only bit of color in the
costume.

Corn napkins are an essential featnre of summer na-
piery. They are about a half-yard square, fringed on the
edges and embrcidered in designs of corn flowers or of
corn blades and ears.

Girls with very small waists are wearing rather broad
belts fastened at one side with a really fat rosette, and
this is placed right on the belt itself, slightly to one side
of the front.

A pretty new fabric is moire bengaline, in large waved
patterns like moire antique silk. In soft shales of clad
blue or pink, or Russian gray, it makes up extremely
pretty dresses.

The old-fashioned combs of our grandmothers are again
in vogue, and tower in tortoise shell carvings or gold
filigree in stately heightabove the soft curls and puffs of
the modern chignon.

Great simplicity in form and onfline still reigns in the
female toilet. but it is relieved by the soft light shades
of coloring of summer tissues, and also by the addition of
a great deal of lace.

Plain skirts trimmed at the extreme edge are still all
the rage. and princess dresses as well as those made in
imitation of them, and with or without Watteau plaits,
are becoming more popular.

Turkey red cotton is liked for freeks to be worn at
the sea-side. Itis made up with a plain skirt and has a
long Cont trimmed with coarse Trish lace, while very
often an elaborate arrangement of red satin ribbons fomns
the waistcoat,

The latest novelty displayed in dress goods is called the
whip cord, which 1s similar to serge, with the bias weave
slightly raised. It is changeable blue and green, blue
and red, blue and yellow, and, indeed, every color which
the fancy can indicate may be found combined har-
moniously with another.

Window seats are such convenient places that no wo-
man who has once enjoyed having them will be willing
to do without. them. A board the width and length of
the inclosure, secured firmly by iron brackets under-
neath, will answer the purpose very well. ‘The success
of the window seat depends more on the padding of the
top and valance than on-the»seat itself, which is 80
simple that a strong woman could put it up herself. For
those: in the chamber, chinfz makes a pretty covering.
Here can be left. the work-bas" et, book. or piece of mend-
ing. a far more convenient spot than a table, That in the
dining-room, if used for plants, should be simply stained
or painted. Plush, tapestry, or single faced velour is
pretty for those in the parlor. Ina flat, where every inch
of room must be utilized, these, if boxed up, become good
packing receptacles. ,

Miss Edith M.—Night gowns of cambric, nainsook,
hatiste, or domestic muslin are made of two full breadths,
widened at the foot by side gores, the top in box-plaits
at the back, the front lapped in surplice fashion to the
left, or witha yoke of tucks, or of insertions of lace or
embroidery. For those who never fasten the top button,
there are low-throated gowns, with wide turned-over
collars of the materialor ot the trimming, while for those
who need warmth about the neck there are high-standing
rufftes, either single or double, of embroidery or of lace,
Sleeves are.cut fall.and high at the, fap.aiul Ahoudinr.,
seams are quite short. All the seams are doubled, as in
the Buglsim bag seam,jor they are gomed by narrow
bending. More elaborate gowns have deep pointed revers
of lace coming wp widely over the showlders, and pointed
in the baek, and -aré belted across the front with ribbon
or insertion, or else they have a jacket effect infront, and |
the back falls in-a broad Watteat plait froma yoke of
tucks and lace insertion.

Miss Josie IV.—A very pretty design for a lady's wrap-
per is gathered at the neck in the front and adjusted to
a fitted lining that extends below:the waist. The backs

are cut with extensions, whieh form hollow box-plaits
and give the desired fullness. The high coat.sleeve is
turned back at the hand to form a cuff, and may be faced
with the same material. or silk, velvet, or lace may be
used fer the collars. and cuffs. A very pretty garment

bottom with two tiny ruffles.

should ever have a felon, I have no objections |

not educated up to that sort of thing. Have |

 

 

 

may be made of hght or dark cashmere, finished at the

(ORK WEEKLY.) #322

Make the collar of velvet,
and face the rolled cuffs with velvet or silk of a contrast-
ing color, with ribbon to match, sewed at the under-arm
seams and tied loosely in front, thus giving a dressy
effect to the wrapper. The pattern for this model is No,
8022, and the price thirty-five cents, on receipt of which
the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will fur-
nish it.j Challies, cashmere, cambric, lawn. fancy flanuel,
and silk are all suitable for this garment.

Stella, Elizabeth, N.J.—A pattern for a man’s night-
shirt will cost you twenty-five cents. The collar, cuffs,
and band down the front are now generally finished with
feather-stitching of colored thread. ,

Clarence S., Brooklyn, N. Y.—1st. There are two shapes
in business coats for fall wear, the sack and the cutaway.
‘Double.breasted sacks, in dark goods, with light trousers,
are dressy for office wear, but less dignified than the

black cutaway frock, with waistcoat to match, and fancy
trousers of soine dark shade. 2d, For the promenade, or
to wear to afternoon weddings, and other formal affairs
taking place before six in the evening, the frock coat and
three-button cutaway will continue in favor.
cloths are not worn by young men now, and are only
used by elderly and middle-aged men.

THE ENGINEER'S WIFE.

BY LIZZIE HUNT.

“Now, Baby Ned, you must take a nice long
nap this afternoon, so that mamma can dress
you all fresh and sweet, for this is papa’s
night home, and his baby must look his pret-
tiest. Dear old darling, how many dangers he
braves that. his loved ones may have a
beautiful- and comfortable home. Really,
I don’t like those ugly dreams I had last
night, but they. always go by  contraries,
it is said. I must try to be the brave wife of
my noble engineer. He has never had any ac-
cident on his train, and it’s now five years
since he went on the road to take charge of
an engine, but LThave trembled all day with
some vague alarm. Well, I must live up to
my own preaching—never take trouble till it

comes. Just half-past four, and his train ‘is
due at six. Now, I must have muffins, straw-
berries, and cream cake for tea. How he will
relish them !”

So'soliloquized the young wife of Will Vos-
burgh as she prepared the dainty supper for
the man she thought the noblest, truest in
the world.

They had been married two years, and had
one cunning little specimen of humanity they
called Baby Ned. People said they were too
happy—life went by on wings of contentment
—trouble would come by and by.

Oh, how many ravens still live who croak
of the déath-knell even while listening to the
wedding chimes!

The young mother and wife had the’ supper
in readiness; with a place for everything and
everything in its place, while she awaited her
husband’s. coming with an expectant, flutter-
ing heart. There is his gown on the chair, his
slippers on the rug.
ened from his long nap, was as fresh and
sweet as a new-blown flower. His mother
threw an embroidered shawl over her head
and went out into the yard to gather a hou-
quet for the table. She culled beautiful white
moss rosebuds and myrtle, and, as she held
them up, said:

“They look so pureI will not puta single
bright color with them,”

Bearing them in, she placed them in a fairy

shell, and was admiring their simple beauty, |

when she heard the whistle of the engine.
The carnation came and went in her cheeks,
and her eyes sparkled with a joyous expecta-
tion about to be realized. She said:

‘“‘Now, baby, in ten minutes papa will be
here.”

She placed the tea to draw, and then
walked to the door—this girl-woman, with

cher tender blue eyes and sensitive mouth.

Ten minutes passed. She pressed her hand
to her heart. PES

‘What can detain him?”

She saw a neighbor coming down the Street,
with a valise in his hand, and involuntarily
she said:

“T will just go to
him.”

She passed down the path, decked on ‘either
side with flowers, and asked:

“Mr. Hoffman, do you know what keeps
Will so late to-night?”

The old man’s lips quivered as he replied:

“There’s been an accident,” and hurricd by.

With baby clasped in herarms, she hastened
toward the depot, saying:

“Perhaps I can do something to comfort the
afflicted; it can’t be much, but it may be
something; Will is so good, so teader-hearted,
he could not leave his post. I know he is help-
ing all he can, even if he does long to be
home, and take us in his arms once more, Oh,
how I tremble, but this boy of ours is so
heavy. Never mind, m
carry you back home, Won't that be fine?”

She had reached the depot. Crowds of peo-
ple were surging and swaying around some
object stretched on the platform. She strained
her eyes to catch a glimpse of her Will.

Some one came to her and said:.

“Mrs. Vosburgh, this is no place for you;
your husband will be home soon.”

Others, with a strange fright depicted on
their faces, stared at her, but she kept press-
ing closer and closer to the spot where all
seenied desirous of getting. Kind hands were
laid upon her shoulders to detain her, but
with wild, staring eyes that peered as it were
into the impenetrable, she struggled until she
stood by the side of an inanimate human
form, over which was thrown a white spread,
She bent forward, drew the cover from the
face, and there were the brown curls, white
forehead, buf closed eyes of her idol.

A wild shriek pierced the hearts of the by-
standers. She gathered the dear head to her
bosom against her beating, bleeding heart,
while her golden locks mingled with his dark-
brown. Her head’ bent lower and lower, her
lips pressed his, and she gasped:

“My precious Will!” ‘

Thé speechless crowd knew not when her
spirit took its flight.. With a gleeful smile,
Baby Ned played with his father’s curls, heed-
ing not his spotless dress, which was being
dabbled in the parent’s life blood. .

That was a sad procession of sympathizing
friends and wondering strangers that bore the
remains of husband and wife—still one—to
their little cottage.

Everything in readiness for a happy wel-
come. The fond wife had gathered her own
funeral flowers—white moss rosebuds and
myrtle.

Soon their mortal dust was placed in one
grave, and the good old man who had married
them, as he stood beside it, said:

“What God hath joined together, no man
can put asunder.”

How few of us know to-day, when we
gather flowers, that to-morrow, mayhap, they
may be placed in our pale hands, cold in
death.

‘the gate, and inquire of

—> a

TO HAVE A HAPPY HOME.

Diametrically different constitutions and
temperaments are found in the same family,
One son may be gifted with talent,approach-
ing to genius, in art or mechanics, while an-
other may have no natural gift except a sturdy
manhood, which every one must learn to re-

spect, and it would be madness for one brother,
with his practical, every-day ideas, to argue
against the other, who may seem to him but
a flighty dreamer. There is room enough in the
world for all kinds and conditions of men and
women, provided always that they are honest
and true. It isa mother’s duty especially to
study the inclinations of her children; to curb
back no good aspiration; to che:k no useful
talent, however mediocre it may seem to her.
It may be the rad dpa gh to something

higher. A mother’s life must be of necessity a

concession in little things, a continual sacri- |

3d. Broad-,

‘imitation of antiquity

ittle Ned; just awak-’

: _>y | muin, and every time the cable gets. stuck you kin
little man, papa will | j,,y¢ine you're ridin’ behind an old-fashioned balky

 

.

fice. A happy family life of many members
cannot be maintained unless there is conces-
sion and sacrifice on the part of every mem-
ber. And in asmall way the family life is an
epitome of the life of the great world outside.

Pleasant Paragraphs.
BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

Getting Even.

Westfield—“I got even with that mean cad Lawn-
mo to-day.”

Plaintield—“Thatso? How?”

Westfield—“‘T pretended to make up with’ him, and
told him to save a seat alongside of him in the train
for. me. Then I missed the train. As long as he
lives everybody in that car will consider him a liar
and a hog.”

Summer Stoves.

Wife (just in from the kitchen)—“‘Phew! I’m ’most
roasted.”

Husband—That’s queer. T just paid out alot of
money for a patent improved o11 stove for you.”

Wife—‘‘Y-e-s; I know, but. if I don’t keep all. the
Baer, pnd windows closed, it smokes like a steam-
ship.’

Perils of Poverty.
} Friend—“What is that big black spot on the ceil-
ing.’ ;

Host—“I am a poor man, and can’t afford to em-
ploy an engineer torun anew patent parlor-lamp I
bought.”

No Language.

Mrs. De Shrew—"‘Do you believe, professor, that
animals can talk to one another?’

Proféessor—“Pigeons can't.”

‘Are you sure ?”

“Yes. Pigeons mate but once. They never get
divorced.”

A Musical Instrument,

Tin Peddler (who-has met with ‘an accident)—
“What vill [donow? Effery wheel off my wagon is
broke.”

Summer, Boarder (consolingly)—‘‘Leave the tins
inthe wagon just as if is and perhaps you ean sellit
to one of the boarding-house keepers for a piano,”

Easy to Plense. /

Tramp—‘‘Please, mum, f haven't had anything: to
eat since *

Housekeeper—“‘It’s too hot to.cook,”

Tramp—‘Well, ice-creain ull do ”

Thoroughly Medern. :

Visitor—‘Is this an old homestead, or a@ modern
Q?

Tenaut—*Oh, it’s new, brand-new.
in forty places.” .

An Unfailing Test.
Foreign Visitor—‘‘Is that college a really fine edu-
eational institution ?”’
American (proudly)—“Is it? T should say it was.
They've got the most idiotic college yell to be’ heard
in the whole country, sir—yes, sir.”

The roof leaks

Prepared for Relatives.

Husband (at dinner)—“My!, My!, Thisisa regular
bangnet—worthy of a Delmonico, _Finest spread
I’ve seen in an age.’ What's up? Do you expect
eompany ?”

Wife-—‘‘No, but I presume the cook does.”

Might Easily Mistake.

Jack—'"My goodness! Ring fora messenger boy!”

George—'W hat’s up? 6 ]

Jack—‘That stupid tailor bas sent me the baby-
blue necktie I ordered for Ethel, and I presume he
has sent her my new suit of clothes:. Imust explain
to her at once, or she’ll think it’s the latest fashion,
and be out on lhe street with them.”

A Base Slander.

Winks—‘‘Folks say you always leave immediately
after the sermon, so as to escape the contribution
box.”

Jinks (hotly)—“‘It’s a base slander!
reason I start so early is simply to get
the umbrellas.” ;

A Considerate Corporation.

Trate Passenger (who has managed to board a car
that didn’t stop)—“Say, suppose I’d slipped and lost
a leg. then what?’

Conductor (kindly)—“You wouldn’t have to do any
more jumpin’ then. We allers stops fera man with
acruteh.”

The- only
first pick of

High Pressure Civilization. ‘

Stranger—‘“‘I don’t see how anold man can get
around New York without being run over.” —

New Yorker—“By the time aman gets old in New
York, he’s rich enough to have a carriage, or else
he’s in a lunatic asylum.”

‘ Hard Usage.

Lady—*“This coin is worn smooth. The stamp is
almost obliterated.” :

Cashier—“Yes, madam; been held pretty tight I
imagine. I gotit froma New Jersey tax collector.”

Not Unlikely.

Mr. Jimson—“What? Is Bilson going to get mar-
ried? He'told me positively he would never marry
again.”

“Mrs. Jimson (calmly)—"“I presume you asked bim
on the way to the funeral.”

Hard on the Dogs.
First Dog—“We'll be tied up every
Saturday nights now.”
Second Dog—"*What’s up.” :
First Dog—*‘That new dude that comes to see Miss
Susie has money.”
Plenty of Similarity.
Old Lady—‘I’'m almost afraid to ride in these new-
fangied cable cars.”
Conductor—‘All you need do is to shut your eyes,

Thursday and

mule team.” ° .
Not a Visitor.

Mrs. Gadds—“That new minister ain’t much on
visitin’, is he?’ i Bi

Mrs, Gabb—*No. I guess maybe his wife is a purty
good cook herself.”

Causes of Gout.

Rich Patient—“What is the cause of gout, doctor?”

Doctor—“Excessive eating and driukimg will pro-
duce gout. Mental worry will also cause it.” ;

Patient—*My, my! Well, I must sfop worrying
over wy excessive eating and drinking.”

Modern. Realism.

Mrs. Podds—‘‘Is that a realistic novel you are read-
ing?’ ; '

Mrs. Bobbs—“Indeed it is. It contains a perfect
description of the bacillus of yellow fever, and tells
how to make apple dumplings.”

Liked Politics.

Boutton—“What a rank partisan Mr. Voteoft is!”

Upton—“I should say so. He goes to Rey. Dr.
Livetopic’s church every Sunday.

Boston's Climate.

Traveler—‘Boston is so far north that I presume
you do not have very hot weather there.” ;

Honest Bostonian—*Um—er—only in summer.’

 

Making Sure.

First Lady (off for a journey)—“I hope we've got
the right train.”

second Lady—‘I asked seventeen trainmen and
ninety-three passengers if this train went to Blank-
ville, aud they all said yes, so I guess we're all
ver Better than a Certificate.

Mrs. Vassar—‘‘Do you believe that lady is 105 years
old, as she claims,” :

Mr. Vassar—‘'L presume it’s so.
knit stockings.”’.

Next Thing to It.

Daughter—“Tt’s just too mean for anything. We’ve
never heen to Europe yet.”

Father—‘Never mind, my dear. [Il get. some
steamer labels to pasteon your trunks, and then
we'll go tu Saratoga.”

Rare Luck.

Mrs. Bloomer—‘It’s shameful! Mr. Silentf, who
is deaf and dumb, is going to marry Miss Quiett,
and she’s deaf and dtrmb,”

Mr. B.—“ What of it?” A

“Why, just think. Their children may be deaf and
dumb, too.”

“Thats allright. We'll watch where they settle,
and move in next door to ’em.”

Life in the Suburbs.

Mr. Suhurb—“Haven't you a dog to protect your
house from tramps?”

Mr, Lawnmo—" Yes.” :

“Then why do you walk around every night with a
gun ?”’ : ;
-«Oh, I'm not protecting the house, I’m only pro-

sting the dog.”
ess e Takes Time.

Jobson—“T have a claim. against the Government.
What lawyer would you advise me to retain?”

Friend—“It doesn’t matter whom you select, only
so he’s young.”

Pa‘s Narrow Escape.
outton—“What's the matter?”

Dee iAP new ! Didn't sleep a wink last night.
Senres ine half to death when I think of that ac-
cident onthe Coney Island. railroad. , I was in the

; ”
eee itton—-“Nonsense! That didn’t amount to
much. There were only a few seriously hurt, and
most of the injured got off with slight seratches.”

Downton—"'Y-e-s, but suppose I’d got one of the

She knows how to

 

VOL. 47—No. 49.

= — : ee Sea

scratches. My name would have been in the papers
along with the rest, and my wife would haye seen it,
She’s at Long Branch,”

Sea-Side Love.
He (on the veranda)—*‘My vacation is over, and I
must go back to the city, Good-by, my own.”
She—*Good-by, my love. Next!”

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES.

WHERE THE OTHER HALF Was.—A young minis-
ter in the course of an eloquent sermon on the
pomps and vanities of the world, staggered his con-
gregation by exclaiming:

“Here am I standing here preaching to you with
only half a shirt on my back, while you sit there
covered with gewgaws and other baubles.”

The next day a parcel containing several brand-
new: shirts was left at his house by one of his
hearers, a kind-hearted old lady. Meeting the donor
a few days afterward; he thanked her exceedingly,
but expressed much surprise at receiving such an
unexpected gift.

“Oh,” said the lady, “you mentioned in your ser-
mon on Sunday that you had only half a shirt on
your back.”

“Quite true,” added the minister, “but
to forget that the other half was in front.”

Drake's Magazine.

A SILENCED GIRL.—“You need not deny it. I know
that he kissed you while you were sitting on the
steps last night.”

“Yes, mana, eight or ten times, I guess.”

“Eight or ten times! Why—I—you——”

“Yes, mamma, dear. I told him the first time if he
did it again I wouldn’t speak to him, and after that.
Iecould not tell him to stop without breaking my
word. And I knew you would not want your daugh-
ter to tell a fib.”—Chicago Tribune.

To SAVE THE CASHIER.—Bank Stockholder—‘‘See
here! I’ve learned that our cashier is living ’way
beyond his means.”’

Bank Director—“\iy!) My! That won’t do.
must give him more salary.”’—Pucek.

A MEAN MAN.—“T can’t do nothin’ with that man
Jones,” saidthe editor. “He’s too mean to live.”

“What’s he been doing now ?”

*‘Well, he took sick aad the doctor wanted to blister
him and prescribed a mustard plaster. And what
do you think he did 2?”

*Don’t know,”

“Why, the blamed old skinflint, sick as he was,
erawled out of bed to a sand-hill, in hopes that the
sun would blister him and save the expenses of the
mustard !’—Atlanta Constitution.

you seem

We

A NEw TERROR TO CoURTSHIP.—Brown—‘‘And 80:
that young woman is going to bring a suit for breach
of promise against you? Did you ever write any
couprouising letters to ber ?”’

Green—‘Never wrote a letter of any kind.” !

Brown—Then you're all right. She can’t prove
anything.”

Green—“‘Can’t she ?. Whenever I called she had her
brother take snap shots of us with his kodak.’

Boston Transcript.

A YOUNG GAMBLER.—‘‘They tell me you have
learned to eount, Robbie,” said a pious ola. lady to
her little grandson, who was paying her a visit “out
in the country.

** Course I can,” said
three, four, five, six——

*+Myat's ioht.” aai ¢ j
idan right,” said the old lady, encouragingly,

“Seven,

Robbie. “Listen: One, two,

eight, nine, ten, Jack, Queen, King!”
Hartford. Post,

EASILY TRACKED.—She (reading) —‘“‘Joe, this paper
says that outin Oregon they have just discovered
foot-prints three feet long, supposed to belong toa
lost race.”

He—'I don’t see how a race of people that made
foot-prints three feet long could ever get lost.”

Truth.

She—“That odious Mrs. Newrich seems to think
more of her dog than of her boy.” He—Oh, well,
the dog has a pedigree.” —Life.

The shoemaker is a man. who frequently gets
beaten out of his boots.— Yonkers Statesman.

Nothing will make a pessimist of a young’man
quicker than to invite the prettiest girl he knows to
go with him to a picnic, and then, have her flirt: with
another young man all the long day through.

Somerville Journal.

“Mabel this question of marriage is # serious one
that I hope you have considered. well.” Mabel—**Oh,
dear, yes, auntie, | have worried myself sick already
about miy trousseau.”— Chicago Inter-Ocean.

> o <a
—<—> +

Items of Interest.

About one-fourth of the cases of insanity are
hereditary.

Tea of a superior quality has been grown in Sum-
merville, 8. C.

A meteorite weighing 600 pounds recently fell near
North Bend, Wis.

Light-haired people, as a rule, are longer lived
than the dark haired. ;

The fastest passenger elevators travel at the speed
of 1,500 feet a minute.

There is more intoxication in Belgium than in any
other country 1n Europe.

Several mothers-in-law in London have formed a
society for self-protection.

_ Durable brick, formed of chipped granite and clay,
is a recent Scottish invention.

Over 2.000.000,000 cigarettes are annually manufac-
tured in the State of New York.

A bridge at Bradford, Pa., is 801 feet above the
streum it crosses. Its length is 2,000 feet.

Great heat seems to cause melancholia. Suicides
are more prevalent in summer than in winter.

Thirty per cent. of England’s literature is com-
posed of novels, and those of Bertha M. Clay are far in
the van.

The pulling of a tooth caused a fatal attack of
lockjaw to Mrs. Nina Edgeman, aged seventeen, of Jef-
fersonville, Ind.

Over 250,000 canary birds are annually raised in Ger-
many. About 100,000 of them find purchasers in the

| United States.

Pigeons were employed in the mail service in Bible
times. They acted as letter-carriers when Joshua in-
vaded Palestine.

A baby at Point St. Charles, Canada, fell. from a

high chair, and so bit its tongue that the organ of speech
had to be amputated. . am

3ears approach the outskirts of the village of
Greenwood, Me., and the howling of the wolves at night
keeps timid folks from sleeping. .

Londoners seriously discuss the advantages of
placing a school of crocodiles in the Thames, to act as
scavengers, and thus purify the water.

A musquito bite caused blood-poisoning to Miss
Annie Lind, of West Newton, Mass., and it was feared
that her arm would have to be amputated.

A mad dog bit John Allen, of Pittsburgh, fifteen
years ago. On each anniversary of the bite, Jolin, ex-
periences a violent hydrophobic spasm, which lasts about
three minutes,

A will recently before the Surrogate of Albany
N. Y., contained this clause: ‘’fomy son Simeon I give
the sum of fifty cents, for the trouble he has taken. to
ill-treat me,”

Iixpedition Island, forty miles from the north-west
coast of Australia, has sunk out of sight, forty-eight feet
below the surface of the sea, It was thirteen miles long
and one mile in width. :

Boston has a six-year-old colored boy who is a
wonder. His name is Oscar Moore, and one reading of a
poem to him of seventy lines, or less, is sufficient to
engrave it upon his memory.

A young lady in Reading, Pa., who had nursed her
father during a long illness, amazed the executor of the
estate, when the old gentleman died, by sending in a bill
for her services during his illness.

A distinct race of Hebrews, called the ‘White
Jews,” dwellin Cochin, south-west India. They comprise
about 200 persons. ‘They have dwelt there for hundreds
of years, and have fair skin and light hair.

Mrs. Hannah Harmon, of Brockton, Mass., was an
infant when Gen. Washington retired from public
office. She has therefore existed under the administra-
tion of every President of the United States.

There was merriment at a spiritual seance in Lon-
don when the ghost of Voltaire appeared. The eminent
French author dropped his h’s very freely, and looked like
an idiot when a spectator addressed him in Freneh,

Homeless cats and dogs. to the number of 22,000
were legally put to death last year in a house in Lom-
bard street, Philadelphia, he fumes of, burning char-
coal crore the career of each animal, in about forty
seconds,

When withering age had deepened the wrinkles
in Queen Elizabeth’s face, mirrors were banished from
the rooms she frequented. During the last twenty years
of her life she had not the heart to look at her reflection in
the glass,

A marvelous rose-bush belongs to a gentleman in
Belfast, Me. Up to 1885 its product was white moss-
roses. Then for four years it bore white and red, roses.
For two years its _roses were again all white, and this
year they are all red.

Rivalry in love caused a quarrel between Burt
Revier and Charles Lemont, in Dundee, Minn. They
both loved the sume young lady, and it was agreed that a
fight should decide who had the better claim to her hand.
She witnessed the contest from, a buggy. Before it was
over, the horse took fright and ran off, causing a fatal in
jury to the girl.

Twenty-five dollars were offered by Captain Blon-
Gell, of Oxford, Ala., toa man named Neely, to enter a
boat that was to be Dlown_ up by dynamite, The object
was to test Captain Blondell’s life-saving methods. The
explosion élovated Neely forty feet into the air. Un-
fortunately, instead of falling in the water. I
the wreck, and broke his leg. 5 renee Seaton

 

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