NICK CARTERS New Serial, “THE MYSTERIOUS MAIL ROBBERY,” begins next week in the NEW YORK WEEKLY. Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1892, Vol. 47, Office P.O. Box 2734 N.Y. by Street & Smith, in the Office 31 Rose St. of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C. New York, June il, i892. om acentiing” Entered at the Post Office, New York, as Second Class Matter. —anmzaet Three Dollars Per Year, Two Covies Five Dollars. TOO MUCH STYLE. BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD. Love had his birth in a cottage, But soon began putting on airs, For he said the old house was homely, And needed too many repairs. The ceilings were low, and the parlors Unsuited to stylish display, So Love with his youthful partner Determined to move away. Love purchased a modern dwelling, Where everything was en suite, A very palatial mansion In a very palatial street; And out of their rural cottage Did Love and his better half Depart, with no pang of sorrow, To worship the golden calf. She went to wedding receptions, To parties, concerts, and balls, And the rest of her time devoted To shopping and making calls; Was hand-and-glove with old Plutus, Who tried his best, ’ll engage, To make this couple imagine They lived in the Golden Age. He had his clubs and his dinners, Where ladies were not received, And among the breakers and brokers Was oft of his cash relieved ; And Love, that by many a token Its tender regard displays, Was taught to be civil-spoken And free from old-fashioned ways. “heir children were watched by nurses, And kept in such regal pomp, That there wasn’t a chance for a frolic, Nor never a chance for a romp; And the prattle of youthful voices, The clinging of baby arms For these very stylish parents Had no very special charms. And Love- who is never formal— On being leftin the lurch, For a cheery and cozy corner One morning began a search; There were damask and satin curtains, Velvet and plush around, And over the stately mansion Elegant things were found. Mirrors that came from Venice, Clcar as L[talia’s skies, Rugs in their depths concealing Turkish and Tyrian dyes; Treasures from loom and quarry, Glinting with many a spark, Like flashes of lightning playing Like elfin sprites in the dark. But never a cozy corner Where Love could make sweet delay, Forgetting the losses and crosses, And troublesome cares of the day. And back to his native dwelling Went Love--and he sighed the while, And said, ‘‘There isn’t a place for me In a house where there’s too much style!” —>-+@>4—_—_______ THIS STORY WILL TRUE!” HE CRIED, “AND, AS _I LOVI NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM, saw 5 knew that the first cold glance that had fallen By BERTHA M. CLAY, Author of **’ Twixt Love and Hate,” ‘‘ Between Two Hearts,” ‘‘ Fair, but Faithless,” **For Another’s Sin,” ** Thrown on the World,” Ete. (“THE SINS OF THE FATHER” was commenced in No, 21. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.] CHAPTER XXXII. LADY MABEL’S APOLOGY. Of the three persons who stood in the parlor of the little inn that night, it is safe to say that the earl was the only one who was em- barrassed. And even he was troubled by an emotion, the strength of which he could not gauge. It seemed tohim that he had not known before how much of an effort he was making to put the governess out of his thoughts. He was conscious of a sudden, glad leaping of his heart at the sight of her, followed by a dull pain as he remembered that she must now be the wife of another, The silence of a moment followed the recog- nition—a silence filled with uncertainty for Lady Mabel, and with a mingling of indigna- tion, pain, and pleasure for Edna. It was the earl who spoke first. “This is a genuine surprise, supposed you were enjoying the lights of Forestdean.” Mabel started as if she had been stung. He had known, then, where Edna was all the time. Perhaps, even—a sudden blaze of jealous fury lighted up her blue eyes as she remem- bered that Forestdean was one of the earl’s estates—perhaps, even, he had given her an asylum. Had there been more between those two than she had dreamed? Was this seemingly unexpected meeting no more than a flimsy pretense to cover a preconcerted arrangement? She forgot how she had parted the two, and how little likely it was that the ear] would ever have married her had he known of what she had done. ful face that the earl which was now before cent, radiant beauty. What was it to her that she had won him for her husband? It was his love she craved; andif he had given that to the fair ” he said. “I peaceful de- had him once loved, and in all its inno- governess who stood looking at him out of her | limpid violet eyes, what did it profit her if she had the empty honor of his hand and name? “Forestdean !” she cried, unable to restrain the anger she felt. She thought only of the beauti- | most | | In an instant it flashed through the mind of | Edna what construction Mabel was putting on | the fact that she had gone to Forestdean from Thornhill, and her own eyes flashed as she lifted her queenly head proudly and met the } angry gaze of Lady Westmarch. “T demand of Lord Westmarch,” cried Edna, | “that he explain why I happened to be in For- }estdean. You owe m3 that much at least, my lord,” and she looked indignantly at him. The ear] looked from his wife to Ednain a |sort of consternation. He had not the re- | motest idea of the reason for the sudden storm of wrath that had risen up between them. ;He could only comprehend, by Edna’s ap- | peal, that there seemed to be an imputation that there was something wrong in the fact that Edna had been at Forestdean, “I do not comprehend,” he said, gravely, “the necessity for any such explanation, but I will readily give it.” The eyes of Mabel flashed from the earl to Edna, as if she were trying tosurprise a glance | of intelligence, but even her jealousy could not see anything but indignation in the ex- pression of Edna, nor anything but puzzled wonder in the face of the earl. Then it suddenly came over her that it might be possible that there had been no ex- planation between them, and that this meet- | ing was in truth no more than accidental, and | that any prolongation of the interview might | result in some revelations which haply for her would better remain hidden. ‘‘Nor do I,” she said, haughtily, “see any necessity for explanation of «any sort between us. There can certainly come nothing in the life of a governess that can by any possibility |}concern us. You may go, Miss Leslie.” A frown wrinkled the brow of the earl, and he opened his lips to disclaim for himself any isuch insolent and offensive attitude; but Edna interposed before he could utter the words | that trembled on his tongue. “T do not wish,” sbe said, firmly, but with a proud dignity, “to make the concerns of my life come under your notice; but by your tone, | you repeated the | and by the manner in which word Forestdean, Lady Westmarch, you have given me the right, you have even compelled me to insist upon that explanation which no | Westmarch. Lord Westmarch, I appeal to |you to explain why I ever found myself. in | Forestdean.” “You certainly have the right, and I do not hesitate to accord it to you. I will not permit STAND t—OHB, one can give as readily and as clearly as Lord | { : a \ \\ AA AX HERE, WITHIN HEAVEN! IT TOUCH ALMOST OF YOU, DRIVES ME looked Mabel, “to comprehend the necessity for the explanation, even while I give it.” A shadow fell on the heart of Mabel as she the expression of the earl’s face, and | myself,” and he with displeasure at upon her from his eyes had come because of | Edna Leslie. And, Oh! how she hated Edna! “You went there,” said the eari, in the man- ner of one who is doing a distasteful thing, | “so far as I know, because your old nurse | was there, living in a cottage which I had | given her, and which neither you nor she was | aware belonged tome. Iam sure of that.” | “We did not know it,” said Edna. “Until I met you there that night,” she hesitated and flushed as the jealous eye of Mabel noted, ‘I supposed Sir George Meredith to be the un- known friend who had done my old nurse so great a kindness, and I was entirely surprised when I learned that Sir George and the Earl of Westmarch were the same.” | *‘*I trust,” said Mabel, with a cool irony that belied the raging passion in her heart, “that I may be excused from accepting all of this fable. Come, my lord,” she said, bitteriy, for |in truth the explanation had only confirmed her in her belief that there was a secret under- standing between the two, and had made her reckless of consequences, “it is quite unneces- sary to play out the farce for my benefit. It will be just as well to dismiss the—the— young woman.” She was fiercely angry; so angry that she did not quail even before the wrathful glance of the earl; for it seemed to her that she would rather die than live to know that she had plot- ted in vain—had won his hand, but could never gain the boon of his love. Edna felt the imputation of Mabel’s words and tone, and quivered with dismay more than with anger. The first suggestion of Mabel had been too vague to do more than give offense, but this time the disdainful, insulting emphasis on the words “young woman,” had been unmistakable. “Oh,” she cried out, “how woman, say such a thing?” The earl, every momert more conscious of the great love that stirred his heart for Edna, was filled with wrath, and his first impulse was to let the storn of his indignation break on time, that she was his wife—that, alas! he did love Edna, and there was enough in the truth, as it had been shown to Mahel, to give her some right to be angry. It was cruel and unwomanly of her, he thought, but he would make a clear explanation, and then would insist upon aretraction of her terrible impu- tation against the fair fame of the woman he now knew he must always love. | “Gady Westmarch,” he said, his voice quiy- ering with the emotion he suppressed, “you are over hasty, and I must ask you to listen to me, to the end that you may regret and retract the inner meaning of the words you have so unkindly spoken.” Lady Westmarch's bosom rose and fell con- | vulsively, and a fierce, defiant fire burned in her eyes, and yet underneath it all there was a piteous crying in her heart at the thought | that the love she had striven so | was slipping away from her. But all the pride can AND MAD!” you, aj| Mabel’s head; but he bethought him, in | hard to win | KNOW THAT I MIGHT HAVE |of her haughty race was aroused within her, and not even to save his Icve could she at that moment hrook the thought of what he sug: gested. “Regret and retract!” she interrupted. “Do you mean apologize to that girl, who sheltered herself under a roof of yours after she had been driven from mine for conduct of which no self-respecting woman would have been guilty?” The dark brown eyes of the earl grew black with anger. “Lady Westmarch,” cried he, “you shall not continue to insult this lady. I insist that, if you cannot treat her as one lady should treat another, you shall not address yourself to her at all.” “You do well to constitute yourself her champion,” sneered Lady Westmarch, hiding the agony of her heart under her venomous words. “She has no need of a champion,” answered the earl, sternly, “and if she had, it would not be my place, but her husband’s, to——” “My husband!” faltered Edna, who had been a distressed spectator of the scene of which she was the innocent cause, but whose distress was suddenly smothered in her won- der. “Her husband!” repeated Mabel, the sudden fear seizing ler that she had been making a terrible mistake. “T presume,” said the earl, looking at Edna with a feeling he did not himself comprehend, “that you are here with your husband. I heard from White that it had been thought wise for Mr. Thornton to take a short vacation on the Continent.” “Tf did not know,” said deeply; “I have not been in Forestdean for many months. Iam not married. lam here as governess in the family of Sir James Ren- shaw.” “Not married !” Edna, flushing murmured the earl, forget- ting everything in the sudden sensation of joy | ” | that everwhelmed him. “I understood—— Edna recalled his allusion to the fortunate coal-heaver, and understood it now. She also instinctively comprehended something of the meaning of the suspicion of gladness in his tone, and hastened to interrupt him, the flush on her fair face deepening as she spoke. “T had not thought of marrying. have been misinformed.” All this had passed quickly, but thought is infinitely quicker than words, and as she lis- tened it had come to Mabel that she had been guilty of one of the great mistakes of her life. In her jealous anger she had imagined things which ‘were untrue, and had urged her pas- sion until she had almost brought about the one explanation that would inevitably result in the loss of. the love she had dared every- thing to obtain. The earl and Edna had evidently met, but fortune had so favored her that there had been no explanation between them. Now, however that explanation seemed imminent, and unless she could turn the current of their thoughts |and get rid of the girl, it would ensue. She |thought quickly and desperately, and then | spoke. “Miss Leslie,” she said, interposing before j the earl could frame the words that were in WON YOUR You must | his mind, “I beg you will pardon the words I have spoken. They were dictated by anger and misapprehens- ion, and I regret them far more than even you can.” Edna turned toward her in uncon- cealed wonder. She could not accept the words as genuine; knew Mabel too well to do Her first thought was that they had been dictated by the desire to please Lord Westmarch, for whom Edna well knew she entertained an overwhelm- ing love. But almost as the thought framed itself in her mind, she divined the true reason of Mabel’s humility. Not all of the truth, for she did not know what excuse the duke had given for her hasty departure from the castle, but enough to let her comprehend that Mabel was afraid something would be said to enlighten the earl. Her violet eyes looked steadily into the cold blue ones of Mabel, and a faint smile curled her lip. She knew she had it in her power to deal this woman, who had loaded her with insult, and who hated her, a blow from which she could never recover, And Mabel knew in that quick ex- change of glances that her rival had her at her mercy. A defiant fierceness crept into her eyes, and she drew her- self up to meet the blow that she did not doubt would fall. How little she understood the pure, womanly nature of the girl she had sought to injure. “Please do not speak of it, Lady Westmarch,” shesaid. “It has been an unfortunate misapprehension; but, perhaps, it is hardly strange that it should have existed. -ardon me if I leave you now, but I am afraid I may have been missed.” She bowed to the earl, hardly look- ing at him, exchanged another glance with Mabel, and left the room, she so. CHAPTER XXXIII. THE LOVERS’ LEAP. An ominous silence foll ed her de parture..fron : 1 Wetec : Sigh n the dark hall, “aud~ ti turned and walked to the open wind: where he stood looking out at the mountains. Lady Mabel followed him with her eyes, wondering desperately if anything she could say now would ever restore her even that much of his heart as she had possessed before this wretched meeting, Now that she t was alone with him there was nothing in her heart but longing and yielding. Edna was not there to see andtriumph now, andshe could humble herself to the dust be- fore the man she worshiped so madly. She went softly over to him and laid her hand humbly on his arm. “George,” she murmured, “I am so sorry for what I said. Iwas all wrong. Won’t vou forgive me?” “ He half-turned toward her, but she could see that his face was cold. “TI must forgive when you ask me to,” he answered. She drew nearer and clasped both hands on his arm, saying, pleadingly : “T know I was wicked, cruel, unwomanly, anything you will, and I will do anything you wish to atone for it, if you will only let me back into your heart where I was before.” He was touched. How could it be otherwise? ; He knew the fiery pride of the woman who pleaded with him, and he realized what it was to her to sue even to him. By so humbling herself to him, she gave him the strongest proof of her devouring love. He somehow could not; down in his heart, forgive her for what she had said to the only woman he ever could love: but his sense of justice made him turn and take one of her hands in his, “How could you do it, Mabel?’ he said. “She, so good, so pure! and to be accused of such a thing! Oh, Mabel!” 4 “Oh, George,” wailed Mabel, “if you loved me asI love you, you would understand how sasy it is for jealousy to distort the brain and make it reason all falsely. She is beautiful, and she had gone from Thornhill to Forest- dean. How could I know that you did not love her, that you had not sent her there? I could not stop to reason. If your life were threatened—if you believed your life was threatened, would you stop to reason? Would you not first struggle with all your might to save your life? And to me your love is of more worth than my life. Oh, George, do not look so coldly at me!” She was marvelously beautiful to look upon as she clung to him, pleading as _ the con- demned might plead for life. And all she asked was a little love! Only a few hours before he had been able to think that he did love her, and he had told her so; but within a few minutes he had learned, with a positive assurance, that he did not, could not love her, It was even true that the very passion of her love wearied him, and he kept reverting to the thought that she had insulted the woman he loved. “I suppose you are right, Mabel,” he an- swered, “I do not doubt that jealousy mis- shapes everything it comes in contact with. I am sorry it happened, but I do not see what more you can do. Perhaps it would be as well not to talk of it any more.” That was all. Not one little word of love in answer to all she had said. And her woman’s intuition told her that she had not regained an iota of the ground she had lost. But she had no thought of giving up. His love was all in the world to her, and she would never cease striving to win it. But she j;could not help thinking wearily of the old fable of Sisyphus, who was condemned to for- |ever keep rolling a great stone up hill, coming |near the top only to see it go rolling down to | the bottom again. | She knew it would be best to say no more | that night, and she had the good sense to |refrain from doing so. She changed the con- lversation at once, asking him how it hap- | pened that he had returned when she supposed «asia THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. ainda him out enjoying the moonlight on the moun- tains. : Her quick obedience to his wishes smote him with a pang, and softened him toward her, though he could not bring himself to give her the one little hope of love that he knew she craved from him. “T came to get more cigars,” he said, “and I don’t know why I should not carry out my original design now.” “Let me get the cigars,” she said, eagerly. He felt like denying her even that small ratification, but did not yield to the feeling. ndeed, he upbraided himself for feeling so, and punished himself by forcing himself to smile at Mabel, begging her to do so. She brought him the cigars, and very pret- tily held a taper while he lighted acigar at it. Then he left her, and she watched him as long as the faintest outline of his form was dis- cernible in the silvery light. ‘*They must not meet again,” she muttered to herself. “If he should discover how we sent her away from the castle, he would hate me. And if he did—I would kill her.” s She shuddred violently at her own words, and put her hands up before her eyes, as if to shut out a sight that was horrible to her. Lord Westmarch, meanwhile, sauntered on, taking the plainest path and letting it lead him to the famous precipice over whch legend said a lover had leaped with the maiden who had been forced to become the bride of an- other. It wasa perilous place naturally, but had been made safe by a railing that ran all along its edge. It was a desirable spot for viewing the moonlight effects in the distant valley, and the earl leaned musingly against the rock and puffed his cigar and looked off into the far distance. It is doubtful if he saw anything, for his mind was full of other thoughts. “She is not married, and she had no thought of marriage,” he murmured. “What terrible mistake have I made? Ido not comprehend. The duke certainly said—— I wonderif he could possibly—— Why should he have wished to deceive me? Could he have dreamed that I loved—Edna?_ I did not know it myself. Oh, fool! fool! Why did I not know it?” The sound of an approaching footstep fell on his ear, and he turned his head to see who came. His first thought was that Mabel had followed him to renew her pleading, and a feeling of repugnance passed over him. But it was not Mabel, though it was a woman. And presently his heart leaped at the thought that it might be Edna. The shadow of the rocks fell on her as she came, and he could only catch the character of her walk; but that was so like Edna’s that his heart beat rapidly with hope. He did not ask him- self why he was rejoiced it was Edna, when he felt repugnance at the thought of his wife. “It is Edna!” he murmured. “Heaven be thanked for that!” _It was Edna. She was accustomed to making little expeditions by herself during her trav- els with the Renshaws; for they were always bored with everything, and merely went from place to place in the true British fashion, in order to be able to say they had been there. Edna always made inquiries at the inns where they stopped for directions to any espe- cially notable sight, and this evening she had been told of The Lovers’ Leap, and had gone there the more readily that her brain was in a whirl with all that had happened. She did not see the ear] as he stood leaning against the rock, hidden in its shadow, and she advanced close to the railing and looked over. It made him shudder with the thought that the frail support might give way, and instantly it flashed through his brain that if such a thing should happen he would follow her. He stepped quickly forward, saying: _“Miss Edna, I beg you will move back a litle. Suppose that rai] should give way !” “You here, Lord Westmarch!” she said, after turning a startled glance at the unex- ected companion; and he felt thatshe wished “T am sorry to interf th am sorry to in ere wit our pleasure,” he said, “but I shall not resin: Woah, I hope you do not bear any resentment for what hap- pened in the house.” Sa agers _ “Certainly not, my lord,” replied ‘Wana, swiftly ae up her mind that he should not draw from her anything that would preju- dice his wife in his eyes. “Lady Westmarch regrets very much that “My lord,” she said, coldly, interrupting him, “it is not necessary to say a word on that subject. Lady Westmarch said ali that needed to be said.” He felt rebuffed, but he would not go until he had satisfied himself on the subject that ee had been pondering when she came upon im. “As you please,” he said. “Let us talk of something else.” “I think it would be better if we did not talk at all,” she replied. “I ought not to remain out, and I will return to the inn.” “Are you not unnecessarily harsh?” ‘he asked, a little bitterly. “I told you I would leave you alone. Are you so unjust as to hold me Brera: for what happened this even- ing?” “And you,” she cried, the tears springing to her eyes, as he knew by the quiver in her voice, “are you so careless of me that you would subject me toeven the chance of a repe- tition of to-night’s scene?” “IT am not careless of you,” he said, vehe- mently. “You know, down in your heart, that Iam not. You are simply trying to avoid me. Why do you do it? That night in Forestdean, why did you treat me so? I had done nothing to deserve it. If you had but given me a few words then, a great mistake might have been averted. Why did you let me think that you were married, or were going to be?” “I—I did not,” she answered, feebly, her brave resolutions of avoiding him all borne down by his sudden passion of reproach. “You did not undeceive me when I spoke of the possibility. It was that pitiful jest of mine po the coal-heaver. You must remember that.” “T remember it, but how could I know what you meant? Besides,” she went on, recover- ing something of her pride of manner, “how should it concern you.” “Tt did concern me,” he answered, with a sort of dogged air that was new to him. “Tt had not told you, nor given you to be- lieve,” she went on hastily, warned by some- thing in his tone, “that I was thinking of such a thing. But we are prolonging a use- less conversation. I will bid you good-even- ing. “One word, Miss Leslie,” he pleaded. “It is true that you never told me such a thing. Indeed I remember your saying that you never had loved, and that you would never marry unless you did love. And yet I was told—— Did you tell no one else that you were going to be married?” She thought he meant Mr. White, the agent at Forestdean, and answered accordingly. “T never told any one. I could not have done so, for such a thought had never entered my mind. Now will you let me pass, Lord West- march?” He had interposed himself between her and the path, but at her words instantiy stepped aside, though he held out his hand detain- ingly. “Miss Edna,” he said, in a voice that be- trayed a severe restraint upon himself, “that evening after you left Thornhill, the Duke of Thornhill said in so many words that you had suddenly left the castle to become the wife of some person.” “Ah!” cried Edna, as if the ejaculation had been forced from her. Then she recollected how she had already promised herself that no word of hers should ever take the earl a hair’s-breadth away from Mabel. And yet it was bitter to think of how her own hap nies had been played with as if it had not Bean of a straw’s value; for she, too, had the consciousness that had come _ to the earl, with the added knowledge that his love was her3. i “Had he any justification for saying that?” | £"Phought what ete vardrobe ; asked the earl, after a moment’s waiting for an answer. “My lord,” said Edna, her mind firmly made up, “nothing could be more idle than sucha discussion. It is not a matter that in any way concerns you. I must refuse to speak of it. Good-night !” “No,” he cried, with a passion she had never seen in him, “you shall not go. I have a right to be heard.” He stepped in front of her again. She drew back, trembling with a vague alarm. “My lord,” she faltered, “surely you forget yourself.” “No,” he answered, with a quivering voice, “I do not forget myself. Why do you refuse to answer a simple question? A question which you know well I havea right to have answered. I will tell you. It is because in your greatness of heart you will not say any- thing that will put a shadow between my wife and me. You know, as I know now, that I have been a dupe; that I have been tricked into a marriage which I might have avoided otherwise.” “Oh, my lord!” she faltered. “it is true, it is true!” he cried. “Asl stand here, within touch of you, and know that 1 might have won your love—oh, heaven! it almost drives me mad.” ; “My lord! oh, my lord!” she cried. (TO BE CONTINUED.) So 2 oo This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form. Nick Carter “=. Green-Goods Men. By the Author of *‘Nick Carter.” THE GREEN-GOODS MEN” was (“NICK CARTER AND i Back numbers can be obtained commenced in No. 10. of all News Agents.] CHAPTER LXVIII.—(CONTINUED.) Chick saw that peculiar gleam in Vinton’s eyes again, and he wondered what it porterded. “T am unstrung,” exclaimed Vinton, suddenly; ‘‘I must have some brandy. Will you have some?” “Yes,” replied Chick. Vinton took a step toward the cabinet where the brandy Was kept. But he paused midway, and suddenly drew off his cuffs and flung them to the valet. “T must go out again presently,” he said. “These ecufts are dirty. Change the buttons for me,” and he flung them to Chick. Chick caught them and went to the dressing-case where the clean linen was kept. Again that strange gleam came into Vinton’s eyes. busy with the cuffs. Opening it, he cast one hasty glance behind him at the vaiet, but his back was turned, and he was busy with the cuffs. Then, with a quick motion, Vinton drew a little vial from his pocket and poured several drops from it into one of the glasses before him. Then he filled both glasses with brandy, and, turn- ing, asked Chick if he had finished with the cuffs. “Yes,” replied the detective. “Here they are.” He came forward, but he said nothing about the spot of blood that he had found upon the cuffs that Vinton had discarded. ‘“‘Here is your brandy—drink,” said Vinton, hand- ing him one of the glasses. Chick took the glass and raised it to the light, where he could get the color of the liquid in all its beauty. There was an expression of genuine satisfaction upon his face, and one looking at him would have thought that he was a toper who had for days been denied indulgence in his favorite beverage. Suddenly his eyes dilated with alarm, just as he was in the act of carrying the glass to his lips. He was glancing straight over Vinton’s shoulder at the wardrobe, behind which the secret passage was located. Vinton saw the expression upon his face, and cried out: “What is the matter?’ “TT thought it moved ae Chick. Wubl was inistaken.” Vinton turued quickly, with genuine alarm upon his face. It was the opportunity that the detective sought. With a quick motion he bent forward and poured the contents of the glass into a silver cuspidore that was within reach. Then he straightened up, and when Vinton again looked toward him, Chick’s chin was high in the air, and the glass was upturned against his lips. Vinton could not repress a sinile of triuinph. “That is good brandy,” he said, to conceal the ex- ultation in his face. ‘Fine,’ agreed Chick. “Will you have some more?” “No; no more.” “Now tell me what story you told your brother.” “About the lady.” “ea *T told him nothing,” “How was that?” “He asks no questions whenever I provide him with a subject.” “He did not know where you got it?’ “No.” “But he might recognize the face.” “T disguised it before I took it there,’’ ‘How ?” “By painting it with iodine. I had some in my room, that I had been using for a lame ankle. It was just the thing. I remembered it and used it.” “You were wonderfully thoughtful.” “T wished to save you. You had committed a——” Chick paused suddenly, and uttered a groan. “What is the matter?” asked Vinton. “J} am in pain; itis terrible; oh, it is awful!" “Lie down.” “No, no! My brother will help me! he is a doctor! T will go to him.” Then, before the astonished Vinton could reply, Chick turned and bounded from the room, down the stairs, and out into the street, barehcaded as he was. Vinton made one effort to detain him, but then he sank into a chair and muttered: ‘He will die before he reaches there. Let him go.” But the reader knows that Chick had not taken the poison. In the mirror above the dresser, he had seen the preparations wade to kill him, and he had escaped. - CHAPTER LXIX. ANOTHER CRIME MEDITATED,. Chick knew that Vinton believed that he had taken the poison, and it was in keeping with the scheme that he had outlined that the would-be murderer should believe that the dose had taken effect, He suddenly remembered the fable that he had told about a brother, and that by dashing away as be did, Vinton would be led to think that the valet who knew so much, would die in the streets, while on the way to secure medical assistance. When he gained the street, however, he went straight home, where the real valet of Victor Vinton was kept in hiding. “Am [ to be liberated now ?” asked the man. “No; not yet.” “When ?” “When I am through with you.” By Chick’s directions the real valet was made to stand in the middle of the room. Then the detective brought out paints and wigs, and began an operation in which Nick Carter had taught him to be an adept. The valet was about the same height as Chick, though heavier, but it was a very easy matter for the detective to overcome that slight difference. He worked rapidly, but with great care. First, he selected a wig that was exactly the right color, and then he used the shears, clipping here and there artistically, and everand anon glancing atthe man he was copying, until the hirsute adornment was correct enough to satisfy him. Next he brought out a pair of English side-whiskers of the kind commonly called *‘side-boards,” and these went through the same process of preparation until they were also satisfactory. Having donned the wig and whiskers, he com- pelled the wondering valet, who was regarding the strange proceeding with awe, to exchange clothes with him. “Mine will be a little tight for you,” said Chick, “but they will have to do for a day or two.” The clothing he easily padded to the required fullness. Then his box of paints were broucht into use. He took his place before the mirror, directing the valet to stand beside him, and then with deft fingers he made touches here and there, entirely altering the shape of his eyebrows and the expression of his eyes. Few people realize that the expression of the eyes is more the result of the lines about them than in the light of the eye itself; yet such is the fact. - Chick copied the expression of the valet’s eyes and mouth to perfection. and when at last the work was completed, he dragged the awe-struck man be- He hurried to the little cabinet while Chick was | flection in the glass, said: “Which is which ?”’ “My own father would not know us apart!” cried the astonished valet. ‘“Itis wonderful!” “Do you.think that Mr. Vinton would suspect that } Tam not you?” “No; you would deceive anybody.” “Good!” “Why have you done this ?”’ “Because the man you recommended has left. Now men are going to return. See?’ os 4 “Yes “Oh! “This act in the drama will “T hope not.” “Are you comfortable here?” “Yes,” “Plenty to eat, drink, and read ?’ “Ves.” (ee you can Stand it for a few days longer ?” ‘ : : “Can you row ?” asked Chick. “You bet,” responded the man. *Didn’t you just let out one of your boats?” “SeR8S" “Do you know the man who hired it ?”’ “T know that he owns the yacht that is anchored it there, and that is all I know about it.” “Did he say where he was going?” “He had no need to say, for I knew already.” “Good! Where?” “Why, to his yacht, of course.” “Do you know where she is anchored ?” “Certainly.” “T want you to row me out there.” “When? now?” rn Ons “[ will take you out and bring you back for two dollars.” “TI will give you five,” said Chick, “if you will do exactly as I tell you, and obey my orders, no matter | what they are.” “Tt is a bargain.” Five minutes later the young assistant was sitting in the stern of a boat which the man of whom he had hired it was propelling rapidly through the water in the direction taken by Victor Vinton. About ten minutes passed during which time the carefully inspected the craft which they were fol- lowing. But at last he paused and leaned upon his oars, and pointed to a sloop yacht which was anchored in the outskirts of the fleet. “That is the boat that we want.” he said. “Ah!” exclanned Chick, ‘‘and I can see her dory by the stern.” “Exactly; I said he was going there, didn’t I?” “Now be very cautious; row as slowly and as | Silently as you can to the yacht, for if you make the | slightest sound, the man whom we are pursuing will “Correct,” said the oarsman. | Then he dipped his oars in the water again, and the | boat shot on toward the same yacht upon the deck of which was enacted one of the first incidents of our story. ; Slowly, and as silently as a phantom, the boat on which Chick was a passenger drew nearer to the yacht. : The young detective dared not give his oarsman any further orders aloud, but communicated what- ever he had to say by signs that he made with his hands. scarcely necessary for them to row at all, as they were drifting directly down upon the sloop, where she lay as quietly as though no one were aboard of her. Presently they touched the sloop’s side, and Chick, after making a motion to the oarsinan which signified } that he was to wait his return, climbed cautiously ;}upon the deck, and then, as a measure of greater caution, he removed his boots. In his stocking feet he glided softly along the deck toward the cabin, through the window of which he could see a faint light gleaming, which told him that Vinton was there. He went on until he found a place where he could, without being detected, over- see everything that was going on in the room, Softly he crept forward until he at last raised his eyes and peered through the narrow window. Then he gave a start of surprise, for standing in the middle of the room, bending over an open box which was filled to the brim with papers, was the figure of aman whom he had scarcely expected to see, It was Dan Dorrance, and not Victor Vinton, whom Chick discovered in the cabin. CHAPTER LXXI. THE INQUEST. Whatever it was that absorbed the attention of Dan Dorrance in looking over the box of papers that was in the cabin of the sloop, it did not require much time. Chick saw that he selected a number of the papers that he had been examining, and placed them in his pocket. Instead of returning the others to the box from which he had taken them, he scattered them pro- miscuously about the floor of the cabin, and left the box neglected upon the table. Then Chick saw him go to a locker, and after un- fastening it with a slender key, take therefrom a small package which he also placed in his pocket. A noment later he turned and disappeared through the door which led to the forward part of the sloop, and Chick, fearing that he was about to come upon the deck from some other portion of the yacht, hast- ened back to the boat where the oarsinan was wait- ing for him. It was well that he did so, and also well that the boat in which Chick had been a passenger to the yacht was moored alongside, where it could not be readily seen from the stern of the little vessel. Scarcely had the young detective disappeared from he pulled far down over his eyes, with the intention | oarsman stopped at intervals, turned in his seat, and | The tide was fortunately on the ebb, and it was | @ —wW $2509 VOL. 47—No. 33. the deck of the sloop, when the figure of Dan Dor- rance appeared from the forward hatchway, and hur- ried aft. He reached the rail, and paused there for an in- stant, and then with a spring he alighted in his boat, cast off the painter, and started rapidly away through the darkness—not toward Bay Ridge, where he had secured the boat, but towara New York. Chick watched him go, without attempting to fol- low, although the boatman whom he had hired wished him to do so. But the young detective shook his head. “Let him go,” he said; ‘I know his destination now, a8 Well as he, and unlessI am greatly mistaken, I will be at the Battery to meet him when he reaches there, for he has got to row against the tide about four miles.” “But will he not return my boat?” asked the man. “No,” replied Chick; “you are a boat out by this night’s work, but I will see that you get the worth of it again.”’ “Look! look!” exclaimed the boatman, suddenly, and he raised his hand aiid pointed toward where a thin stream of smoke was at that moment issuing from the hatchway through which Dan Dorrance had reappeared on deck. In an instant Chick seized the rail of the sloop, and drew the boat up closer, at once springing upon the deck and starting on a run for the cabin. He hoped to be able to secure the papers that Dan Dorrance had strewn so promiscuously about the floor, for he now understood the strange acts of the nan, which before had seemed so inexplicable. But he was too late. Dorrance had unquestionably saturated the cabin and in fact the whole interior of the sloop, with oil before he had touched the match to it, for within the little saloon the flames had gained uproarious head- way, so thatit was utterly impossible for the detec- tive to enter on account of the intense heat which met and drove him back again. There was nothing to do but to leave the place at once, for any one could see .that the sloop was doomed, and that in a few minutes she would be burned to the water’s edge. He turned and hastened to the boat, sprang in, and told the man to row back again to the same place on the shore from whence they had come. Scarcely had they left the doomed vessel when the flames burst forth and lighted up the surrounding gloom with a lurid glare. ¢ The shore was reached; Chick sprang out, and having paid the boatman the promised five dolars, as well as assured him that he would be reimbursed for the loss of the other boat, he started away with all speed toward the Hamilton Ferry, recrossed the river by it, and hurried to the Battery. He was just in time, for far-out upon the water he could just discern a black speck which every moment grew larger, and twenty minutes later a man clam- bered out of a small boat and, after pushing it adrift, hurried rapidly away in the direction of the elevated Station. Chick managed, however, to get ahead of him, and to throw himself upon one of the park benches be- neath a light where he knew the man would have to pass. Presently he came, and when Chick saw him in the full glare of the light overhead, he could scarcely re- press an exclamation of astonishment at what he saw. It was not Dan Dorrance, but Victor Vinton upon whoin the light shone as he walked rapidly past the detective. “T thought so,” muttered Chick, as Vinton passed rapidly onward. ‘Now I know the game, and when to play trumps.” He did not go in pursuit of Vinton, because he knew full well that it was not necessary to do so. He knew that his prey would make no attempt to escape, and therefore instead of shadowing him, he secured a carriage and was driven rapidly to the hotel where Nick Carter was stopping, in the char- acter of the Count de Louvre. He found Nick in his rooms, he having just entered after around of pleasure at the club, and the two detectives became at once engrossed in a discussion of the case on hand. Nick smiled when Chick told mysterious escape of Queen Mab. him about the (TO BE CONTINUED.) -_ 0 or HOW JANE LOST HER NEW DRESS. BY MAURICE SILINGSBY. While roaming through the State of New York a few years ago, I halted in a small village, compri- sing, perhaps, some two or three thousand inhabi- | tants. It was a gala day which marked my arrival there ; for a traveling circus company had arrived in town that morning, to the great delight and admiration of the villagers and people from the surrounding coun- try, who were flocking in squads in the directtorof the enchanted ground, dressed out, with the excep- i of some few shabby specimens, in their Sunday est. With difficulty I had my horse provendered, and afterward elbowed my way into the interior of the “Pavilion,” as it was called by the noisy vender,of tickets. T succeeded in securing a seat at the feet of what I considered to be a freshly-married couple, just as the band struck up “Yankee Doodle.” “Oh! my—ain’t that splendid?” cried the young wife, with a sudden burst of enthusiasm. It onght, with justice, to have been pronounced little short of execrable. > The young farmer, as his appearance indicated, made no reply, but looked straight toward the en- trance from whence he expected the troop to emerge. The young wife looked vexed at his indifference to her appeal. “I don’t b’lieve you’ve got a mite of an ear for music, Albert!” she at length said, petulantly. “No, Jane,’ he replied, with stolid composure; “T never had much of ahankerin’ furit. I’d rather see | the clown and them other earcus chaps—I had.” I drew the inference from appearances that the wife laid greater pretentions to sharp intelligence, taste, and refinement, than her liege lord, and I be- came immediately more interested in the rustic young couple—the one with her vivacious black eyes, pretty face, and loquacious tongue, and the other with his generally unruffled stolidity, except when sole stereotyped witticisim dropped from the lips of the clown, when he would open withabroad gaffaw, which showed there could exist no disease constitu- tional or otherwise, in his robust, expanding chest. The feats of horsemanship, of ground and lofty tumbling, seemed particularly to astonish and delight Albert, who had unquestionably never witnessed a similiar exhibition; while Jane infinitely preferred the comic songs and the pantomime that concluded LO , ) : | the performance, declaring most emphatically that : | hear.us, and then the expedition will go for nothing.” The sentence which he had heard Vinton mutter to | “she didn’t like to see them ride horseback a standing up, nor tumbling over their heads backward and forward, as though they didn’t kuow which end they belonged onto. It made her so dizzy like.” Interested in the unsophisticated pair, I kept my eye on them as they made their way out of the pavil- ion, in close proximity to a small side show, on the sanvas of which was daubed in coarse, flaring colors, |} half a dozen monkeys and a wamimoth snake, not omitting a very rude likeness of what they were | pleased to call ‘‘the famous Australian children,” where a sharky-looking, glib-tongued individual, in piaid vest and pants, with unbecoming long hair, and a knowing twirl to his mustache, stood mounted on a barrel, haranguing the gaping and jostling crowd with a most graphic account of the wonderful children, who had doubtless never seen Australia, and the several other remarkable objects of human interest then and there on exhibition; the whole of which, the greatest and most unrivaled attraction in the world, might be witnessed by the admiring be- holder for the meager trifle of twenty-five cents. Albert and Jane—I was ‘never able to ascertain their surnames—were standing just in front of me, listening, with open-mouthed wonder, to the persua- sive falsehoods of the fellow on the barrel, till the crowd began to hand up their quarters, one after an- other, and drop in, when I heard the wife whisper excitedly: “Do let us go in, Albert, before everybody gets in and the place is filled up. You’ve got five dollars and a half, and five will buy wy new dress and trim- mings.” The argument was not to be resisted, and the more prudent but less decided Albert came down with the money, a bright fifty-cent piece, which he looked at YouNeeditNow To impart strength and to give a feeling of health and vigor throughout the system, there is nothing equal to Hood’s Sarsaparilla. It seems peculiarly adapted to overcome that tired feeling caused by change of sea- son, climate or life, and while it tones and sustains the system it purifies and renovates the blood. We earnestly urge the large army of clerks, book-keepers, school teachers, housewives and all others who have been closely confined during the winter and who need a good spring medicine,to try Hood’s Sarsaparilla now. Hood's Sarsaparilla Cures Where other preparations fail. Besure to get Hood's Sarsaparilla. It is Peculiar to Itself. HOOD’S PILLS cure liver ills, constipation, pilious- ness, jaundice, sick headache. VOL. 47—No. 33. twice with affectionate reluctance before suspiciously handing it up to the wily sharper, who still occupied his position upon the barrel. I did not follow them in, for I knew they would both come out disgusted with the swindle soon enough; but, nevertheless, I determined to wait near the entrance, and watch the result. ; As the dissatisfied spectators began to steal out, mostly with indifference or disgust, and sometimes angry disappointment depicted in their faces, to the cracked tones of a barrel-organ, the long-haired ora- tor descended from his temporary rostrum and dex- trously drew three cards from his pocket. “Gentlemen and ladies!’ he exclaimed, patron- izingly, holding up the three cards to view—a queen, knave, and ace—‘I am about to show you a nice lit- tle game, which, if you were so inclined, any one of you, or every one of you, might make your fortunes in an hour, providing youreyes are sharp enough. Here it is——” And he opened his little game of three-card-monte, by first exhibitinga card, and then laying itcarefully, face down, on the barrel-head, with the corner slightly bent, so that only a very keen observer would notice it. It was the aueen of diamonds. : _ He next showed up the knave of clubs, and, laying that face down by the queen, followed the same for- mula with the ace of spades. He then adroitly commenced the process of chang- ing the positions of the cards in a most rapigé man- ner for a brief space, when he abruptly inquired if any one could guess which was the ‘‘queen ?” The sharp eyes of the young farmer’s wife were upon him, and she had elosely kept track of the queen from the turned-up corner she had at first noticed. “T ean!” she cried, confidently, putting herself forward among the crowd of masculine lookers-on, much tothe annoyance of the less demonstrative Albert. ; “Well,” returned the sharper, with great urbanity, “here is an opportunity to win money,if you are sure. There is five dollars,” he added. laying a note representing the sum specified on the barrel-head, “that not one of the company present can point out the queen among those cards.”’ The young woman stood fidgeting, but I could tell by the expression in her countenance that she still entertained unshaken confidence in her detective powers. No one, however, offered to accept the wager. “Well,” said the sharper, after an eloquent pause, “T think you must all be in independent circum- stanees in this place, as none of you care to make money ” His restless eye roved from face to face, as though he were taking a brief inventory of their thoughts, and finally rested on the eager, excited features of the young farmer's wife. “Do you think you can pick out the queen, young woman ?” “Yes, I do,” she answered promptly, and with nervous contidence. “Well, then, if you are quite sure why do you not accept the wager ?”’ She turned and whispered a few eager words to Albert, but the stolid fellow shook his head dubiously, as though vaguely impressed with a faint conception of something wrong. “Albert thinks U’'d better not,” she replied, with a disappointed lock; “but [ can tell you which card it 1 Sf “Be kind enongh, then, to oblige us by telling,” said the sharper, blandly. The young woman touched a card at the sugges- tion, and the gambler turned it up. It was the queen of diamonds sure enough. “There,” he said, with cool indifference; ‘-you per- ceive how easy you could have won.” The young wife threw aswift glance at Albert, half indignation, half triumph, as much as to say: “There, you stupid, didn’t [ tell you so ?”’ The adroit angler saw that his hook was baited, and he again commenced manipulating the cards, seeming pot to have noticed the corner that was so slightly bent. He went through the same proceeding as before, leaving the five-dollar note where he had first laid it, and, turning toward his watchful but still confident | victim : “Do you think you can point it out this time ?” The confident young woman, who saw the same corner turned up as before, answered his question quickly in the affirmative. “Well, then, the offer 1s still standing to whoever chooses to close with it.” The young woman turned to whispered something in his ear. the husband and I could not quite make it out, except from guess- | work, Albert shook his head. She expostulated. He shook it again; and she grew impatient, even angry at the restraint. “| know the eard,” she at length said, with angry vehemence, “and if you don’t bet now, when you are sure-to win, I won’t never-—” “But I never did bet,” expostulated Albert, in seeming trepidation at the half-expressed threat of his indiguant better-half. ‘Well, then, there is the money you can get, if you've got the spunk of a chicken left in you.” “" «“drather not bet, Jane,’ he said, coaxingly. “I never did, and T don’t want to.” “Well, then, give me the money, anj let me do it,” she answered, with au air of feminine bravado. Albert hesitated, as if reluctant to yield the point. “Tf you don’t give me that money, Albert, [ won’t stir astep home with you to night!” and sheStamped her little foot with angry impatience at Albert's ob- stinacy. I suppose the poor fellow could not bear the thought of so unhappy a termination to a day so pieasantly begun, and he reluctantly surrendered his purse. With nervous fingers the young wife opened the purse, while the vanquished Aibert stood ruefully regarding her, and removing a five dollar note—the only one it contained—she laid it with an air of tri- umph beside the other. Please draw your card, marm!”’ said the sharper. with cool indifference, apparently, as to the result. She had kept a sharp eye all the while, as she sup- posed, on the one with the slightly turned corner, and made her selection accordingly. Imagine her astonishment on turning the chosen card to find, in- stead of the queen of diamonds, the knave of clubs. For a moment she gazed atit like one demented. Then she looked up with an expression of angry in- quiry into the smiling face of the sharper, and as some of the bystanders began to titter, she turned toward her husband with a half-humilated, half-in- dignant expression, and seizing him by the arm, ex- Claimed : “Come, Albert, let’s go right straight home!” Aud as they started hurriedly off together, she hurled scorntul glances back upon the unsympa- thizing crowd. I followed a few steps béhind to the place where I had stabled my horse, and the last words [ heard the discomftitted young wife say, were: “T won’t ask you for that dress, now, Albert, tili you get your wood down the ‘slide’ this winter.” It was, indeed, « severe lesson to the unsophisti- cated young couple, as well as a timely lesson upon the depravity of gambling, which will, undoubtedly, serve them as a warning through their whole lives. ”” oa THE EARTH’S INTERIOR. Many scientific men are devoting their lives to finding out all that can be learned about the interior of this wonderful globe of ours. One of the interesting problems on which they are engaged is the depth and geological limits of the permanently frozen soil. The British Geological-Association has collected a large amount of data on this question. It has already told us some curious things, such as the fact that excellent wheat lands north of Manitoba overlie frozen earth that never thaws. Some geologists find strata of rock that they are able to show must have been buried at a remote age ten-thousand feet under the sur- face. These upturned edges of rock, which some terrible convulsion lifted to the air, give us a glimpse of the condition of the interior way below the greatest depth to which we can attain. The workmen in the deepest mines in Europe swelter in almost intolerable heat, and yet they have never penetrated over one seven-thousandth part of the distance from the surface to the center of the earth. In the lower levels of some of the Comstock mines the men fought scalding water, and could labor only three or four hours at a time, until the Sutro Turnel pierced the mine and drew off some of the .terrible heat, which had been 120 degrees. The deepest boring ever made—that at Sper- enberg, near Berlin—penetrates only 4,172 feet, about 1,000 feet deeper than the famous arte- sian well at St. Louis. The result of this im- perfect knowledge is that there are more theories and disputes among scientific men with regard to the interior of the earth than about any other problem of physical science. Some eminent physicists, for instance, like Sir William Thompson, have believed that the crust of the earth is at least one hundred miles thick. The majority adduce good reasons for believing that the crust is only twenty-five to fifty miles thick. All agree that tbe tempera- ture within the earth coutinues to increase as 4 aoe it does near the surface—at the rate of one degree, Fahrenheit, for about every fifty-five feet of descent. All igneous rocks must be fused at no great depth. In fact, at this rate of increase the tempera- ture at 200 miles is 28,000 degrees Fahrenheit, which is Prof. Rotetti's estimate of the prob- able temperature of the sun, It is improbable, however, that this rate of increase is main- tained for a great distance, and many physi- cists believe that at some unknown, but not very great depth, the increase in temperature ceases. One of the most wonderful things in the study of science is the fact that the mys- teries of one science are sometimes completely or partly explained by knowledge gleaned in some other department of study. Itis thus that the naturalists who have investigated the fauna and flora of scores of Pacific Islands have learned how far south Asiatic types pre- vail, and have added great weight to the con- clusions of geologists that these islands were once a part of the big continent north of them. —<> This Story Will Not be Published m1 Book-Form. LD O ATS: ’ Rising to Honor. By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON, Author of ‘“‘Nameless Dell,” ‘‘Brownie’s Triumph,” “The Forsaken Bride,” *‘Sibyl's Influence,” “Stella Rosevelt,’’ etc. {‘ WILD OATS” was commenced in No. 13... Back num- bers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER XXXVII.—(CONTINUED.) When Thomas Heatherton angrily left the dining- room, after his spirited interview with Miriam, he went directiy to the library, where he also fell into troubled musing. He had never been more surprised in his life than when his son’s widow—as he supposed—coolly in- formed him that Benjamin Lawson’s house could not be closed, as he directed, and that she intended to remain there indefinitely. He had imagined her a timid, yielding little body, who would not dare to raise her voice against him, | lightest command. | But, instead, he found her as resolute and tenacious of her rights as himself, and he began to fear that he | should have serious trouble with her in the settle- ment of the property. “She’s a cool one, a decidedly plucky little body, too, and well-bred, for a farmer’s daughter,” he muttered, as he recalled her courteous manner, | her lady-like tones, and the clear, direct gaze of her | beautiful eyes. ‘“Blest, if she isn’t downright pretty | besides, and gets herself up in right dainty shape with those cool white dresses and delicate ribbons. ' Rachel herself never showed better taste ;” and for | a moment a shade of sadness fell over his face at the | remembrance of his dead wife. | Just then the door-bell rang, and presently the | servant put her head into the library, remarking: “A gentleman to see you, sir.” | “Show him in,” Mr. Heatherton commanded; and ; the next moment the long-parted son and father | stood face to face. After one long, startled, amazed look into that | countenance, upon which he had not gazed for over | twenty years, Thomas Heatherton staggered back and sank into the chair, from which he had risen to | greet his caller, exclaiming, hoarsely : ~ “Great Heaven! is it you, Richard Heatherton, or your ghost ?” “There ure no ghosts, father, and it is really your ' reprobate son who stands before you,” the younger |man coolly replied, as he helped himself to a chair ; and sat down opposite his unnerved companion. But for onee in his life Thomas Heatherton terly lost his balance. with nervous excitement that he could not for the | time utter a word; his face was also deathly pale, |} and he wore a very dejected appearance. i ‘Well, mon pere, you do not seem to be very glad | to see your long lost son.” the new-comer remarked, ' with a short, sharp laugh, accompanied by an ill- | concealed sneer. | ‘*You—you have taken me very much by surprise, ; | Richard,” said Mr. Heatherton, feebly. ut- | } | | and whom he could browbeat into obedience to his | He trembled and shook so | }wasa Tat pith wort “And if [refuse ?’ she quietly inquired. “Then,” his brows contracting sternly, a look of anger leaping to his eyes, **we shall be obliged to contest to the bitterend any claim that you may make.” Miriam Heatherton straightened her slender figure, with an air of conscious strength, while a slight sinile of scorn curled her red lips. “Do you think to frighten me into yielding to your will by such a threat?’ she asked, her clear, sweet tones ringing musically through the room. ‘You cannot doit. Ishall sign no papers for you; I shall not relinquish one iota of my claim asa legal wife; I shall never hide myself from the world, or pledge myself to obscurity to gratify your arrogant pride. Shall [ tell you why?” and with this question she wheeled suddenly about and faced the faithless man whom she had once so madly worshiped, while her blazing eyes seemed to penetrate to the very depths of his soul. “Because,” she.went on, with a deliberate emphasis which seemed to beat every separate word into the brain of her listeners, “the whole of Mr. Lawson’s fortune belongs by every legal right to my son, if he is living—to me,or perhaps I should say to his pareuts—as his heirs, if he is dead.” She caught her breath, and her voice faltered over the cruel word; but recovering herself she resumed: “For Mr. Lawson himself told me, just as he was leaving for New York last week, that he had made a will some six months ago, bequeathing all he pos- sessed, save afew legacies, to my boy. On the day he died he repeated the same to me, and infermed me that the will would be fouud in yonder safe.” She lifted one slender finger and pointed toward it as she said this, but with her piercing glance still riveted upon Richard Heatherton’s face. Instantly and involuntarily his eyes sank beneath hers, while, for his life, he could not whelly repress the start which her words sent threugh him. Miriam was quick to note it, and her heart gave a great bound of conviction. “He isthe thief!’ sie said to herself, “he is the burglar who entered this house and forced the safe! I will hunt him down—l will not spare him; I will sign no papers for either of them.” “Your statements are very absurd, madam,” re- marked the elder gentleman, with a sneer, forto do him justice, he did not believe a word of her asser- tion, since, inthe presence of Mr. Lawson’s clergy- man, he had examined every document belonging to the dead man, and found no will, and greatly to his surprise, for, in view of the ill-will which had existed between them for so many years, he had confidently expected to find that he had left the bulk ot his prop- erty to some charitable institution, as he had threat- ened to do in his hot anger at Richard’s misbelbayior so long ago. “They may sound so to you, but they are true, nevertheless,” Miriam firmly responded. “But there was no will found among Mr. Lawson’s papers.”’ “It has been stolen,” was the brief reply. “Do you mean to insinuate that I have not acted in good faith, in the examination of the papers belong- ing to my brother-in-law?’ hotly demanded Mr. Heatherton. “Not at all, sir,” said Miriam, calmly,“for I am confident that the examination was honorably con- ducted. The willwas probably stolen at the time the safe was blown open and rifled of whatever of value it contained.” “And upon the strength of what you assert Mr. Lawson told you, do you propose to lay claim to the whole of his fortune?” demanded her intolocutor. “Not exactly,’ Miriam answered, ‘“‘but I shall at least make provision for my own future to such an extent as [ may.” “You are extremely obdurate, but I think that the law will convince youthat you have not quite so much power as you imagifie,” angrily retorted the baffled man, while in his heart his respect for the in- domitable pluck of the woman increased a hundred fold. . “You can callthe law to your aid if you choose, Mr. Heatherton,” slre resolutely returned ; ‘‘I shall be | ready to meet youwith your own weapons at any | | time.” os angry oath broke from Richard Heatherton at this. He had not dreamed that they would meet such de- termined opposition to their plans. During the interview with his father, previous to Miriam’s appearance, they had arranged everything satisfactorily to their own minds, and imagined that they could easily induce her to accede to whatever terms they might ¢Loose to offer, But they now learned that the apparently frail little wonian possessed a spirit and determination that could not be éasily overcome. She had them in her power and knew it, and meant to use it to the ut- most. Mr. Heatherton, in his purse-proud arrogance, eould not endure the thought of having the facts of his son's early mattiage, with all its disgraceful cir- cumstances, aired before the public, as it would of necessity be, if they were driven to a lawsuit; while, on the other. 1 Benjamin Lawson's fortune “igstins for, and he Gid uot mean to yleld it, if by any possible means he could secure it. As for Richard Heatherton, he was no less anxious to avoid all publicity in the settlement of his uncle’s affairs, on account of Vera, for he believed it would be almost a death-blow to his idolized child if she should discover the stigma that rested upon her birth. Yet he was in great need of money, and if he | could but get possession of the handsome property | Mr. Lawson had left, he would then quit the country “T had be- | | lieved you to be dead for mauy years, and, of course, | i ITwas astonished at your unexpected appearance. | : : . : F ve | seen her previous to her departure tor Nantasket, | What does it all mean ?” | Richard Heatherton, who, for reasons best known to himself, thought it best to conciliate his offended parent, related, in a friendly way, what had befallen him during his long absence from his native land, after which they hada long conference regarding Mr. Lawson’s death and the easiest way to possess themselves of his large property. It was after this conference that the message was sent to Miriam requesting her presence in the library. She had not a suspicion of the ordeal awaiting her, and when she opened the door and found her- | self in the presence of her recreant husbaud, the | A vivid scarlet swept up to her brow, then receded, | ed : ; y ; to hamper his just claims in this way. leaving her very pale; but, calling’ all her will to her aid, she braced herself for the trying inter- | : n | than twenty years had to struggle against the tide, view. She did not deign to recognize Richard Heather- | ton by so much as a look, after that one first brief | glance, and the man felt the intentional slight more | than he would have been willing to acknowledge; | for, never in her youthful days, had she seemed so | beautiful as now, in the ripeness and maturity of her | perfect womanhood. “You wished to see me, I believe,” she remarked, addressing the elder gentleman with — composure which somewhat diseoncerted him also. “Yes; be seated, if you please,” he returned, mo- tioning her to a chair. “Thank you,” Miriam politeness, laid her hand upon the back of a chair near her, thus } | 1 | | shock she experienced can be readily imagined. } | ’ | | responded, with a quiet ence. 4 : “I—I told you this morning that my son was not his natural arrogance, beneath “but he has appeared very unexpectedly to ine; and his existence.”’ He paused a moment as if waiting for some reply, but Miriam simply acknowledged the truth of his ob- servations by a cold bow, and he continued: oer and I—ah—that is, my son thought we might, per- haps—um—that we might come to some mutual agreement regarding the disposition of the property of my late brother-in-law.” Again he waited a moment, as if hoping that she would help him out by some question or remark ; but as she continued to observe him with a calm look of inquiry, he plunged at once to the point he had in view. “We thought that possibly you might be willing, for—for a handsome consideration, and to ‘avoid long and perplexing litigation, to—to sign away your right of dowry.” He lifted his eyes questioningly to her to ascertain how she would receive this proposition, but not a muscle of the fair face moved to betray: her feelings on the subject. It was evident that she intended they should show their whole hand before she committed herself m any way. The man frowned, but he could not force her to speak until she was ready ; and thouch he was greatly irritated by her composure and persistent silence, he was obliged to go on. “We have, therefore, concluded,” he said, “to offer you a—the sum of ten thousand dollars if you will renounce your right of dower, provided that you will also agree never to—to claim any further con- nection with—with the family. I—I trust, madam, that you will acknowledge the advisability of such an arrangement, both for yourself and us.” “Come, come, Mirixnm—be reasonable, and accede to the terms my father has proposed; it will be for your interest tg do so, for you would stand no chance in a fight against us,” Richard Heatherton here interposed, in a would-be conciliatory tone. The woman’s white lips quivered slightly at the sound of his voice, but by no other sign did she be- tray that she heard a word uttered. She bent her head in thought a moment when he ceased speaking, then she lifted her eyes again to the face of the elder man. “Tunderstand that you wish me to sign away all right and title to Mr. Lawson’s property, or any other upon which I may havea legal claim?” she reinarked. “Yes, that is our desire, and you will thus secure a snug little fortune for yourself without any trouble or expense,” the man replied. | bribed to resign them. again, and thus Vera need never learn the truth. He had been taken wholly by surprise by what Miriam had stated regarding a will, for when he had | she had appeared to have no thought of reaping any pecuniary benefit from the man who had befriended her, and in his heart he cursed him for having told her of it. ‘Isn’t ten thousand enough? to sign off?’ he demanded, in a sullen tone. She turned and regarded him thoughtfully for a | moment, then with tense lips and waning color she answered briefly: : “When the mystery of my explained, I will answer you.’ “Madam, you are incorrigable! your obstinacy is son's disappearance is intolerable!’ Thomas Heatherton burst forth, his | : L “My son is the rightful | heir to his uncle’s property, and you have no business | face crimson with passion. “Mr. Heatherton, | am a woman who, for more and was almost crushed by the burden of a great wrong,” Miriam responded, in a low, grave tone. ‘I am alone and friendless, my heart is nearly broken with grief and suspense over the terrible charges against my son and the mystery of his fate; but I, tov, have rights, and I have no intention of being i If your son is the legal heir | to Mr. Lawson’s property, then I, as his legal wife, a directness | “but [ will listen to you here.” and she |} am entitled to a betitting support from the estate— at least, I shall claim such, without relinquishing anything, until [ learn the truth regarding my boy.” With a slight bow to the gentleman, as she con- cluded, she turned anil quietly left the room, without waiting to note the effect of her words. “Zounds! what a spirit that woman has! She'll ) never give in, Dick,” cried the older man, with a note indicating her determination not to sit in their pres- | | | to his lips. living,” Mr. Heatherton resumed, flushing in spite of | her steady gaze, | —and it seems, from his account, that you knew of | “his denowement changes somewhat the aspect of | affairs concerning which we conversed this morning, | akin to admiration in his voice. “She shall!” his son hoarsely returned, and white “Oh, heavens! why couldn't [ have known the truth regarding that miserable marriage ? It could have been annulled. and then my child, my Vera, would have been saved from a terrible blight.” CHAPTER XXXVIII. -GERTRUDE’S FAITH IN HER LOVER. Tt has been stated, in a previous chapter, that Mr. and Mrs. Landmaid were booked for a trip to Europe, and were to leave on that very Saturday when so much was happening to our hero. Gertrude and the friend, Mrs. Page, with whom she was to spend the sumer, were to accompany them to New York on Friday night, see them start on their voyage, and then proceed to Halifax, going up the Hudson River to Albany, then to Niagara, down Lake Ontario and the 8t. Lawrence, and thence to their destination. But these plans were all changed by a sudden and alarining attack which Mrs. Langmaid had during Thursday night. It proved to be very brief, however, and she was very Inuch better in the morning, but the physician ordered the voyage to be postponed, at least for a few days, to enable her to regain some- thing of her strength. Thus it happened that the whole family were in Boston when, on Monday, the evening vpewspapers announced in the most sensa- tional manner, the robbery of the Bank, and the suspicious regarding Ned’s agency in the bold crime, together with the fact of his mysterious dis- appearance. All this came upon Gertrude Langmaid like a thun- derbolt out of a clear sky, when the evening paper was thrown in at the door, and she was the first to open it and read the appalling head-lines. She stood rooted to the spot, reading on and on, as if fascinated by the horrible tale, and feeling as if the blow must kill her, Her heart almost ceased to beat; a feeling of suffo- ‘ation oppressed her, her ears rang, and a terrible numbness rendered her temporarily powerless. Then a feeling of deep wrath superseded every other emotion. “Ned accused of such a dreadful crime!” she cried, with blazing eyes. ‘Ned a thief—a midnight burg- lar! Never! Papa,” springing toward Mr. Lang- maid, who at that moment entered the room, “what is this horrible rumor? what does it mean ?”’ She held the paper out to him as she spoke, and her hand trembled so, that it rattled in her grasp. The man’s face clouded, “My darling, | did not mean that you should see it,” he said, regretfully; “I intended to destroy every paper until you were well away from Boston. But, Gertrude, I am afraid that it is something far more serious than a mere rumor.” “What! do you believe 1t, papa?’ the young girl sharply demanded. What will you take | 7 ,. “I am obliged to confess that matters look rather bad for young Heatherton,” he reluctantly admitted. Gertrude drew herself up to her full height, her slender figure straight as an arrow, her head proudly poised, her eyes almost aflame from the intensity of her emotions. “Papa, you never can believe that Ned could com- mit such a crime; that he could be so false to truth, honor, and every principle of right!” “T am afraid I must,” her father sadly replied. “The first time he went wrong I gave him the benetit of the doubt; but——” “The first time he went wrong!” Gertrude inter- posed, with pale lips, while her thoughts reverted in- stantly to what Bill Bunting had told her only a few days previous. ‘What do you mean?” Mr. Langmaid flushed. He had spoken thought- lessly, forgetting entirely, in his grief and anger over Ned’s supposed recent rascality, for he was a heavy loser by the plunder of the bank, that Gertrude had been kept in ignorance of the Albany affair, and even now he hesitated to wound her more deeply by re- vealing the truth regarding the treachery and worth- lessness of her lover. It had been a terrible blow to him when he had read, on his way home from his place of business, the startling announcement of the bold robbery of the Bank. He had always liked Ned; had believed him to be a noble young man in every-respect, and hoped that he was going to make the darling of his heart a kind and worthy husband. When he had learned of that first robbery his sym- pathies had all been with Ned; and he believed, with Mr. Lawson, that he had been made the victim of a pold and dastardly plot. But now, after reading an account of what had oc- curred during the last forty-eight hours, his faith in the young man was sadly shaken, and the suspicion that he was in some guilty way mixed upin the affair had taken possession of him, “Tell me what you mean, papa; I will know,” Ger- trude persisted, with resolute firmness, as he did not answer her, and he saw that it would be useless to try to keep the truth from her; accordingly he,told her the whole story. She listened in silence, not once interrupting him during the recital. But when he concluded, she said quietly, but posi- tively: “I do not believe one word of it. I have the utmost confidence in Ned, and nothing but his own confession of guilt shall ever make me distrust him. That man must have drugged him on the way from Albany, for I am sure that he would never appropri- ate a penny which did not belong to him, And, papa, perhaps you will think me imaginative, but some- thing forces the conviction upon me that the same man is also at the bottom of this dreadful affair.” “lt is very kind and charitable of you, Gertrude, and natural, also, I suppose, for you to wish to shield him,” Mr. Langmaid gravely returned; ‘but to me and others it looks very much as if Ned was an ac- complice——” “I do not believe it—I will not believe it; it is only a plot to ruin him,” the young girl burst forth pas- sionately. “T know that it must be very hard for you to accept the fact of his guilt, my dear,” her father gently re- turned; “but no one could have plotted to ruin him in this way without having first learned that he had been intrusted with those precious keys, and no one could have known that fact without being told.” “Oh, papa, you are cruel to doubt Ned,” Gertrude cried, vehemently. ‘I know that he would not doa dishonest thing—he is truth and honor itself, and I will have faith in him though all the world believe him false.” “Gertrude, this is all folly,” her father returned, sternly, ‘‘and you inust cease, from this moment, to regard him as anything to you. He will doubtless be arrested and brought to justice, and our name must not be associated in any way with that of a crim- inal.” Gertrude flushed a vivid crimson at these severe words, then every atom of color slowly faded from her face. She did not reply for a moment or two, but stood with bent head and clasped hands, as if thoughtfully pondering some question of vital importance. At length she raised her face, and looked her father sadly, but steadily, in the eye. ‘“I—I do not wish to do anything to grieve or dis- please you, papa,” she said, tremulously, “but I love Ned with my whole heart. If he should be arrested and proven guilty of this terrible crime, it would kill me. But,” with an air of resolution, and a gleam of holy devotion in her lovely eyes, ‘‘until he is, I will not doubt him; [ shall be true to him—I shall stand bravely by him until the end.” Mr. Langmaid looked deeply troubled, and a flush of anger swept over his face, for he well knew that Gertrude inherited his own strong will, as previous experience had proven. He seldom crossed her directly, but when he did, he always meant to carry his point. “This is beyond all reason,’”’ he said, impatiently, “and I positively forbid you to regard yourself as in any way bound to him, from this time forth. I will graceful affair. “Yes, papa.” “Will you obey me ?” There was a moment of hesitation; then the beau- tiful girl said firmly, but with downcast eyes and trembling lips: “T cannot, papa. I gave myself unreservedly to Ned, and [ must be as true to him, ‘for better or for worse,’ as if I had already promised before the altar. I will never believe he is guilty until he is proven so beyond dispute.” Mr. Langmaid could not help admiring this noble loyalty to her lover, while at the same time he was irritated by her obstinacy. “This is simply the most absurd folly, Gertrude,” he sternly rejoined, “and J will not allow you to live up toit. If you make yourself couspicuous in the affair, you will incur my severest displeasure. I hope you understand me.” He did not give her an opportunity to reply, but abruptly left the room, closing the door in no gentle manner, While Gertrude sank upon the floor, bowed her face upon a chair, and burst into a passion of tears. 3ut despite the fact that the girl had been so ten- derly reared, she possessed a strong character, which only needed something to draw it out and test it. Do you hear?” useless weeping and weak repining. ‘There be considered, and her thoughts flew at once to the unhappy mother of her lover. ‘Poor Mrs. Heatherton!” she murmured, in a sym- pathetic tone, “she must be nearly heart-broken. How can she bearit? Imust goto her and tell her that I believe in Ned, even though all the world is against him.” She secretly resolved that she would go to Mount Vernon street early the next morning, and try to comfort the sorrowing woman. But when morning calue, the poor girl, who had not closed her eyes dur- ing the whole night, because of her anxiety regara- ing her lover, was too ill to rise. She had a high fever and was exceedingly nervous, almost verging upon hysterics, Mr. Langmaid was alarmed and called the family | physician, who said she was not seriously ill, but | needed perfect quiet for a few days. She was not able to leave her bed until Friday, when she called for the daily papers, but her father had taken care that none should be found in the house, for he had no intention of allowing her mind to Se harrowed by reading the sensational versions of the bank robbery, aud the numerous conjectures regarding young Heatherton’s continued absence. But Gertrude was determined to know the worst, and about eleven o’clock she informed her mother that she thought She would feel better for a drive. The horses were accordingly ordered. and the fair girl drove directly to a news-stand, where she ob- tained the papers she wished, and eagerly devoured all that she could find relating to the matter which so deeply concerned her. It was while thus engaged that she learned of Mr. Lawson’s sudden death, and of his burial the previous day. She was terribly shocked, and with a heart full of sympathy for Mrs. Heatherton, she ordered the coachman to drive her directly to Mount Vernon street. “Yes, Mrs. Heatherton is at home,” the servant said, in answer to her inquiry for that lady, “but I doubt if she is able to see any one.” ‘‘T am sure she will see me, Nellie,” Gertrude said, with a wan smile that went to the girl’s heart, for she had shrewdly suspected how matters stood between her and Ned. ‘Let me go directly up to her room; I must see her, Nellie; indeed, I must.” So she was allowed to enter, and a moment later she was tapping lightly upon the door of Miriam’s room, “Come in,” called a tearful voice, and Gertrude passed in and found the unhappy woman nearly pros- trated after her trying interview with Richard Heath- erton and his father, for she had but just come from the library. “The tair girl was beside her in an instant, her arius around her, and with the brown head pillowed upon her breast. ‘Dear Mrs. Heatherton,” she sobbed, tears raining over her cheeks, “don’t give up; don’t lose courage ; Ned will come back—I am sure he will; then every- thing will be explained, and his name cleared from all suspicion. Oh! do not be so disheartened,” she continued, as the overwrought woman wept afresh at this evidence of sympathy and faith. “I know that he is innoeent—he could not be guilty of a crime like that, and [ shall never lose faith in him.” Miriam drew the girl close to her heart, and kissed her fondly. “You are a precious comforter.” she sobbed, finding it a blessed relief to give way to the tears which had been so long pent up. “I, too, sure that Ned is not guilty—that he is only the vietim of some terrible plot; but the suspense regarding his fate, together with all this newspaper sensation, and the loss of our best friend, had driven me nearly frantic. It was kind of you, dear, to come to me in this dark hour. Oh, Gertrude! what do you suppose has become of the dear boy ?”” not have our.nameeannected. with any such dis-. She did not allow herself to spend much time in | i were | other things besides her own regrets and sorrow to | aim | exmae THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 38> Gertrude’s fair face paled at this question. The least of her own fears was that he had been dishonest. She knew that he could not do a mean or unworthy act. But his fate! the thought of that appalled her. The fear that some desperate person had way laidand, perhaps, murdered him, to get possession of the keys he held, made her heart faint within her, and chilled her blood with dread. The two heavy-hearted women talked long of their mutual trouble, and while they could not allay the fears of each other, they were strengthened to bear it by the exchange of confidence and sympathy, dur- ing Which Gertrude whispered the secret of her own and Ned’s love and hopes for the future. She remained for a couple of hours, then returned to Arlington street, not only believing in her lover more firmly than ever, but strengthened in her de- termination to stand by him to the end, in spite of the opinions of the world and her father’s commands, The next day she returned with Mrs. Page to Hal- ifax, and the following Wednesday Mr. and Mrs, Langmaid sailed for Europe. (TO BE CONTINUED). A BRAVE WIFE, BY KATE LUBY. About thirty years ago San Diego, the capital of Duval County, Texas, was an obscure ranch, consist- ing of a few miserable jacals (cabins), and was alto- gether unknown to geographers. At present, thanks to the civilizing influence of the United States, under whose protection everything lives, moves, and progresses, San Diego has a popu- lation of over 6,000 inhabitants, with several churches, two public schools, and various private ones; nu- merous wholesale and retail stores, and handsome palatial private residences. One of her sons is proud of being a naval cadet at Annapolis. During the late civil war, there resided in San Diego, an old Mexican, named Jose Cantu, who kept an eating-house for travelers. Old man Jose had discovered the secret of perpetual motion in immo- bility. He satin his easy-chair all day, smoking and spinning yarns about the glories of Mexico and of the valiant Santa Anna. His poor wife worked late and early, without res- pite, but content to see her dear spouse gaining daily in avoirdupois. The doctors were surely in error in asserting that it was the solids, and not the fluids which nourish us. Jose was a steady imbiber, whose jar of mescal had to be often replenished. It was long past midnight, when three travelers, journeying in an ambulance, stopped at Jose’s door, seeking refreshments for themselves and their horses. The driver and servant, Tim Corcoran, gave vent to his outraged feelings, by pounding on the door with all his might. “Tare an’ nagers! Arrah, sure it’s dead yez all are! Come! rouse the griddle, ye lazy divils! May the curse 0’ Cromwell be on yez! Up with the bones!” Unable to resist this burst of Irish eloquence, more potent than that of Grattan, Curran, or Flood, old Jose opened the door, and gave the travelers truly hospitable entertainment. They inquired if there was a priest living on the ranch, and being answered in the affirmative, they implored Jose to cross over the arroyo (a stream of water), and bring him to marry a couple without delay, for which he would be liberally remunerated. After a confidential conversation with the priest, who was an ultra Liberal, and opposed to the French conquest of Mexico, the blushing aud beautiful lady traveler, who was named Luisa Guerrero, was joined in holy wedlock to Senor Don Juan Cepeda. of Sal- tillo, Mexico, deserter from the army of Maximilian. General Mejia was stationed in Matamoras. repre- senting the Maximilian Government, and General Slaughter represented the Confederate States in Brownsville. Don Juan Cepeda was the accepted lover of Dona Luisa Guerrero. Her father was a Liberal, a true follower of Benito Juarez; but, on the conquest of Mexico by the French, he changed his politics, and forced his family to (apparently) adopt his opinions. Luisa and her mother were always true to their country ; but poor Juan Cepeda, a patriotic Liberal, was drafted, against his will, into the Mexican Im- perial Army. He had heen, for some time, the ac- cepted lover of Luisa, and both of them deplored the sad fate of their adored country, made the slave of the stranger. Luisa and her mother went on a visit to Madama Pavy;a French creole lady, residing at Matamoras, and Juan Cepeda, burning with indignation at being compelled to take up arms against his own country- men, deserted from the French army, and escaped to Brownsville, Texas, where he enlisted, and becamea member of the staff of General Slaughter, who kuew nothing of his antecedents. There was to be a grand ball at Madame Pavy’s, and General Slaughter and his staff being invited to meet General Mejia and his officers there, Madame -avy received the following reply: “HEADQUARTERS, SUB DIVISION, “WEST DEPARTMENT, ‘TEXAS, BROWNSVILLE ; MADAM.— Brigadier-General J. E. Slaughter requests me to acknowledge the receipt of your kind invitation to spend the evening of the 10th inst. (Saturday) at your house. It will afford the general and his staff much pleasure to accept the invitation. “IT remain, madam, with much respect, [‘*Your obedient servant. “S. G. ALDRICH, Capt. C. 8. A.” The ball at Madame Pavy’s was a great success; but poor Luisa did pot enjoy it much, for she had that very day received a letter from her father, in which he stated that in three days he would bein Matameras, accompanied by one of Saltillo’s richest merchants, to Wholu he had promised her in anar- riage. She overheard a conversation between General Slaughter and General Mejia, in which the latter lade some inquirles concerning a deserter from the imperial army, who was reported as having enlisted with the Confederates in Brownsville. Mejia stated that the deserter’s real name was Juan Cepeda; on hearing which Luisa nearly fainted. ‘The tollowing day, Tim Corcoran, Juan's Irish ser- vant, placed a short note from Juan in her hands. ‘The note stated that General Slaughter had learned of his desertion from the French, and had given him a chance for his life, certain death awaiting him should he fallinto their hands. His faithful man, Tim, had hired an ambulance, and would accompany him asfaras San Antonio, where he would be safe. He assured her of his eternal fidelity to the vows he had made her, and bade her trust in God for happier days. Luisa was bewildered; vacillating between her love for her betrothed husband, Juan, and her filial devo- tion to her mother, who was surrounded by all the coltorts of life; but she made a prompt decision, and collecting her jewelry and money, she left a short note for her mother, telling her pot to be uneasy on her account, as with Heaven’s help, she would soon again return to her loving arms. She arrived in Brownsville in the evening twilight, just as Juan and his servant were leaving the town. Sobbing in his arms, she told him of her father’s ex- pected arrival, and of his intention to force her into a marriage against her will. She insisted on accom- panying her lover and sharing his fate, and this will account for the hasty marriage in San Diego. “Sich a dhry wedding was never heered tell of!’ cried Tim. ‘Heaven be wid ye, ould Ireland !” The ambulance was made ready, and the horses’ heads were turned toward San Antonio, when a cloud ot dust was observed, and a furious galloping of horses heard! Soon over twenty soldiers surrounded the ambulance, securing their prisoner with hand- cuffs and chains. They had orders from Mejia to shoot Juan if he offered any resistence, In three days they arrived at Matamoras, where the unphappy Juan was court-lmartialed and sentenced to be shot for desertion. In the meantime Luisa’s father had returned, ac- companied by the rich suitor for her hand, She was compelled to confess her marriage with Juan, which provoked a storm of rage and recrimina- tion. Her good mother tried to console her, telling her to trust in God’s mercy, On the morning appointed for Juan’s execution, the Plaza de Armas, in Matamoras was crowded with Spectators. The prisoner came forth with downcast eyes, and head bent torward. As the order to ‘‘tire’”’ was about to be given, one of the guards knocked off the prisoner’s hat, displaying a Wealth of raven ringlets. A lady in the crowd gave a most piercing shriek, and in an instant mother and daughter were clasped heart and heart. The prisoner was Luisa, who was disguised, and would have died for her husband, Loud cries of “Las lropos de Escobeda!”’ (the troops of Escobeda) rent tye air. The Liberal troops were said to be entering ghe town, and such a stampede to Brownsville was néver seen. Luisa, with her parents and Tim Corcoran, fled to the carcel, or prison, which they found deserted. Juan Cepeda lay on a couch, dressed in female attire, and covered with a lace mantilla. Luisa had been to say farewell to him in the morn- ing, and had overpowered him with chloroform, and bribed the jailer with one hundred dollars to keep silent He did not dream what her intentions really were. When Juan recovered from his stupor, the entire family passed over to Brownsville, and from thenee went to New York, where they remained until the Liberals got control of Mexico once more. e—<—m THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 3 VOL. 47—No, 38. NEW YORK, JUNE 18, 1892. APRIL III ON Terms to Mail Subscribers (POSTAGE FRER.) whe, eae 3 months 75c. | 2 copies $5.00 4 months $1.00 | 4 copies 10.00 1 year 3.00 | 8 copies 20.00 Payment for the NEW YORK WEEKLY, should be made by a,Post Office Money Order, Bank Check or Draft, or express Money Order. We particularly recommend to our subscribers the American Express Company, who will receive subscriptions at any of their offices and guarantee the delivery of auy amount notover $5.00 for the low sum of five cents. 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Special inducements made for large clubs. Subscriptions may begin at any time, and complete files from January Ist, 1883, to date, or any portion thereof, can be supplied at the same rate as current numbers. Carefully state what number and volume you wish your subscription to begin with. -_2*+ es sc @ * (6 6) eee “pe ee See ae * o}¢ . bite ihe mW te) 65 56 All letters should be addressed to STREET & SMITH, P.O. Box 2734. 29 & 31 Rose St., N. Y NICK GARTER’S GREAT CASE, The Latest Brilliant Exploits New York’s Chet Detective, When the public are shocked, and the police per- plexed,-by a crime so cleverly and ingeniously plan- ned, and so audaciously and dexterously worked that apparently no clew has been left to trace the artful outlaws, the authorities exclaim, ‘‘This is a mystery Our best men are bewildered by it; we must, therefore, call in the aid of NEW YORK’S VIDOCQ, AND PUT “NICK CARTER ON THE TRAIL.” that would puzzle Satan himself to unravel. A case of this kind oecurred last December, and it concerned the mai! service of the country. Thedeed was enacted ina public street, within sight of the City Hall, and all the details were carried out with the precision and coolness of a military*maneuver, although the perpetrators were undoubtedly aware that discovery meant instant submission to arrest, or | death. | So cleanly was the work performed that the clever | scoundrels left not the slightest clew for the regular } detectives of the Secret Service. Then Uncle Sam | induced the great NiIcK CARTER to try his skill, and how he run the rascals to earth is fully and The Mysterious Mail toh NICK CARTER’S U.S. GOVERNMENT CASE. By the Author of ‘“‘NICK CARTER.” It will be seen, ere the second installment of this vivid and realistic story has passed under the read- er’s eye, that the mail robbery at the New York Post- Office was but the prelude to a series of STRANGE AND ROMANTIC EVENTS, and that in solving the mystery of one crime, the shrewd detective became cognizant of A WOMAN’S SECRET, aman’s perfidy, and an infamous scheme to wrong aninnocent girl. The combination of dramatic in- cidents forms one of the best detective stories ever penned. action, tersely and vigorously described, and every It has a novel and ingenious plot, is full of chapter has one or more surprises for the reader. Nick CARTER is really at his best in this, his latest | periment with edredons. case, and the perils and excitement of real detective work are pictured with power and vividness. The opening installment of “THE MYSTERIOUS MAIL ROBBERY” will appear next week. We anticipate a lively demand for this capital story, and we trust that newsdealers will be prepared to prowptly sup- ply all patrous. —_ 3 or JOSH BILLINGS INSURES HIS LIFE BY JOSH BILLINGS, I kum to the conclusion, lately, that life waz so onsartin, that the only way for me tu stand a fair chance with other folks, was to git my life insured, and soi kalled on the Agent of the “Garden Angel Life Insurance Co.,” and answered the following questions, which waz put tu me over the top ov a pair of gold specks, by a slik little fat old feller, with alittle round gray head, az pretty az enny man ever owned: QUESTIONS, 1lst—Are yu mail or femail? ifso, please state how long you have been so. 2d—Are yu subjec tu fits, and if so, do yu hav more than one at a time? 3d—What is yure precise fiteing weight? 4th—Did yu ever have enny ancestors, and if so, how much? 5h—W hat iz yure legal opinion ov the con- stitutionality ov the 10 commandments. 6th—Du yu ever hav enny nite mares? 7th—Are you married and single, or are yu a Bachelor? 8th—Do yu beleve in a futer state? if yu du, state it.” 9th—What are yure private sentiments about a rush ov rats tu the head; can it be did suc- cessfully? 10th—Hav yu ever committed suicide, and if so, how did it seem to affect yu? After answering the above questions, like a man in the confirmatif, che slik little fat old feller with gold specks on, ced i was insured for life, and probably would remain so for a term ov years. I thanked him, and smiled one oy my most pensive smiles. e A LUDICROUS MISTAKE. BY THE OLD ’UN. When the cool fall weather set in I was lodg- ing at the Hotel of Ghent and Germany, Paris. One day, on my way to breakfast, I met my good landlady, Madame Paisot, in the court- yard, and we exchanged the customary greet- ings. “The nights are getting cold, monsieur,” she said. “Yes, madam, I find them so.” “Would you like meto putan edredon in your chamber, sir?” Now what anedredon was had entirely es- caped my memory. I hated to confess my ignorance, so I fished for an explanation in this way: “What for, madam?” “Why, to make you bed warm, monsieur.” Ah! I thought; now I have it—she means a warming-pan. But she didn’t mean any such thing. An edredon is an eider-down coverlet, but I fancied that she meant a warming-pan. I thought the use of a warming-pan would involve a frequent summoning of the waiter to supply live coals, and, probably, an in- flation of the bill at the end of the month to the extent of several francs. The reader will please observe that in the fol- lowing conversation, my landlady is talking about an eider-down coverlet, and I am speak- ing of a brass warming-pan—so that we were conversing at cross purposes. “No, I thank you, madam,” I said, “I don’t like edredons.” “But they produce great heat.” “Too much, madam. They’re dangerous.” “Dangerous!” she exclaimed, in utter aston- ishment. “Yes, ma’am, dangerous. I know them of old.” “Do you have edredons in America’ ? “We used to have, but we’ve given them up long ago.” “Why so?” “The insurance companies wouldn’t take risks on the houses where they used them.” “But, sir, surely you don’t know what an edredon is.” “Don't I? Set a room on fire with’one once.” “You are joking, sir.” “Never more serious, madam, I assure you. The intense heat. generates explosive gases. The expansion of the gases proving too much for the confined space, an explosion actually follows—and then, where are you?” The landlady backed away from me, her face whiter than a sheet. The buxom _portress who had been standing beside her, now hid herselt behind her mistress, and both stared at me with wide-open eyes. . “Madam,” said I, earnestly and sympa- thetically. “Monsieur Frotand tells me that you are a lone widow, and that all you pos- sess in the world is this hotel. For heaven’s sake, madam, don’t continue to play with fire —don’t risk your little allin this insane ex- Get rid of them at once—out of the house with ’em—every one!” “But, sir, what will my customers say?” “Never mind what they say! What right have they to object? The property is yours and it is your duty to protect it. Send off your edredons—send ’em off without a mo- ment’s delay.” “Where shall I send them, sir?” “To the brass founders—they’ll pay you for weight.” “To the brass founders !* she exclaimed, evi- dently supposing me at my wits’ end. “Yes, madam, the brass founders. Good morning. I thank you kindly for your good intentions, but no edredons for me!” On my way to Duval’s, Boulevard Mont- martre, the whole truth penetrated my wool. Madam _ had been talking of a counterpane stuffed with down, I of a brass machine filled with live coals. When I came back I found an eider-down coverlet on my bed and very comfortable it proved. I thanked the madam for it next day, but I never confessed what a ridiculous mistake I had made in the discus- sion of the day before. asin —_ POOR MRS. FLUTTER. BY KATE THORN, You must be acquainted with her. Almost everybody knows her, or her counterpart, She is the wife of a rich man, and she lives in an elegant house, furnished with fine furni- ture, and she has troops of servants, and keeps a carriage, and has all the money she wants to spend. But she is worked to death! That is her continual complaint. She is always so tired that she has hardly strength to return the greetings of her friends when they call. Go there when you will, you wilt always find this unfortunate woman in the same pre- dicament. So tired! So much to do! Ask her to help in getting up a church fair, or in making clothing for the orphan asyium, or invite her to go with you to call onSmith’s widow, who is_ left helpless and sick, with five small children to provide for, and she will tell you that she would do so gladly, but she has so much to do. She is greatly interested in the prosperity Mii al |of the church, and her heart aches for those poor orphans, and she is so sorry that Smith met his death by falling off that block of new buildings, but she has so much todo! And she cannot help thinking that Smith was dreadfully careless. All these carpenters are! Why, for her part, she should never think of going up on the roof of a four-story building, with a basket of nails in one hand and a ham- mer inthe other; and as we look at her re- spectable rotundity, which would probably tip the scales at one hundred and eighty, we are convinced that she speaks the truth! Men who will have such large families ought to be more careful of themselves, she says; i they ought to consider that people of means are overburdened now with poor folks to take care of. But there! that class of people never have any forethought! And she rings the bell for her maid totake Juno out for a bath, and be sure and sprinkle her with rose-water be- fore she brings her back! And while the dog is borne yelping away, Mrs. Flutter rings the bell again, and callsa servant up two flights of stairs to roll a win- dow-shade a couple of inches higher, and close the register. She is so tired, she says, that she does not feel equal to anything—oh, dear! That dreadful Miss Bobbin, the dressmaker, has been bothering her all the morning! Such a tiresome creature! Strange, that dress- makers will continue tokeso disagreeable! Why, that impertinent person actually in- sinuated that one of Mrs. Flutter s shoulders was higher than the other, and that she had dresses enough in all conscience ! Dresses enough, indeed! When she is ab- solutely shabby! Sometimes she does wish that people did not have to dress, but could go without clothes, like—like—well, like those heathens the rector told us about last Sabbath ! But one might as well be out of the world as out of fashion. and, positively, she has noth- ing fit to be seen ! And Mrs, Fitz Mug’s party coming off next week! And _ she has promised to bring sister Fanny’s Theodora Adelaide out on that occasion! Sucha task! Oh, dear! so much to do! And she rocks her- self vigorously, and plays with her costly] watch-chain, and declares she positively en- vies Mrs. Smart, over the way, who being poor, and not in society, is not worked to death } And then she falls to wondering how you ever do find time to hunt upso many poor people, in such wretchedly out-of-the-way places; and she sniffs at her vinaigrette, and asks if you are not afraid of catching the typhoid fever or something? She would like to attend to affairs outside her own household if she only hadtime! Yes, indeed ! But her servants try her life out of her} Such a lazy, shiftless, ungrateful set! They donot earn their salt! And Mr. Flutter is so exacting! Why, actually, that inconsiderate man expects her to see that the sugar and flour are not wasted, and that Bridget does not give the cold meat to Mike Flanagan’s wife, who is her sister! But there! men are all tyrants! ana Mr. Flutter does go into such tantrums. when the bills come in that she dreads to see the first of the month come! And there are Alice’s dresses to see after, for she is going to Mademoiselle De Vernac- ular’s Seminary; and Bessie needs encourag- ing about practicing her musie lessons; and only yesterday that dreadful Mr. Flutter flew into such a passion because his stockings all had holes in the toes—and she with so much to do! and Juno sick from eating too much almond candy! : Poor Mrs. Flutter! As we take leave of her in her soiled wrapper, her untidy shoes, and her disheveled hair, we cannot help wondering what would become of her if fortune should compel her to step into the shoes of Mrs. Smart, over the way, who has a family of nine children, to cook. wash, mend, and make for—besides helping her hus- band evenings to copy papers aud post books; and the whole yearly income to support this eee family is but a paltry six hunderd dol- ars! never has so much to do that she cannot help a neighbor in sickness or speak a word of com- | , 7 c | hears an almost unceasing fusillade of, “Can't So much to do, indeed! fort to the unfortunate. Poor Mrs. Flutter! “SUCH IS LIFE.” BY HARKLEY HARKER. Did you ever look into the Bible for poetic descriptions and metaphors of human life? Life has always furnished inspiration for poets; but I know of no book of poems any- where near so rich, so delicate in suggestion, or so lofty in spirit, as the Bible in its figures describing human life. Observe. The Bible compares life to an eagle hastening after his prey. Again: Life is a pilgrimage. Life is a tale that is told. Life is a swift post, that flees away. Life is a swift ship. Life is a handbreadth. Life is a shepherd’s tent, removed. Life is a dream, Life is a sleep. Life is a vapor, that now appeareth, now vanisheth. Life is the shadow of a passing cloud. Life is a thread cut by the weaver’s shears. Life is the weaver’s flying shuttle. Life is a flower of the morning. Life is.as grass before the scythe. Life is as the wind. Life is as water spilt upon the ground. The poet of our time must Search in vain for tropes that shall be new and striking, after guch werds,as the »~ This. is: the melancholy aspect of life, confessedly ; yet few ‘readers are not thoughtful enough, few have not had pathetic hours of sufficient power to make this somber side of life familiar and these rich figures intelligible. But on the other side, the vigorous and none the Book is equally rich. ife is a warfare, with the warrior mailed. Life is a harvester’s toil, with sickle and sheaves. Life is an errand of God. Life is a mountaineer’s brave journey. Life is a shepherd’s watch and guest. Life is a hope, a faith, a prayer. Life is a hardy toil under the sun’s heat and burden. Life is a laying-up of treasure out of sight. Life is a stewardship, a holy trust. Life is a song, a jubilee, a pean of victory. Life is a fisherman’s battle with storms, and his coming safe to shore. Life is a candle in the night. Life is a cross. It is impossible to exhaust this heavenly thesaurus. Everything grand, everything sad that life has been found to be by any one of us, has its laconic, pat description by some poetic figure in the Book of books. What is life to you, reader? I wonder how you live? what is the first thought of the morn ing; what the general tone and level of the twelve or fifteen waking hours; whether life is much or little. Ihave an idea that, with some who read this, life is no very precious thing, after all—if one were only sure of a bet- ter somewhere else; but, being all one has, it is clungto. It is: the same old round, day after day, kept up only because it will not end of itself—and one dare not assume the re- sponsibility of ending it, of course. Itis_ like the tick of a clock, wound upevery night as one goes to sleep. and so ‘running on; till, by and by, some night, it will be forgotten and not wound up. One will not awake the next morning. It is pitiful to think how many such dead loads of life are being carried, by human feet that are so weary with the burden, and would beso glad to stop, not wishing to go any farther. At the same time there are so many who want to live, and have every- thing to live for, who are dying. I propose an exchange, after the style of stock exchanges—thus: At midday, every first of the month, let all who want to trade in life come together. One man dreads_ the month of April; he has debts then due, a law- suit, a hard and disagreeable task which has stared him in the face all the year and now must be metin April. The man wishes it was all past, and, now it was May; he would willingly sell or barter away all the month of April, and not live it at all, Another man is in exactly the same fix about March; but, as regards April, this man has been longing for it these two years, for he isto be married in April (if he ever gets through March)—is to receive a fortune in April—is to go to Europe in April. Let these two men exchange. They certainly would doso with any other goods they had. Or yet again. Hereis a poor, broken-hearted creature, who would not snap her {finger for life another day; there is nothing to live for, nothing to live with. Life is so cheap a thing with her that she has neglected to take any care of itfor many months, but has left it kicking about, in hopes that it really would get lost some dark night without her direct responsibility for the loss; so despised a thing is life with her, that now she has actually re- solved to throw it away. But here is another young thing, the bride of a year, with every- thing to live for and live with—her babe at her breast, her fond hubsand bending over her, a little world of friends walking with careful feet about her; al] that skill can do for her life has been done: all that vast wealth can do has been laid upon her cold-growing bosom. Oh, for life, precious, joyous, rich, full life! Oh, for ten years! Or her friends will take a year, if they can do no_better—a month, a week, a day more of life! Why can- not these two exchange? No, no; there can be no human exchange. Each must live his own life through to the |that dread hour when And the bed-ridden old grandmother has a} home inthe family; and the tidy mistress | end. End? There isnoend. Each must live on forever—past joy, past woe, past death, past the Judgment, past eternities. Yet, reader, God has provided an exchange. Christ came and offgred up His life. Who- soever will may exchange with Christ. Is your present life hateful to you? Christ will take it and give you in return a life lovely in its devotion to duty, to making other people happy, in bearing other people’s burdens, in its sublime errantry for the truth and the right in this world. Is your life guilty? Christ will take it in exchange, and give youa clean, pure life. Is your life faded, worn, tasteless? Christ will exchange it with you fora new life, as if you were just born again. Is your life spent with sickness and frequent pains? He will exchange it for one in which “neither shall there be any more pain, neither sorrow nor crying: neither any more hunger, nor thirst, nor death; for the former things shall be passed away.” Surely’this makes life worth the having, no matter how poor and miserable a thing it may seem, for it is exchangeable for the most desirable estate—it is redeemable in more than gold, on presentation to Christ. But that is it—our life must be presented for exchange and change. JUVENILE CLAIMS. BY THE REV. A. M’ELROY WYLIE. Children have a right to the fullest possible swing of their energies. Their very life is ex- pression; and too often it happens that the older people over them, keep up a running war- | fare of repression. In some homes, from morn till night, from infantile noses are scrubbed duly in an over-flooded basin, to the evening hour when sleep-drugged boyhood and girlhood are dragged off to bed, one ha you be still!” “Stop that meddling!” “Hold your tongues “Clear out of here and don’t be crying!” anda thousand other cruel, im- patient exclamations, which are enough to turn all the milk of youth intothe sour cur- dles of chronic misanthropy. The wonder is not that so many children turn out badly from such households, but that there are any that do not go straight to marauding upon society at large. You hear Tom coming home from school. His whole animal spirits, pent up as they have been for five hours, are now bursting their bounds, rolling and roaring and boiling over. That is the very life and hope of Tom, and you ought to be proud of it, but you shout, or rather yell, at him, “Tom, why can’t you make a little more noise! Couldnt youstamp a little heavier, and kick the stairs a little harder! Why, I declare you are worse than a horse in the house!” Now, look at this matter for a minute. Here are a few brief years: in which nature is straining every energy to build up Tom toa full, vigorous manhood. She is desperately opposed to. dough-faces, weaklings, dwarfs, and puttyballs of all des- criptions, and you are perpetually throwing stones at the builders and driving them off. You are forever stealing away the oaken ele- ments and the sturdy pinnings, which are to combine for the make-up of a true man’s dwelling place. Then who is to blame if Tom turns into either a namby-pamby, wo- manish man, or, defying these foolish and irri- tating restraints, he rushes into the opposite extreme of harsh, bold, defiant, open lawless- ness ! : Girls and boys, we hold, have an inalienable right to the fullest and_freest swing of their energies. There should be uo punishing, or scolding for being a child, but for being a bad child—all the difference in the world. Fortunate are those little ones who have the open conditions of the country in which they can give their energies fullswing! And happy are those parents who are wise enough to de- vise plans by which their children can work off their animal spirits, and yet be occupied in doing something of practical account ! For another thing, the right of questioning belongs to childhood, and ought to be res- aber. It is what the present generation owes to the one which is rising up to succeed. We pay our parents for what they have done for us by serving our children as we have been served by our parents. We confess it is not avery pleasant thing to be bbmbarded by an unnecessary battery of persistent questions. But what is that work you have under your hand, or that book your eyes are riveted upon, compared to that soul standing by your side, throwing open its win- dows of being and gasping for air, and crying out for help? That bit of work may, at best, be only fora little bodily gratification—that book may be only for a little mental confection- ery; but here is a soul stretching up its neck, like the birdling in the nest gasping for food, and that gasping for food comes in the way of dogged questioning. You would not dream of ” turning away the thirsty stranger pleading for | water at your well-curb. Now, there is no thirst like that of real soul- thirst, and we believe itis the most refined cruelty to turn away a questioning child, whose whole being is crying outfor knowledge and truth. We wot of a little fellow whom we call the lawyer, and, notwithstanding our religious philosophy on this subject, he is, at times, al- most too much for us. One question answered starts a dozen others. If he catches one an- swer, the motion of his hand causes a swarm of other hidden curiosities to fly up, and one has enough of work to do. A wise man was once asked how he hap- pened to obtain such vast information,Zand he replied, “By never being ashamed to ask a question.” Now if this is a man’s right, much more is it achild’s right, andit carries with it its correlative or counterpart, or the obligation on the side of those who are wiser or older to an- swer the question, and to answer it, too, with politeness, and consideration. On the part of parents, elders, and guardians there should be care, patience, and loving at- tention. It will pay in every particular. For another thing, we hold that children have aright to their associations. What we mean by this is not that they shall be left blindly to choose theirown companions, but | that their own fresh life shall not be wholly bound up with older life. We know of a father foolish enough to keep his young hoy by him almost night and day. He will not go off on a day’s journey without that boy, and will awake him at midnight in order to carry the child from hotel, home, car, or boat. This is little short of refined cruelty. Let these young instincts be strengthened and refreshed by flowing into other youthful instincts, and let young hearts commune with young hearts. Physicians ansparingly condemn those old people who require young children to sleep in the same bed with them. Doctors declare that it substracts vitality from a youthful body, and prevents its growth and healthful development. And a similar injury is done by those adults who compel children to give up their youthful as- sociates in order to give their fresh lives to them. It cannot be right to cross these natural in- stincts. They should be guided, trained, but never thwarted or repressed. Adults, whether parents or not, will be the gainers by’ pro- moting and encouraging right associations of young people among themselves. And it is nothing but selfishness, on the part of parents, guardians , or teachers, that leads to the per- sistent effort to absorb the time, attention, and fresh impulses of their youthful wards. Correspondence, i GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS, ce’ Communications addressed to this department will not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are signed to them as evidence of the good faith of the writers, B. M. A., Annapolis, Md.—Lithography, a method of producing printed copies of a writing or drawing on stone without the usual process of engraving, was invented about 1796-8, in Munich, by Aloys Senefelder. The fol- lowing story is told in relation to the discovery which led to the invention: ‘‘After the first triumphant per- formance of Mozart’s opera of “Don Juan,” at Munich, the theater was deserted by ail except one man. ‘Aloys Senefelder had still much to do. After seeing carefully around the stage that no sparks had ignited about the theater, he retired to his little room to stamp the theater tickets for the following day. As he entered the room, he had three things in his hand—a polished whetstone for razors, which he had purchased, a ticket-stamp, moistened with printers’ ink, and a check on the theater-treasury for his week’s salary. He placed the check on a table, when a gust of wind took it, swept it high up in his room for a moment, and then deposited it in a basin filled with water. Senefelder took the wet paper, dried it as well as he could, and then, to make sure of it, weighted it down with the whetstone. ou whieh he had carelessly before put the printing stamp. Returning to his room on the fol- lowing morning, he was surprised to see the letters of the stamp printed with remarkable accuracy on the damp paper. He gazed long at the check. A sudden thought flashed through his brain; he wondered if, by some such means, he could not save himself the weary trouble he continually had of copying the songs of the chorus. That very morning he went out and purchased a larger stone, and commenced to make the experiments which resulted so successfully.” B. C. F., Jersey City.—The President of the United States has authority to declare quarantine in States of the Union to prevent the introduction of contagious dis eases from one State to another, and for the punishment of offenses in connection therewith. The authority is found in the act of Congress, approved March 28, 1890, the first and most important section of which reads as fol- lows: ‘“*That whenever it shall be made to appear to the satisfaction of the President that cholera, yellow fever, small-pox or plague exists in any State or Territory, or in the District of Columbia. and that there is danger of the spread of such disease into. other States, Territories, or the District of Columbia, he is hereby authorized to cause the Secretary cf the Treasury to promulgate such rules and regulations asin his judgment may be necessary to prevent the spread of such disease from one State or Ter- ritory into another, or from any State or Territory into the District of Columbia, or from the District of Columbia into any State or Territory, and to employ such inspectors and other persons as may be necessary to execute such regulations to prevent the spread of such disease. The said rules and regulations shall be prepared by the Super- vising Surgeon-General of the Marine Hospital Service, under the direction of the Secretary of the Treasury. And any person who shall willfully violate any rule or regulation so made and promulgated shall be deemed guilty of a misdemeanor, and upon conviction shall be punished by a fine of not more than five hundred dollars, or imprisonment for not more than two years, or both, in the discretion of the court. Cora S., Montreal, Canada.—ist. The hair, when natu- rally white or flaxen, which is often the case in child- hood, eontains phosphate of magnesia, which ultimately disappears in after age, when the hair usually becomes gradually darker. The coloring oil of black hair is of a dark green, which becomes lighter in the different shades from black to light brown. The coloring inatter of red hair isred, that of golden hair is a modification of red, that of auburn a mixture of red and dark green, and that of white and flaxen is very nearly without color. 2d. Each separate hair is a hollow tube, at. the bottom of which is a small prominence ip the form of a cone, which is the organ that produces the hair, and is abundantly furnished with capillary vessels and nerves. The mode in which the hair is formed by this organ, or hair pulp, isthus: A fiuid secreted from the blood is deposited on the surface of the pulp; this fiuid is first converted into granules, and afterward into cells, which are subse- quently modified to form the texture of the hair. These hair cells contain the pigment or coloring matter, upon which the color of the hair depends; and when the sup- ply of this pigment ceases, the hair becomes gray. Andrew F. C., Carbondale, Pa.—ist. The name silhouette is derived from its inventor, Etienne de Silhouette, a French minister of finance in 1757. 2d. Silhouettes are executed in various ways. One of the. simplest is that of tracing the outlines of a shadow’s profile thrown on a sheet of paper, and then reducing them to the required size, either by the eye or by means of a pantograph. Many profilists display much talent in cutting sil- houettes by hand with a pair of scissors out of pieces of black paper without the assistance of an outline, 3d. About the same thing as the silhouette is said to have been the method whereby the daughter of a Greek potter drew the outlines of her lover’s profile on a wall. Braude says: “It is to be observed that Sicyon and Corinth were the first cities in which painting flour- ished; and that Crato of Sicyon, Philocles of Egypt, and Cleanthes of Corinth, were considered the inventors of monochromes, now called silhouettes, which were ap- plied to large objects. The Etruscan vases furnish to an amazing extent, and in boundless variety. some of the most beautifully drawn and elegant monocliromes that have ever been executed.” New Reader, Richmond, Ilowa—Iist. The surfaces of the bores of rifles are spirally grooved to increase the ac- curacy of their fire. 2d. Rifles are supposed to have been invented in the latter part of the fifteenth century, by Gaspard Zollner, of Vienna, ‘hey are known to have been used in target firing at Leipsic, in 1498, 3d. The | date of the discovery of spiral grooving cannot be deter- mined. It is thought that the effect of it was accidentally discovered. Some accounts name as the inveutor Augus- tin Kutter, of Nuremberg, who died in 1630. 4th. Hunt- ing rifles were used by the Americans in the Revolution- ary war, but the flint-lock musket was the regular army gun. As has been stated to other correspondents, the Americans who used their hunting rifles were really the first sharpshooters. 5th. The British adopted the rifle as one of their most important weapons in 1794, Their ex- perience in America hastened its adoption. C. B. T., Baltimore, Md.—“Ivry,” a‘song of the Hu- guenots, by Thomas Babington Macaulay, was so enti- | tled from a town in France, ivry-La-Bataille, celebrated for the decisive victory gained on the adjoining plain by Henry IV., March 14, 1590, over the forces of the League under the Duke of Mayenne. The obelisk on the site of | the battle, pulled down in 1793, was restored by Napoleon }in 1809. The League was composed of those subjects of Henry who were opposed to his accession to the throne, | and had the assistance of Spain and Savoy. It was known | as the “Army of the League.” Before the battle Henry said to his troops, ‘‘My children, if you lose sight of your colors, rally to my white plume, you will always find it in the path to honor and glory.” It proved to be so, for the Leaguers were utterly routed. The pronunciation of the name of the town is ee-vree-la-ba-tal. C. M. #., Burlington, N. J.—The festival of roses is an annual celebration in some of the rural parts of France, In consists in crowning with roses the best-behaved maiden of the town or village. The ceremony takes place in a church, whither she is conducted with great pomp by the villagers. Festivals of this description are usually celebrated in France on the 8th of june. The Persians have also an annual festival of roses, which consists of bands of youths parading the streets with music, and offering roses to all they meet, for which they receive a trifling gratuity. D. J. L., Providence, R. I.—A highly recommended summer drink is made with five drops of sassafras oil, five drops of oil of wintergreen, five drops of oil of spruce, one quart of boiling water, poured on one large -table spoonful of cream of tartar. Add four quarts of cold water, the oils, one and a half gills of distillery yeast (or three gills of home-brewed yeast), and sweeten to suit the taste. In twenty-four hours bottle, and the beverage will be found very refreshing, as well as very palatable. L. A. D., Baltimore, Mad.—The wine of tomatoes is thus made: Take fresh, ripe tomatoes, mash them fine, strain through a sieve, sweeten with sugar to taste. Set away in a porcelain or glass jar, nearly full, cover tight, with the exception of a small space for the refuse to work through during fermentation. When it is done ferment- ing, it will become pure and clear. Then bottle, CARRIED BY STORM. By Mrs. May Agnes Fleming, Author of “Norine’s Revenge,” ‘‘Shaddeck Light,” ‘‘ Wedded, Yet No Wife” ‘A Little Queen,” Ete. (“CARRIED BY STORM” was commenced in No. 20. CHAPTER X1.—(CoNTINUED.) “Oh! dear lady, yes. That is the awful part. It was suicide. He shot himself. While every- body was dancing and enjoying themselves last night, he went into his study and done it. Davis found him all cold and stiff this morn- ing—shot through the head. Oh, dear! oh, dear! Oh Mrs. Abbott, don’t faint! Oh, here is Mr. Geoffrey. Ob! thank the Lord! Mr. Geoffrey, sir, come and say something to your ma!” For it is Geoffrey who hurries in, pale, ex- cited, with startled face, and hastens to his mother’s side. “My dearest mother, the news has but just reached me. Dr. Gillson brought it, and I have hastened here at once. ing. Mother, do not give way so! mother, what is this?” “T have killed him,” she whispers, and her Mother, head falls on his shoulder, her arms encircie | his neck, and she lies white and speechless with horror and remorse. “Nothing of the sort!” her son says, ener- getically. “Mother, listen to me—I know what Iam saying—you had nothing to do with this tragic death. It was I. It is very shock- | I saw him last night— | Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.) | For the moment she ismad. What was | John Abbott’s suicide, a hecatomb of suicides, to such horror as this! ‘Then she sways and falls—almost for the first time in her son’s knowledge of her—headlong in a dead faint. After that, there are weeks, that, in all the future time are blank. She lies very ill, ill unto death, frantic, delirious, burning with fever, talking rapidly, wildly, incoherently; shrieking out at times} that she will not. believe it, that she cannot believe it; that John Abbott, with that pistoi- hole in his head, is pursuing her, and that | Geoffrey is holding her until he comes up. Her ravings are continuous and frightful. Night and day her son is beside her; Leo is kept out of the room by force—it is too shock- |ing for her to see or hear. Every one, doctor, | included, think she will die; but her superbs unbroken health hitherto saves her life now. Slowly the fever subsides, slowly life and reason come back; and pale, spent, weak as a | babe, white as a snow spirit, she looks out one May day, and sees the green young world, | the jubilant sunshine, the sweet spring flowers once more. In two or three weeks she is to be taken | away—for her health. Abbott Wood is to be | left ‘in charge of, Mrs. Hill and one or two of | the servants. |ter may be absent for years. Brightbrook, that cold, proud woman must have cared a little for her plebeian husband to be stricken with fever in this way by the shock a terrible secret of his past life has been made | known to me, and I came and accused him of | his crime. I posure. This is the result. art in it; I simply did my duty; I would do it again. Irepeat—with this ghastly ending you had nothing to do. threatened him with public ex- | I do not regret my | And, mother, he de- | served his fate; he merits no pity—from you. | He was a villain—dead as he is—I say it! Look up, shed no tears for him, except in thanks- giving that you are free.’ All this the maid the room. She sees the stern, white face of the pitiless young Rhadamanthus, and wonders what nameless crime it can be poor master can ever have done. * * * * * * * Four days later they bury the master of Abbott Wood in that vast gray stone vault over in Brightbrook Cemetery—that gray mau- | its | and which, until time ends, | soleum bearing the name Abbott over gloomy front, hears as she hurries from anit “y | 1} | | || fie | i It is a very large and imposing funeral, and | ohn Abbott will occupy alone. Mrs. Abbott, in trailing crapes and looks pale but composed, and handsomer than ever. L tears that fall. There has been an inquest, but sables, | Leo’s tears, people note, are the only | no cause, except that useful and well-worn | one—temporary aberration of mind—can assigned for the rash deed. Business had summoned Geoffrey Lamar to the city on the day before, and among the melancholy cortege he is conspicuous by his absence. All the Ventnors are down to console the widow and orphan. But Mrs. Abbott’s high-bred calm stands her in as good stead now as in all other emergencies of life—con- solatory platitudes would simply be imperti- nences here. As yet she knows nothing, only that she is free! disgraceful manner, truly, but still—free. They bury the dead man, and his will read. inherits Abbott Wood and tune the millionare has is half left. Servants be MO HEE / 7 Ny Wii After a very dreadful ana | The widow is superbly dowered, her son | the great for- | and | friends are handsomely remembered. No fairer | or more generous will was ever made. People begin to find out his good points; he was rough-and ready, certainly, says Bright- | brook, but an off-hand, whole-souled fellow, | free with his money always, and if he swore | at a “help” this moment, he was just as ready | to tip him a dollar the next. He wasn’t such a bad sort of man. Brightbrook owes him every- | thing—he has made the place, built churches, schools, town halls, jails, almshouses, laid out } the park, donated the fountain, erected model cottages for his tenants, was a capital land- lord, if he was a little strict. So, in spite of the suicide, he is after a the village. As to the death itself—people rather shirk that—he did not live happily with his wife— she and her son looked down upon him from first to last. And he drank to excess. And hehad D. T., and in one of these fits the deed was done, and that was all about it. The day after the funeral Geoffrey Lamar returns. He wears no mourning, and settled sternness and gloom rest on his face. The first inquiries he makes are for the Sleafords, and | he learns that away, the farm deserted, the house empty. Lora has married a love-stricken butcher, and gone to live in the next town; Liz has drifted away to the city, the boys have disappeared, loneliness reigns at Sleaford’s. The Red Farm is forrent. Geoffrey rides over | ~** : }even the and looks at it—already it has the air of a deserted house, already desolation has settled upon it, already the timid avoid it after night- fall, already it is hinted that Sleaford “walks.” It is very strange that nected in some way in manner canonized in | | other claimant these two men, con- | their life-time, should | so quickly and awfully follow each other to a} violent death. “They were ugly in their lives,” says a ghastly wit of the village, “and in death they are not divided.” search has rather been givenup. George Blake, poor, faithful, foolish fellow, still mourns and searches; Geoffrey ‘proposes soon to | graduate, with | thralldom + | e No news of Joanna as yet, and of late the | th ie : | languages ; and early in April start with papa and mamma |} recom- | mence, but he has another and sadder duty | first to fulfill. He has hour been John Abbott’s wife—that Leo “nobody’s child,” that neither he nor one of them has any shadow of rightful claim on all this boundless wealth the dead man has left. is to be forgotten in their lives, he telly her. They sit alone in her darkening sitting-room, with closed doors, looking out atthe falling winter night, the red gleam of the fire flicker- ing in the snow, and gold, and amber of the bijou room. Infinitely gentle, infinitely tender words; he holds her hands, he her, this revelation that is to drag her pride in the very dust. Fora long time it is impos- sible to make her comprehend; the horror is too utter—she cannot, she will not take it in. Then suddenly a shriek rings through the house, another and another, and she starts up like a woman gone mad—she breaks from him, she beats the air with her hands, her frenzied cries resound, are his breaks it to yet to tell his mother | Sider the frightful truth, that she has never for one | | tween. | whenever she thinks of it. SHE “—__. YOU AND | Llaaihnianndanitaneiatiesiecaiiaeeaas aa | |of his death. | her especially cold and heartless at the funeral. | So easy it is to be mistaken. Early in June they depart. Nothing is said to Leo—time enough to tell her later, and then | |} only part of the miserable whole. She must learn that they are poor, of course, that an- For it is needless to say that neither mother }nor son can touch one penny of that man’s money—the money that is rightfully Joanna’s. labor, heavily handicapped in the race. For obvious reasons his mother retains name of Abbott, loathsome to her Leo must be considered first now. Ventnors—are to know of them or their plans;- that world and all in it has gone forever; nothing but pvverty, seclusion, anguish, shame, remains, For the Ventnors—Olga finds that and She ears, but it very lonely, vacation at the pretty rose-draped villa, mourns disconsolately for her friends. nearly seventeen now—“a fair girl golden hair,” glad that the of her fashionable school is over. But this fall and winter she is to go on, under best masters, with music, painting, and live very quietly at Brightbrook, is for that two years’ European trip. Some American heiresses have lately marrying briiliantly abroad—marrying and title—and every day Frank ingston’s chances grow His mamma’s been anguish breaks She writes him agonized appeals to meet the i i Wa "S. ¢ , oy “vy wit Yiga. before As the night falls of that Jay, that day never | Ventnors, and try, try, try with Olga, befor« one of those all-fascinating British officers and nobles carry off the prize. But Frank, smok- ing, sight-seeing, church-visiting in Rome, seeing statuary, and paintings, and frescoes, a great deal, going to cozy little artist reunions, sketching and painting after a desultory fash- ion, and having a good time, does not concern himself very greatly about his fair, far-off cousin. Artis his mistress at present, storied Rome the idol of his heart, his big brown meerschaum rather more to him than all the heiresses and beauties in wide America. If Olga has a mind, and is pleased to approve of him when next they meet, he has no objection. If not—he shrugs his shoulders, and hums ~ Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria, Mrs. Abbott, her son, and daugh- After all, says | And Brightbrook had thought | with a better right exists for | | Abbott Wood, that they must look to Geoffrey | | and his profession now for their support. | and Jashes are fairer than‘her hair. | are really wonderful in their limpid sapphire | blue. They are not going abroad to travel, as all the | the Sleafords are gone, driven | orld thinks; they are going to a little house | in one of the suburbs of New York for the pres- ent, while Geoffrey begins his new life of hard | wrap, embroidered in gold, lies with her hat. | As vision of radiant | the No one—not|_ °* ; } ha | misty, far-off look the tiny waves, slipping up both | Liv: | fewer and farther be- | out the grapes were sour and hung beyond reach: “Tf she be not fair to me, What care I how fair she be!” = * * * * * * Miss Ventnor drove past the Red Farm in the has gone cityward, the “boys’ peared, Joanna has run away Blake, and is not to be found. Sleaford's is a “haunted house.” Wood silence and loneliness reign. It, too, is a deserted mansion. Its master has died a tragic death; Mrs. Abbott, Leo, Geoffrey, are abroad, traveling for health and forgetfulness. At Ventnor Villa Olga practices, sings, paints, reads French, German, Italian, ri drives, blooms a rose of the world. have disap- with George At Abbott “Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.” story of the Sleafords. PART! THIRD. CHAPTER I. AFTER THE STORY ENDED. now, my | ba t “And dearest Hilda, having nar- rated all the incidents of the voyage, I propose | to answer your very artful question about a certain person. Well, yes, le beau cousin, as you term poor Frank, is still here, still hover- }ing as the moth around the flame, to quote your rather hackneyed simile. down here from New York, a week ago, and is poor mamma’‘s cavalier servant, and to me the most devoted of friends and cousins. Friends and cousins, I repeat. You need not smile—he will never be more. All that you say of his good looks, and charming manners, and sunny temper, Iadmit. Still, looks, and manners, and temper, are not all that one re- | You perceive I put your | quires in a husband. delicately vailed hints into plain English. I am not a sentimental person. I read my Tennyson, and my novels, and dimly, and as in a dream, I realize what it is all about—this grand passion writers make the burden of their song. But I have never felt it, and for Frank Livingston I never will. I like him too well ever to love him. And yet, my Hilda, I | have my ideal——” The pencil—she had written this with a slender golden trinket suspended from her chatelaine—pauses here, and the writer looks out before her with dreamy, azure, half-smil- ing eyes. She sits on the low sea-wall of | Abbott Wood, her sketch-book on her lap, and seribbles, on thin foreign paper, this Jetter. The sea lies below her, dimpling and spark- that couplet that has consoled so many when And now this record has come back to the | beginning—t> that wet October evening when | pony carriage, and pointed it out to her friend. | Giles Sleaford is dead, Lora is married, Liz | rides, | | And so, with sweet, slow voice, she tells her | friend, in brief, this wet October night, the | He followed us | last time I was here was with Geoffrey La- mar.” He takes off his hat, and the soft sea wind stirs his dark curly hair. Jt is a new Frank Livingston, bronzed, bearded, mustached, muscular, improved almost out of knowledge by years, and travel, and eultured associa- tions. He looks as handsome as a latter-day Adonis, in his gray tweed suit, and with a dash of his old Bohemian insouciance upon |him still. Lying here with the flickering sun- |shine sifting through willow plumes on his | upturned face and uncovered head, he is won- ,derfully good to look at, and the half-smile ;comes back into Olga Ventnor’s eyes as they rest on him. “You look like a picture as you lie there, | Frank,” she says, in an amused tone. “Do not | stir, please—I want to sketch you. tengue. y | your mouth. You ought to go through life posing, and never destroy the illusion |} speaking a word. Ishall send this to Hilda | Stafford in my next letter. Do you know, Frank, she admires you immensely?” | Livingston, composedlr. | ments, so kindly assign me—— “Turn a hair’s-breadth this way,” interrupts Miss Ventnor, “and please be silent. I never can sketch and talk. i , wear you next her heart.” Livingston laughs, but with a vexed look, and obeys. His blue eyes, very like Olga’s own, rest on the lovely face above him, witha look Olga Ventnor had seen in the eyes of | many men before to-day, and which certainly, | in the present case, stirs her pulses no more than if Frank were her pet Spitz dog. Itis a face that can be very mutinous and imperious, as he knows to his cost; a face that can be as exasperating as it is alluring, and that is say- | ing much. Something akin to irritated impa- tience and pain stirs within him as he looks. * “As you sit where lusters strike you, Sure to please, Do we love you most, or like you, Belle Marquise? ” he quotes, under his breath. “JT told you not to talk!” says Olga, aus- terely; “but a talker you are, or nothing, my poor Frank. There! I think that will do. How Hilda will thank me in this treasure !” A saucy smile dimples the perfect mouth, the sapphire eyes glance down laughingly at the figure on the grass. ing, is absorbed in his poem: ***You had every grace in heaven, | In your most angelic face, With the nameless finer leaven, Lent of blood and courtly race; And was added too, mm duty, i STRIKES THE KEYS AS SHE STANDS, SMILING OVER HER SHOULDER AT THE MAN SHE HAS REJECTED, AND I CAN ONLY SAY: GOOD-BY, GOOD-BY!” ling in the lovely light of a June afternoon. A great willow bending over the wall droops its feathery plumes nearly to her fair head. Her hat is on the grass beside her, she has been | sketching, but nothing in the view is lovelier than herself. She sits here, a most graceful figure, dressed There is not a touch of brown in the perfect tinting of that pale gold, and her eyebrows Her eyes is colorless, but youth Her complexion the vivid warmth of first | health. A little gold cross clasps some creamy | | white lace at the throat, a white cashmere she sits there, she isa youth and dazzling blonde beauty. She sits for a little, watching with that and down the white sands, then she takes up | her pencil and resumes, “T have my ideal, and he.is not in the least like Frank. essential, nor a either—we might perfectly cloudless. temper, weary of perpetual sweet ness and sunshine. But, oh! my Hilda, he shall be noble, he shall be capable of seif- sacrifice, he shall be a king among men to ime, He shall be above me in all ways & A second time she breaks off, this time she |crumples up the flimsy sheet of perfumed French paper, and thrusts it into her pocket. For a step comes quickly down the behind her, and a man’s voice comes, with mellow sweetness, “La as he draws near. | that suits the glance; | trail. How did you know I was here?” “Don’t be cross, Olga,” says Frank ston, throwing himself on the grass her. “How can I tell? Some spirit in my feet —how is it Shelley goes?—led me to the charmed spot. What are you doing—sketch- ing?” “T came with that design, but, I believe, ing.” “Ah! dare I hope——” “No, Frank. it was not of you, so do not put on that complacent look. Did you to bring me home?” “Your mamma is asleep, my dearest Olga, and does not need you inthe least. Do you know, I find it difficult to realize, after all our wanderings, that we are home once more. And here! This place seems hauated, The tall, slender, | in light muslin, | her pale golden hair plaited about her head. | has | and perfect | Beauty shall by no means be an | path | sings, as he | Donna | e mobile.” She glances round, half-petulantly, | “You are like a shadow,” she says, in a tone “like a detective on the | Living: | beside | unlikely as it may sound—I have been think- | mamma tell | wil im nA i | } SING SS [SEE CHAPTER II.] Ninon’s wit, and Bonffler’s beauty, And La Valliere’s ‘Yeux Caloutes’ Followed these. And you liked it when they said it On their knees, And you kept it, and you read it, Belle Marquise !’ ” I think—you fit the portrait—fair, heartless, icy—admirably well. I wonder if you havea heart, like other people, most beautiful Olga, or if, as in the case of the Marquise, that inconvenient essential was left out?” ‘*T think I have got your exact expression, or, | rather, lack of it,” goes on Miss Ventnor, very | busy with her work, and evidently quite deaf. “This sketch is worthy of being immortalized in oils and forwaided to the autumn exhibi- tion. What were you saying a moment ago? Something uncivil, I think, from the sound. | But you generally are uncivil, and unpleas- antly personal in your remarks, I grieve to observe, when you do me the honor to address me. Nothing in the world, my dear Frank, is in worse form than vituperation, and _ it pains me to observe that you are falling sadly into the habit. And poetical vituperation is worst of all. You will excuse my mentioning this. The cousinly—I may almost say the maternal—interest I take in you must plead the pardon of the rebuke.” Livingston laughs again, and takes up the sketch-book, but the sting of her indifference rankles. It is so real, the pang is in that. She is indifferent to all men, she is more than indifferent to him. In her beauty, her pride, her grace, and her power, | Slaves. As he turns the leaves of the sketch-book he suddenly stops; a Jook of surprise, of pleas- lure, of recognition flashes from his eyes. I will have you in black | |} and white in a second, and I know Hilda will | her secret soul for | But Frank, still gaz- | “The words must have been written for you, | she is like some young queen, looking | with blue, scornful eyes upon her adorers and loyal of her lieges,’” he reads at the bottom: “even then, eleven years ago, I’ was in love with you, Princess Olga.” “You were in love with Lora Sleaford,” returns Miss Ventnor, composedly, “with her (Sea bg cheeks and tar-black hair. You j}always were a person of atrocious taste, I |regret toremember. You were a shocking boy |in those days. You used to stay out until the ;small hours, playing cards, singing songs, and | making love at Sleaford’s.” “And you used to lie awake and watch for |me—I remember that. The Princess Olga of | those days must have been rather fond of me, | I think.” “Very likely. I used to be a dreadful little | idiot, if I recall myself rightly. That picture | is asscciated in my mind with my getting lost in t] e woods, and that wild creature, Joanna, goil g to tear out my hair, and all the misery and iilness that followed. I wanted you to take me to play croquet with Leo Abbott that | afternoon, I remember distinctly. I also re- member distinctly, you would not.” His eyes are upon her—trouble, longing, im- |ploring in their pleading. But she is not in- clined to spare him. “You would not,” she repeats, a somewhat hard inflection in her voice. “You were Lora Sleaford’s lover in those days. You wanted to go to her, no doubt. You broke your prom- ise to me. You left me, whistling a tune, that sketch of myself to comfort me, and a childish | ache and loneliness that I do not forget to this day. You are right, Cousin Frank, I must have been fond of youthen. I wonder what j}absence of yours could give me a heart-ache now?” A triumphant smile lights her face, an exultant sense that it is in no man’s power to touch, or move, or hurt her. | “None, lam quite sure, though it |absence from which there answers, coldly. “T wandered away,” she goes on, retro- spectively, “and lost myself in the woods, and you—how little you cared! Ah! well—all that is a decade of years ago, and Lora Sleaford is the butcher’s lady over there, with a waist two yards round, and no end of little butchers growing up about her. I saw her yesterday, Frank, in the midst of her jewels, and thought of your first love, and laughed to myself. No peony, no pickled cabbage, was ever so glar- | ingly purple as her cheeks, What a mistake first love is, to be sure!” “Or last love, or any love, in your eyes.” “Or any love—we are so fatally in the power of those we love. They can so wring our hearts; |their going is such misery, their Joss such |despair. You see, heartless as I am, I can imagine al] that.” “Having seen a great deal of it, having caused wholesale slaughter wherever you went. Only you took care your knowledge should be from observation—never from expe- rience.” ; z | “Never from experience. You sound sarcas- |tic, Frank, but it is very true, nevertheless. As to causing it—your great gallantry com- pels you to say so, no doubt. Poor little yellow |pencil-sketch! Put it back. It is the only | souvenir of my childhood, and of—you—I pos- Let me cherish it still.” He does as he is told—people do obey her as {a general thing—she is more than a trifle im- | perious even in trifles, this queenly Olga, and | Livingston is not inclined to rebel. He is con- |scious of irritating pique always when with | her; her words wound and vex him. She is a merciless mistress—it is question- able if any lover of hers has ever been a happy |man, even in the first fleeting hour of his \fool’s paradise—most certain is he to be | supremely miserable a little farther on. He turns the leaves of the book mechanically, but he hardly sees the sketches, full of vigor- |ous life as they are. Olga is almost asskilled an artist as himself. “Look there!” she says, laying her finger on a page; “does that resemble any one you | know ?” It is a young man in the dress of a monk, | standing in a striking attitude, his handsome head thrown back, one hand shading his eyes. His cowl has fallen on his shoulders, his left hand rests on the head of a huge dog. Both stand listening intently. It is in water-colors—a steel-gray sky is above; around nothing but snow—a white, frozen world. | Livingston looks, and is conscious, in some |queer way, that the face of the monk is like his own. “It is a monk and a dog of the Hospice of the Great St. Bernard,” says Olga. “I saw him one evening from my bedroom window, listening and looking like that. Do you not see the likeness, Frank? He is your image, |height, features, complexion, only he was more distinguished than you, and had much more courtly manners. He looked asif he |might have been a young Austrian prince, |come there to renounce the world, and live for |God and his fellow-men. I was very much impressed—I know he must have been of noble blood—he had the manners and bow of a court chamberlain. I sketched my handsome young monk and his dog. How grave he looks—as lif the old life of courts and kings were a | dream—the shadow of adream, with a touch of |loneliness in the profound peace. And I | thought of you, Frank, and imagined you in |cow] and robe, and with that lookin your eyes——” she breaks off witha laugh, this | malicious coquette, as Livingston looks up, | certainly with a very different expression from that in the peaceful, pictured face. were the is no return,” he sess. “+T envy them, these monks of old, Their books they read, their beads they told, To human weakness dead and cold, And all life’s vanity.’ There is something grand in the idea, is there not? to renounce all that life holds brightest and sweetest, at that age, and for that reason? Turn another leaf.” “I am tired of sketches,” he says, |tiently, but turns as he says it. Geoffrey Lamar!” he exclaims. “Drawn from memory—yes,” she answers, “Frank, where is Geoffrey Lamar?” “Heaven knows! slaving at his poor fellow, I suppose, to support and sister.” “T never understood that matter rightly,” Olga says, “except that Geoffrey made some great sacrifice for honor’s sake, and renounces |for himself and Leo all Mr. Abbott’s wealth. What was it about?” “Heaven knows again. I suppose Geoffrey does: he is the sort of fellow to know his own mind pretty thoroughly. I fancy the money was illy come by; some one had a better claim than even Leo, and so Geoffrey gave it up. Noble, as yousay, but a trifle Quixotic, for the missing heir, whoever he may _ be, it seems cannot be found. But if the heir is never found, it will make no difference to Lamar. He will work like a galley-slave until the day of his death, for his mother and sister, but he will never permit them to touch a penny of dishonorably gotten gains, There are not many like that.” Olea says nothing, but a sort of glow comes into her face—a look that isnever there except when she listens to some deed heroic. “He is of the stuff that made paladins of old,” goes on Livingston, “with uplifted notions on every subject under the sun—a sort of Sir Galahad, you know, to ride to the aid of damsels in distress. Witness his adoption of Sleaford’s Joanna. By the by, I wonder whatever has become of Wild Joanna. I must step in and inquire of Mistress Lora one of these days. Not that she is likely to know.” “When did you see Geoff—the Abbotts, last?” Olga inquires. “T saw Geoff in New York, but ‘we met by chance, the usual way.’ He does not live there, but somewhere out of the world, where he is working himself to skin and bone, judg- ling by his look. They have sunk the Abbott, and call themselves Lamar now—the old pride, vou know. I donot see much sense in it my- self. They might at least use the property until the missing heir turns up. I would have liked to go and _ see Leo, but Geoffrey’s man- ner was cold and discouraging. And one éan- not force one’s self whether or no, you know.” impa- “This is res 1is mother om THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3 VOL. 47—No. 33, “T do not know. My experience—of you—is particularly the reverse, but I suppose cousins are always an exception. As you are here, Frank, you may as well make yourself useful, and carry my sketch-book home. I am going.” She rises—a lofty, slender, white figure— picks up her cashmere and gold wrap, puts on her pretty hat, and turns to go. “Come, Frank!” she says, and glances back, with one of those brilliantly sweet smiles that are as fatal to men as the siren song of the fabled Lorelei. What is Frank that he should resist? He is but mortal, and the spell of the enchantress is upon him. Is hein love with her?—really in love? He asks himself that question sometimes, but never when by her side. Then the giamour of the white witchery is upon him, and he lives but to do her bidding. Coldness, coquetry, are forgotten now; he picks up the big flat book, throws on his hat, and is by her side. And he thinks of a fitting couplet—though, remembering recent rebuke, he does not quote it: “You Siu. off your friends, like a huntsman his ACK, * For Pt a know when you will you can whistle them back.” All the way to Ventnor Villa Olga is very silent and thoughtful. Thesun is setting as they reach it, and she lingers a moment to look at its rose and gold beauty. But she is not thinking much of the sunset—not at all of the young cavalier by her side. “Like a paladin of old,” she muses, dream- ily. ‘‘Yes, itistrue. He is noble, great, good, self-sacrificing. I wish—I wish I could see— Leo Abbott—again.” (TO BE CONTINUED.) Pastora the Actress, By BURKE BRENTFORD, Author of ‘‘ Florence Falkland,” ‘Torn from Home,” *‘ Lost in New York,” ‘A Sister’s Sacrifice,’ Etc. (‘LA PASTORA THE ACTRESS’ was commenced in No 30. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. ] CHAPTER IV.—(ContTINvED.) Her little hand was upon his shoulder. Her bright, gleaming face was close to his. The young soldier gazed into the depths of its beanty for an instant, and his constancy to the Countess of Sorrento trembled in the scale; but he mastered himself, merely pressed the pretty hand in his own, and, muttering: an excuse, passed hurriedly into the city. e Vicenzo occupied his patron’s box in the theater that night, and the wealth and nobility of Southern Italy surrounded him in glittering tiers. The royal box was occupied by the king and queen, and a number of the ladies and =< behind the black domino that rested upon the eet arm. he had succeeded thus far—she had placed him in the light of one of her acknowledged admirers; and Vicenzo, as he remembered the jealous disposition of the Countess Beatrice, turned away very ill at ease. His peace of mind was by no means restored when he caught sight of the sneering face of the Duke of Cellammare—a young nobleman in the interest of the Amalfi—upon whom he perceived with alarm this little incident had not been thrown away. CHAPTER V. THE CAVERN OF VESUVIUS. Acting under the advice of his patron, the Prince of Capua, Vicenzo kept himself very close for a number of days after the adventure at Sorrento, the old count having made a great disturbance about the death of his retainer. This inaction was almost like captivity to a man of Vicenzo’s temperament. Save an occa- sional diversion with some friends in the ample gardens adjoining the Palazzo di Capua, he chiefly busied himself with his books and correspondence in his own rooins, or, perhaps, in the sword exercise with his squire Giacomo, who, with his cheery humor and bright Tuscan wit, was as agreeable a companion as could be desired in such énforced seclusion. During this period, Vicenzo was in receipt of a number of missives from Doniella, who pretended to have serious intelligence to com- municate, but he invariably disregarded them. He had come to dread the fascination of this woman to such a degree that he positively teared her. His dreams were grotesquely peo- pled with her image, and his imagination was constantly conjuring up ill-fortune that might result from her jealous rage. Once, Giacomo informed him, a handsome young page had called, and boldly demanded an interview. He had only been induced to depart after repeated assurances that the mas- ter of the palazzo was in Rome. Vicenzo suspected the identity of this page, and, therefore, made his seclusion more strict than ever. One evening, however, shortly after he had received trustworthy intelligence that the Countess Beatrice was again sojourning at the [not re Palace with the queen, Vicenzo could not resist the temptation to stroll toward the palace, in the vain hope that fortune might grant him an interview. | On his way thither, however, and just as he had passed the fountain in the Largo del Mer- eato, which was filled with poor people taking the fresh sea-air after the labors of the day, he | was apprised of a great uproar going on in another quarter of the city. The citizens were running thither from_ every direction. Shop- men were hastily closing and barring their windows and doors; there came the sound of {shots at intervals; and everything wore the appearance of a general uprising. He hastened in the direction of the tumult, | and in the gathering gloom learned that a |quarrel between two old adherents, respect- \ively, of the Amalfis and the Capuas Mad led | to a riot in which the contestants on each side numbered hundreds. Vicenzo was nct slow in taking part with exceeded that of his adherent. “Oh, I can be an actress off the stage, as well as upon it!” cried the handsome brigand- ess, with a merry laugh, which was not a whit the less free because of the presence in which she stood. “Ah, that thou canst, fair Doniella!” said Vicenzo, who sighed within himself as he thought that she had accumulated the debt of obligation under which he had already labored. “But what disposition dost thou in- tend to make to the noble {prince, my patron, during the night?” She shrugged her shoulders. “He must sleep here until the morning,” she said, “when he can havea dozen com- panions by whom to send messages into the city. But, before retiring to rest, Signor Vicenzo, how would thy master relish a visit to the cavern of my mother Aldabella, a little higher up the mountain? She hath an abid- ing place here, as well as at Pestum, and may 1ave information valuable both to his high- ness and thyself.” To Vicenzo’s surprise, the prince assented at once. “T have often heard of this mysterious Al- dabella,” said he, as they followed the light- footed Doniella up the ascent; “and have long had a curiosity to see her. Whether she pos- sesses the powers of a sorceress or not, there can be little doubt that her intimate connec- tion with the brigands gives her extraordi- nary opportunities for obtaining information in a marvelously short space of time.” They soon reached the cavern of the sorcer- ess, It was situated upon the blank side of the mountain, about one thousand feet below the rim of thecrater. No attempt was made at concealment—indeed, from the nature of ithe ground, it would have been useless—the door was broad, and massive, and the ledge upon which it opened was spacious and com- paratively easy of access. Vicenzo readily recognized: the wild-eyed, white-haired Woman who admitted them, and her gaze rested upon him with more than ordinary interest; while, though extremely respectful to the prince, she at the same time preserved something of that independence of mien which was a striking characteristic of her class. They found the interior of the cavern spacious, and even comfortable, with numer- ous minor apartments opening still deeper into the mountain. Doniella retired into one fof these, and, a moment after, reappeared, looking even more beautiful in her picturesque costume of the true brigandess. Even the prince’s thoughtful cheek flushed at viewing her natural beauty, as she moved hither and thither, placing wine upon the table, and humming a wild air of the brigand life; but Vicenzo took good care to gaze earnestly at the blank wall of the cavern, as though it were a painting he was desirous of intently studying. Much credit as the prince had accorded the sorceress concerning her facilities for obtain- ing information, he was greatly surprised at certain revelations she made to him of the secret intrigues of the Amalfi, both father and son, to increase and perpetuate their power over the imbecile monarch, and work the utter destruction of the Capuan faction. officers of the royal household. The aged Count | hia: Blea ad his sword di if of Sorrento rubbed the lenses of his lorgnette, | ert rere ete a ee een Ve SE awaiting the rise of the curtain, while over | To suppress the riot a squadron of the royal his shoulder peered the Mephistophelean coun- | guard had been sent to the scene of conflict, tenance of the dark Duke of Amalfi, who, van-|and the troops dashed madly through the ishing and reappearing at intervals, seemed to divide his time between the royal) stall and that of the count. : Vicenzo’s sole companion was the young Duke of Gravina, a prominent supporter of the Capua cause, and one of the gayest gentlemen | in the kingdom. “Dost thou see, Vicenzo,” said he, “how im- patiently the young Amalfi awaits the cur- tain’s rise? One would think he cared more for La Pastora than the Lady Beatrice, whose hate he hath.” -—‘“But sce,” said Vicenzo, anxious to change the subject, “the prince, his father, beckons him from the royal stall.” “Ah, so I observe. What can his fun-loving majesty find engaging in that nightmare’s effigy, the Duke Giovanni?” “Faith, I know not,” returned the other. “But, hist! It is the intermezzo—the orchestra oe a moment we shall have La Pas- ora. It had been a long time since our hero had attended the theater, and, fresh as he was from his recollections of Doniella in her page’s disguise, or in the picturesque freedom of her brigandess costume, he was unprepared for the luxurious splendor of La Pastora, in all the inspiring abandon of La Tarantella. The orchestra throbbed fitfully, there was a sudden cessation in the flutter of fans, a gen- eral leveling of glasses, like so many masked batteries, toward the stage, and the uprolling curtain disclosed the queen of the ballet re- clining beside a fountain, placed far back in the center of rich scenery. The slight mist-like drapery she wore served rather to-display than conceal her glorious her fair temples, her lovely features were soft | follow me. and spirit-like in their semblance of repose, | and the atmosphere of her rich beauty appeared to pervade the entire theater like a perfumed | cloud. As though the music infused her very veins, | and became a portion of her life and soul, her | 1 ’ | to his pride. arms and limbs moved gently, and she slowly awakened to the mysterions strains; until at length, as they soared aloft with passion and power, the radiant creature was wafted to her feet, and came floating down the stage like the goddess of a dreain. So perfect were her movements in accord with the sounds that it seemed the music itself was created by the swaying limbs, the uncon- scious yieldings of the graceful form, and the mobile harmony of the soft wreathing arms. Now as the weird notes of La Tarantella | leaped aloft, she would spring with them ex- ultingly, “as though her soul had spread its | Streets, slashing and _ sabering indiscrimi- | nately. It was at this juncture that the Prince |of Capua found himself alone with Vicenzo, 'and not knowing which way to turn for shel- | ter or relief. “Orff, dog! knowest thou the princely rank | of him thou wouldst assail?” shouted Vicenza, | warding off a saber-cut, and at the same time | driving his rapier through the breast of the ; trooper who had lifted his weapon above the | prince’s head, and who plunged from his sad- | dle with a wild death-cry. } Yicenzo was then about to secure the steed | for his patron’s use, when he felt a light touch | upon his shoulder, and a youthful figure in a (long domino gave him the brigand sign of | recognition as he turned. “Follow instantly with thy noble patron, | aud thou art safe!” whispered the youth, dex- | trously dodging a passing trooper, and gliding | forward into the darkness. Vicenzo grasped the hand of the prince, and | with a hurried and assuring whisper, drew | him on. | The mysterious youth approached a door at the side of the street, kicked it open, and en- | tered, the otners following. The door imme- | diately closed behind’ them, and presently their guide, by the aid of a small taper which | he brought from somewhere in the interior of | the dark house, led them up asteep stair-way, | flight by flight, un:il they passed into the |open air upon the flat roof of the building, | whence they could hear the yells and shouts |} of the tumult that still raged in the streets below. “Follow my example,” whispered the youth, throwing away his taper. without leaving the roofs.” There was such an air of confidence and as- surance about their guide that they followed his instructions without questioning, though the position in which the haughty Prince of Capua found himself placed was most galling As the youth said, they were, from the uni- form height of the buildings, enabled to pro- ceed a considerable distance, and, upon their descending through a trap and issuing again into the open air, they found themselves in a narrow lane immediately back of the city, and almost in the suburbs. The youth still spoke in a whisper, though the place was comparatively deserted. “It were madness to return to thecity,” said he. “The order for thy arrest, most noble Capua, hath been already promulgated at the royal palace. Follow me. Steeds await us at wings,” her bosom heaving, her countenance flushing, and her eyes dilating radiantly with the wild excitement of-the dance. languorous fires of her eyes faintly beheld behind the curtaining lashes of silk. Then, in the tempestuous climax, where the music became a maelstrom of turbulent sound, she was seen whirling so rapidly that she appeared little more than a cloud of snowy vapor pierced with shafts of flame, and the specta- tors opened their inouths in one roar of ap- plause, as she suddenly paused as immovable as as statue, with her head thrown back defi- antly, her white hand lifted, triumph expressed in every pulsation of her peerless form—in every scintillation of her glorious eyes. “Come.” said the Duke of Gravina, as the curtain descended slowly upon the stage, “the lay that follows is a bore. We have seen La Tarantella, and that will furnish dreams for a fortnight.” Vicenzo followed his friend like one in a dream. His intoxication at what he had wit- nessed had _ been intensified by the conscious- ness that, during the entire performance, the eyes of La Pastora had earnestly sought his own, and that she appeared to exert herself for his sake alone. Again his constancy to Beatrice was quivering in the scale. He was detained with his friend by the crowd at uhe side of the theater, where one of the minor coaches of the king at that moment was drawn up, as if in waiting. “What, Vicenzo!” cried the voice of the Count Carafa from immediately behind him; “hast thou also fallen into the meshes of La Pastora’s net?” He was about to turn, and vent an indignant disclaimer, when a whisper, “The king! the king!” ran through thecrowd, and his majesty, with a ladyin a black domino on his arm, passed hastily toward the coach. The lady had evidently overheard the remark -of the Count Carafa; at any rate, it was from La Pastora’s eyes that the quick glance of pas- sion and triumph was shot upon our hero from Then, as it | died away, she sank with it expiringly, her| small hands crossed upon her breast, and the | the head of the lane.” They found the steeds, mounted them, and the youth led them a brisk-climbing gait up and around the mountain. Used as he was to adventure, Vicenzo lost little of the buoyancy of his disposition; but his haughty patron felt immeasurably galled and mortified. Here was he—none nobler, none scarcely as powerful, in the kingdom —wandering like a common footpad, with a single friend for a companion, and an un- known stripling fora guide. Yet, when he reflected, it could not be helped. Situated as he was, in his political and private relations, he dared not hazzard an arrest at that crisis. With the dungeon door. between him and liberty, the Amalfi could work treachery which might cost him his domain—perhaps his very existence. His only hope of extricating him- self from his present disagreeable dileinma, was to abide secretly in the neighborhood of the city, until opportunity should enable him to return to Capua, his. ancestral city, where he was all but ipdependent of not only King Carlo, but of the pontificate itself. Vesnyius was smoking moodily, but the heavens were clear, and the starlight lit their way, as they wound high up and around the mountain, until finally after about an hour’s riding, they entered a dense forest of beechen trees, and cameto ahalt before a miserable cabin, from the single casement of which a light gleamed fitfully. Upon their being ad- mitted by a spruce young peasant—between whom and the guide Vicenzo saw the passage of the brigand signs—they found the interior much more comfortable than might have been éxpected. | Vhite bread, new cheese and some excellent wine being placed before them, they discussed the frugal repast most heartily, even the prince forgetting his reserve in the keen hun- ger of the moment; and here it was that the whispering guide threw aside the long domino, and, with a merry laugh, disclosed the en- chanting figure of Doniella in her page’s costume, Even Vicenzo had not suspected this, and, “Crouch down close | form, a brilliant tiara of diamonds crowned | to the roof—those soldiers have sharp eyes—and | han We can proceed a long distance | The riot, according to Aldabella, had been regularly planned by the younger Amalfi; |'who had chosen the time when the prince’s |ecarriage could be surrounded, and he be com- pelled to alight, thus, by his august presence upon the scene, giving the impression that he not only sanctioned, but instigated the dis- turbance, at whose very inception the Duke Giovanni had hastened tothe king with a terrible story of a vast insurrection in the city, headed by the prince in person, and thus secured an order for his instant arrest, together with the apprehension of his chief partisans— | Vicenzo included—and their incarceration in the dungeons of St. Elmo, “Santa Maria, woman!” exclaimed the prince, rezarding her intimate knowledge of these matters as sonmf@fhing all but super- natural; “what spirit of the air is thine ac- complice that thou art enabled to fathom secrets which puzzle the sagest heads in Naples?” The wild-eyed woman tapped her head _ sig- nificantly, and redoubled the air of mystery she appeared to take special pleasure in main- taining. While the prince rested his head upon his hands, apparently buried in deep thought, the sorceress passed through an entrance lead- ing into one of the inner apartments, and | silently beckoned Vicenzo to follow her. The young soldier’s curiosity was aroused, and, despite certain deprecatory motions made to him by Doniella, followed the beldame with- out hesitation. tions directly into the rough cavern, which appeared to penetrate far into the mountain; and there, at the farther extremity, a slight, | bluish flame seemed to be flickering, which | illuminated their way with a ghastly radiance | as they proceeded. Suddenly the hag pansed, and clutched his “Youth, dost thou fear?” He shook his head, and she led him on. After proceeding a short distance farther, |she again made a pause, and, taking two |pieces of cloth from her bosom, thoroughly {saturated them in alittle rill of water that | trickled with a strangely hollow sound from | one side of the cave. | “Here,” said she, handing one of the drip- | ping cloths to him, “press this over thy mouth |and nostrils as thou goest—the gasses of this j}cave are dangerous—even deadly. Now fol- | low !” He did as he was bidden. The heat had become intense, the air stifling, and the light powerful, and he had fancied, at times, that he could distinguish flames flickering up from the far extremity of the passage; but he was un- prepared for the tremendous scene which burst upon him as, upon reaching a sudden turn of the passage, they both instinctively crouched closer to the rocky floor, in order to avoid the volumes of poisonous vapor which, at inter- yals, rushed with tempestuous fury up the subterranean avenue. But, glancing down this avenue, which at this point sheered down at an angle of forty- five degrees, the appalled and astounded vision was enabled to penetrate to the very heart of the voleano. Perhaps Vicenzo, while in wine, or otherwise abnormally affected, had had some dim imaginings of the gulfs of everlasting flame, but he was unprepa ed for such an awful scene as this. He beheld a vast amphitheater, the interior of which was one chaotic mass of crackling, roaring, reeling, many-colored flame, as though the heart of the very earth was boiling up to consume the crust and dry up the waters of the sea. Now and then showers of huge fragments would arise, darkening through the universal blaze, and then the roaring and crackling would increase tenfold; and all the time the mountain itself quivered with a steady vibration, as of the shell of a mighty engine, with complicated machinery, ever crashing. and throbbing beneath its iron ribs. Vicenzo quickly shrank from this appalling scene, and hastily retraced his steps to a por- tion of the passage where the air was cooler | and easier to breathe. “Well, signor count, what thinkest thu of my domain?” asked the sorceress, eying him with a seriousness which, in any other place, would have been ridiculous; but he saw the light of partial insanity in her eyes, and was not Joth to humor her. “Faith, it isa noble one, good Aldabella,” he replied; “and, what is still better, thou art likely to remain in undisturbed possession for an indefinite period.” “Listen, fair youth, “she said, clutching his arm. “Thou lovest the peerless Beatrice. Be of good heart, and she shall yet be thine. Beware of Doniella—she loves thee, and would do aught to sever thee from thy lady- love.” “And yet she is thine own child, Aldabella, is she not?” | | | | \ | of course, the astonishment of the prince even She regarded him in silence for a moment, and then spoke very slowly. “I cannot yet reveal the secrets of this breast,” said she, “but their revelation would cause a change that would be felt throughout all Italy. Youth, thou art noble—ay, en- titled to as prouda place asthe haughtiest noble of this haughty land! Beldiavolo is as owlish as the rest. He takes thee for—no matter; did he but know whom thou really art, thou wouldst find him as bitter a foe as now thou findest him a faithful friend. But hush! Not a word! The brigand captain will be here to-night!” Save for the last sentence, which was truly a significant one, Vicenzo thought that the old woman of the mountain might have given ut- terance to her ravings respecting himself (he regarded her words in no other light, without so much mystery, and at the same time spar- ing him the ghastly passage into the heart of the volcano; but he made allowance for her evident aberration of mind, and _ hastened with hertothe front chamber of the cavern, in order to give the prince notice of the an- ticipated arrival of the chieftain. Doniella had vanished. The prince was still buried in deep thought, and -appeared searcely to have noticed their absence. Viceenzo had hardly resumed his seat at his side before the door of the cavern swung creakingly in, and he beheld a well-known figure stride into the rude chamber. The prince, aroused from his reverie, sprang to his feet, and laid his hand upon his sword. (TO BE CONTINUED.) This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form: Beautiful Viola, THE CLOAK-MAKER’S MODEL; DID SHE MARRY FOR LOVE9 By JULIA EDWARDS, AUTHOR OF “Tempted to Leave Her Lover,’ ‘“‘He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not,” “Beautiful, but Poor,” “The Little Widow,” Etc. CHAPTER XXI.—(ConrINUED.) “What does she say?” asked Mr. Montgom- ery. “She has gone, and asks not to be sought,” was the hoarse, mechanical answer. Douglas could not make himself comprehend the other awful things that were in the letter. His Viola the fickle, faithless wife of another! Oh, it could not be. “Is it something you could not let me see?” asked Stella, softly, gliding to his side, and placing her little hand sympathetically on his arm. She knew that in times of greatest agony the heart is most’ susceptible to sympathy, and ske artfully let her head almost rest on his shoulder as she turned her dark eyes up to his face, and gazed upon him with an adora- tion that was not assumed; for, wicked as she was, she passionately loved this handsome, debonair Douglas. He looked down at her, and his grief and despair made him glad of her sympathy. He did not think of the words in the letter then, but he turned naturally to Stella. “She says,” he whispered, hoarsely, for he could not bring himself to say the words aloud, “that she has fled from me because she is the wife of another.” “Oh,” cried Stella, with pretended warmth, “it cannot be. She must have been out of her mind.” “Oh, thank you for those words!” cried Douglas, grasping at the hope. “I wiil seek her and will take only her own words for the truth.” “Yes, yes,” answered Stella, eagerly. “And et——” and she hesitated. “Yet, what?” demanded Douglas. “Yet I remember now that some time after | she said good-night to me, she returned to my |room and said to me, tears falling from her ieyes: ‘If anything should happen:to me, and She led the way through the planked parti- | Douglas should not be willing to accept the decree of fate, tell him that it is better so, and that forgetfulness is best found in another love.’ I had forgotten it until now. I did not know what she meant, but I repeat what she said. Was there nothing more in the letter?” she artfully asked. “Oh, Heaven!” he cried. “How can I forget! No, that can never be, and never, never can I make myself believe that her words are true. | Oh, my darling! how can it be true that I can |never see you more? never clasp youin my larms again? never press your yielding lips with mine? Here is the letter,” he moaned. “Read it,” and he handed it to the false beauty. She took it from him with peating heart, for she knew that now had come the supreme mo- ment when she should know whether her ruse had succeeded or failed. She opened the sheet she herself had penned and read it over, and such was the intensity of her emotion that it was hardly acting that made her turn pale and then flush with deep- ened color as she lifted her eyes from the page. “Oh, Douglas!” she gasped, clasping him by the arm, “she has betrayed the secret I would have guarded with my life!” Her head fell on his shoulder, and she was shaken by sobs. “How can I ever live now! I can never look you in the face again, Douglas! Oh, Douglas!” In his grief and agony he had not thought of this; but her artful words brought it all to him, and he hastily supported her drooping form with his strong arm. “Tt is true, then?” he asked, hardly knowing what he said. “Oh, Douglas ” she whispered, “do you ask me if I love you?” He had not meant that, but he saw how his question might be so construed. He started and would have made a hasty disclaimer, but she went on asif taking his answer for granted. “I do love you, and gladly would devote my life to making you happy. Do I love you, Douglas? ‘I love you so that if 1 could bring Viola to you and say to you, ‘It is all false, she’can be your wife; take her,’ I would do so, Yes, Douglas, I do love you, and I thank Heaven for the opportunity of telling you so without shame.” Not one throb of pleasure shook his heart at her words. It was nothing to him whether she loved him or not. He was grateful for her sym- pathy, but that was all. And yet what could it matter now what be- came of him? Viola had gone from him, and, true or false as the story in the letter might be, it was beyond doubt that she had volun- tarily left him. And if Stella believed that he had asked if she loved him, if she did love him as she said, then why should he not give her the poor sat- isfaction of being his wife. “Stella,” hesaid, dully, and with the pain in his heart throbbing with every pulsation, “I cannot say that I love you; but if you will be my wife, I will be as good a husband as I can. Will you be my wife on such terms?” It was a strange wooing, and so Mr. Mont- gomery thought, as he stood there a silent and wondering listener; but if Stella were pleased, it was not for him to say a word in interfer- ence. “Yes, Douglas,” murmured Stella, “I wili be your wife. It shall be my sacred trust to bring happiness back to your heart.” “Mr. Montgomery,” said Douglas, in the |his face ? same dull monotone, “will you accept me as your daughter’s affianced husband?” “I would prefer you before all nen,” was the answer. And so Douglas Wainwright was betrothed to Stella Montgomery, while poor, hapless Viola was wandering foot-sore, weary and de- mented in the hills not many miles away. It was certainly the strangest betrothal that ever girl had, and it recalled to Stella the long-forgotten words of the poet: “A wooing with no heart! A betrothal and no kiss! Two lives that dwell apart, Sundered by an abyss! The bridge that crosses there, To join those sundered souls, May seem to be all fair, But asks for fearful tolls. And the chasm wider grows, While in its swilen gloom A turgid river flows, Where hate and anger fume, So from it rolls a fog, A black and noisome cloud, Which makes the home a bog, And drapes it like a shroud. Then, blinded by the haze, And sinking in the mire, All’s foul unto the gaze, All’s fuel to the fire Of jealousy and scorn. And in the passion’s flame, The love that one had borne, Is turned to hate aud shame.” But she would not heed the prophetic whis- perings of her dark soul, and refused to turn aside from the labyrinth of deceit and crime she had entered. “I will win him, though I lose my very soul!” she murmured to herself. CHAPTER -XXII. “OH, THE SHAME OF TELLING YOU SUCH A THING! I LOVE HIM BUY HE DOES NOT LOVE ME!” If Viola had not been so ill she must have noticed the look of agony on the face of Sid- ney Gorman when she gave him the address of Douglas Wainwright. But even if she had noticed it she could not have comprehended it: for how should she know that the fatal shaft of love had trans- fixed the heart of the young physician? How should she suspect that in sending him to bring Douglas to her, she was but sending one lover to fetch another? Never before in the quiet, monotonous life of Sidney Gorman had the even surface of his existence been ruffied by a storm of passion; but now that his soul was convulsed by this tornado of love and jealousy, he was liko a man transformed, and he did not know him- self, He had never done a dishonorable act in his life, but when he looked into his heart now, he knew he was capable of anything that would secure this beautiful stranger to him. He thought of the words of the poet, and now knew how true they were. “The heart that sleeps.in dull content, Untouched hy Cupid's shaft, Recks little of fierce passion’s heat, Nor knows the need of craft. But when the soul is all aflame, Consumed by love's desire, The blackest hate and foulest wrong Are fuel to the fire. Then happy he whose passion's flame Consumes a kindred heart; Both his and hers transfixed at once By Cupid’s quiv’ring dart.” He wrote down the address of Douglas Wainwright, but he could not look into the depths ot Viola’s limpid eyes as he told her that he would go find her lover for her. He had not fully determined what he would do, but he was at least certain tl come what would, he would never be the instrument which should reunite Viola to her lo But how todoso that Viola might not know h perfidy ? His aunt, knowing him so well, had seen by that he was the prey to strong emotions, and therefore followed nim from the room when he left it. “What is the matter, Sidney” she demanded. He turned his haggard face toward her and answered hoarsely : “She loves another, Aunt Rhoda, and [ love her! Oh, Heaven, what would I not give to be the object of her heart’s affection! You ask me what isthe matter, and I say to you that rather than bring her loverto herI would cast myself from the nearest wharf, and so find forgetfulness.” He was so vehement andso wild in his man- ner that his aunt could not doubt that he meant all that he said, and her heart, so full of tenderness for him, was wrung with de- spair. “But what can you do, my pcor boy?” she cried, “1 do not know,” he gloomily answered. “T am only sure that I will never return here alive if I must bring him to her.” Rhoda Gorman would not have intentionally harmed anybody, but in her ignorance of the terrible passion of love, she could not believe that any injury would ensue from the separa- tion of two hearts, and she therefore said, thinking only of Sidney: “Tf you could only keep them apart fora while, until she could learn to love you! She must return your affection in time. How can it be otherwise? You are young, rich, handsome, and to you she owes her life.” “Do you think so?” he cried, his face light- ing up, and his mad love persuading him of the thing he most wished to have true. “T am sure of it,” replied his aunt, delighted at the effect of her words. “I would advise you to goto New York and remain there a while. Then return and say that he has gone away, and will not come back for several months. During that time you can make her love you, or at least learn if it be possible to make her do so.” “Yes, yes,” he replied, delighted to have his aunt assist him in his plans. “And you can stop at cousin Robert omery’s,” said his aunt, thinking that at the house of his fashionable relative he would perhaps find a distraction that would enable him to forget his love. “IT will go there first,” he said. “Perhaps Stella will be able to tell me something about him; for from his address he must be in the world of fashion.” or 2 at, x s Ve] is Mont- “How strong is fate! it always draws Together those who break its laws.” Sidney Gorman was wealthy, and he was always welcome at the house of Robert Mont- gomery. He reached there in the evening and was shown at once to his room, Mr. Mont- gomery saying to him: “Dress and come down as quickly as vos- sible, for Stella’s betrothed will dine with us.” “T did not know——” began Sidney, when his cousin interrupted him with a smile of pride: “It is a matter of but a few days. One of the most aristocratic families in the city. Considered the greatest catch of the season, But come down and you shall meet your future cousin,” When he entered the drawing-room, Stella and. her betrothed were at the farther end, so that Sidney had an opportunity to study the latter before he was introduced to him, and he was immediately impressed with the sin- gular melancholy of the man who was to marry his beautiful cousin. “T am delighted to see you, Sidney, "ex- claimed Stella, coming forward to meet him. “Permit me to make you acquainted with Mr. Wainwright. Douglas, my cousin, Mr. Gor- man. Why! what is the matter, Sidney?” she exclaimed. Well she might ask, for the face of her cousin had grown suddenly white, and he had stared with strange wildness at Douglas. “Douglas Wainwright?” he hoarsely, disregarding her question. Douglas bowed wonderingly. demanded VOL, 47—No, 38. 2S “That is ey name surprised, Mr. Gorman. Sidney was more than surprised; he was be- wildered, and had lost his presence of mind. He seemed not to notice what either of them had said to him, but in the same hoarse voice said: ‘And you are the affianced husband of cousin Stella?” Douglas flushed haughtily up to his full height. “Miss Montgomery has done to promise to be my wife,” he s Stella did not speak, but witha oon bing fear in her heart eyed her cousin fearfully. She had so much at stake that she was sus- picious of everything unusual. -I beg your pardon,” said ing himself suddenly, “I was rudeness by a strange resemblance in Forgive me, Mr. W to congratulate you,” and he held out his } to Douglas scanning him Douglas acce shook it with an airof weariness. To searching eyes of Sidney Gorman it looked if Douglas Wainwright was the prey to incurable grief. He turned from him to Stella, and he wasstruck at once of fear and expectancy that filled black ey a And he knew that she to discover some secret in it. “What can it mean?” he asked himself. “Can there be two Douglas Wainwrights have I fallen on some terrible secret? I learn his address, and then I shall know is the same have been directed to. handsome heis! He just such as love madly, and loving once, never forget. ‘I suppose you live in the city, Mr. wright,” he said. “Yes,” answered Douglas, seventh street.” Sidney could not suppress an e xclamation of almost fierce delight. ‘There could be no doubt now that this man was the same to whom he had been sent by Viola, and if so he could not be a serious rival to him, since he was engayed to Stella. “Sidney!” ex made both men ingly. Her eyes were like midnight, and the pallor of her face was so marked that even Douglas, who seemed little interested in ar ything, could not fail to remark it, and cried oan: “ Are you ill,Stella?” No, she was not ill, but she was going with the fear of what Sidney might say; for ” he said. “You seem my and drew himself me the par said, cold Sidney, names. 2agerly as he did so. he as study the face of with the look 1 her grea was searching his face , or will if he How is ‘I live on Fifty- in a tone that at her inquir- claimed Stel ma turn and loo mad have to something. And she had cried out to him in that sudden way because she felt that must check him at any hazard. “A slight indisposition, Douglas,’ swered ; could not help calling on him. She had recovered herself her mind was made up. “IT will retire for a moment,” she “Could youcome and prescribe for me, ney ?” “Certainly,” he answered, and escorted from the room, leaving Douglas with Mr. Montgomery, who had just entered the room, “Sidney,” said Stella, in a hoarse whisper, as she led her cousin into the conservatory, “what is the meaning of your questions, your excitement? Do you know anything Mr. Wainwright that I should know?” “Of course not,” he replied, thinking it quite unnecessasry to take his cousin into his con- fidence. He was altogether too anxious to have her marry Douglas to be the one to put any obstacle in her way. “You are not telling me the truth, said, her black eyes glowing like living coals. “You shall tell me. “Bat, Stella,” tell you——” “What her demanded with coiled from her. “T tell you——” » said. Sid- ” he remonstrated, “when I is Sidney Gorman?” she name, he began again, when she interrupted him, hissing fiercely : “You tell mea lie, and I wish the Listen to me, Sidney! and, oh! telling you such a thing! Ilove him, but he does not love me. I am bound to marry him, though, and nothing shall come between him and me. If there is some woman that you know of, tell me her name and where she and I shall be on guard against her. You you will be doing mea service in telling me what you know.” ‘Il am not sure,” he said, hesitatingly. “Tell me her name,” she said, her eyes seem- ing to read his very soul. *Her name is Viola Greylock,” he answered, in his turn, fixing his eyes on bis cousin. Stella clenched her two little hands and shook them, while something almost like an precation broke from her red lips. “It is as I suspected, then,” she cried, strangling voice. “Where she? Where, where? But she shall not win him from me now! Let her beware! Where is she? What do you know of her?” “No,” said he, drawing back from the furiated creature in whom he could not ree nize his cousin. “ You must first teli me what you know of her.” “Why should I?” “What is she to you?” “T love her,” said Sidney, will do anything to make her think I intended to give her up to your lover? No, no! ‘You love her!” she cried, “Then you will help me “Tf it cost my life,” She glided to his him: “Then you shall win her while I win and no one need be the wiser for our plot. me where she is.” “She is at my aunt’s house, near Conway.” ‘Heavens!’ murmured Stella, “I see it all! She wandered away in her delirium. And did she send you here to find Douglas?” she asked aloud. truth. is, is og- cried Stella, fiercely. somberly, “and |] mine. Did you in a tone of to keep them apart he answered. side and whispered joy. + 9 to him, Tell ainwright, and permit me} land pted the proffered hand and | an | women } she could not doubt that his exclama- | tions, his looks, and his questions, portended | y } ing, whose voices they have hardly by this time, and | | would be! } to relieve about | know something, and I insist that you the shame of | This Story Will Not be Pe recover- | startled into | left h W ain- | | Heaven } nut | suppose she will | self by the j have she whom they have never spoken? ! | anything to you? she an- | “and Sidney, being a physician, [| | love Lillie, her | | love | will ever know. | never let you leave | Men | easily won, she | ‘as beautifur so much fierceness that he re- } again | \ “SHE | instinct with | breeze, see | with its Lesbo together in a iieehs frightful beak is inserted quick as thought, and no human streng excrescence. It seems unlikely that a cr no claws, but holds on under its feet, could jump; But, ing the tarantula, one inclines to believe any fiendish habit pt ping toit. A i eee but comparat ively harmless, spider of the We st Coast, almost as big, spins a web twelve fee or more in diameter, so strong as to venience the traveler who walks into it. Book-Forn, eaymted! {0 Leave ter L0ve LIFE ROMANCE OF LILLIE GOLDIE. By JULIA EDWARDS, Author of *‘He Loves Me, He Loves Me “The Little Widow,” ‘“*Prettiest of All,” Beautiful, but Poor,” Etc. HER LOVER” ve o Published iit 1 LEAVE numbers can ‘TEMPTED TO in No. ll. Back Agents. } vas ytained of CHAPTER XLVIII. Mrs. Crofton knew the well enough to cease remonstrating h a strange misgiving. be in she will win re to her own she would be —(CONTINUED.) willful, madcap creature with her, er witl should forbid! that man, any -room. “Tf she love with him at cost,” she , a8 she retired tered always said iceberg until ot have like an her heart w when She wou She with the flame true love, ld become like Well, I always has had her own way, and I until pretty Cz like those as touched a volcano. can do nothing. loves.” her reflections were sne for uptain Bess, AS curiously of her chaperon. She seated her- side of the berth where Rupert lay, cool ing his fevered brow with her soft touch, sometimes murmuring to herself, and sometimes answering his | incoherent mutterings sit here by this stranger’s side said. “What dol know of him? W hy did I not him taken to cne of the was it that prompted me to bring him here? in love with him? How could that be possible girls fall iu love with men of whom they know heard, and “J she wonder why I noth with 2 Is she ike you want Goldie Lisle so mueh? IThave a great mind to mi: Ah, yes, if I can! She is very Do you love her, Rupert? I do not feel toward you as I What a mad love it “Do you really forget hcv if I can. beautifui, is she not? “And do lt love you? ever feiS toward any other man. Do you suffer much? I wish I knew how you. You think I aim Lillie, don’t want you to think Tam anybody else. oris it Goldie Lisle? Will you for what I have done? If you have really Goldie e, can you ever loveme? I want me; Ido, I know I do. “Mad? Unmaidenly? I suppose so, but no one You must love me, Rupert. I will me until youdo. Aim I not beauti- fulenough? And Croftie said I could be agreeable if I tried. You shall how [ will try. Only you shall not know how I have fallen in love with you “You would despise me for that, would you not? always despise women who show themselves do they not: No, I won’t show you that [love you, »ut I will make you love me.” And so she sat cooling his face and mur muring un- til the medicine that had been given him had taken effect and he fell intoa quietsleep. Then she left him, first telling one of the sailors to wateh him. She looked in her mirror once before retiring, and studied her face anxiously. “Men care for beauty,” she murmured. “I am beautiful. I have often been told but Goldie Liste is more beautiful than I. No woman was ever as she. I wonder if I can win him from her. I mustseem beautiful to him when he becomes conscious.” Do you love me loved this you Lis] see 80; CHAPTER XLIX. THOUGHT AS SHE LOOKED AT HIM THAT HE WAS NOBLEST MAN SHE HAD EVER SEEN, AND SHE HERSELF THAT SHE WOULD STOP AT NOTH- HIM.” THE TOLD ING TO WIN It was long past daylight when Rupert awoke out of a refreshing sleep. The Sea Witci was lying over on her sicte flying through the blue water a thing life, her white sails filled with the the spray dashing out from her eut wwany diamonds in the bright sun Ake and like 80 water | light. | was so puzzled | | a few mome im- | in- | * | matter. in a} u conscious, though he ry his strange surroundings that for its he be lieved that his mind was af- fected by wha he had passed through, His face toward the side of the y awoke. He could hear thé swashing of the water against the little vessel, and he could feel its buoy- ant motion, and he wondered what could have hap- pened to him. He lay there for a few moments, pondering the Then he turned his head and looked slowly on objects familiar to a yacht fell on 2 knew that he must be in a vessel on The n, all at once, his eyes led him. Rupert was weak, but fully acht when he was about him. his eyes, and the water. ture that start A beautiful girl, dressed in the ing costumes, her beautiful sympathy, sat watching blue eyes. “Do you feel better?” she asked, voice. “T feel please ?” “You Santa eaverly. am ares rid f } i©il jauntiest of face all aglow him out of a pair yacht- of soft, in a low, musical quite well,” he answered. he coast his face y think I down t are on my yacht, going ‘ plo Barbara,” she answered, “You are not as well as you m you have been very pear coats , L Was shot.” He felt his side where it pained “How did I come here? I remember lying on the beaeh——” *T heard the shots fired and went terrupted. “I thought at first that been trying to kill you.” ‘Yes,” he said, “somebody did try to am er ateful to you for airistee care of me. niae there ashore,” somebody had kill me, and I Is it your | husband's yacht? | shore. | too soon. | he is there and I am here, “She gave me his address, and I promised to | tell him where she was. She almost perished in the waters of the lake, and I rescued her. She has been ill for nearly two weeks.” “Then she aie ia about him?” manded Stella, eagerly *How can she know ax when she left here? you know.” “Some other time,” never reveal the part fair. “Let us think of the present, I have it. Listen! I will give ae a one notice of my Douglas. You must show tell nang how you saw him and how he loves me.” “Tt will almost kill her,” he murmured. “T hope it will,” she muttered, catching his words, but careful that he should not hear hers. *‘To-night, after Douglas has gone,” she said aloud, “we can talk of it more. us return now.” de- she did that ry more than Explain to me all she replied, for : she had had in that af- now. you a paper betrothal and me together, iv BE pay ‘ hahah mien aid THE DEADLY TARANTULA. In West Africa is found the most terrible of spiders, a being so foul and malignant that no reptile compares with it for horror. It dwells ii’ the but it too often finds its way into dwellings. This is called the tarantula; with legs spread, it covers a dinner-plate, clothed in pretty fur very like a cat’s. Its beak is the shape of a parot’s, and the size of a sparrow's; the venom of it is fatal to women and children—often to strong men, as the natives say. Its paws end in suckers, clinging so tight that they must be picked off when the legs have been cut away. They say that the tarantula springs a great distance, and alights woods, she would}, = | being Ah!} to } : | it to her, and must | Let | | sick for | “Was theregnobody with me when you found me?” | | he asked, conceal. | posed it was he who | put you in the boat and bring you here. |} on my way out to sea.” Rupert could not help yroaning at the shought of | “T have no husband. I am Miss Bess Beekman on Iam Captain Bess here. The yachtis mine, and lam the captain. Do you murder you ?” “Tt was a duel,” said Rupert. “My opponent fired But it does not matter now, except that sick. Do you not think I could get up?” “Oh, no,” she that.”’ hastily answered, with an eagerness he did not attempt to “Nobody. Isawaman running away, and I sup had shot you. I had Then [ kept earried away from Lillie, while Mortimer Wallingford was there and at liberty t’ carry out any vile machination that might occur to him. Nor could he help reflecting that if he had been left on the beach he would in all probability have been taken to Lillie. And yet benefactress as to tell her stead of helped his plans. “igi ave you my room and sat by you until y asleep,” she said, shyly. “You were very kind,” he said. took so much trouble for me. able to get up to-day. Could you-—— He stopped and looked so troubled that she de- manded: “What? Please ask for anything you wish. You are my guest, you know, auld your wish shall be ourglaw.’ “Ts it true,” he eharming face of the girl, yacht all alone ?”’ “Oh, [ have a crew,” she answered. “No, no—father, brother, or- i He stopped, checked by the ‘deep blush that over- spread her face. She had never felt the impropriety of her conduct before; but this hesitating question made it seem terribly clear to her. She hated herself for what must make her less womanly in his eyes. “No,” she answered, choking back an inclination to cry, ‘I have no father or brother with me. - Papa alway 8 lets me do as I please. and TI have no brother. I have a chaperon—Mrs. Crofton—with me.” ‘‘T only asked,” he said, ‘‘because I wished to make a request.” “What is it?” she cried. I command the yacht.” She thought as she looked at him that he was the noblest man she had ever seen, and she told herself that she would stop at nothing to win him. It that she had marred in- you fell “T am sorry you ” ” asked, hesitatingly, looking at the “that you are sailing this “You have only to tell me. the | >th can move that hideous | 2ature which has | by expelling the air| after study- | : | device she could think of incon- Ry | in this matter i} witha passionate | in a flood to the e] | instinctively ti | taken | ing née “Will 5 | do yous Not,” | | back on the commenced | all News | rival. I but she | which | & ; the “T}y houses on shore? What | Aim [| ? Do} eT xFOoD | the } don’t you? [} to | } Lillie | and waited in the on a pic- | | Daniels say With | “Where am [, } to } she in- | know who tried to | | understood, | 8o L insist | tuitions are ny men | }on | dropped out into the bay, he coulda not be so ungrateful to his fair | Iam sure I shall be | | she would pierce the very doing | | the seemed strange to have fallen so completely in love with him at first sight; but she had heard that true love was always of sudden growth, aud now she was sure of it. “It is of the utmost importance.” he “that I should return to San Francisco but put me off at the first place possible!’ She elenched her little hands and wondered what to keep him with her. It him. said to her, made her desperate to think of losing “You will recover your health more quickly if you | | doubting passion. | } could be } prise remain on the yacht,” she said, evasively. “My health he cried, with a sudden “Ah, Miss Beekman, my health is of small account I would prefer death to some things that may happen. I bes you, arnestly man pleaded for his life, that you will put me ashore. T do not care if I have to walk to San Francisco. Heaven would give me Spene for to prevent a ere eh wrong “A great wrong!” shet ated. “Yes, a wrong which the worst face of the earth would perpetr ute nocent, and defenseless woman In his earnestness he rose on one elbow and vehemence that brought the his listener; for sl sue the lover pleading x of as.e epe: scoundrel on upoha pure, In knew to be cheeks of at it was is darling. rose her seat, ryously at her handl 1 will speak to the ou not drink th h back to h She from avoidir Keren sailin before pelo. eye and pull- aster,” she said is save you? It rood.’ He took it f1 her and drained it, bed, exhausted by his him with compressed liq texpression In her eyes l sleep now,” she muttered as und he will suspett that I did it pur- to keep him me yh, he loves her, he er madly! but they say is cold and distant el so why should I not try to win ] lif take her from his “om exertions. She watched , and with a will- ful, j re she went.on deck, **: pose ly loves h never with to all h woot him? He would risk will do as mnt 3 pac ed the quarter-deck of 1ieedless of the fact that atching wondering il anor. quite forgot hen she ealled Mr. ee me, captain ?” young te little Was the beautiful Mrs. Crofton her altered the existence of Smart to her. the sailing- who seemed to his fair captain. nderstand me that bor ?” de- ate she oldet asked handsome sllow, y to ti ike ( rde rs fron > replied. ‘Did you #0 in at Monterey ha ‘Well, I Make rbara. out The wind have so changed my mind > coast to fetch Santa Ba be more favorable out at sea.’ “As you Say, captain,” he replied, and wa as | ward, “My dear,” said Mrs. Crofton, ‘‘do the sick man such a long voyage? es, [do. I intend to do as I please with hii.” Mrs. Crofton had heard that tone from her young friend before, and knew it was the signal to be left alone. So she shrugged her shoulders and muttered under her breath: “This young man is having avery unpleasant effect ou Captain Bess.” you take F CHAPTER L. MORTIMER WALLINGFORD !”’ SHE CRIED. ANSWERED, “IT IS I I HAVE FOUND AND YOU CAN NEVER ESCAPE ME AGAIN.” The first thing the owner of the yacht did after reaching the cabin, was uo take from asafe the papers proving his ownership. He was going on to say a erent deal about the yacht when Wallingford took apers, ran his eye over them and said: oT hey are quite right. What is your price y “Fifteen thousand dollars,” was the reply. Wallingford took his check book from his pocket and rapidly wrote a check for the amount, and hand- ed it to the owner, who took it hesitatingly. “You are thinking,” said Wallingford, noting his manner, “that you don’t know bow good this check is. That is natural. If you will. be quick, you can get to the house of the President ef the Occidental Bank. Have him waked upif heis not already awake, and say that I sent you to knowif the check was good. Do you still hesitate ?” “Tt seems such an odd thing to the day,” remonstrated the man. later, now- _”? “A littl » late I shall not vane the What do you say ?” “If [thought the president would not be angry,” Sé ul i the man. “T’ll answer for that. the crew that I am the owner, you have returned with the is good,” Wallingford wasso peremptory that the man feared hesitate any longer, and therefore obeyed He called the crew up and informed them that Wal- lingford had bought the yacht, and then gave the necessary orders for getting the vessel ready to take out in pursuit of the Ste Feet, He yal tly gave the sailing-master instructions not to obey Wallingford until he returned with word that the check was good. Wallingford had expected nothing but as the former owner was out of the way, he called the whole crew to him, and addressed them in a few words “My men,” he said, “T have boug the underStanding that it to search another yacht. For re which I will explain tater, I do not lady, but Ido wish to go with the ask you to say nothing of my bein you permission. Do you agree to this? ‘The men were somewhat mystified at his words, but they all readily agreed to do as he requested. This wus all he wished for the present. He took up his quarters with the men, and sent one of them shore to get him a complete outfit, such as the com- ! you! ,” HE do at this hour of “If it were a little said Wallingford, yacht. Take it impatiently, “I now or not at all. Now go! Or, stop! first tell or will be as soon assurance that my check as to else, as soon sht the yaeht, with take a lady out in isons Of Ny Own, Is of yacht. I wish to |} mon sailors wore. half apolo hour the former owner re- for not having accepted the In a little over turned full of check, saying the president had rez it good. Wallingford cut him i tied to remain until the lady came He then Sailors’ qui “ey rs until he saw Lillie come aboard, escorted by Dick Daniels and his wife. t to let you go alone ” he heard Mrs. an gies ‘*T can’t bear to Lillie. “It will be better so,” body ought to be here you know. Don’t worry right. Anything will be better simply waiting And something shali see Rupe rt before T return,” “See Rupert Morgan!” muttered eyes flashing adoration of her and 1 almost at once. ‘*You will never se¢ you ha ve give nme your love. both, Lillie Goldie. You shall never return from this voyage, except my promised After all, it would be almost bliss enough to go down he heard herreply. ‘‘Some- .and Dick will be in Monterey, about me. I shall be all th: tells me Wallingford, his iatred of his rival him again, until as to the bottom of the ocean clasping youin my arms.” His face was terrible to see as fle muttered thus, and no one hearing him and looking on his forbidding countenance, distorted as it was bj sions, he uttered. Poor Lillie neither presence, and bade a foreboding heart, indeed, danger that threatened her. Dick made sure that the mission of but could hardly persuade Lillie, and would not have done so, urgent solicitation. so strange a heard him nor suspected his farewell to her friends, with but unconscious of the the yacht was himself to leave but at her most oat thing to do,” he seels | anxiously. “You are far too | | myself rey at but something know it does,’ she replied, ‘and I wonder for being willing to do a within me keeps telling me that I should do it, and upon doing it. You know a woman's in- often the highest wisdom. Seeing that he could say nothing Dick reluctantly drew Kitty away, and both stood the wharf and watched the trim vessel as she and finally caught the breeze in her sails and swept toward the beautiful Golden Gate. Lillie was a good sailor, and might have enjoyed to move her, | the skimming flight of the yacht as it sped before the breeze had her mind not been filled with the agony of doubt and uncertainty. The sailing-master and the men, charmed by het extraordinary beauty, were as attentive to her wants as they could be, but she required very little done for her. She asked some questions of the sailing-master concerning the probabilities of recognizing the Sea Witch, and then relapsed into silence, sitting on her cushioned seatand gazing far out to sea, asif distance and find her lover. From his hiding-place in the forward part of the acht Mortimer Wallingford could feast his eyes on het wonderful beauty, and as he gazed his purpose grew stronger to win her or die with her. All the morning long he remained hidden among the sailors, and never before had the haughty aristo- crat striven so hard to make himself liked by those he considered his inferiors. But he had a purpose in view now, and he was willing to do anything to accomplish it. To the sailing-master and officers, too, he was graciousness itself, and ordered wine from the lockers to drink, as he said, to the new ownership. At the same time he had liquor distributed freely to Si wera and, at last, when he had made every- body drink enough to be somewhat under the in- fluence of the potent stuff, he called them all together and said: “Boys, I have a little comedy to tell you of.” “Ay, ay!” said the sailors, in their bluff fashion. “Tam going to teil you why I bought this yacht in such a hurry.” “That will be interesting,” “T'll confess that we've all been wondering,’ “Of course,” said Wallingford, with an assum of good humor. “That is only natural. Well, said the sailing-master. tion Pil } lover and running away If you would | i she wi | wife; oie as ever | Sl ; ho my mission is } |} only persons who could extend a helping hand to the | ‘ search spoke | color | will | and then sank |} | Mrs. from | lked for- | intend to | i the | down into the cabin. | and | had them hii. | Wish to meet the | here until I give | |} and most } what do your questions lead ? on | udily pronounced | asked him } hid himself | | your clothes j and Roeeainity tlie re | moved thein; and when you are on deck you can tell | | by our land or } | not,” n the suspense of | that I} : 3 ; | ed in his consternation. | sea for a It is that or death to | alive bride. | his terrible pas- | would have doubted that he meant every word | | $45.00 in said, ! because I the purpose with him.” “Your wife!” cried the auditors, es,” replied Wallingford, coolly ; ismy wife, and Tam going to give hera prise. 1 course there will be a ERPDe, and, lappeal to you all and pretend she you see, I have forewarned you.” yes, of course,” said the their surprise. But his story. said Wallingford, feeling that no time better than the present, “I am going to sur- her now. All I ask of you is to keep out of geht and hearing as muc for, of course, man likes to huve domestic quarrels overheard. Feeling bought it hired it lor tell you; I wife had of meeting her “that lady great sur- no doubt, is not my “Tea, other in they did not think of And,’ has possible; his little sure of having effectually deceived the the poor girl, he advanced from his hiding-place to where Lillie sat, her eyes still long ing the heavi bosom of the ocean. “Lillie, my di wling ! 1 She turned her startled eyes upon him with a of front n horror in them,and then rose up from 1 Stared at him as one who has seen a Gor- stole gly > cried. sort at and gon’s head “You! you! Mortimer Wallingford!” s “Yes,” he answered, “it is I and you can never escape ne she eried. [have found you, again. CHAPTER HAVE LI. “I THINK I OUTWITTED HER FOR ONCE,” istressed. She Bess cou be, Mrs. Crofton was greatly d how willfu nd obstinat knew that any remonstrance ou her. could not permit ana would vy be we anenG ‘to conti she 1ue as she ] How was sl ever induce Rupe. *h? She e to know that ‘th to wed the could oni aware 1 she knew would have resisted her. what would the father otf say, if he learne 2d that his daughter 1 carried her eccentric ity so far as to actually run away with a stranger? No, no, it would never do at ail; and Mrs. Crof- ton thought of it, determined that if the thing were possible she would clear her skirts of all respon- sibility at once. *‘How is the invalid?” she ‘“‘Retter,’’ answered Bess, “Will he be able to be Crofton. “Certainly not,’”’ replied Bess, and walked forward to avoid an + further conversation. “Hum!” murmured Mrs. Crofton, ‘‘she’ her moods, and I might as well talk stack. I wonderif I could have a few minutes’ talk with hiin? try, anyhow,” and she gathered up things had strewn around her, and went nothing pretty captain of the be ol Tact that Bess as sne asked of Bess. shortly. out on deck to-day ?” asked S in one of to the smoke- 277 ii she not the easiest of tasks before her. She dared not betray Rupert that Bess was in love with him, lest he should jump at the chance of so rien and beautiful a bride, nor dared she spend too long a time with him, lest should become come down. If ever a worthy matron wished all young women properly married, it was Mrs. Crofton, as she nerved herself to the delicate task of persuad- ing Rupert that he must insist upon going ashore. “But,” murmured, despairingly, “how am-sI ever to bri him to that belief without myself?’ Nevertheless Rupert lay, the comely face He looke ad up at her, closed in that it was not Bess, at once that she was Mrs. Crofton. “You are Mrs. Crofton?’ he said, “Yes, How are you feeling?” “Much better, thank you. I enough to be up. if I were on deck. My wound was not a severe and it was so well dressed last night that it is healing nicely. Iw weak from the anything else. ‘The fever is all eaten a good breakfast. Won’t She had to Bess she ng the benevolent she entered most where on State-room of smiles opening his eyes as if he had sheer weariness. but an older woman, in alow tone. am sure [ am as gone, and I you let me have | clothes 2?” Then Mrs. Crofton, on looking around, s clothing was not there. -~She understood had had it removed purposely. She ment, and then said, as if it were “IT fancy if was removed to be cleane io itforyeu. You are sure you feel we out? You should not take any risk,’ **T am quite sure,” he earnestly answered. other Gay I shall be entirely well. Besides, be out, so that L can go ashore the moment “You are very anxious to be ashore, eagerly de:canded. “The happiness of two lives depends upon it,” replied, ‘‘and perhaps,” he added huskily, “the and honor of a noble woman.” Bess that will ll enough get “an land.” then 2?’ we ilfe ‘Then to pre vent your going ashore at the quic kest | possible moment would be said quickly, re j0iC ed to see ing as she would have them. “Not a crime, perhaps,” he replied. ‘I that you alter your course for me; but, only would? I do not speak of money sure it cannot be of much consequence to the ing owner of this yacht; butif money would purchase the right to insist upon going ashore at once, give all I possess, and that 1s an enormous fortune.” “You are wealthy, then?” she demanded. “Very.” “And am “T am she work no less than a crime that matters were cannot ask ah, if , because [right in supposing that you are in love?” madly, passionately in love, with the best beautiful of wome n, Mrs. Crofton. Can [ trust you, sir?” she nurriedly asked, and knew by her manner that she feared being overheard. “Tama gentleman,” he simply answered “Yes,’”’ she said, after a short communion , “I will speak. I must tell you that it tention of Bess to prolong this voyage, in prevent your going ashore.” “To prevent it!” he cried in dismay. cannot be!” ‘Judge with her is the order “Oh, ae ” she answered. hich you can seeh was no need ne “T will get lave been re Rr d— at all to have re- course whether we are heading for “But why should she ao this?” he eried. “That you must learn tor yourself,” she “But she looks so kind and beautiful,” answered. he exclain “She is both,” answered Mrs. Crofton; “but she is willful, and has made up her mnind to take you out to long voyage. I must leave it to you to in- duce her to change her mind. But do not betray me.” Rupert promised readily not to betray her, and she went quickly away to search for his Clothing. She found it in her state-room, whither Bess had taken it. “Be as expeditious as possible,” said Mrs. Crofton, “for it is never possible Bess’ next freak will be.” {TO BE CONTINUED.) DO YOU WANT cash and a ladies or gentieman’s gold or watch? You can have both,—one for a little other i nothing. Write us about it. ‘RUE & CO., BOX 1261, AUGT HIGHAM BAND INSTRUMENTS Cost no more than other high grades, but are INCOMPARABLY SUPERIOR. If you want the best you must have the Higham. We gladly send them on trial in competition. Used by the British Army and the world’s leading bands everywhere. Send for free Illus- trated HIGHAM CATALOGUB, Also the Campaign edition of our General Band Catalogue, containing everything used by bands, and illustrated by 400 superb engravings, will be sent free upon equest. LYON & HEALY, 152 to 162 StateSt.. 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Place n back of icture and it will be returned in perfect order. We make any change in pate you wis enities THE CRESCENT CRAYON CO. Opposite New German Theatre, CHICAGO, @100 to anyone sending us photo and not receiving crayon picture FREK as per this offer. , not interfering with the likeness. Refer to any bank in Chicago. Address P. S.—We will forfeit This offer is bonafide, » TLL. Ifthe Baby is Cutting Teeth, Be sure and use the old and well-tried remedy, MRS. WINSLOW’S SOOTHING SYRUP for children teething. It soothes the child, softens the gums, allays all pain, cures wind colic, and is the best remedy for diarrhea, 25 cents. PILE Instant Relief. Final cure in 10 days. Neverreturns; no purge; no salve; no suppository. A victim tried in vain every remedy has dis- covered a simple cure, which he will mail free to his fellow sufferers. Address J. H. Reeves, Box 3290,New York City Remedcy Free. asa THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #8= . VOL. 47—No., 33, NEW EVERY MORNING. BY SUSAN COOLIDGE. > Every day is a fresh beginning ; Every morn is the world made new; You who are weary of sorrow and sinning, Here is a beautiful hope for you; A hope for me and a hope for you. All the past things are past and over; The tasks are done, and the tears are shed; Yesterday’s errors let yesterday cover; Yesterday’s wounds, which smarted and bled, Are healed with the healing which night has shed. Yesterday now is a part of forever, Bound up in a sheaf, which God holds tight, With glad days, and sad days, and bad days which never Shall visit us more with their bloom and their blight, Their fullness of sunshine or sorrowful night. Let them go, since we cannot relieve them, Cannot undo anid cannot atone ; God in his mercy receive, forgive them ; Only the new days are our own; To-day is ours, and to-day alone. Here are the skies all burnished brightly ; Here is the spent earth all reborn ; Here are the tired limbs springing lightly To face the sun and to roam in the morn In the chrism of dew and the cool of dawn: Every day is a fresh beginning: Listen, my soul, to the glad refrain, And spite of old sorrow and older sinning, And puzzles forecasted and possible pain, Take heart with the day, and begin again. MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS, BY W. W. CARTNER. (“MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS” was commenced in No. 15. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.? oN SRY SS Ware iif i SHE HAD ONLY JUST SEATED HERSELF, WHEN IN STALKED WILSON, LOOKING AS THOUGH HE HAD TAKEN A TRIP TO CALIFORNIA IN A CATTLE CAR. La NUMBER SEVENTY-ONE. Wilson Thinks Heis Decoyed Into a Trap. “Mrs. Wilson, I have been waiting for a| plump hour for you to come home to tell me where you have secreted the garden sprinkler, blustered Wilson as his wife came in at the door. “Good land, Henry! she replied. I have not had it,” “Of course not! Did you know I had a} sprinkler?” “Why, yes, I have seen you use one.” “Oh, you have! you know what a sprinkler is?” “Do not become silly, Henry. I know sprinkler without a letter of introduction,” she quietly replied, as she removed her wraps. “The sprinkler in question,” he proceeded to explain, “was about as large as a middle- sized tin pail. It hada broad handle, bent ever the top; an elongated spout, which was larger at the mouth, and was covered with perforated tin. Have you seen any article of that description since last sammer?” “TI have told you a dozen times that I have not had your sprinkler, and that ends it,” she eurtly replied. x hier leave to differ with you, my dear; it does not end it. Are you sure you have not used it for a plant jar?” “Since you speak of plants, I believe I saw it up stairs in the barn when I took down my jars last fall,” she reflectively said. “Oh! It is coming to you, is it? Your recol- lection is becoming aroused? Now, Anna, why in the name of the old Jewish law, did you have it up there?” he growled, arising to his feet. “¥ never had it; furthermore, I do not want it,” she spitefully answered. “% suppose not! It is more than probable that the sprinkler crawled up in the barn to hide until the water got warm, so it would not. become chilled,” he sneeringly said. “T declare, Henry, it is the next thing to im- possible to live with you now; what will it be when you are old?” she wonderingly asked. ' “No danger of my living to be very old if you have your way. I am much obliged to ou for telling me where you put the sprinkler,” e added. and went down the path to the barn. After he had been gone half an hour, she went to the barn to see what was detaining him. “Have you found it?’ she called from the foot of the stairs. “No, I. have not found it, but you can bet -your boots Iam going to; you cannot come ‘ary smart tricks on me,” he answered in a thick voice. “Well, Henry Wilson, what on earth are you doing?” she asked, coming up the stairs. “I am going to find that sprinkler, if I move every spear of hay in this barn,” he said as ke drove the fork into it and lifted hay until Re was as red in the face as a danger signal. We was hatless and the sweat poured down his eheeks. “There she goes,” he panted, placing his femee under the handle and settling back for a big lift. “This is the way your Uncle Jake pitched hay when he was on earth the first tz ha “What do you call that?” Mrs. Wilson asked, pointing at the sprinkler resting in the corner. “Now, Anna, why not tell the truth? If you had that sprinkler at the bouse, why did you send me down here to pitch hay for-a couple of hours, and then slip down and pre- tend to find it? You may think ita joke, bat such jokes lead to the commission of crime,” he said, sitting down on the edge of a box and wiping his prespiring face. , “That sprinkler has been right there since last fall, and you are ey man who put it there,” she indignantly replied. “Now, by the teeth of the hound that tracked John——” »| that goat, aud ie never did. Now, madam, are you sure | a and then all was still. He had jumped intoa box that the hay passed through to the manger below, and which had been covered by a little hay. “Where are you, Henry?” she asked, looking into the box. “Mortally injured, but not yet dead. Anna, I will give you five thousand dollars to tell me how you decoyed me into this trap. Not that I have any hopes of ever avoiding your artful snares; I have given that up long ago: but I would like to know how you do it be- fore I get into the fatal one,” came in smothered tones from the box. “Did you hurt yourself?” she asked. “Oh, no—it does not hurt to have your shin- bones driven up until your knee-caps are crowded out of place, or your jaws come to- gether likea pair of locomotives, and force your eye-teeth into your jaw until you can feel the roots pressing against your eyeballs! Iam willing to do that any day to amuse my wife!” he groaned. “If you are hurt, why do you not come up?” “Madam, I am neither fog nor malaria, that can float up on the atmosphere!” he howled. “What shall I get to aid you, Henry?” “You might blow me out with powder, or chop this hole larger, so that I could get out below here!” he sarcasticaliy replied. “That is what I willdo. Where is the ax?” “That is just what you will not do! Iam not coming out of here looking as though I had been through a sausage-mill!” he yelled. “T will not hurt you; I1 will only strike ms enough to cut through the board,” she said, “Just so! I suppose you would use just powder enough to lift me out, and guarantee that I would not go sailing through the rocf, toward the ethereal dome, like a Fourth of | July rocket!” “My goodness! there-is the minister! I will run in the back way. Brush your clothes before you come in,” she said, as she ran down the stairs, “Tell himI am at leisure and would be pleased to see him here in my office for a couple of hours!” yelbed Wilson She had ortly seated herself and the minis- ter when in stalked Wilson. He was covered was crushed in on one side, and his appearance was that of aman who had madea trip to California in a cattle-car. “How do you do, elder? This is fine growing weather. I suppose you have your garden all made?” he said. “Well, no, Brother Wilson, not exactly. You see I have my hands full, spiritually. While you raise vegetables for the physical wants, I raise thoughts and aspirations for the spiritual,” replied the minister. “T would like to ask youa few every-day Christian questions?” said Wilson. “T will do my best to answer them, Brother Wilson.” “Now, suppose your neighbor had a goat and you had a garden, and you should find that goat eating up your peas, what would you do?” “T should quietly drive the goat home, and insist on having him cared for,” replied the minister. “Suppose, when you went to drive him out, he turned on you and knocked you the whole length of a row of peas?” ae would get up and gently pursuade him 70. ; Pet him, do you mean?” eagerly inquired Wilson, as he arose to his feet. “If it were necessary to convince him that I meant to do him no harm. What would you do, Brother Wilson?” “Cut his blamed heart out, and jam it down his highly flavored throat if I could catch him!” roared Wilson. “Henry Wilson!” cried his wife. “Tut, tut, tut!” exclaimed the minister. “IT say yes! A man is a man, and a goat is an infernal goat; and when he comes against the stomach of a man—preacher or no preacher —the man will strike back!” yelled Wilson. “| fear, Brother Wilson, that you have not experienced a full and complete change of heart,” said the preacher, as he sadly took his | departure. “T have experienced a change of ends from I tell you, Anna, ithe man never lived that would get up and \secratch a goat’s back after he had_ received 'a knock-down from the aforesaid. I do not doubt that the elder is honest in his opinions, | but he has never had any goat experience. | There is the trouble.” ° “ All you need is to take off your necktie and | you would be goat-proof. I never was so |ashamed in my life. You look worse than a | thug!’ she wrathfully exclaimed. “All you need to look like an angel is a | harp and a crown,” hesnorted, picking up his sprinkler. “All you lack of making this room a cow | barn is the halter and milk stool,” she retorted, as he slammed the door behind him and passed out into the garden. (TO BE CONTINUED.) The Ladies’ Work-Box. Edited by Mrs. Helen Wood. FASHION’S FANCIES. Tom Thumb rosettes are worn on smali hats. Capotes and toques grow smaller and smaller. Wide moire ribbons are worn as sashes with black round waists. Vails for large hats are very long and wide, and are draped into festoons around the brim. Broad revers, accompanied by broad waistbands and sashes, are greatly in favor. Very pretty enameled buckles, for wearing with cotton gowns, match the ribben used forthe belt, and are fin- | ished with silver. The long Spanish lace scarf has returned to favoragain, and is wound picturesquely about the throat twice, ee ends reaching nearly to the bottom of the dress in ront. Ladies are beginning to wear much jewelry in the street again,in the form of elaborate and conspicuous bonnet pins, vail pins, clasps, and a great variety of pins on the bodice, Lace boas are still very much admired. ‘The lace is gathered full as usual ina jabot, and the long ends are finished with bows of long loops of pink or white baby ribbon. Gay Russian- blouses, for wearing with blazers and skirts, come in stripes of three colors four inches wide, joined with black crewel cross stitches and embroidered in a cross-stitch pattern. A handsome material which promises to be popular this season is black grenadine, which comes in a great variety of lacy patterns, with stripes, dots, waves, and floral desigus of satin. Silk crapes, deeply crinkled like those of wool, oriental foulards, and foulards with bright chintz figures, white satin striped India silks, with fruit or ball patterns, are among the novelties in summer materials. Crepon promises to be the most popular of all materials for summer wear, for it comes in such a variety of tex- ture that it furnishes a desirable medium for all kinds of gowns, from the plainest to the gayest. Sea-side dresses are shown in bright red serge and Turkey red cotton, with oriental designs made up over silk linings, and trimmed with Irish lace. White alpaca isa good material for sea-side wear, and is made up with yokes and sleeves of striped silk. Misses’ Gashmere gowns have corselet bodices, made with a seam down the center of the front, while the bot- tom of the corselet has a front point, and the top is cut down in a V, with the seams and edges corded with silk. Dressy shoes have a toe-cap in the form of a shield car- ried out in very small beads, and colored studs set hke gems. For bridal shoes the design 1s in pearl and crystal beads. Ball shoes have a fine network of gold over white satin for the front and heels, and for carriage wear black patent leather Directoire shoes with plain steel buckles are most lised. Ribbons with fancy edges, moire ribbons, and folds of crepe lisse are still worn on the neek. The silk ruchings are very soft and pretty for this purpose, and silk cords are worn more or less, while bead edgings are no longer in favor. The millinery designed for little folks in short frocks has all the quaint, picturesque grace of that worn by their elder sisters. The big flat hats of fine flexible braid, with broad brims that fall in careless curves about the fair baby faces, are wreathed witha tangle of grasses and wild flowers of many hues and kinds; the sailor hats have broader brinis,and are more becoming and afford more pro- tection from the sun than those of last season. Very dainty hats of mull and lawn, with lace or embroidered frills on lthe brim and broad ties of the material, come in pink, blue, and white, and look very sweet above the wavy tresses and dimpled faces of the toddlers. L. M. L., Detroit, Mich.—A pretty graduation suit of China silk has the full high seamless waist gathered around the neck, and again at the waist-line. The sash of China silk half covers the waist in its great width, and is tied behind in a large Japanese bodw, with short ends. A frill five or six inches deep is gathered to droop around There was a smothered exclamation, a thud, | with hay and dust from head to foot, his hat | the neck, while the mutton-leg sleeves have a frill falling on the wrists. The full round skirt, of four or five straight breadths, is simply hemmed, and is sewed to the waist under thesash Dainty simplicity is the point to be attained in commencement dresses, and at some of the colleges they prohibit the use of lace and all elaborate garniture, and permit only ribbon trimmings on the dresses of the graduates. Wool crepon, China crape, chiffon, mull, mushn, organdy, and China silk are the favorite materials for these gowns, with trimmings of ribbon, lace, aud the dress material, Mrs. Eliza B., Troy, N. Y.—Shorter skirts are being made for girls of from four to ten years, and for all girls the skirts are straight and full, measuring from two yards and a haff to three yards. or a trifle more in width. Rows of embroidered or lace insertion, according to the material, tucks, and ruffles are the garniture used. Washable dresses are made of, pink, blue, and gray ging- hams, in fine stripes, cotton Bedford cords in blue or lilac alternating with white, or ecru with tan or darker brown, while beige, gray, tan culor, and violet are selected in plain pereales and cotton goods. In making up the waists of washable dresses, the blouse effect, with the fullness gathered at the shoulders in the front and back, is the favorite. and the finish of neck and sleeves is a turned-down rufiie of embroidery around the neck, and deep cuits of embroidery on the leg-of-mutton sleeves. Low round waists have a bertha and sleeve-frill of em- broidery, and these are worn ovel a guimpe. Clara W.—A very dressy wrapper has a high, sloped collar, above a yoke of worked muslin, while below the yoke a very novel pointed effect is given, with an up. right effect in the fabric, which forms folds below a shir- ring, and is held in by a crossed belt. The front shows a continuation of the gathers under this beit; the sleeves are high apd roomy above arufile and shirring at the waist; the back of the wrapper has the same high effect above the belt, and the plaits are ip the center of the skirt. ‘The pattern for this design is No. 8010, and the price thirty-five cents, on receipt of which we will fur- nish it. All light woolens, or materials that can be washed, are suitable for this very novel and pretty model. M. C. L., Tacoma, Wash.—The clinging. close-fitting style of dress is as popular as ever, and the bell skirt is still the rage, though shorter skirts are now being made for street wear. THE EDITOR'S STRATEGY. BY SEMPER EADEM., The story that I have to tell is about Charley White and his initiation into the “society” of Nugget City. He is dead now, and I would say, “May his soul rest in peace,” if I believed it possible that there could ever be any rest for such a restless spizit. When Charley accepted the position of local editor of the Nugget City Z7imes,he was strongly advised to have nothing to do with it, as the risk was altogether out of proportion to the pay. The town had recently received an un- pleasant addition to its population, in the persons of a-large number of ‘Texas roughs and desperadoes. ‘ihese wild, lawless, and uncon- trollable men, connecting themselves with some of the worst characters from the moun- tains and the plains, who were always to be found in Nugget City, had expressed and car- ried out an intention to “run the town” to suit themselves, enforcing their ideas by a free use of the slung-shot, the bowie-knife, and the pis- tol. Any conscientious newspaper man who en- deavored to show up the misdeeds of these ruttians was sure to fall under their dis- pleasure, and to pay dearly for what they cun- sidered his impertinence. One local editor of the Zimes had been cowhided and nearly beaten to death, another had dodged a shower of pistol-bullets as he got out of town, a third had been induced to leave at the point of a knife. ‘The consequence was that the position was frequently vacant, and that it was not sought after by any who were aware of its responsibilities. But Charley White was offered a good salary, and was entirely unacquainted with fear, and he determined to go to Nugeet City. He had seen life in some of its wildest and roughest aspects, asa sailor before the mast on a voyage to Australia and the islands of Polynesia, as @ hunter and adventurer on the plains, and aye2..igur-priutec all over the West and South-west. He was rather under the usual size, but wiry and muscular, with keen eyes, steady nerves, and a cool head. Charley’s initiation began the second day after his arriyal- at Nugget City. He was standing in frout of a hotel, looking at a cara- van that was passing through the street on the way to the West, when he was tapped on | the shoulder by a tall, big-boned, rough look- ing man, who asked him to step into the saloon. This man was Bill Eads. a notorious, des- perate character, the leader of the roughs who had inaugurated a reign of terror in Nugget City. Charley complied with the request, and Eads, stepping up to the counter, asked him what he would take. “Much obliged to you, but I don’t drink.” “Don’t drink? Look-a-here, stranger, that’s played. I ain’t easy to git mad, orl would think you wanted to insult me. Wehave a way out here of telling folks that they must either drink or fight.” “TI never drink under any circumstances, and I don’t fight if I can help it.” “Tol’able cool about it,” said Eads, as he swallowed his “pison.” “I allow that you must be the new chap that’s come to the Times office.” Charley admitted that he was the “chap.” “What do you allow to do, if you don’t drink or fight?” “T expect to attend tomy business, and to do my duty as well as I can.” “All right, as long as you don’t attend to my business, or the business of any of my boys. If you put any of us in the paper, I give you fair warning that you will have to fight, or run, or git everlastin’ly chawed up.” “What is your style of fighting generally?” inquired Charley, smiling until he showed his white teeth. ; “The pistol is our best holt.” “Tam apretty fair pistol shot, though I don’t fight. As you and I are to be friends, suppose we have a little match with revol- vers, say at twenty steps, at ten dollars a shot.” “I’m your man. When and where shall it be?” “At three o’clock this afternoon, and you must choose the place somewhere out of town.” The place was fixed upon, and Charley was there promptly at the appointed time, accom- panied by Joe Geohegan, a compositor from the Times, a young man who was fond of fun and entirely devoid of fear, Joe carried in his pocket two potatoes, small and exactly similar in size and shape, one of which was_ whole, and the other was perforated by a_ bullet from Charley’s pistol. He also carried a pin, to which was attached a length of stout sewing silk. Eads was already on the ground, with a select few of his friends, and Charley re- quested him, as being the oldest “and best ac- quainted,” to take the first shot. The whole potato was placed on a stump, the distance was stepped off, and Joe squatted near the stump to watch the effect of the shots. “Tt’s darned foolishness to shoot at such a mark as that,” said Eads. “How many shots are we to have?” “The first shot that hits the mark wins ten dollars,” replied Charley. “It’s just a waste of powder and lead. I can’t hit that tater at this distance, and don’t believe any man can.” “We Can try.” “That’s so, and here goes for a straight miss.” The bully raised his pistol, aimed carefully, and fired. “Didn’t faze it!” exclaimed Joe, who ran to the stump to examine the potato. As he did so, he stuck his pin in the tater, and again spuatted on the ‘grass, holding the silk in his fingers. Charley White stepped to the line and fired wivh a quick aim. At the crack of the pistol the mark Act off the stump, and Joe hastened to pick it up, deftly substituting for it the perforated potato, which he had kept | in his sleeve for that purpose, and which he triumphantly held up to the gaze of the spec- tators. “Could you do that again, young man?” said Eads, when he had seen theeffect of the shot. “If I wanted to brag, I would say that I could do it every time,” replied Charley. “The fact is, I can do it just three times out of five. But I wouldn’t have much use for a pis- tol if I was going to fight. It is too apt to miss fire, and you might bore a half-dozen holes in a man without killing him. The knife would be my weapon.” “The knife isa sure card ina close scrim- mage.” “Yes, or at long range, if a man knows how to use it. Could you stand here and throw the point of your knife into that sapling yonder?” “Not by adurned sight. I’ve heard of In- juns doing those tricks, but I reckon they need a power of practice.” “Would you like to see me do it?” “Believe I am kinder cur’ous.” Kuife throwing was a sport with which Charley White had once been so completely fascinated that he had practiced the art until he became almost perfect in it, excelling most of the Indians, and nearly equaling the Japanese knife-throwers of the present day. He had practiced for this occasion, and knew that he had not lost the knack. He stood at the place he had indicated, holding a heavy bowie-knife in his right hand, with the blade under his wrist and pointing toward his elbow. After measuring the distance with his eye, he threw up his arm, and then launched it out, and the knife sped like a streak of light toward the mark, struck the sapling, and hung quivering in the wood. Charley was obliged to make two more throws for the satisfaction of Eads and the other spectators, who were not backward in| expressing their wonder and admiration at, his skill. “T have another weapon,” he said, “that suits me betterthan either the pistol or the knife; but I suppose you have never seen it, even if you have heard of it. Here it is.” He took from under his coat a crooked stick of hard wood, pointed at each end—in fact, an Australian boomerang, a relic of his South Sea experience. “What do you call that thing?” asked Eads, whose mouth expanded into a grinas he looked at the queer stick. “That,” said Charley, “is a boomerang, a kangaroo killer, a weapon with which I can hit a man around the corner as well asif he were in plain sight.” “Git out!” “You shall see. . I will throw it at Joe, yon- der, and it will turn without hitting him, and will come back to me.” Charley tnrew the crooked stick, and it gyrated through the air, cutting all sorts of capers, until it was so near to Joe that he dodged to avoid it. Then it suddenly turned, whirled its way back, and fell to the ground at its owner’s feet. “Now I will throw it toward the west, and you will see it turn and hit that sapling in which I stuck my knife.” The boomerang did so, striking the young tree with some force, but not hard erough to fix itself in the wood. Charley then threw it on the ground, and it leaped over the prairie like a live thing, de- scribing the most eccentric figures, until it turned and came whirling back, bounding : the ground bebind him. Eads Charley as he picked up the boomerang and wiped it, and all looked at it curiously and wonderingly; but none dared to touch it. Some were of the opinion that it was alive, craft, and others declared that it could be nothing less than Satan himself. “Tell you what itis, young man,” said Eads; “you can’ shoot a pistol to win on; you can fling a knife to beat any redskin on the perairy ; you can hit a feller with that whang- doodle of yours as well where he ain’t as where he is; and IT reckon you’ll do. Ain’t in a hurry for them ten dollars, are you?” “Not a bit of it.” “Come around to George’s to-night, and we’ll have asupper. Perairy chickens, and antelope, and buffler-hump, and all the fixin’s. Sha’n’t cost you acent, and I’ll introduce you to the boys. supper, and was duly introduced to boys,” and entered into asort of a treaty : and his comrades gathered around | | | Bring that little Irishman, too.” | . ' ry * | neck, runs through underground conduits, from one man- Charley promised to do so, and went to the} jole ; heh cee Mies. anti “the | with them, the principal conditions of which | were, that he should write such reports for the Times as he chose to write, so long as he! did nothing out of malice or personal spite. | Thereafter the laws were better respected, and | there was a marked improvymeent in the tone | of “society” at Nugget City. Charley White pursued the uneven tenor ot his way, gaining friends on all sides, until, one unlucky day when he was taking notes of a street fight, he was hit and mortally wounded by a bullet intended for another man, and the position of local editor of the Zimes again be- came vacant. ———— Pleasant Paragranhs. BY CHARLES W. FOSTER. Power of Example. First Footpad—‘They say this ’ere electrocutin’ is more humane than hangin’ he Second Footpad—‘Yep.” : ““An’ they say that’s why they adoptered it, ’cause it’s more humane. See?’ “Yer. “Well, let’s use sand-bags hereafter. humane than chokin’.” That’s more In Fashion. Housekeeper—“‘Those new potatoes you sent us are no bigger than hickory-nuts.” Dealer—*Yes’m; they’re right in fashion, mum. They’re what are called the ‘small and early,’ mum.” Change in the Weather. Mrs. Spinks—‘‘Where is the money you have been saving up for arainy day ?” Mr. Spinks—‘'In the Neverbreak Savings Bank.” Mrs. Spinks—‘Well, give me a check for some of it. I want a new waterproof.” The Acme of Bliss. Cholly—“‘My bwother is in luck. as floor-walkah in a dry-goods store. sixteen hours a day.”’ Awther—‘‘I cawn’t see the luck.” Cholly—*You cawn’t? Why, his pawnts can nevah bag at the knees.” He's got a place He is there Dante Never Saw It. Jinks—‘‘I don’t believe Dante’s description of the Inferno is correct.” Winks—““Why not?” Jinks—‘‘Not one of the shades said to any other shade: ‘Is this hot enough for you?” Entirely Too Modest. Mrs. De Plaine—“T am so delighted by my photo- graph that I have brought you a little present.” Photographer (modestly)—“I really don’t deserve such a testimonial, madam. Give it to that gentle- man over there.” “Does he assist you ?”’ “Yes. He does the retouching.” Significant. . Wife (who is without a girl)—‘Why, the atmos- phere of this kitenen is blue. What causes it?” Husband (who has been trying to get breakfast)— “T have just burnt my fingers.” The Reporter’s Half-Holiday. New Reporter (tired out)—‘*To-day is Saturday, and you know this State now has a Saturday half- holiday law which or City Editor—“By Jinks! I nearly forgot it. out and vet up a five-column article on how the day is being observed.” An American Mystery. American Citizen (with morning paper)—‘‘Most re- markable thing I everheard in my life. most remark- able. Beats all what queer things happen nowadays. Can’t understand it all. Well! well!” Wife—‘‘Dear me! What have you learned?” American Citizen —*Most extraordinary thing. The political boodlers who have been robbing us for twenty years were up for re-election yesterday and were defeated, actually defeated, just think of it,” Rush |} IT. B. Told Him Why. Mr. Nicefello (cautiously)—*Why are you so cold and distant ?” Sweet Girl (quietly)—The fire has gone out, and this sofa is too heavy for me to move up to your chair.” A Murderer’s Sad Fate. First Thug—‘Bill Blugeon has been convicted 0’ murder.” Second Thug—“Poor fellow! Now they'll lock’im up, an’ his lawyers will apply fer a new trial, an’ poor Bill ull die of old age before he gits it.” Elevation Desirable. Lady (with high hat)—“I beg your pardon, but I forgot my opera-glass. Would you kindly lend me yours just a moment?” Tyrant Man (in seat behind)—*Very sorry, madam, but I need it to sit on.” “John” Hangs Back. Christian Lady—‘‘Why dvn’t you come to our Sun- day-school, John ?’ “John” Wan Lee—*Me flaidee Clistian hoodlums sinashee head.” Nip and Tuck. Theatrical Manager—“Rush off and engage the heroine of that fashionable divorce scandal for next season. Tell her we'll furnish the play, and ward- robe, and——” Assistant—Too late. The editor of a magazine has already started her to writing a novel.” A Safe Horse. Purchaser—‘‘Now, remember, horse fearless of steam,’’ Dealer (pocketing the money)--“‘That’s so. He ain’t ’fraid of no steam. He don't scare at nawthin’ ’cept bicycles an’ flying leaves an’ pieces o’ paper an’ such things.” you warrant this Old and New Schools. Modern Actor—“T can’t play in that piece. role does not fit me.” Old Time Manager—‘I thought you actor.” ‘ Modern Actor—‘No, only a star.” The were an SELECTED PLEASANTRIES. A TERRIBLE WARNING.—Judge (to woman arrested for shoplifting)—‘*When did you begin this sort of thing ?”” Woman (weeping)—‘I began by picking my hus- band’s pockets at night when he was asleep. Then the descent was easy.’’—N. Y. Press. A CHIP OF THE OLD BLock.—A Washington man has a bright youngster who succeeded recently in getting even with his father in a very telling though unconscious manner. His father Was reproving the little fellow’s table manners. j “Don't do that,” said he, ‘or we'll have to call you a little pig.” The warning seemed to be lost, for the fault was repeated. _ “Do you know what a pig is ?” was the inquiry, put in a solemn manner. “Yes, sir.’ “What is it?’ “A pig is a hog’s little boy.” The lesson in etiquette was suspended. Washington Star. WAGGS WAS IN ERROR.—Waggs (to young matron with the perambulator)—*Good-morning, Mrs. Full- bloom. Are you taking the son out for an airing, or the heir out for a sunning?’ e Mrs. Fullbloom—*‘Neither, Mr. Waggs. Baby is a girl.” —Life. 5 PULVERIZED.—Cumso—‘‘I thought you were let in on the ground floor in that stock deal.” Fangle—"I was, and was ground fine, too.” Detroit Free Press. BACON SUCCEEDED AT LAST.—Miss Fussanfeather —'‘*Mr. Bacon asked me if I loved him last night.” Mrs. Fussanfeather—*Indeed! And what did you say ?”’ Miss Fussanfeather—‘'I refused to tell him at first; ‘ piri ° ) 1g | but he finally succeeded in squeezing it out of me.” over his head. and sticking itself upright in | Yonkers Statesman. Customer—‘‘Mr. Spicer, your black tea is just full of dead flies.” Grocer—My, my; and [told that boy to put them in the spice-box.’’— Boston Gazette. The man who sings “I would not live alway, T ask not to stay,” loudest in a prayer meeting, sends for ; é : | the doctor when there’s anything the matter with others “allowed” that it was a piece of witch- | ; him just as quick as the man who keeps a policy shop.—Arkansas Trdveler. A man’s political friends are not always the men he would like to trade horses with.— Columbus Post. ipany ad- has been ly Derrick, The manager of an Ethiopian concert con vertises his show as ¢] cause i chaste, } chased out of so many towns.— 0 Oldstick calls his girl sweet.—Boston Transcript. ag Revenge pectadse sue Is 586 pe 0 Items of Interest. A trained terrier, with a light cord attached to his to another, in London streets. Thus electric wires are safely and hurriedly drawn from station to station. The plow with which Israel Putnam was at work when he heard of the battle of Lexington, and which he instantly deserted to hasten to Bunker Hill, is used as a sign by a hardware dealer in Danielsonville, Conn. Two neighbors in Rutherford, N. J., went to law about a rooster, which it was asserted one of them had maliciously killed. ‘he rooster cost 25 cents. The case cost the two families $200. The largest horse in the world was that owned by ‘ tidgeway, of Fort Worth, Texas. The animal died afew days ago in that city. He was 22 hands high, and weighed 1,200 pounds. A rogue in Crawfordsville, Ind., was indicted for “stealing a box of cigars.” It was proved that he left the box and only took the cigars. He was therefore acquitted. Men with cleanly shaven faces are less likely to take the grip, than those who wear full beards. The beard, it is declared, affords a lodgment for the grip mi- crobes. A London street preacher, recently arrested, proved to be the pal of pickpockets. He drew a crowd and prayed, while his accomplices preyed upon the crowd. Mail thieves made a big haul near St. Cloud, Minn. They robbed a mail wagon on its way to the railroad, and secured a pouch containing $50,000. A female preacher in Page County, Va., has made application to the County Court for permission to per- form the marriage ceremony. Glass beads pass as money in parts of Africa. In Masai, five blue beads will buy a woman, but ten of them are necessary to buy a cow. When a Paris policeinan joins the force he gets 77 centsaday. After twelve years’ service his pay is ad- vanced to 85 cents a day. A boy, while wading in a pond in Jefferson County, | Fla., was struck by an alligator’s tail, and had his leg | broken in two places A house in Summerville, Ga., has been three times struck by lightning—each time immediately after a new tenant moved in, A swarm of locusts six miles wide recently dark- ened Graham’s Town, Cape Town, Africa. ‘they were flying seaward. The Navajo Indians shun a habitation where a death has occurred. In its territory are numerous aban- doned huts. An oil painting constantly hung in a dark place loses some of its vividness, and therefore depreciates in value, At a woman’s suffrage meeting in London, some of the belligerent fema.es engaged in a disgraceful fight. Charles Brandt, a dairyman of Lebanon, Pa., has a four-year-old daughter who milks six cows every day. A huge wine-cask, the capacity of which is 66,000 gallons, has just been constructed in Toledo, Odio. Wellsville, Mo., has nearly twice as inany dogs as inhabitants. It has 1,740 residents, and 3.400 dogs. A calf with two heads was recently born on the tari of Jacob Lower, at McKnightstown, Pa. A clergyman, in Gardiner, Me., permits his con- gregation to select the texts for his sermons. This is a big country. It contains land enough to give every person in it a farm of 160 acres. A game-cock gaffed Edward Merker, of Covington, Ky., and caused fatal blood-poisoning, In Germany there are 629,987 persons named Muller —one-seventy-third of the population, Two thousand children under two years of age die yearly in Paris from tuberculosis. The cocoon of a healthy silk-worm will often yield a thread 1,000 yards in length. History fails to record that any Indian has ever been killed by lightning. A fall of black snow lately astonished the residents of.Geneva, Switzerland. A hot spring in Boise City, Idaho, supplies heat to many of the dwellings. 4 A human body, when cremated, leaves a residuum | of about eight ounces. There are three thousand female compositors in the United States. Physicians’ carriages have the right of way in the streets of Berlin. Among the members of the German Parliament are six cigar-makers. Wild pigeons abound in the canyons of Southern California. The Vatican is to be illuminated by e lectricity. Chinamen drink all their wines hot.