~e

NEXT WEEK

=>

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Vol. 47.

Office 31
P.O. Box 2734 N.Y.

Rose St.

 

Entered According to Act of Congress, in the Year 1892, by Street & Smith, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, Washington, D. C.

New York, September 24, 1892.

 

ARREST OF GORDON OSBORNE IN THE CRAND CENTRAL DEPOT.

K SANS

X 7 . =
“as /
| | it
ti} a
, i
iff itt :

a im)
AND NEWPORT

Hi

oe
hall z

 

EVELYN STOOD AT THE FOOT OF THE STEPS LEADING TO THE

A FOR

UPPER DECK, GAZING

UPON THE MARQUIS WHO RUSHED TO THE

! MY LOVE

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

Three Dollars Per Year,
Two Covies Five Dollars.

IN THE MI

Ait Gai Gia

HIS LIPS WERE
s ?

 

END OF THE PIER, FRANTIC WITH RAGE AT

THE ESCAPE OF HIS INTENDED VICTIM.

 

EVELYN,
whe Pretty Factory Girl;

OR,

MARRIED AT THE LOOM.

By JULIA EDWARDS,

Author of ‘Beautiful Viola,” ‘Tempted to Leave Her Lover,” ‘Beautiful, but Poor,”
“The Little Widow,” Ete.

CHAPTER I.

“I BELIEVE THAT EVERY HEART HAS ITS MATE,
AND WHEN I MEET MY FATE, I WILL GIVE
MYSELF TO HIM, BE HE THE POOREST MAN
ON EARTH!”

“Papa says I must, but I tell you, Clara, I
never will marry that odious marquis.”

She was a saucy, piquant, blue-eyed fairy,
beautiful as a dream, and as willful as she
was beautiful. The two girls made a picture
for an artist as they stood facing each other;
Clara so brilliant in her dark, brunette beauty,
and Evelyn, the saucy little speaker, so radi-
ant and ravishing in her bewilderiug fairness.

“How can you call him odious?” cried Clara,
warmly. “He is the handsomest man I ever
saw, and I think it would be grand to bea
marchioness,”

“Then marry him yourself,” laughed Evelyn.
“You are welcome to him. I detest him, and
I won’t marry him.”

“Would you really refuse to obey your
father?” demanded Clara, a singular expres-
sion flashing into her dark eyes. “You know

e has sev his heart on having you make a

rand alliance, and will be furious if you
thwart him.”

“I know,” retorted. Evelyn, tossing. her
dainty little head till its ‘crown of golden
curls danced again about her white forehead;
“he is determined to win his way into the
most exclusive cireles of -high society, but I
don’t eare a fig for the marquis. JI won’t
marry him; and that is all there is to be said

 

about it.
him.”

“He is not likely to ask a poor dependent to
be his marchioness,” said Clara, bitterly.

“Why should he care how much money you
have?” asked Evelyn, scornfully. “You are
beautiful, and he has all the wealth that is
necesSary.”

“But these foreign lords always expect a
fortune when they take American girls for
their wives,” replied Clara,

“Then I say,” cried Evelyn, spiritedly, toss-
ing her curly head, “that American girls had
better send the foreign lords about their busi-
ness. I would rather marry an honest Ameri-
can than the richest lord that lives; and I
wouldn’t care how poor the American was,
either.”

Clara laughed scornfully.

“You marry a poor man!” she exclaimed.
“You know there isn’t a prouder girl in New
York than you are.”

“YT don’t care,” declared Evelyn, her blue
eyes flashing: “I believe that every heart has
its mate, And when I meet my fate I will
give myself to him, be he the poorest man on
earth,”

“And I wouldn’t marry a poor man, if I
never married,” said Clara. “I think poverty
is the hatefulest thing on earth.”

“You know what the poet says,” laughed
Evelyn, and sang:

You may have him, if you want

“ ‘Sell your hand for gold,
Your fate shall be woe untold!
Give your heart for love,
Your life shall be as heaven above!’ ”

“T don’t believe it,” said Clara, scornfully;
“and you don’t. Wait until the marquis asks

you to be his marchioness, and see if you
don’t accept.”

“Never !”

“Then why don’t you give handsome Gordon
Osborne some _ encouragement?” demanded
Clara. “You know he is dying of love for

”

ou.

7 “T don’t know it,” retorted: Evelyn, blush-
ing furiously, however.

“Yes, you do know it, and if he were a rich
man you would have let him tell you so be-
fore this. You are a terrible coquette, Evelyn.
You smile at Gordon, and lead him on to talk
to you when your father is around, but never
give the poor fellow a chance io say a word
to you alone.”

“It seems to me,” cried Evelyn, hotly, “that
you take a great deal of interest in Go don
Osborne.”

“He is one of the handsomest men I ever
saw, if he is only your father’s clerk,” said
Clara.

 

And as she spoke she looked by chance into
the great mirror over the mantel, and saw a
figure approaching. Instantly a change passed
over her darkly beautiful face, and she con-
tinued to speak, raising her voice so that it
would be impossible for the approaching per-
son to fail to hear:

“And what is more, Evelyn, I know that
you love him as much as he loves you.”

“How do you know whom I love?” cried
Evelyn, indignantly, the hot blood suffusing
her fair round cheek. “If Gordon Osborne
loves me as you Say, there is no reason why
he should not tell meso. When he does, it
will be time enough for any one to presume to
know how I feel toward him,”

Clara laughed.

“Tf you never give him the opportunity,”
she said, “how can he tell you? But
there, I must go arrange the flowers,” and
she ran off. going out by a door opposite that
in which the young man stood.

He was very pale, but in his magnificent
brown eyes there was a look of hope as well
as of longing; for he had heard the words of
the two girls, and for the first time since the
wonderful day on which he had first met
Evelyn Sherwood, he had felt the glow of
hope within his breast,

“Miss Evelyn,” he said, in a voice that
trembled in ‘spite of his utmost effort to keep
it steady, “your father wished——”

She turned quickly, a crimson flush on_ her
lovely cheek.

“Oh!” she cried, her consternation showing
in her tone. “Is it you, Mr. Osborne? How
long have you been there?”

 

eyes eagerly devouring the downcast face, so

winsome and beautiful. “Your father wished
me to tell you to come to him in the library.”

“I will go at once,” she said, flashing a
glance up at him out of her wonderful eyes,
and hastening to leave the room.

“Miss Evelyn,” he said, in a choking voice.

She stopped and looked shyly up.

“I—I think,” he went on, hesitatingly, “that
your father intends to speak to you about the
suit of the Marquis of Easland.”

“Oh, I hate that man!” she cried, impetu-
ously.

“Then I pity him,” said Gordon.

“You pity him!” she cried, in astonishment.
“Why should you?”

“Because,” he added, his breath coming and
going quickly, “I can think of nothing so
terri ble as your hate. IiI thought you hated
me——

He stopped and: toyed nervously with the
brown mustache that the girls all thought so
adorable. ivelyn tapped the floor with her
tiny foot, wondering impatiently why he did
not finish what he was saying.

“Well,” she said, at last, laughing mis-
chievously, “would you kill yourself if I hated
you? Is that what you were going to say?”

“No,” he replied, drawing nearer to her, as
if unable to control his movements, “there
would be no need to kill myself; I would die
of despair.”

“How dreadful!” she laughed. “Then you
must be careful to make me like you.”

“Ah! if I only knew how!” he breathed.
“Miss Evelyn,” he went on, hurriedly, “for-
give my presumption, but I would give my
life to know how to make you like me! Oh,
Evelyn, my darling, I mean love me. Do not
shrink from me! I did not mean _ ever to say
this—I know the folly of it, and I know my
own unworthiness, but, my love, my mad
worship of you, has made the words come.

h, my beautiful darling, when I think of
that foreign lord winning you for his wife, I
almost go mad. Sweetheart!” and he impetu-
ously clasped her about the waist, “can you
give me just one little word of encourage-
ment? If you only knew the madness of my
love, Iam sure you would pity me!”

She did not withdraw herself from his Jov-
ing arms, but let her little head fall on his
manly breast, and looked shyly up at him for
a brief moment, whispering:

“I do pity you.”

“Only pity?” he cried, eagerly. “Oh, my
sweet, let me look once again into your beau-
| teous eyes! My soul seems all aflame with the
(love that consumes me, and I am intoxicated
with a hope I dare not believe in until I see

 

“T have but just come,” he answered, his | once more into your heart through your eyes.”
* > . > - a

He strained her to him, and once more she

| love to Gordon Osborne?”

 

bent her head back until her eyes were fixed
on his, drinking in the flood of passsionate
love that poured from them.

“Oh, can I believe it? Can I believe it?” he
gasped. “Oh, my darling, say’ you love me.
Tell me that the heaven I see in your blue
eyes is for me.”

“YT love you, Gordon !”.her lips rather formed
than uttered.

And then they could have said no more, for
in an instant his lips were glued to hers, and
their two souls swam ina seaof bliss and
ecstasy.

But while they stood there, folded in each
other’s arms, and forgetful of all the world in
their happiness, Clara Sherwood, Evelyn’s
cousin, stood in the concealment of a window-
curtain in the drawing-room beyond, watch-
ing them.

“T knew she loved him,” she muttered, “and
I have brought them together. Now to drive
her to.defiance of her father’s will, so that he
will disinherit her, as he swore he would.
Then he will make me his heir, and the mar-
quis will turn to me, and my heart’s dream
will be realized.”

—————_

CHAPTER II.

‘A GIRL ALWAYS KNOWS BY THE THROBBING
OF HER HEART WHEN TRUE LOVE COMES TO
HER.”

“T do not love you; then why should I wed 2?”

“For my title, iy wealth, my lands,” he said.
“But what should Ido when my poor heart cried ?”’
“Stifle your nature and foster your pride.”

“But my heart asks for love, and have love must.”
‘Then live in a cottage, dine on a crust.”

“T like the advice,” she court’sied and laughed ;
“For full to the brim love’s cup I have quaffed;
And this I do know, and know it right well,
Llove my dear love more than tongue ean tell;
And rather I’d starve with him by my side,
Than feast and wear satin, a prince’s bride,”

The Marquis of Easland had asked to see
Evelyn, and she was preparing to descend to
the drawing-room, where he awaited her.

“Are you sure that you will have the cour-
age to refuse him, and brave your father?”
demanded Clara, her dark eyes eagerly search-
ing the fair, beautiful face of her cousin.

“Have I not told you that I have given my
replied Evelyn.

“But if you refuse the marquis, your father
will have to know of it, and have you the
courage to face his wrath?” asked Clara.

“T dare anything for my love,” replied Eve-
lyn, as she swept out of the room.

“Ah, my dear Mees Evelyn,” said the noble
marquis, when his black eyes rested on her

 

“TRAGKED ACROSS THE ATLANTIO; OR, NIGK GARTER AFTER THE SMUGGLERS.”

a, ita

 

 

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ravishing young face, “eet ees such a plaisure
to see you,”

“Thank you,” was Evelyn’s curt answer.

The marquis lifted his eyebrows at the short
greeting, and thought to himself that the
young American girl, knowing his errand,
was anxious to have him declare it at once.

“YT haf come,” he said, suavely, and with
exquisite politeness, “by ze wish of your
fazer, to beg of you ze honnaire of zat leetle
hand.”

He smiled, stepped toward her with a most
assured air, and pressed his hand to his
heart. She arose and drew back coldiy.

“Pardon me, marquis,” she said, “if I do
not respond as you would wish. I appreciate
the honor you do me, but Icannot be your
wife.”

“Cannot!” he cried, in very evident astonish-
ment. “But your fazer assure me zat you will
be so,”

‘““My father cannot dispose of me without
my own consent,” she said, proudly. “I will
never give my hand without my love, and I
do not love you.”

“Ah!” he cried, “eef zat ees all, eet ees
easily learn, Mees Evelyn. You do not luf me

yet, because you haf not had ze time. ‘Take ze |

time, and learn ze great lufI shall haf ze
great plaisure in teach him to you.”

“No, marquis,” she answered. ““I could
never learn to love you. I think a girl always
knows by the throbbing of her heart when
true love comes to her.”

“Zen I will cause zat leetle heart to
throb,” he said, endeavoring to get near
enough to circle her waist with his arm,

“Stop, marquis,” she said, haughtily. “IfT
can convince you of the hopelessness of your
suit in no other way, I must tell you that my
love is given to another. [Tam the promised
bride of Gordon Osborne.”

“ Aha!” he exclaimed, angrily.

“And you will excuse me if I close this in-
terview,” she went on, with a charming dig-
nity. “It must be as unpleasant to you as it
is painful to me.”

She bowed and glided from the room, leav-
ing the noble marquis to look after her re-
treating form with a scowl of rage on his
face, and a muttered malediction on his lips.

“Curse you, Gordon Osborne!” he mut-
tered. “Have you crossed my path with your
handsome face and winning ways? But you
shall not have her, Beware of my vengeanre!”

“Do not grieve my lord,” said a_ soft
voice behind him. “She is not worthy of your
love, because she cannot appreciate its value.”

He wheeled quickly about, and confronted
the dark eyes and beautiful face of Clara
Sherwood. A smile lighted up his counte-
nance, effacing the dark scowl that had pre-
viously convulsed it.

“Oh, ees eet you, Mees Clara? Do you tell
me not to grieve?” he said.

“Why should you?” she asked, softly, her
eyes drooping before his bold gaze. “If there
were no other to take her place, it might be
different. But she will never love you, and
there may be others who surely will.”

A smile flitted over the handsome but
wicked mouth of the nobleman, and he drew
so near to the girl that she could feel his
breath fan her hair. Then she felt his arm
stealing around her, and she was drawn closer
to him.

“And you,” he murmured, “you who are so
beautiful, could you luf me?’

“Ah, my lord!” she breathed, ecstatically,
“who could help it?”

The same wicked smile played about his
lips, as he bent over her and pressed a linger-
ing kiss full on her budding red lips.

“And you would help me to puneesh zat in-
solent fellow who would presume to be ze
rival of ze Marquis of Easland?” he asked.
a Yes,” she replied, hotly, “for I, too, hate

im.”

He would have said more, but at that mo-
ment there came a ring at the bell, and Clara
whispered:

“It is Gordon Osborne. He comes every day
while my uncle is ill, to make a report of the
business. Heis uncle’s confidential clerk.
Coyne into the conselyatory, where; we; may
talk without intbrruftion, and from 4vhere
we cansee if Gordon and Evelyn meet,”

And so it happened that when Gordon Os-
borne entered the drawing-room, to wait for
Evelyn, to whom he had sent word of his
presence, there was no one else there.

“Oh, my darling!” he cried, as the beautiful
girl entered the room. “I have hardly dared
believe that what happened yesterday was
the blessed truth. But now, as I look into
your beautiful face, I know that Heaven has
indeed been as kind as I had dreamed.”

He folded her close in his strong arms, and
rained the sweet kisses on her rosebud lips,
his very soul seeming to melt into hers.

“Oh, Gordon, my dear love!” she murmured,
“it seems too good to be true.”

“I am poor,” he said, “but, my Evelyn, I
will strive hard for your sake to become rich.”

“Do not say so,” shesaid. “I would like
nothing so well as to prove to you that I
could be happy with your love alone. Since I
have felt the bliss of love in my heart I have
learned to despise everything else. I wonld
like to go far away from everybody, to be
alone with you. Surely no girl ever before
loved as I do!*”

“My darling Evelyn!” he cried. “But, ah!
my heart misgives me that your father will
never consent.”

“I do not know,” replied Evelyn, turning |
pale. “He is determined that I shall marry |
the Marquis of Easland.”

“But you will not,” cried Gordon, quivering
with agony at the mere thought.

“T have told the marquis this very afternoon
that I will never marry him,” she replied,
her little hand wandering to his face an
tenderly caressing his curling brown mus.
tache,

“Thank Heaven!’ exclaimed Gordon, fer-
vently. “Oh, my darling, if I were to lose
you, I should go mad. Had I not better be
brave, and tell your father that we love each
other? He may be kind, and consent to our
union. He has always been fond of me, and
you know he has never refused any request of
yours.”

“Yes, tell him,” she replied.
you here.”

“T will await

 

CHAPTER III.

“TATE HAS BROUGHT US TOGETHER OUT OF ALL
THE HEARTS IN THE WORLD, AND NOTHING
SHALL EVER PART US.”

Old Roger Sherwood was a proud, hard
man. His Evelyn was the apple of his eye,
and he had never denied her aught she had
asked for, in all her willful young life.

But he had ever put the success of his
schemes before everything else, and he was
little likely to change now. He had set his
heart on being ranked with the aristocracy of
New York, and had decided that there could
be no better way than to make an alliance
with a nobleman from the old world.

He knew that the marquis was to speak to
Evelyn that afternoon, and it was of that that
he was thinking when Gordon Osborne was
announced to him as he satin his library,
suffering the tortures of rheumatism.

“Be brief with your report, Gordon,” he
said, shortly, though not unkindly, for it was
true that he had always, for some reason, been
fond of the young man.

So Gordon. with his mind full of what he
had to say about Evelyn, made his report to
the millionaire merchant, and was glad to be
brief in making it. But when it was finished,
and he did not rise to go, the old man looked
inquiringly at him from under his shaggy
brows.

“Ts there anything more?” he demanded.

“Nothing about the business,” answered Gor-
don, hesitatingly, for he dreaded the storm of
wrath that was almost sure to follow his dis-
closure.

“Well, say it quickly, for I have other mat-
ters to think of,” said the merchant prince.

“It is about your daughter, Evelyn,” said
Gordon, manfully. “I wish to have your per-
mission to make her my wife.”

“Then listen!

! For afew moments it seemed as if the old

merchant would not believe the evidence of
his ears. Then he caught the arm of his chair
as if he would rise from it, and roared out, in
a voice choked with rage:

“What did you @y? My daughter—your
wife? Did you dare to say such a thing to me?”

Gordon Osborne drew himself up proudly to
the full height of his manly form, and
answered:

“Tt is true, sir, I asked you for the hand of
your daughter in marriage. I love her and she

oves me, and I believe, sir, that she will
marry no other than me,”

Roger Sherwood was almost choked with
rage. Was this to be the end of the plans he
had made? Never! He raised his clenched
hand and shook is at the young man.

“You are ascoundrel! a sneaking scoundrel !
You have taken advantage of your opportunity
to enter my house to carry on your base
schemes to win my daughter. But you shall
not succeed. Leave my house this instant,
and never dare enter it again. And I discharge
you from my employ. My daughter shall never
be your wife. I would disinherit her if she so
} much as thought of such a thing. Nota word
in reply. Got”

Gordon bowed and turned to go.

He would have tried to make some defense
against the harsh accusations of the merchant,
but he knew it would be useless, and so he
left without a word.

Evelyn was waiting for him, and rushed
into his arms the moment he entered the
drawing-room,

“What did papa say?” she cried.

He faraat word for word, the terrible
things the merchant had said to him. He held
her close in his arms as he: told her, and she
knew by the tremor in his voice, and by the
look of agony and despair in his eyes, that he
feared that it was all over between them.

“ And does he think I will give you up?” de-
manded she, when he had ceased to speak.

“What!” said Gordon, a light of hope and
ecstasy gleaming in his dark eyes, “you will
not let him separate us, my darling?”

“T am yours, my darling,” she eried. “Fate
has brought us together out of all the hearts
in the world, and nothing shall ever part us.”

“But what will you do? He says he will dis-
inherit you if you even think of me.”

She looked up into his face with that sub-
lime devotion which only a woman can show,
and answered, softly:

“T will leave it to you to 1% what we shall
do, Gordon. Try meandsee if I am not worthy
of your best and dearest love.”

He pressed her to his breast with an impas-
sioned fervor that told how he appreciated her
trust, and his lips, fastened to hers, drank in
great draughts of love and happiness.

“TI dare not remain now,” he whispered,
after a moment’s reflection. “If we are seen
talking here it will give rise to suspicion.
Will you meet me this evening at the cottage
of an aunt of mine in Westchester? Here is
the address. She is devoted to me, and will
be faithful. There we can talk and make our
plans for the future. Meanwhile I can be
thinking about them. Will you come, darling?”

“JT will come,” answered Evelyn, looking
trustfully in his eyes. “I will say I am going
to visit a friend, and I will be there at half-
past eight.”

Ah! could she have foreseen what the result
of that visit would be, she would have died
rather than make it.

But it is not given to mortal eyes to look
ahead, and Eyelyn, light of heart, and full of
joyous hope, betook her way to the cottage in
Westchester that evening, saying at home that
she was going to visit a friend.

Gordon met her and led her into the cottage,
where he had been waiting for her, saying, as
he did so: 7

“ Aunt Kate has gone to nurse a sick neigh-
bor, but will be home soon.”

No thought of any impropriety in being there
alone entered their heads, and they occupied
the little parlor, letting the time pass in those
hlissful interchanges of caresses which are so

 

 

 

If he had had room in his thoughts for any-
thing besides his preparations and his. love,
he might have noticed that all through the
day, he had been shadowed by a man, who
never for an instant lost sight of him.

And perhaps if he had seen the man, he
would haye endeavored to ayoid him, in which
case the sorrow that fell upon him would
have been turned aside. The man who fol-
lowed him was no other than the Marquis of
Easland ; and there was an ugly expression on
his face as he persistently kept on the track
of Gordon Osborne throughout that long day.

Once only, and that was when Gordon min-
gled with the crowd entering the Grand Cen-
tral Depot, did the marquis approach near
enough to him to touch him. Then, with won-
derful dexterity, he sumpee something from
his own pocket into. the side-pocket of Gur-
don’s coat, and immediately was lost in the
crowd.

No one had seen him do it, and he drew
back and stationed himself’ in a place where
he could keep his eye on Gordon,

The latter had already secured his ticket to
Boston, but the train not being ready to
receive passengers, he took a seat in the wait-
ing-rooin and sat down to dream happy
dreams of his loved one, who would doar ba
on her way to Boston on the Fall River boat
Pilgrim. '

It delighted him to try to picture how she
would act during the long eoruey and how
delighted she would be when he met her in
Boston, and put.ber in a carriage to go with
her to the clergyman who would make them
one,

He was smiling over the dream when he was
approached by a grim, alert-looking man,
who, after a brief scrutiny of him, stepped
quietly to his side, and said in a low voice:

“Better not make any fuss, Gordon Osborne.
I have a warrant for your arrest.”

“For my arrest!” cried Gordon, in dismay,
wondering what strange mistake had been
made,

“Now what’s the use of making any trou-
ble?” said the man. “Don’t you see you are
attracting attention? Come along quietly,

e# THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3——

casting off the aae-pianks, He put his fingers
in his mouth and blew a shrill whistle. The
men stopped for a second to look at him as he
flew down the wharf, but at the stern com-
mand of the captain continued their labor.

The gang-planks were drawn on board, the
great hawsers werethrown off, and just as the
panting marquis reached the string-piece, the
steamer was many feet out in the stream. He
started on again, and rushed to the end of the
pier.

“Curse you!” he sereamed,
“Why didn’t you wait for me?”

He looked up and saw the beautiful girl he
sought, standing at the foot of the steps lead-
ing to the upper deck, Her wondering eyes
were fixed upon him.

y Pifty dollars fora row-boat to take me on
board !” he yelled.

But the bystanders only laughed at him.

_ “The Pilgrim could never be caught by a
row-boat,” they said.

And he knew they spoke the truth when he
saw how the noble boat headed down the
a and sped away like an arrow from the

Ow.

“She has escaped me for the moment,” he
muttered, “but I shall be on her track, and it
will not. be long ere I have made her mine. I
know where she has gone, and I will follow

er.

in his rage,

 

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

serious Mall Rolhery

»

 

 

et

NICK CARTER’S U. 8. GOVERNMENT CASE,

- By the Author of **NICK CARTER.”

 

 

 

will you?”

“Not until I know the meaning of this out-
rage,” replied Gordon, firmly.

A crowd gathers quickly at the least excuse
in a great city, and already the people were
flocking to the scene where a handsome man
was resisting one whom everybody instinct-
ively recognized as a detective.

“The meaning,” said the detective, dex-
trously slipping a pair of handcuffs on Gor-
don’s wrists, “isthat you are arrested for rob-
bing the safe of Sherwood & Co.”

Gordon laughed.

“Nonsense ake off these manacles. You
have no right to try to disgrace me. You have
made a strange mistake.”

“Have I?” said the detective, and with a
rapid movement searched Gordon's pockets.
“Ah! what’s this?”

He drew out the package the marquis had
deposited in Gordon’s pocket and tore off the
covering.

“Securities!” cried Gordon, aghast. “How
came they there? They are not mine!”

“T should say not,” said the detective, sar-
castically. “Unless I am very much mistaken,
they were taken out of the safe of Sherwood &
Co. last night about midnight.”

“T was at the cottage of my aunt in West-
chester at midnight,” cried Gordon, joyously.
“T can prove it.”

“Well, ies better send for your aunt,
then,” said the detective.

“T was not with my aunt, but with——” He
stopped and the perspiration broke out on his
forehead. “No, no!” he murmured. “I will
never prove my innocentée by casting infamy
on her who has trusted me.”

; eee said the detective, “who were you
with?” j

“It does not matter,” answered Gordon, de-
spairingly, “I must go you. My inno-
cence will be established by some other means.”
The detective gmiled and winked at the

  
  

 

 

dear to lovers.

Again he tolfl per all that her father had
aad to him, and ‘she in turn repeated what
her irate parent had afterward said to her.

“He declares,” she said, finally, “that I
shall marry the marquis, or cease to be daugh-
ter of his. I have two days to think it over in.”

“But you will not change your mind, dear?”
he asked, anxiously.

“How can you ask me! No. I do not know
what I shall do, but I know I will marry no
man but him I love—you, Gordon Osborne!”
and she threw herself in his arms and nestled
close to him.

“And have you given no thought at all to
the future, my sweet?” he asked, fondling the
little curly head.

“T have left that for you,” she answered,
looking up into his eyes adoringly.

“And you believe that I will,decide well?”
he asked.

“T trust you absolutely,” she replied, gazing
firmly into his noble face. “If you think a
thing is good-for me, it must be so. Now tell
me your plans® for I know you have made
some,”

“You will not be frightened when I tell
you?” he demanded, anxiously.

“Try me, and see,” she answered, laugh-
ingly.

 

We must be married at once.
I am not so poor but I can take good care of
you for a time—until I can find something to
do. I have saved a little, and have it in the
bank. We will go to Boston, and be married

| there. To avert suspicion, you will go by the
' Fall River boat, and I will go by the cars, and
will be waiting for you, with all arrangements
'made for the wedding. Youdo not speak.
| Does the plan not suit you?”
“JT do not speak,” she answered, softly, “be-
cause I am too happy to say anything. Do you
think I would hesitate? Remember that my
father would not hesitate to turn me from his
house if I refuse to marry that cdious mar-
quis. You are offering me a home in place of
the one I shall lose.”

He folded her eestatically in his arms.

“My precious darling! You shall never
regret your great trust in me,” he said.

“T would rather die than not trust you,” she
said. “Why, what is that clock striking? It
is midnight, Gordon, and your aunt is not
home yet.” :

Then, for the first time, he thought of what
would be said if it were known that they had
been in the cottage alone; but he would not
offend her pure ears by uttering the thought.

He hastily assisted her in putting on her
hat and wrap, and accompanied her on her
way home, not leaving her until. he had seen
her admitted by the servant at her home. And
during the ride home they had arranged the
details of their romantic elopement.

 

CHAPTER IV.

“Tt WILL NEVER PROVE MY INNOCENCE BY
CASTING INFAMY ON HER WHO HAS TRUSTED
ME!”

Gordon did not. go to Sherwood & Co.’s the
next day. Not only did he dread the meeting
with his former associates, to whom he could
give no explanation of the reason for his dis-
charge from employment, but he had enough
to do to fully occupy his time.

Consequently he put the key of the safe—
there were but two keys, and he had carried
one for some time—in an envelope, wrote a
note to the manager, explaining that he had
been dismissed by Mr. Sherwood, and sent
the letter and BAF by a messenger boy.

After that he began to put his own affairs
in order. Besides the money he had in the
bank, he had a thousand dollar railroad bond.
That he sold on Wall street, in order that he
might have no difficulty in putting his hands
on all his money in case of sudden need.

He paid his landlady for the full week, tell-
ing her he was called suddenly away and
might not be able to return again; he packed
his trunk and had it conveyed to Boston by
means of his ticket which he had bought.
And in short did everything that could be
done in one day.

 

 

crowd, as if to .that it was an old dodge to
try to play the Reut, but refuse. to bring
forward a * a

He led Gordon through the throng of people,
and when they all saw how Gordon hung his
head and became pale with anguish, they said
it was easy enough to see _ that he was guilty.
But when they nearea the door of the wait-
ing-room, a gentleman stepped up to the de-
tective, and said, in authoritative tones:
“What are you doing wiz zat young man?
He can have done nossing wrong. I know very
well who he is. Mr. Osborne, pray explain zis
strange scene to me.”

“The Marquis of Easland !”
don.

The detective bowed to the man whose name
he had often seen in reports of high society
affairs.

“He is accused of safe-robbery,” he said.
“Tmpossible!” exclaimed the marquis, ina
tone of pity and incredulity that made his
unsuspecting victim believe that he must have
misjudged him in his jealousy. “I will not
believe zat. Haf good heart, Mr. Osborne. I
am sure ze charge willbe what you call dis-
missed. Can I not do something for you? Corn-
mand me!” and he looked eagerly into the
frank, unsuspecting face*of Gordon Osborne,

“T have done him wrong,” thought Gordon,
hurriedly. “Perhaps no one could be better
than he to go to Evelyn. He loves her, and
will do.what he can to save her good name.”

“May I say one word in private to the mar-
quis?” he begged of the detective.

“Well, I 8 pose there won’t be any harm in
that. Goon!”

The marquis eagerly approached Gordon,
and bent his head to listen.

“Sir,” said Gordon, hastily, “will you do
something for Miss Evelyn Sherwood?”
“Certainly! Wiz plaisure.”

“She is on the Fall River boat Pilgrim,
going to Boston, Catch the boat, and tell Eve-
lyn what has happened. And tell her that I
advise her to return home. Will you do this?”

A gleam of joy lighted up the sinister face
of the marquis, and be replied:

“Wiz ze great plaisure. How mooch time
haf 1?”

Gordon pulled out his watch.

“Only twenty minutes! but you will catch
the boat if you hurry, for it seldom goes out
on the minute. Go, go! do not wait for any-
thing more.”

He could not well have had amore zealous
assistant; for the moment the marquis under-
stood, he turned away and dashed through the

  
 

exclaimed Gor-

crowd.
“The fool!” he muttered, as he ran. “How
easily he feil into my trap! It is asI sus-

pected. They were preparing for a secret mar-
riage. Notify you, my little bird of paradise!
No, no! But I will go on to Boston with you,

change your mind about marrying me before
I am done with you.”

He sprang into a carriage in front of the
‘depot, thrusting a ten-dollar bill into the
driver’s hand.

“Take me to the Fall River pier in time to
catch the Pilgrim,” he said.

“T’ll try,” said the driver, giving a hasty
glance at his watch and snatching up the
reins.

Faster than the law allows he drove through
the crowded streets, whipping his tired horse
at every sign of flagging, and yet the marquis
sat there and cursed that he was not going
more swiftly.

“T shall lose it if he does not go faster,” he
said. “Ten doliars more if you catch the
boat!” he velled to the driver.

And so they rattled on through the streets
until the river came in sight. On one side of
the street, the man'’drew up his panting
horses.

“You can run faster than I can go,” he said,
throwing the door open. “I will wait here
for you.”

The marquis, with extraordinary agility,
leaped from the carriage and made his way
across the blocked street. The pier was not a
block away, and he sped toward it with the
swiftness of a deer,

 

As he entered it he could see the dock hands

and it will go hard if I donct make you]

(“THE MYSTERIOUS MATL ROBBERY” was commenced in
No. 34, Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents}

 

CHAPTER XLII.
SEVERAL NEW CLEWS—MORAL SUASION,

The detective found Michael awaiting him
in the parlor, but the servant wasso perplexed
by the transformation that had been wrought
that he did not know what to say.

“Michael,” said Nick, ina low tone, “you
need not be frightened, for I am the same man
who gave you the gold piece. Tell me, would
you like to earn more of them?”

“As easily ¢”

“T would.”
Can you be discreet?”
Tery.” “
“ How long have you been employed here?”
“Ten days.”
“Good! you are just the manI want. I am
going to tell you asecret. If you keep it, I will
pay you; if you reveal it, I will make you
regret it.”
“I will earn the money.”
_“Good again. The secret is, I am a detec-
tive and I want your aid. Now pay attention.
You have a brother John. He will call upon
you to-morrow night, say between ten and
eleven. I will be et brother John, and every
time I come I will have a gold piece for you.
Do you understand?”
“Perfectly.”
“In the meantime you are to. keep watch of
everything that goes on in this house and
inform me of it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know Miss Loring?”
“Certainly, sir.”

“
“

all?”

beautiful tricks of torture. I’m going to try
one of them on you. You have heard of tor-
ture, haven’t you? thumb-screws and such
things?”
“You dare not torture me!”
“Daren’t 1? Wait and see. This is the pret-
tiest trick I learned, First I blindfold you
| with a towel, thus. Next, I procure a basin—
the wash-bowl will do nieely—to catch it as
it drops.” ve
“To catch what?”
“Why, the blood, of course.”
“The blood !”

veins?” |

“Spare me! What are you going to do?”

“Bleed you, Moro, unless you will answer
my questions; and I want alot of informa-
tion, too. Come; what do you say?”

“T have told you everything already.”

set the basin here just beneath your left arm,
so. Then I open the vein im your wrist, so.”

As Nick spoke he-pressed the point of his
knife-blade into the thug’s wrist, taking care
to only prick through the skin, so that he did
not even draw a drop of blood.

Hastily taking from his pocket a bottle
that he had previously filled with tepid water,
he poured the contents upon a sponge and
allowed it to trickle upon the thug’s: wrist
and thence down his fingers until it dropped
into the basin upon the floor,

“Simple and painless, isn't it, Moro?” he
said, in his most gentle tone. “I dislike to
inflict bodily pain, you see: This is what I call
moral suasion; doesn’t hurt, does ir?”

Moro groaned.

“IT. have nicely calculated this thing,” con-~
tinued Nick. “At the rate the fluid is drop-
ping now, it will take just one hour and forty-
four minutes to finish you,” se

“Are you a fiend?” gasped Moro.

“No; oh, no! certainly not.”

“Do you mean to let me bleed to death 2?”

“Well, yes; unless you talk.”

The thug was ghastly pale.

He firmly believed that the detective had
opened a vein in his arm and that he was
slowly bleeding to death.

He tried to struggle, but:could not.
So vivid was his imagination of the torture
he was undergoing that he grew visibly
weaker with each moment.
“Stop it! Stop it!” he cried, at fhe expira-
tion of two moments. “I will tel) all.”
“Correct !” said Nick, and he seized Moro’s
arm just above the wrist, at the same time
removing the sponge. Q
“You won’t bleed when I squeeze your arm
thus,” he said. “When i think you are lying,
ru let go and the blood will start again.
ee ”

Moro groaned.

“Come; are you ready?” y
“Will you stop the bleeding entirely if I tell

a

>

“T will, on my honor.”

“Then I will speak.”

“Good! I'll hold the arm. Now, when did
you first hypnotize old Milton Thorne?”
“Several months ago.”

“Indeed! By whose direction?”

“Prime's.” ;
“What is Ida Thorne to Matthew Prime?
What relation do they bear to each other?”

“T don’t know.” :

The detective’s hand which held the wrist
supposed to have been punctured with the
knife, relaxed its hold, }
Nick said nothing, but the motion by which
he released his hoid and was supposed by the
victim to allow the blood to flow again, was
significant.
“T don’t!
never knew !”

Nick seized the wrist again and held it.
“Moro,” he said, “lam convinced that you
know much more concerning these things than

and tell me all

 

“Drop the sir; it saves time. Where is she
now?” ; : A

“In Miss Thogne’s apartments.” _

“T do not think so; however, be prepared to
tell me positively when I come to-morrow
night.”

“Twill?

“What name did the gentleman give who
called a few moments before I came.”
“Mayhew.”

*3oh 3”

“Mayhew.” ;
“Yes; I heard you. One question more, A
lady came here ina carriage this afternoon.
She was dressed in black, and wore a vail.
She remained only a short time. Do you
remember her?”
“Perfectly.”

“Do you know who she is?”

 

“For whom did she inquire?”

“Miss Loring.”

“What name did she give?”

“None. She asked for Miss Loring, and told
me to say that her friend in black had called.
I took the message up stairs, and Miss Thorne
came down. I did not hear what passed be-
tween them.” -

“Has the lady in black
“Not to my knowledge.’
“Then you know nothing about her.”
“Nothing.”

“Post yourself better if she comes again.
will be worth an extra gold piece.”

“Yes, sir.” :
“One more point. The lady who came in a|
hack which you dismissed after paying the|
driver for her. Did you learn her name?”
“Yes; Mrs. Twing.”

been here before?”

"|

“Good! For whom did she inquire?”
“Miss Loring.”
“Ah!

‘aad Always Miss Loring. Who received
her?”

“Miss Thorne.” ;

“Who directed you to dismiss the hack?”
“Miss Thorne.”

“Excellent! Good-night, Michael. You are
a trump card. Mr. Mayhew inquired for Miss
Thorne, I suppose.” ;

“No, sir; he also asked for Miss Loring.” .

“The devil he did! Well, good-night, |
Michael. Don’t forget your brother John.”
Nick left the house and hastened homeward.
Arrived there, he at once sought the room
where Moro was confined. :
“T’ll relieve you of that pea-shooter, if you
please,” he said. “This is the first chance I’ve
had to talk with you since you sent the note
to Miss Ida Thorne.”

“TI don’t understand you, sir.”

“Don’t you? Perhaps you will recognize the
note you sent. Here it is;” and Nick held it
up where the thug could see it. “The pea-
shooter, please.”

Moro scowled and Nick drew his revolver.

“Give me the pea-shooter,” he said, again,
sternly.

The strangler produced the implement, and
Nick took charge of it.

“Moro,” he said, “where did you study hyp-
notism?”

“Eh! What?”

“You heard me; answer.”

“T don’t understand you!”

“Well, call it mesmerism, then; where did
you acquire the art?”

“In India.”

“When did you first begin to practice it
upon Milton Thorne?”

“Never.”

“You lie!”

“T do not.” ‘

“Moro, I see that I will have to adopt harsh
measures. Look out, forIam going to down
you in the first round.”

Nick leaped forward as he ceased Pree

Moro, wih was utterly unprepared for the
attack, was seized and hurled to the floor
before he could make any resistance, and in
another instant handcuffs were snapped upon
his ankles and wrists and he was helpless.

“JT havea way of compelling fellows like you
to obey me,” said the detective, grimly, as he
placed him ina chair and bound him tightly
to it with a rope that he had taken to the
room with him. “I have traveled somewhat,

 

 

 

 

Moro, and in China they taught me many

about which ¢ particu
tion. You know so much concerning Matthew
Prime that you must be familiar with many,

if not all, of his plans; so before you begin
your story, tell me all you know concerning
Ida Thorne and the relations which are borne
to her and to Prime by Diana Loring. Whois -
Diana Loring, Moro; and what is she? Is she

a confederate of yours in these schemes of
villainy, or——? ;

you know, if you value your

life.”
“J will! I will!”
“First, let me give you two or three points

”

 

CHAPTER XLIII. ¥
MORO’S CONFESSION,

In some respects it was unfortunate that the
eyes of Moro were blindfolded, otherwise the
detective would have seen the look of devilish
malignity which swept across the face of the
strangler when he asked the question regard-
ing Diana Loring.

When Nick Carter had occasion to question
a rogue, he relied largely upon his own power
of reading the thoughts of the other, to deter-
mine whether he was oe the truth or not.

In the present instance he depended upon
the rea] terror that he had inspired by the
supposed bleeding, to force the truth from
Moro's lips.

The charaeter of Diana Loring was the

greatest puzzle that the detective had encoun-
tered since he began work on the U. S, Gov-
ernment case.

Was she saint or sinner? Was she working

for or against Ida Thorne? Was she in league
with Prime, or his deadliest enemy, and:in

what manner was the strange resemblance be-
tween Ida and Diana to be accounted for?

It was a strange resemblance, indeed.

Upon beholding the two beautiful women
side by side, an observer would have detected
no likeness whatever between them.

One was a brunette, the other a blionde.,
One had a face full of animation and expres-
sion, the other’s was as calm, as placid, as
cold, as inscrutable, as a marble statue. +

No, plainly they could not be said to “look
alike,” and i when the drawings had been
placed side by side, both in black and white,
and awhen Clarence Tuttle’s ex-valet, Martin,
had by his skill produced that other face, the
detective had been startled.

The two exquisite faces were like many of
the puzzles which seem impossible to perform
and are yet so simple. .

Reduced to a mathematical proposition, we
place the two faces side by side. They bear no
resemblance. We take a line from one and
introduce it into the other, transferring an-
other line from the second to the first.

Behold the result.

A was Ida Thorne—B Diana Loring. By
trading the two lines we have B, Ida Thorne,
and A, Diana Loring. :

Then came the unknown woman—the one
whom Martin thought an angel—whose face
Chick had seen—who had visited the rooms of
Clarence Tuttle with the flowers for his bier,
and who had so cunningly abstracted some- .
thing from the secret drawer in the desk.
There was another unaccountable resemblance.

She “looked like” Ida-Thorne: there was, in
her features, a similarity to those of Diana
Loring. She might be said to be the unknown
quantity between the two; the lines which
completed the alteration from one to the other.

Such were the thoughts which crowded
through the brain of the detective as he waited
for an answer to his question, all the time
unconscious of the expression of malignity-
which had spread over the face of the thug,
beneath the towel that covered it.

It is Not What We Say,

But what

Hood’s Sarsaparilla Does,

That tells the

 

 

 

 

VOL. 47—No. 48.

“Yes; did you think you had water in your —

“What a consummate liar you are, Moro. I

I don’t indeed!” cried Moro. “I _

    

   

 

 

you have admitted. Begin at the beginning >

arly desire an explana-_ 4 |

 

 

 

       

  

7

 
 
 
  

   

[STORY OF ITS MERIT. |

 

  

 

 

 

 

         
 

ses nbn Ogg bm

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
  
    

 

 

 

VOL. 47.—No, 48,

 

 

 

 

   

ee end

“Listen,” said Moro, “and I wi
eae eke , “and I will tell you
“It is time.”
“Diana Loring is the wife of Matthew Prime.
She has Ida Thorne in her power. It is she
who manages us—who controls our organiza-
tion with a rod of iron. Nothing is done with-
out her direction—nothing dared without her

“Go on.”

“Ida Thorne is an angel, and—-—”

Again the detective’s hand released the
thug’s wrist.

“Moro,” he said, sternly, “I warn you that
you must not trifle. I know you are lying, and
I will leave you to your fate.”

‘The detective walked away, crossing the

room.

“Come back! Come back!” howled the
strangler, “Yes; 1 was lying; but I will tell
the truth now.”

% “See that you do so.”

“Diana Loring is as much a mystery to me
as she is to you. I only know that Prime fears
her; that he would murder her if he dared.”

_“No doubt.”
.“He has ordered me to wind my cord about
her neck a dozen times.” :
» “Why have you not done so2”
_ “T have tried.”
“eried |. ;
“Yes; but there is something in her eyes

_ that destroys my courage. Her will is stronger

than mine. I fear her as 1 ver feare r
Hal before.” never f d any
eee you do not know who she is?”

i: SNe.

_. How long have you known Ida Thorne,
Moro. ;
“Several years.”

“Years?”

: “ es.”
“Where did

ou first see her?”
“Tn London * oT

“Was she Ida Thorne then?”
> “No.”

@th&h ) whowas she?”

“Ida. Lewis.”

ft father’s heart warmed to her.

; Capital !

te “What was she?”
An adventuress; a companion of Prime’s.”

“Then she is not the daughter of Milton
_ Thorne.”

“Yes; she is that, nevertheless. Ihave heard
them talk the story over between them—Ida
and Mat.” :
_ “What story?”
“The present Mrs, Thorne is Milton Thorne’s
second wife. She has been an invalid for yéars

_ —that is, three orfour, as you doubtless know;

the sort of invalid who believes she is sick
but, is not, but who never goes out.”
“Yes; go on.”

_“There was a daughter by the first wife, and

there was also ascandal. The wife eloped or

something, and took the daughter with her.

That was years ago, when the girl was a mere
_ baby. | Old Thorne got'a divorce, and married

again.”

are ie Hurry! Time is precious.”

_“Idais that daughter. Prime learned the
history of the family somehow. He found Ida,
who had sunk as low as she could go, and
they plotted together.”

“Ts she the real daughter, or an impostor?”

“T don’t know. The real one, IT think.”

“What was, what is the plot?”

“Thorne had two daughters by his second
wife. Heis rich. Prime and Ida want his for-
tune. Prime interested. the old manin the
fate of his first child. _When_he had worked
him to the proper point, he offered to find her
for him.”

“Well?” ‘

“Don’t you see? He had already found her;
he was only working out the plot. He took
sufficient time and then he appeared with her.

“She had a pitiful tale to tell, and her

 

 

“No; not so. He was already under my in-
fluence to some extent. The mother was little
better than a nonentity; Ida was master as
well as mistress of the house. Her words were
like oil, her arguments unanswerable.”
“What a fiend she is. Go on,”
“The coast was now clear——”
“Naturally, with both the girls out of the
way.” : 1
_ “Prime confessed to Ida that he had Mildred
in his power; that he was goingto marry her,
and that they must share the money in that
way, instead of after the original plan. In
the meantime Ida had fallen in love with
Clarence Tuttle, and as a consequence, she and
Prime made a new compact. Do you know
anything of Clarence Tuttle’s life?”

“I know the story; yes.”

“Prime——”

“Never mind going into that now. Where
does Diana Loring come in?”

~T know as little about heras you do. I only
know that Prime took her to the Thornes’,
and she was_installed there as companion to
Ida, some fake story being told to account for
her presence.” |
“Be careful, Moro.”
“On my word, I know no more of her than I
have said, and I don’t believe Ida Thorne
does, either.”

“ Ah FP

“How much or how little she knew of the
working of the. plots around her, I have no
idea. Ida does not fear her, because she fears
nothing nor nobody, Prime is afraid of ber.
He would murder herif he dared, just as I
have tried to do.

“She is like a piece of. marble. I have tried
to influence her with my eyes, but a stone
image would have been more responsive. Her
will is stronger than mine.

“But she is doomed, for, sooner or later, all
fiona in Matthew Prime’s way must
all.

“There are exceptions to all rules, Moro.”

“Perhaps.”

“Where is Mildred Thorne now?”

“TI know where she was several days ago.”

“ Where?” i

“At a house in Jersey City, or what you call
Bergen Heights.”

“An old house,
fence?”

“She is not there now.”

“Then he has taken her to the old place.”

“Ah! The ‘old place.’ Where is that?”

“In Hoboken.”

“Tell me how to find it.”

Moro described the house and gave minute
directions how to reach it, concealing nothing,
for the detective’s hand still grasped his
wrist, and he believed, if the hold upon it
were lessened, he would bleed to death, *

Nick glanced at his watch.

The time was just midnight.

He had exactly three hours in which to keep

surrounded by a picket

”

 

is really needed; but the doctor himself is the
first to prescribe that all reasonable methods
shall be adopted for the preservation and
increase of health.

 

oo

This Story Will Not be Published in Book-Form.

The Sins ofthe Father

?

AN UNLOVED BRIDE.

By BERTHA M. CLAY,

Author of “’Twixt Love and Hate,” “Between
Two Hearts,” “Fair, but Faithless,”
“For Another's Sin,” “Thrown
on the World,” Etc.

 

(“THE SINS OF THE FATHER’? Was commenced in No, 21.
Back numbers can be obtained ofall News Agetits.]

 

[This is an original story, the property of Street &
Smith, and is entirely different froin ** The Sins of the
Fathers” published by Hurst & Vo.)

 

CHAPTER LXVI.
THE VERDICZ.

A message came to Edna the night of the
first day of the trial, that Marmaduke Welton
had had another stroke of paralysis, and had
died during the evening. She thought that his
death would perhaps postpone the trial of
Mabel; but she did not know the inexorable |
judge who sat on the bench,

So on the following day, with the same up-
roar and merry-making, the crowd flocked to
the court, and prepared, @8 on the day before,
to enjoy the spectacle of a woman fighting for
her precious life.

Mabel must have been shocked, if only at
the thought that with his death her hope in
her father had gone; but she sat in her seat
in the crowded, stuffy court as icy and cold
as on the day before. She pleaded not guilty,
and the trial began.

Edna remembered how she had seen the face
of the sneaking detective on the previous day,
and a singular curiosity caused her to seek
him out and watch him. She found him at
last, and as often as anywhere her eyes were
fixed on him, a gathering perplexity troubling
her all the while.

Nevertheless she followed the words of the
lawyers and the curt tones of the judge with
anxious attention; and she grew heavy with

 

 

the appointment made with the man who had
appeared so strangely like Clarence Tuttle,
and who, he had no doubt, was Matthew
Prime. %

“You must talk fast; Moro,” he said, “for I
must go soon.”

“What more can I tell you?”

“Who killed Clarence Tuttle?”

“T don’t know.”

“Did Ida Thorne commit the crime?”

“Perhaps ; I don’t know; I don’t think so.”

“Why?” “

“ZT know she loved him. I think she would
have murdered Prime and all the rest of us,
have even abandoned her dream of wealth
sooner than have harmed him.”

“Do you suspect anybody?”

Again the unseen gleam came into the eyes
of the thug.

“Yes,” he said.

 

f He took her
in, established her as his eldest child, gave
her everything she wanted, money to spend,
and for the first time in her life she lived in
luxury.’ sil
he told her that the bulk of his fortune
would go to his other ehil@ren, Mildred and
Laura. ms

“Eh? Oh! By Jove! Of course! Certainly!
Go on, Moro.”

Anything the matter?”
“No. I suddenly discovered that you were
oe the truth, and it surprised me, that’s

all. :

“Tda didn’t like that.”

“Certainly not.”
cst ne and Prime plotted to get rid of the two

ir}s.”

: “Of course.”

“Prime was a constant visitor at the house
in the capacity of friend. He managed to make
Laura Thorne hate him, while before her
father he pretended to bein love with her.

“Step m4 step. he. worked out his nefarious
scheme. He intended to ruin her—to drive her
from her home in disgrace, but although he
succeeded in the latter attempt, he did not in
the former,

“She fled, and became Larry Coon, the boot-
black. She had overheard enough to suspect
the plot that was working, and she was de-
termined to unmask Prime and her sister Ida.

“Bill, one of our men, saw her one Cay and
recognized her. She made him promise not to
betray her, and he forced her to aid them in
the robbery of the mail van. You remember

- how.”

' “Yes; go on.”

“Then the driver found her, and was taking
her to your house. Primesaw that the jig was
up if she fell into your hands, for Bill had
betrayed her to him.

“He followed the hack. Bill was the driver,
When Bolz was in your house, Matthew Prime
murdered Laura Thorne and he and Bill fled.”

 

CHAPTER XLIV.
THE TRUTH AT LAST.

“That’s right, Moro,” said Nick; “you have
got down to the truth at last.”

“Laura had a diary, or something of the
kind that she had kept. With it were two
letters that Prime had written to Ida. He
tried to get them, but she had hidden them
where he coula not find them; he has not
found them yet.” |

_ “Nor won’t, Moro, for I know where they
are,’

_ Nick had often pondered over the strange
entry he had found in the fragment of a book
taken from Larry Coon’s effects.

“St. Paul, xi. 9. Matthew iii. 2,” and upon
two occasions he had visited the old St. Paul’s
church-yard, believing that the entry referred,
in some obscure manner, to that place.

The necessity for the articles was past now,
but he resolved to search for them again at
the first opportunity, nevertheless.

, pao ate Moro,” he said. “How about Mil-
re

“She, was, and is, Matthew Prime’s folly.”

“How so?”

“Bad as the man is, he

“ Bah :"

“It is true.”

“Well?”

“She was to be disposed of in much the same
way as Laura, but Prime fell really in love
with her while playing the part he had mapped
out.”

or see.”

“He tried to Somproe bide with Ida,
but Ida would not. Finally hestole her away ;
abducted her, in fact, after forging a letter
from her to her father, telling him that she
had gone to the bad with her sister, and that
she would never return to her home, even if
found.”

“The scoundrel !”

“You see how he worked it all. Milton
Thorne had been gradually prepared for just
such a blow by the tales told him by Prime
and Ida, When the girls disappeared, he had
the evidence, as he believed, of their own
handwriting to tell him of their disgrace. In
his eyes they were already beyond redemption,
and he let them go without an effort to ascer-
tain their fates.” . '

“Inhsman !”

loves her.”

 

“Whot”
- “Diana Loring.”

“Another point; do you know a woman
named Mrs. wing?”

“Do you know of a woman who dresses in
black, who is very beautiful, with black eyes
and hair—who, in short, resembles Ida Thorne,
OR ee is not?” ims

“ O° bb a

“Have you heard of her or seen her?” 4

“IT have heard Prime accuse Ida of havin
been at places which she denied; I have hea
them speak of a strange woman whom they
call ‘Ida’s Double,’ but that is all.” ;

“When you last knew anything concerning
Mildred, was she all right?” $

“She could not have been safer or more free
from harm.”

“Good! I will bind up your arm now. You
must not remove the bandage, or you will
start the bleeding afresh, and alone you would
not be able to stop it.”

Nick, still leaving Moro’s eyes bandaged,
made a show of emptying the wash-bowl.
Then with bandages he bound up the arm that

the thug from his bonds.

“There,” he said. “I may have to open that
same vein again, if you refuse to talk, but not
unless you do. [am _ going now to keep an
|engagement with Matthew Prime, and to
| arrest him for the murder of Laura Thorne.
When I return, you will have to answer some
more questions.”

The detective descended the stairs.

In an incredibly short space of time he was
again the counterpart of the thug in the room
on the top floor, and with two hours and a half
to spare, he set out for Hoboken, to find the
house which Moro had described as the “old

lace.”

: He found time, however, before leaving, to
write a note to Inspector Byrnes, in which he
inclosed the memorandum taken from Larry
Coon, or Laura.

The closing paragraph of his letter was as
follows:

“T have given you the fruits of my study upon the
subject, and Ithink you can send a man who will
find the papers if there are any. I donot need them,
but they will be valnable as evidence. later on. The
head-stone marked Matthew Prime, Died July 4, 1806,
is eleven feet to the north and nine feet to the east
of the old Thorne monument. ‘Matthew iii. 2,’ re-
fers to another measurement which your man must
find. Iam nearing the end 0f this case. Will you
forward this letter to Chief Inspector Wheeler, U. 8.
8. 8., forme? It willsave writing another.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

>

THE SUN AND THE DOCTOR.

 

“Where the sun does not go, there goes the
doctor !” So says an Italian proverb. All sorts
of disease, from consumption downward, are
mitigated or cured by sunlight and pure air.
But how to get all classes of the people, and
especially the poor, to believe that life and
health dwell in the sun’s beams, that is a
great difficulty. The indiscriminate opening
of windows in all weathers and at all hours
of the day and night is not a good thing; but
it is a hundred times better than never open-
ing them at-all. If the inhabitants of large
towns were really intelligent and wise, they
would watch for the sun as the sailor’s wife
watches for the return of her husband’s ship;

and when they saw it shining they would
open every window in the house to its utmost
onpaniey at least for a portion of the day, pro-
vided the weather permitted, There is every
reason to believe that the germs of such dis-

typhotd,

 

eases as scarlet fever, diphtheria,
and other such deadly enemies are nullified or
entirely destroyed by ne sunlight. Not
only, however, has the sun the power of mak-
ing germs die, but it is equally endowed with
the potency of making men live. It is proba-
ble that almost every householder could brin

into the house at least double the quantity o

sunshine that usually enters. But the bring-
ing in of the sunlight means, according to our
Italian proverb, the keeping out of the doctor.
It is not wise to keep the doctor out when he

 

had served him so well, and. at last he freed |

sorrow .as. sbe listened, and felt within her
that Mabel was in a terrible strait.

The prosecuting pie made his opening
speech, telling, in such a hard and brutal
way, what he would proveagainst Mabel, that
it seeined to Edna there eculd be no hope for
her, guilty or innocent.

Then followed the witnesses. One after an-

other they came, and wove such a mesh of
evidence about Mabel as made even Edna,
with all her wish to believe otherwise, think
there must be some measure of truth in what
was charged against the proud, beautiful
creature, who remained icy and cold through-
out.

First, in spite of strenuous efforts to prevent
it, the body was proven to be that of Arthur
Caine. Edna could not understand the impor-
tance attached to this struggle until it dawned
upon her that if any doubt could be cast upon
the identity of the body}%there would be a
fatal flaw in the accusation of death.

At the inquest Mrs. Caine had been the only
witness to the identity of the body, but now
there were several of the servants of the cas-
tle to swear to the clothing, And after them

man. who had brought the note to the castle
on the evening of the wedding.

He described the man who. had given him
the note, and there was no doubt that it was
Arthur Caine. Mabel’s lawyer tried very hard
to have his testimony stricken out, on the

round that it was irrelevant and immaterial;
but the prosecuting counsel explained that the
testimony was only antecedent to a production
of the note, which was important evidence. -

Then Edna saw Mabel look up with a startled
air, and an expression of dread seemed to flash
over her face. But the strange part was when
witnesses were put on the stand to show that
the note received by the earl was not read by
him, but by Mabel; and the very words were
repeated which ended in the earl’s burning the
note unread.

“TI object to this testimony,’ said the lead-
ing lawyer for Mabel. “The prosecution has
declared its intention of producing this note,
and now, by its own witnesses, it shows that
that note was destroyed.”

At this Sir Rowland, who was conducting
the prosecution, smiled and said:

“We do not propose to produce the note, but
an authentic copy of it.”

And then he called witnesses, first to iden-
tify the papers found on_the clothing of the
dead man, and afterward others to prove the
handwriting on certain ones to be Arthur
Caine’s. And particularly the handwriting of
one paper, which was then put in evidence,
and read, though the lawyers for Mabel pro-
tested and filed objections, and did everything
to prevent the reading. But it was read, and
when the earl heard it, he remembered the
story Mabel had told him for the truth, and
the glance he flashed at her brought a look of
despair and anguish into her marble face.

She had told him that the letter was full of
the story of her father’s marriage with Arthur
Caine’s mother, and what he heard was this:

“To THE EARL OF WESTMARCH :—You are waiting
for your bride. If you wait until she comes, you will
wait forever; for the Lady Mabel, exercising, may I
hope, a better judgment, has given her heart and
hand into my keeping. Your bride scorns you, Lord
Westmarch, though that may seem incredible to one
of your self-sufficient nature; and as I, too, scorn
you, there will be that additional bond between my
bride and me. Of course I ain sorry for you after a
fashion; but. really, you had no good reason to sup-
pose that you are irresistible. [regret being obliged
to miss seeing your rage over being jilted in this
public manner; but I can imagine it, and that is
some consolation. vy

‘Very sincerely, your successful rival,
“ARTHUK CAINE.”

Written underneath this were the words:

“T have given a copy of this toa strange country-
man, to be delivered to the earl at the moment of
waiting for his bride, who at that time. if she keep
her word, and she will not dare do otherwise, will be
with me at the black pool, preparing for an elop-
ment. By Gy"

After this came the testimony of Carlotte,
who told more in detail what had occurred on
that fatal bridal eve. She told of how her sus-

icions were aroused, how she had watched,
roe she had called attention to the blood-
stains on the wedding gown, and to the water
in the waste-jar. How she had afterward found
the muddied shoes and the bloody cloak. How
she had gone to the black pool and seen the
evidences of a bloody struggle, followed by the

ushing of a body into the water. And, lastly,
ow she had been paid five thousand pounds
to destroy the cloak and keep silence.

It was all terribly direct, and was afterward
confirmed in some. parts by the other. wit-
nesses, and Edna felt, as all the others there
felt, that Mabel. must have had some part in
the tragedy ; but even yet she forced herself to
believe that only her hands, and not her soul,
had*been stained with blood.

And so the dreadful -struggle for a human
life went on, and ever ETO WIRE darker for the
icy, beautiful woman who sat listening as the
web was woven about her. To her nothing
mattered but that she might not lose the man
who sat there with her lawyers, striving to

|charge; told them of the danger of human

came a stranger, unknown, dna, but recog-
hised by ean aee Wezh north Conte 3

of law and of ‘fact, but it seemed-as if the
lines were drawing tighter and tighter about |
the prisoner;. and as if her guilt were being |
established beyond a doubt. Edna tried not to}
believe it, and she wished she did not see that |
stern, dark look on the face of the earl, know-
ing how the poor prisoner yearned for one lit-
tle look of kindness, And yet how could she
blame him? 5

Everybody was whispering that her guilt
was proven without a shadow of doubt, and
Edna could see the grim face of Mrs. Caine
lighted up_ with a ferocious smile of gratified
revenge. The face of the stealthy man, too,
was all agleam with hate and joy, and Edna
tried again to fathom the reason for a feeling
of familiarity, but could not.

At last the evidence was all in, and the
case had been so strong and so well prepared
that no one looked now at Mabel but with the
same feeling that one has for the condemned.
_ Her face was pale and drawn, but hard and
impassive.

And now the counsel on each side were to
speak. It wasSir Rowland who addressed the
jury for the prosecution, and it was certainly
terrible to sit and listen to him as he went
over the evidence step by step, andin cold,
incisive words showed how Mabel must have
planned and executed the murder. He wassaid
to be a great orator, but before he began he
told the jury that he would make no attempt
to throw any glamour over the affair; and so
he refrained from oratory, and mad2 a cold,
clear argument.

Mabel’s counsel took a different way, and
the audience whispered to each other that he
did not dare to rest his case on its merits. He
spoke of the delicacy and beauty of the pris-
oner, of the incredibility of her doing such a
thing; he spokeof the wives, daughters,and sis-
ters of the jury; drew a pathetic picture of a
home broken. up by a base and unfounded

evidence; assured them that the body had not
been identified as it should be; called their
attention to the fact that if the man had been
killed, he could not have found his way to the
copse where he was found; warned them that
no proof had been produced to show that Mabel
had met the man, Arthur Caine, by the pool.

All this he said, and more, ending with a
burst of eloquence that brought tears to many
eyes, and caused some of the jurors to look
doubtful. And when he sat down everybody
said he had done all that could be done, and
more than could have been expected.

But after all had been said by the counsel,
the judge made his charge, and it was done so
coldly and mechanically that it seemed to
chill the fire of the eloquence that had pre-
ceded it. He summed a the evidence, weighed
one side against the other, and let the jury see
exactly the value of it all; and when he had
finished, it was almost as if he had already
passed judgment on Mabel.

 

and retired to a room by themselves, the judge
also going out.
leave; for they believed the jury would not be
gone long. Mabel, however, was led away;
and Edna, watching her, saw that she gasped
out something to her husband as she passed
him. And he arose and followed her.

How terrible it all was! She knew that all
the love oraffection he had ever had for Mabel
had died out of the earl’s heart; but she
knew, too, that he would be gentle and com-
passionate now. Oh! if the people about her
would cease to talk as they did! It seemed
to her that they must be heartless. She even
heard the Honorable Percy offer to bet and
give odds that the verdict would be guilty.

She seemed alone in her sympathy for the

accused woman. And there was the hard,
eruel face of the dead man’s mother, dark and
ominous with a horrid hope. And over farther,
just where he would be sure to see the face of
Mabei when she listened to the verdict, was
the stealthy man she so detested. His face
was hidden as he bent his head and seemed to
crouch together. And even then Edna won-
dered why he so fascinated her.
_ Then, at last, there came a stir and bustle,
and somebody said the jury Was coming back:
But the judge must be brought first, and he
was sent for.

“Four to one it’s guilty,” said the Honorable

EGE
“Horrid fellow!” said his mother, delighted
with his wit.

The grim judge came and took his seat; and
then the jury, looking very grave and solemn,
came filing in; and at the same time Mabel
was brought in by two officers, and Edna could

face—tears that her danger could never have
brought there. . Behind her, with downcast
eyes, and a face that showed the traces of a
terrible agony, came the earl.

“Ts the jury all here?” asked the judge.

In the midst of a solemn hush the roll was
ealled, and the jury found complete,

“The jury is all present, my lord,” answered
the foreman.

“Gentlemen of the jury,” said the judge, his
cold voice falling like a doom_on the ears of
Edna, “have you reached a verdict?” :

“We have, my lord,” was the solemn answer.
“The verdict of this jury is guilty of man-
slaughter !”

CHAPTER LXVII.
THE DEAD ALIVE.

It might be that Mabel had expected noth-
ing else, but, even so, nothing could prepare
her for such a blow; and as the awful words
fell on her ears, she cast one anguished look
at the earl, and then, with a moan, drooped
and swooned.

In a second the earl was by her side, and no
one thought of stopping him. And Edna, too,
wrought up beyond endurance by the stress of
all the cEeee she had gone through, rose to
her feet and looked wildly for a way to reach
the doomed woman. Yes, there was a way to
get to her, and as she stood hesitating, she
cast her eyes over the crowded room;. and
again, as often before, she saw the face of the
man she so feared and detested.

He, too, was standing up, and:was gloating
in unconcealed glee over the woman who had
been tried and condemned. And as she looked,
Edna gave a low, choking cry, and then was
making her way down to where the earl held
Mabel in his arms. ‘ In an instant she was by
his side,

“George! George!” she gasped,

He turned his troubled face toward her, anc
a sad gleam of recognition passed over his
face.

“George,” she whispered, “she is guiltless!
Thank Heaven, she is guiltless! Look! look
where I point, and you will see Arthur Caine
himself! He is alive! He has been here all the
time.”

He turned his head with an incredulous ex-
pression, and looked where Edna pointed.
Others were looking, too, and they could all
see that the man pointed at was striving hard
to escape from the room,

The earl had catlgnt a glimpse, but it had
been enough to give him hope that the astound-
ing word was true, and he raised his voice
and cried out to the judge:

“My lord! detain that man who is trying to
see e! It is a matter of life and death, my
lord !”

The confusion in the court-room was instant
and terrible; but there are always those who
spring to do any one’s bidding in the joy of
mixing with any movement, and the man de-
clared by Edna to be Arthur Caine was caught
and held,

“My lord,” cried the earl, “will you have
that man brought here?”

“T trustthat you, my Lord Westmarch,” said
the judge, coldly, “will justify such conduct.
I permit it because of your nearness to the
prisoner. Bring the man here!”

The man, crouching and cringing, was
brought down. The judge sternly commanded
order, and the. excited spectators knew they
must be quiet.

“Who is this man?” demanded the judge.

The earl strode over to him, leaving Mabel

 

save her, but despising and loathing her.

 

 

 

 

 

in the arms of Edna. He forced the wretch to

‘THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3

 

 

Then the jury filed slowly out of the box |

But the spectators would not |

see that there were traces of tears on her white | }
| married with the blcod of murder on her white

 

d

The lawyers fought and wrestled over points | look up, and then turned to the judge, and in

a hoarse voice said:
“My lord, this is Arthur Caine, the man that

innocent woman has been adjudged guilty of
killing. Here he stands, and here he has been

watching while the life of an innocent creat-
ure was being put in jeopardy.”

“Is this true?” demanded the judge of the
wretch.

Arthur Caine, for it was truly he, looked
furtively around, as if seeking a means of
evasion or escape. Then he cast off the hands
that detained him, and looked up with an
evil sneer.

“Yes, I am Arthur Caine; but,
less, she is not an innocent wonian.”

Mabel by this time had recovered her senses,
and was trying to comprehend what had hap-
pened. She saw the crowds, and then looked
re at Edna, who stood by her side, supporting
her.

“You here!’ she cried, in a tone of hate.

“Tam here because I have brought proof of
your innocence,” said Edna, pleadingly.
“Won't you trust me? See! there stands
arr Caine! I saw him here, and told the
earl.”

Mabel stared into the pitying violet eyes for
a moment, and then turned her startled gaze
toward where Arthur Caine stood.

“Heaven! how can it be?” she muttered. “I
saw him dead?”

The judge had looked around the court-room
until his stern eyes rested on Mrs. Caine, to
whom he spoke.

“Come here, and tell me if this is your son!”
he said.

She came forward like one
doubt, and looked at her son.
“Oh, Arthur!” she cried. “Yes, it is he!”
“You will be free now,” whispered Edna to

Mabel.

Mabel turned her eyes from Arthur Caine to
Edna.

“T shall be free,” she repeated, “and. I shall
owe it to you. Oh, I hate you for it! Go from
me! Goaway!”

“Why have you done this?” demanded the
judge of Arthur Caine.

“To be reyenged on her,” answered he,
boldly, looking around with malevolent gaze
at Mabel. “She made me suffer all the agonies
of death, and I have had my revenge.”

“My lord,” said the earl, “I hope there isa
punishment for this man.”

“Punishment!” cried Arthur Caine, “and for
what? The only mistake that has been made
in all this was that I lived when! might
have died. All the rest and more is true. Look
at her! she knows if I speak the truth. I
have heard her in this room called a weak,
delicate woman, who would shudder at the
ei of blood. Will you hear the reverse of
that?”

“No, no! He does not speak the truth!”
cried Mabel, her voice sounding strangely.

*T hated this man,” continued Arthur Caine,
indicating the earl, “and after a fashion I
loved her for her beauty. To be revenged on
him, 1 told her she must elope with me on the
pain of being denounced as an illegitimate
child. She agreed, and was to meet me at the
black pool.

“T sent to the earl the letter that has been
read here, and then waited for her at the pool,
While I waited a knife was thrust in my back,

none the

in a maze of

jand I knew that my life was to be.a forieit for

interfering with the plans of the duke.

“J turned, for the wound was not mortal,
and grappled with the duke, for he was the
assassin. I was cut in many places with the
knife he held. See! Iam _ scarred so that my
arms are fairly twisted. And I cannot stand
erect. But I would have won the fight with
that old man, but for one thing.

“What do you think that one thing was,
my lord, and you who hear me? Look at that
delicate woman, who would shudder at the
sight of blood!
worsting my antagonist, my love—that woman
there—came down to her tryst, and her hands
choked me while his knife cut, and so I was
conquered,

“Then, mark what this delicate woman did!
she, with her own hands, because her father
was too weak from fatigue and fright, pushed
me into the water. If I had been unconscious,
I must have died; but I had had the wit to
feign death, and so I crept out of the water
and lived.

“T lived, but in what guise? I was maimed
and scarred, and my youth was gone. All that
was left to me was my hate of her and him,
and well have I repaid them both.

“They were murderers at heart, and they
have been punished as such.

“And she loved her husband—the man she

wedding gown-—and hus craved his love as the
dearest boon on earth; and she has seen; as I
have, too, his love slip away from her as he
learned of her perfidy and wickedness,

“But even yet he does not know it all. In
the days before the time when 1 had the
thought to wed her, she had connived with
me to separate him from the wonian he loved.
I will not name her, for she is a true woman,
and has never harmed me.

“But that evil woman who would have had
her deserts had she been led to the very seaff-
old, hated her rival, and together we duped
this astute earl, and sent the maid away; so
that in his disappointment he turned to the
murderess, and asked her to be his wife.

“Ts there a punishment for me? Very well!
Arrest me, and let me tell my story over
again, and find twelve good men in this realm
who will adjudge me guilty in making that
guilty creature suffer the same agonies that I
did.

“Was I maimed, and hacked, and robbed of
the joy of a vigorous life? Well, what will her
life be now? Better for her to have died than
to live and be the despised creature she will be.”

No one seemed to have a thought of stopping
him. Not even that stern judge; but every ear
in that assemblage was sharpened in a dead
silence to catch the least word that fell from
his lips.

The earl, too, listened, and his heart grew
more heavy as he listened, and he knew that
every time Mabel had pretended to tell the
truth, she was deceiving him. He could not
look at her now, and it seemed to him that he
had borne all he could, and that he must not
be asked to ever see her again.

Was it an excuse that she loved him? Would
even Edna, with her angel spirit, ask him to
tuke that blood-stained creature to his. home
again? And yet, though he would not look
upon her as his wife again, she was still a
woman, and in distress and trouble, albeit of
her own making.

“Lady Westmarch is free,
queried, in a dull voice.

“The prisoner is discharged,” answered the
judge.

The earl went overto her. She had sunk
into her chair, and Edna was standing aloof,
looking at her in wonder and dread. Those
who were near fell back when the earl came
forward.

“Woman,” said the’earl, in a low, stern tone,
“you do not need to make any answer to what
we haye just heard. Come with me! You bear
my name, and I will protect you. Come! but
do not approach too near, nor touch me. If
you must speak, let your words be few!"

She rose and silently followed him a pace or
two: then turned her face toward Edna, and
said, in a husky voice:

“T have wronged you most. Can you still
forgive me? Will you go with me? I cannot
be alone with him.”

In a moment Edna was by her side, and so
those three left the crowded court-room;
though the.earl did not know that Edna was
with his wife.

(TO BE CONTINUED,)

my lord?” he

<i> oir

When the glass globes of chandeliers have
become smoked or grimy, soak them in hot
water to which a little sal soda has been
added. Then put some ammonia into hot
water, and enter the globes, and scrub briskly
with a stiff brush, Rinse thoroughly and wipe

 

dry.

 

 

While I was struggling and |

   

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

<a THE NEW YORK WEEKLY.

rrr

NEW YORK, SEPTEMBER 24, 1892.

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NICK CARTER’S CONTESTS

WITH THE

OCEAN FREE-TRADERS

THE CREAT DETECTIVE’S
MOST RECENT EXPLOITS.

copies - -

 

 

Among the short-cuts to wealth, that practiced by
apparently respectable passengers on our ocean
steamers has proved the least perilous, the most
pleasurable, and one almost certain to yield large
and speedy returns. We refer to the adroit and cun-
ning voyagers who combine business with pleasure

in their frequent trips across the sea, by acting as
DIAMOND SMUGGLERS.

This class of sharpers had at last become so numer-
ous, as evidenced by the constantly increasing trade
in gems which had entered United States ports with-
out the knowledge of Uncle Sam's customs officers,
or perhaps withthe connivance of some of his un-
worthy representatives, that the GREAT DETECTIVE
was engaged to

RUN THE RASCALS DOWN.

It did not take him. long to discover that. this
nefarious business had assumed stupendous propor-
tions, and thatinit were men and women of high
social position, whose lives seemed to be passed in
rosy splendor and delight. These, the envied

FAVORITES OF FORTUNE,

are the dramatis persone who figure in the intensely
exciting and graphic story we shall begin next week,
under the title of

Tracked Across the Atlante:

Nick Garter Among the Smugslers,

By the Author of ‘Nick Carter.”

While the narrative is startlingly realistic, it pos-
sesses all the elements of romance, and affords a con-
vincing illustration of the axiom that “truth is
strange—stranger than fiction.”

The opening installment of this animated story
will be given next week. i

icaatliinsin deat

AT THE BEACH,

BY KATE THORN.

In hot weather, everybody who does not
live on the sea-coast, goes to “the beach.”

Nobody ever seems to think it necessary to
specify what particular beach is meant; the
beach seems to be all sufficient.

The individual who goes to the beach is fear-
fully and woncerfully exercised for a long
time previous to setting forth. Her mind is
stirred up and distracted to a distressing
degree. Private consultations are held daily
with the dressmaker. Pattern catalogues are
studied with wise and grave consideration.

Fashion papers are consulted, and sewing
machines are put at their best paces without
regard to their feelings.

The woman who is going to the beach has to
call on all her dear friends in succession, and
ask them what it will be proper for her to
buy by way of an outfit.

She wonders if the salt spray will spot blues
and if the sea-fog will discolor green.

For her, the world hangs on the important
question of whether red or blue flannel is the
most suitable for a bathing suit, and having
decided this momentous issue, the stupendous
query arises as to which will be the most becom-
ing to her style—loose_ trousers, or trousers
with the bottom of the legs ina band! After
the suit is done, she puts it on, and postures
before the glass. She wonders if her feet will
look as big on the tawny sand of the sea-shore
as they do on her parlor carpet.

She considers the propriety of padding. She
hopes Mrs. Mayfair will not get a suit like
hers, because Mrs. M. only wears No. 2 boots,
and prides herself on her graceful form. And
if they were dressed alike, there would be such
a chance for the horrid men, who are always
standing around looking on where people are
bathing, to make comparisons.

When, at last, she gets to the beach, it is
drizzly and uncomfortable. She has_ brought
thin clothing, and she needs thick. She shiv-
ers in her muslin, and hopes this dreadful
east wind will not take the crimp out of her
hair.

Musquitoes abound. Ditto fleas...

The fish chowder is prolific in hairs.. The
fish of which it was made were shedding their
feathers, The butter is strong. The eggs were
laid in the past century, and the hen which
accomplished this feat was long ago gathered
to her fathers.

lightnin

9

 

 

; Itrains all the time when it is not foggy,

and blows great guns between whiles.

The woman at the beach bathes with chat-
tering teeth, but she is cheered under the try-
ing circumstances by the thought that’ she is
getting a little better than she was in health
and strength.

She believes that she looks handsome in her
bathing suit, but is disturbed by having one
of those dreadful men, with a lemon-colored
mustache, and an eye-glass, tell B. that her
lower extremities remind him of a pair of
dahlia poles, by Jove!

She burns her face, and freckles her nose—
strange that noses will freckle so! and it will
take her till after Christmas to whiten out,
and she will have to wash in buttermilk, and
rub in lemon peel, and horseradish gratings,
continually.

And she goes home tired to death, and ina
dilapidated condition generally, but what of
that? Hasn’t she been to the beach?

GOD RULES THIS WORLD.

BY HARKLEY HARKER,

“TI don’t believe it!”

“What! You do not believe God rules this
world?”

“No, He does not. Or, if He does, He is
asleep just now, and has been for months
passed!” with great vehemence exclaimed my
young friend. :

The reader must know that this young gen-
tleman had been religiously trained; was a
church-goer; a member of a Sabbath-school
Bible class; and was in the habit, till very
lately, of prayer with God. Buthis had of late
been a very sad experience. Started well in
business, and about to be married, he had
suddenly seen all his fine business destroyed
by a great monopolizing corporation, which
found it “for their interest” to crush out “all
the small fry.” Thatis, the combinatipn under-
sold him in his little native city, till he was
forced to sell out fora song—ruined at five-
and-twenty.

“Why, this rich man, who swallows me,
was rolling in wealth already. Does God see
that?” he asked.

“Undoubtedly. To whom much is given,
however, of him much shall be required. The
judgment is not yet.. Wait and see,” I
answered.

“And this man makes long prayers in our
church, when up here at his country-place.
Does God look down on him at prayer?”

“Certainly; and weighs his prayers more
accurately than any of uscan. If he mouths it
to God, be sure that is the worse for him.”

“But he gives his thousands in charities,‘
And part cf his alms was stolen from me.
Does God want such blood-money as this rich
extortioner can give?” —

“Not at all. Our religion teaches no such
thing as that. On the contrary, this God who
rules has expressly declared such money an
offense in his treasury. If this rich man is
blind to the facts as set forth in his own
Bible, so much the worse again for him. Wh
should you be an infidel because he is a fool?”

“But see how happy heis. He hasa beautiful
wife, and a houseful of beautiful children, who
are never sick. No lawns are as beautiful as
his lawns; no flowers like his flowers. I tell
you that man never touches anything but it
turns to smile on him and make him happy.
He crossed the ocean last winter, and it was
the only calm voyage made during the season.
He was on the train that jumped the rail near
Long Branch, and was about the only person
who was not even scratched. Last summer the
passed by his stately summer man-
sion and smote a poor farmer’s barns, just
below the hill, burning all the poor man had.
I saw a run-away, in the park, that turned
clean out for this rich man’s wife and daugh-
ter lolling in their village cart, and it killed
a bank clerk’s wife directly in front of them.
I tell.you, if there be a God, He takes strange
care of this cruel man.”

“What would you have a God do with him?
Have a care that there be no murder in your
heart.”

“True.
punished.” ;

“Very well. Must God punish by your clock
or His own? Do you suppose this man is never
troubled in his secret heart? Can a man lay
up a greater store of punishment than to abuse
his fellow-man, and at the same time continue
to act the hypocrite before this Invisible One?
Is not such a man all the while punished, liv-
ing in a sort of terror, giving alms as a pen-
ance, expecting every day the lightning of
Heaven’s wrath to fall on him?”

“But see how happy the fellow is, with his

money.

“Could you be
as his has been?’
“Never! never!”

“Why not?”
“Because I should expect to be struck dead,
as sure as there is a God in heaven,”

“But you do believe, then, that thereis a
God in heaven?”

“I forgot. But, yes; every man believes it,
and is afraid when he does a great wrong.”

“Why, then, art thou envious against the
wicked? You would not change places with
this rich sinner, and all because God rules.
Your words don’t hold together.” .

And I patted my young friend on the shoul-
der, he smiling through his anger in reply.

The truth is that, if God does not rule in
this world, then the devil does. Surely we
men do not rule..We sometimes seem to do so
for a little while; but a fit of indigestion
will drop the most powerful arm of man. ve
are but a passing cloud. A famine over a plen-
tiful harvest suffices to change the destinies
of the most powerful commercial nations.

Men are nothing. Nature is everything.
What is nature? “The devil,” you say. “The
great, good God, Father of His children, and
a ruler in love,” I prefer to say.

It is eae profitable to me to talk witha
clear-headed, very old man. He remembers so
much of retribution, which he has seen with
his own eyes, in the course of sixty odd years.
You boys see but the beginnings of life.
An old man_ has seen the endings of a good
many lives. He has seen the fool and his folly
soon parted. He has seen pride go before de-
struction. He has seen how the wine “at last
biteth like a serpent and stingeth like an
adder.” He has seen a man “wise in his own
conceit; and there is more hope of a fool than
of him.” He has seen hand joined in hand, yet
the wicked did not go unpunished. He has
seen a.man enter “a way that seemeth good,
the end whereof was death.” Ask. this old
man, and he will tell you of many a hypocrite
whose mask he has_seen stripped off; of man
a cruel man who lived to want. mercy, cae
found it not; of many a sharp man who was
too sharp at last, and cut his own throat; of
many a bold man who grew timid in time; of
many a thief who died poor. God rules, my
friend. He that taketh the sword shall perish
by the sword.

There is wonderful retribution in history;
he who reads if wisely is in no doubt that
there is a King over all kings, and a Lord of
lords. He seems to seea throne that rests
eternal in its justice, its power, and its love;
he sees a Court and a Judge who shall right
the ways of these petty earth-founded plays
at justice; where the jury may be fools, the
witnesses bought, and the bench bribed.

If it were not for this sublime assurance, the
writer of this article would long since have
hated his own life; and yet his controversies
a been no more than usually falls to human

ot.

But he has suffered wrongs which it is inex-

I don’t want him destroyed, but

jhappy, with money obtained

 

pressibly peaceful to leave to God to set right.

So, reader, have you, And itis equally true
that we have inflicted wrongs, which God has
noted down in His great books. Be sure “the
Judge of all the earth will do right”—for us
and against us. Are we forgiven? Have we
asked for mercy? Do we hope to escape from
the “Eye that seeth under the whole heavens?”

It was over a year ago that my young friend
and I first spoke together, as above written.
It has been a good year to my friend. He
calmly decided to believe that his father and
his mother’s God ruled this world. He turned
again to his prayers, asking the divine help in
starting anew. As I write these lines, I am
fresh from his wedding. And as I was linger-
ing after the other guests departed, the fair
young bride drew her husband and me aside,
as the carriage waited, to say:

“We have found it true, that God rules this
world.”

Just then her old parents approached to add
a parting blessing, saying: }

“God’s blessing go with you, dear children !”

I jooked up, not surprised, reader, to see the
sunlight in the bridegroom’s face, and hear
him say: :

“He has. He will. Herules. I waited, and
saw it for myself!”

Waited one little year! How long can you
wait, reader? Wait long, wait ever; for in
the beyond, if not here, you too shall say,
Hac ruled that lower world where once I
abode.” :

A TOO DEVOTED HUSBAND.

BY GENEVA MARCH.

“Yes,” said Mrs. Cameron. “I like him well
enough, I suppose.”

Mrs. Cameron was just nineteen, a bride of
six months, and a lovely, hazel-eyed brunette.
She had everything that heart could desire,
and, consequently, wasn’t exactly pleased with
anything.

Mrs. Cameron liked pink, and Mr. Cameron
had furnished her boudoir in rose-color and
silver.

She was partial to flowers, and her husband
had given a standing order to a florist to keep
her wants supplied.

She was fond of birds, and three or four
gilded cages swung from the ceiling, each one
thrilling with delicious melody. In fact, Mrs.
Cameron had everything she wanted, and, as
previously intimated, was far from satisfied. ©

“Like him well enough!” repeated Anna
Clarke, who, having just graduated from
school, thought that a young wife, who had
wedded the man she loved, ought to'be ex-
tremely happy. “Oh, Mina! how coldly you
speak !” }

“Well, I can’t help it,” said Mrs. Cameron,
letting her head fall languidly back on the

rose-satin puffings of the low easy-chair on
which she sat. “One gets tired of cake and
charnpagne all the time. Sometimes I think I
should be happier if Clarence didn’t worship
me quite so devotedly.”

“Oh, Mina!” :

“It’s a bore, you know,” said the young

would find fault occasionally. He’s too good!
Now, Sophia Markan is actually afraid of her
husband—a great, handsome six-footer of a
fellow, with a lovely black-silk beard like an
italian brigand. h, it must be charming to
be a little afraid o#ene’s husband!” .

“Now, Armina!” cried the astounded Miss
Clarke, “what nonsense you are talking!”
“I dare say it may seem so to you, child,”
said Mrs. Cameron, patronizingly.* But if you
ever get married——' : hs

“Of course I shag,” said | retty Anna, who
had not the sli; ANePTS 7

e of being an old
“Well, when you are about to get married,
don’t marry a’man that is ‘sugar and _ spice
and all that’s nice!’ It’s much too insipid!”
“You'd recommend, on the contrary, ‘snaps
and snails and puppy-dogs’ tails,’ eh?”
laughed Anna,also quoting the nursery ryhmes.
“Not exactly that; but one does get tired of
perpetual honey and sunshine,” said unreason-
able Armina, as she reached out her hand for
her embroidery. “And now you know you
promised to tell me all about Ruth Albright’s
trousseau,”

As it happened, Mrs. Cameron’s elegant
parlors were separated from her boudoir by
portieres. :

Mr. Cameron, reading his paper, sat on the
other side of the draperies, and heard this
conversation—an eavesdropper in spite of him-
self. _His cheeks burned, he bit. his lips, and
the blood rushed in little tingling, needlelike
particles through his whole frame.

So, Mina was getting tired of him! Well,
after all, it was better to thoroughly compre-
hend the whole state of the case. He was too
amiable, was he? f

Mr. Cameron rose, flung aside the crumpled
newspaper, and walked once or twice the
length of the rooms.

“T’l] see that. the fault is corrected,” he said
to himself, with a grim smile.

And he went off to business without the
usual “good-by kiss” in which he generally
indulged. :

Mrs. Cameron went out shopping in the
afternoon, and was detained a little, but it
did not worry her in the least.

“Clarence doesn’t mind,” said she, and so
she spent an extra half-hour in deciding
whether she should have tan or pearl gray for
her new kid gloves, and whether she looked
better in a hat trimmed with sweet-brier or
simple field daisies.

“T’m a little late, I’m afraid,” she said, as
she entered the dining-room, where Mr. C.
was pacing up and down like the proverbial
“caged lion” of romance.

“Yate, madam! I should say you were!”
retorted her husband, in a tone which fairly
made Mrs. Cameron start. “It’s half-past six,
if it’s a second! But I suppose you think my
time is of no value!”

“Clarence !”

“I’ve borne this long enough,” went on the
indignant husband, “And give you fair
notice that I shall bear it no longer. Jane!”
to the girl, “bring in the dinner at once, and
to-morrow let it be served at six, punctually,
whether your mistress is here or not!”

“Yes, sir,” said Jane, and she disappeared,
grinning, into the kitchen.

Mrs. Cameron sat down, crimson to the very
roots of her hair. :

“Clarence,” she said, with difficulty con-
trolling her voice, “is it necessary to. thus
insult me before the servants?”

“Yes, madam, it is. If a wife doesn’t com-

rehend her duty, it is high time she should

e made to do so. I'll trouble you for a cup of

coffee.”
Cameron was mortified,

Md

”

Mrs. stunned—
dazed. She was entirely unused to this style
of domestic reproof. Almost before the dessert
—with which Mr. C.'found plenty of fauit,
intimating that it would be better if his wife
remained at home to attend to household mat-
ters a little more, instead of gaddine abroad
the whole time—the door-bell sounded.

“Tt’s dear mamma and Aunt Lizzie come to
spend the evening,” said Mina, jumping up.

“Confound ’em all!” roared Mr. Cameron,
smiting the table with his fist, “can’t I have
a quiet evening once in a while?”

“TI told them you would take us all tothe
theater to-night,” hesitated Mina, the color
coming and going changefully on her face.

“In-deed! May I ask, madam, who author-
ized you to make that statement?” crisply
queried her husband. “AmI a mere puppet
in your hands, and am I supposed to have no
will or desire of my own?”

“But you will go, won’t you, Clarence?”
faltered poor Mina. ;

“No, madam, I will not,” said Mr. Cam-

 

wife, confidentially. “It would be arelief if he |

ilar alien eran tortie encieeeah

eron, rising and looking around for his hat.
i ropose to spend the evening quietly at my
¢

a

u .

And he bolted out of the room, nearly fall-
ing over his mother-in-law in the passage, and
muttering to himself:

“By Jove! if I’d staid another minute
those tears would have conquered me. Poor
little Mina!”

It was past twelve before he returned.
Never, in all the experience of their married
life, had he been so late before.

«Sitting up, eh?” said he, savagely. “Now,
Mrs. Cameron, I mean to put an end, once for
all, to this sort of thing.”

“TIT was so anxious about you, Clarence,”
pleaded poor Mina.

“ Anxious !” sneeringly repeated he. “Do you
suppose John Markan allows his wife to sit
up for him?”

“Ok, Clarence, I wouldn’t have you like
John Markan for the world!” exclaimed Mina,
bursting into tears.

“Wouldn’t you?” said he, the faintest sus-
picion of a smile glimmering under the ends
of his mustache. “Now, I thought it. would be
charming to be a little afraid of one’s hus-
band, and you know ‘sugar and spice and all
that’s nice,’ grows insipid.”

Mrs. Cameron sprang to her feet.

“e Clary ?

“Mina!” ; :

“Did you hear what I said this morning?”

“T did, Mrs. Cameron, and thought I
would shape my conduct. to suit your taste.’

“Don’t do it any more, Clary,” she said,
with a quivering lip, and her bright eyes
lifted wistfully to his face. “I don’t like it;
it isn’t nice to be afraid of one’s husband !”

“Just as you please,” said her husband,
laughing. “I only wanted to adapt myself to
your wishes, Mina!” 4

“But 1 was such a goose!” cried Mina.
“Dear Clary, I have cried my eyes out to-
night, trying to make out what could possibly
have changed you so. And you were only
making believe all the time?”

“Only making believe,” he acknowledged.

And then they kissed and made friends,
after the orthodox fashion, and their honey-
moon began over again for the second time.

But Armina made no more complaints about
Mr. Cameron being a “too devoted husband.”

Refleckshuns on Short Skribblers.
BY JOSH BILLINGS.

Dear Mr. —— —— ——: Your letter to me

this morning haz given birth to the follering
home made refleckshuns upon thoze short
skribblers, who, like miself, infest the virtew-
ous press.
It may look like an eazy task tew thoze who
never tried it, tew write haff acollum oy
comik essa each week; and it iz an eazy task
to thoze who never tried it, but to thoze who
hav tried it, and who hav even suckseeded
but a few inches, it iza good deal like lift-
ing things that are tied down.

In the first place a comik essa must hav a
short back, be sharp on the withers, not tew
long-legged, kind in all harness, hard toskare,
and able to show 2:40 to a road waggon.

The power ov a comik essa resides in its

idea, either original or semana Dy stolen, not
in its words, strung out lazily likea snake
sunning himself in the sand.

It iz no place for yure short essayer to hide
among the debris ov abstrakted thoughts, or
skulk behind a flame-colored_ paragraff, or
doze in recital upon anebb tide, or hammer
out an iron proposishun into points more or
less dull, or guote Latin, or French; but he
must be az short aza nuseboy’s prayer, az
sudden &z the end ov arope, az quick az a
sneeze, and az brilliant in hiz busts az a ski-
rocket. i
Awl real strength iz short; things are broke,
or histed, with a-jerk; comik essayers must
ram pages into paragraffs. Wit, or humor, iz

mutch in the pop, that is interesting, as thare
iz in the ginger. | :

Theze short essays are like buckwheat slap-
jacks; everyboddy seems tew like them hot,
and tew git them hot iz jest where the little
joker cums in. ;
A lukewarm comik essa haz no more fun in
it than a Dutch konundrum tew aman who
doesn’t understand the language.

I often git letters from sum of our best
philanthropisters, who love me, thay say,
and who wonder whi i don’t write sum longer
things. _ :

Awl I kan say tew them iz, that a short-
bilt writer iz often dull enuff, and a long-
bilt one iz necessisarily so. A streak ov lazy
lightning, a mile long, that anyboddy kan
dodge, soon loozes awl its novelty.

Thare iz great power in words, if yu don’t

hitch tew menny ov them together; but their
only power iz the pe 8 pay hi ov ideas;
and the more ginger you kan git intu the pod
the better the dose.
- Sum men are never so brilliant as when they
‘don’t make enny remarks, and no man needn't
git mad at himself bekause he haz sed a good
thing without wasting a word.

A comik essayer haz got tew hav a sprink-
ling ov the monkey in him; he must akt sen-
sible things strangely. It iz not an eazy task
tew bea good monkey, nor will it exaktly
answer tew be an artyfishall monkey. The
deviltry in a monkey iz natral—if it want, it
wouldn’t be funny, but ridikilous. ©

Azihav sed on a feuter occasion before, it
iz eazier tew be.a good critick, than a poor
writer, but iam the last man tew giv enny
man mutch credit for being able tew find
fault. ;

If enny ov yure readers, Dear Mr. —~— ——
——, or enny ov the fust klass philanthropis-
ters, hav got enny spare kapital lieing idle,
they would like tew insert into the comik essa
bizness, iam reddy tew sell out mi small
stock, good will and fixtures, and i will
quietly go into the frogs’ hind legg trade; and
at the end ov 90 days, if they don’t find the
silver plated nonsense bizzness harder tew
steer than they think it iz, i will give them
credit for having a good stock ov brains or
impudence, I don’t know witch.

A man who iz on a jurney, iz expekted tew
go slow, and git dull; but if he iz_on an er-
rand, he iz expekted tew be lively. It iz jistly
thus with yure long and yure cluss bilt
writers. A ‘

-I hope thoze whotake the pains tew read
this squiblet, will give me credit for writing
what i think, if it aint so sarching and bril-
liant; and i would thank thoze who semi-
oftenly advise me tew pump more: power and
doxology into what i write, tew purchase me
outand sett.up the hott paragraff trade their-
selfs, and giv us wit on the haff-shell, nitro-

lycerine’ humor, fun soaked in» kamphene,
jests crazy tew go. oph at haff cock, and raw
sense that will make a saw-hoss laff.

Tam mad that i ever set sail in the comik
essa schooner, tew be so often caught on the
flats ;and if i could git out of it now, and hay
enny karakter at all left, i would grab at the

offer.

I will stop bi saying that it iza darn sight
eazier tew write too mutch than it iz too lit-
tle; and awl comik attempts must be quick
tew win, for folks won’t bear but little phool-
|ing at once on enny subjik, and isa bully for
you, folks.

ne 0 te

FRIENDSHIP.—Friendship is one of those sub-
jects on which much has been written—indeed
a at deal more has been written than is
understood about it. Perhaps Dante’s defini-
tion of friendship is the shortest and best one
of all. He was asked by an Italian potentate
how the fact was to be accounted for that in
the household of princes the court fool was in

 

VOL. 47—No 48,

 

 

larity of mind is the cause of friendship the
world over,” was the fierce reply of Dante, |
thereby incurring the eternal enmity of the
rince. There are many causes that separate
riends. One of the chasms that separate
friends is sarcasm. Another is borrowin
money. Make friends with your creditors i
you can, but never make a creditor of your
friend. Some persons look for perfection in a
friend; they are doomed to disappointment.

atin déin

ae

Correspondence,

——

GOSSIP WITH READERS AND CONTRIBUTORS.

ee Communications addressed to this department w*ll
not be noticed unless the names of responsible parties are
signed to them asevidence of the good faith of the writers.

P: A. R., Wallingford, Conn.—1st. A writer on the sub- ©
ject of starch, very truly says that “most people think
of it only as asubstance used by washerwomen for stiffen-
ing linen: but it really forins a large part of the food of
man. It is in all the vegetable substances that we eat, and
especially in the grains used for food, which are largely
made up of it. Rice isnearly nine-tenths starch, and In-
dian corn and barley more than two-thirds starch; rye —
oats, and wheat contain nearly as much, and potatoes are

one-fifth starch. Arrowroot and tapioca are kinds of
starch made from_-roots of plants, and sago is starch made |
from the pith of the sago palm tree.” 2d. To make starch, ©
scrape or grate a potato to a pulp; mix this with
water and squeeze it through a cloth several times. The _
woody fiber of the potato will remain in the cloth while
the water will have a milky look caused by the starch it
carries away. Let the water stand until the starch settles’
to the bottom, then pour off the water ape dry the starch,
Wheat starch may be made in a similar way Mixa
handful of flour with water enough to make a thin paste.
Put this into acloth and work it with more water as Jong
as the liquid which runs from it looks milky. Let it
settle, pour off the water, and dry the starch as before, _
3d. Starch has the appearance of white powder when ex-
amined with the unaided eye, but under the microscope

it is seen to be made up of little round or oval gr bs
which differ in size looks in different kinds of tl
article named. ‘ vs

Caroline, Liberty, N. Y.—ist. To make asweet potato
pudding, take half a pouna of butter, half a pound of
sugar, five eggs, one tablespoonful of brandy, two table-
spoonfuls of wine, one pound of potatoes mashed fine,
with avery little salt, and sufficient milk to make it
moist, the grating of one small nutmeg, and halfa tea-
spoonful of cinnamon. Beat the butter and sugar until
light, to which add the potato, halt ata time. Whisk the

eggs until thick, and stir im gradually. ‘Then add the
wine, vrandy, and spice. Mix all well together, and set
it for a short time in a cool place. This quantity is suf-
ficient for thres or four puddings, soup-plate size. Line
your plates with a rich paste, observing to roll it much
thinner in the center than at the edge. Bake in rathera
uick oven. When done, and cool, slip them into plates
or the table. 2d. Io make white potato pudding, take
half a pound of butter, half a pound of sugar, five e; .
one pound of potatoes mashed exceedingly fine, with a —
little cream and salt, one tablespoonful of rose-water, _
two tablespoonfuls of brandy, ard half of a grated nut-
meg, with the same gaan tey of cinnamon. Mix |
the ingredients as directed for sweet potato pudding.
line the plates with paste, and bake in*a qu ven.
When done and cool, slip into plates suitable for the
table, and sift white sugar over them. ;

C.J. E., Poughkeepsie, N. Y.—Ist. You areright. At
its last session the Legislature of this State passed a
bill making October 12, 1892, a legal holiday Subse-
quently President Harrison, by proclamation, appointed
October 21, 1892, as a general holiday for the people of the —
United States. The first date, October 12, is the 400th
anniversary of the discovery of America, by Columbus,
according to the Old Style or Julian calendar, While the
last date, October 21, is the one reckoned according to the
New Style or Gregorian calendar. 2d. The cost the
new Croton aqueduct to furnish an increased robe of
water for this city, up to June, 1892, is stated to be $26,126,-
558. 3d. The old aqueduct was completed in 1842, Its
cost, including $1,800,000 for distributing pip and
amounts paid for right of way and other incidental
charges, was $10,375,000. Including interest and commis-
sions the whole cost was $12,500,000. The time occupied
in bnilding it was five years,

¥

Ann, New Brighton, Staten Island.—ist. The Mag
dalen Islands are pear the center of the Gulf of St. Law”

 

something like ginger pop—thare iz about as |

 

 

 

‘| 20 feet 8 inches over it.

rence. The largest of the group is Coffin’s Island. Itis—
25 miles long, but very narrow. Amherst Island contains
the best harbor in the chain. It is nearly six miles in
length and three and a half miles in width. 2d. The Mag _

dalen IsJands are under the jurisdiction of the Canadian
Government, and belong to the district of Gaspe. They
were granted by the British Government to Admiral Sir _
John Isaac Coffin;.and hy him were bequeathed in Strict
entail to his heirs.” 3d. ‘They are 100 miles west south-
west of the nearest point of Newfoundland. 4th. The
Red River of the North, in Minnesota, intersects the
British province of Manitoba, and enters the southern
end of Lake Winnipeg. Its Jones is estimated at 650
miles. Itrisesin Elvow Lake at an altitude of 1680 feet
above the sea level. ‘ ‘

Abigail, Hudson, N. ¥.—In arranging flowers ina gar-
den, it is recommended that blue, flowers be placed next
to the orange, and the violet next to the yellow, while
red and pink flowers are never seen to greater advantage

than when surrounded by verdure and by white flowers.
The latter may aiso be advantageously dispersed among
groups of blue and orange, and violet and yellow flowers. —
Plants whose flowers are to produce a contrast should. be
of the same size, and in many cases the color of the sand
or gravel walksor beds ofa garden should be made to
conduce to the general effect. ; :

C. W. R., Omaha, Neb.—Edwin Booth, the actor, was
born on the farm ef his father, Junius Brutus Booth, in
Harford County, Md., November 13, 1833. His mother,

Mary Ann Holmes, was his father’s second wife. Both
came to this country from England in 1821. They hada
numerous tamily. dwin was named after his father’s
friends, Edwin Forrest and Thomas Flynn. He subse-
quently dropped the name of Thomas, and has long been
known only as Edwin Booth. _ :

Augusta, Georgia.—A plaster which has proved of great.
service in whooping-cough, and other coughs of an asth- _
matic character, is made as follows: Castile soap, one

ounce; lead plaster, two drams; sal-ammoniac, one
dram. Melt the tr and lead plaster together, and add
the sal-ammoniac when the mixture is nearly cold. _Ap-
ply the plaster to the chest immediately after it is made,
and renew it every twenty-four hours.

M. J. W., Wheeling, West Virginia.—Any alien twenty-
one years old and upward who has been honorably dis-

charged from the armies of the United States, may be-
come a citizen on his petition, without any previous dec-
laration of intention, provided he has resided in the ~
United States at least one year previous to his applica-
tion, and is of good moral character. -

A. B., Norwich, Conn.—Diamond Reef is a mass of
rock in the Upper Bay, between the Battery and South
Brooklyn. Originally there was a depth of water of only

On July 8, 1889, drilling and blast-
ing were commenced, and kept up until May, 1893. It is
stated that during that time 5,617 tons of rock were re-
moved, and a depth of 26 feet at low tide secured. + i

H. 0. W., Brooklyn, N. Y.—To make syllabub, take one
quart of rich milk, half a pint of wine, and six ounces of
loaf-sugar. Put the sugar and wine ina bowl. Make the
milk lukewarm, and putit ina pitcher. When the sugar
is dissolved, pour the milk in with the wine. Hold the
pitcher sufficiently high to raise afroth on the miJk in
the bowl. Grate nutmeg over the top. ;

‘Americus, New Orleans.—The average of persons cross-
jng the East River Bridge each day is about 115,000. The
Brooklyn terminus isin the square bounded by Fulton,
Prospect, Sands, and Washington streets. The New
ye terminus isin Park Row, opposite the City Hall

‘ark. Pind.

L. M.C., Augusta, Ga.—John Wesley, the founder of
Methodism, left no children of his own, He married in
1752 the wealthy widow of a London merchant named
Vizelle, by whom she, had four children. Wesley’s mar-
riage was not a happy one, and for many years the couple
lived apart. <

L. M. L., Harlem.—Trinity Hospital, 50 Varick street,
is maintained by the corporation of Trinity Church. Itis
| in’charge of the Protestant Episcopal Sisters of St. Mary.
Patients are admitted from any part of the city, but
preference is given to-the poor of Trinity parish, A letter
will no doubt receive attention. © .

7. C. A., Staten Island.—The America Cup was won
by the schooner-yacht America on August 22, 1851, in a
race around the Isle of Wight, England, against a fleet
of six schooners and seven cutters of the Royal Yacht
Squadron.

Fisherman, Long Island.—Fish abound most along
coasts, and in straitsand bays. Of course they are found
in rivers also: but they are seldom caught in water more
than forty or fifty fathonis in depth. They are rarely ~
caught at a great distance from land. +E 8 ‘

T. L. A., Meadville, Pa.—There are two Friends’ Meet- —
ing Houses in this city. One is in East Fifteenth street,
or of Rutherford place ; the other 144 East Twentiet!
street. :

James L. R., Columbia, S. C.—William Charles Mac-

 

 

greater favor than the philosopher. “Simi-.

ready, the English tragedian, died a little over the age _
of 80. Date of his death, April 29, 1873. He was born in
London on March 38, 1793. : ;

_W. W.C., New Orleans,—‘‘ That Dowdy,” by Mrs.
Georgie Sheldon, will cost 25 cents. As

L. W. B.—There is a Children’s Library at 590 Seventh
avenue. It contains, it is said, about 1,200 yolumes. _

 

 

 

 

 

 
  

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

  
 
 

 

 

 

 

  

 

  

*

7

5

 

 

 

 

 

 
 
  
 

- What is the trouble, Noel?

ti. dis

ri said, in a sullen tone, “and there is good

- cate and dainty
; Re eos had never had anything to
troubl

| been plucked by careful hands; and, knowing

- dawned in her clear eyes.

_ at first—to do without a great many things to
which we _ have

her, that she should appear so indifferent to

 

   

trouble an

r*

 

| VOL. AT—No. 48.

 

 

I woke at dead of night. The wind was high;

_ My white rose-bush was tapping ’gainst the pane.
With ghostly finger-tips; a sobbing rain
Made doleful rhythm for my thoughts, and I
Strove vainly not to think, and wondered why

’ My brain, ghoul-like, must dig where long had lain
The pulseless dead that time and change had slain.

i oL 2D ites SU. aN eA eo, ok,

BY CARRIE BLAKE MORGAN,

I fear no living thing. Butoh! tolie

Andsee the gruesome dark within my room
Take eyes and turn on me with yearning gaze!
To hear reproachful voices from the tomb
Of‘duties unfulfilled—might well nigh craze

A stronger brain! God save me from the gloom
Of sleepless hours that stretch between two days.

‘ ——_——_ + +@+ + ___—- j
THIS STORY WILL NOT BE PUBLISHED IN BOOK-FORM,.

+ i Marquerite’s Heritage: 7

ER MARRIAGE.

 

By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON,

- Author of “¢ Wild Oats,” ‘‘ Brownie’s Triumph,”
Vas Influence,” ‘*Stella Rosevelt,” Ete.

 

‘‘The Forsaken Bride,’ ‘‘ Sibyl’s

{“ MARGUERITE’s HERITAGE” was commenced in No. 39. Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents. }
ie — ee >

CHAPTER XIX.
.A TEST OF NOEL SOUTHWORTH’S CHARACTER.

The news of financial ruin, which had come
to Reginald only to arouse his energies and
spur him on to reclaim his position and sur-
round his wife with every comfort and luxury
to which she had been accustomed, fell with
very different effect upon his brother-in-law,
Noel Southworth.

When the terrible intelligence that Mr.
and Mrs, Alexander had both been killed in
the railroad disaster, had come upon them so
like a thunderbolt, Constance was prostrated
by the blow, and her husband had all that he
could do to care for_her in her wild grief.

But, shocked as he had been himself over
the unlooked-for calamity, the thought that
his wife would inherit a large amount of

property from her father’s estate had forced
itself upon him in a very comforting way, and
he forthwith to lay numerous plans for
a brilliant and luxurious future,

Then, following close upon the heels of the
death-messenger, had come the tidings of

financial disaster and ruin, which swallowed |.

alike all of Mr. Alexander’s large fortune and
his own more moderate wealth.
This was one of the tests that try the souls

- of men—that prove the strength of their men-

tal and moral] caliber.

How would Noel Southworth, this favorite
of fortune and society, stand the crucial test?

To do him: justice, he shrank from telling
Constance of this new affliction while she was
so prostrated by the loss of her father and
mother, and for a time tried to keepit to
himself, bearing the burden in silence.

But the true-hearted little wife was not long
in discovering, from her husband’s gloomy
appearance, his, pale, unhappy face and
nervous manner, that some other trouble was
pressing upon his mind,

This served to arouse her from her own grief
more gncavenr than anything else could
have done; and, coming suddenly upon him
one day in an attitude ot est dejection, she
exclaimed, in an anxious fone: ;

“Noel, what is it?—are you ill?”

He aroused himself, a look of annoyance
sweeping over his face, for he had brvoded so
continuously over his evil tidings and fallen
into such a morbid state, that he was begin-
ning to experience a sense of personal injury
from the fact that he was fettered to a poverty-
stricken wife, and that he was in duty bound
to make some exertion toward her support—
that he, the fone child of fortune, who had
fee soiled his hands with labor, or exerted
himself to provide for any necessity, must
now gO to work if he would keep the wolf
from his door.

_ “No, I am not ill,” he responded, with cold

_ brevity, to his wife’s question.

A shock of pain went through Constance,
for he had never spoken like this to her before.
_ She glided to his side, and, laying her hand

upon his shoulder, remarked, with her usual
- gentleness:

“You surely look ill, or very unhappy.
She would soon have to learn the truth, for

they could not remain where they were much

ie longer; it was an expensive hotel, and their

supply of ready money was fast giving out.
So he resolved to tell her then, and have the
eeable duty over.

“You are right—I am unhappy enough,” he
rea-
son for it, I assure you. You will doubtless be

surprised to learn, Constance, that we are}

beggars !”

“Beggars, Noel—how absurd! What can you
mean?” the young wife exclaimed.

“It is the truth,” he returned. “The -
& ——— railroad-is in the hands of a receiver,
and nearly every dollar of my Pn as
well os yore father’s, is swallowed up in ibim:;

Still Constance could not comprehend. She
had always had plenty of money at her com-
mand, without a thonght or care regarding
whence it came, and this sudden announce-
ment that the supply had, in some unaccount-
able way, been cut off seemed too absurd to
believe. re

“I do not think I understand—it does not
seem possible, for I supposed that papa was
very rich,” she murmured, looking deeply
perplexed.

oel explained the matter more fully, and
she at length realized the sad truth that she
had not only been bereft of both parents at a
single blow, but of fortune and social position

‘She stood by her husband's side in utter
silence for some moments after he had made
her comprehend the situation.

She was very fair to look upon—very deli-
in appearance. She had never
lifted her hand to do augbt that was hard or

 

e or annoy her during her short, bright
life; her pathway had literally been strewn
with roses, from which even the thorns had

this, Noel Southworth watched her with
some curiosity to see how she would receive
the news of poverty and prospective hardship.
_ He had expected tears and repinings, for he
judged her from his own standpoint, and he
was somewhat surprised at the expression of

ay oy which settled over her face, and the

ook of calm, high resolve which gradually
mT: een Noel, it will be hard to be
poor,” she said, at last, ina thoughtful tone.
“It will be annoying and perplexing—at least

e been accustomed; but"
bending to look into his eyes—“we shall still
have each other, and since we must meet this
unexpected trial, let us try to meet it bravely.
It will perhaps be harder for you than for
me, but I will do all that I can to help you,
if you will tell me how I may best do so, and
I believe we can still be happy if we are poor,
‘since love is left to us.”

“Tove!” he ejaculated, bitterly, and with
an unreasonable feeling of irritation against

the terrible change in their circumstances—
“love will neither feed nor clothe us.”

“No,” Constance gently responded, though
she flushed with pain at his cutting words,

troubled for me, Noel; I shall not mind it so
very much, if you will only confide in me and
let me be a help to you.”

He knew that he ought to be grateful to
her for her gentle sympathy and kindly
encouragement; that he ought to admire her
for her unselfishness and the brave, calm way
in which she had received his information ;
but, somehow, it nettled him—it stirred a
fierce, unreasonable anger within him to have
her thus put out of sight every thought of
self, and to be so cheerful and willing to take
up the burden of poverty with him. Her cour-
age shamed him.

“You are strangely indifferent, it seems to
me, Constance,” he irritably remarked. “You
certainly cannot realize what poverty means,
to speak in such a listless, passive way.”

She regarded him with a look of surprise.

“No, I am not indifferent, Noel,” she gravely
returned. “I know that the situation is a very
trying one; but I do not wish to_make it
harder for you than is necessary. What are
your plans, dear, for the future?”

“T have none,” he moodily replied.

“But if, as you say, we have lost everything,
we must make plans for our future,” she said,
thoughtfully; “we cannot continue to live in.
this expensive way—we can do no more trav-

 

 

 

Noel, and I suppose you will want to go at
once,” his wife responded, with ready acquies-
cence, although she would have much pre-
ferred to go back.to her old home, where she
felt sure they would meet with warm sympa-
thy from many of their old friends.

“There is no great hurry,” he answered,
shrinking from the approaching change in
their manner of living; “a week hence will
do, and there is that reception for next Tues-
day that I do not like to miss.”

onstance lifted a look of astonishment to
his face. -

“Surely, Noel, you do not mean to live on
another week in this expensive way, when
matters are so serious with us!” she said,
chidingly. “As for that reception, I would
prefer to give it up and save the money it
would cost us, to spend for more necessary
things. I was intending to buy my dress to-
day, and the dressmaker was coming to-mor-
row. Ishall do nothing about it now, how-
ever.”

Noel was not pleased with this decided
stand on the part of his wife, and tried to
argue her out of it; but she was firm, and
pleaded so earnestly with him to go immedi-
ately to San Francisco that he finally, although
reluctantly, yielded.

They left the next morning for the city of
the Golden Gate, where they arrived late on
the afternoon of a dreary, cloudy day.

As they were alighting from the train a
gentleman passed them on the platform,

He gave a start of surprise as he recognized
them, stopped, turned half-around, as if he
was about to speak to them, then changed his
mind, and, with a shadow of pain on his fine
face, passedl on.

The gentleman was Laurence Everet.

 

 

“Perhaps they might not like to meet me
just now,” he murmured; “it must have been
a terrible blow to them—I wonder how they
will bear it! It seems tome that Constance
is looking pale and care-worn; but that is not
strange under the cireumstances. I hope he
will be good to her. Poor child! she needs
kindness now if ever.” ;

He cast one backward glance over his shoul-
der at the young couple, and saw them just
entering the waiting-room of the station. He
heaved a deep sigh, andthen wenton his way.

A couple of days later Laurence was seated
in the office of a noted private banking-house
of San Francisco, when Noel Southworth
entered the place.

Laurence slipped behind a screen, not caring
to meet the young man, and waiting with
some curiosity to ascertain what his business
there might be. ;

He had come in to make a social call upon
Mr. Worthing, the junior member of the firm,
who was a personal friend of his, and was
waiting until he should finish the letter he
was writing, when he would be at liberty.

Noel Southworth approached the teller and
passed him a slip of paper, that had been cut
from a newspaper, briefly remarking:

 

 

 

eee

“OH, NOEL, DO YOU MEAN THAT WE ARE TO LIVE HERE?” AND TEARS OF

* THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. #3==

Worthing.

But, after the junior partner had conversed
with:-him for a few moments, he told him that
he would take his New York references, and
he might enter their service the first of the
coming week.

Noel returned to Constance quite elated
with his success,

The salary was not what he considered ade-
quate compensation for his services; but he
hoped that it might be increased after a time.
At any rate, he was driven to work, and he
was obliged to be satisfied with what he could
get for the present.

Constance, like Marguerite, pleaded for a
quiet little home of their own, but this propo-
sition her husband would not listen to fora
moment.

“Wait,” he said, “until we can have one to
our minds—I can never be content with one
less elegant than the old home on Madison
avenue in New York. I would prefer to board.”

So the young wife was obliged to be content
with boarding for a time at a third-rate house
in an obscure street.

She, however, did her best to assist her hus-
band, by learning to do herown sewing and
dressmaking, and became so ingenious with
her needle, so tasteful in her designs, that
Noel told her that she was more tastefully
dressed than when she had an unlimited
income at her disposal.

“Yes, more tastefully, but not better
dressed,” Constance told him, “for tke mate-
rial is not as elegant; but I am learning that
taste and neatness will make up ina great
measure for other deficiencies.”

 

CHAPTER XX.
A BRAVE AND FAITHFUL WIFE.

It was a great change for Constance to be
shut up in a gloomy, retired boarding-house,
with a very meager income at her command,
when, heretofore, she had never known a wish
ungratified,

But she was a brave and sensible little
woman, with a sweet and sunny temper, and,
from the very first, as we know, she had
shown a disposition to make the best of the
sad change in their circumstances,

‘She indulged in no vain repinings, she made
no complaints, but carried a cheerful and
smiling face, even when her heart was very
heavy, which it often was, when she thought
of heronce happy home, of her fond and indul-

ent parents, who were now gone forever from
Her. and of her dear brother, from whom she
was so widely separated.

She was always prettily dressed, and hada
pleasant greeting for her husband when he
returned from his. labors at the bank, often
looking weary and disgusted with himself and
the world in general, for he was very proud-
spirited, and oan, felt the necessity which
had driven him to labor for his daily bread.

 

 

 

DELIGHT SPRANG INTO HER EYES.

 

 

eling. Shall we return immediately to New

 

 

 

“but, ee it will nerve us to meet this
help us to bear it. Pray do not be

\

”

York, and——

“Go back to New York!” her husband scorn-
fully repeated, and turning upon her almost
angrily; “go back among our fashionable
friends, to be snubbed, and sneered at, and
dropped on account of our misfortune! [ guess
not! I’ll never show my face in New York
again, until I can hold my head as high*as
ever. I never could face our eld friends, to be
pointed out as an object of pity.”

A slight smile of scorn wreathed Constance’s
lips at this passionate reply. ’

“Our misfortunesvannot detract in the least
from our worthiness to be as kindly received
by our old friends as we ever were,” she
answered, with quiet dignity, “and no one
merits the name who would renounce us on
account of them. It seems to me, however,
Noel, that you would be better able to secure
a good position among people who know us
than among strangers—that is why I suggested
our going back to New York.”

“How unconcernedly you speak of my secur-
ing a position, as if it were the easiest matter
in the world for me to go to work to earn our
a and butter,” he exclaimed, in a bitter

one. i

“Oh, Noel! pray do not speak so,” Constance
cried, with tears starting, and forcing back a
sob. “I know that it will be very hard for

ou; but it must come to that, must it not?

hen why ignore the fact?—why should we
not face it courageously? You e that we
have lost everything; but we must live. We
cannot live without an income, and to secure
that we must work——” ;

“We!” interposed Noel, with something like
a sneer curling his lips, as he gianced at her
white, jeweled hands

“Yes, we,” repeated Constance, firmly,
although she pig very pale, for she was!
deeply hurt.. “I see no way out of our trouble

save that you must secure a position of some
kind, and I will try tosustain my share of the
burden by making our expenses as light as
possible.

The man was momentarily ashamed of him-
self, in view of his | am wife’s patient for-
bearance and fortitude.

“T am a brute, Constance, to talk to you so!”
he exclaimed, in a tone of self-reproach. “But,
truly, I feel that it is hard lines to lose every-
thing so, at one sweep, and I cannot: make up
my mind to go back to New York—let alone
the expense of the journey. I think we will go
to San Francisco, where, perhaps, I shali be
able to find a clerkship of some kind. Would
you mind living there for a time?”

“No, I will do whatever you think is best,

 

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

“T have called in answer to this advertise-
ment.”

The man glanced at the bit of paper, then at |

the young man, and courteously inquired:

“Have you had any experience in a banking-
house?” uae

“No, but I write a good hand andam a
good accountant.” :

“You have references, I suppose,” the teller
remarked. ;

“Tam an entire stranger in this city; but
I can refer you to reliable parties in New
York,” Noel replied. |

“Hum—I—” the man began, looking doubt-
ful; then, after glancing into Noel’s face, he
added: “I will speak to Mr. Worthing.”

He left the young man and approached the
gentleman who was writing at a desk behind
the screen where Laurence Everet had taken
refuge. i

“There is an applicant for the situation we
advertised yesterday,” he remarked, in a low
tone. “He is a stranger in San Francisco, but
says hecan refer to reliable New York par-
ties. I rather like his looks, but he’ll hard]
do, will he, without some one here to vouc
for him?”

“Like his looks, do you, Lathrop? Well,
your judgment is usually good,” Mr. Worth-
ing remarked, in a confidential tone; then
added: “Ask him to be seated fora few mo-
ments, and I will speak to him as soonas I
have finished this letter.” _

The teller retired, and Mr. Worthing went
on with his eee completed his letter,
and then arose from his chair.

“Worthing, one moment,” said Laurence, in
a low tone, as he was about to go out to inter-
view Noel. “I’know this man; I saw him as
he came in; his name is Noel Southworth. He
married the daughter of my father’s most
intimate friend—a Miss Alexander. Her par-
ents were both killed in that shocking railroad
accident. about. a month ago, while all their

roperty, and Southworth’s also, was swal-

owed up in the failure of the ——-— & ———
railroad; so that the poor fellow. is peoarely
driven to apply for this situation, The Alex-
anders were fine people, and I believe that
Southworth stands well in New York, I know
Senne about his capabilities, but if you can
give him the place, I shall be glad on his
wife's account.’

Mr. Worthing glanced curiously into the
face of his friend; something in the tones of
his voice whilespeaking of Noel Southworth’s
wife, gave him an inkling of the truth, anda
look of sympathy sprang into his eyes,

“T will talk with him,” he briefly replied,
and then went out to interview Noel South-
worth.

But for the intercession of Laurence Everet,
it is doubtful if the young man would have

But he was not long in discovering that he
had been exceedingly fortunate in securing a
{situation with the wealthy banking-house of
Ames & Worthing, and anxious to retain it,
since he must work, he put forth his best
efforts in their service.

The firm were so pleased with him that, at
the end of six months, upon the death of one
of their long tried and trusted clerks, he was
promoted to the vacancy with a considerable
increase in salary.

Noel was so elated by this improvement in
his circumstances that he determined to sur-

rise Constance by giving her the “home of
er own” which she had so craved.

He found aor flat in a pleasant portion
of the city and furnished it in a tasteful, even
elegant manner, becoming so interested in the
work that he unwisely exceeded his means and
ran in debt for a great many things—such as
pictures, bric-a-brac, etc., which they could
very well have done without.

When all was completed he invited Con-
stance to drive with him one afternoon, and
upon their return, stopped at the apartment-
hotel where their future home was to be,

“T want you to make a call with me, Con-
stance,” he remarked, as he drew rein and
prepared to alight. *

“Upon whom?” she inquired, regarding him
with some surprise.

“A young couple who have just gone to
housekeeping,” Noel replied. “I want you: to
see their home, and tell me if syou think you
would like to live in the same way.”

He assisted her from the carriage, and
together they ascended tothe second floor,
where Noel rang a bell.

A neat servant-girl soon made her appear:
nace, and he inquired if her master and mis-
tress were within.

Having already received her instructions,
the girl replied “no,” but they soon would be
—she had been expecting them for some time.
“Would the gentleman and lady come. in
and wait?”

“Yes,” Noel said,
come in for a while.’

“And,” the maid continued, with a sly
smile at Constance, “perhaps the lady would
like to look about the rooms.”

Constance demurred at such a proceeding,
in the absence of the mistress, but Noel
assured her that “it would be all right—he
was well acquainted with the proprietor,” and
so, preceded by the smiling maid, they made
a tour of the rooms.

“Tt is a lovely little home,” Constance said,
with a wistful sigh, when they had inspected
every apartment, from the pretty parlors to

“they would be glad to

 

 

Children Cry for Pitcher’s Castoria,

secured a situation with the house of Ames &

the snug kitchen, “and everything is so con-
venient—all the rooms being on one floor.”

“How would you like to go to housekeeping
in apartments Jike this?” her husband asked.

“Oh, you know I should be delighted to
haye a home of our own, no matter how hum-
ble it might be,” she responded, sweeping a
longing glance around her, “but I am afraid
that anything like this would be too expen-
sive for us.”

Noel frowned, for her reference to the ex-
pense reminded him unpleasantly of the
many unpaid bills which be would be obliged
to meet by and by.

Then you would be content with a home
like this?” he said, putting the disagreeable
thought behind him. “It,does not compare
with what you have been accustomed to, still
it is really pretty and home-like, I must
admit.”

“Content, Noel! I believe I should be per-
fectly happy, if this was to be our home,” the
young wife eagerly answered.

“Then be happy, my darling,” the young
man said, as he leaned fondly toward her, his
face beaming with pleasure over her appre-
ciation of his work, “for it is already yours.
I have been planning this as a surprise for
you—do you know what day this is, Con-
stance?”

“My birthday!” she cried, in a tone of
amazement. “I had not thought of it before!
Oh, Noel, do you mean that we are to live
here?” and tears of delight sprang into. her
eyes.

“Of course I mean it,” he responded, ten-
derly, “and I only wish that it were a thou-
sand times better; but you shall have a more
elegant home by and by, if we are prosperous.
I shall never rest until I can see you in one
equal to that from which I took you,” he con-
cluded, with a note of bitterness in his tone.

“Do not be too ambitious, Noel,” his wife
gently returned. “I am sure one can be very
happy in a modest way, if one is only con-
tent, and I am sure this is much more than
merely modest. I can hardly realize that it is
ours, after all,” she went on, smilingly—“ that
I am to be queen in this lovely house. What
excellent taste you have shown in the selec-
tion of everything—the carpets are lovely, and
blend so nicely with the paper and furnish-
ings. And what pretty pictures! I do not see
how you have managed it all—I am afraid you
have been very extravagant——”

“Do not trouble your pretty head about the
‘how,’” the young husband smilingly re-
turned, but with an impatient shrug of the
shoulders. “Just make yourself at home,
enjoy it, and leave everything else to me.”

They took possession the next day, and Con-
stance did enjoy it thoroughly, after her close,
cramped quarters in the boarding-house. Both
husband and wife seemed very happy in the
change, and Constance felt as if the world
bade fair to be very bright to them once more,
Noel appeared more manly and enterprising
than he had ever done—he had an object in

jlife now, besides the gratification of his own

selfish aims and desires, and if he had been
content to go steadily on in this simple, quiet
way all would have been well.

Three months after going to housekeeping
the hearts of both were gladdened by the com-
ing of adear little girl, with eyes and hair
like her father’s, with the dimples and com-
plexion of her mother.

Both Noel and Constance were very proud
of their baby, whom they named Alice after
Mrs. Alexander, and of course, like all young
parents, they built many bright hopes for the
future, of which she was the sum and center,

“As time went on Noel, who had always been
exceedingly fond. of society, began to make
acquaintances and to receive invitations to
mingle in gay circles.

Constance would have preferred not to get
into the whirl of fashionable life again, espe-
cially as she felt that their circumstances
would not permit it; but Noel was very proud
of her beauty, and insisted upon her accom-
panying him wherever he went, consequently
their second winter in San Francisco found
invitations pouring in wpon+hem from vari-
ous quarters, and a gay season before them,

Of course the acceptance of hospitality from
others necessitated. a return of civilities, and
then Noel discovered that a flat was not the
thing—they must have a house in which to
entertain their friends.

He finally found one to his mind, and then
came the additional expense of furnishing it
to suit his fastidious taste.

It was in vain that Constance remonstrated
and protested against such extravagance,
urging that they could not afford to support
so much style upon their present income, and
that she would much prefer to give up all
society and live a quiet, simple life, rather
than be obliged to carry a burden of debt.

At such times Noel would become irritable,
and even angry, insisting that it was his own
affair—he had the bills to pay and best knew
what he could afford.

To avoid trouble Constance yielded to him,
although she did so with fear and trembling,
knowing, but too well, that the future must
bring a harvest of debt, care, and anxiety.

She did all that she could to save, by mak-
ing all her own costumes, which Noel insisted
must be as rich and elegant as other ladies
wore, while she also tried, in numberless
ways, to keep their household expenses down
to the lowest possible margin.

This kind of life did not seem so attractive
to Constance as heretofore. She longed for
something better and higher than the mere
gratification of present impulses and desires
and a constant round of excitement; she felt
that these things should not constitute the
chief end of life. She was fond of reading and
study, and would have been. glad to devote
more time to the cultivation of her intellectual
powers, while too, of late, a sense of soul-
hunger impelled her to reach out, after some-
thing with which to feed her spiritual needs
and aspirations.

Besides this, she was devotedly attached to
her little one, and longed to give her more of
her personal attention, feeling that a great
responsibility rested upon her in the training
of her child. But whenever she objected to
going to gay parties ana places of amusement,
pleading the needs of little Alice, Noel was
offended, and jealously accused her of caring
more for the child than for him.

But a stronger reason than all these was
the growing fear that her husband was learn-
ing to love the wine-cup more than was good
for him. Wherever they went in society wine
was served to them as ye 4 as water, and _ it
was not an uncommon thing for Noel to
become so elated by frequent potations as to
occasion remark, while he was beginning to
grow stout and flushed, nervotis and _irrita-
ble, thus awakening in his wife the darkest
forebodings for the future,

During this time Constance heard regularly
from Reginald, who stil] remained in Paris.
He was working up a fine practice, outside
of his hospital duties, which he liked so well,
while the experience was worth so much to
him that he should postpone his return indefi-
nitely. Marguerite was very much better—
well, he called her—and: had grown to be far
more beautiful than she had.ever been. when
they knew her in New York.

Still there was a certain reserve about all
his letters which puzzled his sister, and she
feared that he was not quite happy in his
married life.

This thought troubled her at times, but
there were.anxieties of a more personal nature
pressing upon her, and thus she could not
dwell upon imaginary troubles regarding
Reginald’s domestic relations.

One afternoon Noel returned from the bank
looking flushed and. -excited. He was very
absent-minded during dinner, seldom speak-
ing, unless Constance directly addressed him,
while he would start nervously every time the
bell rang or a door was opened or shut.

He had lately resented all questioning about
his business; therefore Constance appeared
not to notice that there was anything unusual
about his manner, although she was really
quite anxious regarding it.

After dinner he did not go to his club, as he
was in the habit of doing, when they had no

 

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6

social engagements, but walked the floor by

fits and Starts, while his eyes were so bright
and restless, and his face so flushed, that his
wife feared he was going to be ill, and longed
to beg him to allow hertodo something for
him, or to send for their family physician ;
but a feeling of timidity prevented her from
doing so.

After putting little Alice to bed, she re-
turned to the library with her work, hoping
that she might be able to win him to some-
thing of cheerfulness by chatting socially with
him.

She made two or three attempts, but without
any success.

He replied to all her questions and
remarks only in monosyllables, and then re-
lapsed again into his absent state.

At last, feeling that she could bear the sus-
pense no longer, she arose and went to his
side,

“Noel, what is troubling you so to-night?”
she asked, as she softly laid her hand upon his
shoulder, and bending her clear eyes upon his
face.

“What makes you imagine that anything is
troubling me?” he sharply questioned, as he
turned a startled look upon her.

“T do not imagine it—I know it,” Constance
replied. “ You are acting very unlike yourself
to-night—you are either ill, or something is
gronblirie you, and I want you totell me what
it is.”

“Don’t let your imagination fly away with
your good sense, Constance,” he retorted, with
a short, unnatural laugh, while he flushed a
deeper crimson. “I am not ill, and if fam
acting unlike myself, it is perhaps caused by
the faet that I am dreading a trip which [
have to make to Chicago to-morrow.”

“Going to Chicago to-morrow!” Constance
exclaimed, amazed.

“Yes,” he briefly replied, but his glance
shifted uneasily beneath hers.

“Why have you not said anything about it
before?” ‘she asked, looking pale and troubled.

“Simply because I did not know of it myself
until to-day. Unexpected business calls me

there, and I shal! be obliged to get away very | may be fleeing from him, and fifty feet away,

early in the morning,” he explained.

Still Constance’ was very anxious: He had
never left her before since their marriage—he
had never before been sent away on business
for the firm during his connection with Ames
& Worthing.

Somehow the fact struck heras being rather
singular, while his manner, since his return
from the bank, impressed her with an unac-
countable fear of some impending trouble,

“Are you going on business for the firm?”
she inquired.

Noel started and darted a suspicious glance
at her.

“For the firm?” he repeated.
what else should I go for?”

Constance knew that there was a brarch
house in Chicago, and so, supposing that his
errand was connected with that, she tried to
believe that it was all right.

Still he had conducted himself so strangely,
she was not wholly reassured.

“How long will you be away, Noel?” she
asked, after a few momemts of silence.

“T—-JI cannot tell exactly,” he replied, shiv-
ering Slightly, as he rose and placed the
blower before the grate.

“You will need a change of clothing?”

“Yes—just a few things in my grip.”

“Very well, I will put them up for you,”
Constance returned.

“Why—yes—

Then going to his side, for he had remained |
standing before the grate with his back turned |

toward her, she said, in a low, grave tone:

Noel.”

“Well?” he asked,'but without turning his
face toward her.

“Noel,” she repeated, and now she slipped
around in front of him, laid her hands upon
his shoulders, thus bringing herself face to
face with him.

“Well, what is it, Constanee?” he demanded,
with an evident effort to retain his self-con-
trol.

“Tf a man is in trouble, do you not think
that his wife is the one who can sympathize
with him most truly?” she asked, with a
sweet ‘seriousness that was very touching.

“Why, Constance! my dear girl, what are
you driving at?” Noel cried, assuming a light-
ness of tone which jarred painfully upon his
gentle wife’s heart.

“You cannot deceive me, Noel,” she re-
sponded, in a tremulous tone, while she stud-
ied his face with her clear, searching eyes. “I
know that something is weighing heavily
upon your mind—you have not been yourself
for weeks; but I am your wife, and I havea
right .to share whatever burdens you may
have to bear. If we have been living beyond
your income, I shall be only too glad to help
you curtail our expenses in the future—if you
are involved in any way, I have valuable jew-
els which I am_ ready to sell to relieve you.
Whatever your trouble is, tell it to me, I beg,
and let me share it—do not shut me out of
your confidence, when there is no sacrifice I
would not make to help you.”

The man bent and kissed her lovely up-
turned face, but: he was very pale now.

“Constance, you are the noblest little wife
in the world, and I am not worthy of you,” he
said, almost passionately. “But I have no

trouble which—you can share. Now run away |

and put up my things, for I must be off very
early in the morning.”

He gently removed her hands from his shoul-
ders, held them ina close, almost convulsive
clasp for a moment, then quietly released
them, and with a little sigh she turned away
from him and went slowly up stairs.

Noel Southworth watched her until the last
flutter of her silken robe disappeared from
sight, then he dropped his head upon the man-
hy while a stifled groan of despair burst from

im.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

MISS PAULINE

BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE,

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

 

 

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

 

CHAPTER XVI.

LOCKING HORNS AMONG THE SPANISH BAYO-
NETS.

Exclamations burst out on all sides, and
more than one Mexican oath is heard. Lopez
looks as black as a thunder-cloud, though he
smiles in a cruel way, as only a Mexican can.

“Ah! you will give us the trouble to make

out a new document. It is easily done.
Understand, you go not forth until you have
signed. This time there is no dashing cowboy
to fly to your rescue—we nave looked after
him, senorita. If you refuse to sign, this
night sees his death.”

Here is a new factor brought to bear—her
love for Dick. It may influence her more than
anything else. The man inthe door-way hears
this threat with a feeling of rage; he can re-
strain himself but little longer, and then a
Texan cloud-burst will sweep into that library,
threatening to overcome all before it.

“You are cruel; you are contemptible! What

has any one else to do with my business? You |
would scruple at nothing in order to further |

your designs,” she cries.

“That is just where you are right, senorita,”
gloats the hidalgo, seeing signs of relenting.

“She gives in—we have won!” exclaims
more than one among those present.

“You are wrong—I will not sign—Mr. Den-
ver is capable of looking after himself,” comes
her answer, and the expectant faces darken
again.

—--—

“Then nothing remains but force. You have
said Iam cruel; you compel me to be so.
Consider yourself a prisoner, Senorita Pauline
Westerly—a prisoner whose fate depends upon
her discretion in writing her name. Jose!
Sancho! once more lay hold upon our fair
captive.”

“Hands off there!"

These words come in a roar—the steam-gauge
has burst under the tremendous strain, a
human cyclone rushes through the door-way,
and up to the men who are about to obey their
friend and master, by laying hands upon the
girl who dares defy his will.

Upon them Dick Denver plunges with all
the speed of a wild-cat engine, and when the
impact has come, two Mexican gentlemen are
seen flying in as many different directions
with an impetus that is alarming, while their
impelling power, the man who has come upon
the scene thus suddenly, stands there, facing
the whole room full of people.

Pauline sees, she comprehends, she gasps,
in a happy delirium:

“Thank Heaven! it is my hero—it is Dick!”

The storm that races down the Sierra Madres
through arroyo and barrauca, cutting woods
and chaparral in its way, does not produce
more consternation than the coming of: this
human hurricane. before which Jose and
Sancho have gone down in confusion,

Senor Lopez starts back in alarm—his crafty
black eyes are fixed upon the face of the man
—-he sees the driver who was hired to serve
him, looks further, and dicovers more.

“The accursed’ Americano!” he hisses, his
swarthy face expressing the utmost rage, for
already has Dick Denver played havoc with
his plans, and a’ man of his fiery temper can-
not stand being balked.

Dick knows he is in the midst of men who
have reason to hate him—he believes that
more than one carries a cuchillo that they
would willingly baptize in his. blood, conse-
quently, after having sent the two men into
| different corners with his fists, he draws out
something that will go farther, something
| with which a man can overtake an enemy who

 

 

since a bullet is gifted with the wings of the
lightning.

“Gentlemen all—this lady is under my pro-
tection—! mean to see her safely to her hotel,
and the man who interferes. does it at his
peril! Lam an American—Dick Denver is my
name, and any one who wants satisfaction will
find me at the Iturbe. Now, stand back, every
one. Dora!”

“Oh! Mr. Denver.”

“Come, Miss Pauline—we must leave this
inhospitable house,” he cries.

“Mercy !” moans the wretched senora, whose
hospitality has been so abused by her hus:
band, one of the worst things a Spaniard
could do.

“T cannot come—this miserable professor in- |
tends I shall remain,” laments Dora.

“You wretch!” and Dick makes one spring |
forward, whereupon Professor John is seen to
sprawl flat upon the floor, rolling over and
over, to get beyond the reach of that iron
arm, and the foot that seems to be propelled
by springs of steel, all the while hattovieg
like an excited monkey.

Dora, thus relieved, flies to the side of her
mistress, and clasps an arm around her in a!
protecting way, though it would appear that|

 

 

' they are careful not to come between

'not feel furious,

the lady’s maid was more in need of protec-
tion. than her mistress. SY a

“We wish you good-evening, gentlemen.
Your little scheme has been nipped in the
bud. Take care how you try to follow me.
Ladies, this way, please—pass out ahead, as
I bmg to watch these fellows as long as pos-
sible.”

The ladies comprehend that it is not love
that influences Dick, but another alm and

eir
protector ahd those upon whom he keeps his
eye. Various expletives break upon the air as
the little party thus back out of the room—it
is not natural for some seven or eight men to
find themselves cowed by a single party and
As ‘it is the wling
the voleano—when the top of the tone blows
off, look out for squalls.

Now Dick is in the door-way—the ladies
have passed down the hall some distance—he
gives one last look around him, waves a hand
in mocking farewell to the baffled conspirators
of the Morales mansion, and follows Miss
Pauline.

Immediately great confusion ensues. Re-
lieved of his presence, the Senor Morales and
his guests fly this way and that, some jump-
ing fram the windows, with the hope of yet
baffling the American by facing him on more
equal terms in the garden, others shouting,
themselves hoarse with excitement.

It does not unnerve the American a particle
to hear this racket; he has seen packs of
wolves before now; where the water roars the
loudest it is always most shallow; barking
dogs seldom bite.

They are at_ the door now, and with a quick
sprint Dick has overtaken the two ladies.
Together they all pass out of the house, upon
the veranda—the steps are just beyond, and
then comes the vehicle.

At this moment Dick sees a dark form dart-
ing forward; he is at the horses, and a knife

 

|}and. no aoubt crawls away in’ the shadows,

 

flashes in his hand. A quick movement, fol-
lowed by others, and the traces are cut in|
twain, thus rendering escape by this means |
impossible.

Before he can take a shot at the fellow the
other has thrown himself behind the carriage,

This sudden catastrophe leaves them in'a bad
fix. With ladies to look after, what shall he
do? They descend the steps leading from the
veranda. Perhaps once beyond the gates, they
may find some way of getting back to the
Hotel Iturbe,

With this idea in view, Dick springs to un-
bar the gate, and swing it open; but he finds
that this is a trick everybody does not know—
the gate obstinately refuses to swing at his
dictation, in spite of his strenuous exertions.
They are shut in the garden of Morales, with
nearly a dozen enemies around, seeking to do
them evil.

Dick now realizes that he is in for it, and
that it may be necessary to do some shootin
before the game is won. He has not expected
such a situation as this. How shall they get
beyond the garden walls and elude their foes?

One thing is certain, he wil! not desert those
who have been left in his charge. Part of the
victory was won when he took them from the
power of the scheming Lopez, and he is bound
to finish it by landing them in safety at the
hotel.

“Miss Pauline, you are not afraid?” he cries.

“No, no. Let me help you all I can,” comes
the cheering answer, while the din around
them grows in volume.as the servants take up
the cries.

“Thank Heaven for that! -Come, we must
endeavor to find an opening back toward the
canal—I have an idea there is a door in the
wall there. We will defeat these ravenous
hounds yet! Only trust me, and keep up a
brave heart, Pauline.”

His words inspire the two women—there is
something in the very voice of the young
ranchero, who has seen so much of life in the
South-west and Mexico, to cause a feeling of
confidence in his ability to accomplish all he
has promised, and more.

Therefore they fall back into the shadows of
the garden, densely overgrown with bushes as
it is, and seek to baffle the searching eyes
that would ferret out their position. All
around arise shouts. If it were a party of
Mexican vaqueros hunting down a wolf that
had taken refuge in the motte of timber, there
could hardly be more confusion and alarm.

Dick Denver has had enough personal ac-
Sheree with these Mexicans to fully un-

erstand their nature, and he knows that
having once aroused their animosity nothing
cam ever make them friends again. hey hate
as the wolf hates, and are quite as merciiess.

“Keep as close to me as possible, and speak
no more than is absolutely necessary,” he
says.

The first part of his injunction it is easy
enough to accomplish, but when it comes to
silence, Dora is unreliable—she could not keep

 

i this direction.

|them except as_ a last resort—besides, it is

must have been lurking in the garden—this

-lieves he can again, but it will take Madeher rai
: ‘tee “(higher praise could. I

eae present. While he is tatly Dick. becomes fervent—the occasion is

very promising, and he cannot withstand the

temptation to speak; so he tells his love in

just the way any one who knows him well

of | engaged in scient

still any length of time, if paid handsomely
for it. At first it is fear of their pursuers that
causes the animated creature to groan and
utter little shivering cries—then a branch jabs
her in the eye, eliciting a sort of shriek, and
when all else fails, she can positively feel a
snake run over her foot; and if there is any-
thing on the face of the earth this same Dora
detests, so that the very name almost sends
ker into convulsions, she declares if is a
snake,

Dick at first endeavors to hush her outcries,
but he might as well try to dam the Missis-

sippi, _Even Pauline’s words fail to have the
desired effect—Dora must bubble over, or
swoon.

So they make their way along; Dick wishes
his companion could be with them, and he
finally gives the signal again. Perhaps Bob
may have failed to hear it on the first occa-
sion, as he is not the man to allow any ob-
stacle to stand in his way when duty ealls.

There must be a wall somewhere near.them
—Dick looks for it constantly. He can hear
their enemies plunging hither and yon throug!
the bushes, which they beat with great assidu-
Hf as though hunting legitimate me,
ore than once it looks as_ though there is
bound to be a collision, and Dick nerves him-
self for the ordeal, gritting his’ teeth and
SSDS PRS up his mind to astonish his

oes.

Fortune favors them—the wall is reached,
and as yet they have seen nothing of their
enemies, though it is evident that they are all
around. If the door in the wall can only be
found now, they may have cause for rejoicing.

It is too late—loud shouts arise—some one
has discovered the light dresses of the ladies
against the darker background of the wall,
and his ¢ries are bound to bring all the forces
of the enemy cantering to that spot. At the
same moment Dick hears Pauline ery out—
Pauline, who has just then preceded hima
trifle, and who means to take his place, ina
measure,

“It is here—the door!” is’ what she cries,
but immediately adds, ina disappointed voice,
“put I cannot open it—I am afraid it is
locked |”

Could Dick be given another minute, he
would spring forward and manipulate that
door so that it would open. It hasto bea
sturdy structure that can resist his attack.
But it happens that the combined rush is
made from all quarters at that moment, and
his attention must of necessity be taken up in

Hecan just make out the dark figures com-
ing upon him-—they are like the spokes of a
wheel, while he represents the hub, —

Dick is far from blood-thirsty by nature. and
while he holds the lives of those on-rushing
fools in his hands, he does not care to’ take

hardly fair, as they are debarred from firing
back on account of the presence of the ladies.

So at he last moment he replaces his revol-
vers and meets the assailants with his fists.
A better man to take care of them could not
well be found.

He uses his arms somewhat in the style of
the piston-rods of an engine, and with such
remarkable success that he speedily creates
quite a havoc among his enemies. Then comes

one whom he had not seen present, but who

powerful frame that opposes him can belong
to none other than the bull-fighter, Barcelona.
How eagerly he hurls himself upon the Amer-
ican, as though all that the past has known,
which rankles in his heart, flies to the surface.

This is unfortunate, beeause, while he is|answers with truth and delicacy. Still she can

read between the lines, and knows that it was

thus fully engaged, some of the others may
seize upon Miss Westerly and bear her away.
If ever Dick Denver straeaes in his life it is
now, while the Spanish athlete also exerts
himself to the utm®st, making this a battle of |
giants. j ie ’
Dick has worsted this man befo are be-.
e, am

there is none to s ‘le

  
 
    

doing Barcelona
in good. shape, *s comp: ons. - ,
doubtless be makifg themselves scarce, with
the two American girls in their power.
Already he hears Dora screaming, “Kee

away, you minereome toate bug-hunter !—I
detest you!—I’ll have my Bob shake you out
our hands off, all

of a year’s
elp, I will! Bob!

of you, or
oh, where are you?

“Coming, darling—coming as fast as these
beastly prickly pears and Spanish bayonets
will allow. Coming like a wild horse of the
prairie, on the stampede. Where’s that wretch
of a Fitz—let me fondle him like a grizzly, and
re mother. won’t know him. Coming, darling
—here!” :

With the last word, which is uttered as a
ferocious roar, Colonel Bob bursts through the
barrier that endeavors to block his progress,
and appears upon the scene. Dick hails his
coming with the greatest of delight—since it
relieves him, in a measure, of his worry.

The professor does not experience the same
feeling; he is a Briton, it is true, but recent
experiences have taught him that fighting is
hardly to be placed in his line. Hearing the
threats which the tetrible Sheriff of Secora
County bellows forth while bursting his way
upon the scene, the professor wisely concludes
to leave for parts unknown, nor to stand on
the order of his going.

Colonel Bob finds work to do, however—there
are a number of noble Mexicans present who
require looking after, and in his present ex-
citable fraine of mind he is just in the humor
to satisfy all their longings in this direction.

The darkness is not so intense now, for the
moon is peeping above the horizon. Bob can
see his men, and he falls upon them with the
power of a thunderbolt. Right and: left he
plunges, knocking them down as a ball well
directed scatters the pins ina bowling alley.

The varied outeries are something astonish-
ing, and indicate tremendous excitement on
the part of those concerned.

Meanwhile, Dick has not been idle. By his
energy he has succeeded in convincing Barce-
rc a once more he is getting the worst of
it all.

Dick avoids oe with the bull-fighter,
since he has no lighted cigar now to jab in the
other’s eye. He keeps Tordas at a safe dis-
tance and proceeds to hammer him with all the
scientific points he has ever learned.

In vain does the bull-fighter seek to close.
The American is surrounded by what seems to
be a living wall of fists, and every time Barce-
Jona makes a fierce lunge forward, something
strikes him squarely on the chest, or adminis-
ters between the eyes a blow that makes him
see stars. :

He realizes that the field is lost, since these
two men must be heavily armed, and will not
scruple using weapons if they are pressed.

The Mexicans engaged with Colonel Bob
have had most of their enthusiasm knocked
out of them, and one by one are shrinking
away to nurse their swollen faces.

True, a bull-like voice roars oaths, and en-
deavors to encourage the assailants by the
declaration that victory is sure’and near at
hand; but the owner is nowhere to be seen,
since the wily senor thinks too much of his
comfort to join in a melee like this.

His shouts do not enthuse his friends to any
great extent, for they have ocular evidence
that what heso valorously declares a fact is
far from being true. Surely those who are
struggling to craw! outfrom a conflict, bruised,
battered, and disheartened, cannot be con-
vinced that they are the victors.

Colonel Bob’s enthusiasm seems to increase
rather than diminish, and the last brace of
enemies who endeavor to run amuck with him
come to the conclusion that they have struck
what seems to be a human threshing-machine,
te quickly are they doubled up and put to
sleep.

Grasping the situation, the Mexican bravo
gives un the battle—he shouts, ina furious
voice, “ We will meet again!” and then plunges
into the obscurity of the thicket, to escape fur-
ther punishment at the hands of the American.

So far as enemies are concerned, the two
comrades have won the battie, but they are |
as yet far from safe. Of course Dick’s first

gro wth !~keep
"ll scream for

9

 

and }.

thought concerns those for whom they waged
war. :

“Pauline!” he gasps, short of breath.

“Here—safe!” comes the cheering response,
and the girl from New York dawns upon his
vision.

“And Dora?” ;

There is no need to ask that, since Colonel
Bob prea has that unique person in his
arms and loudly laments the fact that he
could not have totally annihilated the little
wretch who dared to lay his hand upon her,
which terrible threats cause tie miserable pro-
fessor to shiver in his thicket idiner lees
near by.

“How shall. we get out?” dernands Dick,
awake to the exigency of the moment.

“In the same way I came in,” Bob replies,
ation? & eas,

a ow was a ¥ - tg ; oe 4 ‘

“Wait until I dislodge that bellowing gl
from yonder pee can’t ¢alk while We
keeps up that shouting, just as though his
men were stillat us, tooth and nail.”

As he speaks Colonel Bob throws his arm
forward—there is a flash, a report, followed
immediately by a second oney) ©" »

The bellowing ceases instantly.

“Killed him,” says Dick, with a sigh of
relief,

“No such good luek,” returns Bob,  Care-
lessly. “Hark, you can hearhim making a bee-
line for the hacienda now. »No more howling
from the Senor or at present. Come this
hoon you will see where I came in.”

“The door in the wall I was looking for.””

“I\ heard only what must have been. your
last signal, though wondering what all the
row could he about, and guessing you had a
hand in it. Now we've left the garden of
Morales behind. What you see here is the La
Viga Canal.”

“How shall we get home?—we have no vehi-
ele,” remarks Dick, puzzled for once.”

“There is a_ boat hE, ae ry that will
take us part of the way—the ladies at least.
Ha! two boats—we are in luck it.seems,”

Colonel Bob soon settles with the owners of
the craft, who live upon the bank of the canal
and take pleasure parties to the floating gar-
dens. The boats can be left at a certain point
—money is paid over, and with the moon
wheeling, into view, making the scene very
romantic, our four friends start along the
water-way of the Mexican capital, bound for
the Hotel Iturbe.

CHAPTER XVII.
THE CLIQUE OF THE ALAMEDA,

The situation is one well calculated to arouse
thoughts of love—the soft moonlight, the odor-
ous night air, the plash of the paddles, from
which drops of molten silver seem to fall as
they are raised from the water, and, besides,
the scene of danger which has just been shared
in common—these things bring loving hearts
closer together than ever.

Naturally, Dick allows his companion to
draw cheat some little distance, though keep-
ing in plain sight of each other. They are
neither of them in any hurry, as the danger
is past, at least for the time being.

ender thoughts are born of the occasion—
she, on her part, feels very near and dear to
Dick, because of the pertinacity with which

*

veh

ast THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. Bese VL. oss, |

$ig aa Reali tees elie bi ;

————

When gentlemen talk about
ness they.should be certain that no eaves-
mop Ree hangs in the shadow of the piazza,

They talk on in a disjointed way, until a
clock in a cburch near by warns them that it
is time they retired, if they mean to get any
sleep. A couple of half-smoked cigars fall
near the crouching figure, one actually strik-
ing him in the face, at which he gives a start,
as pena he has reasons for feeJing a hatred
toward Yankee cigars,

After they have gone he crawls away, and
as he rises to his full height reveals the flzure
of the Mexican bull-fighter, Tordas Barcelona,
when the explanation of his hatred for cigars
is made manifest, © : “ata

The day dawns,

It promises a fair and pleasant spell of
weather for this time of year, and the Ameri-
cans quartered at the Iturbe profit by it.
Pauline desires to see all that is possible of
the Mexican capital during their limited stay.
Diek and Colonel Bob, take turns in escorting
the girls around. They have other work to
do, which the one not engaged in this pleasant
ree oe after. “i

n the City of ico there-are at all tinie
of the year, and particularly during the inter
season, numbers of Americans to be found. It
would be an easy task to make up a tair regi-
ment, if all would enlist.

Among thése men our friends work, picking
out one here and another there, atid using

reat. care that the parties selected possess
the proper requisites for such a business. A
couple of Mexicans are hired with the rest, as
they do not want to excite the anger of the
natives by what might appear to be an inva-
sion of a foreign band 5

Every man is required to arm himself thor. |
eagbiy and their weapons will be looked after
before the expedition leaves in the morning,
There may be heavy fighting ahead, and Dick
Denver knows what it means to run aeross
desperate bandits of the Sierra Madres at

ome. t+ ; :

Then there are provisions, tents, horses, and
numerous other tl s to be secured. It is
fortunate, in the first place, that Dick is
thoroughly at “home in all these things, and
that he is supplied with any amount of money, |
through Miss Pauline, with which to carry
out her plar jc ens Re

As the ay wears on he concludes his busi-
ness. Nothing has been Jeft undone, /when
they start on the succeeding day Miss Wester-
ly will find occasion to cor tulate her master

matters into such smooth shape.
So the sun descends the western sky, and |
makes ready to drop behind the mountains |
that shut in the beautiful valley of Los Reme-_
dios. They have seen nothing Of the senor all ~
day, and even Barcsidee a and the professor —
manage to keep out of sight. NE
This is no sign that their movements haye ©
not been under surveillance—at various times |
during the day they have noticed some peon
hanging near and acting as though he werea
spy, but beyond lowering their voices, the
have paid no attention to such facts. ;
If danger overshadows them, it is apt toap-
pear during the night, though the senor may
think it best to leave them alone ‘until they
are on their way to the mine. True, the law
and order society of the city is a thing that
exists only in imagination, and military rule

 

 

 

 

 

he defends her, and the manner in which he
watches over her interests—while Dick has
learned of late how very precious Pauline
Westerly has become, and Li, w essential to his |
happiness. ; :

She questions him eagerly—on his part he}

anxiety for her welfare, and nothing else,
oa had influencedhim in his movements.
She hears how he took the place of the}
driver, and laughs merrily to think how he
helped her into and out of the coach with all
the gallantry of a French jehu, than which

t he bestowed. Gradu-

would expect—plainly, simply, yet with an elo-
quence that sincerity of heart alone can give.

Pauline is deeply thrilled by his frank decla-
ration—she believes in him entirely, and has
had many opportunities of late to read the
man to whom her heart has gone out,

So she answers him in just the same im-

ulsive manner as that in which he has told
is love—tells him that her heart has long been
in his keeping—that ‘she believes in him as
she never dreamed she would in any man, and
that she is proud indeed of the affection he has
declared for her. + ;

So it is all settled without any great fuss,
and in a business, matter-of-fact way that
seems quite suited to such people. It would be
folly to expect a quiet, undemonstrative man
to go into rhapsodies when declaring his affec-
tion for a lady, but at the same time the man-
ner of saying it would convinee one that every
word came direct from an honest heart.

Their future looks rosy-hued at present, and
yet no one knows better than Dick that there
may be some rocky hills to climb before they
reach the goal of connubial bliss.

When the canal no longer serves their pur-
pose, they leave the canoes tied up where the
owners have directed them, and strike across
a street that will bring them to the grand
plaza.

It is nearly midnight, but the good people
of the City of Mexico have apparently not even
thought of retiring. On all sides can be heard
voices singing; or the sweet throbbing of
mandolins that are touched by the delicate
fingers of dark-haired maidens.

The moon dispels one of the bugbears at-
tending visitors to the Mexican capital—
darkness—and makes it safer to move about.
Our friends have no further adventures on this
night, but arrive at the Hotel Iturbe at last,
a street-car taking them the concluding few
blocks. j

When the ladies have gone to their rooms,
the best the house affords, as becomes the girl
who manages the great El Dorado Mine, Dick
and Bob smoke and talk, and elevate their
feet on the railing of the piazza below as true-
born Americans alone have the right to do,

Dick is not inclined to be confidential in
matters that concern his own private life, but
with Bob it is another matter—he feels that
he has a deep interest in his chum’s welfare,
and that if there has been an understanding

 

 

keeps the disorderly elements in control
than any force of police, but at the same f :
the senor may understand that an outrage
such as he contemplates could hardly be car-—
ried to an end in the City of Mexico wit

being noticed by the foreign residents an
ministers, who might undertake an investiga
tion and make it warm for those concerned, —__

On the other hand, should the affair occur
in the country, among the wild fastnesses of
the mountains, it would be set down as the
work of brigands, with whom the region has —
always been overrun. Be

This is the way Dick and the colonel look
at the matter, but even they do not give their —
enemy credit for the masterly ingenuity he is _
capable of showing upon occasion. They may |
soon find themselves caught in a nef that is
skillfully cast, and aniong the meshesof which |
they may flounder unless they meet a Roland
with an Oliver. : . f

The night closes in. oH ; ; :

Miss Pauline has learned thata grand con- |
cert is to be given on the Alameda, or plaza, _
during this evening, which will of course ‘
attended by the best people of the goo
City of Mexico. She adores music, and
heard it in all climes, from the wandering
dervish band in Egypt and Algiers that inflict
torture on the educated muscial tympanum, _
to the great Strauss band of Vienna, not to
speak of side-shows in India, among the Hot-
tentots, the Indians of the West, and the
natives of South American countries, for this
New York girl has been a great traveler dur-.

ing the last few years of her life, believing
that this is a strange world we live in, and
that people who have the ceretan ls ought |
to see as much of it as possible during their
short span of existence. . sae
Whatever Dick may think of the move, he ©
does not. say nay. How could a newly accepted —
lover offer any objection to the desire of his
heart’s idol. in less than twenty hours after —
she has admitted her love for him.
may lead to trouble—Dick hopes not.
lieves that if they can tide over the present, —
and keep their own until the time comes to ©

.

me

 
 
  
  
    

  

leave Mexico, that all will be well. on

AG
Vey

Fortunately Miss. Westerly has a man in
charge of the mine who will stand no foolish-
ness, and up to this time the opposition has
found no opportunity to do damage in that
quarter. Mines have been flooded or blown up
before now, in order to depreciate the stock.

When supper is over at the hotel, they make
ready to issue forth and see what sort of a
gathering this ancient City of Mexico can
bring about on an occasion when the military
band seeks to play patriotic and pleasing airs.

The love for music is almost universal, and
well does the poet declare that
“The man that hath no music in himself, |

Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sound
Is fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils.” ,

They can hear and see the people flocking
past the hotel even before they issue forth.

“Get ready for a crush,” remarks Dick, as
Miss Pauline and Dora appear, shawls upon
their arms. ;

“With such gallant protectors, surely we
have no cause for fear,” comes the quick reply:

 

between Pauline and himself, he, Bob, ought
to know it, in order that he may rejoice with
his friend.

So Dick tells the facts in his terse way,
and owns up that Pauline and himself have
had an understanding, and are pledged to one
another, upon hearing which the impulsive
colonel springs to his feet, overturning his
chair, and clutches the expectant. outstretched
hand of his comrade with the fury of a young
avalanche,

“A thousand congratulations, my boy—I wish
you joy upon the occasion, and may you see
many of them—that is, I mean—confound the
luck, what do I mean? Atany rate, you’ve
conn got the handsomest and best—of
course, barring one—girl in Mexico, and may
you be pulverized if ever you give her occasion
to wish she’d never met Dick Denver.”

“Ditto yourself, Bob, old boy. Now, sit
down like a Christian, and let’s talk horse
sense. Heaven knows we've enourh to talk
about—that wretched old senor persists in
keeping it warm for us, and I'm of the opin-
ion he'll never let up until by accident or
design he receives his quietus.”

“Well, he’s going to get it one of these days
—Bob Harlen Tan a marked bullet in his re-
volver to-day that’s checked through to reach
Lopez, and as suré as you live, Dick, I’ll fetch
him. You look out for Barcelona—when you
fire ab him, cut the third silver button on his
jacket to the left, and you reach his heart.” ~»

As the words are spoken, a dusky figure that
has been ctouchingin the shadow of the piazza
below their feet hugs the ground more closely
than ever, as though the party takes this
threat as a personal affair. He is here evi-
rp tly for no good purpose, this skulker in the
shadow.

4

The gentlemen have talked the matter over,
and decided upon their mode of action. One
thing is certain—they must keep near each
other, for if trouble comes, it will seem all
the harder if they are separated, In union
there is strength, and this rule holds particu-
larly good when the place is a foreign land,
and the crowd is composed of strange people.

Dora is in a tremble with delight and ~-
anticipation, for she is fond of music, and
besides, it is a great pleasure for her to be in se
the company of the man she loves. 4, Rte

“T only hope we won’t be troubled with that
bad, wicked Professor John,” she says. ame)

Bob chuckles. .

fy tena you were quite taken with
individual at one time,” he remarks. 1a

“Oh, that was before I found out what a
wretch he is. If he dares to even look at me
again, I’1]—I’ll tear his hair out!” and at this
Bob roars again and i .

“ Apparently you !
fessor wears a wig, my dear girl. But don’t
worry your poor little head about the matter.
Your own Bob is able to manage that monster
of science. I’m waiting for the chance to come ©
when we can meet face to face. He will make
himself scarce, if he’s a wise man.” :

They isssue f
the crowd that is on the flood-tide now, to ebb ©
later on, when the music is over. Already the
open air concert has begun. It isa night of
i akohte, when Pedro Gomez, the leader of the
band, has promised to outdo all previous
efforts, and give a programme to please the
most exacting. |

“I thought I saw Senor Lopez,” remarks |
Pauline. i
“ Alone?”

“Juanita was with him—that strange girl,

.

 

 

 

ersonal busi- ie

of ceremonies upon the skill shown in getting |

}

Perhaps it. |.
He be- |

car
:

again.
don’t know that the pro- |

orth, and are soon merged into |

   

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VOL, 47—No, 48,

cata THE NEW YORK WEEKLY. 63>

 

 

 

in whom the good and the evil seem strug-
gling for the-mastery. I should fear her, per-
haps, under the circumstances, but something
seems to prevent me. Where I should hate, |
am forced to love.”

(TO BE CONTINUED.)

 

Phissiory Wil Nok be Published iy Biok-Form

— Beautiful Viola,
THE GLOAK-MAKER’S MODEL;

pID SHE MARRY FOR LOVE?

\- By JULIA EDWARDS,
F - AUTHOR OF
“Tempted to Leave Her Lover,”’ ““He Loves Me
He Loves Me Not,” “Beautiful, but Peor,”
“The Littl Widow,” Etc.

 

(“ BEAUTIFUL VIOLA” was commenced in No/25. Back
humbers can be obtained of all News Agents.]

 

CHAPTER LVII. :
“WHAT HAVE ITO LIVE FOR? VIOLA IS GONE!”

There waS a moment of indecision in the
breast of Herbert Morrow, and then ii passed
away, and a look of grim and cruel resolution
took its place.

“Stop!” he cried out, in answer to the taunts
of Sidney. “Another movement and I shoot!”

As he spoke he pulled a revolver from his

pocket and aimed it at the other witha steady
hand. For answer Sidney dipped the oars
again, and the boat increased its distance be-
tween them.

Puff! Ping! ‘

Herbert had pressed the trigger, and the
leaden missive had gone on its way. :

A horrid cry followed, and the oars fell from
‘the nerveless hands of Sidney Gorman. The
aim had been true, the result certain.

erbert knew he had disabled his man, per-
haps killed him; but he felt no pang, for he
_knew the law would uphold him in shooting
a kidnapper.
~The next thing was to recover the boat,
which was beginning to turn and drift down
the stream. But Herbert was not one to stand
long considering in the face of a difficulty.

de leaped into the water and swam out to
the boat. He caught hold of it cautiously, for
he- did not trust so crafty a foe as Sidney.

But there was nothing to fear from him.
He lay in the bottom of the boat, unconscious,
his head resting on the body of the woman he
had tried so hard to win.

Herbert climbed into the boat, after rescu-
ing the oars, and at once began to row back
to the shore, postponing the release of Viola
until that was done. é

Viola, who wasconscious again, had been
aware of all that had happened, and was re-
joiced, when the Jand was reached, to have Her-
bert bend over her and cut the cords that
bound her. She distrusted him, but she could
pe doubt his intention now of befriending

Ors:

“Can you rise?” he asked her, courteously,
assisting her to get up.

She showed that she could py doing so.
Then she looked erat at the boat, and at
the bleeding form of Sidney Gorman, as he
lay where Herbert had pushed him when he
had lifted Viola out of the boat.

“Is he dead?” she asked, shudderingly.

Herbert went over to him and examined

im. j

“IT do not know. He is unconscious. We
will go back to your friends, who are in agony
pis Pha thinking you are lost in the fire, anc

— dy can be sent to see that he is cared
Or:

“TI owe you more than my life, Mr. Morrow,”

she gratefully said.

'

  

Even he could not prevent a blush of shame
at her words, remembering, as he did, how
wicked were his designs toward her.

“It is my good fortune to be of service to
you,” he answered. “If you are able to walk,
we had better go.” _

“Yes, let us go,” she said, and led the way,
knowing it better than he did.

It was coming dawn by this time, and it
was easier to go through the woods and up
the dark ravine. Herbert marveled at Viola’s
strength. He could not comprehend that her
love gave it to her..

She was in agony over the suffering she
knew Douglas was undergoing.

But even she did not measure his suffering
to its full extent. He had ceased to struggle
against fate after he recovered from his swoon
and was told that the house had fallen in.

But he bore himself like a man to whom life
no longer had any charms. His eyes were
heavy, and it seemed to him that his body
had no sensation. In his heart he prayed
Heaven for a release, that he might join his
darling. :

His mother placed herself at his side, and
tried to arouse him, but he only looked at her
and asked, in a hollow voice:

“What have I to live for? Viola is gone.”

They wished him to follow them to the Den-
tons’, where they had been urged to go. In
fact all the neighbors had offered their villas
to the sufferers. He refused to leave the spot,
however, until the ruins had been searched
for the body of his love, and Mr. Rossiter had
declared he would remain with him.

When his mother saw that it would be im-

ssible to prevail on him to go, she sadly

ined Mrs. Rossiter. and together they left
the sorrowful scene.

Nothing could be done while the fire was
still raging, and Douglas, with a feeling near
akin to madness, sat down and waited. And
the dawn of day found him in the same place.

He did not know what the time was. He
only knew that the gray light of early morn-
ing was turning into_dawn, when a strange
cry fell on his ears. He could not distinguish
the words, but there was something in it that
made him stare across the disordered lawn to
where the sound had come from, and there he
saw a gathering of excited people.

Then the gathering broke, and he could see
that everybody was coming toward him, sur-
rounding a man‘and a woman.

A woman! What woman? Why was her
figure familiar? Why did he seem to recognize

_ that graceful walk?

Oh, Heaven! what a wonder that his heart
did not break in the mighty flood of joy that
filled it!-

“Viola! Viola!” he cried.

In another moment they were locked in each
other’s arms, and those who looked on made
no effort to restrain the tears that were evoked
by the touching scene.

“Tt is not a dream!” he murmured. “TI hold
her in my arms! Oh, Heaven, how canI de-
serve this great mercy !”

“My darling!” she whispered. “How you
must have suffered! You believed me a vic-
tim?”

“TI though you had perished in the flames, I
tried to perish too, but Heaven was kind and
sent those who would not let me immolate
myself. Is it by a miracle that you are here?”

“IT was carried away by Sidney Gorman,”
she answered. :

“The scoundrel! he shall answer for it!”
cried Douglas.

“Mr. Morrow saved me from him,” said
Viola, quickly, to turn his thoughts.

“Herbert Morrow! Where is he! Herbert, I
can never repay you for this service, but I
shall always be at your command.”

“Iam only glad that I was able to do it,”
answered Herbert. And as he_ spoke he
stepp@d nearer to glas and Viola, and
whispered, in a low tone: “Let me add one
word to the service I have done you. Other

ills may befall the woman you love if you do
not quickly make her your bride, I cannot say
more. Do not delay the wedding.”

Viola clung in terror to, Douglas. It seemed
as if she was never to find a haven where she
could rest secure from her implacable, foes.
The arms of Dougias seemed the only place.

“T will heed what you say,” said Douglas.
“Here is Mr. Rossiter, waiting to welcome
you back from the grave, my darling.” Then
he whispered to Herbert: “I shall never for-
get you. We will be married this afternoo».”

 

CHAPTER LVIII.
CONCLUSION,

After all that had occurred, it required very
little persuasion to induce Viola to consent to
become the bride of Douglas that afternoon.

She had come to the firm belief that until
she was his wife there would be no peace on
this earth for her. The others all joined in de-
claring that it was the best thing that could
be done, and preparations were made at once
for the wedding. ‘

The Dentons were delighted with the idea
of such a romantic marriage, after they had
been informed of all the facts in the case, and
did all they could to make the impromptu
affair a success.

Nothing had been saved from the villa, but
it was not difficult, with the wardrobes of the
Denton girls and the deft fingers of half a
score of women, to.bring into existence a wed-
.ding gown that might have served a princess,

Douglas had telegraphed to the city for his
dress-suit to be sent to him, and Herbert had
aided as much as he could, doing all those
little things that alwa)s need to be done on
such occasions, and acquitting himself so well
that all those who inew of his connection
with the. affair of the divorce were almost
ready ,to think he must have acted out of the
goodness of his heart on that infamous occa-
sion.

Only Viola, whose pure instincts did not
deceive her, could not bring herself to trust
him. But it would have seemed to everyhody
as the grossest ingratitude to say so, and so
she held her peace.

The license was obtained by Mr. Rossiter,
and by the time the wedding was appointed
to take place, everything was in perfect readi-
ness. If Herbert felt any qualms when he saw
| Viola, pure and beautiful as an angel, stand-
ing at the side of Douglas to be wedded to
him, he did not betray the fact.

The ceremony went on, and despite Viola’s
fears that something would happen to inter-
fere or interrupt, there came no sign, and
presently she was folded close in the arms of
her husband. :

 

{

* * x *

Herbert had had time to seek Stella, and to
detail to her all that had happened during
the fire, and it was at her suggestion that he
had gone to make himself so useful at the
wedding. ; ;

She, in the meantime, had been unable to
remain in the society of other people, who
were full of accounts of the fire, and were de-
lighted over the recovery of Viola, for whom
they could not find enough words of praise.

She slipped away from the house, and was
led by some sinister thought to go to Indian
Rock, as if she would gloat over the downfall
in another way of the innocent girl she so
hated.

She had nerves of iron, and did not hesitate
to walk along the narrow passage to the rock
itself; and there she even bent over to see how
far Viola would have fallen if she had not
been rescued in time.

She ground her teeth with rage at the
thought of that slip; but it was a satisfaction
to her to remember that in a short time her
plans for the shame of her victim would be in
operation.

She knew what a blow it would be to her
to be told, a week or a month hence, that she
had only been masquerading as the wife of

-| Douglas; and she gloated over Viola’s horror.

 

But suddenly, as she stood there, leaning
| against the rock behind her, she heard a slow
and dragging step coming u]
She turned with a start and Waited.

Presently a pale and ghastly face appeared
around the corner of the rock, and with some-
thing of a shudder, Stella recognized Sidney.
She had supposed him dead.

He recognized mc at the same moment, and
the start of surpriSe he gave almost made him
lose his footing and fall off into the abyss.

“Stella!” he cried, feebly.

“What brings you here?” she said, a sort of
contempt for his weakness possessing her cruel
spirit.

Bey came here to hide from those who would
take me to prison,” he said, humbly, “I am
wanted for trying to steal the woman I love
better than my soul.”

Stella laughed, in a hard, grating way.

“What a fool you have been about that
girl,” she said. “Well, you may come here if
you wish. I don’t believe much of a pursuit
will be made. Did you know that she will be
his wife in a few minutes?”

“A few minutes!” he repeated.
‘do not care?”

“TI rejoice!” she answeged, her black eyes
flashing. “Oh, lam not content with any such
vengeance as you might plan! Do you think I
am indifferent? Learn, then, the truth! Doug-
las believes that he is divorced from me.”

“And so you are. I have seen the record
entered on the books.”

“But the decree is not valid, a good lawyer
in New York says. Do you understand now?
I shall let them marry, and a month hence,
if I can wait so long for my vengeance, I will
go to her and let her know that she is not his
wife. Will that not be a revenge on my baby-
faced rival?”

“They are not married yet?” he queried.

She took out her tiny jeweled watch and
consulted the time.

an, will be married in two minutes,” she
said. j

“But,” said Sidney, suddenly rising and
confronting her with a wild, terrible look in
his burning eyes, “suppose you should die
before those two minutes are over! She would
be a lawful wife then.”

“What do you mean?” cried Stella, trying
in vain to see how she could dash past him, for
the dread of something awful was in her
heart.

“T mean,” he answered, grinning like the
maniac he was, “that I will insure my darling
a pure and sweet life. Ha! ha! ha!” and
before she could do aught to check him he had
sprung upon her and pushed her off the frail
footing on the rock.

And. he leaned over and watched her fall-
ing, laughing horribly all the while. Then he
raised himself up, and cried out in a loud
voice:

“Will you believe now that I love you, my
darling?”

Then it seemed to penetrate his frenzied
mind that he should do more yet to insure her
happiness, and he rushed away from the scene
of his murder, and as if he were not suffer-
ing from a terrible wound, made his way with
incredible swiftness through the woods.

He went first to the Rossiter villa, but when
he saw that it wasin ruins, some instinct
seemed to tell him where he would find her
ip sought, and he went directly to the Denton
villa.

The guests were all gathered about the
newly made bride and groom when he entered
the house through the open door.

“Ha! ha! ha!” he cried, in his wild way.
“You are happy at last then, my pretty one!
Well, I am glad.”

Douglas recognized him first, and cried out:

“Sidney Gorman!”

He would have thrown himself upon him,
had not Viola prevented him by putting her
hands on his arm.

But the other guests had caught the name,
and, Herbert among them, had surrounded
the demented man,

“Ho, ho!” he laughed, looking scornfully at
them. “Do you think I have come here to do
her any harm? No, no! I have just done her a
great service. Ask him,” Ta to Herbert.
“He thinks the marriage is not legal, because

“And you

 

 

along the ledge.

 

 

 

 

the decree of divorce is not worth anything.
Look at him! Ha! ha! ha!”

Herbert's face was indeed a study. And he
knew that Douglas had grasped the extent of
his infamy in an instant. He called up a
sneer; but before he could utter the words
that were on his lips, Sidney went on again,
in his insane way:

“Never mind the divorce, Douglas! Don’t
turn pale, my darling! Don’t show your teeth,
in that ugly way, Herbert Morrow! I have
made that all right for you. The only bar to
the legality of your marriage was Stella, and
she died just one minute before the wedding.”

“Liar!” cried Herbert, turning pale.

“Oh, no, I don’t lie,” said Sidney, his horri-
ble laugh sounding strangely in the ears of
his listeners. “I know she is dead, forT killed
her myself! I threw her off Indian Rock!”

* * * * * *

*

What more need he said? Willit not be
enough to say that it seemed as if in all her
after life fate seemed to be trying to compen-
sate Viola for her previous sufferings.

Happiness was constant with her, and when
a little Douglas and another Viola came to
enliven their home with their pretty prattle,
she said that the end was worth more than all
she had paid for it.

(THE END.)

{Our brilliant young contributor, JULIA
EDWARDS, begins another extremely capti-
vating romance in this number of the New
YORK WEEKLY. It bears the expressive title
of “EVELYN, THE Prerry Factory GIRL: OR,
MARRIED AT THE Loom.” ]

 

CUPID’S ADVOCATE:

OR,

A WAGER NEATLY WON

By ANNIE ASHMORE,

Author of “Jennie Vail’s Mission,” “The Bride
Elect,” ‘*The Test of Love.”

CHAPTER II.
A HASTY WEDDING.

When I was hidden from their view I set
the sails, and proceeded to free the boat of
some of the water. It took me an hour to do
it, and kept me as warm as a cinder, although
I had been soaked for twenty minutes in sea-
brine, and now was washed down by acom-
fortless Grizzle.

The storm which I had seen coming when
the sun was at its hottest was pouring down

finely now. Little Phoebe Gay would have had
a sorry wedding-day had Wyldbore stuck to
his bargain. oy

“They won’t be at all uncomfortable,” I
mused, lying back in the stern, and puffing
one of Crewe’s Havanas; “there’s a nice cave
in the island, snug as arabbit-wayren. Josh
is a lucky dog, and he has me to thank for it,”
About four o’clock in the afternoon I got
back to the stone pier at Gweelod, and struck
a bee-line for the hotel. There was a fine row
there. The relatives of the bride and bride-
groom had arrived to witness the nuptials,
and Treherne was hoarse as a crow with giv-
ing explanations, and limp as a rag with ex-
haustion.

I reached my room unchallenged, and sent
for him.

He came in, and began to launch out on me.

“Don’t say a word, Phil Treherne,” said I,
impressively; “for I have, suffered just as
much as you have, Now attend to me. Iam
going off in the yacht again in about an hour

ence, and I want the Kev. Mowbray Knollys
to accompany me, so you will be good ‘enough
to sena for him—quietly, you understand.
the regfatives that Miss
Pio “boating, and
} » + with Josh Crewe
to take care of her, and that if she is better,
I shall be back with them by nine o’clock.”

“Bless me, is Miss Gay so ill as to want a
parson ?”

“Humph! I fear so. I shall take with me
efficient medicine, however, so you must not
alarm her relatives, my dear fellow.” :

“Hadn’t you better take her aunt with you?”

“Not for the world! Beware how you sug-
gest such a thing!”

“What is the disease?”

“It’s an-an affection of the heart, I think;
yes, I’m quite sure that it’s heart disease.”

“Poor little thing! I shouldn’t wonder if
that:scoundrel Wyldbore had broken it!”

“Go away now, my good soul, for here
comes my dinner, and 1] require solitude in
which to cultivate its.acquaintance.”

Treherne backed out, and I'fell upon the
roast duck with a will. While I ate, I jotted
down a letter, which, after much delibera-
tion, I copied carefuliy, and signed in imita-
tion of a signature which was appended toa
bill in my possession.

By the time this was done, and I had ex-
changed my wet suit for a dry one, the Rev.
Mr. Knollys arrived. We had been fellow-
students together at Oxford, and I had but to
explain in a few words what I wanted, to

 

 
 
 
  
 

secure a ready ally.

I stuffed some papers into his pocket, filled
a basket with provisions, and we left the
hotel together. Engaging two Welshmen to
man the yacht, of which I was heartily tired,
we skimmed down the bay before the wind
to Wardlock Isle.

The rain had ceased; the moon was dancin
upon every little wave, and Snowdon dasiaen
robed in silver, like a beautiful bride of the

sky.) -

We puffed cigars against each other, and
the Rev. Mr. Knollys laughed until the hol-
low rocks along the shore resounded again,
as I recounted my day’s exploits.

Two figures were standing hand in hand
upon the shore of Wardlock Isle as we ap-
proached. I don’t know why. but they seemed
to me in their calm, smiling beauty, like
Adam and Eve, in their paradise before the
Fall; with the waters of the river of life
twinkling at their feet; the amaranthine
shades dropping incense about them; the
highest, bluest arch of sweet elysium above
them.

“Ts that the Fire-fly?” shouted Josh, as we
rounded into the creek.

“Yes, my dear fellow,” said the reverend
gentleman... .

“I thought so,” said Josh, turning to Miss
Phoebe; “and how in the name of all miracles
did Granville get her safely home?”

Neither of them saw me; I kept well behind
the sail. .

“Where was the leak, Mr. Knollys?” asked
Crewe.

“Leak? I heard of none. Granville did not
‘inform me that. there was a leak.”

“Granville has treated us shamefully; he
was as drunk as a fiddler when he left us. He
stole away the yacht, leaving Miss Phiebe
and me on this island under all the rain.”

“Bless my soul, sir! how you surprise me!”
ejaculated the young clergyman, with a huge
wink at me. “Tom Granville never drank a
drop of liquor in his life that ever I heard of
before! He was perfectly straight when I saw
him at the hotel, and informed me that Miss
Phoebe having got sea-sick, you had kindly
landed here with her. He has sent with mea
pasket of refreshments, and a letter which he
told me had arrived to-day from your guardian
in London, Miss Gay!” '

So saying the young clergyman produced
the letter which I had written, and stepped on
shore with it.

I stretched myself on the deck, and watched
from a loop-hole the exiled pair, while Miss
Pheebe tore open the missive and read it.

“Tt isn’t anything very bad, Phoebe dear?”
queried Josh, seeing signs of agitation on her
lovely face. ;

“No; I—I don’t know whether to be glad or

 

 

 

 

 

sorry !” she faltered, turning her head away;
“but I am sure I ought to be thankful for the
narrow escape I have had; and yet it seems so
dreadful——”

“What in the world has happened?” asked
Josh, enviously looking at the paper.

“I don’t know how to tell you! Oh, dear,
who will advise me?”

“Let your friend read the note,” suggested
the insinuating clergyman.

“But there’s something about him in it,”
fluttered the pretty lips; “and yet—yes, do,
Joshua. Read it to Mr. Knollys.”

With the rarest dash of a smile she put the
note in his hand and covered her face.

“My DEAR WARD,’ read Josh,in a manly yoice;
“T hope this won’t reach you too late. The young
man, Wyldbore, whom you intend to marry, is a
swindler and a scoundrel. Don’t marry him. He
has robbed the Bank of Lymington of the sum of two
thousand pounds, and detectives are on their way to
arrest him before he leaves Gweiod. <A pretty thing
if you marry him after all! What a pity you didn’t
stick to that nice young man Crewe, whose genius,
and good family, and all that sort of thing, would
have adorned any position. But he’s going, or gone,
they say, to Bombay as fconsul, so you've lost him.

What an old fool [ was to object to him at the time. |
Come home, my dear, with your annt, and we'll see |
if we can’t find you a better husband than Wyldbore. |

“Yours truly, B. P. GRAFTON.

“P,S.—My handis so lame with the gout that I
can only sign my name to this.”

“Hurrah!” shouted Josh, catching Phcebe in
his arms with a triumphant laugh; “that’s
the nicest letter I ever read in my life! Why
can’t I step into Wyldbore’s shoes? Old Grat-
ton won’t say no any longer, since he thinks
me such a confoundedly clever fellow. What’s
the use of disguising it any longer? Haven’t
we loved each other through thick and thin,
Phoebe, darling?”

She nestled close to him and looked up at
him with her great sweet eyes so full—oh, so
full of love!

“Yes, we have, Joshua,’ she murmured,
hurriedly; “and I’ll goto Bombay with you
to-morrow, if you like.”

“What an angel!” cried Josh, hugging her
net “but I’l] not ask you to go so far
with me. I'll stay at home if I’m to have you,
my duckie! Carefor Wyldbore! Commit sui-
cide for Wyldbore! What an idiot Tom Gran-
ville is to be sure!”

“Do you think me very inconstant, Mr.
Knollys?” smiled Miss Phoebe from her ador-
er’s arms—‘“to be forsaken by one lover and
to accept another, on the same day?”

“Suppose you put the case a little stronger,”
said Josh, insinuatingly; “to be forsaken by
one husband, and to wed another on the sa:ne
day?”

Miss Gay looked frightened, but pleased.

“T should be indeed charmed to perform the
ceremony now that I was to perform at twelve
o’clock this morning,” said the ready clergy-
man. ‘

“Yes, on this very island!” cried Josh.

“So very sundden——” :

“But highly proper, my dear young lady,”
idaeanteet Mr. Knollys. “And, dear me!”
(fumbling in his pocket), “how very fortu-
nate! Here is my case of licenses which I hap-
pen to have-put in my pocket! That seems
providential, doesn’t it, my dear sir? Your
name can be filled in, instead of Woyldbore’s;
and these two men can be the witnesses—and
Iam sure”’—(looking about him with awe)—
“a marriage performed in such an Eden-like
spot should be particularly sacred |”

“And we'll miss all the condolences and
botheration from the aunts and cousins, if we
go back now man and wife,” urged Josh, in-
sidiously ; “won’t we, my lovey?”

Miss Phoebe wiped her eyes on Josh’s but-
tons, and signified her consent.

And so the Rey. Mr. Knollys formed them
in line and tied them fast together in five
minutes; and I looked on with admiration
and envy. Whilethe Welshmen were graving
their signatures with a pen which my sur-
prisingly convenient friend happened to have
with him, I stepped ashore and approached
the wedded pair.

“Accept my profound, congratulations and
warmest wishes,” said I, with my best bow.

_ “What! Tom!” cried the bridegroom, _..

“Mr. Granville!” shrieked the bride.

“IT haye won my bet sooner than I expected,”
said I, producing my watch, “It is oniy
twenty minutes past seven, and we agreed
upon half-past ten o’clock to-morrow morn-
ing, you will remember.”

“What do you mean, Tom?” demanded
Josh, drawing Mrs. C. a step farther from
; “you must certainly be insane!”

d I not bet my grays against your yacht
that the lady on your arm would commit sui-
cide before twenty-four hours?”

“Yes, you did—and here she is, alive and
well!”

“Can you, then, pretend to say, Joshua
Crewe, that it was not by her own will that
Miss Gay is now no more !”

“Miss Gay no more? Oh—ah!—by Jove,
Tom, you’re right enough! To be sure, she’s
no more; she’s Mrs. Crewe now, bless her
sweet soul. Ha, ha, ha! I see the joke now!
You’ve won the bet, sure enough—the yacht is
yours !”

“Of course,” returned I, shaking his hand
with energy. “And now, my dear Mrs. Crewe,
will you pardon me for my outrageous con-
duct this morning, when I assure you that in
forgetting myself, I was only remembering
my friend?”

“Were you not—— Dear me!” faltered the
bride, looking dubiously up in her husband’s
face; “I don’t believe there was anything the
matter with him!”

“Tt’s one of Granville’s tricks!” ejaculated
Josh; “he’s been fooling us! Oh, you’re a sly
dog, Tom! You’ve sold me completely this
time!”

“Com—pletely,” responded I. “But now, if
you will come on board my yacht, I think I
can offer you a wedding feast worth eating.
And, Josh, as I consider the match of my pe-
culiar making, I think I have the first right
to salute Mrs. C.—haven’t I?”

“You deserve it, my boy.”

So I pressed the sweet and smiling lips to
mine most heartily.

“And, also, I have the first right to present
a gift to Mrs. C., haven’t I, old fellow?”

“ Anything to please you, Tom, dear boy.”

“Then, as I have noticed that Miss Phcebe
Gay, when alive, was a very pretty whip, I
beg leave to present Mrs. Grewe with my
grays, which are as gentle as lambs and fleet
as gazelles.”

* * * * * * *

How we ate the wedding feast amid shouts
of laughter as my story was rehearsed; how
poor Wyldbore was released from the cloud of
infamy into which I had plunged him; how
the aunts and cousins, the bridesmaids and
relatives welcomed us; how old Grafton was
telegraphed to, who unexpectedly came down
handsomely; how kind Mr. and Mrs. Crewe
were to me, to make amends for the bad opin-
ion they had had of me: how Miss Cremer and
Wyldbore came back to Gwelod at the end of
a week, looking foolish, and found themselves
quite eclipsed by the later bride and groom—
let my readers imagine for themselves.

Suffice it to say that I fairly and completely
won my wager, and I am proud of my success
as Cupid’s Advocate.

(THE END.)

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VOL. 47—No, 48,

 

SUNBEAMS.

 

BY EDMUND LYONS,

 

Ah, what would the earth be without them ?
The sunbeams that sparkle and play,

Gilding castles with splendor about them,
And cots hidden humbly away.

They shine, in the fair summer weather,
On meadow, and hovel, and hall,

And the poor and the wealthy together
May enjoy the sweet sunbeams—for all.

When clouds o’er the cabin are rolling,
And the light barely penetrates through,
The king in his palace, controlling
His vassals, must feel the gloom too,
And, it may be, the home of the peasant
Is brighter than that of the king;
If he livesin content with the present,
Nor fears what the future may bring.

Through the sunbeams a message is blending
As they fall on the age-whitened head.
They tell of a glory impending,
Far brighter than any they shed.
They sparkle on youth and on maid ‘n,
They smile upon husband and wife,
And they greet the young mother, hope-laden,
With the sunshine and beauty of life,

But if ever in shadows, uncertain,
The lines of your life should be cast,
Fear not, but remember the curtain
Will surely be lifted at last.
If you cherish the love-light that scatters
Doubt, darkness, anid gloom from the door,
Clouds may lower, but little it matters,
The sunbeams will shine out once more.

MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS,

BY W.

 

 

W. CARTNER.

 

(“MATRIMONIAL MISHAPS” was conimenced in No, 15.
Back numbers can be obtained of all News Agents.}

 

 

  
    

 
 
  

, « : me oS

f R 5 Ee
Hi KaAnAan on nnfinn tis

|, al ST '

AL i ye

      
   

 

 

    
   

YY, f
SGN

ser pe ot 14
SHE SWUNG THE SACK WILDLY OVER HER

HEAD, AND LANDED IT AGAINST WILSON’S
, AER, a

  

 

 

NUMBER EIGHTY-SIX,
A Lecture on Connubial Felicity.

“Anna Wilson, I hear that you are going to
deliver am address or oration at the Women's
Convention. Now, I want to know if there is
a word of truth in. the report?” panted Wil-
son, as ‘he rushed into the house, threw his
hat on the table, and mopped his face with
his handkerchief.

“Well, suppose the report is true, what
about it?” she asked.

“What about it? What subject are you
going to enlighten their minds upon?”

“Tf I.speak.at all it will be on the duty of a
wife to her husband, and the hus——”

“Great Cesar, woman, you know no more of
that subject than a Malay pirate does of the
ten commandments! «Why, the first principle
has never dawned on your befogged intellect.
Great Scott! what would you advocate?” he
asked, gesticulating wildly and staring at her
with distended eyes. :

“Well, in the first place, I should advocate
affection, pure and simple. In the second, full
confidence in social as well as in business
relations, on both sides. Third, perfect har-
mony——

“You mean to convey the idea that if I
traded jackknives or joined a secret society, I
must tell yous about the former and give you
the signs, passwords, and grips of the latter,

ing 7 the sack in front of the target. He
rolled over against the target, yelling at the
top of his voice for her to let up.

“Madam, do you take me for the target-box
or the side hill?” he yelled, holding the side
of his head with both hands. “I suppose that
is some of the affection you are aching to lect-
ure about !”

“I did not mean to strike you, Henry; you
dodged just as I threw, and brought your head
exactly in line.”

“My ear-drum is bursted into atoms!” he
exclaimed, pressing his hand on hisear, “I
never brought a thing home to entertain you
with, that you did not try it to see if it would
not kill me the first thing you did.”

“T ought to have that throw over again. T
believe I would have hit the hundred if you
had kept your head away,” she said.

“J do not want you to experiment any more
when I am in frontof you. I was not especially
built for you to pound with sand bags. Do you
understand?”

“Well, get out of the way,” she said. “Here
gare for the hundred,” and, sure enough, she

it it.

“That was an infernal scratch,” grumbled
Wilson.

The next one went wide of the mark, pass-
ing fully ten feet over the box.

“Oh, that slipped,” she cried.

“T suppose that one slipped that you pasted
my head with,” said Wilson, still holding his
ear tenderly in his left hand.

The next one struck fifty.

“There!” she cried, exultantly.

“You could not doit again ina year,” he
retorted. ,

“That beats you, and I can do it every
time,” she said.

“Oh, you can do wonders, you can,” he said,
removing his hat and vest. “Now, madam, I
will teach you how to throw. I was not trying
to win before,” he said, throwing a sack and
making fifty. “How is that, Mrs. Goodplayer?”

The next struck between the targets, and
the third missed the box.: The fourth made
twenty-five, and the fifth went to one side.

Mrs. Wilson now had another trial. She
swung a sack back over her shoulders, and
planted it squarely against the hundred.

“There! that beats you again,” she cried.

“You can make more chance-shots+—”

“T threw right at that target.”

“Of course you did! you can hit it every
time. I will make two hundred or smash the
measly box!” he said, throwing with all his
strength, and skill, and never touching any of
the targets.

“Oh, what a throw!
she laughingly said.
“Tf you will keep quiet, you will appear just
as smart,” he snapped, as he hurled the next
sack over the box.

He ran to the center target and pounded the
remaining three against it with all his
strength, and then kicked it. He turned from
red to white, anda look of mingled triumph
and despair crept into his eyes as he shifted
shis foot from one position to another.

“Kick it, Henry! The box is to blame be-
cause you cannot hit a barn,” she said. :
“You had better be finishing your lecture on
harmony between man and wife, and then
come back and sand-bag the other side of my
head; your treacherous conduct would make
a man so utterly weary of life that he would
lay his neck on a buzz-saw,” he groaned, limp-
ing out of her presence.

“T would not be surprised if: I have to send
for a doctor,” she mused. (“He kicked right
against that iron. He gets awfully angry if I
beat him at any game.”

(T0 BE CONTINUED.)

Try it again, Henry,”

—— rrr

- The Ladies’ Work-Box,

Edited by

 

 

Mrs. Helen Wood,

 

FASHION’S FANCIES.

etn ~

tighter.”

 

price thirty-five cents. This skirt may be worn with any
short basque, or basque with habit back, and of Bedford
com. cashmere, ladies’ cloth, camel’s-hair, cheviot, and
silk.

Ethel L.—Some very pretty boating suits in white
serge have the novel effect of a shirt waist in pale or dark
blue, or in scarlet. The shape is taken from that of the

Venetian gondoliers’ long and loose vest, a garment al-
most shapeless, yet graceful, when used for this purpose.
‘These suits have the fronts loose, and very deep, high
sleeves, pe on the forearm, and very wide, notched
revers, Mostof the suits intended fora yachting trip are
decorated with anchors here and there in Toate thread,

Sadie W.—Cheviots will be quite popular for traveling
dresses this fall. The red checks or brown are perhaps

the most fanciedin this material, while a blue, black,
yreen, and brown hair-line on tan color also finds. favor.

esis in red are worn with cheviot penne, with deep
mitten cuffs of the same, a corselet, and panels,

Daisie F., Salem, Mass.—The price of the short rubber

gloves is $1.25, and the long ones $1.50 a pair, on receipt of
which the NEW YORK WEEKLY Purchasing Agency will
furnish them.

“MY WIFE.”

BY HELEN FORREST GRAVES,

 

 

“She’s a very nice woman, my dear Mickle-
berry, a very nice woman indeed!” said Mr.
Partanbridge, sagely, “but you allow her to
dictate too much! For, instance, my wife
should never tell me not to smoke in the par-
lors on account of the curtains !”

“It does turn ’em yellow,” observed Mr,
Mickleberry, thoughtfully.

“Granted—but what becomes of your conju-
gal superiority? And then you didn’t buy that
corner lot because she advised you not! What
is a woman’s judgment worth ina matter of
business like that, Mickleberry !”

“Mary knows more than half the men
going,” parenthetically asserted Mr. Mickle-
berry. ;
“Excuse me, Mickleberry, but you don’t
keep her in her place! Don’t the Scriptures
expressly say that woman is the weaker ves-
sel? I should like to see Mrs. Partanbridg
venturing to differ with me!” ry
Mr, Mickleberry looked admiringly at his
big friend... ;

“How do you manage it, Partanbridge?” he
questioned, a little timidly.

“Tact, my dear fellow—tact, dignity, suprem-
acy! I wouldn’t have mentioned it, if cir-

cumstances hadn’t pointed directly to the fact,
but you are getting hen-pecked, Mickleberry.
Everybody notices it! You must gather up
the reins of domestic management—you must
assert yourself!” ’
Mr. Mickleberry laughed.
“But what is the use of asserting myself?”
he asked, jocosely. “Everything goes on like
clockwork at home—Mary always meets me
with a smile—she spends the money sensibly,
and never asks me for an unnecessary cent!”
“Does she tell you how she spends it?”
“Not always, but——”
Mr. Partanbridge interrupted his friend with
a groan.
“Oh, these women, these women! I should
like to see my wife buying a silk dress, as
Many did last week, without first consulting
me!” ‘
“But she had saved the money out of her
housekeeping funds.”
“Then, my dear fellow, it’s a sign that you
ive her too much money for housekeeping.
t her down—dra jr the purse-strings a Titt, e

Mr. Mickleberry looked uncomfortable, |
“I—I should hardly like to do that, Partan-

and the husband promptly went down on his
knees to perform the behest. “Not so rough—
you’re as clumsy as ever, I see—and now tell
me why pos didn’t send the money for me to
join you before?”

“I—I couldn’t spare it from m
Drusilla, my dear!’
scarlet.

“Hang up my cloak to dry—and get mea
footstool for my feet!” commanded Mrs. Par-
tanbridge. ‘Look sharp about it, too! Well,
I borrowed fifty dollars from Deacon Under-
hill, and I’ve come on my own hook, I’m tired
of being poked away in the backwoods while
you’re playing the fine city gent, and I’ll not
stand it any longer—besides, I wanted to
attend the Woman’s Suffrage Association, and
I’m a member of the Sedleyville Branch of
Female Rights. You've got a nice house here,
ma’am,” turning to Mrs. Mickleberry. “I might
have had a house of my own, if Job Partan-
bridge had used ¢ommon sense in his business
affairs, and listened to my advice a little!”

“Drusilla, my dear~—” interposed Mr, Par-
tanbridge, but his wife darted a leonine glance
at him,

“Job Partanbridge, will you hold your
tongue, and speak when you’re spoken ‘to?”
she demanded, tartly.

“Certainly, my dear, certainly.”

“Then let’s have a specimen of it. As I was
saying, Mrs. Mickleberry—— Job, go down
stairs, and look in the big-handled basket
on top of the trunk in the hall, and get my
handkerchief and the camphor bottle with the
little wicker-case round it. AsI was saying,
that sort of thing it just about played out, so
far as I am concerned. Job hasn’t no more wit
than a yellow dog when he’s left to himself—
you know you haven’t, Job, so you may just as
well leave off opening and shutting your
mouth like a newly landed fish—and I mean
to be boss myself, Job!”

“Yes, dear!”

“Bring me the rocking-chair—now move the
screen so the fire won’t shine in my eyes, And
get me a hack early to-morrow morning, and
see that I have money furnished; I want to
do a little shopping !”

“Yes, my dear,” said Job Partanbridge.
“And be ready to go with me at eleven to
the Suffrage Rooms. I must render the report
of the Sedleyville Branch.”

“Yes, dear,” assented the husband.

At this stage Mrs. Mickleberry interrupted
the orders of the commanding general of the
Partanbridge Division by a tray containing
tea, toast, and other feminine refreshments.
Mrs. Partanbridge received them with a con-
temptuous sniff.

“My good lady,” said she, “I dare say you
nen well, but Idon’t feed off such slops.

Oo ”

“Yes, Drusilla!”

“Go round to the nearest restaurant, and get
me a bottle of Dublin stout and a dish of
stewed tripe. You’ll excuse me, ma’am,” to
Mrs. Mickleberry, “but we all haye our little
ways, and this is mine!”

Away went Job Partanbridge like an arrow
fleeing from the bow, and presently returned
with the required dainties, off which “my
wife” supped sumptuously. :

“Take my things up stairs, Job!” said Mrs.
Partanbridge, when she had satisfied the
cravings of nature; “I’ve had a long day of
travel, and I guess I'l] go to bed early.”

If ever mortal man looked cowed, wretched
and dismal, Job Partanbridge did the next
morning, when he made his Seer oie at the
breakfast-table. Mrs. Mickleberry could not
resist one little mischievous hit.

“T congratulate you, Mr. Partanbridge,” she

said, “upon the excellent manner in which

you have developed your ‘theories as to con-

jugal discipline!” a
Mr. Partanbridge choked conyulsively over
his coffee.

“Hush !" he cried. “She’s coming!”.

“Who is coming?” f
“My wife !”

But, ah! how differently he pronounced the

business,
stammered Job, growing

 

ridge. ;
“You'll never be master in your own house
until you do.’ ; BO;

 

A pretty way of trimming the hem,of the skirt is with
a broad satin ribbon, tied here and there in a double bow.
Accordion plaiting is still used in the bodices of thin
summer gowns, and in tea gowns, and for the blouse and
sleeves of Figaro jackets.

Many of the materials used for evening wear are
jeweled, or the designs are outlined with a tinsel thread,
and this is unusually pretty upon the popular black
grenadines,

The prettiest skirts for summer wear are those of
white cambric, with large white linen Eton collars and
turned-back cuffs. A Windsor tie of black velvet fastens
the collar.

New feather fans are made of long and beautiful ostrich
plumes, mounted on tortoise-shell sticks, witha flight of
diamond swallows set transparently in the shell.

After having been treated with contempt for many
years, magenta has again caught the popular fancy, and is
being introduced in the most stylish examples of French
millinery.

The bride’s cake, according to the London idea, stands
over five feet high, and is made in tiers wonderfully con-
structed, and decorated with shields and flags bearing the
names and crests of the bridal pair, emblems reproducing
the husband’s insignia, and wreaths and festoons of
flowers. ;

Dress sleeves are altering considerably in shape, al

though there is.a certain monotony in the styles for long
sleeves; they are still made very full, yet no longer tower
high above the shoulder, and in many Cases the fullness
falls over the arm.

The fashionable Russian blonse is shorn of its sleeves.
It’s a filmy, dressy affair, made of lace chiffon or the finest
of crape, and sometimes the crape is accordion plaited,
and at others is fashioned entirely of folds.

Lingerie is passing through the phase of reaction from
the extreme of elaborateness to the extreme of simplicity.
The excessive use of silk and ribbon, which cannot be
laundered, is tavbooed on much of the high-priced under-
wear.

The Empire belt or girdle is worn very extensively
with gowns having the Watteau back. Often it is a very
wide ribbon, and again it is formed of folds of white silk,
five in number, that make it reach up and give the short-
waisted effect that is considered desirable.

Pearls, especially those of odd tints, are popular this
season for engagement rings, and a new style of setting
for the diamond troth ring is somewhat similar to the
broad gold ring worn by men, but lighter than the man’s
ring. In this band are imbedded three diamonds, the
largest in the center.

An idea experimental in this country, but very popular

 

n
“T shall also paint a word-picture of the
trials daily endured by a Christian woman
who has been so unfortunate as to draw a
blank in the matrimonial lottery. - I think I
can make it vivid by merely speaking -from |
experience,” she calmly added.

“A blank! A cipher!.A thing! Then I am a
thing, am I? An embodiment of nothing, or a
last year’s frost. A woman that.can say such
things of her husband is a fit subject to lecture
on connubial felicity. She should be placed at
the head of a society to exterminate all hus-
bands who are not willing to dance’ when
their ‘wives sing. -Do not imagine that you
have a call. to revolutionize the world, until
you first satisfy yourself it is not indigestion
that is the trouble with you,” he sarcastically
said.

“<Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’
Now tell me, Henry, what you havein that
box you sent up this forenoon,”

“Tt is here, is it? Well, Anna, that is an
improvement on an old game. You remove the
cover by turning these thumbscrews. There you
have five targets to throw these sacks of saud
at. You throw five times, and the person get-
tin® the “largest count wins the game. The
center target, when struck, shows the number
one hundred; the one on either side, fifty; and
the ones at the ends, twenty five each,” he
explained. 4

Arranging the box, and stepping back
twenty feet, he aimed a sack at the box, strik-
ing the end target.

“There! you see the number twenty-five.
Now, Anna, I do not expect you to do much
until you have had some practice. I have
thrown base-ball enough to spot these targets
right along,” he said, drawing back his arm
and throwing a sack two feet above the box.
The third one struck in the same place.

“T can do as well as that,” she said.

“Hold your breath, my dear; Iam not through
yet,” be said, deliberately aiming the-fourth
one, which fell to:one side of the box.

“By the sacred frogs of Egypt! I will show

in London, 1s that of making the parlors of a fashionable
modiste the popular lounging place of cnstomers by sery-
ing tea between four and five in the afternoon to the
ladies, who soon learn to make the place a rendezvous.

The flower bodice is one of the latest fads, composed en-
tirely of a certain kind of fiower, forget-me-nots, daisies,
violets, pansies, all serving the passing fancy. The
flowers are usually placed upon a foundation harmonizing
with the color of the flower.

An odd freak of the girl of the period is that of keeping
asecrap album of all her gowns, with the date and occa
sion of their wearing. There will be a pensive sort of
pleasure in turning over the leaves and reealling remin-
iscences by and by, and later still when daughters and
granddaughters coax for stories of the old days, this book
of chronicles will furnish many a twilight hour’s delight-
ful theme,

Some of the new dust cloaks are dainty enongh for tea
gowns or evening cloaks, One worn recently at the
races was of fawn China silk, trimmed with double
ruches of ribbon round the hem, and had a Cape of
guipure tied with long ribbon loops, and lined through-
out with thin China silk.

Rumors from Paris have reached us that the tunic is to
be the dominant idea of autumn modes. One style con-
sists of a full basque hanging from a belt and extending
to the knees. Another is formed of a drapery of lace
hanging from the shoulders to the knees in two straight
scarfs back andfront. The double skirt is also gaining
in popularity with tall women. 5

The clever girl fits herself ont with a coronet of ribbon
to match her evening gown, and the recipe she relies
upon for success is this : Take two yards of ribbon, three
inches wide, and a length of wire the size of the head,
eovered with cotton batting. Beginning at the center,
twist the ribbon smoothly over and over the band, and
where the ends meet make a stiff upstanding little bow
of wired loops and notched ends. Short, full faces re-
quire long and upright loops, while long, oval faces need
only a coquetfish little bow, standing up very little from
the band.

Miss Bessie W.. Canton, O——The novel effects seen in
the designs for fall weddings, show for very young brides
a marked simplicity, while for those not quite so youth-
ful the Watteau fold, which has become so popular, is
very often seen. The double or triple folds have nar-

rowed down in such a way as does not widen the waist,
and retain their dahlia top which is now a trifle more
flaring. A pretty notion is the filling in of the flare with
tiny flowers, which droop on each side. As the folds
widen below the waist-line, the same rich effect is given
as when it was at first introduced. The present mode

Mr. Moses tickle res went home, and told
his wife all abou} what Partanbridge had
said. Mary laughed and colored, but she was
a little angry withal.

“T wish Mr. Partanbridge would mind his
own business,” she said. “I’m tired of hearing
about ‘my wife!’ She must bea poor, spirit-
less concern !” Z ;
“Partanbridge is aman of great. ability,”
said Moses, gravely. -

“Fiddlesticks !” said Mrs. Mickleberry, “A
regular hen-hussy—a thoroughgoing Miss
Nancy !”

“I’m sorry you feel so about him, my dear,”
said Moses; “for he doesn’t like the place
where he is boarding now, and I told him he
might occupy our spare room for a few days.”

“Oh, I’ve no objuction as to that,” said Mrs.
Mickleberry, composedly. “I’m always glad
to entertain your friends, my dear, even if
they are not the most agreeable people in the
world, and I dare say I can get along with
Mr. Partanbridge for a few days.”

“You’re a little jewel, my dear!” said
Moses, and he forgot all Partanbridge’s insinu-
ations at once.

Mr. Partanbridge came, bag and baggage,
and took possession of the “spare room” in the
Mickleberry mansion as importantly as if he
had been the Grand Turk. And thenceforward
“my wife” began, figuratively speaking, to
trample Mary Mickleberry into dust.

“My wife” spent no money: “my wife” went
nowhere; “my wife” would sooner cut off her
hands than to go to a woman’s rights convyen-
tion; “my wife” was not literary, but spent
her days doing housework, and her evenings
mending stockings. She held her husband in
salutary awe, never spoke when she wasn’t
spoken to—iu short, knew her place.

“ And how did you manage it, Partanbridge?”
asked Mr. Mickleberry once again, in the ad-
miration of his soul.

Mr. Partanbridge waved his hand loftily.

“Mickleberry!” said he, “there are some
things that can’t be expressed in words!”

“Fortunately!” put in Mrs. Mickleberry,
who was sewing away as vigorously as if
every stitch were an unuttered protest.

“And,” went on Mr. Partanbridge, as if he
had not heard the interruption, “itis Woman’s
duty to listen—submit—to keep silence!”

“There goes the door-bell,” observed Mrs.
Mickleberry; “will you go, Moses? It. is
Bridget’s evening out!”

“My wife,” commenced Mr. Partanbridge,
“would never have asked me to perform so
menial an office as——”

He stopped short as a loud, masculine voice
was heard in the entry below stairs,

“Does Job Partanbridge board here? Yes?
Oh, all right—tell ‘em to bring the trunks,
and you, hackman, a dollar’s enaugh fare,
You’ll get no more out of me! Clear out, and
let’s hear no more of your grumbling! So he’s
here, is he? A pretty chase I've had after
him!”

Mrs. Mickleberry looked up at the blanching
countenance of Mr. Job Partanbridge in «sur-
prise and bewilderment.

“Who can that loud-voiced woman possibly
be?” she asked. “Surely there is some mis-
take.” f

“N—no!" quoth Mr. Partanbridge, with
chattering teeth, “it is—my wife!”

“Mrs. Partanbridge? Can it be possible?”
and hospitable little Mary Mickleberry dropped
her work and hastened to greet and welcome
her new guest, the paragon among women,
the meek, and lowly, and well-trained wife of
the doughty Job! ;

Mrs. Partanbridge came into the room with

 

 

shows an effect like a partly unfurled fan, and the sweep
of the fold into the very long train, is so full and graceful
as to give style to the most insignificant figure. Bodices
of wedding-dresses are cut round, or, where the prineess

 

you whether IL, can..hit the side of a barn!
Here goes for the hundred,” he said, throwing
the sack, which struck the ground four feet in
front of the target.

“Why do you groan after you throw?”
innocently inquired.

“You “attend to om ie throwing,”
‘eplied, gathering up the sacks.
Bie vane tid wildy over her head, and
landed it against Wilson’s ear as he was pick-

she

he

|\shape is. chosen, the waist is Slightly defined by an
| arrangement of flowers or ribbon to outline it. Draped
| tops are liked, with an effect on the forearm of the sleevé
| like that of the mitten cuff.

| Mary L., Albany, N. Y.—A neat design for a lady’s
draped bell skirt has the skirt fitted over a lining of the

| Same shape, but not so full, The upper skirt is prettily
draped on the right side by upturning plaits, showing a
facing of velvet nine or ten inches deep at the foot, and
the facing may be made of the same material as the dress,

the tread of a giantess and the aspect of an
Amazon. She was a tall, large woman, red-
faced and resolute, with the faint shade of a
mustache on her upper lip, and a deep voice
like that of a grenadier, and she wore her
cloak as if it had been a man’s overcoat, the
two. sleeves tied round her neck, while her
sailor hat would have been a snug fit for her
husband.

She sat down, at Mrs. Mickleherry’s invita-
tion, with a force that made the chair creak
and tremble in its every joint, and thrust out

 

if preferred. The number of this model is 8024, and the

“Pull off those rubbers!” said she to J ob— }

 

Mrs. Gotham—“She lives in Harlem.” ;

‘Well, what is the matter with that other lady?"

Fd A She lives in Brooklyn.”

“But you don’t associate with the lady behin.
either, and she lives on Fifth avenue.” ar ‘ ne

“She won't associate with me.” c

Two Thoughts.
Woman (to herself)—“It seares me half to.death
to drive this horse. I wonder what he’ll do next.”
Horse (to himself)—“That must be a woman driy-

ahs oe I wouldn’t be jammed into everything on the

A Fair Offer.
Great, Editor—‘‘Really, sir, you are asking mea
es. Oe ue Penne Ling to exchange with your
af er ign’) uarter the size of mine.’
ural Editor—“Oh, Vl ke that all ent Tu

send two or three copies,’
A Wise Dog.
Citizen—“‘Why are you trying to shoot th ”
Policeman—“ He’s mad.” rt : OF Fontdag?
“How do you know he’s mad?”
“He refused water.”
“Croton water?”
‘yes,’
“Huh! That's no sign.”

Evils of Drink. ;
Mrs. Dodds—‘‘So your husband is at home wit
headache? What is the matter?” ee .
Mrs. Podds (a contiding wonian)—“Too much ice-
Prater, a drank three glasses this morning before
ast.

Love ina Cheap Flat. /
Mother—“If you marry Mr, Poorchapp, you will
have to commence very humbly.”
Daughter—“Yes, 1 know; but we shall be, oh! so

happy. The rooms he has selected are right over an
ice-cream saloon.”

A Martyr to Duty.’ \
Husband—‘‘Aren’t you going to church to-day ?”
Wite—“No. I am not fecling well.” .
Husband—“Then call a messenger boy and send

him. The family must be represented.” —

SELECTED PLEASANTRIES,

WELL SHAKEN. ‘
She shook my hand. I felt the thrill
- Of her soft touch. TI feel it still.

And when, presuming on that touch,

I foolishly essayed too much,

And said I loved her—urged my plea—

By all that’s good she shook the rest of me.

Detroit Free Press.
\ONE. DEFINITION.--Mrs. Jason—‘Jehiel, what is

an agnostic ?”’
_ Mr. Jason—“W’y, it is a feller that don’t believe
in neither doctors nor preachers as long as he is in.

 

MARKED ATTENTIONS.—‘His attentions to you |
have been marked, have they not?” said the young
woman’s experienced friend.

“Oh, yes. He has never taken the price tag oft any
of his presents,”’— Washinglow Star. ‘

Brown—“TI sha’n’t go to that eating-house again.
They have mighty poor milk; not a particle of cream
onit.” Fogg—True; they more than make up forit, *
howeyer, by the very liberal amount of cream in
their beer.”’—Boston Transcript, Esa?

-

lately, as they have been rising early and staying up
late.—Philadelphia Record. er

Choosing a wife is very much like ordering a meal —

French. You may not get what you want, but you
will get something.— Colorado Sun.

long, you don’t necessarily imply that he is a thief

bricklayers.—Indianapolis News.

+
Young Wife—“Whatdo you think of my pie-erust, _
Jack?” Jack—(who doesn’t wish to be as severe as
the case warrants)—‘Very nice, my darling; but
didn’t you get the shortening in lengthwise ?”" ‘
Boston Post. Set

The man who has “‘the pull” at a picnic is general liye pi
the thoughtful chap who has brought a flask. Res
~ Boston Bulletin,

AS THE SAYING. GORS.—Mrs. Keedick (praising —
young Mr, Adiet to her daughter)—“He doesn’t
smoke, drink, or swear. He’s a good boy and would
be true to you.” : ‘cae
Miss Keedick (shaking her head)—‘He’s too good |
to be true, mamma.”— Truth. x ; : f

 

low, magic words from that in which he had
spoken thers twenty-four hours ago! .

Mr. and Mrs. Job Partanbridge left the
Mickleberry roof that very day for_a hotel
handier to the “Woman’s Suffrage Bureau,”
and that was the last Mary and her husband
ever heard of “my wife” or her humble slave,
the devoted Job!

ee

 

Pleasant Paragraphs.

 

BY CHARLES W. FOSTER.

 

The Usual Result.
Husband—“Everything in this house is
place. Been having an earthquake ?”
Wife—‘“I’ve been, putting things in order.”
. Better than Credentials,
Summer Beauty—“Count Cuinsoe is a real count, I

out of

ee
r Rival Belle—‘‘How did you find out?”
Summer Beauty—‘1 noticed that you did not
introduce me.”
Rural Advantages.
City Man—‘Whew! Seems to meit's about as hot

in the country as it is in the city.”
Suburban Host—‘Y-e-s; butif you get overcome

 

Thimbles made of lava are used in Naples. ’

the coins. .

The Johnsons outnumber the Smitlis by 700, in the —
Chicago directory. 4 Se ‘ :
Glass in oven doors is anew contrivance. It en-

ables cooks to watch the food without opening the doors.
France has eight veterans of Waterloo still living.
i An English bicyclist has covered 413 milesin 24
,0urs. . es
A treadle attached toa letter-box, if pressed, lifts _
the lid of the box. his is the invention of a man in |
Malden. AF es
The native countries of the tallest and the shortest
people of Europe, the Norwegians and the Laps, adjoin
each other. ; ; ;
Presidential hens have been set to workin various |
parts of Maine. Some of the eggs are marked “G. C.,”

: . # m ‘
Hay fever, it is said,can be cured by smoking

powdered pine-needles with tobacco—two-thirds of the
ormer With one-third of tie latter. : Peeks te

In Sitka, when an Indian wife has lost her hus-
band by death, she goes iuto mourning by painting the
upper half of her face a deep black. yey es

Untila few months ago, Jacob Lauck; aged 67, of

 

by the heat here, and fallin a faint, you are in no

danger of being clubbed by a policeman.”

Woke Him Up.
Wife (midnight)—“Ooo! Woo!

a man trying to get in.” i
Husband (sleepily)—‘Nonsense! Go to sleep.
Wife (as a last resort)—‘‘Maybe he’s got a bill.”
Husband—“‘Whoop! Where's my gun.”

They Needed Change,

Dr. Curem—“I see you have ordered quite a num-
ber of your patients to the country. They needed
chanee, I presume.” :

Dr. Bigfee—Awiully. Hadn't a cent left.”

Y No Ague Left.
Summer Boarder.—‘“I hear that there used to bea
great deal of fever and ague around here.” pt
Host—*Yes; but none here now, nota bit. We've
all got acclimated.” ;

The Usual Way.
Friend—“Do you try to make yourself a daily and
hourly necessity to your husband, as I advised ?”
Bride—“Yes, indeed. I keep everything in its
place, so he can never find a thing without my help.”

A Great Saving.
Fair Customer—‘Are you sure this sticky paper
will catch flies ?” :
Dealer—‘Yes, indeed, mum. I sold half a dozen
sheets to a boarding-house keeper yesterday, and in
two hours she caught enough for a huckleberry pie.”

American Plays. ;

Manager—‘‘Is your new play an American drama.’

Writer—“Thoroughly American. Nearly all the
characters talk with a brogue.”

Would Canse a Stampede.

Pittsburgh Man—‘*What would you folks do if a
mob of rioters should come charging down Broad-
way?’ :

New Yorker (busily)—“Start a policeman to shoot-
ing at a dog.”

Wakeup! There’s |

An Eye for Effect.
Jinks—“Why don’t they make bicyele wheels with
wooden spokes the same as carriage wheels?”
Binks—“Why, no one could tell which were the
spokes and which were the legs.”
Would Pay Better.
Guest—“What do you think of this idea of com-
ymlsory arbitration ?”’ ; ‘
; Waiter—‘Don't keer nuthin’ "bout dat, boss. Wot
we uns want is compulserry tippin’,”
Contaminated, — >
Mr. Bilkins (a sea-side cottager)—“I notice you al-

ways goto a private bathing establishment. Why
don't you bathe in the ocean.” ied
Mrs. Bilkins—‘The ocean? Goodness me! Why

all those hotel boarders bathe in it.”

A Cool Place.

Mr. Citimann—“T presume it is hot in the country
as well as in the city, this weather.” ,

Mr. Suburb—‘Nonsense! It’s cool, delightfully
cool where I live. Why, I’ve got a stove in my sleep-
ing-room.” Sat

“Good gracious! Much ofa fire in it?”

*N-o; no fire in it.”

Loneliness at the Sea-side,
Inquirer (at summer resort)—“Why don’t you as-

Berkely County, W. Va., had snow-white hair; now it is
nearly all black, without artificial means,

Jacob Claus, aged 82, of Detroit, thought he needed
a little change to make life endurable; so he secured a
divorce from his wife, 8ix years his junior. :

Maine fishermen envy John Griffin, of South Port-
land. While fishing for mackerel, outside Cape’ Eliza-
beth, he caught a baby whale three feet long.

Mrs. Margaret Van Fredenburgh, of Red Hook, N. |
Y., has just celebrated the 105th anniversary of her birth,
phe reads and does the finest needlework Without spec-

acles.

Tubs filled with water, to supply drink to thirsty |
dogs, haye been scattered throughout Detroit this season, |
The result is seen mm the fact that a mad dog has not been ~
observed this summer in that city,

Forty milkmen in Akron, Ohio, have been arrested /
on a charge of putting salicylic acid and borax in milk, to
preserve it. It is asserted that the heavy death rate
among Children, in that city, is due to such adulterations

Drowning, as a punishment for crime, was legally
enforced in Scotland up to the year 1611. The same
punishment prevailed in England up to afew years be-
fore this date. By the laws of Burgundy a faithless wife
was smothered in mud,

Rila Kittridge, of Belfast, Me., has written ag
many as 20,000 words ona tal card. Three of Glad-
stone’s speeches, that would fill thirteen colamns of the
NEW YORK WEEKLY, he recently wrote on a postal card
and sent it to the British statesman, . ;

A skunk farm has been established in Smithfield,
a., by Luther Michael. He began with 130 of. the little
animals, and now has eight hundred, In four years he
expects they will have increased to 50,000. He hopes to
become wealthy by thesale of theirskins, _

While attempting to haul in a five-pound bass
which he had just caught, at Schuylkill River bridg :
Pottstown, Pa., John Keim, a lad of thirteen, was drag od
over the railing, and fell into the water, thirty-five foot
below. He was rescued, and he still clung to the fish. _

A clergyman in Lawrence, Mass., was preaching a
funeral sermon in the house of the deceased, and was fis:
tened to with deep attention. Suddenly a startling sound
caused him to abruptly stop. The sound continued for
about twenty seconds, and Came from an alarm clock on
the mantel. ‘

A shrewd scheme to make tardy subscribers pay
up has been invented by a Western editor. Whenever a
delinquent subscriber is mentioned in his: paper, the
name is inverted. Here is an example: “souor uyor
aud his wife are spending afew days in Chicago.” As
all the readers know what this means, the shamed sub-
scriber hastens to have his name appear right side up.

Something wonderful in the clock line has been
constructed by a mechanic in Warsaw, Poland. It repre-
sents a railway station with a clock-tower giving the
time in four countries. Trains run into or depart from the
station every fifteen minutes. Station agents, tele-
grapliers, ticket-sellers, with lines of passengers, are seen
in action, and the usual bustle and tumultofa station
are heard and seen, bells ringing, whistles blowing, etc.

A well-dressed stranger, accompanied by a boy,
entered a hatstore in Frankfort, Germany, and after’ a
time the man was fitted to a hat. Leokinicin the glass he
said to the youngster, “How do I look in this hat?
“Like a thief!” promptly responded the lad. The man
angrily darted toward him, but the lad fied from the store
pursued by the man. The shopkeeper thought it all very
funny until their long absence made him realize that’ he
had been robbed. .

An affecting incident was witnessed at a concert
in Vienna, A lady had just performed a piece on the
piano, composed by aresident of the city, and was en-
thusiastically applauded. She bowed repeatedly, and
then rushed off the stage, to return presently, Teading’
the composer forward. He kissed his hand ‘When the
fresh applause greeted him, and pointed to the lady, in-
timating that to her the credit was due. ad’)

 

 

 

her feet.

sociate with that lady

see the audience, for he is blind.

 
 

  

 

 

good health.”—Jndianapolis Journal. rye

The local thermometers have had but little rest >

in a Paris restaurant when you don’t understand |

When you say aman is as honest as the day is |
at night.—Buffalo Express. “Re a
A Building Lot—The carpenters, masons, and |

 

  

a 5
5

Items of Interest. ec oe ib :

An electrical machine in the London Mint counts |

and others “B. A.” <

 

 

 
   
  
  

 

He could not | a

 

 

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OOM RESORT FRAN EEE NE TIE Id OMAR a

       

 

      
  
  

  
  
  
  

  
   
  

 

 

 

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